Page 94 of The Picasso Heist

ELISE JOYCE WAS at it yet again in the back seat, her voice piercing Skip’s ears as he weaved through traffic. She was worried, pissed off, anxious.

She was also no idiot. Joyce was looking ahead. Not just at the Escalade widening the gap between them but at the whole situation, which was now threatening to implode as fast as Nikolov’s guys were turning the West Side Highway into their own autobahn.

She was gaming the outcomes in her head, recalculating the risk, and the more she did, the less she was liking the results.

Only minutes ago, everything was progressing as planned.

Now everything was going to hell in a handbasket.

Including, possibly, her entire career. Which was why Elise Joyce was done taking a back seat to the soldier behind the wheel.

She was a US attorney, for Christ’s sake, chief of the entire criminal division.

She gave the orders, not the other way around.

“I’m using your phone!” she barked as she grabbed it from the cup holder next to him.

Skip was in the middle of a triple lane change at eighty miles an hour, so there was no taking a hand off the wheel to stop her. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Calling Nikolov, finding out what the hell’s going on,” she said. It was a call that she could make on Skip’s phone but not hers. Her phone records were a matter of public record.

“Yeah, you do that,” said Skip, heavy on the sarcasm. “I’m sure Nikolov will answer right away and explain everything to your satis-faction.”

“Hey, maybe he doesn’t even know,” said Joyce. “Have you thought of that?”

“You mean, like, his guys have suddenly just gone rogue, hatched their own plan?” Skip didn’t bother rolling his eyes. “Uh-huh, that’s probably exactly what’s happening right now. Hurry and give their boss the heads-up.”

“You got any better ideas?” she asked.

“We’re doing it.”

“Not very well. Can’t this piece of shit go any faster?”

Technically, yes. Realistically, no. The Jeep’s engine—no, the entire Jeep was screaming its age, every rusted bolt and lug nut rattling in unison.

Skip didn’t answer Joyce’s question. He didn’t have to. “Look, they’re getting off the highway,” he said, pointing.

So were a lot of other cars, but at least Skip could make up some lost ground. Instead of a distant dot, the Escalade was close enough that there was no losing it through the crosstown traffic.

“Where the hell are they taking her?” asked Joyce.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” said Skip. “And if I’m right, this has Nikolov’s fingerprints all over it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s his own little depreciation write-off. Only not so little. He owns a couple of abandoned warehouses a few blocks from here.”

“How do you know that?”

“I do my homework.”

Skip watched Joyce in the rearview mirror as she processed everything. She made a weird face when she was deep in thought, as if she’d just eaten something from the fridge that might or might not have been past its expiration date.

“Forget calling Nikolov,” she said, putting his phone back and reaching for her own. “What we need is backup.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Why?”

“Because whatever this is, it’s about to go down.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. This is what I need you to do,” said Skip. Up ahead, the Escalade made another turn. The warehouses were in sight, only a block away. “The second I get out of the car, you start recording on your phone. Do you understand? Whatever happens, keep recording.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“You’ll see. Just keep recording.”

“Then what?”

“Then we all live happily ever after.”

“You better be right.”

“I will be,” he said. “But in case I’m not, what will you be doing?”

She didn’t answer. He glanced at her over his shoulder, and his eyes made clear that this wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“Okay, I got it. I’ll be recording,” she said.

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if things go sideways,” he said, “if that happens, make sure you record it and then get the hell out of here.”

Joyce was processing again, and this time, judging from the look on her face, the milk in the fridge had definitely gone bad. The idea of things going sideways was sending her into a panicked tailspin.

“Shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he said.