Page 99 of The Picasso Heist

WHATEVER IT IS, it’s not good.

Sigma confirms as much when he returns to the table. “Joyce isn’t making the trip to Nikolov’s house,” he says. “She’s not coming for the arrest.”

“That’s impossible,” I say.

“Apparently, it isn’t,” says Sigma.

“How?” I ask. “Why? Why isn’t she going?”

“We don’t know, but word got back to the task force.”

“It might be a safety thing,” says Skip. “She saw me get shot and killed this morning and is convinced Halston met the same fate. In her mind it’s not as if Nikolov will be rolling out the red carpet for her.”

It’s hard to push back on that, especially having seen all of Nikolov’s security. Joyce has no idea that his guys and their loaded AR-15s will be standing down. And, yeah, after what she “witnessed” in the alley, maybe she’s a little gun-shy.

But still.

“She’s wanted to be in on everything. Everything,” I say.

“Every setup, every wire worn. And I don’t mean just in the loop.

She wanted to be right there where it was happening, on the scene, on the front lines.

She didn’t have to ride with Skip this morning when he followed me, but she insisted.

That’s her thing, what she thinks will get her to the governor’s mansion: ‘Vote for Elise Joyce, the fearless female.’”

“What can I tell you? She’s taking a pass,” says Sigma. “She’s not going to Nikolov’s house.”

“She’s not passing on all the glory, that’s for sure,” says Tau. “The way she was beaming from that podium last week announcing Lugieri’s arrest along with Bergamo’s? She knows good TV from bad, that’s for sure.”

“Okay, so plan B,” says Skip. “We need to figure out a way that Joyce changes her mind and joins the raid on Nikolov’s house.”

I hear every word Skip says but it’s only two words that echo in my head: Good TV.

“No,” I blurt out. And now I’ve got three guys staring at me. No? What do you mean, no? They’re waiting on me to explain. Here goes. “I mean, there’s another way to go about this. But I would need to visit Nikolov beforehand.”

“First of all, he’s under surveillance,” says Skip. “Second, you’re dead, remember? You can’t be seeing or talking to anyone.”

“But what if I weren’t?” I ask.

Skip squints. “Weren’t what?”

“Dead,” I say. “What if I escaped from that trunk before Nikolov’s guys killed me?”

Skip has seen this look in my eyes many times since we were kids, the spark of an idea taking hold.

“Where are you going with this?” he asks.

“Not where but who. Who would most want to hear the story I’d have to tell, the sister grieving the cold-blooded murder of her brother, hell-bent on revenge and bringing all the receipts? You know what that would be, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” says Skip with the same look in his eyes. “Good TV.”