elaborate heists wherein she rarely got her fingers dirty. But she retreated to her old ways every once in a while, like now, when the promise of something special was too irresistible to leave to one of her men.
A little more than a year ago she’d been lured into an apartment at 740 Park Avenue when she’d heard one of the tenants had purchased an intact Babylonian vase, a serious prize that was now in a place of honor in her study. The city’s wealthiest lived at 740—once the Vanderbilts, Chryslers, Rockefellers, and now the people of new money: Schwarzman, Wang, Perelman, Koch, and Bronfman. This building on Eighty-Fifth wasn’t in 740’s class, and did not have as elaborate security, but it was out of the reach of the average New Yorker nonetheless. Apartments here started at $12,000 a month. The man she was going to rob had some money.
The burn in her biceps increased as she passed the fourth floor and headed toward the fifth. The ache in her side intensified. She’d glanced at her plate-sized bruise before heading out. It was a mix of purple and yellow, a sidewalk chalk painting that had been caught in the rain. Dustin had tried to get her to see the doctor, but she’d been injured worse before.
Past the sixth and toward the seventh.
Bridget had waited until Tavio came to pick up Otter before coming here. Tavio’d been handsomely dressed and smelling of too-sweet cologne, not a hair out of place, and offering a quick comment about rushing over after an “engaging dinner date.” It was a jab, a “see what you’re missing” poke meant to fester. He always came well groomed to pick up their son. It used to hurt and leave Bridget in a sullen funk for a few hours. But she’d gotten past it some time ago. Tavio probably knew his appearance and gentle digs didn’t get to her anymore, but continued them anyway out of habit or lingering spite. Tonight, Dustin had answered the door and snaked his arms around Bridget’s waist.
Bridget noted that Tavio’s eyes flickered with a hint of indignation aimed at the young man. It hadn’t helped that Otter had volunteered what a wonderful cook Dustin was and announced he was bringing home leftovers of the “best-ever birthday cake on the planet.”
Bridget had waited another two hours, losing herself in Dustin’s considerable charms, then left him to sleep, dressed in charcoal clothes, and took the subway.
Now to the eighth floor.
The climb tugged at her sore muscles, the burn spreading around her back and into her arms and becoming uncomfortable. Bridget continued to let her arms do all of the work, pausing when she heard a horn honking down on the street and making sure no one was coming into this alley. Sound carried even this high up in the gap between buildings, and she didn’t want to be caught doing her Spiderman impersonation.
At the ninth floor she felt snowflakes dust her face.
One more, she told herself. One more floor.
One floor later, she pulled herself up on a three-inch-wide concrete ledge and to a narrow window that she knew from the Internet floor plans opened above the kitchen sink. Rich, paranoid New Yorkers often had alarms on their balcony doors, but practically no one this high up rigged their windows.
Bridget discovered that Elijah Stone, the lone tenant of this apartment, was no exception. The window she chose was safe, not even locked.
It was dark inside. At 1 a.m. on a Monday morning, Bridget had not expected the occupant to be awake. A quick and quiet search revealed a man sleeping alone in a king-sized bed, conveniently wearing a full-face CPAP mask. The sound reminded her of Darth Vader or a white noise machine, a constant airy whoosh. As the man exhaled, the volume rose slightly and made a harsher hiss. Middle-aged, a little heavy, hair thinning; Bridget thought the man looked sad and worn.
The apartment smelled of vanilla and apples and was large. Bridget knew from the floor plan it was two thousand square feet. Three
A little more than a year ago she’d been lured into an apartment at 740 Park Avenue when she’d heard one of the tenants had purchased an intact Babylonian vase, a serious prize that was now in a place of honor in her study. The city’s wealthiest lived at 740—once the Vanderbilts, Chryslers, Rockefellers, and now the people of new money: Schwarzman, Wang, Perelman, Koch, and Bronfman. This building on Eighty-Fifth wasn’t in 740’s class, and did not have as elaborate security, but it was out of the reach of the average New Yorker nonetheless. Apartments here started at $12,000 a month. The man she was going to rob had some money.
The burn in her biceps increased as she passed the fourth floor and headed toward the fifth. The ache in her side intensified. She’d glanced at her plate-sized bruise before heading out. It was a mix of purple and yellow, a sidewalk chalk painting that had been caught in the rain. Dustin had tried to get her to see the doctor, but she’d been injured worse before.
Past the sixth and toward the seventh.
Bridget had waited until Tavio came to pick up Otter before coming here. Tavio’d been handsomely dressed and smelling of too-sweet cologne, not a hair out of place, and offering a quick comment about rushing over after an “engaging dinner date.” It was a jab, a “see what you’re missing” poke meant to fester. He always came well groomed to pick up their son. It used to hurt and leave Bridget in a sullen funk for a few hours. But she’d gotten past it some time ago. Tavio probably knew his appearance and gentle digs didn’t get to her anymore, but continued them anyway out of habit or lingering spite. Tonight, Dustin had answered the door and snaked his arms around Bridget’s waist.
Bridget noted that Tavio’s eyes flickered with a hint of indignation aimed at the young man. It hadn’t helped that Otter had volunteered what a wonderful cook Dustin was and announced he was bringing home leftovers of the “best-ever birthday cake on the planet.”
Bridget had waited another two hours, losing herself in Dustin’s considerable charms, then left him to sleep, dressed in charcoal clothes, and took the subway.
Now to the eighth floor.
The climb tugged at her sore muscles, the burn spreading around her back and into her arms and becoming uncomfortable. Bridget continued to let her arms do all of the work, pausing when she heard a horn honking down on the street and making sure no one was coming into this alley. Sound carried even this high up in the gap between buildings, and she didn’t want to be caught doing her Spiderman impersonation.
At the ninth floor she felt snowflakes dust her face.
One more, she told herself. One more floor.
One floor later, she pulled herself up on a three-inch-wide concrete ledge and to a narrow window that she knew from the Internet floor plans opened above the kitchen sink. Rich, paranoid New Yorkers often had alarms on their balcony doors, but practically no one this high up rigged their windows.
Bridget discovered that Elijah Stone, the lone tenant of this apartment, was no exception. The window she chose was safe, not even locked.
It was dark inside. At 1 a.m. on a Monday morning, Bridget had not expected the occupant to be awake. A quick and quiet search revealed a man sleeping alone in a king-sized bed, conveniently wearing a full-face CPAP mask. The sound reminded her of Darth Vader or a white noise machine, a constant airy whoosh. As the man exhaled, the volume rose slightly and made a harsher hiss. Middle-aged, a little heavy, hair thinning; Bridget thought the man looked sad and worn.
The apartment smelled of vanilla and apples and was large. Bridget knew from the floor plan it was two thousand square feet. Three
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