Blake Crouch - Confidence Girl - The Letty Dobesh Chronicles

“I don’t.”

The waitress returned with Javier’s water and Letty’s coffee, said, “Food’ll be right up.”

“It’s only day four,” Letty said. “Another week, I’ll be as good as new. When’s the job?”

“It’s too big to risk on a strung-out puta .”

Anyone else, Letty would have fired back with some acid of her own.

Instead, she just repeated her question: “When is it?”

“Eight days.”

“I’ll be fine. Better than.”

He watched her through those unreadable eyes.

Said finally, “Would you risk your life for a million-dollar payday? I’m not talking about getting caught. Or going to prison. I mean the real chance of being killed.”

Letty didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Javier, have I ever let you down?”

“Would you be sitting here breathing if you had?”

Javier looked out the window. Across the street stood a row of storefronts. A pawnshop. A hair salon. A liquor store. Bars down all the windows. There was no one out under the gray winter sky. The roads had already been salted in advance of a rare, southern ice storm.

“I like you, Letty. I’m not sure why.”

“You’re not going to ask me why I do this to myself—”

“I don’t care.” He looked back at her. She could see he’d made a decision. “Letty, if you fail me—”

“Trust me, I know.”

“May I finish?” He reached into his water and plucked out a cube of ice. Pushed it around on the table as it slowly melted. “I won’t even bother with you. I’ll go to Jacob first. And when you see me again, I’ll have a part of him to show you.”

She drew in a sudden breath. “How do you know about him?”

“Does it matter?”

The last two months of this crystal bender, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about her son. He’d been taken from her just prior to her last incarceration. He lived in Oregon with his father’s mother. Six years old. She pushed the thought of him into that heavy steel cage inside her chest where she carried more than a little hurt.

The food came. She wiped her eyes.

She tried not to eat too fast but she had never been hungrier in her life. It was the first time she’d had real food on her stomach in days. Waves of nausea swept over her. Javier reached across the table and stole a strip of bacon.

“Bacon tax.” He smiled and bit it in half. “Have you heard of a man named John Fitch?”

She didn’t look up from the scrambled eggs she was shoveling into her mouth. “No.”

“He was the CEO of PowerTech.”

“What’s that?”

“A global energy and commodities company based in Houston.”

“Wait, maybe I did see something about it on the news. There was a scandal, right?”

“They cooked the books, defrauded investors. Thousands of PowerTech employees lost their pensions. Fitch and his inner circle were behind it all. A month ago, he was convicted for securities fraud. Sentenced to twenty-six years in prison.”

“What he deserves.”

“Says the thief. He’s out on a seventy-five million dollar bail. Scheduled to report to a federal prison in North Carolina in nine days.”

Letty set her fork down and took a sip of black coffee. She hadn’t had caffeine in weeks, and already she was feeling jittery. “Where’s this going, Jav?”

“Fitch’s family has abandoned him. He has no one. He’s sixty-six and will very likely die in prison. I happen to know that he’s looking for some female companionship for his last night of freedom. Not a call girl from some—” Letty was already shaking her head. “—high end escort service. Someone very, very special.”

“I’m not a prostitute,” Letty said. “I’ve never done that, never will. I don’t care how much money you wave in my face.”

“Do you think I couldn’t find a woman who is younger, more beautiful, and more... experienced ...than you if all I wanted was a hooker?”

“Charming.”

“Letty, this could be the score of a lifetime for you.”

“I’m not following.”

Javier smiled, a terrifying spectacle.

The entire restaurant shook as a jet thundered overhead.

“It’s not a trick,” he said. “It’s a heist.”

2

The last work Letty had done with Javier had involved stealing from high rollers in Vegas. He’d hooked her up with universal keycards and supplied surveillance to let her know when a mark had left their room. That job had presented a degree of risk for sure, but nothing beyond her comfort level. Nothing like this.

She cut into a waffle, said, “Gotta be honest—I’m not over the moon about the word ‘heist.’“

“No? It’s one of my favorites.”

“It sounds like something you need a gun for. And a getaway car. The type of job where people get killed.”

She swabbed the piece of waffle through a pool of syrup and took a bite.

“See, that’s the beautiful thing about this job, Letty. It’s high return on a low risk venture.”

“You just asked me if I’d be willing to risk my life for a million-dollar payday.”

“I didn’t say there was no risk. Just that it’s low considering the potential payout.”

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that, and then the opposite proved to be—”

“Are you accusing me of glossing over risk in our prior dealings?”

Letty realized with a jolt of panic that she’d insulted him. Not a wise course. Javier didn’t get angry. He just killed people. The stories she’d heard were the stuff of legend.

“I guess not.” She backtracked. “It’s just that I’ve been burned in the past. But not by you. You’ve always been on the level with me.”

“I’m glad you see that. So would you like to hear me out, or should I leave?”

“Please continue.”

“Fitch is spending his last days on his private island fifteen miles south of Key West. Most of his property has been lost to forfeiture to pay back the victims. However, I have a man in Fitch’s security detail. He tells me there’s something of great value at Fitch’s residence in the Keys.”

The waitress stopped at the booth and freshened up Letty’s coffee.

When she was gone, Letty stared across the table at Javier.

“Well, do I have to guess?” she asked.

He glanced around the restaurant as he reached into his leather jacket. The sheet of paper he pulled out had been folded. Javier slid it across the table. Letty pushed her plate aside and opened it.

She stared down at a painting printed in full color from a Wikipedia page—a skull with a burning cigarette in its mouth.

“What’s this?” Letty asked.

“ Skull with a Burning Cigarette . You familiar with your post-Impressionists?”

“Not so much.”

“You don’t recognize the style?”

“I’m a thief, not an art collector.”

“But you have heard of Vincent Van Gogh...”

“Of course.”

“He painted this one in the mid-eighteen-eighties.”

“Good for him.”

“The original is hanging in Fitch’s office in the Keys.”

“Get to the good part.”

Letty managed to smile through her driving headache.

“When we discuss the value,” Javier said, “we’re talking about two numbers. First, what could we sell it for at auction? In nineteen-ninety, Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet sold for eighty million. In adjusted dollars, that’s a hundred and forty.”

Letty felt something catch inside her chest. It was a strange sensation, like being dealt four aces. She fought to maintain her poker face.

“You said there were two numbers?” she asked.

“Obviously, we can’t just steal this painting and put it up for a public auction through Sotheby’s.”