He flashed genial smiles as he passed, pretending not to have the faintest clue that she was social faux pas persona non grata. As if that was anything new.
Instead, he shifted his attention away from the people and to their surroundings.
The party was being held in the gilded mansion of one Harry James Alders, multibillionaire founder of a massive global empire of picture framing stores. Cole had always been dubious, wondering aloud more than once how someone could get that rich off that business model. He suspected the truth involved shell companies, front businesses, and probably some kind of smuggling company. His sycophants insisted he just made brilliant investments, especially since he’d expanded—aftermaking billions through “picture framing”— into venture capitalism. Mmkay, then.
Alders was, ironically, the kind of person Mother spoke of in hushed tones behind her hand or champagne flute.
“He’snewmoney,”she’d told Cole, derision dripping from every stage-whispered word.“Has to make sure everyone sees just how rich he is.”She’d tutted and rolled her eyes.“Tacky. Just tacky.”
Cole had to agree with that to some extent. As much as he tried not to adopt the snobbery of his generationally wealthysnake pit of a family, he could see why they turned up their noses at people who acted rich the way Alders did. The massive collection of custom supercars. The fleet of private jets. Buying the largest mansion in the entire state, demolishing it, and rebuilding it with anadditionaltwenty-thousand square feet. Gilding so goddamned many surfaces that his interior décor had actually driven up the price of gold leaf.
And then there was the reason Cole had come here in the first place:
Because Harry James Alders was the owner of one of the world’s largest private collections of art and antiquities.
He’d managed to get his greedy paws on some pieces of treasure recovered from centuries-old shipwrecks. He’d acquired paintings and sculptures by the masters. Like, theactualmasters—rumor had it he was one Michelangelo away from owning work by all four of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. People weren’t even bothering to show up for auctions of major pieces anymore because they knew he or his proxy bidder would be there to snatch up anything worthwhile.
Tonight, he was throwing a party to show off his latest acquisition—an original Rembrandt. That piece was on display in the main gallery, which… who the fuck had galleries in their house? Harry James Alders, that’s the fuck who. And on top of that, he brazenly displayed originals. Most upper-class collectors had counterfeits made, which they kept on display while the originals were safely in climate-controlled and fireproof vaults. No one with functioning brain cells put that kind of art out where it could be damaged or stolen.
Harry James Alders… well. His possession of any brain cells, never mind their functionality, was certainly up for debate. Because Cole had browsed some of the pieces in this place when he and Mother had first arrived, and theywereoriginals. All ofthem. And he never risked his neck to steal a counterfeit, so he wasdamn goodat identifying fakes.
The Rembrandt? Definitely an original. Cole had seen enough Rembrandts—and stolen one—to know the tells. The distinctive use of impasto. The layers of colors. The style of his brushstrokes. If you knew what to look for, it wasn’t hard to identify when a painting really had been created by the hands of that particular master.
This one hung on the wall for all to see, with perfect lighting and a pair of security guards on either side. Cole salivated at the thought of relieving Alders of that particular painting. The challenge of getting to it, getting it off the wall, and getting it out of the building without getting caught or shot—that was the kind of puzzle helivedfor.
Another night, perhaps.
Because he wasn’t here for the Rembrandt.
As part of his celebration, Alders was also displaying a number of his other pieces. The walls of the main gallerynotdisplaying the Rembrandt were like a who’s who of art—Monet, Matisse, Singer Sargent, Van Gogh. Much to the chagrin of anyone who had to listen to Mother talk tonight, there were two Picasso pieces—both of them cubist.
In both the main gallery and the smaller one—which Cole was strolling into now—there were pedestals displaying sculptures by celebrated artists, but also pieces recovered from shipwrecks. One held several items recovered from a Spanish galleon that had gone down with a belly full of Aztec gold. A golden jaguar was in its own case along with a placard describing how it was supposedly cursed—that the ship had sunk, two divers had died trying to recover the treasure, and the plane carrying it later had crashed after the pilot suffered a heart attack. Cole wasn’t much for superstition or curses, but even hehad to admit he’d think twice before bringingthatparticular piece home.
He wasn’t here for that, though.
Nor was he here for the Ming Dynasty jardinière… especially since, unlike the rest of the idiot’s collection,thatpiece was a fake. The giveaway was subtle—some very faintly sloppy brushwork on the tail of a dragon—but it was there. Cole wondered how many counterfeits had slipped into Alders’s collection. Typical eccentric dumbass with too much money; able to get his hands on nearly priceless authentics, but greedy and gullible enough to buy and display at least one fake.
But Cole wasn’t here to assess the authenticity of the collection or to sneer at the man for getting duped.
No, the object of his focus tonight was at the far end of the room. Above it hung an original Dali that kind of gave Cole a headache. To its left, a jellyfish brooch created from a natural pearl almost the size of Cole’s fist. To its right, a corroded and mangled piece of metal that had allegedly been recovered from an ancient Roman shipwreck and was significant somehow. Cole didn’t give that one much thought. He was, instead, trying to be as subtle as possible about zeroing in on his objective.
Here, in the corner of the room, encased in glass, was the Iberian Puffin. It was just that—a puffin—delicately enameled to appear almost realistic, if a bit too shiny in places. Given its storied history, it was a miracle it was in such good condition, though the enamel used was supposed to be something virtually indestructible. He didn’t know the details about that, only that the Puffin was a highly sought after piece and beneath the enamel was a core of solid gold.
Solid gold that was said to have come to Spain aboard one of the same ships as the cursed jaguar and the piles of coins. Apparently a wealthy Spaniard had commissioned the piece in the seventeenth century for his ailing wife, who’d fallen inlove with puffins after a visit to Scotland. She’d died before it was completed, and the heartbroken widower had refused to accept it from the artisan. Since then, it had moved from owner to owner, traveling all over the world and being stolen, lost, sold, stolen again, traded, used as a murder weapon, sold, and—eventually—sold to Alders. Most people who’d come into possession of the Puffin had kept it locked away in safes, but Alders, of course, had to display it. What good was having such a rare, exotic, and blindingly expensive piece if one couldn’t show it off?
Compared to some of the sculptures in the room, it wasn’t huge—about eight inches tall. The round flamingo diamond set in the center of its chest, though, was enormous for that type of stone. Around thirty-eight carats, if he recalled correctly; over an inch and a half across. That rock alone was worth millions.
Cole didn’t spend much time looking at it. He lingered on the jellyfish brooch, the Puffin, and the mangled Roman metal for equal amounts of time; no one who saw him would think he was focusing any extra attention on the bird. Nor would they notice he’d spent those fleeting seconds looking not at the piece, but at its confinement. That was enough time to assess how it opened (the back panel slid up), how it was locked (a small padlock at the rear), and if it was alarmed (yes, but with a somewhat cheap and lazy alarm any skilled thief could bypass in seconds).
As he ostensibly peered into the jellyfish’s case, he slid his eyes back to the space around the Puffin’s pedestal. Easily enough room for an adult to get behind it without difficulty.
He let his gaze drift up to “admire” the Dali—God, that man’s paintings fucked with his eyes—and used his peripheral vision to count the cameras. One was pointed directly at the corner. Two eye-in-the-sky type domes watched everything.
And of course, the Puffin’s pedestal was the farthest item from the room’s door. The fire exit was just a few feet away, butthat was only to be used for its intended purpose—in case of emergency. If he got caught or was about to get caught, run like hell through the fire exit. Otherwise, the best-case scenario was getting out through the main door, disappearing into the crowd, and getting out of this enormous palace of ostentatiousness before anyone noticed the Puffin had disappeared.
That was where the next step in his plan came into play—create a diversion.
Cole made his way toward the exit, ready to deploy his diversion. No rush. No sudden movements or shift of focus. Just another party goer casually perusing and admiring all the objects on display.
