Will winked at him, settled back into his seat, and took out his phone. By the time Cole’s thoughts were back online, Will was lost in some ridiculous freemium game.
At least he kept the volume muted.
Cole just rolled his eyes, dug his elbow firmly into Will’s ribs, and settled in for the rest of the flight.
And all the way to Montreal, he fantasized about what he could say to Canadian customs that would make Will not his problem anymore.
As soon as Will closed the door to their suite, Cole punched him in the arm.
“Ow!” Will yelped. “What the fuck?”
“Just doing what I couldn’t do on the goddamned plane,” Cole muttered, continuing into the suite.
“Oh whatever.” Will followed, rubbing his arm and wincing. “Admit it—it was fun.”
“It was.” Cole grinned broadly. “And so was punching you.”
“Ugh. You really are the worst. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Please do.”
The response to that was a middle finger. Then Will looked around. “Where even is the bathroom in here? This room is huge!”
“It’s not aroom, it’s asuite.”
“That’s like saying you’re not a jackass, you’re an asshole. Same idea, slightly different aesthetic.” Then he wandered off, searching the various doors for the bathroom. Apparently thatwas door number three, and his voice echoed off metal and tile as he exclaimed, “Who the fuck needs a bathroom this big?”
Cole just chuckled and sat on the sofa. The bathrooms in this hotel were fairly modest compared to the ones he’d grown up with. Will would have kittens if he saw the tile and chrome monstrosity Mother had in the big house. Hell, the one she had at one of the summer homes was bigger than this entire hotel suite.
Cole would keep the small, utilitarian bathroom in his apartment, thank you.
While Will showered, Cole pulled up the app where they’d been communicating with Jacques-Louis.
I just checked into the suite. Did you find the licorice I asked for?
Of course I found it.
It better be black licorice. If it’s red, I’m calling the cops.
The response was a photo of exactly what he’d asked for: three thick ropes of black licorice, each a full meter long. He snickered and shook his head. If nothing else, he had to give Jacques-Louis credit; the man was open-minded and game for basically anything with his hookups. He was probably a lot of fun for people who just fooled around with him and had never endured a conversation beyond meeting places and safe words. What a waste of kinky adventurousness.
Suite number is 745. Give the concierge the name Brian Tate. They’ll give you a keycard for the elevator.
I can’t wait!
Neither can I. (winking emoji)
Cole put his phone aside and sat back against the sofa. He stared up at the ornate crown molding as he listened to the rush and splash of water in the next room. They’d accomplished the most challenging part of their job, which was to lure Campeau into the hotel.
He had to wonder if the man had ever second-guessed his willingness to meet unscreened strangers for sexual exploits. Surely he knew there were a million ways that could go wrong even for someone whowasn’tadjacent to the world of art theft.
Then again, another member of their little underworld had speculated that Campeau was a psychopath. The literal, textbook kind. While most people thought of psychopaths as the type to commit harm without remorse, and some of them were, there were other facets of psychopathy that weren’t as commonly known.
“I dated one once,” Vanessa Irwin had told Cole once back before she’d started hating him. “He wasn’t mean or cruel, but he was an insatiable adrenaline junkie with zero fear. I meanzero.” She’d taken a gulp of wine and shaken her head before adding, “He literally got banned from his skydiving club because on one jump, he waited until long after he should’ve opened his chute. Freaked everyone out, and he just shrugged and told them he wanted to know what it felt like to wait until the last second.” She’d paused, then added, “Sex with him was out of this world, though…”
Cole hadn’t needed to know that last part, but he’d never forgotten the part about the guy being a fearless thrill junkie. In more recent years, he’d crossed paths with a few other suspected psychopaths (criminals who were possiblypsychopaths? who would’ve thought?), and they nearly all matched that description. Ian Collins, a thief Cole had worked with very briefly, had literally bragged about being a psychopath, and no one had doubted him. On top of his charisma, his manipulativeness, and his complete lack of remorse for anything, he’d taken action movie-level risks to obtain several pieces that didn’t even seem worth that kind of effort. Three such outings had almost gotten him killed, and his arm had ended up in a cast from the third attempt when he’d gone snowboarding and become one with a tree.
And then there was Marcus—ever the charmer, ever the narcissist, and with zero empathy, zero fucks to give for anyone else, and a constant need to take risks just to feel alive. He’d never been diagnosed with anything, but Cole would’ve bet Mother’s entire contemporary cubism collection that the fucker was a psychopath.
