Fallon’s jaw tightened. She let it. On calls with Cassandra, she didn’t have to smooth out her reactions or keep her face neutral for a room full of strangers. She could let the anger land where it landed.
“The Boldini,” Fallon said. “That’s where we hurt him.”
“Yep, will make the perfect final score. And, don’t worry, I’ll find lots of other stuff for you to relieve him of before ending with the Boldini. He’s known for showing off his watch collection. I’m sure there’s other pressure points, too.”
Fallon picked up the phone and almost cradled it. “Good. I’m already excited.”
“It’s perfect. First the petty thefts. Then we send all his past sins to the press—the businesses he’s swindled, the pension funds, all of it—and while he’s dealing with journalists knocking on his door, he discovers his prized Boldini is gone. Bought with money he stole, and now someone’s stolen it from him.”
“Can he replace it?”
“Not easily.” Keys clicked on Cassandra’s end. “It was a private sale, and Boldini sketches at that level don’t come up often. He’ll feel it. He’ll feel all of it.”
Good. Fallon wanted him to feel it.
Every single person she’d hit in the last three years she’d wanted them to fucking feel it. They’d deserved to feel it after what they done to people.
Seven assholes taken down in three years. It wasn’t enough, and it wouldn’t change what had happened.
But it was a start.
“Okay. So the Boldini is the finale. Now tell me about his public schedule. Where does he show up?”
“Oh, he loves showing up everywhere. Charity boards, donor dinners, anywhere there’s a photographer and a tax deduction. The big one is a Harbor Light Foundation gala about three weeks out. Black tie, host committee, the whole production. He’ll be there all night. That’s probably the main event for us.”
“Three weeks is a long time to sit around. What’s between now and then?”
“The Boston Arts Alliance has a fundraiser this Saturday. Smaller, more casual. Prescott’s listed as a sponsor. He may or may not show, but even if he doesn’t, it’s a chance to see how the Arts Alliance runs their events, who’s in his circle, what the security looks like at these things.”
“Good. That’s the recon. Can you get me in?”
Cassandra made an offended sound. “Of course.”
“Do it.” Fallon paused. “What about the recon gala I did last week? Anything useful from the layout notes I sent?”
“I don’t think so. That venue’s too open for us. No private access worth the risk.”
Cassandra kept talking, something about the catering company the Harbor Light Foundation used and whether they’d be a useful cover for a later phase. Fallon heard the words, but her mind had already slipped back to the recon gala and a dance floor she should have left sooner than she did.
Isaac. The man who stepped between her and a pushy asshole at the bar with a smile so easy it looked like he’d been born wearing it. He’d offered her an out she didn’t need but had taken anyway.
There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere.
It should have been a line. But his eyes hadn’t matched the performance. His eyes had been sharp, serious, reading the situation and reading her, and making a decision in real time.
Three songs. His hand warm and steady on her waist. His voice low enough that she’d had to lean in, and every time she did she caught the warmth of him.
He’d asked her to meet him at the bar afterward. She’d said maybe and meant no and left through a side exit while he was across the room. The right call.
She didn’t get to stay and dance and chat with handsome charming men. That was the deal. That was always the deal. She’d never had a problem accepting it.
Not that she’d ever danced with anyone before while on the job.
“Fallon?”
“I’m here. Sorry. Say that last part again?”
“I said the caterer uses a rotating temp staff, so if we need a second set of eyes inside later, I can probably get a name on their list. But that’s phase two.”
