Page 129

Did it hurt when I learned that Norman Hawksbury had betrayed me and sold out the Durands to the FBI? If I allowed myself to have feelings in this business, I wouldn’t survive the day. Instead, I saw it as an opportunity. A chance for him to prove his loyalty and earn back his place with us.

Today, his job was to manage the transportation logistics. What better than a yellow taxi that blends in with the rest of the city to store everything you need for revenge? Sometimes this job is too easy.

New Year’s resolution: Try something more challenging.

As Norman drives away, I walk toward the helicopter waiting for me. I slide my phone into my coat pocket, and my fingers hit something at the bottom of it. Something smooth and thin.

I pull out the object. It takes me no more than a second to realize what it is.

But if this is here, then that means—

I turn around. There are black cars posted at each of the exits. Those weren’t here a second ago.

And then I hear a voice.

“Oh good! You found my pen!”

Chapter 41

SCARLETT

28 minutes after midnight

Arnold freezes. Then he takes a quick step toward me as I lunge backward. I need to stay ready for anything, even if that means taking down Arnold myself. This job has asked a lot of me. Never did I think that fighting Santa would be one of those asks.

Then Arnold stops, his eyes shifting from me to the agents standing outside their cars, blocking him from any chance of escape. I nod to the police officer who gave me a ride over here.

“You tracked me? Where’s your warrant?” he asks.

I hold my hand up. “Swear I have one this time.” Which is true. Meyers said we got the warrants, which covered searching both of Arnold’s rooms and tracking him. So when we did our goodbye handshake, I slipped my calligraphy pen into his coat pocket. Sweet, poetic justice.

Arnold starts walking again. “I don’t have time for this. I have a plane to catch.”

I make a sad face. “Flying to the airport? Not very environmentally friendly of you.” He ignores me and steps up into the helicopter. I follow. “Good idea. It’s cold out.”

“What are you doing?” he asks. “Get out.”

I don’t listen. I want a chance to sit in Arnold’s luxury helicopter with its leather seats, ample legroom, cupholders, and expansive windows.

“I just want to have a chat with you, Ron,” I say, slapping my palm to my head. “Or wait, no. You’re not Ron. Ron Doty was one of your guys in the Durands. He flew so far below our radar that we had no idea he existed. For all intents and purposes, he’s alive, though, right?” I wink dramatically. “When he died all those years ago, you kept his Social Security number active. Do you do that for everyone in your group who doesn’t make it?”

No response.

“You did a decent job getting his photos scrubbed from the internet,” I say, “but you forgot that not everything can be deleted. Ron was an active volunteer years before your organization recruited him. His photos are still in newspapers.” I tap my chin. “Should I call you Robb? Or Arnold? You know what? I’m just gonna use my nickname for you. Sadistic Santa. That feels easiest. More accurate.”

Arnold turns away. “I’m not talking to you. You don’t think I know you’re wired? I’ve been in this game longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Great, then how about I do the talking.” I clasp my hands together. “You’ve been a very bad Santa. I mean, the Santa Claus Con, really?”

Arnold stares straight ahead, not saying a word.

“I told you I wasn’t a Christmas person,” I continue, “and then you go and do this. Well, trick’s on you because I’m trying it on this year.”

“Oh yeah, and how’s that been?” Arnold asks with a smug grin.

“Rough start, honestly, but all things considered, I’m still alive. Could be worse. Unlike last year when I was, you know, shot.”

“But not killed. Bijoux never did have very good aim.”