Page 89 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Dale. Hi. It’s Erica.”

“Erica! Hey.”

“Hey, thanks for the shortbread. It’s incredible. I’ve had probably six pieces since this morning and I regret nothing.”

“Oh, good, it made it! Wasn’t sure with shipping this time of year.” Warmth floods his voice, easy and real. “Found a place that does it the old way, real butter, none of the sad stuff.”

“Very thoughtful of you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Nah, I wanted to. You’re basically Tanya’s family out there.”

He is, without exaggeration, the single nicest man alive, and he has no idea his fiancée is currently three feet from a stolen Victorian jewel scan.

“I appreciate that. Thanks again.”

“Anytime. Hey, is the reception bad on your end? You guys sound like you’re in a tunnel.”

Structurally, the loft is not much more than an industrial converted auto shop, with factory windows, concrete floors, stripped brick, and open ceilings with exposed ductwork. The little furniture we do have was found on the side of the road. So basically, it might as well be a tunnel.

“Old building,” I say. "You know how DC is."

“Say no more, I spent time in Foggy Bottom for a summer that had actual asbestos, don’t get me started.” A pause, warmer, quieter, meant for Tanya and not for me. “Are you there, Honey Nut Cheerio?”

I hand the phone back. Tanya’s already drifting toward the door, voice dropping into the low, private register she saves only for him, and I watch her go, watch the door shut behind her, and think that whatever she decides to do about honesty, it isn’t happening in the next thirty seconds.

I cross to Zoe’s bank of monitors.

“She a loose cannon?” Zoe asks, chin-jerking toward the door without breaking her typing rhythm.

“Nah.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Spending a lot of time with el hockey hot pants.”

“That was your idea.”

“You got the gala invite.” Zoe finally looks up, one eyebrow doing most of the talking. “But you’re going to another game?”

“Jealous?”

She huffs. “Yeah.”

“Wanna come?”

“Heck yeah!”

“Don’t drool on the hockey players.”

“No promises.”

Zoe goes back to her monitors without skipping a beat.

Four figures enter a private viewing room at the Bellenden. First Ivy, then Suri and Rue. Dennis Hobbs trails behind them, wheeling in the display case containing the Friendship Jewel. This whole meeting was set up on a wing and a prayer. It’s a miracle we’ve gotten this far in the plan. But my team continues to impress me at every turn.

Ivy’s going by Patricia Whitcombe today. For all Hobbs knows, she’s the gala logistics liaison, here to walk through the unveiling plan. She secured the private meeting by pulling out some dirt on a scheduling aide in Senator Crawford’s office, a nervous, sweaty little man who’d spent the better part of a year quietly diverting sponsorship checks into a defunct non-profit he happened to also own. It wasn’t that difficult to bend his arm. He made a call to the museum and, per Ivy’s instructions, played Hobbs’s ego by requesting him specifically.