Chapter 3 The Midnight Treasure

NEXT NOON

ROSYDALE TOWER

REBELLE

My kind of party always starts on a rooftop. The Rosydale Tower stretched up into the dirty city sky like it was too good for the rest of us, all shiny black glass. I’d taken the fire escape of the building next door, it's an old brick one that smelled like fried chicken, and low-key that made me hungry.

Getting a high paying gig like this wasn't a norm for me. The usual ones I got either paid to low or was unsuccessful because of misinformation.

The money Blaine showed me last night was enough to get me started on my student loan and a new better apartment, and this made me anxious to sleep last night, I had to stay up to plan, because if this goes wrong. I would either be in jail or killed, and I'd lose all the money.

My life would go from the seventeen it is at now to a zero.

So now I was crouched in the shadow of a giant air conditioning unit, the wind whipping loose strands of my hair across my face.

The client’s notes said there was a maintenance access point on this roof, a door for the window washers or some shit. Took me five minutes of running my hands over cold concrete to find the damn thing, a seamless panel you’d never notice unless you were looking for it.

The lock was a joke, a simple pin-tumbler that surrendered to my picks with a quiet, very satisfying click. I slipped inside, into a concrete stairwell that smell like industrial cleaner.

So far, so good.

The service elevator was my ticket up. According to the precious intel, the camera on it was supposed to be on a loop from eleven to one. But when I peered around the corner, the little red eye was blinking, wide awake.

Shit!

I leaned back against the cold wall, my heart doing a little tap dance against my ribs.

Okay, uh...plan B.

...

Or was it Plan C?

Shit! SHIT!

Is Blaine fucking with me!!?

I fished out a small, flat device from my pocket, a little gift from a tech guy who owed me a favor. Obviously It wasn't a magic wand, just a short-range jammer that could blitz a wireless signal for about thirty seconds before it fried itself. At least that'll buy me some time.

Hopefully it doesn't glitch and stop halfway too.

I took a breath, thumbed the switch, and stepped out. I walked calmly straight to the elevator, jamming the call button. The thirty seconds felt like an hour. I could almost feel the security guard on the other end of that camera, leaning in, squinting his big eyes, suspicions swimming behind them.

Hurry up!

The doors slid open just as a warning heat pricked my palm from the jammer and u stepped in, I shoved it back into my pocket, and pressed the button for the penthouse, sighing in relief when it starts to move up.

The doors soon opened directly into a private foyer that was bigger than my entire apartment and my neighbors combined. I stood still for a moment to catch any sounds, and when none came I walked out slowly.

The keypad for the motion sensors was right by the door, just like the schematics promised. I punched in the code, and a tiny green light winked at me.

Atleast this one works.

I moved through the place like… well, like a ghost or however my movement can be described. My sneakers were silent on the insane thick rugs. I sneaked into the walk-in closet that was the size of my old foster home, and in it was the safe.

And my stomach dropped at the sight. It took everything in me not to fucking shout and cuss at Blaine. Again

The client’s notes specified a Titan 3500. This wasn't a fucking 3500, it wasn't even a fucking titan.

What the fuck?

This was a newer model, a Sentinel, with a biometric keypad and a sleek, mocking digital face.

That lying, cold-footed inside man.

For a second, pure, cold panic washed over me. This was it. Game over. I was standing in the middle of a multi-million dollar penthouse for nothing and I'd be caught soon and be sent to jail or killed, because I know Blaine, he'll never make any attempt to get me out.

In panic I got down on my knees, ignoring the orgasm the plush carpet just gave me, and pulled out my digital stethoscope from my bag. It's supposed to read vibrations and translated them into a visual graph on my phone.

I placed the sensor near the dial and started turning.

It was slow, tedious work. My mind was racing, trying to get inside the head of a rich woman or man who own a panther necklace. What would she use? A birthday? An anniversary?

I stopped when I noticed something, a faint, shiny patch on the dial, right between 32 and 35. A wear pattern. Her fingers rested there a lot.

Oh my goodness, I'd squeal if I wasn't being discreet.

I started with combinations around those numbers. 32-35-10 showed nothing. I closed my eyes to try one more 35-32-18 and did a small dance when the graph on my phone jumped.

I was close. I tried a sequence I’d read about rich people using.

A Fibonacci derivative. 35-32-33. The graph spiked, and the safe emitted a soft, pneumatic hiss before the door swung open.

Who knew math could save my life.

Staring back at me was the necklace. It was even uglier in person, a gaudy hunk of gold and those creepy green eyes. I had hope it was beautiful.

I made to shut the small door back when a piece of frame caught my eyes. The silver frame was holding a photo. The socialite, laughing, her arm linked with a man’s. A man I’d seen on Maya’s phone screen and news just yesterday, his face pale and still in a news report.

Benjamin Cross?

The fucking panther victim.