Black Knight Read online

  Then he slid the key in the lock and turned it.

  Presto! It opened without a hitch.

  Moving fast, Marc climbed in the car, leaving the door open, and slipped the key in the ignition, turning it a millimeter shy of starting the car. At the same time he scanned for an interior trunk release, finding one on the bottom of the driver’s door beside a gas-tank release. He pressed it and the trunk popped open. Turning the ignition off, he withdrew the key and climbed out and locked the door behind him.

  Time to get in the trunk. For some reason, for Marc, this part was harder than sneaking into a couple’s bedroom while they were sleeping. He’d read somewhere that everyone suffered from some degree of claustrophobia—it was just a question of how much. He wasn’t sure where he fell on the scale but doubted he would have made it as an astronaut.

  The Jaguar’s trunk was clean and empty but tight. It made sense, it was a sports car. Christ, it didn’t even have a backseat. He’d known that ahead of time; nevertheless, it still annoyed him. Or perhaps “intimidated” him would’ve been a more accurate word.

  Marc took off his valet vest and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and a surgical cap and put them on. He’d seen too many reruns of CSI, NCIS, CSI: Miami—and CSI: Lunar, he snickered to himself—to dare leave behind any fingerprints or hair in the trunk. He even dabbed his eyebrows with Vaseline. Best to be paranoid when one damn molecule of his anatomy could strand him in the slammer for a decade.

  Finally, Marc climbed into the trunk and pulled it shut.

  It was dark inside and it felt stuffy. The only way he could fit in and maintain blood flow to all his limbs was to squeeze into the fetal position. He wiggled around with his back to the front and his face toward the rear. He had little room to move his arms and that concerned him. Later, when it was time to leave the trunk, he’d need his hands free if the release paddle failed. Of course there was no reason to think it should fail, but tell that to Murphy and the law named after him. Marc occasionally wondered who the real Murphy had been. The guy must have had a miserable life.

  Marc was in the trunk ten minutes when Sandy came for the car. God, he thought, that had been close. He knew it was Sandy because she always sang to herself while she worked. Sandy was a couple of years older—she’d just celebrated her twenty-first by getting drunk with the guys at work. Marc had a lot of respect for her. She hustled to park and pick up the cars and was always polite to the clients. She never bragged when she got a big tip. But what he liked most about her was that she was unimpressed with stars—it didn’t matter how important they thought they were. To Sandy they were just people.

  Marc was attracted to her and knew she liked him, but he’d never asked her out because of his side business. The possibility was remote, but if he ever got busted and they were dating, the cops might assume she was working with him, or at the very least knew about the thefts. There was no way he would ever put her in that kind of position. She was a classy chick. She went to college during the day, carried a full load of classes, and was going to be a dentist or a doctor—something like that.

  Sandy, though, drove like a maniac. He’d never been in the trunk of a car when she was behind the wheel, and to put it modestly, it was a novel experience. Marc swore if he hadn’t been crammed in so tight, he would have broken bones. She had something against the brake—she never used it, not even on sharp corners. He literally heard bones in his back and neck crack when she swung onto Hollywood Boulevard.

  They reached the hotel in record time.

  Ray Cota chatted with Sandy as she handed off the Jag to him. Sandy even wished Ray good luck on his upcoming NFL season. But Marc didn’t hear a word from Silvia Summer. Clearly the two were not doing well. They were on the road five minutes before Ray finally spoke to her.

  “Are you going to talk to me tonight?” he asked. Marc sure hoped so. There was every possibility the car belonged to Ray, and if he didn’t spend the night with Silvia, then Marc would end up breaking out of a garage and into a house with nothing to steal but sports trophies.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Silvia muttered.

  “She didn’t give me her number because I asked for it,” Ray said. “We were just shooting the breeze.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Come on. It’s late, we’re both tired. Nothing happened.”

  “You call hustling the new phone number of an ex-girlfriend nothing.”

  “Karmen was never a girlfriend. I told you that.”

  “You also told me that you screwed her once. Oh, no, wait. I remember now. You had sex with her off and on for six months—while she was dating your best friend.” Silvia paused and spoke in a slurred voice. There was no question she was drunk. “Maybe I should give Matt a call.”

  “Matt’s in New York. All that happened in New York. It had nothing to do with what’s happening between us now.”

  Silvia laughed lazily. “God, you’re one of those guys who thinks morals are inversely proportional to the distance you are from your true love.”

  “Huh?”

  Her tone suddenly hardened. “Karmen’s here now! She’s here in LA! And I go to the restroom for five minutes and you’re off in the corner feeling up her tits.”

  “That’s a lie! I didn’t touch her!”

  “You had your arm around her waist!”

  Ray took a moment to respond. “She was as drunk as you are now. I shot out my arm to steady her. She could have fallen in the pool.”

  “Ha! You steadied her, my ass! Your hand slipped and groped her ass the second you got her back on her feet.”

  Ray had probably had too much to drink himself. His answers were slow in coming and did not win him any points. “You said I touched her tits. That’s what upset you. Now you’re saying it was her ass. Get your story straight, why don’t you.”

  “Did someone crack your helmet or your head in practice or what? It doesn’t matter where you touched her! It just matters that you did.”

  “She came on to me, I swear it. I didn’t even want to talk to her.”

  Silvia snickered. “That I can believe! Why talk when you can just fuck? I mean, what do you have to talk about anyway? You use what’s left of your skull to smash into people for a living. I can’t remember the last time we had a serious conversation about anything. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’m beginning to think it’s because you’re too much of a moron to have one.”

  Ray’s tone darkened. “You calling me stupid? I told you never to call me stupid.”

  “I called you a moron, stupid, but let me apologize. You’re not a moron. Technically, moronic people have IQs in the fifty to seventy range. Yours has got to be at least ten points lower.” Silvia paused. “I’m calling you an imbecile.”

  Marc felt the car swerve a little and heard Ray’s voice get uglier. Still, he found it hard to keep from smiling. Silvia was pretty witty when drunk.

  “You want me to take you home or not?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like I have a lot of options.”

  Ray suddenly slowed. “I can drop you off right here if you want. Right there beside that homeless guy.”

  “Are you forgetting that this is my car? Why don’t I drop you off?”

  “Because you’re loaded. You couldn’t make it home with all that booze in your blood if you were bleeding to death.”

  Silvia was silent a moment then started to chuckle. “Ray, if I was bleeding to death I’d go to the hospital, I wouldn’t drive home. You get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it. I got it the moment we got to the theater. The way you flirted with that guy who took our keys. What did you say to him anyway? Why did he light up when you whispered in his ear?”

  “I told him how cute he was and that I hoped we could hook up later because my boyfriend was a no-good, two-timing SOB and I’d probably n
eed some company after the film.”

  “And you accuse me of flirting with another girl. Bitch!”

  Silvia laughed a moment then fell quiet. She spoke in a soft voice. “Just keep driving, all right? I don’t want to talk to you again tonight.”

  Ray appeared to get the message and shut up. But then he turned on the radio, to a rap station, and a maze of high-priced speakers began to vibrate Marc’s brain. The ten-inch woofer was the worst—the base sounded like thunder. All Marc could do was hold his hands to his ears and pray Silvia’s house wasn’t far.

  In reality he had an idea where Silvia Summer lived. It was in either Pacific Palisades or Malibu; it was one or the other. He made it a point to scan the Internet to find out if a potential target lived in a house or in a high-rise condo. Climbing out of the trunk in a condo parking lot gave him no advantage whatsoever. He was fortunate that most people who could afford expensive jewelry could afford a house of their own. It was almost never a major stumbling point. He knew from his research that Silvia had a house.

  The music went on for ten minutes or so before Silvia turned it off. Ray complained but she must have shut him up with a look, because he didn’t turn it back on. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Marc’s fear that Ray wouldn’t be spending the night grew.

  Then again, it was always possible Ray had picked her up at her house in his own car and would leave her alone for the night. That would be ideal. It would be easier to sneak into the house with Silvia by herself.

  Ray drove for a total of thirty-three minutes before pulling into a driveway and pushing a button that opened a garage door. He nudged the Jag inside and Marc heard the garage close behind them. It was only then Ray spoke to Silvia.

  “Am I staying or going?” he asked.

  Silvia opened her door. “I don’t want you here.”

  Ray opened his door. “Sil, we need to talk. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  She slammed her door shut. “Not in the mood.”

  Ray was desperate now. “Can we talk in the morning? We have to talk.”

  Silvia seemed to think about that. “You can sleep downstairs and that’s it. Come up to my room and I call nine-one-one and have you arrested. Clear?”

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “No. Calling the woman you say you love a bitch is pretty harsh.”

  They left the garage and entered the house. That was the last Marc heard of them. He knew he had reached the crucial moment. Above all else he had to be patient. He had to give them time to fall asleep. Not only to black out, but to enter a deep REM cycle, where a bomb could go off in the room and they wouldn’t hear it. The smart thing to do was to stay in the trunk and wait at least an hour—two would be better.

  But Marc knew he couldn’t wait, at least not with the trunk closed. It had felt stuffy when he’d climbed into it, but now it felt as if there wasn’t an oxygen molecule left in the cramped space. He was having trouble catching his breath. He tried to convince himself it was all in his head, that the trunk wasn’t vacuum sealed, but it didn’t help. As long as they had been on the road, he had felt a faint cool breeze entering from a tiny hole somewhere. But now it was like he was locked in a tomb.

  He wouldn’t enter the house, he swore to himself. He wouldn’t even get out of the trunk. But he had to open the hood. He needed fresh air.

  Marc pressed the emergency release paddle and the trunk popped open. The first thing he did was break a cardinal rule.

  He climbed out of the trunk and stood up and stretched. It was dumb and he knew it. Silvia and Ray had been inside only a few minutes, and a high percentage of people were forgetful and left either their cell phone, wallet, or purse in the car after arriving home, and had to run back out to the garage to get it.

  He knew he should have waited at least twenty minutes before climbing out of the trunk. If he had half a brain he would get back inside. Yet the thought of doing so made his heart pound. His claustrophobia must be getting worse—another sign it was time to move on to another line of work. He swore right then that if he got the emerald that would be the end. He’d work at the theater another month or so just to allay any suspicions and then he’d quit.

  He liked boats, he loved fishing. He’d always dreamed of moving to a small island near Fiji and buying his own boat and starting a fishing service. If he could get a million for the emerald, he could make the dream a reality. Captain of his own boat—lots of chicks would go for that.

  Maybe even Silvia Summer.

  He still hated the fact that she was his target.

  Yet he hated Ray Cota more. Silvia was right, that jock’s brains were mush. Marc was confident there was nothing Ray could say to her in the morning that would keep her from dumping him.

  “Yeah, she’s going to dump him for you, right,” he whispered to himself. The truth is all would be forgiven in the morning. It was even possible Silvia wouldn’t remember the fight. She was awfully drunk.

  The minutes crept by and no one came anywhere near the garage. He kept his gloves and surgical cap on. Leaving a hair or prints at the house would be just as bad as leaving them in the car. He kept his ears peeled but heard nothing from inside.

  He began to pace to help pass the time. He liked to think of himself as a pro, but sitting still for long periods of time was a skill he had yet to master. He was glad this would be his last job. It would be a relief. If he ended up with a windfall, and no detectives came around afterward to ask questions, he might even work up the nerve to ask Sandy out. He realized he hadn’t stayed away from her just to keep her safe. She was smart, she was doing something with her life, she came from a good family.

  The truth was she intimidated him. What could he say if she ever asked about his family? That he didn’t have one? A smart girl like Sandy would know a guy who grew up without parents would have to be damaged. And Marc had no illusions in that department—he wasn’t normal. What guy his age would be waiting in a dark garage for a famous movie star—hardly older than himself, really—to black out so he could slip into her bedroom and steal her necklace?

  If Sandy could see him now she’d run the other way.

  Marc managed to wait an hour. It was the maximum he could wait—the sun would be coming up soon. He had already checked the door and knew Silvia hadn’t locked it behind her. They never did—they trusted in the garage door. Plus even if she had an alarm system—say, a motion-activated one—it wouldn’t be on while she was in the house.

  Before entering the house, he pulled a black ski mask over his surgical cap. He had earlier gone over it with a fine tooth comb. There wasn’t a hair or skin flake on it. The mask would make him impossible to identify should he be spotted.

  At exactly five in the morning, Marc opened the door and entered the house. He held his flashlight in his right hand but did not turn it on. He was in a compact laundry room. A light shone above the oven in the nearby kitchen. The solitary bulb would give him enough light to move around the bottom floor.

  He didn’t enter the kitchen. He heard a male snoring off to his right, down a short hallway. Silvia had said Ray was to sleep downstairs and that meant Marc was looking at a two-story house.

  Ray’s snoring was loud. He hadn’t closed the door to the bedroom. Still, the fact that he wasn’t in bed with Silvia was a major plus. It would be easier to face down a screaming hundred-pound actress than a two-hundred-pound NFL receiver. Yet Marc hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Marc swung around the kitchen, near Ray’s bedroom door, and found the stairs. He’d been hoping they would be carpeted but they were solid cedar. The red wood looked cool, it smelled great, yet it would creak if he wasn’t careful.

  He moved onto the stairway—it spiraled as it rose—using the handrail for support, trying to ease the impact of his weight. He was pleased with his progress until he was two steps from the top. It was then he put his foot on
a step that creaked so loud he thought his heart would burst. The sound seemed to echo through the house.

  In reality it probably just echoed through his head. Silvia’s bedroom door was also open—ten feet off to his left—and he could hear her soft breathing, and listened as it didn’t alter with the sound of the creaking step.

  Another positive sign. She was out cold.

  The upstairs floor was carpeted, thank God. Marc was able to leave the stairway and peek into Silvia’s room without making a peep. Her bed was king-size, off to the right a few feet, and she was sleeping on the far right side of it, away from the bathroom and the bedroom chest of drawers.

  He saw all this without turning on his flashlight but it was a collage of shadows and silhouettes. He was relieved the carpet continued into the bedroom, but without another source of light he couldn’t see any details. Specifically, he couldn’t see where the necklace was.

  His flashlight had cost him a pretty penny. It was narrow and coated with rubber so that it could fit comfortably in his mouth if he needed his hands free. More important, it had a choice of two filters he could flip over the lens: blue and red. The blue filter cut the brightness of the light by a factor of ten. The red one reduced it fortyfold.

  In the past he’d used the blue filter every time. It allowed him to see a lot better. But something about Silvia worried him. She appeared to be out cold. She showed all the signs: slow breathing, lack of movement. Yet he sensed something coming from her, something he couldn’t put into words.

  He left his flashlight off.

  He stood without moving for a long time. It might have been five minutes—maybe fifteen. It felt like an eternity and still Silvia didn’t move or change her breathing or give him any other reason to keep him rooted in place. Yet there was just something about her that felt . . . off.

  He finally took a step into the room; he took another. He paused between each one. Despite his claustrophobia, he was skilled at breathing softly. He breathed through his mouth, not his nose. The nasal cavities were narrow and his were stuffed up from being in that damn trunk.