First Lie Wins(68)

“I got your fireworks, Kitty Cat,” he says, while grabbing his crotch.

While this is the easiest way to get into the party, it is also the grossest.

As soon as we enter the house, I hear someone shout “Sawyer!”

We both turn to find Ralph Tate staring at us from the top of the stairs. I knew I’d be memorable walking in with Sawyer so I played to it. My jean shorts are short enough that I have a little ass hanging out of the back, and the American flag bikini top leaves little to the imagination. My hair is blue in honor of my country on its birthday and my great love for Sawyer’s band, Blue Line. Some well-placed temporary tattoos, smoky eyes, and fire engine red lipstick complete the look. I am hiding in plain sight.

Ralph Tate approaches us slowly and I can feel Sawyer tense up next to me. He wants to cause a scene. Wants it to look like he’s thumbing his nose at Daddy’s money. But I know he’ll crumble the second Daddy threatens to take the money away. These boys are so predictable.

“Son, I believe you mentioned a few friends would be joining you.” He eyes the group behind us. “This is a bit more than we planned for.”

Sawyer spreads his arms out wide. “It’s either all of us or none of us.”

This fucking tool. I hold my breath, hoping Ralph isn’t about to throw us out just to put him in his well-deserved place. Luckily, Mrs. Tate steps in to smooth things over.

“Honey, we always have room for you and your friends!” She’s not his mother since she’s only about six years older than him, but she likes the show as much as Sawyer does. Ralph disappears outside while the missus points us in the direction of food and booze. I dig my phone out of my back pocket to send Devon a quick text: Tick tock

Sawyer gets swept up by a group of girls he’s known since childhood, while I slip away to the bar, swaying just enough to make it look like I’m as high as the crowd I showed up with.

“Vodka cranberry,” I say.

Devon is behind the bar. I would not recognize him if I didn’t know it was him. He’s wearing the same uniform as the other servers, but he’s got a pretty groovy mustache going on and dreads in place of his normally short hair. When he told me his revised plan, I was surprised he was willing to interact with so many people, but happy he’s getting out of his comfort zone. He’s stood in the shadows long enough.

Devon hands me a drink that I know will contain zero alcohol, then checks his watch. “No changes. Cameras out at four seventeen.”

Since we knew we wouldn’t be the only ones attempting this job, he tapped into the security system within hours of leaving Buffalo Wild Wings, and he’s been watching the house ever since. He texted me the number four last night, letting me know how many failed attempts to get the painting there have been so far. I don’t have the details yet, but since he said “no changes” it seems like no one has tried it the way we have planned.

“How many on deck?” I ask.

“Three but hopefully they’re waiting until the show,” he answers. I nod and slip away.

We tossed around waiting until the fireworks started to make our move like he believes the other three people here for the painting will be doing, but we knew we might face a crowd if we wait that long. So we’re going for it in broad daylight.

I drop down in a chair near the patio door and watch the clock. We have timed this to the second, so as soon as it hits 4:17, I put my drink on the small side table and make my way into the house. Once I’ve cleared the main area, I walk with purpose to the bathroom located off the back hall. I’ve memorized the floor plans so there are no wrong turns. I lock the door once I’m inside and pull the bag Devon stowed in the cabinet earlier. There is a black wig and server’s uniform, a pair of gloves, a watch, and a big black trash bag. I put everything on over my shorts and bikini top in record time. I shouldn’t be caught on any cameras, but Kitty is too memorable if I bump into someone in the hall. Once I’m out of the bathroom, I send Devon a text: Go

Making my way through the house, I get to the back hall where a left will take me to Mr. Tate’s trophy room.

I turn right.

I keep my head low as I pass through the kitchen, holding the trash bag in front of me like a shield. No one spares me a second glance since it looks like I’m on my way to take the garbage out.

A few more turns and I’m in front of the door to the laundry room.

I send another text: Ready

There’s a small keypad outside the door, and the light flashes from red to green. I open the door and step inside, put the trash bag on top of the dryer, then pull out a small black device from inside the bag. I hold it up to the cabinet doors next to the washer, entering the series of numbers that Devon has texted me. You cannot tell there is a lock on this cabinet from the outside, but in a few seconds I hear a click and the doors pop open.

Inside the cabinet is a clothes rod full of hunting clothes. Grabbing a fistful at a time, I remove all the clothes from the cabinet, then hold the black box against the panel that was hidden behind them. Devon sends me another set of codes that I plug into the device.

A few seconds later, it pops open, and I’m looking at a very expensive but also very ugly painting.

I take the painting, leaving the replica that was hidden in the trash bag in its place. Luckily, the painting isn’t very big. Once the clothes are all back on the rod, Devon helps me work my way out of the system, locking each door in place.