How to Lead a Life of Crime

chapter TWENTY-NINE



DUMB SHOW





Joi has promised me a terrible time. But when the elevator drops me off on the ground floor of the academy, I decide that it’s already the best night of my life. It’s twenty to eight, and inside the atrium, the sun is turning everything it touches to gold. Joi’s sleek gown is gunmetal gray—and so perfectly fitted that she looks like she’s been dipped in molten metal. No one we meet will mistake Joi for a mortal. Her black curls defy gravity, and her amber eyes are more catlike than human. They take me in slowly, and one side of her mouth curls up ever so slightly.

“Let’s go,” she says. Her voice is cold, but when she accepts the arm I hold out for her, she gives it a gentle squeeze.

The car ride is quick and utterly silent. The academy’s driver checks the rearview mirror a little too often. I wonder if he’s watching both of us. Or just ogling Joi. When we arrive at our destination on Tenth Street, I slide out of the car. Just as planned, Joi takes time to check her makeup, fix her hair, and address an imaginary problem with one of her shoes. I make a show of impatience, but my eyes never leave the building in front of me. It’s a Greenwich Village brownstone. Four stories. Three front-facing windows on each floor. A service entrance beneath the stoop. Just the sort of feature you look for when you’re planning a little breaking and entering. But there may be an even better option. The buildings next door have buzzers with multiple names. Apartment buildings usually have crappy security, and some idiot will always buzz you in if you say you’re making a delivery. That’s the option I’ll go for if I need to come back here on my own. I’ll get into one of the apartment buildings and go up the communal stairway to the roof. Walk across to Mandel’s house and break in through the top. No witnesses—and all the time I’d need to crack any pesky locks.

“Are you coming?” I huff. Joi takes her cue and joins me, slamming the car door for good measure.

When we reach the top of the stoop, the front door opens. It looks like most of the guests have already arrived, but Mandel is lingering near the door, waiting to greet any latecomers.

“Don’t you make a pretty pair,” he observes with a smirk. I notice there’s a drink in his hand. I wonder how well the snake holds his liquor. “Though I’m still a little perplexed by your choice of escort, Joi. This should be your evening to shine.”

“The best way to spot a real diamond is to place a fake one beside it,” Joi purrs. “I’ll let the alumni decide which is which.”

“Well put,” says Mandel. He offers his arm to my date. “Let’s go show you off.”

Mandel’s house is a tribute to some interior decorator’s impeccable taste. It’s all ivory paint, vanilla fabrics, and warm wood. Aside from the throw pillows decorated with needlepoint cats, there’s absolutely nothing in sight that screams “madman.” Still, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover a hidden room devoted to Nazi memorabilia or a freezer in the basement that’s stuffed with body parts. Whatever he’s got, I plan to find it.

I spot a few familiar faces from the last alumni gathering, but their eyes pass over me like I’m yesterday’s leftovers. They’re all eager for a bite of Joi. When the feeding frenzy begins, I stick close to her side. I’d rather not make Joi face them alone. But she’s a master of chitchat, and her research is serving her well. It’s as though she’s prepared a mental dossier on each of the guests—and she knows exactly where to stroke their egos. I reluctantly retreat, one small step at a time, and watch the alumni circle and surround her.

I spend the next hour prowling the perimeter of Mandel’s parlor. Whenever Jude and I were ordered to attend one of our father’s parties, we passed our time making friends with the wallflowers. We’d look for the man paying a little too much attention to the art. Or the woman pretending to admire our lamps. Jude and I knew the most interesting guests would be the ones who didn’t fit in. We met artists and engineers and experts on unusual subjects. But we discovered that the wallflowers all had one thing in common. They never fawned over us—or treated us like our father’s pets. They were just pleased to have people to talk to.

I’m the lone wallflower at this soiree. No one here thinks I’m worthy of a chat—or hors d’oeuvre, apparently. Even the snooty waiters are ignoring me. So I make a show of studying Mandel’s collection of Picasso sketches and perusing all the books with unbroken spines that line his shelves. He once told me he collects rare books. Maybe that’s true, but he doesn’t appear to read very much.

Eventually I visit the bar and request a glass of white wine. A man I once met at my father’s house is standing less than two feet away, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. I take a swig of my drink and discreetly tip the rest down my shirt. When I ask the bartender for directions to the bathroom, I try my best to look embarrassed. I think I’ve even managed a blush. But the performance is unnecessary. No one is watching my dumb show.

I bypass the bathroom and scurry downstairs. The kitchen is hot and its atmosphere frenzied. Waiters load trays with crystal glasses while a crew of caterers decorates silver platters with edible artworks. I’m sure somebody must see me grabbing a bottle of Scotch. But no one says a word when I tuck the booze under my jacket and head up the stairs to the second floor.

• • •

It was Joi’s idea.

“How many Mandel graduates are still alive?” she asked just after I’d kissed her for the second time in months. It was the last thing I wanted to think about at that moment.

“Mandel said he recruits eighteen students a year but only half ever graduate. Fifty years’ worth of graduates might be out there. Nine times fifty is four hundred and fifty. But some of those guys will have kicked the bucket. So my guess is there are somewhere between three and four hundred,” I calculated. “Maybe more, maybe less.”

“Four hundred of the most powerful people in the country. Mandel told me that I’d have to work for the Mandel Academy after I graduate. Is it the same for everyone?”

“You can choose a career, but all alumni are secretly employed by the Mandel family.”

“Yeah, ’cause otherwise, the graduates would all go off on their own. We’re not talking about a bunch of people who value stuff like teamwork or charity, right? So how does Mandel keep them all in line? And how does he convince them to ‘donate’ big bucks to his school? He’s got to be getting a pretty hefty cut of their profits to keep running this show.”

“That’s why half the alumni want to force Mandel out.”

“So why haven’t they?”

The answer was so obvious that I was surprised she couldn’t see it. “He knows all of their secrets, Joi. He knows who they’ve killed or robbed or cheated. The academy keeps files on everyone. Mandel owns the alumni. They have to do what he asks or he’ll ruin them.”

“Sure,” she responded as if I’d just told her the earth was round. “But where do you think Mandel stores all the files?”

Another strange question. “On a computer?”

Joi’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. Though don’t you think that seems kind of risky? There must be dozens of graduates who are capable of hacking the academy’s server. And I bet every single one of them would love to delete his own file. Besides, when did your dad graduate?”

“1985.”

“What if his file was never digitized? What’s your dad’s name?”

I hesitated.

“Flick?”

“His name’s Henry Brennan.”

“What if there’s an actual folder somewhere with Henry Brennan written on the label?”

“I’m pretty sure the files are all electronic now. Mandel downloaded something onto my computer the other day, and I have a hunch it was dirt on my father. I don’t know what the document was, but it was obviously digitized.”

“I’m sure he’s scanned a few things here and there. But do you think the Mandel family ever took the time to upload thousands of old documents?” Joi asks. “And if the files are filled with lots of juicy secrets, who would the Mandels have trusted to do the work for them?”

It was all adding up to a conclusion that I couldn’t quite buy. “So you think there might be physical files on all the academy graduates locked up somewhere in this school.”

“Probably,” Joi said. “But Mandel strikes me as the kind of guy who likes to take his work home with him.”

“Come on,” I scoffed. “You think there might be files at his house? He would never take that kind of risk. Especially if he’s throwing parties there.”

“You keep forgetting that the man’s totally nuts. Mandel could have a stack of alumni files on his bedside table so he can read himself to sleep every night.”

A memory flickered in my head. The first time I visited the academy, Mandel told me that he’d read my father’s file. There was something about the way he said it—like it wasn’t just some document he’d stumbled across in the course of his duties. He talked about that file like it was one of his favorite books.

“You’re taking me to the party so I can check out his bedside table?”

“I know it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a look, right? I can charm the alumni while you snoop around. Even if you don’t find any files, you might find a computer or something.”

“Or Mandel’s private collection of pickled brains.”

“Even better.”

I sighed. “And here I was thinking this was going to be our first date.”

That’s when I had to kiss her again.

• • •

Turns out Mandel’s bedroom isn’t the treasure trove we hoped it would be. There’s nothing in it but a bed. A white Persian cat is asleep on one of the pillows. I hope Mandel wakes up tomorrow with a disfiguring case of ringworm. I step into his bathroom and take the opportunity to pour some Scotch down the sink drain. If the bottle is still full when he finds me, he’ll know I’m not drunk. I’m a big fan of little details, so I empty my bladder into his toilet as well. My aim sucks, and I don’t bother to flush. After I’m all zipped up, I head down the hall. Slowly. I don’t want to miss anything—and when Mandel checks the data from my tracking chip, I want him to think I was wandering aimlessly. Which, as it happens, is just what I’m doing. There’s nothing of interest here. In some rooms, there’s nothing at all. When I reach the top floor of the building, I find it’s completely empty. There’s an enormous skylight in the ceiling and a puddle of moonlight on the floor. Seems like a good place to pause for a drink.

I take a few swigs of the whiskey. I still don’t have a taste for the stuff. But I’ll drink it out of duty. I glance around and wonder why Mandel didn’t set his decorator loose in this room. The light must be great during the day. But the walls look like they haven’t been painted for years. There are dark rectangular patches where bookshelves or furniture recently stood. And then it hits me. The dark patches are the height and width of filing cabinets. The files exist. This is where he kept them. And now they’ve been moved to another room just like it.

The painter’s studio. That’s why he asked me to rob the house he was secretly purchasing. He could have gone with a professional thief. Or fought the artist’s lease in court. But he didn’t want anyone connected to the academy to know about the building. So he chose a dumb kid for the job. A kid who wouldn’t ask any questions. One who was about to be locked up for a while. I was a pawn before I even knew I was playing a game.

I take another gulp of Scotch to celebrate my brilliant breakthrough. I think I know where the files are—and if I’m right, I know exactly how to get them. I’m feeling nice and tipsy, which is great, because I suddenly hear footsteps on the stairs. Mandel finds me sitting on the floor with a half-empty bottle of Scotch in front of me.

“What are you doing up here?” he demands.

“Letting Joi shine.” I do my best to slur the word shine. “Want some?” I ask, holding up the Scotch bottle. “It’s not as good as the last stuff I got off you, but it’s better than nothing.”

Mandel just gazes at me with that crazy smile.

“Oh, come on, you know I don’t have cooties.” I shake the bottle at him. “Your doctors would have put me to sleep if I did.”

I don’t think he’s buying the act. I need to find some way to convince him.

“I want you to know that I’m ready,” I say. I take a gulp of liquid courage. “The switch has flipped. I can beat him now. Just give me my chance.”

At the very least I’ve amused him. “Stand up, Flick. Time for you to go home.”

The alumni have gathered to watch Mandel return with his runaway guinea pig. I give them all a big, sloppy smile right before I purposely slip and bounce down the last few stairs.

“If any of you wondered why I brought Flick as my date, I think the answer should be clear by now,” Joi quips to the crowd. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is my only competition.”

• • •

Joi and I stand three feet apart in the academy’s elevator. Or rather Joi stands. I slump against the wall. When we reach the dorms, we head in our separate directions. The lights are out on the balcony, and I don’t bother turning any on in my room. I just lie down on my bed and kick off my shoes. Five minutes later I hear bare feet padding across wooden floorboards. I left the door open a foot, and a shadow slips inside. The door slides shut, and I smell Jasmine and cocoa butter. Joi left her chip and her dress behind in her room.