“My dear, it is neither the time nor the place for such sordid details. Just take my word for it: Miss Verdier has a tough time getting off, which gives us a full forty-five minutes before she enjoys her little daily orgasm, knocks back a BLT and a Coke, and comes waltzing back in here. So, get moving. You know the plan by heart; we’ve run through it a hundred times. You’ve got this.”
But May wouldn’t budge. Sensing her hesitation, Sally-Anne drew her close and whispered into her ear how stunning she looked and promised that everything would be fine. Sally-Anne looked on from the parking lot as May crossed the road and made her way to the service entrance, where hired help brought in newspapers, fancy food, beverages, and flowers, as well as the spoils from Mrs. Stanfield’s or her son’s shopping runs to the city.
When the butler came to greet her, May gave the cover story, perfectly playing the part of a well-educated young jobseeker. The phony British accent that Sally-Anne had advised May to adopt worked brilliantly—its natural authority was so intimidating that she was granted entry, no questions asked. The butler could see she had arrived early, and there was no way he was going to ask someone like her to wait in the foyer. He led May straight up to a small study on the second floor . . . all just as Sally-Anne had predicted.
The man contritely offered May a seat, assuring her that Mr. Stanfield’s secretary had only stepped out for a moment and would be back shortly. He asked if May would like a glass of water, but she politely declined. The butler gracefully took his leave, and May found herself alone in the little study, just next door to Miss Verdier’s office.
The study was furnished with a pedestal table and two velvet armchairs that perfectly matched the plush curtains. An Aubusson rug covered the dark oak floors, and a small crystal chandelier hung above the wood-paneled walls.
May checked the timing. Meeting the butler, climbing the stairs, and walking the long corridor to the study . . . ten minutes in all. Another thirty-five minutes before the sex-obsessed secretary came back. Normally, the thought of her at that massage parlor downtown would have cracked May up, like it had when Sally-Anne first described Miss Verdier’s lunch-break escapades. But now that May was about to enter the woman’s office and commit an actual crime, the whole thing felt a lot less amusing. Getting caught in the act by Miss Verdier was not an option. May had to be long gone by the time she returned. If the police were called, it wouldn’t take long for them to connect the dots, and the charge would be far more serious than simple trespassing . . .
Don’t think like that, not now. May’s throat was dry. She was really wishing she had taken that glass of water, but it was too late now. She went through the steps in her head: Rise. Walk to the connecting door. Turn the handle and slip inside undetected.
She did exactly that, and was amazed by her own nerve. She felt like she was a robot programmed for this one specific task.
Once inside, she closed the door softly behind her. May knew that even the slightest noise would give her away. There was a good chance that the master of the house was sitting in the adjoining room at that very moment, fully aware that his assistant would not be at her desk at this time of day.
May did a full scan of her surroundings, stunned by the modern aesthetic of the room, in sharp contrast to everything else she’d seen inside the manor. A reproduction of a Miró painting graced the wall across from an elegant pale wooden desk. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t a reproduction at all. No time to dwell on it. She softly eased the chair back from the desk and crouched in front of the desk drawers, then slipped the lockpick out of her pocket and carefully unwrapped it.
May had practiced picking the lock on an identical set of drawers over a hundred times, honing the skill so that there would be no trace of her intrusion. Sally-Anne’s locksmith friend had explained to them that it was a Yale tumbler lock and helped them find the right tool for the job straightaway: a steep-angled pick with a half-diamond tip.
With a wide angle at the end and a narrow base, the pick was as easy to insert as it was to remove. May remembered her lessons: avoid scratching the inside, or else risk leaving behind telltale iron scrapings that could block the mechanism and serve as proof of the forced entry. Hold the handle horizontally with a firm grip opposite the barrel and slowly insert the hook. Feel for the pins and apply measured pressure to each, lifting them without causing the least bit of damage. When she felt the first pin reach the precise point, May slowly advanced the tip of the hook to lift the second, then moved on to the third. She held her breath and slowly turned the lock rotor until she at last felt a sweet release. Her newly acquired skills paid off: the lock on the drawer yielded.