I opened my mouth to press him further because you didn’t just drop something that heavy without context, when he caught me in a stare so ferocious, I took a step back, my hands up. “I’m not asking.”
He stalked off.
I fired Leo a quick text of apology for possibly making her booty call ragey and quickly turned off my phone.
It took us another day to make a plan and arrange everything. Rohan and I headed to the airport on Thursday morning to fly to Orlando and retrieve the painting. The Shelby roared along Southwest Marine Drive, the windows down, and the wind streaming in our hair. Despite being blackmailed into working for Malik, I was in an irrepressibly good mood, singing along with “Can’t Stop The Feeling.” Rohan joined in for all the falsetto parts.
My Brotherhood phone rang with the “Imperial Death March” theme, assigned to all secret society numbers.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Katz.”
I slapped the stereo button off. “Hello, Rabbi Mandelbaum.”
Rohan cut me a wary look and I shrugged.
“What have you done since our last conversation in regards to stopping Candyman?” the rabbi asked.
“Our last conversation that was only two days ago?”
“Yes. I assume you are investigating right now and that you aren’t merely going out for brunch with your boyfriend?”
I frantically motioned for Rohan to veer past the Arthur Lang Bridge leading to the airport because Mandelbaum was tracking us. This was a bullshit phone call designed to let me know he could get to me. “We’re following up on some of the lab equipment we found at the house. Whether it was purchased or stolen. There might be something that leads us back to the demon.”
There was nothing. We’d sent Drio down this road yesterday while we planned our Orlando mission. All the pieces were too widely available; even cattle prods could be purchased on Amazon.
“Don’t waste Rohan’s time. He’s too valuable a Rasha.” Mandelbaum hung up.
I shoved my Brotherhood phone in the glove compartment.
Rohan found a security-patrolled lot and paid for parking, while I called for a taxi on my burner to take us to the airport. Ro borrowed the phone to call Drio to let him know where both the car and the spare key were, so he could drive the Shelby around and it didn’t sit in one place for hours. Brotherhood-issued phones automatically sent out locations after twenty-four hours of inactivity, in case a Rasha needed to be rescued.
Rohan would rather get a root canal than let anyone drive his car, so whatever had bonded these two had bonded them but good.
The cabbie had turned off the main road to one of the hangers near the south terminal before I spoke. “I hate Boris Badenov.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Ro said. “But you have to let him keep underestimating you.”
I pulled my seatbelt away from my chest like I needed room to breathe. “It’s not a matter of ‘let.’ There’s nothing I can do that would make him see my worth.”
Except taking him down. He’d see it then.
The cabbie pulled up to a private terminal not far from the Flying Beaver, which was this cool pub on the water with views of the floatplanes. We grabbed our one small carry-on and the cardboard box with the packing supplies.
Rohan paid him and we walked directly on to the ramp where the private jet Ro had chartered awaited us.
“I am so turned on right now,” I said.
Carlos, our steward for the journey, greeted us. He checked the tickets on Ro’s phone, ensured we had our passports for customs when we landed in the U.S. and gave us the tour of the jet. There was a lounge with a large screen TV and DVD system and a telecommunications center. He got us settled in, saying that drinks and a choice of hot meals would be available after take-off.
Ro made himself comfortable on the couch while I paced the plane. “Did you find Mandelbaum’s timing suspicious?” I said. “Why would he phone when we were headed for the airport?”
“He couldn’t know. Only the three of us did.”
“Yeah.” I did another lap.
“Nava. Drio didn’t tell him.”
I stopped. “I honestly don’t think he did, but we had our phones. Could they be listening in to our conversations even if we’re not on the phone?” I wasn’t worried about that on this flight since we’d left them in Ro’s car which Drio was going to take back to the house.
I was however, extremely worried about what Orwell might have overheard up to this point.
“You’re being paranoid,” he said.
“Justifiably paranoid.”
Carlos entered the cabin to tell us to get ready for take-off and we strapped in.
Keyed up though I was, when the engines rumbled to life and the jet sped down the run-away, my stomach still flipped in exhilaration. It was a fairly smooth ascent and soon we were cruising comfortably at altitude and able to move around.
I signed on to the secret email that Kane had set up for me, swearing it was safe from prying eyes, and called Rohan over to review the blueprints and dossier we’d compiled on the owner of the painting.
Rabbi Paskow had served the New York chapter for forty years before retiring to the sunny climes of Orlando, where he lived with his wife in a gated community on a golf course. His son and three grandchildren still lived in Queens, and the rabbi and his wife were currently on their yearly visit up north.
We wouldn’t encounter them, but we still had to get into the alarmed and monitored house in full view of all neighbors and community security. The easiest solution would have been for Kane to stage an alarm issue that we could have responded to, but he was busy with his mission, so no hacking job for us.
We didn’t have time to match the uniforms of the groundskeepers but we did have two things: Ms. Clara, who had access to the rabbi’s cell number, and a Florida-based minion who owed Malik a favor. Neither Rohan nor I were happy about the latter part of the plan, but desperate times.
Before we’d even landed in Houston for the first leg of our flight, Lackey Demon had burst a pipe feeding into the rabbi’s home. The water line fed in to the laundry room so hopefully the damage would be minimal. Drio had called it in at an appointed time, then after the agreed-upon waiting period I’d phoned Rabbi Paskow, who’d already been notified by the community’s management company. I said I was from the restoration company and I needed authorization to enter his premises to assess the damage.
He’d promised to call the clubhouse immediately to let main gate security know to expect us. Our entire plan was dependent upon the snail’s pace of all bureaucracy. When my family had had a flood, the restoration company hadn’t been called until the next day. I was counting on a similar procedure here–that they’d be so focused on containing the leak and fixing the pipe that they wouldn’t have called the restoration company themselves.