“The original deal,” she continued, pouring herself a glass of the owner’s Macallan 30, “was for you to steal this painting and deliver it to a dead drop. But I had a secondary objective. A test.”
“Dinner is for survivors, Chris.” She pressed the elevator call button. “Try not to die before dessert.”
Chris kept his smile easy. “If you’re here to arrest me, you forgot your badge.” chris diamond miss lexa
Chris looked at his wristwatch. A cheap, reliable piece he’d had for years. His heart hammered once, twice. Then he smiled—a real smile, for the first time in months.
“What kind of test?”
The rain over Los Angeles wasn’t the cleansing kind. It was the sticky, neon-refracting kind that made the city look like a broken slot machine. Chris Diamond knew this because he’d been staring at it for three hours from the penthouse window of a man he’d just robbed.
The doors shut.
Chris froze. His eyes darted to the painting. The Monet was lovely—hazy water lilies, soft light. But he’d noticed it the moment he lifted it off the wall. The frame was slightly thicker on the bottom edge. Just a millimeter. But a man who steals art for a living notices millimeters.