Red-Handed Ch. 01

The thought of calling the police flashed momentarily through his mind, but then a better idea occurred. I can deal with this myself. I won't hurt him, but I'll scare the fuck out of the smug little shit. How much better to interrupt Miranda's plans and then hold them over her? It might even act as a secret bargaining chip, one to help him renegotiate the whole divorce settlement. But he had to act on this quickly. Grabbing the phone, he sent the intruder a message of his own.

SEARCH THE OTHER ROOMS TOO -- LIVING-ROOM AND BEDROOM. BE THOROUGH.

He gunned the ignition and set off towards his apartment to catch the bastard in the act. This time of night the journey should take no more than half an hour. Within seconds he received a reply to his text, and broke his usual rule, by reading and responding while in motion at the wheel.

REALLY? IS HE STILL THERE? WHAT AM I LOOKING FOR?

OF COURSE REALLY. TARGET WILL BE WITH ME ALL NIGHT. ANYTHING OF INTEREST -- USE YOUR INTELLIGENCE FOR GOD'S SAKE. TEXT WHEN YOU'RE DONE. DON'T LEAVE TILL I SAY, UNDERSTOOD?

YES, UNDERSTOOD.

Mac sped through darkness, wiper blades cutting through the rain that had begun to drive, like good sense cutting through his anger. Keep a clear head. Deal with this situation. If you don't get her now, you never will.

Anger kept rolling over him, however, threatening to preclude all rational thought. I knew she was like this, I knew she was a game-playing bitch. Why the hell am I surprised?

"She found out one of her employees was thieving," he'd told Alan Sinclair in one of their divorce strategy meetings. "Know what she did? She blackmailed the girl, and her boyfriend into sex. Can you believe that? And then she told me over dinner one night like it was foreplay. Like she thought I'd commend her for it. That I'd be as turned on by the story as she clearly was remembering it. That's the kind of woman we're dealing with here and I can never afford to forget it."

Incensed, he thumped the steering-wheel with both hands. "Christ, how stupid are you, Lewis? How much were you ready to put up with from that... that fucking harpy?" Well no more. One stupid mistake on her part, and Miranda French's best-laid plans were about to come crashing down. And whoever was fool enough to partner with her? They'd get caught in the crash as well. Payback was due.

Swallowing his rage, Mackenzie Lewis drove through the filthy night to the place of reckoning.

* * * *

"It's all okay. She'll keep him otherwise engaged for the rest of the night. We've got the run of this place." The voice behind the stocking-mask was young and female, polite but with a Kentish twang. The girl slid the mobile phone into her mini-backpack and motioned to her companion.

"Are you sure? I'd have thought we'd be out of here by now," her similarly masked comrade said, huddling close. "I can't imagine what it'd be like if he caught us." There was a thrill of excited fear in her voice. Her accent suggested a woman likewise in her twenties, but from some upmarket part of London like Chelsea or Teddington.

"Didn't you hear what I said? No one's showing up. We can take our time and do this properly." There was a hint of irritation in the phone-girl's voice. Of the two she had the more classic cat-burglar's build, sinuous and elegant in her clinging black tights and sleeved black top. Her partner-in-crime, identically attired, was more curvaceous than slinky and seemed less attuned to the task in hand. She followed her take-charge friend into the apartment's living room, both of them scanning around with their pocket flashlights.

"What exactly are we looking for?" the curvier girl inquired. "I thought once we'd searched through his study and left the envelope..."

"Yes, well you thought wrong. If Miranda wants us to be thorough, that's up to her."

"But Lysette..."

"We're being paid enough," the slinkier girl said, "but only if her plan works out."

"I know. It's just... I thought this would take ten minutes, and..."

"Look, Imogen..." The more proactive of the two grasped her fellow-burglar by both arms and stared into the eyes that blinked wide from the slit cut into the mask. "The code worked. If the alarm hadn't been switched off, we'd know about it by now. Miranda's going to occupy him for as long as it takes and notify us in plenty of time if he heads this way. We've got all the time we need. I'll search and you photograph anything that looks of interest. That's all you have to do here -- that and not knock anything over. Like that bloody vase in the hallway."

"Oops..." the one called Imogen said with a nervous giggle.

"'Oops' my arse," Lysette snapped. "We don't leave the faintest sign anyone's been here -- that's essential, remember? So no fuck-ups."

"Yes -- I know. I've got it."

"Good. Now let's get on with this and no more idle chatter."

The living room was minimally furnished and promised little in the way of search results. Lysette flipped through the magazines on the coffee table -- Imogen snapped one or two photos of the contents.

"So how exactly is photographing covers of GQ going to help us here?" Lysette demanded.

"I don't know. I... I was trying to be thorough, that's all."

"I'll tell you what to photograph."

"Okay, yes, got it."

They searched through bookshelves and on every other surface, discovering nothing that warranted much interest, their torches glancing around in the darkness and their breath the only noise, aside from Imogen's occasional prattle.

"God, this is like Mission: Impossible, isn't it? Only we didn't drop in on one of those wire thingies. And that with us it's a bit, kind of -- you know, criminal."

"It is criminal. So shush."

"Yes, but... if he's been so nasty in the divorce, then I suppose he's got it coming, so we're helping out, right? It's a good thing we're doing, isn't it?"

"Sure, we're bloody Girl Scouts. Shush!"

"Only... well he seemed so nice when we met him at that party when the Piccadilly branch opened. So gentlemanly. They were such a beautiful couple. He was so tall and dark, so strong. Italian... that's how he looked. Is he Italian? He sounded a bit Scottish. I'd hate it if he found us here. God, I mean doubly hate it. I liked him. Such a shame it went wrong between them. Do you know why they..."

"Jesus, Imogen, would you just shut up?"

There was an embarrassed pause. "Sorry, sorry. I'm nervous, that's all. If Spencer even knew I was doing this..."

"Look," Lysette said, tempering her tone, "your precious boyfriend isn't going to find out. No one is going to find out. We're done in this room -- so we simply search the bedroom, wait for Miranda's text and then get the hell out of here. Then you can forget the whole thing ever happened, okay?"

"Okay, okay. I know. God, Lysette..."

"What?"

"This is the most exciting thing I've done in my life! I don't think I'm ever going to forget tonight."

* * * *

Mac made the drive in a shorter time even than he'd expected. By the time he'd parked his car outside the apartment block, his anger had simmered into firm intent. Find the intruder, make sure the bastard's face was caught squarely on camera and then discover what Miranda had expected him to do. Make the guy squirm till he crapped himself and then maybe finish off by calling the police. Which to do -- hold the knowledge of what she had done over Miranda, or have her arrested straight away along with her accomplice? He wasn't sure yet. He hoped to hell that Miranda hadn't been able to contact her hired thief any other way -- but then the whole point of the disposable phone was anonymity, right? She wasn't going to incriminate herself further by calling on her own phone... The thought that the burglar might have cut and run made his stomach tighten.

His heart starting to pound once again, he sent another text to the intruder.

PROGRESS?

ROOMS ALL SEARCHED. EVERYTHING OF INTEREST PHOTOGRAPHED.

Still there -- yes! For once in that God-awful year of his life, Mac's luck was holding. Now to capitalise...

He texted again.

GO OVER THE BEDROOM ONE MORE TIME. MAKE SURE YOU MISS NOTHING.

UNDERSTOOD.

That's right, you vacuous male-model bastard, go through all my stuff one more time. Anything for your beloved fucking Cruella. You'll be right where I want you. Grabbing a heavy torch from the trunk to use as a weapon, Mac locked his car and paced towards the apartment building. His breathing was ragged, his senses charged with energy as he prepared to face the intruder. What Miranda must be thinking now... She was staying well away from the mess she'd created, desperately trying to work out how she'd wriggle free of her own screwed plan. Well no dice, you vicious bitch, tonight I'm in the driver's seat.

He tapped in the entrance code to the complex, wondering how the hell that information had been gained. Maybe the thief had simply waited until someone else was going through the gate, but knowledge of the password to his own place -- that had been in his possession alone. Never mind -- he could worry about those details later. All that mattered now was the furtive individual who'd currently be skulking around his bedroom, collecting all the information they could later spill.

Mastering his breathing once more, he unlocked the downstairs entrance to his section of the complex and made his way up the hallway stairs to apartment nine, the meagre space he'd been renting since the divorce debacle had begun. His fingers hovered at the key panel for a moment. He could make a quick entrance and rush the intruder, or else use stealth. The latter option appealed to his mood, so he tapped in the digits, easing the door open with supreme care.

The apartment was dark, aside from a blinking security light. Whoever had gained access before him that night was privy to the alarm code too. His mind darted about for solutions to the mystery, but once again he brushed those considerations aside, attending to the situation at hand. He ventured into his own living space, eyes adjusting to the darkness, ears alert for the slightest sound. He heard the latter soon enough -- voices drifted from his bedroom. A pair of thieves. Shit, I should have known. But as possessed as he was by his need to control the situation, he knew he'd have taken them on regardless. These weren't professionals, they were Miranda's recruits, selected from her own merry band of sycophants. Besides, from the sound of the whispered conversation, at least one of them was... maybe both were... female?

Slipping off his shoes, Mac progressed quietly down the carpeted corridor towards the intruders. The unlit torch was heavy in his hand -- a last resort in the unlikely circumstances that his uninvited guests were armed in any way. Beams of light were flickering about the bedroom, as the thieves exchanged breathy conversation. The door was open enough for him to see one dark shape hovering not far inside the room, a good half foot shorter than him, with their back turned to the entrance. Whatever the identity of these thieves, they were both his. Blood drummed in his ear, drowning out the thread of his breath. One moment's nerve was required, and then adrenalin would do the rest.

Mac laid a palm flat on the door's surface, pushed and leapt.

His apprehension of the first criminal was swift and clean. He had the figure in his grasp and his broad palm clamped around their mouth before they had a chance to react, other than to let their torch tumble to the carpet. In more or less the same instant he flipped the knob on the lighting panel beside the door with that same hand that grasped the torch, and the room swam with light. Criminal two had turned in alarm at the disturbance and now she -- yes, she -- screamed in panic and stumbled in reverse against his closet, to see her accomplice grappled into submission.

The intruder within his grasp was clearly also a young woman, albeit masked like her partner. She was soft and svelte within his grip as she struggled for freedom -- not as dramatically curved as the other one, but equally feminine. Awkwardly pocketing his torch he gripped the stocking mask around her neck and ripped it upwards and off. A shock of wave-permed russet locks tumbled free, their fragrance wafting up to envelop his face. His captive ceased to wriggle, as she succumbed to the truth that she was caught.

The other one was frozen in terror against the hard oak veneer of the closet; her huge blue eyes, primped with mascara, stared back at him through the gap in her improvised stocking-disguise. "You," he said, his voice a terse bark, "take off the mask." She hesitated, curiously meek for a girl with such a well-stacked frame. Mac grabbed the captured Scarlet's wrist and pushed it up the girl's back, till she cried out from the force. "Take off the fucking mask," he reiterated, "and let me see you."

Without further delay the second girl grabbed at the hem of the mask, peeling it free of her head in a single panicked motion. A great sheet of corn-blonde hair fell dramatically free, so that it scattered about her shoulders. She stood, gasping and staring at him, her exquisitely pretty features made up with lipstick, foundation and blush, for all that she was house-breaking. Here was a Hollywood kind of burglar, in appearance at least. Mac judged from the girl's rather vacuous stare that the looks were not matched by a master-thief's intelligence.

"Now you," Mac hissed into the ear of the red-haired companion, "go over and stand beside your friend. And don't think of trying anything -- this place has cameras everywhere. Although I think you probably already knew that, right?" He pushed the girl and she obliged by rushing over to the blonde, turning around to face the man who had captured her. She was breathing furiously like her companion, equalling the girl in shock, but exhibiting more natural defiance. "Smile, girls," he said, some part of him shocked at the degree of his own viciousness. "You're on Candid-fucking-Camera. Surprised to see me?"

The scarlet girl fixed her green-eyed gaze on him, like she was scanning through her options, while her golden-haired partner whimpered, her mouth hanging open. "Oh God, oh God..."

"Wait a second," Mac said, realisation dawning as he stared at the pretty two-girl tableau. "We've all met before, haven't we?" There was silence from the two of them. "Haven't we... Blondie?"

The marginally taller of the two girls worked her jaw, but no sound came out. She looked to her associate for guidance and the scarlet gave the sigh of a girl furious at having been caught so easily. "Yes," the more slender girl replied, clearly aware that silence on the subject no longer mattered. She'd known about the webcams he'd installed around the place on a paranoid whim -- they both had. Someone with inside information had prepped them.

"The Vanguard party, the one at Chinawhite," he went on, the whole occasion coming back to him. He'd still believed himself and Miranda happily married at the time, but these two had still presented a picture no red-blooded male was likely to forget -- the marmalade-girl's willowy figure set off in a dress as red as her hair and the blonde a tits-and-ass bombshell in a figure-squeezing white mini-dress, all cleavage and smile. He'd seen them in photos from the evening on Miranda's Facebook, should the memory ever have threatened to fade.

"Lynette?" he ventured, eyeing the scarlet.

"Lysette." She looked guarded and sulky in equal measures.

"Lysette. And you're..."

"Im -- Im -- Imogen," the blonde managed in a teary squeak.

"Imogen. Yes, I remember." His gaze flicked back and forth between them -- one still poised as though searching for some course of action, the other cowering in her guilt. "Miranda's shop girls. And now her partners-in-crime. Her little puppets, right? Dancing to her tune. Breaking into my fucking house, while you think she's got me distracted. Well sorry to disappoint you both."

"The texts..." the one called Lysette breathed.

"Yes, they were from me. Feeling all secure, were you? Well that's changed." He plucked Miranda's phone from his pocket and waved it before them like a winning card. "This fell into my hand, almost literally, and it seems your boss has abandoned you now that her cunning plan has been rumbled."

"We were... I can..."

"No. No, don't even fucking try to finish any of those sentences." Mac's surprise at the criminal girl duo had momentarily displaced his anger, but now the latter emotion was flooding back, purer than before. It was developing into a seething fury at his having been played for a fool that evening, fuelled by all the tortured months that had preceded it. This was where playing nice landed a guy -- having the few sparsely-furnished rooms he could call home rummaged through by his bitch-wife's fawning little fangirls. Well now they could help him turn things around, one way or another. "Not a word from either of you," he instructed, his level voice belying the force of emotion that boiled inside, "unless it's in response to something I ask. Now sit on the bed, both of you."

"Look, I know..." the scarlet began.

"Sit down on the bed and shut the fuck up!" He roared the words -- a volley of sheer molten rage. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you bitches yet, so the best thing you can do is sit and keep fucking quiet." They scurried, even the fiery-looking one, and sat huddling on the edge of his bed in their black tops and leggings, faces burning and gazes downcast. "That's better. Now everything you've done tonight, along with your pretty faces, is captured on my CCTV and the footage relayed where my lawyer friend can access it, so don't get any ideas. I mean you could whack me over the head with this torch and run for it, but I seriously wouldn't advise it." He tossed the torch in question onto the bed between them, marvelling at his previously undiscovered capacity for bullshit. "So what I need instead are the answers to a few questions."

They eyed him as he spoke, the scarlet cowed and the blonde utterly crestfallen.

"What exactly was the purpose of your coming here? I mean what in particular were you looking for?" They glanced at each other, the Goldilocks looking for succour from her friend. "Miranda's not here now," he reminded them, "and if you think she's going to show up to help, then you don't know her at all. So the best thing you can do is talk -- whether to me or to the police." Scarlet caught her breath and Blondie gulped down a sob. "Well?"

Finally the Lysette-girl spoke. "She didn't tell us. Not specifically. She was looking for something -- anything that might -- you know, give her an edge in what's... what's going on between you. She wanted us to go through everything. Photograph everything."

"Photograph..." Mac noticed the pocket camera in Imogen's hand. He grabbed it from her while she squeaked, and flicked through the images -- a jumble of business letters and legal correspondence along with random shots of magazine covers. The sense of his violated privacy intensified, along with one of the situation's sheer absurdity. "This is shit," he said, holding up the camera. "It's a joke." He'd have thrown it back in derision, but decided to pocket the device instead, the better to alarm them. "You didn't even know why you were here -- and yet you were fucking stupid enough to go along with it. What did she offer you -- money, a promotion?" They stared at him miserably. "It's not rhetorical. Fucking answer me."

"Money," the scarlet one mumbled.

"How much?"

"She didn't say exactly... just that the bigger the settlement, the more we'd benefit."

"Really? Well say goodbye to that. Her little plan has backfired big time. She's going to suffer from it and so are you." The blonde girl was snivelling by now, glancing back and forth between Mac and her friend like she was lost in a nightmare. "Feeling sorry for yourself, Blondie?" Snarling fury, the like of which he had never known, fuelled his words and dampened all compassion. "Well maybe you should have thought of that before you broke into someone else's house. Do the words 'prisonable offence' mean anything to you?" They both stared up at him, the bombshell piteous and her slinky friend now exhibiting true desperation. "Fuck it," he said, "I've had it with you two idiots. I'm calling the police."