The Con Code Read online

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  To Mom,

  For being my best friend, for instilling in me a love of art that inspired much of this book, and for not becoming a fugitive. (That I know of.)

  CHAPTER 1

  My sneakers squeak like a warning as I breeze through the lobby of the Hotel Galvez and Spa in Galveston, Texas, keeping my eyes focused on the painting at the far end of the long downstairs hallway.

  The painting I’m about to steal.

  While most parents teach their kids to read and write, mine schooled me in the fine art of forgery and theft. By five, I could pick the most complicated of locks. By seven, I’d perfected my stealth by slipping into forbidden places without notice. For example, the teacher’s lounge after hours. By nine, I could re-create every brushstroke of the masters in exact replica. To this day, one of my paintings hangs in place of Chuck Close’s at the Schack Art Center in Washington after the lead art expert authenticated the wrong one. Or the right one if you’re looking at it from my perspective.

  By ten, my mom had disappeared, leaving behind only a delicate silver necklace and a vacant hole in the more dangerous cons. The hole I now fill.

  Rule #1 of the con code: Look like you belong. My expensive suitcase (fake) and my expensive taste (born with) fit right in with this glitzy hotel. Pearls hang heavy around my neck, settling into the groove of my throat as if they’re trying to strangle me. I’ve traded my school uniform and mom’s necklace for … a different school uniform and a varsity jacket. Sunglasses conceal my eyes, and my long blond hair is stuffed under a bald cap. Instead, an auburn wig twisted into two fishtail braids helps conceal the earbuds situated in my ears.

  The concierge doesn’t even glance in my direction. The other guests pass right by me without a second glance.

  Beams of sunlight splash in through the large bay windows, drenching the open space with golden light. Posh, white wicker love seats line the hallway leading up to the painting of Bernardo de Galvez. Guests claim it’s haunted because his eyes seem to follow you around the room. Most people report feeling queasy after only looking at his face. Weirder still, the painting always appears blurry in photographs. The hotel capitalizes on this phenomenon by pimping it out with full-on ghost tours and elaborate macabre sales pitches.

  Too bad the painting currently hanging is a fake.

  When my mother disappeared, she left behind a legacy of forgeries strewn across the country before she fled said country (allegedly) with the originals, never to be heard from again. Even though she abandoned me, I can’t bring myself to lead the FBI right to her trail by leaving her forgeries out there like arrows pointing directly to her. So my dad and I have spent the last few years tracking down the fakes and replacing them with ones that can’t be traced back to her.

  “You got this, kiddo,” my dad’s voice buzzes in my ear, and my steps get a little lighter.

  “Mr. Spangler, with all due respect, Fiona doesn’t need encouragement,” my best friend, Natalie, says in my ear. “She can do this in her sleep.” There’s a hint of a French accent in her words.

  “Sure, but a little accolade never hurts,” I whisper back, trying not to move my lips too much, so the security cams don’t capture me talking to myself.

  The end of the hallway darkens as though the painting itself is clouded in shadow. I’ve been staring at the image so much for the last few weeks while painstakingly re-creating every brushstroke, every speck of dust, that the creep factor doesn’t make me flinch. But even though I plan to steal it today, it’s not the first stop on my tour of this hotel. Before I reach the painting, I veer toward the right into a small alcove and jam my finger against the elevator button. A college guy wearing a fraternity sweatshirt steps besides me, and both of us stare forward.

  “Oooh, cute guy alert,” Dad says in my ear. “Don’t get distracted.” Whistles and whoops from the rest of the crew follow.

  I stifle the scowl demanding to break free on my lips and give the guy my best smile, waving him ahead of me. There’s nothing worse than your father and two of his best professional-criminal friends trying to amp up your nonexistent dating life in the middle of a long con. Two thousand miles from home. While your best friend bursts into laughter.

  “Don’t stray from the plan, kiddo,” Dad teases.

  There’s a pang in my gut at the words. They’re supposed to mean goodbye if we’re ever on a heist and one of us becomes compromised. But today he means it for real.

  I make sure to look away from the cute guy quickly, but not so quickly that he takes notice. I want my dad to see how I can keep my eye on the ball during the game. Cute Guy presses floor seven, and I let out a breath that he’s headed far away from where I need to go: floor three.

  On floor three, I stash my (empty) suitcase near the ice machine to keep it away from the security cams and waltz down the carpeted hallway until I find exactly what I’m looking for: the maid’s cleaning cart perched outside room 307. Right on time. For a week, I patrolled these hallways in different disguises created by Natalie, automatically memorizing the maids’ individual schedules. The swing of the keys on their waistbands like hypnotism devices. Routines. The locations that offer the best chance to be discreet: not the rooms close to the elevators, but the ones toward the back of the hallway, where there’s no place to run. Rule #2: A good criminal never rushes.

  Some students spend their spring break working extra hours at the mall. I’m spending mine pulling a different kind of job.

  I pause in front of the cart and clear my throat until the maid inside the room takes notice of me.

  “It’s showtime,” Dad says, and I swear I hear the crunch of popcorn in my ear as he watches on the hacked security feed.

  “Excuse me.” I crane my neck toward the maid. My hands vibrate, but I knock some sense into them by slapping them against my varsity jacket.

  The maid sets down her rag and bottle of cleaning spray and ambles toward me in her beige top, brown pants, dark hair slicked back in a bun so tight, it tugs on her skin like horse reins.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you.” I force myself to inject sweetness into my tone instead of my usual default setting of snark. “But we’re out of towels in room 323.”

  Her dark eyes roam over my body as though I might have smuggled contraband in with me. Cash. Diamonds. The crown jewels.

  My pasted smile wavers, and my heart starts to beat a little faster. “Please.” Please fall for this.

  “I’ll swing by your room in ten minutes. Wait there.” She shoos me away with her hand.

  My jaw twitches. I bite down on my tongue. “I, um—”

  There’s silence in my earpiece even though this is the one moment I need advice.

  “I really need to shower. Right now.” My pulse pounds, sharp and loud. I can’t falter. Not with my dad watching. Not with so much riding on this. What would my dad do in this situation? He’d blabber. “You see, my boyfriend. He’s about to arrive. And it’s going
to be a special night.” Oh God. I can’t believe I’m saying this with my dad listening. “And I really want to shower before he—”

  The maid grunts in annoyance and plucks two towels from the storage compartment beneath her cart. The tension drains from my shoulders. When she hands me the towels, I spin fast to accidentally bump her in the shoulder before she has a chance to head back into the room. The towels fly from my hands, and we both bend down to pick them up. I knock into her again accidentally (on purpose). If this were a romantic comedy, we would have just experienced the cutest meet-cute that ever existed.

  “Sorry! I’m such a klutz.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh. While she helps gather the towels and the movement distracts her, my hand snakes out and lifts her master key card from her waist. I tuck it into my jacket pocket and stand up. “Thank you. Seriously.”

  Rule #3: Criminals have to get really good at being polite.

  “Nice save, but we’re going to have a little talk later about boyfriends and hotel rooms,” Dad says.

  “Don’t worry, Dad.” I hustle back toward the ice machine. “If I ever manage to snag one of those elusive creatures, I’ll be sure to sneak around and hide him from you. Word on the street is I’m really good at that.”

  Natalie giggles while Dad’s comrades cheer at my comeback.

  “Dad, you’re up. And don’t worry, I’ll try to find lots of ways to make you uncomfortable, too.”

  I stuff the towels inside the empty suitcase and leave it by the ice machine. I retrace my steps and breeze right through the lobby once again. As I exit onto a cobblestone driveway, hot sun beating down on my shoulders, a van pulls up, screeching tires. The man in the passenger seat gives me a quick nod, so brief, you’d have to know to look for it to notice. But I know where to look for all of Dad’s cryptic signals.

  A white hard hat covers Dad’s slicked-back black hair. Thanks to prosthetics, his cheekbones sit slightly higher on his face, his stubble a little thicker, nose more bulbous. The driver beside him now boasts a lumberjack beard on what was smooth skin an hour ago. I take one quick second to admire my handiwork on the van. The perfectly replicated logo for the Texas Gas Service with swirling waves surrounding a circle. The hand-lettered contact info stretching across the plain white body. The van looks totally legit, even though a few days ago it sat rusting on the lot of a used-car dealer, plain white and boring.

  Dad gets out of the van, while Jorge, our newly bearded getaway driver, crosses his burly arms over the tats that didn’t exist yesterday and stays in the car. They wear matching protective jumpsuits and carry official-looking clipboards with official-looking documents. I know because I’m the one who forged said documents. In the back of the van, Johnny, our electronics guru, works diligently to replace the live feed of most of the hallways with still images of empty hallways now that I’m safely captured on camera exiting the building.

  While Dad heads inside, I round the perimeter to the back of the hotel, where my best friend and fellow do-no-gooder, Natalie Babineaux, waits. Her parents think my dad is taking her on a lavish vacation to Texas out of the goodness of his heart. And part of that is true. There’s some part of his heart that is good.

  Two years ago, Natalie was just a girl who liked designing elaborate costumes for the school theater productions, winning cosplay contests at various nerd conventions, and dressing up in disguises daily to fool her teachers. But then I plucked her out of the costume slush and trained her in all methods of subterfuge so she could use her skills for good, like tricking bank clerks. She thrives on the challenge … and the profits. I love corrupting someone who seems impossible to corrupt.

  Now Natalie wears the same beige top, brown pants, and hairnet as every other maid in this place. I squint, and when I do, I see the edge of a wig and a lump where the putty sculpting her breasts is uneven. I pin the stolen key card onto her uniform.

  Rule #4 of the con code: The trick to impersonating staff at a luxury hotel is simply to find out where they purchase their uniforms and then order the same one.

  “Next time,” I tell her, knowing full well my dad can hear, “let’s give Dad defective earbuds.”

  “Now that’s a con I can get behind.” Natalie gestures toward the cleaning cart. “Your chariot awaits, my dear.”

  Towels tower on the top, but behind the curtains that should conceal cleaning products and extra sheets, I squeeze my thin frame into the space carved out for me, careful not to squish the rolled-up replica of the painting of Bernardo de Galvez. On a small shelf above my head, a variety of tools rattle: crowbar, lock-picking set, drill. The usual accoutrements you might bring on vacation with you.

  “Thanks, driver. Now step on it! I always wanted to say that.” I slide the curtain closed and grip the metal bar above my head for dear life.

  She laughs. “You’re so dramatic.”

  The cart bounces, and the wheels spin on gravel, sounding louder than an airport runway so close to my ears. A beep indicates she successfully opened the back door, and she wheels me over a ramp into the basement. I jam my eyes shut and concentrate on the conversation beginning in my earpiece as Dad approaches the front desk.

  “Sir,” he says in his best Texas accent. It took a week of practicing with YouTube videos to knock the San Francisco out of his voice.

  “You sound partially Texan, partially Australian,” I whisper, but Dad doesn’t falter. He’s the smoothest criminal there is. Next to me, of course.

  According to the government, my dad’s a lawyer who specializes in personal injury cases. According to reality, the black market for art sales funds the upkeep on our historic three-story Victorian house with the manicured yard (paid labor) and the white picket fence (cliché).

  “I’m afraid you’ve got a gas leak.”

  There’s a scrape, and I imagine Dad sliding over the clipboard containing “official” paperwork regarding the gas work his team has been performing for the last few days. Johnny backed this evidence up with a long con involving back-and-forth emails between the gas company and the hotel to warn them of upcoming improvements to the gas lines in the area. “We’re going to need you to evacuate.” Dad clears his throat. “Immediately.”

  “Evacuate?” the desk clerk says.

  “One of our guys accidentally punctured the line. Smell that?” Dad sniffs loudly, and Johnny makes a disgusted sound. Dad’s pockets contain mashed-up rotten eggs as well as a layer of automobile gasoline to fool the people inside the hotel into smelling natural gas. Dad and his crew also strategically placed rotten eggs along the perimeter of the hotel to carry the scent outside. “Natural gas. Highly flammable.”

  “How long?” The desk clerk sounds nervous.

  “We need to get into the basement to access the main line. Should take an hour, tops. Hopefully less. But it’s best to take precautions. One wrong move and boom!” Dad shouts the word, and even I jump beneath the cart. “Guest soup.” He lets out a hearty laugh as if that’s the most hilarious joke he’s ever told. “I’m going to need you to make sure all staff and guests remain at a safe distance from the hotel. We recommend at least one thousand feet. Better hurry, though. The longer this leak festers, the bigger the explosion.” He waits a beat. “Unless we can get in there to prevent it.”

  “Oh my God. Let me talk to my manager.”

  “Oh, one more thing!” Dad says as though he forgot this tiny detail. “We’re also going to need you to turn off all electricity and gas. Don’t want any wires short-circuiting and flattening the entire building. Am I right?” he laughs again, and there’s a slight pang of jealousy in my gut. Dad has always been so good at the charm, at bending people to his will with only a few words. I’m only good at re-creating someone else’s work and then slinking behind the scenes, unnoticed.

  A minute later, the fire alarm wails, followed by an announcement to vacate the premises immediately. The cart stops in a hallway, and I hear the trampling of feet rushing across the carpet. Natalie offers directions to fl
eeing guests, pointing them toward the nearest exit. She wheels the cart into an empty room identified by Johnny earlier and then flees with the guests. Her job now is lookout. If any of the staff decides to check up on us, she’ll be our eyes.

  “They’re checking rooms to make sure everyone’s out,” Johnny says. He must be watching the security feed. “Fiona, heads up, coming your way. Sorry, though, it’s not a cute guy.”

  “It’s okay, I’m still getting over my breakup with the fake boyfriend who just stood me up on our hotel date,” I deadpan into the mic before clamping my lips into silence.

  We hear sharp knocking as the manager slams his fist against doors. Beeps and blips indicate he takes the extra precaution to check each room for vacancy himself. The pitter-patter of a few more feet reveals that some patrons didn’t get the memo the first time.

  The whole process of clearing the hotel takes approximately ten minutes. Being a criminal involves a lot of waiting around.

  The lights suddenly switch off, plunging me into darkness.

  “Confirming the electricity’s been cut,” Johnny announces. “You guys are on your own now.”

  I push myself out of the cart, my knees digging into the rough carpet. I grab one of the flashlights and beam a circle of light onto the dark wall. After I throw all the tools into a tote bag stashed in the cart for this specific purpose, I carefully grab the rolled-up painting and head down the stairs.

  At the end of the long hallway, Dad has already managed to liberate mom’s painting from the wall. The two of us work as a team to unscrew the gilded frame and pop the stretched canvas free.

  “Bad news, guys,” Natalie’s voice rings in my ears.

  Dad and I freeze. I imagine her telling us one of the employees is on his way back right now, giving us less than ten seconds to run for cover. My heart hammers in my chest, and my head whips around, taking in all the exits, all the possible ways out of this.