Uncommon Criminals Read Online Free PDF

he lost his wallet…” Kat went on.
    Hale raised one false eyebrow. “A tragedy indeed.” When he slid the small leather case into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, the two girls watched him. Kat had pulled aside the heavy drapes, and light streamed into the room, bouncing off of faded dusty furniture, a cold fireplace, and a perfectly forged Rembrandt that had hung above the mantel for longer than Kat had been alive.
    “Kat, what are we going to do about his shoulders?” Gabrielle tried to pull his arms down, but nothing about him seemed to move. “And that gut,” she said, patting him on the stomach.
    “Hey, I’ve never had any complaints in that area before,” Hale said smugly.
    “Exactly,” Gabrielle cried. “Would it kill you to eat a muffin every now and then?”
    Kat was biting her nails, walking around Hale, staring him slowly up and down.
    “His hands are off,” Gabrielle pointed out.
    “Posture’s wrong,” Kat said.
    “He’s still…hot,” Gabrielle said, as if it were the greatest insult in the world.
    “I feel so objectified. So…cheap,” Hale told them, but the girls talked on.
    “This would work from a distance, but in close quarters and under high scrutiny…” Kat let the thought trail off.
    “Couldn’t you have found someone younger?” Gabrielle said.
    “It was a miracle I found him .” Hale pointed to the documents on the table.
    “We either need a young guy for you to impersonate or an old guy to do the impersonating!” Gabrielle threw her hands into the air. “We need—”
    “No,” Kat said before the words could even come out. “Uncle Eddie is not a part of this.”
    Gabrielle crossed her arms. “But he is the ultimate old guy.”
    “Maybe we should call him, Kat,” Hale said. “I mean, where are we going to find a suitable old guy in twenty-four hours?”
    “Excuse me, miss?”
    Kat turned toward the soft voice and had to shake her head. For a second, she could have sworn she was seeing double. She looked between the photo of Ezra Jones that lay on the table and the way Marcus stood in the door. They had the same eyes, the same coloring, and the same look of people who have been orbiting around great wealth and power—always on the perimeter, always close enough to serve—for a lifetime.
    Marcus drew a deep breath. “Your dinner is ready.”



CHAPTER 7
    T he Cleopatra Emerald was not cursed—everyone at the Oliver Kelly Corporation for Auctions and Antiquities said so.
    After all, an emerald—no matter how large—did not cause the ship carrying Oliver Kelly the First to sink in shallow waters off the coast of Nova Scotia. And once the stone was set in platinum and given to a railroad heiress from Buenos Aires, there was no way any necklace—no matter how heavy—could force a woman to lose her head in a very tragic steam engine incident.
    Of course, it was impossible to deny that the next owner went bankrupt. The small country that added the stone to its crown jewels was invaded. And the museum that displayed the Cleopatra for a short time was burned almost entirely to the ground.
    But it wasn’t cursed.
    Everybody at the Kelly Corporation said so.
    “It’s not cursed, Mr. Jones.”
    “Of course not.” Hale gave a deep throaty laugh and slapped Marcus on the back. Marcus, as per their agreement, said nothing. “But, Mr. Kelly, as the Cleopatra’s insurer of record, Mr. Jones is of the opinion that the stone would be best left exactly where it is.”
    “Excuse me.” Kelly cut him off. “Who are you , exactly?”
    “Well, as I said on the phone, Mr. Kelly, I’m Colin Knightsbury. I’m Mr. Jones’s personal assistant.”
    Kelly seemed to consider this before turning and saying, “Fine.”
    Hale was not short, lazy, or unathletic, and yet it felt somehow like a struggle to keep up, as they followed Oliver Kelly the Third down the polished halls and gleaming corridors. It didn’t look like the sort of place that had its roots in shady