Chapter 1
Carmelita in: Prelude to Dishonour
In the distance, the cathedral bells rang, announcing the late hour. Inspector Carmelita paused to checked the charge on her shock gun, while the two constables under her direct supervision shifted their weight restlessly. Their intel suggested that an attempt would be made upon the cultural relic, just today returned to its rightful country of origin, this very evening. The Solstice Tiara was both priceless and iconic: a prime target, for certain. However, the timing of the threat made no sense. Carmelita knew, as well as the criminals she hunted, that it was far easier to steal an artifact in route than it was to lift it after its arrival. She'd accompanied the Tiara and the aristocratic family responsible for its return from the first day of their journey, expecting that their sources were wrong, and the attempted robbery would occur in transit. Yet, here they were, back in Paris, without incident. . . so far.
At this point, she suspected the intelligence to be wrong entirely. "Keep a sharp eye out," she charged her companions, as one of the constable's heads dipped in a slight doze. The newer recruit shook himself awake.
The storm clouds had thinned over the course of the evening and now, only a thin, broken layer of gray obscured the stars and half-full moon. On rare occasion, the silver light would seep between the clouds for a brilliant minute or two. Inspector Fox mentally reviewed the situation. The villa consisted of a central wing and two auxiliary wings extending from either side to form a broad, upside down U. The family's wing was to the north, the empty guest wing was to the south and the vault, presently housing the tiara was on the second floor of the central wing, towards the left center. A total of 15 interpol officers, in addition to the baron's personal security staff of 5, were stationed around the central wing on each floor, with the heaviest concentration of 4 officers surrounding the vault itself. Carmelita had chosen to patrol the back hallway. Only a fool would approach from the front, and she'd rather have the vantage offered by the periodic windows, looking upon the back courtyard and two extending wings, than be cooped up, beside the interior vault.
With the two constables in tow, she resumed her patrol of the hallway, when the central, first floor alarm sounded. The two constables sprinted for the stairs, without awaiting orders, while Carmelita sidled towards the nearest window and checked for signs of broken windows along the back. There were none, but a niggling sensation, something of a hunch made her look towards the north wing where she spotted the dark silhouette of an intruder scaling the wall, dimly illuminated by the faint moonlight penetrating the weak cloud cover. "Wait!" she called out, over her shoulder, too late for the constables to hear.
Muttering a mild curse under her breath, she ran alone towards the north wing. Grabbing her two-way, she tried to radio the officers, but the frequency was already bursting with chatter about the other break-in. "I repeat, intruder scaling the north wing. Angling towards the family rooms." She muted the radio in disgust. The threat of theft had been a ruse all along. It wasn't the tiara that was in danger; it was the baron's family. Even half a wing away, the blaring alarm made it difficult to hear soft sounds. She paused at the top of the third floor, pressing herself up against the wall to peer down the long, dark hallway of the north wing. A patch of golden light fell across the plush maroon rug from the baron's doorway as it opened. The shadow of his tall, broad form pulling on a bathrobe played across the floor, a moment before the middle-aged elk stepped into the hall.
She strode into full view of the hall, not moving to turn on the lights. "Lord Melchion, you should remain in your room. There's more than one intruder," she whispered.
"Pardon me, young lady!" He exclaimed rather irately. "You should address me more-"
"No time. Back to your room!" She barked at him, as she continued past, in the direction she spotted the intruder from the outside.
Her fingers rested along the contours of her shock pistol, ready to take aim and fire. She tried to block out the sound of the distant alarm and the baron's continued nagging as she listened for other, telling noises and tried to determine which of the two possible rooms the intruder was more likely headed towards. Although she was largely ignoring him, she knew the baron was approaching at her heels. She took a deep, steadying breath, focusing. There! The sound of bed springs under a weight too heavy to be a child. She charged into the door on the right, shouldering it open as she twisted the knob, to reveal a black clad salamander scooping up the baron's little girl. The mildly sweet scent of chloroform tickled Carmelita's nose, as she levelled the gun at the kidnapper. "Stop where you are!"
They never stop. At least, not in Carmelita's experience and not this time. The criminal whirled around, starting towards the open window with the child in his arms, when her first shot struck him square in the back. He tumbled forwards, crumpling to the ground, with the girl still clasped to his chest.
"Darlene!" the baron cried in alarm.
Carmelita leapt forward and gripped the fallen, would-be abductor by his shoulder, to roll him off the girl. The tiny child was still unconscious from the chloroform. Holstering her gun, Carmelita picked up the girl and passed her immediately to the baron, before rifling through the perp's pockets, looking for a walkie-talkie or some hint as to who or where his co-conspirators might be. The baron retreated with profuse thanks, which Ms. Fox barely heard, to rejoin his wife and other children in the hallway.
No wallet, no ID, barely any cash, and a face Carmelita did not immediately recognize: this suspect was troubling. However, there was a cell phone and it was unlocked. Nothing caught her eye in the phone logs, but she recognized one of the phone numbers among the texts, the one with the most incriminating messages.
Pocketing the phone, she straightened and dashed out of the room. As the baron started to say something, she cut him off again, "You should be safe now, but proceed to the central floor foyer."
She radioed down to her second-in-command, as she made for the exit. "The heist was a decoy, attempted kidnapping, perpetrator on the third floor, youngest child's room. Meet me with two more constables out front, with a car running, if we don't catch the instigator now, he may flee the country. And tell those dim-witted, new recruits not to run off without orders next time."
Somedays, many days, it was like she had to do everything, she mused as she ran down the stairs, towards the nearest entrance. Thankfully, MacAllister was proving himself a deal more reliable than the rest and there was a police car running and waiting for her once she made the front drive. Slamming the car door shut after her, Carmelita ordered him to drive to the Delphine Hotel downtown. She used the short drive to recharge her gun and catch her breath.
"Should we call headquarters to meet us there?" One of the constables in the back asked.
"No," Carmelita answered flatly. A car from headquarters would make it there faster, but that wouldn't do. "We don't want to spook them. And turn off that siren," she directed the last comment to MacAllister, behind the wheel.
He obeyed without question, but left the lights flashing as they sped down the road. She glanced at the time. 11:13 pm. She tried to guess when the abductor was scheduled to report on his success. Frowning, she shook her head. If they were lucky, they'd arrive close to that timeframe, but most likely after. "You two will circle around to the back and cover that entrance. Be on the lookout for anyone making an exit with baggage in tow," she ordered the two constables in the backseat.
"Constable MacAllister, you'll be responsible for the front door. I'll head up to the room," she concluded.
From the driver's seat, MacAllister nodded and gave the car more gas as he turned onto a straightway. The Scottish wildcat had good sense and a strong intuition for police-work, from what Carmelita had witnessed. She'd increasingly requested him on her teams for this reason and unlike others who bristled under her exacting standards and demands, he'd flourished, catching the attention and admiration of the higher brass. There were high hopes for him, but right now his mouth was pressed into a thin, hard line. He knew they were working against the clock. Without being told, he switched off the police lights once they crossed onto the block where the hotel was located. Neatly swerving into the valet parking, he cut the engine and all three constables fairly leapt from the car, as Carmelita flung her door open and sprang for the entrance.
She flashed her badge at the wide-eyed bellhop. "Keep it quiet. We don't want a stir." She brushed past the stunned boy, without waiting for an answer. MacAllister could handle the rest down here. She cast one quick glance at the other two constables as they split up and ran towards opposite alleyways.
She waved her badge again before the eyes of the clerk behind the desk, asking for Mr. D'Artemis room number. The calm and unruffled ostrich on duty gave Ms. Fox the room number and inquired if she should ring the room for her.
"No," Ms. Fox answered over her shoulder as she pivoted on her heel. Rather than wait for the elevator, she jogged to the stairwell, taking them two at a time, up four flights of stairs.
Cautiously pushing the door on the fourth floor open with one hand, she brought her pistol up with the other. She peered around the doorjamb and down the hallway. All was quiet, well-lit and the doors shut. Lowering her gun, she proceeded, on the balls of her feet, to stalk down the hallway, grateful that the plush green rug muffled her steps and cursing the occasional creaky board underneath that groaned at her passage. The faint sound of a t.v. emanated from room 401 as she passed it. Across the hall, 402 was silent. Her gaze roamed down the hallway, counting the doors until her target. The bank of elevators, two in all, stood between her and her goal.
She walked onwards, her attention largely split between watching the elevators and what she expected was the door to room 415. Her right ear twitched towards room 403 at a rush of water: shower or toilet. If the faint snoring emanating from 404 was any indication, that occupant wouldn't be interrupting her anytime soon. As she passed the quiet and dark doors of 405 and 406, she started listening also for the sound of a door opening behind her. It would be a tall order to quiet an unsuspecting guest happening upon her in the hall, before they cried out in alarm.
With a shrill ping, the right elevator announced that its doors were about to open. Holstering her gun in record time, she straightened and tossed her raven hair back casually. As the elderly couple stepped off the elevator and turned her way, she nodded with a smile at them in their evening, black formalwear, striding forward as if she were merely passing through. She caught the elevator before it descended and stepped onto it. She pressed the close-door button and then the stop button. After counting to 20, she pressed the button to open the door and stepped back onto the fourth floor. The hall was again relatively quiet.
Halfway there, she reminded herself. Hoping that the two constables were, by now, in place at the back entrance to the hotel, she continued down the hall. Had they missed him entirely? Pushing away the fear and doubt, she kept her ears open, now more than ever, for sounds of doors opening behind her and stalked on the balls of her feet towards 415. As she neared the door, she heard the trill of a zipper being pulled shut and a rustle of cloths. There was the step of a heavy foot nearing the door. Levelling her gun at the door a few feet in front of her, she waited.
Mr. D'Artemis blinked at her, when he lifted his gaze from his packed suitcase to notice her. His cheeks tinged with a light flush that did not quite reach his large ears or gray trunk.
"Mr. D'Artemis, I'm placing you under arrest for attempted kidnapping," she kept her voice low.
The hint of color disappeared from his gray face. "Outlandish. Rubbish," his gaze flitted to the badge pinned to her chest. "I've been at a business dinner and here in my room all evening. I didn't know Interpol tolerated such incompetence in their ranks."
"Don't play coy, Mr. D'Artemis. You hired someone else to do the dirty work. And I see you're in quite the rush to leave, since the attempt failed," Ms. Fox struggled to keep her voice low through clenched teeth.
"A sudden business emergency in Madrid. You can't possibly expect me to go along with this." The businessman was not making any effort to keep his voice down, but as of yet, no one had peeked out of their room to watch the commotion.
"Turn around and place your hands behind your back," she ordered.
Surprisingly, he complied and she escorted him to the police car after pushing his luggage back into his room and locking the door. They'd need to check it all for evidence.
And it was evidence that she'd lacked. She'd made the arrest without a warrant and her superiors concluded, on insufficient evidence. Within 12 hours of making the arrest, Ms. Fox was suspended and Barkley had confiscated her badge, gun, and handcuffs.
The phone number she'd recognized on the abductor's cell was that of Mr. D'Artemis' local secretary, but there was no direct connection between the perpetrator and the businessman, himself. At least none they could immediately uncover. Ms. Fox kept the kidnapper's cellphone to herself rather than revealing it and submitting it into evidence. Mr. D'Artemis would undoubtedly attempt to pin the blame on his rather young secretary and with all of his wealth backing him, Carmelita suspected he would succeed in bribing or convincing the people needed to make the accusation stick.
MacAllister walked with her, towards headquarter's exit. He'd tried, unsuccessfully, to rally support for and confidence in the inspector. The people they passed in the hallway gave the dishonored inspector a wide berth. From her furrowed brow to her clenched fists, she radiated loosely bridled rage.
"I'm sorry Ms. Fox. I'm sure your hunch is right, given the history between D'Artemis and the baron. I swear I'll find evidence to exonerate you and prove his guilt," the constable promised.
The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. "If anyone can bring Mr. D'Artemis to justice, it's you, MacAllister," she told the constable at her side.
"Aidan, please," he asked that she use his given name, as he pushed the door open for her and they stepped outside.
The early afternoon sunshine failed to warm her, as they descended to the sidewalk, despite her long black sleeved shirt and pants. She scanned the street and the entrance of HQ; no one was immediately around and no one had followed them outside. With the incidents involving Neyla little less than a year old, she did not think it wise to continue her investigation illegally and MacAllister appeared genuine in his intentions to clear her name. She took a deep breath.
"Then I put my trust in you, Aidan." She slipped the perp's cell phone from her back pocket along with her folded note of the details she knew so far regarding its texts and palmed it into MacAllister's hand as she reached to shake it.
Aside from a slight quirk of his eyebrow, he did not betray any surprise and after a solemn nod, he turned away, the phone as smoothly disappearing from his hand as if it had never been there. Possession of the evidence would spell the end of his career if he was caught, but it was the best and only lead they had. As she strode down the street, she silently wished him luck, for both their sakes.
Chapter 2
Sly Cooper and Bentley in: Noble Deeds, Petty Grievances
Carmelita sighed over her double whiskey on the rocks. Her grip tightened around it and then relaxed as two of the ice cubes settled lower in the glass with an audible clink. Tendrils of melting water curled into the amber liquid, diluting it. She'd slammed the first double back, the moment it was set in front of her, in a single pull that had left her breathless and the bartender staring. When she immediately ordered another, the gray-whiskered rabbit behind the bar had appeared on the verge of refusing, but one look into Carmelita's hard, dark eyes and he refilled her glass with the gentle admonition, "Take it easy, cher."
The middle-aged and somewhat portly bartender was right. Getting roaring drunk at a breakneck speed wouldn't solve her problems, but it was still the best idea she had, which is why she'd chosen a bar as far away from headquarters and her flat as possible: little chance of running into anyone she knew. She glanced around the dimly lit, wood paneled bar. It was sparsely decorated and even more sparsely populated on this early Tuesday night. Half a dozen, small, framed wood prints graced the walls between the booths and on either side of the door. Meanwhile, two of the small, green upholstered booths were occupied and a few of the barstools further along the bar: all of the patrons decidedly older than Carmelita. The venue would suit perfectly, as long as she paced herself enough to not be cut-off by the overly concerned proprietor.
She took another, steadying breath. After watching her for a moment longer, the fatherly bartender turned away, shuffling towards the trio seated at the far end of the bar, picking up a bar towel along the way. As she lifted the glass more slowly to her lips, she heard the stool to her left creak as someone claimed the seat. Her casual sidelong glance at the newcomer ended in her slamming the glass back onto bar, untasted, as she recognized Sly.
"Carmelita," her name rolled off his tongue like a reverent prayer.
"Come to gloat, Cooper!?" She demanded, cutting off what else he might have said, pinning him with an unblinking stare.
His gaze fell away from hers, resting, with his hands, on the bar. "Not at all."
His soft tone surprised her. Of course, they were usually yelling at each other from across rooftops or racing down alleyways. Still, she bristled at his proximity. He was easily within her grasp and she could do nothing about it. He could only be here to torment her. She briefly considered dumping her whiskey on him, but that would get her thrown out of the bar, for sure.
"I wanted to say that you did a good job," he continued, meeting her eyes again.
"If I'd done a good job, I wouldn't have been suspended," she snapped back.
"But you saved a little girl from kidnapping and Mr. D'Artemis was behind it."
She sighed in defeat, looking again into her glass of amber liquor. "And that still won't keep me from losing my job in the absence of evidence."
"Are you starting to see the appeal to my side of the law finally?" He teased.
"Hardly, Ring-tail."
As she lifted her glass and took a long pull of the whiskey, his hand hovered over her left hand, still resting upon the bar, but he drew it back at the last moment rather than touch her. "You'll get your badge back. You always do," he consoled.
Her gaze was icy when she looked at him again, setting her half-empty glass more gently on the bar. Her mouth twitched downwards into a frown. Reaching into her pocket, she extracted cash from her wallet and tossed it on the bar. "I'm not in the mood to accept reassurance from my greatest failure."
"Oh, Carmelita," he started, but she headed towards the door without paying him heed. "Do you need a cab?" He asked abruptly after her.
"Leave me alone, Cooper," she said without a backwards glance as she opened the door.
Sly drummed his fingers along the bar top as the door swung closed after her. He was used to seeing Ms. Fox feisty (always) and angry (much of the time she clapped eyes on him), but this was different. She was disheartened and bitter. The chance of crossing paths with her, during his criminal exploits always added a lovely spice to his jobs. However, he wouldn't just lose those occasional encounters if she lost her position. He understood now that she would cease to be the person he knew entirely, if bereft of her career.
He wouldn't let that happen.
Calling Bentley, he headed to the door. His friend answered after the second ring, "Hi Sly. I'm in the middle of recalibrating my RC satellite tracker's dish to boost range. It should come in extra handy next week, when we head to South Africa in search of-"
"There's a change of plans, Bentley," Sly interrupted, as he walked down the Rue towards the hide-out.
"Don't tell me it has to do with Ms. Fox," Bentley guessed at the new course of action. When Sly didn't immediately reply, he continued, "I knew I shouldn't have told you what happened, after she foiled the kidnapping."
"Bentley, I can't do this without you and she's in a bad way. We just need to collect the evidence; the police can deal with it from there."
A long suffering sigh sounded over the phone into Sly's ear. "How soon will you be here?"
"You're the best, my friend. I'm heading back now."
Hours later, in their hide-out, the two friends huddled around the small table, with a cluster of half-empty take-out boxes and blueprints scattered between them. Bentley had summarized his findings as follows:
Although they started out as college buddies and afterwards business partners, the relationship between Baron Melchion and Mr. D'Artemis soured when the Baron accused D'Artemis of stealing a new deal from his secondary investment firm and D'Artemis accused the baron of undermining him on the board of their shared business. The resulting legal battles proved financially detrimental to the both of them, as their reputations took a dive and they'd snubbed each other ever since, with the occasional renewal of corporate hostilities. In the intervening years, Mr. D'Artemis had turned more and more often to black market and illegal practices, and in their personal, ongoing battle of corporate maneuverings, the baron most recently crippled Mr. D'Artemis' export business.
Linking Mr. D'Artemis to his darknet handle, whereby he arranged to hire an expert thief and a career kidnapper, would be nigh impossible, although Bentley was certain he could do so, given enough time. More immediately, the best evidence to acquire would be the kidnapper's phone, security footage from Mr. D'Artemis' local office for the previous week, and the key witness of Mr. D'Artemis' secretary, if the young spider monkey might be convinced that it was in his best interest.
"Don't the police already have the kidnapper's phone?" Sly asked.
"They should, but when I checked on its coordinates, it wasn't at Interpol headquarters," Bentley answered.
"Carmelita?" Sly guessed, but Bentley shook his head.
"No. I confirmed that she's at home and the phone is on the streets. If I were to guess, she probably entrusted it to one constable MacAllister. Interpol records indicate that he's been rather consistently assigned to her team over the last 9 months."
Bentley projected onto the white screen a photo of a Scottish wildcat in the customary Interpol uniform, looking rather broad in the chest and stern of expression. A second picture of the constable in profile appeared on the screen, this time in conversation with Carmelita. This MacAllister was standing altogether too close to Ms. Fox, in Sly's opinion.
"We go after the phone first, then," Sly announced.
"No, Sly, we don't," Bentley corrected in an exasperated, nasal tone. "D'Artemis is liable to erase the video footage if we don't grab it as soon as possible."
Bentley spread out the blueprints for D'Artemis' local office and pointed out the security room, the standard routes and patrols of night guards, and listed off the times most likely that they could acquire the footage, which happened, of course, to correspond with the moments D'Artemis was most likely to try to erase it.
"Have you hacked into their security system?" Sly asked him.
"Sometimes, it's like you don't even know me. Of course. I can update you with the latest developments as you prowl through the building."
Sly headed to the offices of D'Artemis immediately, keeping to the rooftops and shadows along the way. It was a long trek. "Have I mentioned how much I miss Murray?" He whispered over the comm to Bentley, back at the hideout.
"Today or in general?" Bentley quipped back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "We have to respect his decision, Sly," he added more somberly.
Inner peace was a tall order for anyone. Sly just hoped Murray managed to find something in his travels that fit the bill, something close enough at least. Finally, the old stone office building loomed across from him. The windows of the D'Artemis offices were largely dark. Only the ground floor lobby, and the occasional office with a door open, for the hall light to spill into, appeared lit. No one appeared to be near any of the windows facing his direction.
"The easiest entrance is probably the skylight on the roof that lets into the executive office. I'll reroute a five minute loop of footage back to the security room from the cameras there. It won't stop the cameras from recording your visit, but it will keep anyone from noticing until the saved footage is reviewed. Give me a heads up before you drop in," Bentley announced.
Thankful for the overcast skies, Sly ran across the flag pole extending from the side of the building he was on and leapt across the gap between the two buildings to the D'Artemis offices. The pigeons roosting on the roof scurried away from him with a flutter of wings, but otherwise all remained quiet as he padded over to the sole skylight.
"I'm dropping in now," Sly whispered into the comm as he worked at the simple latch securing the skylight.
After unlocking the window, he eased it open as it threatened to creak. Propping the window open, he slipped into the room and then dropped to the floor. Plush rugs covered the expanse of the executive office: so much the better for moving quietly. His gaze swept across the room and traced the faint outline of a fake panel that almost undoubtedly hid a safe. But that wasn't what he was here for today. He crept to the door.
"The hallway will be empty for the next 3.4 minutes by my calculations, Sly. Guards patrolling from the right, when the come around. I can't loop all the cameras in the hallway without tripping a computer alarm, so you'll need to time your progress between sweeps of the cameras. You might make it to the stairwell before the guards spot you, but it will be close."
Sly peered out from a crack he made in the door. "I spot the cameras. Thanks," Sly mentioned before slipping out of the office and closing the door silently behind him.
He sprinted down part of the hallway and then dodged into an empty, unmonitored office as the cameras swiveled in his direction, shutting the door behind him. He kept time in his head rather than glance at his clock, counting down the remaining minutes he had before the arrival of the guards. Stepping into the hallway again, he darted down further and then into another empty office. As he scanned the hall, after the camera sweep, he spotted the shadows of the guards from around the corner. They were early. He retreated back into the office and shut the door.
"Bentley, do the guards check each room?" He asked as he studied the small office for potential hiding places.
"Yes, you'd better hide quick."
He crouched behind a filing cabinet, noticing too late that from certain angles, his reflection in the glass windows could be seen. Holding his breath, he watched in the windows' reflection as one of the guards opened the door, cast the beam of his flashlight around the room, and not noticing Sly's reflection in the corner, shut the door and moved on. Sly exhaled in relief as he heard the guards footsteps recede into the distance.
Emerging from his hiding spot, he waited until Bentley told him that the cameras were pointed else-ways and the guards were out of sight, before venturing into the hallway again. In a similar fashion, he proceeded to the stairwell and down the hall where the security room sat. He arrived twelve minutes before the shift change. The safest course of action would be to wait until after the change in guards and knock the latter guard out, before taking the footage. It would take people the longest to notice, that way.
However, he had no sooner started counting down the seconds to the shift change, than Mr. D'Artemis himself stepped off the elevator and headed towards the security room. Mr. D'Artemis passed the stairwell door without blinking an eye. If Sly waited for the shift change, it would be too late. With a glance at the nearest camera, Sly hesitated until it started panning away, to dart out from the stair well. Raising his trusty cane, he hooked it about Mr. D'Artemis' thick neck and pulled him backwards. The middle-aged elephant wheezed as the cane cut off his air, preventing him from crying out. As the businessman stumbled towards Sly, the thief spun him around with a flourish of his cane before striking Mr. D'Artemis across the temple with the other end. The elephant collapsed unconscious to the ground with a loud thump.
Springing to the wall beside the security door, Sly pressed himself flush with the wall and readied his cane. Within half a second, the door swung open as the guard stepped out to check on the noise. Hooking the unsuspecting guard by the torso, he used the guard's own momentum to fling him away from the door and into the opposite wall. When the guard appeared to be out cold, he sprinted into the security room. He slammed the door shut behind him, and called over the comm, "Things are going to get crowded around here real soon, Bentley. What's the fastest way to get the footage?"
Bentley walked him through transferring the footage and he had barely enough time to dodge back into the stairwell before the next guard stepped off the elevator. Alarms sounded before he'd made it to the executive office, but he eluded the two guards racing downstairs, ducking into another floor, and climbing the elevator shaft, as he returned to the skylight to make his exit.
Swinging by the hideout, he left the footage in Bentley's care. "Probably best if I make a copy of this," Bentley surmised as he accepted the flash drive. "We might need to use it to convince the secretary to go to the police."
"Now to collect the kidnapper's phone. Where am I headed, Bentley?" Sly followed his friend, as the turtle wheeled his chair over to the computer console and popped in the flash drive.
"Slow down, Sly. Neither the phone nor the secretary will be on the move anytime soon."
Cooper paced in the small area behind Bentley's desk. After he set to copying the security footage, Bentley rechecked the GPS position of the phone. It hadn't moved in the last hour. "This is the address," Bentley zoomed out, on the map, displayed on his screen. Sly leaned over his friend's shoulder to get a clear view. "It's constable MacAllister's flat."
"Piece of cake," Sly concluded.
"Setting aside that he's a constable and armed, you can't knock him about like you did the guard at the D'Artemis office, Sly. He needs to arrive at work on schedule tomorrow morning to receive our courier package."
"What?"
With a shake of his head, Bentley explained, "The kidnapper's phone can only be in official Interpol possession for it to be counted as legitimate evidence. From any other source, its veracity would be questioned. Mr. D'Artemis would surely claim that it had been tampered with. I need the phone to more easily complete my part of this job, but then we'll return it and the corresponding records to MacAllister. He'll take it from there."
"You're trusting that wildcat?!" Sly exclaimed in disbelief.
Bentley wheeled around his chair to face Sly. "All my research indicates that he's on the straight and narrow and there's no one else that is both vested in Ms. Fox's reinstatement and aware of the phone."
Furrowing his brow, Sly racked his brain for an alternative, but it was impossible to argue with Bentley's logic. His shoulders slumped with a sigh. "Fine."
With one last glance at the address and apartment number, he headed out. Had Carmelita really given the evidence to this constable, Sly wondered. He much preferred the possibility that MacAllister was a traitor, but that wouldn't help anyone right now. Begrudgingly, he hoped Bentley was right.
When he arrived at the building, he scaled up the downspout at the back corner to the appropriate floor. At this time of night, most of the windows were dark. Hand over hand, he inched his way along the row of bottom window ledges, until he reached one that would look into the constable's home. Pulling himself up to that stone ledge, he worked at the window latch. MacAllister's flat, like most of the others, was dark. Finding the cellphone would be the hardest part. As a last resort, he could call the phone from the burner phone he had in his pocket, but that would almost certainly wake the constable.
Once unlatched, Sly lifted the window, the pane making a small shushing noise as it slid in its grooves. Ducking down, he slipped soundlessly into what appeared to be the living space. There was a small couch between two end tables, arranged opposite a sizeable television screen, an antique card table nearer to a partially separated kitchen area, and a proliferation of photos and rugby memorabilia dotting the walls. Beneath the cut-out wall, providing a view into the kitchen, sat a waist-high cabinet. There were only two remotes resting on the end table closest to him. He padded to the next end table: nothing beside the lamp. The cellphone wasn't keeping the salt and pepper shakers company on the card-turned-dining table either.
From the street below, the sound of squealing tires on wet pavement drifted through the window and as Sly turned towards the china hutch, he heard a doorknob turn from down the short hall. Springing lightly behind the low wall of the kitchen, he crouched as he heard the door swing open. Firm and steady footsteps approached from the hall and peering cautiously into the living space, he watched the constable, sporting only a pair of navy boxers, walk towards the open window. It wasn't just in photographs; the constable was broad across the shoulders with some muscle to spare. As the wildcat reached up to close the window, Sly spotted it: smudges of his fingers on the inside windowsill. Traversing the side of the building hand over hand had coated his gloves with grime. Any second, he'd be made.
Even as Sly darted out of his cover, the constable's gaze fell to the partial handprint and MacAllister whirled around in time to see the raccoon dash towards the hall. "Cooper!" he spat out the name like a curse. MacAllister's hand drifted to his side, but there was no gun holster there. "So you're in league with D'Artemis."
The constable started after Sly as Cooper pressed the autodial on his burner phone and heard a responding ringtone from the bedroom ahead. "No, I have standards," Sly answered without a glance back. There was no way he'd win in a test of strength against the Scot. His only advantage was speed.
Behind him, MacAllister scoffed. "So, you're ruining Carmelita's career for yourself."
Slamming the bedroom door shut after him, Sly threw the lock half a second before the door shuddered under the constable's impact as he tried to twist the knob. The wildcat let out a low growl of frustration.
"I'm trying to save her career," Sly retorted as he picked up the kidnapper's cellphone from the night stand and wondered if the idiot would try to break down his own door.
There wasn't an immediate reply as Cooper turned off both phones, stowed them in his pockets, and jogged around the bed to the window. As he opened the window, he heard MacAllister reply. "She deserves better than you."
Sly heard the constable slide a key into the door, but the wildcat had changed topics and Sly lingered outside, balanced easily on the thick window ledge as he shouted back inside, mockingly, "Like you!?"
"That's her choice."
The answer struck Cooper almost as a physical blow, leaving him short of breath. Had she? Were they? Sly shook off his momentary stupor as the bedroom door swung open and MacAllister charged inside. Jumping to the next windowsill, Sly moved towards the closest corner of the building. Their slamming and yelling match had already roused a few neighbors from sleep and lights beamed out of an increasing number of windows. He didn't bother sneaking, but ran along the sills, leaping between each and stepping in the occasional planter along the way.
He glanced back in time to see MacAllister carefully taking aim, leaning out of his window with his shock pistol. Sly wouldn't make it around the corner in time; he was so close. He leapt to the next window as an elderly badger opened it, to peer out. With a little yelp, she scrambled back as Sly took the opportunity to dive into her room. He felt the fur on his neck and shoulders stand on end as the constable's shock bolt flew past, mere inches from him. Another bolt quickly followed, splashing with a crackle of energy and the scent of ozone against the corner of the building.
"Lovely flat, ma'am," he complimented the corner apartment with a keen appreciation for its secondary window looking out onto the alleyway and smiled at the wide-eyed badger in her pastel blue curlers and floral print nightgown.
With a blood-curdling scream, the woman reached for a nearby parasol leaning against a chest of drawers, and Sly raised an arm to ward off the blow as she brandished it like a weapon, aiming to beat him over the head.
"Brute! Scoundrel! Thief!" She punctuated each proclamation with another strike of her parasol.
At least the last one was technically true, Sly mused as he tried to reason with her and sidestepped the old lady, "Ow! I'm just. Ouch. Passing through." He winced as he backed away towards the other window.
She didn't have the imagination to try anything other than beating him about the head, but she kept at it, following him as he backpedaled. "Out!" thwhap, "Out!" thwhap, "Out!" With the last hit across his forearm, the parasol cracked with an audible splintering sound, but that didn't dissuade her.
Keeping one arm up to shield himself, he reached back with the other, running his fingers along the seam of the window until he felt the latch and flicked it open. "Yes. Exactly ma'am. Going." At last, he managed to lift the window open and it was debatable who was more relieved upon his exit.
Reaching for the drainpipe, Sly scaled up and ran across the rooftops until he was half a dozen blocks away, before descending to travel the remainder on the ground. Calling Bentley over the comm, he said, "I've got the phone and I didn't lay a finger on MacAllister, as you wished. But I do owe someone a new parasol."
There was a pause before Bentley replied, "I'm not gonna ask. Stop by the hideout before you head to the secretary's apartment."
Once at their hideout, Sly filled Bentley in on the events at MacAllister's flat, up to the point he left, with the phones, through the window and less the intervening conversation regarding Ms. Fox. "Sounds like I'd best conduct my work on the road then, in case MacAllister thinks to trace the phone when I turn it back on," the turtle concluded as he gathered his laptop and other necessary items.
He passed a manila folder of photos, printed from the security footage, to Sly as well as the thumb drive with the footage itself. "When you talk to Martin Fugere, D'Artemis' secretary, you might need those to convince him. I'm fairly certain the constable talked with him earlier in the evening, but since he hasn't reported to Interpol, I suspect he wasn't persuaded by MacAllister's tactics."
Sly fingered through the pictures. They showed Mr. D'Artemis walking to his secretary's desk, picking up the cellphone and sending multiple texts before setting the phone back down. At a later timestamp, the secretary reappeared, walking into the room. "I can be very persuasive." He was also very determined to prove himself better than the constable. Closing the folder, he slipped it into his backpack.
"If Martin agrees to go to Interpol, give him the thumb drive of security footage to turn in as evidence. Between that, the kidnapper's phone and full GPS and detailed logs for both, courtesy of the telephone company I'm about to hack once I reverse engineer the-"
"Bentley, you're amazing, but you're also about to lose me," Sly cut-in.
With a sigh, Bentley concluded, "I'll have the phone and pertinent records couriered to MacAllister and in all, it should be more than enough to convict Mr. D'Artemis regardless of what hot-shot lawyer he hires."
"Brilliant as usual, my friend." He rested a hand on Bentley's shoulder. "Thank you. This means a lot to me."
With a faint smile, Bentley nodded. Sly left the hideout and Bentley still gathering his equipment for the last stint of this job. If it wasn't 2:04 am in the morning, he might consider disguising himself as someone else, walking up and knocking on the secretary's door, but as it was, Sly would steal into the unsuspecting secretary's home and then they'd sit down for a nice chat. Right. Sly sighed; this was bound to get awkward.
He was still debating his approach when he scaled up to the second floor window of Mr. Fugere's apartment. The window was dark when he crouched before it, but almost immediately the lights flashed on and he froze, staring at a younger spider monkey, clad in green and white striped pajamas, fumbling to put on his round, wire-rimmed glasses. Sly threw the simple latch as the secretary stared, mouth agape at him. Martin's lips trembled as Sly opened the window and he gasped in a tone of awe, "Sly Cooper?!"
Sly's gaze narrowed in suspicion at this; how did this random civilian know him on sight? "I'm just here to talk." He didn't spot any parasols within easy reach. Hopefully, this would go better than last time.
"You're the one that hired that 'constable' that stopped by earlier?" the spider monkey asked and swallowed involuntarily, as Sly climbed into the room.
"MacAllister?" Sly shook his head in disgust. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Interpol would never send a constable in place of a detective or inspector in such a matter and the supposed kidnapper's phone didn't have an evidence tag on it, not that they would have even allowed it out of the locker for this."
Sly took a more measured glance around the room and noticed it then; all the bookshelves were lined with mysteries, true crime, and criminal procedurals. "As hard as it is to believe, MacAllister is really a constable. And your boss has engaged in a number of crimes, including hiring a goon to kidnap one of Baron Melchion's children last night." He paused to gauge the secretary's reaction. Had the young man even blinked since he entered the room? His mouth was closed, which was at least a step in the right direction, but he appeared otherwise paralyzed. If he'd locked his knees, it would only be a few minutes until he passed out. "Maybe we should sit down," he suggested.
Martin blinked to Sly's relief. "Sit. Yes."
The spider monkey's gaze flitted to the rumpled bed and then he reached behind him for the door, walking backwards as Sly approached. Being careful to walk slowly, as Martin showed no signs of turning around, they stepped across the small living space to the table and after Mr. Fugere switched on the lights, he sat down on the edge of the chair, on the far side of the table.
"Now, I'm going to remove a folder from my backpack," Sly announced and continued to move nice and slow as Martin's bright blue eyes raptly followed every motion. The monkey's fingers twitched and tensed on the table as Sly's hand disappeared into the dark confines of the backpack and relaxed once the manila folder came into view. Sly slid the folder across the table to Martin.
The young secretary made no motion to open the folder. His eyes stayed fixed on the raccoon. "Toss your bag into the center of the room and place both hands, palms down on the table," Martin ordered in a voice that nearly quaked.
A smile tugged at the corner of Sly's mouth and he complied without question. He wished Ms. Fox was half as reasonable, sometimes. Once his hands rested face down, as desired, and the pack along with the cane secured to it was well out of reach, Martin spread the folder open. The monkey's gaze darted from each photograph, back to Sly Cooper and then to the next picture. A small crease appeared between Martin's brows. "So, he did use my cell phone to send those texts. He must have deleted them before I returned from lunch."
"Earlier this evening, he tried to erase this security footage. Probably has erased it by now," Sly hazarded.
"Then, he'll try to frame me, like MacAllister said." Martin slumped in his chair. He ran his fingers over the series of photographs arranged before him. Suddenly, he straightened, looking back at Sly. "Can I have these photos?" he asked with a note of urgency.
"If you're going to Interpol to turn in evidence, you can have them and a full copy of yesterday's security footage." Sly canted his head towards his backpack. "But I'd need to get it out of my bag."
Martin nodded fervently. Not bothering to move more slowly than normal, Sly stood up and stepped over to rifle through the backpack for the thumb drive. As he handed it to the young secretary, Martin asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"It's personal."
"Oh," Martin breathed with an unblinking, slightly terrified expression.
Turning away from the secretary, Sly grinned as he stooped to pick up his backpack. "Be sure to visit the Interpol office first thing tomorrow morning. If you don't," Sly dropped the smile, as he glanced over his shoulder, back at the monkey sitting rigid in the dining chair, he concluded ominously, "I'll know." Quickly looking away again, the wide smile returned to his face as Sly started towards the bedroom, to exit the way he'd entered.
"O-of course, Mr. Cooper. First thing." Martin stuttered as he belatedly followed Sly.
Schooling his expression as he reached the window, Sly climbed out and scaled up to the roof rather than down to the street. He didn't want to ruin the mystique that so clearly enveloped him in young Mr. Fugere's bespectacled eyes by strolling down the deserted sidewalk. Even with this little detour, he beat Bentley back to the hideout and took a moment to change into his street clothes and bundle up his work attire, before checking the mini-fridge for the left-over take out.
He was still eating when Bentley contacted him over the comm, "Sly, are you there?"
Wiping a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth with a knuckle, he answered, "Yeah Bentley, do you need something?" He silently hoped he wouldn't have to slip back into work mode.
"I've dropped off the package with the couriers, to be delivered to MacAllister this morning, 9:00am. If you could stop by the hideout and lock up before you head home, that would be great. I'd rather have this taxi drop me off at my place for the night."
Bentley sounded tired. It had been a rather long day. "Consider it done. Get some sleep and I'll talk with you tomorrow afternoon."
Finishing the last few bites of take-out, he dropped the empty carton into the bin, grabbed his duffel and headed for the door.
He slept until noon. After a shower, some food, laundry, and a little, light cleaning, he called Bentley. "What's the news today?"
"The courier package was delivered on schedule. I'm assuming you got the secretary to agree to turn in evidence."
"I'd almost guarantee that Martin Fugere was on the steps of the Interpol office before they opened."
"Then I'm even more certain that Carmelita is on her way to their headquarters now; she left her flat a few minutes ago," the pint-sized genius concluded.
"Bentley?" Cooper paused.
"Yes, Sly?"
"How do you know where she lives, let alone when she left?"
A moment of silence reigned over the phone, before he continued in a sullen tone, "She sent me flowers when I was in the hospital. They were supposed to be anonymous, but the idiot that delivered them forgot to detach the receipt slip that listed her personal address."
Sly stared pensively into the dark and steaming contents of his coffee mug, while this new information sank in. After the Clock-la incident, Carmelita had agreed to let Murray and Bentley go on the condition that Sly turn himself in, which he did, and then rather promptly made good his own escape. He'd broken his side of the deal, but when Carmelita subsequently tracked down Bentley, in his critical condition, she privately sent him flowers rather than placing him under arrest, while he recouped in the ICU. It was so contrary to her personality, as he knew it, that it left him stunned.
"Sly?" Bentley asked tentatively, after the long pause.
"How do you know when she leaves?"
"She's rather predictable with her passwords and passcodes. Once I cracked the codes for her security alarm service, I signed up for email alerts when the system in her home is armed and disarmed."
A small wave of relief washed over Sly. "That's convenient. Well, I'll pop over to Café Lavande a little later and see if I can't catch another update. See you this evening?"
"I'll be at the hideout."
Located across the street from the main Interpol office, Café Lavande served average sandwiches, more remarkable soups, and some of the strongest coffee. Sly avoided the café at peak times, but during the off-hours, his quiet-mannered, office-worker persona of Louis occasionally dropped by, for a late lunch or leisurely coffee. He dressed in some of his business casual attire and combed dark hair dye into his medium cropped hair before parting it in the most straight-laced, boring fashion.
Carmelita would likely be busy for hours, but his patience dwindled more quickly, and Sly left for the café within an hour. It was practically empty, when he arrived, with only two of the petite, round tables occupied. The aroma of fresh bread and some potato based soup wafted in the air as he stepped inside, lowering his dripping umbrella.
"Bonjour, Louis!" One of the regular waitresses greeted him cheerfully, as he set his umbrella aside. Louis was known as a generous tipper and polite customer.
Sly smiled and gave a soft reply. Sitting close to the window, with a clear view across the street at Interpol, he ordered a cup of their soup and hot tea. Making his excuses of an early departure from work, to the friendly waitress, he brought out a booklet of crossword puzzles and settled in, for a long vigil.
The rain let up, little more than an hour later, as he took another bite of the pastry he had ordered after the soup. The sun broke through the clouds, a short reprieve from the gloom, by the looks of the surrounding layers of gray. Sly suppressed a sigh; he rather despised crosswords.
A flash of light reflected off the glass door of Interpol's main entrance across the street, as it swung open and Carmelita stepped into the sunshine with her gun holster at her side and her badge pinned to her jacket. Despite himself, Sly stared. She looked radiant with her bright smile and the sunlight glinting off her ebon hair. She paused and half-turned as MacAllister stepped up beside her, and then threw her arms around him. Sly's stomach dropped and he felt a wave of nausea. MacAllister's shoulders stiffened, he uttered a couple words, and Ms. Fox immediately released him, jumping back a pace. With a blush of color rising to her cheeks, she ducked her head with a word, before meeting his gaze again. MacAllister shook his head and started talking with the occasional glance down or another shake of his head. Sly desperately wished he could read lips. Raising her hand, she squeezed the side of MacAllister's arm in a supportive gesture as she made her reply, with a nod towards MacAllister. Afterwards, the constable gave a single nod and Carmelita withdrew her hand. Smiling again, she made some final remark and he replied before they headed separate ways: Carmelita descending the steps to the sidewalk and MacAllister pivoting to return to the office.
At her usual fast pace, Carmelita soon walked out of sight. Sly silently fumed and wondered at the exchange. The knowledge that he'd performed a noble deed was cold consolation when MacAllister received an embrace for doing practically nothing, but as long as Carmelita was an inspector and he a master thief, they would meet again. And that, he looked forward to.