Craig was quickly escorted into the same kitchen he'd snuck into. The rope he'd brought was gone and the skylight was closed; he stared up at the glass, wondering how quickly they had managed to cover up his entrance. He was immediately pushed further into the kitchen by his 'escorts,' leaving Craig to wonder just how quickly the kitchen went from dark and empty to bustling with life. All of this was starting to seem strange, if he were to think about it.
"Excuse me," he asked another man wearing the same uniform, "Wasn't Mr. Heathcliff supposed to be out of town this weekend?"
The other waiter simply gave him a knowing smile, like he had his own private little joke before scuttling off with a wide tray of champagne flutes. Craig stared after him with a glare, angry that he hadn't gotten an answer. Mexico was miles away and Rick was not anywhere near it. His theory about Mr. Heathcliff trying to keep his stuff a secret was starting to sprout some leaks. He was handed a tray full of some kind of hors d'oeuvres that Craig couldn't identify, and shooed out a set of swinging doors.
There was a ball room just past those doors, brilliantly lit and plushly carpeted, dotted with expensive Rococo-esque furniture. Well-dressed people were chatting with each other, lying on the furniture leisurely. Most look like scholarly types, Craig noted as a few tweed-suited men he assumed were professors took a few of the finger foods off of his tray. A few looked familiar, like Craig had seen them at a university or when he went to school… He nearly felt an electric shock when he realized that was not it.
Oh god; he was standing in a room full of people he'd stolen from. He sharply inhaled and reminded himself that none of them knew what he looked like. He spotted the owner of a small museum in the corner, laughing with her husband; her dark eyes serious, but happy, as always. Her stoic-looking husband held their only child who had curly blonde hair and a rocket ship half stuffed into his mouth. The young blonde university librarian passed him chatting animatedly with an aging historian with snow-white hair and an intimidating old woman demeanor. He knew all of these people very intimately due to his desire to research his heists before he committed them. He shut his eyes for a moment to try to calm himself. None of them had even seen him let alone his face. He felt like he was on the set of some badly done reality TV show.
He opened his eyes and froze mid-exhale. Standing against the wall, trying to speak to a rather annoyed looking brunette woman, was a familiar looking British curator; Wheatley Stuart, Craig remembered. He immediately turned to scurry the other direction when he heard someone calling.
"Excuse me, oh, excuse me, waiter!" called that obnoxious voice.
Craig turned and plastered on a smile that might have looked threatening to anyone with half a brain, "Yes, sir?"
"Do you think you could bring us some champagne? I hate to be a bother, but you don't mind do you?" Mr. Stuart asked with a winning grin that dropped into a curious frown, "Hey, mate, do I know you?"
"Yes, sir, right away," Craig nearly cried, glad for an excuse to get the fuck away from that man.
With a swing of the kitchen doors, Craig immediately set down the tray of food. There was surprisingly no one in the kitchen. He found this suspicious, but then heard voices talking about moving plates out the door quickly. Craig seized his chance and moved out of another door. He pressed his back against the wall and breathed deeply. This night was getting downright eerie.
Now that he was alone, he could perhaps steal something of Mr. Heathcliff's and sell it for a ticket to South America or elsewhere he would never be heard from again. He listened carefully to the noises in the hallway, finding only the ambient noises of people talking in the ballroom. With a quick turn of his heel, he stole down the hall away from the people, away from his victims, hopefully permanently away from Rick and his bullshit.
There was a very faint light coming from another grand ballroom not too far away. Upon inspection, Craig found it was filled with glass cases. He grinned; jackpot. Each of the cases were filled with ancient guns and knives. The thief strolled past the cases, observing their contents. A soft hum was his only response, but his mind was moving very fast. Everything was airtight, sealed without chance of moisture or dust reaching the artifacts. They were carefully displayed, lovingly arranged to show off their best features, while preserving the integrity of scabbards and holsters. Craig raised an eyebrow; he almost deigned to say he was impressed with how they were handled.
There was now a very grave dilemma he faced. It went against all of his beliefs to steal something with the intent of selling it. Now that he was looking at a bunch of very ancient artifacts all very carefully preserved; he did not want to steal them, no matter who owned them. He huffed in frustration and walked out of the room. If he did not steal anything, he could not be at fault; he simply had to trust the spoiled millionaire with his fate. This was something Craig was not at all comfortable with; but to preserve his morals, it was necessary.
As he exited, he spotted a figure watching from a backlit door, completely obscuring the person's face. The build and body language told Craig that he was being watched by none other than Mr. Heathcliff. Craig scowled as the figure disappeared, making his way back to the kitchen.
With a scowl, he realized he could not return to the ballroom without the champagne. He busied himself trying to find some champagne flutes. There was a crackle and whine of a microphone coming from the ballroom as his fingers curled around the long stems of a set of glasses. He paused to listen. The sounds from here were mostly muffled and people were still murmuring, but he heard an unfamiliar voice greeting everyone and welcoming them to some fundraising dinner. Craig frowned and set the glasses back down with a careless clink.
What he could make out was something about a museum, something about improving staff. Okay, this was too much. This was all too weird. He got here with the intention of stealing from a man, one who was known for being quite the carefree playboy, who was supposed to be not home, found he was indeed home, and planned a party on top of it, filled to the brim with people he'd stolen from and even the very first person he had stolen from and was forced to show his face to. If Craig thought about it, these clothes fit a little too well to be coincidental and… Argh, he had to get out of here. Things were far beyond fishy and he had enough.
Finding the main doors wasn't so hard after a bit of searching. Craig figured he could send this godforsaken uniform back anonymously and cut his losses on his good pair of boots and his lucky pink belt. His hands nearly grabbed the huge handles to open the door, but someone caught his wrist. He looked up to see a pair of light blue eyes full of anger.
"You! Y-You were him, weren't you! Th-That TEACHER, I remember you!" Wheatley Stuart was suddenly yelling at him.
Craig winced, realizing he must have been so focused to get out of this wretched place that he didn't even notice this clumsy fool coming at him, "Unhand me," he said simply.
"Ooooh no, I'm not letting you get away this time, mate, you almost cost me my job!" Mr. Stuart tugged on Craig's hand.
It took a sharp bite of his tongue to prevent Craig from losing his cool. Right now, he could feign innocence if he appeared to be nothing more than simple hired help. Throwing this guy over his shoulder with a few quick movements wasn't in his list of options, unfortunately. He took a deep breath and tried again.
"Please, sir, unhand me so I may leave from my shift, I don't know who you're referring to," he said slowly, as though he were speaking to a deranged moron.
Mr. Wheatley Stuart looked as though he were second guessing his decision to approach someone he was only half sure was a culprit to a very old crime, but his face immediately twisted into something more confident.
"Actually, do you have to leave right now? I mean, there was quite a bit more… persuading involved last time, if I recall," the taller man cooed, "Very, very convincing persuading, I might add."
Craig grit his teeth, torn between trying to stick to his lie and simply doing what the man was very clearly asking for. It wasn't something he was unaccustomed to, per say, and it had certainly gotten him out of trouble the first time… Craig didn't have much chance to make the decision.
"Oh, hey, Wheatley was it?" Craig heard that voice call out.
Mr. Stuart's hand unraveled itself from Craig's wrist and Craig immediately went for the door again. One meaty, over-sized millionaire hand pressed the door closed, Rick leaning against the door for extra emphasis. Wheatley's glasses were blocked out by the light from Craig's point of view, but his body language was all kinds of tense; he had to guess that Rick was respected and almost feared by the bumbling curator.
"Yes, that's me, Mr. Heathcliff, something I can do for you? Maybe help you see your way out? Anything?" Wheatley attempted, sounding strained and actually kind of rude.
"Actually, I was wondering if you could leave my wait staff alone, they tend to get run down to the bone, especially right now, y'know?" Rick said, voice silky smooth, but had an edge of threat in it.
Wheatley visibly balked, obviously getting the message; something that surprised Craig immensely. Perhaps he wasn't such a moron when a thinly veiled threat was presented. Apologies were mumbled and soon, he was on his way back to the kitchen, muttering something about finding wine.Craig shot a glare up to Rick Heathcliff, shoulders tensing up to his ears in anger.
"How dare you—"
"Hey now, I'm pretty sure I just saved your ass from getting caught."
"Something which I still don't understand!"
"Don't mean y'gotta blow a guy to get away again," a shrug.
Craig resisted the urge to slug the bigger man right in the face. How did he know that!
"Your little party is over, isn't it? I'd like to leave now!" Craig roared.
Rick got off of the door and waved over another of the waiters, instructing him to get Craig's things and to call a taxi. Craig frowned; he could have gotten his things on his own, as well as called his taxi. This presumptuous bastard was throwing him for a loop and he didn't like it any more than he liked being hit on by that ridiculous idiot Mr. Heathcliff had chased off.
"I'll see you later, sweetheart," Rick waved with a shameless wink, making Craig bristle further.
The maddening playboy returned to his fundraiser, leaving Craig to fume at the waiter who brought him a bag with his things, baton included. A taxi was neatly waiting outside and Craig was never happier to leave someplace as he was now. He had to get home and figure out some way to get to Brazil before he was caught by the police. It was inevitable and Craig didn't trust that arrogant, pretentious prick any further than he could throw him. If past experience was any indication, it wasn't very far at all.
He growled out orders for the taxi cab driver to drop him off several blocks from his apartment complex. Yes, Richard Heathcliff had his name and it was going to be exceedingly simple to find him now, but he wasn't going to help him locate his place of residence at all.
A quick climb up the fire escape brought him to his bedroom window. He carefully and quietly pulled the window open and slipped inside—His bedroom door was open and his bedroom wasn't… destroyed, but it had definitely been disturbed. His closet was open and his bed moved; all of his drawers were partially closed. Craig was a man of habit; those habits never changed. His room had been tampered with. He pulled the baton out of his bag of clothes and moved out to the living room, finding it completely empty, save his humble futon. Craig's eyes widened with pure rage and shock, there was a little post card sitting on the cushions that was signed by none other than Rick Heathcliff.
Craig snatched up that postcard and shredded it to pieces with an angry snarl. That BASTARD. He already FOUND his apartment, and now Craig was going to make HEADS ROLL. He tore off the tuxedo shirt he was forced to wear in a rage, pulling out his original clothing for ease of a fight. That spoiled asshole was going to get ripped a new one if Craig had anything to say about it. Now that he knew just how easy it was to get into that house, he was going to have quite a lot to say.