Free Holy Rollers by Rob Byrnes Page B

Mary Beth.”
    Grant planted his elbows on the table hard enough to make Chase’s vodka-cranberry jump and stiffened his jaw. “I take back what I said about Jamie Brock. Mary Beth is the last person I ever want to work with again.”
    Chase was prepared for his reaction. “I know, I know. You don’t like her and she doesn’t like you. But think about it. She did a great job for us on that job we pulled in the Hamptons a few years ago.”
    “The job that went down the toilet?”
    “That’s the one,” Chase agreed. “But that wasn’t her fault. That was just… circumstances . Bad circumstances. And remember, if it hadn’t been for Mary Beth, we would have walked away with nothing.”
    “Why do you keep pushing for her?”
    “Because she’s already in, whether you like it or not. And she’s good…when she wants to be.”
    Grant thought about it. “But she’s…she’s…she’s Mary Beth !”
    It was hard for Chase to argue with that. She was indeed Mary Beth. “True, maybe she’s not the nicest person we’ve ever worked with. But when she commits, she commits. Quick on her feet, too. She’d be perfect on the inside.”
    “I’ll think about it,” Grant said, even though he doubted that.
    It was only hours later, when they were pressed against each other in bed, that a new thought occurred to him.
    “I’ve got it!” Grant flipped the switch to the lamp on his nightstand.
    Chase, who’d almost fallen asleep, rolled away from the light. “Got what?”
    “Hand me your cell.”
    Chase took the phone off the charger on his own nightstand and started to pass it across the bed before he faltered. He looked at Grant as if he’d just asked for a colonoscopy.
    “You want my phone ?”
    “Yeah.”
    Chase wondered if maybe he was dreaming. That would make more sense than this. “But you never use the phone.”
    Grant took the unit from his wavering hand. “This is the exception that proves the rule.”
    He punched a number into the keypad from memory.

7
     
    The last time Grant Lambert had crossed paths with Constance Price, she was working a scam out of a down-market real estate office on the up-market Upper East Side of Manhattan. Besides picking up a regular paycheck, she also passed the keys to vacant units to her girlfriend, and occasionally, the girlfriend’s brothers, who’d then strip them of small—and sometimes not-so-small—appliances and fixtures. It wasn’t going to make anyone rich, but it was a nice supplement to an honest living. Not to mention it kept them in practice, and there was nothing worse in that occupation than getting rusty. In a way, it was sort of like baseball, except instead of getting sent to the minors if you were off your game, you got sent to Riker’s Island.
    Eventually, though, the boss started to figure out that his apartments were being ransacked at an alarming rate, and she’d put an end to the scam before he traced it back to her. A few weeks after that, she realized that merely working for a living was boring without the extracurricular fringe benefits, so she gave her notice.
    Some people were made for honest nine-to-five wages; Constance Price wasn’t.
    In any event, the scam had dried up. There were only so many microwaves a person could fence or sell on eBay. It was time for something new.
    Over the next year or so she’d pulled a few jobs—nothing elaborate, just enough to keep food on the table—but was starting to feel the need for a more substantial income. Those good old days of cheap Harlem rents were a thing of the past. She’d even considered going back into the real estate business. But then Grant Lambert had called around midnight, mumbling something cryptic about a job she might be interested in and saying he had to see her right away, and she put that consideration right out of her head.
    After all, if Lambert was on a phone, it had to be big. Everyone in their business knew Grant Lambert hated the phone.
    “So why me?” she asked a