saw signs for Tiffany & Co. Burberry. Prada.
“So?” I said.
“So? You’ve swiped Rolexes in front of a live audience. You can’t think of any practical applications for that skill?”
CHAPTER 15
THE NEXT MORNING, DAD WAS still asleep as I dug through my duffel for the items I would need and stuffed them into a knockoff Louis Vuitton bag I’d picked up at a thrift store on impulse. It would help me get into character. I jotted a note on the motel stationery—if Dad woke to find me gone without a trace, he would either have a heart attack or call the cops—and then I slipped out the door.
I killed an hour wandering the aisles of a Sprouts, which were exploding with Halloween candy and orange and black streamers. I bought a Rockstar and two 5-hour Energies, then walked to a diner, ordered a coffee, and settled in to wait. At ten, my cell rang. The number had a Phoenix area code; probably Dad calling from the motel. My shoulders tensed. If I didn’t answer, he would give me hell when I got back. But if I did, he’d demand to know where I was and what I was doing, and I might lose my nerve. Before I could decide, the call went to voice mail. I stuffed the phone back into my bag, knocked back the dregs of my coffee, and paid the bill.
By ten thirty, the mall parking lot was filling up, so I crossed the street and went in the front entrance. I made my way to the restrooms near the food court, locked myself in a stall, and rummaged through my bag. I’d barely been up two hours, but already I could feel the lack of sleep in the dryness of my eyes and the heaviness of my limbs. I cracked open the Rockstar and pounded it right there in the stall. Then I put on my little black dress. It was wrong for the time of day, but I couldn’t walk into Neiman Marcus looking like I lived in a trailer. I stuffed my jeans into my bag, left the stall, and stood in front of the mirror.
I barely recognized the girl I saw. She was hollow eyed, frizzy-haired, and thin. She looked like the poster child for a teen rehab clinic. The chorus of “Umbrella” started to creep into my mind, but I shut it out; I couldn’t afford to lose focus. I needed to hold on for a few more hours. If I could just get my hands on enough money for another two nights in a motel, maybe Dad could figure out the rest.
I drank my last 5-hour Energy, then brushed out my hair and tamed the frizz with motel conditioner. After applying some makeup, I inspected myself. My marks would mostly be men, and they would see a teen girl from the wrong side of town trying to blend in with the rich girls—which could work to my advantage. I shouldered my bag and left the restroom.
I spent ten minutes wandering the mall, lifting wallets from gawky teenage boys before retreating to a restroom to count my take. I’d collected forty-five dollars in cash and a pile of credit cards I couldn’t use. I closed my eyes and tugged at a lock of hair in frustration. If I kept doing clunky bump-and-grabs, I would get caught. I needed fewer marks and bigger payoffs. After checking my makeup in the mirror, I headed for Neiman Marcus.
When you select a volunteer from an audience, you look for someone who’s not too shy, but not too charismatic, either. Someone approachable but easily influenced. A follower, not a leader. The same principle applies to grifts: you choose marks you can control.
I wandered into the men’s department and stopped at a table covered with neckties. While pretending to look through them, I scoped out the store.
There was a good-looking blond guy in his late twenties shopping for a belt, but I dismissed him out of hand; he was too self-confident. Next I considered an older balding guy who was standing at the watch counter. He might have been a good choice, but he was already engaged with a salesperson in a highly visible part of the store.
I moved toward the sportswear section and promptly spotted my first mark. He was short, maybe five five, and his hair was just starting to go gray at the temples. He wore an expensive watch and no wedding ring; he was rich,