All I had was my gut instinct. And my gut was telling me that I needed that gold chain and
I needed it as soon as possible.
I put a hand on her shoulder. "Where did you sell it?"
"It's a place called Sell Your Gold for Cash."
"Sounds classy."
"It's really not bad. A little cluttered."
"How much did you get for it?"
"Fifty bucks."
I nodded. My potential chance at a normal life had been pawned to some sleazy used jewelry shop for fifty bucks. Great.
"Vampire or human owned?" I asked.
She thought about it. "I'm pretty sure the guy was human."
Thierry approached us and I told him what was going on. He shook his head. "I know the owner of this store—his wife is a regular customer here at Haven—but it's too late right now. They would be closed. It's nearly midnight."
"Well, as much as I'd love to wait until the stores open tomorrow morning, I'd prefer not to be fried by the sun when I stroll down the sidewalk."
"I will investigate the problem myself, then."
I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be all contrary here, but I need to go now. I need to get the necklace now. I can't wait."
Thierry studied me for a moment and then glanced at Amy. "You are sure this is the correct place?"
She nodded and fluttered her eyelashes. "Uh-huh."
He stood in silence for a while longer, his expression unreadable. "George will come with us. He has a talent we may require if I'm unable to contact the owner personally."
I raised my eyebrows. "I didn't know an affinity for tight leather pants would come in handy in a situation like this."
"George is very adept at picking locks."
This was news. "You learn something new every day. Do I want to know how he came to learn this?"
Thierry regarded me and a small amount of amusement slid behind his gaze. "We all have pasts and hidden talents, Sarah. I'm sure you do as well."
"I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue," Amy said, her gaze slowly moving over
Thierry's body. "Does that count?"
I hit her in the shoulder. Hard. "Not in this case."
She rubbed her arm and pouted. "Ouchie."
After Thierry made a quick and mysterious phone call, and without telling anyone else where we were going, the four of us piled into Thierry's Audi, just returned from its extended stay in the Abottsville Motor Inn parking lot—he'd paid a couple of the employees to drive it over—and we left for a midnight pawn-shop run to retrieve my Plan B.
Sell Your Gold for Cash was a quick ten-minute drive from Haven, close to Front and
Jarvis, and closed for the day, which, since it was after midnight when we arrived, was not unexpected.
George seemed excited at the prospect of a late-night break-and-enter, which I wasn't sure was a good thing.
"I'm excited," he stated, as he pulled out a pouch from his manbag that looked like a manicure set. He unzipped it to show that it contained several long metal rods of varying widths.
"What's up with that?" I asked him. "I had no idea you could do something like this."
"Well, it's not exactly the sort of thing one discusses with just anyone. But since I know you, I suppose I can come clean. In the fifties, I was a world-renowned cat burglar."
I was shocked. "You were?"
He blinked. "Well, okay, assistant to a world-renowned cat burglar. Dammit, I can't lie very well. I answered the phones and gathered together bail money when necessary. But he taught me a lot." Another blink. "Pierre now lives in Tahiti and collects Cabana boys.
But whatever. Bygones. I'm over it."
I felt like comforting him, but I was too stressed. I wanted to get the necklace and to get the hell out of there. "Let's get started."
"That actually won't be necessary after all, George," Thierry said, and he leaned past me and pressed a buzzer on the side of the door.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I was able to reach the owner by telephone. He agreed to open the store for us."
After a minute, the lights flickered on inside the store and somebody approached the door.
George pouted. "Why am I even here?"
"I'm sorry, George," Thierry said. "Perhaps another time."
He tucked the lock-picking kit back into his manbag. "I am incredibly disappointed.
Though the sensation is extremely familiar lately."
It was a man dressed in a brightly colored bathrobe, and he looked extremely sleepy. He had a puffy face, squinty eyes that he rubbed at the sudden brightness of the lighting, and a hairline so receded it was practically in the next room. He blinked a couple of times as he gazed through the door at us. Then he unlocked the door and swung it open.
I suddenly recognized him from his TV commercials. His name was Hans Christie and he had a great onscreen personality that made me want to gather up all my jewelry, such as it is, and bring it to him.
His expression at the moment was not a friendly one.
"Come in," he growled. I could hear his thick New York accent. "Let's make this quick.