Swindle: Chapters 22–32

Scrambling to keep up, she realized that the dog had a very specific destination in mind—a makeshift office near the front of the house.

Intrigued, Savannah played her flashlight over the room.

She took hold of Luthor’s collar and raced back up the stairs. Full-throated barking resounded throughout the house.

Acrid smoke hung in the air, and the metal glowed bright orange along the track made by the blowtorch.

“What’s all that barking? What’s the matter with Luthor?” Her bewildered gaze fell on the Doberman, standing docile at Savannah’s side.

“He’s trapped in a room downstairs,” Savannah quavered.

Savannah’s words were punctuated by enraged barking and violent slams against a wooden door.

With a malevolent roar, the monster leaped at her.

He missed the takedown, but his flailing arm caught Darren on the ankle.

The team watched in agony as the million-dollar collectible fluttered higher and higher, swirling on the turbulent air currents.

In theater lingo, it was called an ad-lib—when an actor broke from the script and followed his gut for the good of the show.

He approached his own home almost as stealthily as he had Swindle’s.

It was Pitch, climbing gingerly and grimacing in pain with every movement of her injured ankle.

The drama unfolding in the tree had unmasked Melissa. Her curtain of hair was permanently parted, her wide eyes riveted on the two climbers.

With that, Darren pulled himself forward on the undulating branch and reached for the Bambino.

Trees rolled and weaved with the wind. But the SmartPick never wavered, rising laser-straight into the maple’s branches.

His eyes bulged in dismay.

Griffin hung on to the SmartPick like a fisherman landing a shark in the middle of a full gale.

“Get real—it’s a million bucks,” retorted Darren. “What I want to know is how long do we have to lie low before we can sell the card and get our money.”

“Your money?” Pitch was indignant. “You tried to rip the rest of us off. I don’t see why you should get a cent.”

Griffin didn’t relish the idea of Darren profiting from his betrayal. But he had to admit his enemy had a point. They were in this together.

“What’s with our class today?” joked Mr. Martinez. “Did you guys rob a bank or something?” He frowned at the raw fear on Pitch’s ashen face as she limped to the door.

On the walk home, though, Ben could not keep silent. “How bad is it, Griffin? I mean, if the cops find out everything, how much trouble are we in?”
“Impossible to tell,” said Griffin soberly.

He looked over her shoulder. No army of cops ransacking the place in search of the missing collectible.

In fact, they didn’t even go to the precinct house. The interrogation took place in the Bings’ living room, with Griffin flanked by his parents on the couch.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Griffin said firmly. “Not by stealing, not by lying about it.”
The officer digested this.

Throughout the planning and execution of the heist, Griffin had never suffered a single moment of regret.

Although Griffin’s fevered imagination conjured up a police officer behind every telephone pole, Detective Sergeant Vizzini did not come back for him.

“I know where to get it,” Griffin replied cryptically.

And the revelation that Swindle deserved what he got didn’t undo the fact that the card had been taken from his house.

He ran into his father’s arms, blubbering like a two-year-old.

Mr. Bing pulled onto the road. “Funny the way things work out,” he commented. “Even if Palomino hadn’t hoodwinked you into selling that card, it still wouldn’t be yours. In the end, it would always have belonged to that little old lady in Baltimore.”

Mrs. Winnifred Rockford-Bates of Baltimore, Maryland, was an eccentric multimillionaire who thought Babe Ruth was a candy bar.

Griffin took it hard. “I always believed that planning was everything. But no plan could ever insulate you from a calamity like this!”

The picture hung opposite a large window overlooking the building’s adjoining skate park, which had been a condition of the museum’s largest single donation.