Wrong Bag, Right Man

Tracksuits

“Daniel,” Josie said. “Daniel Marchetti. Why?” Sam closed his eyes. “Because Daniel Marchetti is the best-dressed art thief in Europe, and he’s getting married on Saturday.” The cab lurched around a corner. In the mirror, a teal van was gaining on them. “He’s marrying Camila Duarte,” Josie said. “Her family’s collection is the reason this wedding has a budget the size of a small country.” “Exactly. The egg disappears from a museum in Vienna. A week later, Daniel’s fiancée’s family is hosting a gala with every collector in Europe. Do the math.” “I hate the math.” The van rammed them. The cab driver swore in three languages and floored it. Josie, to her own surprise, climbed into the front seat, grabbed the wheel, and said, “Left. LEFT. No, the other left.” “Are you qualified?” Sam yelled. “I once drove a wedding cake through a hailstorm.” They shot down a ramp and into a market. Fruit exploded. A tracksuit vaulted a fish stall and came out wearing a sardine. Sam, hanging out the window, hit the pursuing van’s windshield with a thrown umbrella so accurately that Josie stared. “Insurance investigators learn umbrella?” “I’m better at umbrellas than anything else,” Sam admitted. They lost the van in an alley barely wider than the cab. In the silence, Josie’s phone rang. Daniel. She stared at it. Sam stared at it. “Answer,” he whispered. “Be normal.” “I have never been normal on the phone.” She answered. “Daniel! Hello! Yes! Everything’s wonderful.”