Page 73 of The Santa Claus Con

“What just happened? Is there a way to replay that?” she asks, feeling around the dashcam. “I couldn’t record it in time.”

“The man’s everywhere. How is this possible?”

“People ask the same question about the real Santa,” she deadpans. “Some Christmas magic can’t be explained.”

“What did he say about under the tree?”

“I don’t know—uh, check under things.” Scarlett taps beneath the dashboard.

I reach below my seat. I’ve already checked so I don’t expect anythi—

My fingers graze something solid. A small box wrapped in glossy paper. A chill moves through my body. “This wasn’t here earlier,” I say, pulling out the present. Or was it and I just missed my section of the seat? I could’ve sworn I checked both front and back seats. Didn’t I? Or had I meant to but forgot after finding the trackers under the car?

“It’s tiny. Easily missable,” Scarlett says, documenting the box’s existence with a photo.

Then I reach over and pull off the bow.

“Lambros! I’m sure he doesn’t want us opening this one either.”

“Sparkly elf, give me back my daring Scarlett.”

My word choice isn’t lost on either of us. Now’s not the time to get into it, though.

“No way we’re dropping off something without looking what’s inside first,” I add. “Either take the wheel or handle that.”

“And if it goes boom?”

Shit. There’s no time to pull over and find somewhere to open this. “Take the wheel,” I instruct. She grabs it with her left hand.

I grab the box from her and give it a sniff. No C-4 tar smell. “Pull over,” I finally say. I can’t risk opening this with Scarlett in the car.

“Just open it,” she says. “We’re in this together, and I really don’t think it’s the bomb.”

I peel back the tape and slide out the box.

“Please don’t be a severed digit,” Scarlett says under her breath. Her creased brow relaxes when I lift the lid. It’s a miniature Santa figurine key chain.

“This guy’s obsessed with himself.”

She takes the box from me. “No key, either. How strange,” she says, turning the figurine in her hands. She rewraps the gift. “Oh, we’re getting close.”

I check the map. The number 18 is written inside the snowflake: 18 West Forty-Seventh Street?

I make a right onto Forty-Eighth, another right down on Fifth Avenue, and cut onto Forty-Seventh Street. There are rings and watches sparkling in every storefront window case, the awnings promising certified diamonds and antique jewelry.

I slow to a crawl, searching for 18 on the storefront. I spot the shop and tuck behind a UPS truck, a few stores down. Scarlett hands me back my Santa jacket along with the present. The tag hanging off the bow is addressed to someone named Bonnie.

“I’ll stand guard,” Scarlett says, following me to the store. “It’ll look like we’re delivering toys at our last stop. Be careful.”

I pull up my beard, double-check that the microphone’s still in my jacket collar. And then I walk in through the front doors of Bonnie Jewelers.

It’s a simple setup of glass cases showing off hundreds of necklaces, earrings, and rings. Chairs are positioned in front of the cases for demonstrations and try-ons. The place is covered in mirrors with at least a dozen cameras hanging from the ceiling.

I had risen in the ranks to be the “owner” of a store just like this. When guys from the Durand family came into my FBI-backed store to see what sales I’d made that week, I’d be there. Keeping up appearances. It feels like just yesterday I was forking over FBI money to build trust and establish expectations. Every interaction a building block for the big finale.

I note the security guard in plain clothes in the far corner. When I first started, I was this man. An undercover security guard working to “get on the inside” and make the “stolen” jewels look real to my bosses. Just like this guy, I stood guard over jewelry cases protecting millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Boosting jewels from stores like this has always been high-risk. I’d never be the one to actually steal the goods, but I’d be able to provide just enough intel. When it came time to deliver to the Durands what I did pretend to boost, it was always what the FBI had given me.

The woman talking on the phone behind the counter hangs up. She asks if I need help with anything.