Black Knight Read Online Free Page B

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    Marc noted that Silvia’s Jag had a high-tech alarm system but was not overly worried. The best alarms had trouble identifying a fake key. However, as a safety precaution, it was still best to pop the trunk from inside the car, from the driver’s seat, after slipping the key in the ignition and turning it partway. A retired owner of a car dealership had taught him that little trick. It reassured the computer chip in the most sophisticated car alarms.
    For the first time, Marc took out the case that held the Jaguar’s copied key. It had a couple of rough edges but he was able to file them off with a small tool kit he always carried on any job. It looked perfect but he nevertheless held it up to the light and gave it a final exam, once again thankful his section of the parking structure was not covered by security cameras.
    Then he slid the key in the lock and turned it.
    Presto! It opened without a hitch.
    Moving fast, Marc climbed in the car, leaving the door open, and slipped the key in the ignition, turning it a millimeter shy of starting the car. At the same time he scanned for an interior trunk release, finding one on the bottom of the driver’s door beside a gas-tank release. He pressed it and the trunk popped open. Turning the ignition off, he withdrew the key and climbed out and locked the door behind him.
    Time to get in the trunk. For some reason, for Marc, this part was harder than sneaking into a couple’s bedroom while they were sleeping. He’d read somewhere that everyone suffered from some degree of claustrophobia—it was just a question of how much. He wasn’t sure where he fell on the scale but doubted he would have made it as an astronaut.
    The Jaguar’s trunk was clean and empty but tight. It made sense, it was a sports car. Christ, it didn’t even have a backseat. He’d known that ahead of time; nevertheless, it still annoyed him. Or perhaps “intimidated” him would’ve been a more accurate word.
    Marc took off his valet vest and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and a surgical cap and put them on. He’d seen too many reruns of CSI , NCIS , CSI: Miami —and CSI: Lunar , he snickered to himself—to dare leave behind any fingerprints or hair in the trunk. He even dabbed his eyebrows with Vaseline. Best to be paranoid when one damn molecule of his anatomy could strand him in the slammer for a decade.
    Finally, Marc climbed into the trunk and pulled it shut.
    It was dark inside and it felt stuffy. The only way he could fit in and maintain blood flow to all his limbs was to squeeze into the fetal position. He wiggled around with his back to the front and his face toward the rear. He had little room to move his arms and that concerned him. Later, when it was time to leave the trunk, he’d need his hands free if the release paddle failed. Of course there was no reason to think it should fail, but tell that to Murphy and the law named after him. Marc occasionally wondered who the real Murphy had been. The guy must have had a miserable life.
    Marc was in the trunk ten minutes when Sandy came for the car. God, he thought, that had been close. He knew it was Sandy because she always sang to herself while she worked. Sandy was a couple of years older—she’d just celebrated her twenty-first by getting drunk with the guys at work. Marc had a lot of respect for her. She hustled to park and pick up the cars and was always polite to the clients. She never bragged when she got a big tip. But what he liked most about her was that she was unimpressed with stars—it didn’t matter how important they thought they were. To Sandy they were just people.
    Marc was attracted to her and knew she liked him, but he’d never asked her out because of his side business. The possibility was remote, but if he ever got busted and they were dating, the cops might assume she was working with him, or at the very least knew about the thefts. There was no way he would ever put her in that kind of position. She