That was the very first time that either of them had been to London, and as they walked through the station and out onto the streets, they were immediately mesmerized by everything they saw – the Christmas lights… the over-the-top decorations… thenoise… the sheer size of the station itself… and the number of people roaming the streets. They’d never seen anything quite like it before. Everything seemed different… livelier… louder… and overflowing with energy… but more importantly – everything seemed so full of potential. If Grace and Julia were to start a new chapter in their lives, just the two of them, they couldn’t have dreamt of a better place to do so than London.
By the very next day, they discovered the West End and the streets of Soho, where the influx of tourists was simply never-ending, and if there was one thing that Dylan had taught them well, it was that tourists were easy pickings.
The next three years seemed to fly by in a hurry, with Grace and Julia becoming better and better at their cons. Their most profitable one was still the ‘attention diversion and pickpocketing’ scam, and Julia could pick a pocket as if she were a ghost, but Dylan had also taught them that cons were like magic tricks, and a good con artist, just like a good magician, should always diversify and come up with new tricks to surprise the audience… and that was exactly what Grace and Julia did.
By then they were both nineteen years of age and the two girls who had once been early bloomers had fully reached their first blooming stage – from puberty to adulthood – and they’d bloomed into two devastatingly attractive women. No matter where they went – makeup or no makeup – heads would turn, and they soon found out that women desired them just as much as men did, if not more.
That was the trigger for Julia to suggest that they stepped up their game, and her plan was simple. Since both of them were always being hit on and chatted up by men and women, why not exploit that side to their advantage?
Julia was the one who put forward the idea that they simply allowed themselves to be chatted upandpicked up. What Julia suggested was that instead of pickpocketing tourists in the streetsfor their wallets, or whatever they had inside their handbags (small pickings), why not go back to their hotel rooms with them? What Julia was suggesting wasn’t prostitution. They wouldn’t be offering sexual services for money. The idea was simply to get into their hotel rooms. Once there, the choice of what to take would, in theory, increase exponentially… but they were well aware that so would the risk.
The most important lesson that they’d learn from pickpocketing tourists in the streets of London over the past three years had been to always be observant… to take their time scouting the crowds for the right mark… and to drop everything and simply walk away if they ever sensed trouble or had a bad feeling about something. Trusting their guts was a big part of being a con artist and a pickpocket. While observing the crowds, searching for the right targets, Grace and Julia had, many times, spotted other pickpockets and con artists at work. They’d also seen many of them get caught, and when that happened, there was something else that they’d noticed. If a male target caught somebody picking their pockets, they would, more often than not, become physically aggressive. Women targets, on the other hand, were much more docile. They would get angry, no doubt about that, and usually, verbally aggressive, but very rarely would they resort to physical violence.
With that in mind, they decided to do a trial run of the ‘hotel room’ con, mainly to check how comfortable they would feel with being alone with a mark behind closed doors. And just like any of their cons, this one had a specific set of rules.
Rule number one: women only – never go back to a hotel room with a male target… or a couple.
Rule number two: once inside their room, spike their drink – not with any horrible drug – just a simple sedative… something that would make them go to sleep fast. Once that happened, the room was theirs.
Rule number three: never physically hurt a target.
Rule number four: keep the takings small. Once the mark woke up again, she would realize that she’d been conned – the hotel security and the police would then usually get involved. If the takings were small, a report would be filed in, but chances were that the police wouldn’t put that much effort into finding the perpetrators because the con would be considered ‘petty theft’, and the Metropolitan Police had much larger fish to fry than petty criminals.
And rule number five: to be on the safe side, once the con was done, whoever had run it – Grace or Julia – wouldn’t run another con at that same hotel for at least six months. The good news was they were in London, where there was no shortage of tourists or hotels.
The trial run went a lot better than either of them had expected, and Julia had been right – inside their hotel room, the choice of what to take, once the mark was down and out, did increase exponentially – cash, jewelry, cellphones, laptops, expensive handbags… the choice varied from mark to mark – but it was all there, just asking to be taken.
Their new con proved to be very profitable indeed, just as long as they stuck to their rules and picked the right targets – and Grace seemed to have some sort of sixth sense when it came to choosing a mark.
For the next two years, Grace and Julia did less and less of the street pickpocketing and more and more of the ‘hotel room’ con. The marks were mainly picked at bars, restaurants and nightclubs around the most affluent neighborhoods in London – never at their hotels. One thing that Grace and Julia had realized quiet early on was that scammers and pro sex workers could easily be spotted at hotel bars, lobbies and restaurants. They were always the ones there by themselves – drinking alone, eating alone and sitting alone – always well dressed, but never spending much…and they were always looking around, as if searching for someone. Once they were spotted by the hotel security, one of two things would happen. Either they would be asked to leave, and if that happened, they would never be able to show their faces in that hotel again. Or, in the case of a sex worker, they’d be allowed to hang around at the hotel bar if they were classy enough, but for a percentage of their profits.
It was at the beginning of one of those nights – dubbed ‘pick-up nights’ – that Grace met Phillip Evans, the first man she ever married.
Seventy-Five
Fourteen Years Ago
London
That night, Grace had chosen to go out in one of her favorite neighborhoods in Central London – Knightsbridge – very classy and very touristic, with a high number of upper-class restaurants, bars, pubs and nightclubs scattered all over the place. Her first stop had been a very elegant cocktail lounge on Brompton Road, not that far away from Harrods, the world-renowned department store.
Grace looked stunning, like she did every night, but on that particular evening there seemed to be something else about her, a different sparkle, perhaps, as if she could sense that something special was about to happen. For that Friday evening, she had chosen a blue sleeveless dress that went down to about mid-thigh. Her auburn hair, or better yet, her auburn wig, fell down past her shoulders in perfect mermaid waves. Her shoes were the kind of shoes that women with a lot of money would recognize and appreciate.
The cocktail lounge wasn’t exactly busy, but it was still early – just past eight o’clock in the evening – and spotting the right mark was always a waiting game. Grace knew that well… and she could play that game better than most. She’d been sitting at thebar for less than ten minutes, nursing a barely touched cocktail that had been served in a smoking goblet, when she heard a male voice come from her right.
‘Hi there… I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here, all by yourself. Do you mind if I join you?’
Grace glanced at the guy trying to chat her up. He looked like a typical young executive, with his neat suit, designer shoes and pristine appearance. His cologne was very masculine, with a hint of leather to it, and he held himself with the sort of confidence that most women would find attractive.
‘Sorry,’ she replied. Her tone was friendly, but not overly so, and the smile on her lips was polite, but not inviting. ‘I’m actually waiting for someone.’
‘Well,’ the man countered. ‘I’m someone.’ His smile, on the other hand, was a smirk.
‘You certainly are,’ Grace agreed, as she had a micro-sip of her cocktail. ‘Just not the someone I’m waiting for.’
‘But I could be… if you give me a chance.’ He moved closer, taking the stool next to hers. ‘Trust me, you won’t regret it.’
Grace turned to finally face the man who, in less than ten seconds, had already burnt all his bridges.