Pros and Cons Ch. 03

The Con Artists

Stephen Benedict (aka Samuel Blackstone, aka Martin Anderson, aka Robert Hamilton)

Cassandra Simmons (aka Emma Blackstone, aka Ellen Ames, aka Lorelei Hamilton)

"Next," the casting director interrupted, not looking up from her list. Circe sighed, put down her script, and trudged off the stage. When she emerged from the theater, she blinked in the dirty Los Angeles sunlight and began trudging discouragedly down the street.

"Excuse me, ma'am, excuse me. Are you Circe MacNair?"

She turned around to see a tall young man hurrying in her direction. He had long black hair pulled back and tied behind his head in a "man bun." A beard and mustache covered his face in black curls. Curious, she waited till he stood before her.

"I'm Circe," she said warily. "Who are you?"

"I'm Marcus Masterson. How do you do?" he said politely, extending his hand.

She ignored it. "Look, I don't know what you're selling, but I'm not interested."

"No, no, I'm not selling anything. I want to make you a proposition."

She froze, angry now. "I'm not selling anything either, buddy. Now get lost."

He stepped back and, despite his dark beard, she thought she saw him blush. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out right. I'm not trying to pick you up, I want to offer you a role, a job."

"Are you an agent or something?"

"Look, there's a coffee shop on the corner up there. Let me buy you a cup and I'll explain." He saw her hesitation and hurried on. "There are plenty of people around, so you don't have to worry about me. Just listen to what I have to say, then you can leave if you're not interested. Besides," he smiled at her, "at least you'll get a latte out of it."

In spite of herself she grinned. He is kind of cute.

Once they'd sat down at a table on the terrace, she took a sip of her latte and looked at him. "So, Marcus Masterson, what is this role you're offering?"

He leaned forward. "It's a unique opportunity - a chance to use all your acting skills before a live audience."

"Are we talking theater, television, what?"

"Actually, it's a new medium, one I doubt you've seen before."

"You're going to have to be a lot more specific than that."

"Oh, I will, but first let me ask you a few questions. What kind of work have you done so far?"

She frowned. "Probably nothing you would have seen me in. I've done a number of commercials, but nothing memorable."

He gestured at her shoulder-length burgundy hair. "Shampoo commercials?"

She shook her head in emphatic denial. "God, no. That's a one-way street: you do one and then nobody will consider you for anything else."

He smiled. "Still, you do have great hair."

She ignored that. "I've also done a couple of roles on one of those true crime shows. I was a murdered girlfriend in the last one - that was interesting."

"When was that?"

"A year ago," she admitted

"Anything more recent?"

"No, but I'm pounding the pavement every day. Something's going to break for me soon, I'm sure of it."

"What if I could offer you a leading role in a production likely to last six months to a year?"

"Who do I have to kill?" she asked with a wry smile.

"I hardly think it will come to that. How would you feel about working in New York? Ever been there?"

She laughed. "Just a little. I graduated from The New School, majoring in performing arts. I know Manhattan like the back of my hand." Then she sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute - New York? Are you talking Broadway?"

He shook his head.

"Off-Broadway? Off-off-Broadway?"

He smiled. "Let's do a little test." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He put it in the palm of his hand and extended it to her. "Try to take the quarter out of my hand."

She gave him a funny look, then made a grab for the coin. He easily snatched it out of reach. "Again," he ordered, and held it out. Again she failed.

He handed the coin over to her. "Now you try it."

Unsure whether to be intrigued or annoyed, she took the quarter and held it out. He put his hands on the table, then suddenly glanced over her shoulder. "Oh!" he said, and when she turned her head, he snatched the coin.

"You cheated!" she accused.

"No I didn't," he smiled. "The goal of the game was to take the quarter, and that's what I did."

She gave him a long stare. "Let's try it again. You hold the quarter."

When he held it out, she put her hands on the table and then raised one, poised to snatch. As his eyes darted to the moving hand, her other hand flew up from the table and hit the back of his hand. The quarter flew up in the air and she grabbed it in triumph.

"Bravo!" he applauded, "both a diversion and a surprise move." He smiled broadly. "You have quick hands and an even quicker mind. I think you just might do."

She was surprised at how gratified she felt, but then she remembered how little she really knew about the man and what he was offering. "Look, this is all very interesting, but you still haven't told me what this is all about."

He nodded. "You're right: it's time for some details, but this is not the place to discuss them." He handed her a card with an address and phone number. "Meet me tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. at my office. I promise you I'll have all the answers to all your questions. If you like the answers, we'll go forward from there. If you don't, I'll call an Uber to take you home and you'll have lost nothing except a morning."

He started to get up from the table. "And if you go home this evening and get cold feet, just call the number on the card and leave a message that you're not coming." He smiled. "But I really hope you'll come."

The next morning, when Circe pushed open the door to the address Marcus had given her, she found herself in the lobby of what appeared to be a small business. There was no else there, but the door opening must have tripped a silent alarm, because Marcus quickly appeared through a door in the back of the lobby area.

"I'm so glad you came, Circe," he enthused, ushering her into one of a pair of small offices outfitted with a utilitarian desk and two chairs. He gestured her to the large, comfortable sofa against one wall. When she was seated on it, he handed her a cup of coffee. She noticed that he'd prepared hers the way she liked it.

"You must have been pretty certain I'd show up today," she commented in between sips.

"Let's just say I'm an optimist," he smiled. Then he flipped open a folder he held in his lap. "But your profile says that you're adventurous, a risk-taker, so I had reason to be confident."

"You have a profile on me?" she frowned. "What did you do: have a PI to investigate me?"

"Exactly."

Now she was angry. "So you already knew the answers to the questions you asked me yesterday. Just what other information do you have on me?"

He sat back in his chair and looked at her calmly. "I've watched clips of every show you've ever been in, every commercial you've ever shot. I have a record of your grades from The New School as well as from Dewitt Clinton High School. And I have transcripts of interviews done with your friends and your old boyfriends."

As he went through his list, Circe grew increasingly upset. "What gives you the right to go poking into my private life?"

"This is a critical role, and we only get one shot at, so I need to be certain you're the right choice."

She folded her arms across her chest. "This isn't really an acting job, is it?"

"It most definitely is, but it's not like any acting you've ever done before, I suspect." Then his expression brightened. "But it also pays better than any acting job you've ever had before either. On top of that, all your expenses will be covered for the whole gig." He leaned forward. "If you pull this off, you're going to do very well for yourself."

Then his tone changed. "But you're not going to take this job for the money. I think you're going to take it because it's likely to be the biggest acting challenge of your career, and because it will be an adventure you'll never forget."

He could almost see her mind processing what he'd told her, and the conflict that set off for her. Abruptly she asked, "Did you mean it yesterday - I don't have to kill anybody, do I?"

He smiled and shook his head no.

Her gaze hardened. "Anything illegal? If this goes wrong, am I going to wind up in jail?"

"You're going to see the line the law draws, but you're not going to step over it. Listen, the worst that can happen is you wind up right back here in LA looking for your next acting job. Even then, you'll get paid for a doing a lead role for six months, all expenses covered. And you'll have had one hell of an experience."

She sat there in silence for a couple of minutes. Finally she shook her head almost in disgust. "I'll probably kick myself for this, but yes, I'm interested."

He grinned, but she wasn't finished.

"But I'm not agreeing to anything without knowing a whole lot more about it."

"That's totally fair - I wouldn't expect you to. But, before I give you any details, you're going to need to sign a non-disclosure agreement. From now on, anything I tell you is strictly confidential, and if you violate that, I'll come down hard on you."

"You're not scaring me, Marcus. I've had to sign confidentiality agreements before."

With that he rolled his chair over to his desk, picked up the agreement and brought it back to her. She read it over carefully, then asked for a pen. After she'd signed, he put the agreement in her folder and stood up. "Okay, follow me."

He led her across the hall through a different door that opened into a large conference room. On one wall was a set of photographs; he took her over to them.

She saw a photo of a very attractive woman approximately her own age. Next to the woman was a shot of a man who appeared to be a few years older. Both were well groomed and dressed in expensive clothing.

"Meet Cassandra Simmons, who also uses the aliases Emma Blackstone and Lorelei Hamilton. She's 29 years old, but looks at least five years younger. The gentleman next to her is Stephen Benedict, aka Samuel Blackstone and Robert Hamilton. He is a very fit 36 years old. Together, they form one of the most cunning teams of con artists now in operation."

He passed her a sheet of paper.

"Here's a list of cons they're suspected of running over the past ten years. As you look at it, you'll see a pattern emerging. They started out as mere pickpockets, but quickly moved on. One or the other would romance a vulnerable target, seduce him or her, then make off with all the victim's funds they could lay their hands on. Early on the deal was little more than robbery: seduce a lonely/horny member of the opposite sex, then empty the victim's wallet or purse after a night of passion.

"From there they graduated to more elaborate cons: gaining access to bank accounts and plundering them before disappearing. Often the victims were slow to report the crime because they couldn't believe their lover was a thief.

"Most recently they've stepped it up to more elaborate cons. Over a period of months they romance their target and marry them. When the time is ripe, they not only clean out the shared bank accounts but take out credit card loans and second mortgages before absconding. One poor female victim was forced to declare bankruptcy."

He sat down beside her and pointed to the last item on the list. "But the risks with that sort of con multiply. Because long cons are expensive, they were forced to target wealthier victims. But such people are a riskier proposition. A suspicious relative, a watchful bank employee or even a victim who asks too many questions can jeopardize the whole game. They were almost caught four years ago in Chicago, and that's when we think they switched to a new modus operandi.

"Two and a half years ago, Cassandra seduced a young, successful software designer in Silicon Valley. She swept him off his feet and enticed him to propose so quickly that he failed to take any precautions like a pre-nuptial agreement to protect his assets. Shortly after the honeymoon, she went out of town and Benedict, her partner, got the poor guy drunk and sicced a prostitute on him. When Cassandra burst in on the two of them in bed, there was nothing he could do or say. An expedited divorce netted them half the poor schmuck's assets, and it was all legal - though hardly ethical."

He stood up and walked around the table. "But this time they picked the wrong victim, because once he realized what they'd done, he got me involved. And I'm going to make them pay."

"But why not just contact the police and let them handle it?"

He shook his head. "In the first place it would be difficult to prove an actual crime was committed. The victim and the woman were legally married and legally divorced. Under the law, she was entitled to half the marriage's assets. There's no crime for the police to pursue. But in the process, they broke the guy's heart, humiliated him and scammed him out of a lot of money. He wants to see they get the punishment they deserve."

"What about all those other victims on your list?"

"I've talked to a number of them: a lot of them were embarrassed to be taken in so badly. They'd just as soon not have to relive the experience. Moreover, the cons were committed in different cities and states, so the local cops aren't keen to spend the time and manpower to track the con artists down. This type of crime is not a priority unless it affects a large number of people or someone prominent."

"Sounds like a job for the Feds."

"Yeah, but the truth is the federal resources are tied up on tax and securities fraud. Sadly, scam artists like I'm after tend to fly under the radar. Unless they get caught in the act, they usually get away with it."

"That's not fair!"

"Tell me about it," he nodded. "This time, though, I'm going to track those two down and put a stop to their predations." He looked at her keenly. "But I'll need your help to do it right."

"Okay, but . . ."

He held up his hands to interrupt her. "I know you've got lots of questions, but I'm getting hungry. How about grabbing a bite to eat and we can talk over lunch?"

They found a little Mexican restaurant and took their food out on its shaded terrace to eat. "Okay," he said after they'd had a few bites, "what do you want to ask me?"

She surprised him. "I want to know what your deal is? What's your background, and how did you get involved in all this?"

He laughed. "No fair, that's three questions." Then his expression grew serious. "Actually, I'm one of those guys who took a while to find himself. I enlisted in the Army and wound up in the MPs. After I got out, I tried a few things. I even thought I wanted to be an actor like you, but I never had any success. Anyway, one day I saw an ad for a small detective agency. The owner was getting on in age and needed some help with the leg work. I took the job on a lark and found I had a knack for it. When he retired, I took over, and here I am."

She gave him a disparaging look. "So you take photos of cheating wives and husbands."

"I've done some of that, but now I deal mainly with missing persons and property. My partner and I offer clients the three "I's'": Investigation, Intelligence and, in some cases, Intervention. This case involves all three."

"Okay, that leads me to my next question: how did you get involved in this investigation?"

He looked at her solemnly. "Let's save that one for another time."

That didn't satisfy her, but he refused to say more. Instead, he spent the rest of lunch telling her stories about other cases he'd worked. His accounts often featured amusing, self-deprecating episodes, and she couldn't help appreciating his sense of humor.

When they returned to his office, he led her back to the conference room. But instead of sitting, they walked over to sizable carpeted area without any furniture. "Remember our little game back at the coffee shop?" he asked. "You were quick and clever at swiping that quarter from my hand. Now I want you to do the same thing with my wallet."

"What!" she reacted in surprise.

"I'm serious: it's something you're going to need to know."

She rolled her eyes, then, after a moment of hesitation, stepped closer and made a grab for the wallet in his back pocket. The billfold came partially free, then fell to the floor.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "Well, that was terrible."

"What was I supposed to do? You knew I what I was going to do and you were waiting for it."

"Quite right," he acknowledged. "Let me try it with you."

He casually tucked his wallet into the hip pocket of her jeans. Then he took a couple of steps back and proceeded to stroll toward her. Just as he passed her, he reached out and lightly pinched the nipple of her left breast.

"Hey!" she yelped, "what was that? You have no right to . . ." She stopped abruptly when he held up the wallet, a big grin on his face.

"The key to being a pickpocket - like the key to all cons - is diversion. Get your mark looking in the wrong direction and you're much more likely to be able to do what you want."

She rubbed her breast and stared at him, not sure whether to be angry or impressed. Finally, she nodded. "Alright, you made your point, even if you did get to cop a feel."

"Sorry about that," he apologized. "Hope I didn't hurt you."

"You really pinched me hard," she complained. "I think I may have a bruise." With that she nonchalantly pulled her scoop-neck t-shirt down to expose her bra cup. Then she pulled the cup down too as he stared in surprise. "Do you see anything? She asked. "No?" She covered herself again, "I guess it's ok." Then she held up his wallet in her other hand and stuck her tongue out at him.

All he could do was nod in appreciation. "I think you've successfully grasped the concept of diversion," he said dryly. "Now, let's try it again, and I'll show you some techniques for the dip and the extraction."

They spent another hour and then he called a halt. "That's enough for now, but we're going to be practicing this several times a day. If our little sting goes down the way I see it, you're going to need to be a real pro."

He brought her back to the conference table and they reviewed the folders he'd collected on Stephen and Cassandra. "When we meet this pair, we need to act like they're strangers. But we'll need to know as much as possible about the way they're likely to think, their preferences - where we know them - and how they're likely to act in certain situations. That means we'll be going over this material repeatedly as well."

"But what exactly are we going to do?"

"We'll get to all that soon enough. For now, let's focus on preparation and technique."

She wasn't satisfied with that, but he was adamant and she finally decided to drop the subject for the time being. If it turns out to be something I can't stomach, I can always back out.

Over the next two days they repeated this routine, practicing pickpocketing and quizzing each other on their targets. Marcus also added a review of surveillance techniques and the use of surreptitious communications techniques. She was particularly impressed by a Bluetooth earpiece he showed her that was smaller than a hearing aid. "I can whisper sweet nothings in your ear and no one will ever know," he joked. Circe rolled her eyes.

The next day he introduced a course in spy craft: messages, signs, dead drops, code phrases and more. "You and I will both have burner cells we can use, and most of the time those should be sufficient. But there may be times when one or the other of us can't make a call, and we'll need a way to let the other know without provoking suspicion. Likewise, we may need to meet or exchange materials, and we'll need signals, locations and so on."