Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H57XMT6BXTHSJC3NBZF62K

The van sat in the shadows of the Maplewood Recreation Center parking lot, engine idling, while Molly studied the floor plan one more time. She had it laminated. She always laminated. "Okay, so the party runs from two to five," she said, tapping the map. "Sixty kids, sixty presents, one bounce house." Bill frowned at the clipboard in his lap. "I still don't understand why we're doing this one, Mol. It's a kid's party. Kids. We steal from casinos. Museums, occasionally. Rich jerks who insured their yachts." "Two hundred presents, Bill. The parents went overboard. Little Timothy's turning seven and his dad bought out an entire toy store to show off to the neighborhood. There's a mountain of gifts in the back room shaped like a dinosaur." "A dinosaur." "A life-sized cardboard T-rex full of Xboxes." Bill was quiet for a moment. She could tell he was doing the math. He did the math out loud, because he always did the math out loud. "Xbox Series X, current market value, say four hundred each. If there's even a dozen in there..." "Twenty-three. I counted the wish list." "You counted the—how did you get a wish list?" Molly smiled in a way that had made three security guards quit their jobs. "I RSVP'd as Aunt Debbie. Aunt Debbie brings two jello molds and asks a lot of questions." Bill rubbed his face with both hands. "This is a new low, and I once stole a dog show trophy." "Which we still have, by the way, on the mantle." "Because it's a beautiful trophy, Mol, that's not the point." She killed the engine and turned to face him, and her voice dropped into the register she used when a plan was already two steps ahead of his objections. "Here's the beauty of it. Nobody notices anything at a kid's birthday party. There's screaming, there's cake, there's a clown named Bubbles making balloon animals. We walk in with Aunt Debbie's jello molds, we walk out with the dinosaur." "What do we do with sixty presents? We can't exactly fence a hundred copies of the same Frozen doll." "We donate them. To shelters, hospitals, whatever. We keep the electronics." Bill stared at her. "We're becoming crime Robin Hoods." "We're becoming crime reasonable people, Bill. The economy of stolen goods has changed. You gotta diversify." He sighed the sigh of a man who had been talked into exactly this kind of thing for eleven years. "Fine. Fine. But if Bubbles the clown recognizes me from Tampa—" "Why would Bubbles from Tampa recognize you?" "Because Bubbles was a business associate, Mol, and I left that partnership under circumstances I described as 'fiery.'" Molly paused, jello molds in hand, and looked at her partner of eleven years. There were so many follow-up questions. She chose none of them. Professionalism. "New rule," she said, opening the van door. "You wear the fake mustache." "The mustache itches." "The mustache, Bill." He grabbed it from the dashboard, grumbling, and together they walked toward the party, two adults carrying jello molds with murder in their hearts and a cardboard dinosaur in their future.