by Alex Ames
Rip had also turned white and said, “I don’t even want to know you, suddenly.” His eyes darted back and forth between the necklace, my face, and the policemen that were calling up people for the search, now only five tables away.
My thoughts were racing. If they found me with the stolen necklace in my possession, I was done. No excuse in the world would help me out of this, not even the truthful, “I didn’t do it! I don’t know how it’s in my bag!” Not if they took a closer look at some of the stuff that was circulating about me.
A look into Rip’s eyes told me that he was undecided what to do with me. One word from him would bring over the police right away. So, my first priority lay on making him an accessory.
Rip seemed to have the same thought. “Would you have sex with me if I keep my mouth shut?” he suddenly asked.
His wincing face told me that my kick had connected correctly under the table. “Depends on how dirty you talk,” I answered. Lie first; deny later. Maybe I could find a way to weasel myself out of the commitment later.
I carefully quick-searched my small purse—and developed a plan. A quick look up gave me four more tables before the cops would reach us. Our other table companions were deep in their own conversations.
“Would you mind moving a little bit closer to me with your chair? As if you want to lean on the table for a while. A little bit more, thank you.” Rip now effectively blocked the view for most of my left, and the table and my back covered the rest. I pried open the miniature-Leatherman tool I always had in my purse in case of jewelry mechanics emergencies, stubborn car electrics, or alarm equipment that needed disabling. A quick visual inspection under the table told me the type of chains on Pretty McAllister’s Van Winkel star necklace and the measures. Tricky, but it could be done. Four tables’ time.
“Try to look innocent, please, and do not look into my lap for a few minutes. Make mock conversation.”
Rip looked dutifully in the other direction and left me alone. “You are a woman of rare resources, Calendar Moonstone,” he said.
I made three strategic cuts on the necklace, probably ruining it for good, if I got out of this alive. “If you are attempting to distract or confuse me, forget it. This woman’s mouth and hands operate independently.”
Rip threw me a sideways glance with an amused smile. “That sounds like a very dirty promise to me.”
Another cut, and I had two short Van Winkels. I took one half and started to pry at the rough side to improvise a lock.
Done!
“What about tomorrow?” Rip asked, calling in his debt.
“Only if you promise dinner and a movie before any action,” I mocked.
“That can be arranged. There is this new romantic comedy with Pretty McAllister and Duncan Johnson.”
“Isn’t that ironic?” I finished what was effectively an ankle charm from one necklace half that was almost unrecognizable from the original piece. I lifted my left foot as if to scratch it and fastened it around my leg. Giving it a slight shake, I decided it didn’t look too bad. My work wouldn’t survive an Irish folk dance, but it should hold for a walk to the police tent and my car. And it didn’t look out of place.
Now for the other half! Another cut along the length of the necklace sent a few diamonds falling into my lap. A quick look around told me I had two tables left, but one of the DEA guys was making a general round and came marching toward the direction of our table. I had to stop for a second, covering my work in progress with my purse. Unfortunately, there were still the telltale sparkling loose diamonds in the folds of my black evening dress. Rip shot me an amused glance and gallantly put his hand into my lap—which gave me flushed cheeks and red ears! But what could I do?
“Going criminal with you is fun, actually,” Rip said. “Should I start to wiggle a finger?”
“If you plan to do your next casting audition with a finger-cast, why not?” I shot back, staring into his face.
The DEA agent passed within two feet of us, making his way between the narrow tables toward the other side of the tent. The coast was clear again. I continued to work under the table, and Rip took his hand away, sighing.
“Maybe we could make a competition out of this, like Battle of the Chefs on TV. Jewelry Jest – ‘the fast and the precious’. By the way, they started picking up the guys from the table next to us.” Rip made conversation, his voice not bearing any stress. Strange guy, to be investigated later.
“Rip Delaware, is there something you forgot to tell me?” I asked him. I improvised lock number two, but the first attempt wouldn’t hold. Breathe in, breathe out. Once more! Steady hands now. Once more!
The last couple at the table next to us stood up and marched over to the police tent, a DEA agent escorting them.
“Can’t imagine what you mean. Maybe I am so desperate to get you into bed that I am willing to risk my brilliant, stalled career,” Rip answered, an amused smile around his lips. “You got about twenty seconds left, darling.”
Done!
I had turned the second half of the former necklace into an improvised diamond bracelet that I could wrap around my left wrist twice. Fortunately, I hadn’t worn any jewels myself, so it didn’t look too bad. If Pretty McAllister had a look at me, I doubted she would recognize her missing precious. I managed to lock the piece, folded the tool one handedly under the table, spoke a quick prayer, and snapped my purse shut.
“The stones?” Rip’s voice actually had a little stressed undertone in it now. He thumbed toward my lap where the leftovers were still sparkling in the artificial light. Two DEA agents were moving toward our table; we would be first for a search.
I made motions as if to get up and get it over with, swiped aside imaginary breadcrumbs, swooped up the six small diamonds from my dress, hid them in the palm of my right hand, stretched, feigned a yawn—and swallowed them.
“Jesus, you are a piece of lady!” Rip muttered.
We got up simultaneously as if we belonged together, nodded at our table companions, who had neither noticed nothing I’d done nor the sudden ankle charm and bracelet around my left leg and wrist. The DEA agents didn’t notice either, and we walked to the side exit of the tent. We gave our names, showed our driver’s licenses, and had our earlobes punctured for blood. Then we entered a compartmentalized area of hospital-type curtains that made up a little questioning room. We got the boss-treatment. Lieutenant Lucas Graves was standing in one corner, and behind a little foldable desk another detective typed away on a laptop. Lucas Graves introduced himself briefly and shook our hands with a sympathetic smile; this was the raid of the century, and he had to be polite and courteous toward his rich and famous suspects.
“This will only take a minute and not hurt a bit,” he smiled wanly. A certain tiredness already showed through after about a hundred interviews with the same joking introduction. “We’ll ask you a few questions, and then you will be searched in the next compartment.” He indicated the exit on the other side. “Ladies to the left, gents to the right.”
“Everyone just one cross,” I muttered.
Rip had to hiccup to stifle a laugh, and Graves either did not notice or was simply tired of actors and movie people. He looked at his assistant, who had stopped typing a second ago, and gave a nod. Graves asked, “And your name, madam?”
“Calendar Moonstone, Redondo Beach. Guest of Mrs. Nicole Berg.” I gave them my address and rummaged through my purse to present my driver’s license. Fortunately, Graves forgot to ask for my profession. He gave me a quick look-over, purely professional, and his glance stopped for a merest moment pm the jewels around my limbs and around my neck. He had seen jewelry around each and every female body so far; I was not an exception. My stuff didn’t match the description, so his eyes moved to Rip.
“And you, sir?”
“Rip Delaware, Santa Monica. I am with actress Jeanette Anthony.” He took his driver’s license from his wallet and handed it over to the assistant, who copied the data into his laptop.
Graves looked at us. “Did you two notice any activities related to the consumption of illegal substances?”
Did he made up those questions or did his lawyer?
We dutifully shook our heads and answered, “No.”
“Were you asked to participate? Were you offered any drugs? Did you overhear any party guests or caterers talking about drug use?” Graves did his best not to sound bored, but he definitely was.
We answered each question the same way—no, no, no!
“Have you been around Mrs. Pretty McAllister, the lady with the missing necklace tonight?”
“What do you mean by ‘around,’ sir?” I asked to bring a little more pepper into the Q and A.
“Did you join a conversation with her? Or like, did you have a place close to her at dinner time?” Graves gave me a fatherly smile.
Stick with the truth, Calendar girl.
“I shook her hand when my friend Nicole Berg introduced us, and we exchanged pleasantries. That’s about it. I ran across her several times after dinner at the party, but we didn’t talk after that one time.” The assistant dutifully clicked away on his computer, and Graves nodded toward Rip.
“I saw her several times, too—you couldn’t avoid it at this party—but I didn’t come into contact with her. No one introduced us, didn’t dare to test any pick-up lines on her, sorry.”
“Did you notice her necklace at any time at the party?”
“Like, when she had it around her neck, and when she didn’t?” Graves nodded, and I thought for a minute. “No, sorry, I cannot remember. She wore her necklace at the ceremony and when we were introduced, but I didn’t particularly notice during the party. Can’t help you there.”
“Any what about you, sir?” Graves asked Rip.
Rip gave him his brilliant actor smile. “Sorry, with beautiful girls, I tend to look at other features than her jewels, if you know what I mean.”
Graves gave a hint of understanding by smiling wanly again. “Anything you can say that appeared suspicious to you? Things out of order, strange conversations, odd people or behaviors?”
We both shook our heads. Who were we to give away our little secret?
“All right, thank you for your time….” He had to glance at our driver’s licenses to remember our names. Atta boy. “Mrs. Moonstone, Mr. Delaware. If you step along there, a colleague will perform a quick body search and check your belongings. Thank you for your time and your understanding. Have a good night.” He shook our hands, and we started to make our way toward the left and right exits of the compartment. Graves had already turned toward the entry to bring in the next guests when Rip suddenly cleared his throat and stopped in his tracks.
Lieutenant Graves asked, “Is there anything else, Mr. Delaware?”
“Eh, yes, sir, there is.” Rip looked clearly uncomfortable, and I had a very bad feeling about this, life, and the universe. “It is, l-like….” he stuttered like a schoolboy. My initial thought was it was an act, but of course, he was an actor after all. Rip took a deep breath, avoiding my pleading small girl looks. “If you are searching Mrs. Moonstone here, you will probably find nothing suspicious.”
Graves suddenly looked a lot less like the friendly weathered policeman but like an aged terrier dog, ready to shred the trouser leg of the postman to pieces. He looked at Rip, then at me, once more running a comparison of the stolen necklace and the items around my neck, arm, and ankle, still getting a negative.
“Can you specify exactly what you mean, sir?”
“I, I…,” Rip stammered in his schoolboy fashion, and I really thought he overplayed it, once more, “…she offered me sex so that I would not say anything.”
“Sir, for not saying what?” Graves came closer, the typing of the assistant had stopped, and I could hear shuffling feet from the entry to the compartment. Graves eyed me like a snake.
“She had the stolen necklace in her purse when the raid came down, and she reworked it into the bracelet and the ankle charm with a tiny tool you will find in her purse.”
Everything stopped. Everything! Rip’s last words were echoing in my head, blood pounding in my ear. The floor wobbled back and forth before my eyes, and I felt tears coming up as a typical woman defense. If in jeopardy, cry! I had to steady myself and grabbed Rip’s arm. Graves helped me, too, and they sat me down on the assistant’s chair.
“Madam, is that true?”
I didn’t say anything, couldn’t press out a word from my dry throat. Graves took my left hand and studied the double-winded bracelet closer. He turned my arm, inspected the lock, and discovered the signs of improvisation.
“Madam, is it true what Mr. Delaware just told us?”
Tears were streaming down my face. I felt hot and cold all over, my party dress soaked in sweat and fear.
“Is it true?” Graves asked again, his voice hard as a steel rod.
I opened my eyes for a second and saw his grim face just inches from mine. I could even smell the remains of his aftershave. In the background was Rip with a sorry and sheepish look on his face, arms crossed, watching me but not meeting my eyes. Suddenly three other policemen were standing in the entry, staring at me, too.
“Lawyer!” was all I could croak.
CHAPTER NINE
Bait Baited
Suddenly the cops guarding the estate got moving. One of the front guards stepped into the car that blocked the exit and drove it out of the way as one of the unmarked DEA raiding squad SUVs came down the driveway of the estate and drove out without stopping. The cameras followed the SUV briefly, but then the reporters continued to interview the celebrities still leaving the party after the search.
“Can you follow that car, please?” Fowler commanded with a soft voice. “Without being noticed, at that.”
Peter was startled for a second but revved up the car and pulled out of the parking lot, making a quick U-turn. “Any idea where they are going?” he asked.
“Either the local police station or downtown police HQ,” Fowler said with conviction.
“Well, either way, we will find out in a few seconds…,” Peter said, keeping his distance. “Left, that makes it the local station.”
“Still, stay at a distance but keep them in sight. They don’t expect to be followed, but we’ll play it safe.”
“Is it illegal to follow a police car?” Peter mused.
“Who is the American?” Fowler asked.
“I am an insurance specialist, not a lawyer! Would the policemen mind if they noticed us?” Peter said.
“It’s not the policemen that I am worried about. It is the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl in the car between the two officers in the back.”
“And how do you know that?”
Fowler shrugged. “Hunch.”
“Hunch, my ass,” Peter muttered.
“Not on your life,” Fowler muttered back in a dry attempt at British humor.
CHAPTER TEN
Behind Bars
The door of the holding cell fell into its lock with a dull sound that spelled “game over.” It was six in the morning, and I had some hours of questioning, transfers, and booking procedures behind me. My fingers still showed stains of fingerprint ink, and my face had to be a mixture of tear-stained mascara and smeared ink, not to mention my one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar hairdo. And my shattered ego.
“Don’t say anything. Don’t deny,” had been one of Uncle Mortimer’s wise teachings when he had shown me the ropes of jewelry theft. “Until you go before the court, anything can happen. Get yourself a good lawyer, stay mum, don’t give in, and don’t volunteer.” I had been sitting in his workshop beside him as we were crafting wonderful diamond engagement rings made from stolen gems we had looted the night before.
Maybe I was romanticizing my apprenticeship with him, but the words had come back to me like a voiceover in a badly scripted movie as Graves
and other policemen had questioned me. They had asked me for my profession, the evening show, the party, my companions, my relation to Mrs. Nicole Berg, Swan Collins, Rip Delaware, Pretty McAllister, and about one thousand other people who I had or had not heard of but had never met. I gave them no responses, asked for more coffee. They had to stop after about an hour of questioning because my lawyer Terrence Peters arrived and ordered some time with his client in his typical calm voice.
He waited until the last policeman had filed out and made sure that the recording equipment on the interrogation table had been switched off and the curtain over the mirror was drawn. Then he tapped his pencil on his notepad and looked at me with tired eyes. It had been three in the morning, and he had taken the care to dress in a gray suit and a blue college tie. Terrence and I both volunteered for the same charity, and I had used him for all my occasional legal troubles. He was very patient with “his exotic client,” as he affectionately called me. If necessary, he fought like a tiger for his clients’ rights. His dark hair with gray streaks gave him a distinguished look, and he could pass as a Richard Gere stand-in. He looked at me with interest and pity.
“Do you need anything? Coffee, smoke, hygiene?” he asked, and I shook my head. Terrence gave me a fatherly look. “You sure run in prominent circles. Swan Collins’ after-show party! You are my first client who made it into that crowd.”
I sniffed. “And probably the first one who got arrested there, too.”
“How long have we known each other? Three years, four?” Terrence asked, and I nodded. “And I was busy writing briefs and defending you from these wild accusations of jewelry theft from that joker from England…. What was his name again?”
“Wynn. Fowler Wynn,” I answered.
“Correct, Fowler Wynn. Insurance detective Fowler Wynn, who by chance has picked you for half the jewelry thefts in America and the French Rivera.”
“Which I had nothing to do with.” I sniffed stubbornly like a schoolgirl. “Nothing proven, no evidence, no witnesses, just that sucker’s suspicions and conspiracy theories.”