by Alex Ames
“That’s right. As we speak, some colleagues of mine are searching the premises of your shop and your own home in order to find other suspicious goods.”
“I can assure you, they will not find a thing except some hot lingerie, some expensive Armani clothes, and jewels of my own making—which are fully accounted for, same as the raw materials I have in my store.”
“This is all irrelevant to the thing I have to say to you. I am conducting an investigation, you are my main suspect, and things are looking good from my point of view and bad from your side.”
I glanced around the cell and muttered, “You may be right about that.”
“What Mr. Wynn had to say convinced me at least so far that I am willing to give him a chance to talk to you. It is all highly unusual, but he has managed to plant a seed of doubt in my head that you are not the thief I am looking for,” Graves said as earnestly as a cop possibly could.
“You expect me to believe you?” I asked him back.
“No, not really. If you were a thief, you wouldn’t anyway; if you were an honest person, you wouldn’t due to the strange circumstances you are in. But please, listen to me. You could improve you situation immensely if you took the time to talk to Fowler Wynn right now, before your court hearing.”
I thought about Graves’ words for a minute. Fowler Wynn had tried to entrap me several times in the past and had failed. From his perspective, talking to me would gain him nothing, especially when he had me in the position he had always longed for. My curiosity was kindled.
I looked up at Lieutenant Graves and said, “All right, bring him in. I want to hear what he has to say. Just stay close by, in case we get violent.”
“I will make sure that he keeps his distance from you … and keeps his temper,” Graves said, a heavy burden lifted from his conscience.
I shouted after him, “It was his well-being I had in mind, you know.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Deal With The Devil
Years of legal and criminal sparring with Fowler Wynn had distilled a cold, simmering hatred in me. If there was one person I imagined kicking in the nuts or running over with my car, it would be him. He was on my never-get-a-Christmas-card-ever list, and I read the New York Times obituaries only in the hope of finding his name printed there. I rightfully assumed that his feelings toward me ran the same way. Perfect enemies.
These facts established, we behaved reasonably well when he entered my cell with hesitant steps. He was dressed in an immaculate pinstriped suit that had cost as much as Lieutenant Graves’ yearly income and presented the role model of an Englishman in America—a long boned, distinguished man with full gray hair and a small, well-groomed mustache. His hands were impeccably manicured, and the only item that was missing was a black umbrella. Maybe he had left it at home in London for his trip to California. Fowler was the best insurance detective that had ever roamed the planet and was invaluable for his employer, Limes & Limes Underwriters. Fowler had retrieved Van Gogh’s stolen Dutch Market Scene, cracked the large Japanese collector insurance fraud circle in 1995, and was called into every theft with insurance sums larger than ten million dollars. One had to set priorities. And, of course, there was his quest to hunt me down.
“Well, well, well, if that isn’t the right home for my favorite villain.” He couldn’t resist gloating when he entered the cell and looked around.
“Do you have anything to tell me, or do you want me to ruin the career of your detective friend?” I asked in a bored voice from my bunk.
He gave me a glance, checked the cleanliness of the floor and the opposite bed, and sat down, suppressing a smile.
“Fowler, don’t even start,” I said. “I am in deep trouble, and both of us know it.”
“Calendar, my favorite master criminal, nightmare of the insurance industry, you are exactly right.”
Thus spoken, we both contemplated our wins and losses.
“Unfortunately, I cannot offer you tea and cookies in my new domain, and I have to get dressed for my court appearance.” I patted the wrapped package beside me.
“I will hurry up then,” Fowler switched to his business voice. “As you rightfully mentioned, you need help. And help is what I can offer.”
“Why should you offer help to your favorite suspect?”
“Simply because you never would have been caught the way you went down last night,” Fowler said. “In all of the previous occasions, I had mere suspicions and very weak evidence that didn’t hold up in court or in the investigation. You were very clever in cleaning up before and behind you, including solid alibis.” He held up his hand to stop my protest reflex. “Protest is duly noted, but we are off the record anyway. Most of the times I suspected you because of your style.”
“You keep a book or what?” I asked him, out of professional curiosity.
“Let’s say modern database technology helps a lot in the identification of certain criminal patterns. But I won’t reveal more because an intelligent criminal, as you are, would try to vary her style.” He gave a playful apologetic smile and continued, “Though the theft of the Collins’ diamonds falls right into your pattern, there are some remarkable variations. Significant variations.”
“Do you lecture at university?” I mocked his stilted language.
“Sometimes at Quantico and Scotland Yard, sure,” Fowler answered as if he hadn’t heard the irony. “One: you were one of the guests at the party at the time of the robbery. You never were before because any amateur criminal knows that the police collect lists of former guests and checks for repeats.”
“I already like you a little more. Go on,” I said.
“Second,” Fowler continued, “you were in possession of a stolen piece. You surely would not be if you personally had stolen it. You are too smart to carry.”
“I admire your database already even though nothing you’ve said applies to me.”
“And third, which for me personally is the most convincing one: why would you even bother with Pretty McAllister’s necklace for a second? Any motivated thief would go after Swan Collins’ Metro Imperial diamond directly! And take the Acura along as a souvenir.”
I felt almost amused at him. “You should tell that to the judge,” I said.
He shook his head. “Won’t work. They only know me by reputation, and the evidence points at you. Plus, the police are very happy to have you in custody. Case closed. And intelligence doesn’t count as every criminal makes a pretty stupid mistake now and then that sends him—”
“—or her,” I had to add for completeness.
“…into jail.” Fowler spread his hands. “Therefore, all I can do for you is to put in a good word with the judge and the DA and hope for the best.”
“Is that your version of fake British fair-play? Why would you go out of your way to help me?”
“I must admit, as much as I like to see you behind bars, it should end in a fair fight and not like this.” Fowler had that gloating look again but got himself under control when he saw my dangerously glittering eyes from the next bed.
“Fair fight, my ass! And what do I have to do in order to show my gratitude to you?”
“That is very simple: catch the real thief for me.”
“Magic word!” I said.
“Please?” Fowler asked timidly. Polite until the end.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thirty Days
An hour later, I had brushed hair, fresh clothes, and a demurred appearance in front of the judge. The first thing that struck me as curious and out of order was the fact that only Terrence, Detective Graves, and a guy I assumed to be the assistant DA were present in the courtroom. No spectators, no press. I sat down beside Terrence; the warden removed my shackles and handcuffs and sat down behind me.
Terrence whispered to me, “There has been some kind of last-minute development. The district attorney has managed to make it a closed hearing. Very strange.” He gave me a look over his half-moon glasses. “You know anything?”
I
shook my head. I didn’t even need to fake it because, for the first time in my life, I was in front of a criminal court. Terrence’s bullshit sensors were still blinking brightly, but being an old professional, he just shrugged and sorted his papers.
“Everybody, rise for the honorable Judge Lawrence,” the Deputy shouted in his courtroom voice reserved for packed and loud rooms. Astonished by the echo fading in the empty room, he mumbled, “Sorry.”
Judge Lawrence strode out of his chamber, a large black man in black robes and white hair who looked like a former football pro. He sat down, we sat down, and the judge fussed a minute with the sheets of papers in front of him. He finally put them aside and looked at us with interest, this case clearly out of the ordinary. “As we are among ourselves,” he began with a deep, guttural actor’s voice that could enlighten any “save the children” spot on TV, “I would suggest that we skip the formalities, as both parties presented paperwork of impeccable quality. Before we come to all the motions, I would like to clear up some very confusing things.”
Despite the informality, the court stenographer ticked away on his little machine.
Judge Lawrence looked at me. “Mrs. Calendar Moonstone, you are aware of the charges brought against you?”
I nodded and, after a slight rib nudge from Terrence, said, “Yes, your honor.”
“And despite this stack of heavy evidence against you, you plead ‘not guilty.’” He patted the stack of papers beside him.
“That is right, your honor. Not guilty.” What else could I say?
He then looked at the assistant district attorney. “Mr. Palmeri, now to your motion to close out the public, a motion that usually comes from the defense. Enlighten me, please.”
Ned Palmeri, middle thirties and slicked back straight black hair, was getting up but sat back as Judge Lawrence waved the formalities aside. “Yes, your honor. You have read the facts. The defendant was found in possession of one of the stolen pieces on the premises of the crime….” Palmeri did a quick shortcut when he saw Judge Lawrence’s circling index finger. “However, we have the statement from a renowned insurance detective, Mr. Fowler Wynn, who has real doubts about the involvement of the defendant.”
Judge Lawrence glanced at the paperwork. “And Mr. Wynn is present?”
“He is waiting outside. We can call him up if needed.”
“He is needed,” ordered the judge.
The deputy walked out and came back with Fowler at his side. Fowler was motioned toward a chair between our two tables and looked seriously at the judge.
“Mr. Wynn, your resume is impressive,” the judge said, looking over one of the folders on his desk. “Maybe you can answer some questions for me.”
“Your honor,” Fowler simply said, completely at ease. He probably ate court appearances for lunch dessert.
“When I read your statement, I learned that you suspect the defendant of about two kazillion jewelry thefts, cat burglar style, over the last six decades. Is that so?”
The judge’s sarcasm was lost on Fowler. “That is right, your honor. To be exact: twenty-four cases within six years. I have reason to believe—” Fowler started, but the judge interrupted him because Fowler had given himself away by falling into his fanatical searcher-for-the-truth voice that always crept over him whenever Calendar Moonstone was the subject.
“And in this instance, where the evidence looks pretty clear cut, you don’t think she is involved?” Judge Lawrence inquired.
Fowler looked slightly deflated but nodded. “No, your honor. The defendant is among the most clever criminals I have ever encountered. I know her style of work inside out, and this theft is not her work … as much as I would like to see her behind bars.”
Judge Lawrence gave Fowler a very long look. “Lieutenant Graves, what is your take on this strange development? It is your case, too.”
Graves, too, started to get up automatically and was waved down again. “Your honor probably knows that we have been working on a series of jewelry thefts for the last nine months now. The thief or thieves have hit about a dozen mansions in the LA area; some of the victims are high-profile celebrities, just like Mrs. Collins and Mrs. McAllister.”
It was the first time I had heard anything about this, a burglar stealing expensive jewelry from the rich and famous of Hollywood—which, in retrospect, explained Fowler Wynn’s presence in LA. He helped the police and now had found a nice way of delegating the dirty work. To me.
“As much as I would like to close this case for good,” he gave me a look, “I must admit that the style of Monday’s crime is very different from the other crimes.”
“So, in your detective opinion, did she do it or not, Lieutenant?” the judge asked and shook his head at Terrence’s attempt to object.
Graves exchanged looks with Palmeri, who in turn looked at Fowler, who did nothing because he still felt duped by the judge.
“Lieutenant, we are waiting. Did she or didn’t she?”
“We found no additional evidence of Mrs. Moonstone’s involvement at her home or in her jewelry shop,” Graves said, “but I can’t just ignore the fact that she had Mrs. McAllister’s necklace in her possession and tried to hide the fact from us. If not for some observant party guest, she would have gotten away with it.”
“Please answer my question, detective.” The judge’s impatience was clear.
Palmeri answered for his detective. “The reason we asked for a closed hearing is that we don’t want the investigation to blow up on us. We kept the media successfully out so far, and we think we made good progress. By indicting Mrs. Moonstone of the crime, we would need to go public—and we don’t want that right now, not until we are sure that there is someone else behind the earlier thefts.”
Judge Lawrence glanced at our small assembly with a tired look. “Basically, you want the cake but don’t want to break the egg. Am I getting this right?”
Palmeri looked at the judge with a sheepish smile. “Your honor, I hoped that we could find a solution to my dilemma. If you decide that we cannot leave an unresolved dagger hanging over Mrs. Moonstone, I am willing to go forward and charge her for Monday’s theft with the risk of compromising my other investigation. On the other hand, if you should give us some time in the investigation of the whole series of thefts and enable us to hold back Mrs. Moonstone’s indictment, I would leave this courtroom much happier.”
Judge Lawrence looked at Palmeri for a second as if he planned to have him for dinner that night. He looked at Terrence and me. “What does the defendant have to say about that matter?”
Terrence held up one hand. “Could I have a minute with my client, your honor?”
“A minute you get, Mr. Peters.”
Terrence turned to me. “I don’t know what to make of this,” he whispered.
“I have no clue what all of this means. Is it always that … unstructured?” I asked, feeling totally lost at the exchange.
“Did you know about the other series of thefts?”
I shook my head. “Not a word. And to answer your next question beforehand: I didn’t had anything to do with them, either.”
Terrence gave me the look and sighed. “This is totally out of order. If you want my opinion, we should ask for a speedy trial toward a clear and defined indictment. The evidence is pretty weak, and because of the other thefts, there is a strong element doubt involved.”
“But in that case, it would be a public affair. Everyone would know that Mrs. Moonstone from Redondo is an alleged thief, and because of the prominent victims, I would be tabloid fodder for weeks.”
“That is right, but I don’t see the alternative,” sighed Terrence, glancing over to Judge Lawrence, who was beginning to grow restless behind his desk. “If Palmeri gets more time, he could build an even better case against you and maybe, with the help of that British gentleman, even find some more good solid evidence pointing to you. Hell, you don’t even know if you have alibis for the other break-ins.”
“Mr.
Peters?” Judge Lawrence ended our powwow.
Terrence got up. “As we stand by our ‘not guilty’ plea, we ask the judge for a dismissal of the People’s case. As Mr. Palmeri has concluded quite rightfully, it is very likely that another serial thief has conducted the other crimes and simply had slipped the McAllister necklace into the purse of my client in order to confuse the authorities. Sounds to me like the most likely explanation.” Terrence sat down.
“Mr. Palmeri?”
“Out of the question, your honor. We cannot drop the charges. The expert says that Mrs. Moonstone is suspected in several more cases of jewelry theft outside our jurisdiction. We found the necklace in her possession. She tried to get away unnoticed. No way will I let her go without a trial. I will burn my other investigation for an indictment of Mrs. Moonshine.”
Judge Lawrence growled at both parties for a minute, mumbling to himself. Then he played with his gavel.
“Sometimes there are cases that remind me of a scene from the Bible where a fair and honest judge has to find an elegant, humane, Solomonic judgment for a complex situation of just and unjust. But, as you may know, I am not such a judge. I believe in proceedings and rulings and the process of trial that our forefathers established in our country. That’s why I have no inclination to help anyone out of the mess you got yourselves into.”
Palmeri and Terrence stared at the judge. Fowler, Graves, and I had no idea what he was talking about, but we stared nonetheless.
“Mrs. Moonstone, you are accused of a serious crime; I have to support Mr. Palmeri there. Motion to dismiss is denied, Mr. Peters.” Terrence started to rise to object or to do whatever lawyers do but again was waved down by a stern look on Judge Lawrence’s face. “Listen, everyone, here come my wise two cents: in about four weeks, we will reassemble in my chamber.” He glanced at his docket calendar. “Make that thirty days. Then I will make my final ruling. This enables you to find out more and position your case better, Mr. Palmeri. The case records will be sealed for now. We will keep this session and our little deal to ourselves, so Mrs. Moonstone’s privacy will not be affected by the pending investigation. However,” Lawrence turned to me and Terrence. “it will not come for free: bail will be set at one-hundred-thousand dollars.”