Once a Thief (Gentleman Jack Burdette Book 3)

by Dale M. Nelson

  Reginald didn’t look worse for wear given his stint in prison. He’d explained it was some kind of “minimum security” prison that was basically a shitty resort in the desert with barbed wire and ping-pong tables. It was a place for white-collar criminals, not hardened ones. Reginald explained this several times, but Vito simply couldn’t grasp the concept. It was too alien for his mind to accept. Italian prisons were hellholes.

  Reginald was taller than Vito, but below six feet. His once wavy blond hair was now almost entirely gray. When Vito last saw him, Reginald had a horseshoe mustache and a mullet. But now, he’d grown his hair out and wore it slightly slicked back, giving him the appearance of being a surfer past his prime. Reginald had grown the mustache into a full beard, which hid the sporadic liver spots on his face and neck. His mouth twitched slightly, like he was working something out of his teeth or maybe was about to speak but then thought better of it. Reginald was dressed well enough, for an American. He had black pants, a blue shirt with alternating dark blue and brown stripes, and a tan jacket with a white pocket square. Reginald had on a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers. There was a man with a briefcase standing next to him. He was dressed in a business suit.

  Reginald closed the distance between them, and they shook hands. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” he said quietly. Reginald introduced the man he was with as their customs broker. He was the one who would get the diamonds moved through the process, which the man promised should only take thirty minutes or so. Reginald explained that he’d been allowed through customs and security because he was with the broker. Vito then introduced Tommaso and Lucio, using the names that Reginald had on the passports. Vito and Reginald agreed that for their aliases, they’d only change their last names, because that would be easier to jump in and out of character, prevent slipups. Reginald was “Reginald Burton” and Vito was “Vito De Angeles.”

  Vito and his two security guards met with a US Customs and Border Protection agent who was very polite, looked at their passports for a scant moment, stamped them, and handed them back. “Gentlemen, welcome to the United States.” Reginald and the customs broker met them when they were finished with immigration and led them to a private lounge, where another customs official met with them. Vito and Reginald made small talk, not particularly interested in the process of clearing their diamonds. Mostly, Vito wanted something to take his mind off the biting anxiety. He could not believe it was this simple. But it was. Reginald told him before they left that as long as you had the paperwork in order, which was what the broker was there for, it was stunningly simple. There wasn’t even an import duty, which Vito found amazing and shocking.

  The entire thing took thirty minutes, just like the man said. Tommaso and Lucio retrieved their weapons from the case, ready to reprise their roles as security guards. After that, they were escorted out to the terminal, where they found two men with dark blue uniforms bloused into tactical boots, sunglasses, and radios on their belts that were connected to earpieces. Both of them were armed.

  This is where it ends, Vito thought.

  “Mr. Burton, are you all set?” the one said. It was then Vito noticed the patch on his uniform said “WorldSecure” rather than some law enforcement agency. The logo was a grid-like rendering of a globe with a key in the center. Vito gave his old friend a quizzical look. Reginald indicated the black Pelican case to the WorldSecure guards, one of whom took possession of it, and the other said quietly into his radio that they had the package.

  Reginald led the group outside, where they were met by an armored car. The case was promptly loaded into the back by two more armed guards. Reginald turned to Vito. “WorldSecure is the world’s leading precious gem and metals storage and logistics firm,” he said, practically quoting company literature. “They help companies like us, as well as private collectors. Isn’t that right, Jim?”

  “That’s what we’re here for, sir,” the guard said.

  “They’ll store the product in their secure facility, which consequently is located in the Jewelry District, until our transactions are complete.” Reginald said something about arranging a tour of the facility, which he assured Vito was “very impressive” and thanked Jim for his time. There was another exchange of radio chatter, and the guards loaded up in the armored car and departed. Reginald had told Vito he had the storage worked out but hadn’t wanted to provide any details over the phone.

  And just like that, they smuggled eighty million dollars’ worth of diamonds into the United States.

  With the diamonds gone, they started walking to the parking lot.

  “When you said you had storage taken care of,” Vito said, “I sort of assumed you meant a safe-deposit box.”

  “Oh,” Reginald said matter-of-factly. “It is, it’s just in a much larger, more secure bank. Look, we wouldn’t have these if it wasn’t for that scam you pulled in Rome, but we don’t want someone to be able to do that to us. They’ll keep it until we make the sales.”

  “How much does that cost? It can’t be cheap.”

  “It’s not. None of this is. The plane was fifty thousand dollars, but I think you’ll agree that was worth it. If we’d tried this on a regular flight, those would be sitting in a CBP warehouse right now under impound. The storage facility is tens of thousands, but we’re not planning on doing that for long. I had some money.” Reginald paused at a black Range Rover. “We’ll square up later, don’t worry. This is us,” he said. “I’ll drive until your guys figure out the lay of the land.” They climbed in, and Reginald continued. “We have to look the part. No one is going to believe that we’re gem merchants if we roll in looking like car thieves. But we’ve got to make a sale fast. Even if it’s something small, because checks are going to start bouncing. I’ve been covering everything with a ghosted corporate card, but that’s only going to work for so long.”

  “What’s the plan, then?”

  Reginald paid the parking fee and pulled out of the lot.

  “I have some meetings set up. We just need one small sale, a couple mil, to hold us over until we can move the rest.”

  “And this logistics company, they handle the transport to and from?”

  “That’s right,” Reginald said. “And do it securely. They’ll move it in an armored car and under armed guard. It would take a SWAT team to steal those things.”

  The realization hit Vito that he’d just given up all control of the diamonds. He was trusting Reginald entirely now. If Reginald wanted to cut him out, he had complete possession. It was just a matter of three bullets.

  Well, almost all of the diamonds.

  Vito Verrazano learned a long time ago to never put too much faith in a single score. There was too much risk in this business not to have a backup plan. He had kept some for himself, probably five million worth, stashed in a box in a Swiss bank vault under a numbered account just over the border from his home. Call it a safety net.

  After all, trust only went so far in this business.

  7

  Los Angeles traffic was light for a weekday, though “light” in this town was a matter of perspective. Jack picked Enzo up at LAX. It was an awkward meeting. Enzo had lingering guilt over the botched attempt to break into Vito’s house, and there was still the matter of Jack’s ultimatum at the end of the call. Words he now regretted. Rusty’s challenge of “you can’t have it both ways” seemed to hang over his shoulder and follow Jack like a specter. Despite the tension and the awkwardness, it was good to see his friend. There’d been too little of that lately.

  They went to their hotel, the Ritz-Carlton downtown, to change. Jack dressed in a conservative navy suit from Brooks Brothers. It was the only off-the-rack suit he owned. Jack had purchased it in New York two years prior in order to appear before a federal judge and accept his plea deal, on the advice of Special Agent Danzig. She told him it wouldn’t be a great idea for him to show up dressed like a diamond thief with expensive taste.

  And for what Jack had planned for today, a five-thousa
nd-dollar Canali would send the wrong message. He needed understated, professional, and bureaucratic.

  Enzo, on the other hand, wore a Baltic-blue suit, silver shirt and silver tie, and brown slip-on shoes. Jack had told him, “Dress like Americans think Italians dress.”

  Enzo shrugged when Jack said this. “That is how we dress. Americans just lack style.” This coming from a guy who wore a leather car coat in nearly any temperature. Jack made him shave, which pissed Enzo off. In their nearly thirty years of friendship, it was the only time Jack remembered seeing Enzo clean shaven. They both knew that by lunchtime, Enzo would have a dirty shadow underneath his chin.

  Once they were dressed, Jack pulled his credentials out and slid them into the jacket pocket. Jack picked up a small ballistic nylon briefcase and asked Enzo if he was ready. Enzo had acquired his own credentials identifying him as an inspector with the Guardia di Finanza through contacts in Italy before he left. Both sets of credentials were surprisingly easy to get. Jack knew there were places on the dark web where one could get nearly any type of identification. In most cases, one could get a blank passport for about five thousand dollars. Credentials for a federal agent were somewhat harder to come by, but not impossible, and an agency with a lower profile than the FBI would be slightly easier.

  Rusty initially argued against this, reminding them all that the penalties for impersonating federal officers were steep. Right now, all they were doing was stealing from thieves. If they were caught trying to pass themselves off as law enforcement, the hammers falling would be swift and severe. Even getting Rusty to agree to return to America took another phone call. Jack had calmly reiterated his previous and hastily delivered ultimatum, which was that Rusty was either in or he wasn’t. Jack had this conversation without Enzo on the line. He respected his reasons for not returning to the US. The details were still vague after all of these years, and Rusty intended to keep it that way, but in a past life he’d been an FBI agent and counterintelligence officer. Apparently, he’d either chosen to or been directed to bend or break laws in order to roll up a Russian intelligence cell targeting American service members in Europe. The FBI fired him and ordered his arrest when the story broke. Rusty had been a fugitive ever since. Could he slip past an overworked, semi-interested Customs and Border Protection agent at an airport? Yes, but that wasn’t the part Rusty was worried about. Jack held firm, though: Either you’re here or you’re out. Rusty said he was willing to take that risk. Rusty said he’d be there. He needed to tie some things up in Switzerland and would be there in a couple of days.

  Jack reassured Rusty, though, that while he understood and appreciated the stakes, Jack wasn’t worried about getting caught. If the Federal Bureau of Investigation, with all of their resources, couldn’t catch him when they had their chance years before, Jack didn’t think some Los Angeles Police Department officer was going to get him today.

  Jack and Enzo got their car from the valet. They might only be going a few blocks, but Jack had been in this business too long to not have a car right by in case they needed it. It was hot, desert dry, and it wouldn’t do to show up with beads of sweat. No one would believe a federal agent walked. They got in their silver Chevy Malibu and drove the few blocks. Los Angeles’s Jewelry District was in the center of what they called the Historic Core of LA. Most of the buildings were erected in the early twentieth century and were, at the time, limited to how tall they could be. They bore no resemblance to the ultra-modern glass and neon of the rest of downtown. Jack turned north on Hill and, after a few blocks, slowed. There was little traffic, and it didn’t generate any attention from the few drivers behind him.

  “What is it?” Enzo asked.

  Jack pointed out the window to a building on the right as they rolled past.

  “That’s where it started,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “Everything. In 1995, that was an armored car depot.”

  “Oh.” Enzo nodded. He knew this story.

  It was Jack’s first job as a member of an inside crew. Before that, he’d just been a wheelman for Reginald. Jack, Reginald, and four others, one of whom was a safety inspector who was about to get fired by the company, robbed the armored car depot. The job went south almost as soon as it started, “Fucked from the word ‘go,’” Jack said at the time. One of them was shot and killed inside, another in the van. Reginald took one too. Case, the guy who planned the job, was arrested within days. Jack had made a crucial mistake. He was supposed to tie up one of the security guards, which he did, but not particularly well, and he didn’t check the guy for additional weapons after they removed his service pistol. Turned out he had a snub-nosed revolver in an ankle holster. Jack and Reginald survived and managed to get some gym bags of cash out the door with them, only to have one of their own, a thief named Clint Sturdevant, turn on them and try to take the rest.

  That ended badly.

  After that, Reginald told Jack he needed “seasoning” if he was going to work with him again. He also thought it would be a good idea for Jack to be out of the country for a while. Told him to go look up an old associate of his, a thief named Vito Verrazano. So, Jack did as he was told. Six months later, he was a member of the infamous School of Turin, and he and Enzo were pulling scores all over northern Italy.

  Jack cut across sixth to Olive, turned right, and parked their gray Chevy Malibu at a metered spot. They stepped out into a torturous Southern California afternoon. The buildings shielded them from the brunt of the Santa Ana winds, but hot zephyrs still curled about them occasionally, like random ghosts. Jack didn’t wear his signature Persol Steve McQueen sunglasses, opting instead for a pair of bronzed Randolph aviators that he thought looked more “government.”

  They had four meetings that day, all in the same building, the International Jewelry Center building at 550 South Hill Street. It was sixteen stories of mirrored blue glass separated by bands of white concrete. It was what the architects of the eighties thought the future would look like. The bottom two floors were a sort of mall for retail jewelry, and the floors above were offices, primarily for those in the trade. They entered the lobby through a revolving door and found a stark, white modernist lobby. Tall succulents were positioned in white pots, strategically placed in corners and on the opposite ends of long leather benches. There was a security guard behind a circular desk. Jack told him where they were headed, and he indicated they could go up. Their first two meetings were very quick and essentially worthless.

  The first made them wait about a half an hour until their corporate attorney was available, who turned out to be quite standoffish. He kept pressing for details on their investigation, and Jack distinctly felt like he was under cross-examination. Jack eventually got tired of it and took the offensive. He said they were attempting to shut down a major gem smuggling operation and were looking for cooperation from the industry, they weren’t accusing anyone of anything, but if the attorney felt better, they could have this meeting down at headquarters and make “official.” That backed him down a little, but they wouldn’t confirm whether they were meeting with anyone or had been approached, saying it would betray the trust of potential clients who expect that in their business dealings. Jack thanked them for their time and left. The second meeting was a flavor of the first, though it was even shorter. A smaller firm, they didn’t have an in-house counsel and respectfully apologized but couldn’t meet with US Customs until their attorneys were present. Jack made a show of rescheduling for later in the week. When they were in the elevator to go to the third meeting, Jack told Enzo that these guys were clearly hiding something. “We might have to hit them on general principle,” he said, but Enzo didn’t laugh.

  The elevator opened on the tenth floor to a long glass wall with double doors emblazoned with gold letters: INTERNATIONAL GEMS AND PRECIOUS METALS. Jack smiled at that. They used the same innocuous naming that he did with his shell companies.

  Jack approached the reception desk and the young man sitting there.
He was Black, close-cropped hair, wire-rim glasses, and looked like he didn’t appreciate having to wear a suit or man a desk. He looked up from his computer as Jack’s shadow crossed his desk. Jack quickly flashed his credentials and put them back in his jacket before the kid could ask to inspect them more closely. “I’m Harry Little with US Customs. This is Angelo Benedetti with the Italian government. We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Galbraith.”

  Eyes shot back to the screen and hands went to the keyboard. The kid pushed himself back from the desk and stood, buttoning his jacket as he did. “Right this way, please, gentlemen.” Jack and Enzo followed him through a canyon of smoked glass offices, finally arriving at one that Jack could tell overlooked Olive. Jack had backgrounded Christian Galbraith the night before. Undergrad at USC followed by an MBA at Stanford with a focus on international finance. He was fairly new to the gem and precious metals trade, having spent most of his career putting together land deals overseas. Jack suspected that was how Galbraith got exposed to the gem trade. He was now the chief operations officer for International Gems.

  Galbraith pretended to be busy with something on his monitor as the front desk kid escorted Jack and Enzo into the office and kept the charade up for a second or two after. “Mr. Galbraith, your ten o’clock is here.”

  “Thank you, James,” Galbraith said, still pretending to concentrate on his screen. He slid back and then stood, flashing a smile that was so practiced it almost looked authentic. Galbraith was around six feet, athletic, and bald. His face was all sharp angles, precise geometry.

  “Chris Galbraith,” he said and extended a hand, having come around from the other side of his desk. Behind Galbraith was a floor-to-ceiling window that ran the entire length of his office. “You must be Agent Little,” he said to Jack. “And that makes you Inspector Benedetti.” Galbraith indicated a couch and two chairs that orbited an oval coffee table beneath a dark wood-paneled wall that had a stylized outline of a gemstone on it done up in chrome. “Please, sit.”