Once a Thief (Gentleman Jack Burdette Book 3)

by Dale M. Nelson

  Jack wished killing him had been enough. He’d certainly dreamed about it for years. In his low hours, Jack thought about the different ways he’d exact revenge for the pain Reginald caused him. Would he make him suffer or would he do it quickly? But in all those moments it was orchestrated so that Reginald would know, he’d goddamned know that it was Jack pulling the trigger, it was Jack exacting some measure of justice, and his last moments would be that—the grim, bitter knowledge that he’d finally been bested.

  Jack was denied that.

  Reginald died knowing, sure, and he died knowing that Jack possibly could have saved him and didn’t. But it felt different to Jack somehow. There wasn’t that moment of surprise when Jack sprung the trap, revealed the elaborate plan. Instead, it was a wing shot that he was lucky to have made.

  People threatened Jack with violence once, long ago. Rather, they’d threatened his family. Jack’s father was swindled by a business partner and lost everything. Jack, then an amateur circuit racer about two years from going pro, quit racing to work to help his family make ends meet. Wanting to do something with cars, he got a job at a local garage near where his family lived in Cicero. Turned out that garage was run by the Chicago mob. They liked Jack and thought he was a good kid, asked him if he wanted to make some extra money? All he had to do was drive a car and not ask any questions. He did, and for a couple months it worked and it was good money, until he looked in the trunk and saw he was ferrying drugs. He made the kind of dumb decision that a good kid in a bad spot would make. The mob guys found out, of course, and instead of killing him, they told him to leave town immediately and forever. If he ever came back, they’d kill his family. The punishment was Jack had to live knowing that his family thought he was dead. A year after he left, the state declared him so.

  People wondered why Jack abhorred violence, wouldn’t tolerate guns on his crews, wouldn’t take the kind of job that forced him to use the threat of violence to compel people to do what he wanted. It was because he didn’t want to know that he was like them.

  Reginald LeGrande forced Jack into a live-or-die situation. He forced Jack to make a choice. He forced Jack to choose violence, because he believed Jack would not.

  The son of a bitch could have walked. He could have just disappeared. He’d gotten away from the police and probably could have kept going.

  That old saying, dig two graves.

  Reginald got the easy way out. Jack had to live with it.

  The blinds were open and the room was filled with gray light. Jack made coffee. There was fingerprint dust everywhere.

  He walked back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He didn’t know why, maybe Jack didn’t even trust silence anymore. He walked over to the far side of the bed and lifted up the throw rug, ran his fingers along the board until he found the right spot and pressed down. The spring-loaded panel released and opened, revealing the floor safe. Jack looked back to the door, making sure it was still closed. Then he opened the safe.

  Inside was his half of the diamonds and a Swiss passport with the name Roger Southerland.

  He collected the diamonds and loaded them into the Pelican case that was made to look like it carried camera equipment. He closed the safe and replaced the carpet. Then Jack hastily packed a suitcase, placing the passport in it.

  Jack took his things and walked back to the front. He grabbed a black mug from the cupboard, poured himself a coffee, and walked out to the deck. Jack had long ago developed the skill to not attach himself to things. Mostly, it was a reaction to Chicago. But he knew that in this life he’d chosen, that was a survival mechanism. He had to be able to walk away, to run at a moment’s notice if that’s what was called for. He’d been in this house for nearly fifteen years, looking out from the mountains onto the valley beyond. This had been home. He couldn’t ever return here, he knew. Whatever happened in the next few days, Jack could not live in a place with Reginald’s ghost. One more thing Reginald robbed him of.

  He sipped the coffee. It tasted bitter and burnt.

  Jack flicked his wrist, sending the contents over the side. Jack set the coffee mug down on the table outside and left. He never looked back.

  They agreed they would close the winery today.

  Jack drove in. He was two days out of the hospital and should be resting, but his ribs only hurt when he breathed and he’d be damned if the last person to look on Kingfisher wasn’t him. They loaded up all of the cases of wine from the tasting room and the climate-controlled outbuilding they used for storage and distributed them among the employees’ cars and a U-Haul that someone was able to rent. There was temperature-controlled storage available for rent and most wineries, including Kingfisher, had emergency rental agreements with those places. The barrels and cases would go there, but space was at a premium. Any loose bottles from the tasting room were distributed among the employees. They wouldn’t have time to empty what was in the fermentation tanks, which meant they’d lose the entire 2021 harvest, but if that happened, it would likely mean the winery was gone anyway.

  The one consolation was that they had just shipped their 2018s.

  They decided to store the really rare bottles at Megan’s. It wasn’t that many, a dozen cases or so of their most limited releases that Megan just didn’t want to let out of her sight. While Jack’s place would have been ideal because he wouldn’t be going back there, Jack and Megan both agreed that it felt wrong somehow. That bloodstain was on the carpet, it was tainted. They both knew it was as impossible as it was illogical to think that it would somehow affect their wine, but they also weren’t going to do it. Megan felt better knowing their product, their legacy, would be in her direct control. They also felt like her house, while in the wooded foothills of Santa Rosa, was far enough away from where the fires were now.

  It took the day to move everything they could save to the storage unit just outside downtown Sonoma or Megan’s house, and that might be all that remained of Kingfisher. When everyone left, they opened a bottle of their first vintage of the Cabernet they’d made from the Sine Metu vineyard, in many ways the thing that set them on the path to this moment. Megan always said it was the best wine she’d ever made and one of the best she’d ever drank, from any vineyard. Then they made love, quietly but passionately, and stayed in Megan’s bed until it was time for Jack to leave.

  Megan didn’t ask any questions when Jack left, and she didn’t ask him to make any promises. All she said was, “Whatever happens, here or there, I love you, and it was all worth it.”

  Jack said, “There are things I would change, but only the things that would have given us more time.”

  Jack held her, kissed her, and said he loved her.

  Then he left and drove to San Francisco for a red-eye to New York.

  34

  Nico’s cousin, the mafia don, was in a mood.

  Bartolo was trying to keep his distance since he got back to Rome. He’d almost not come back at all after the debacle in America. But if anyone knew the value his family put on vendetta, it was him. He’d weighed the odds and figured that they were pretty good Salvatore would kill him for failing if he returned, but they were damn certain Salvatore would have hunted him down if he had fled.

  Bartolo thought using the American thugs was stupid and a recipe for disaster, and that was exactly what they got. He was supposed to be in charge of the effort, but that idiot Fiore was more interested in undermining him at every turn. All that guy talked about was getting Burdette; it was almost like the diamonds were secondary to him. Bartolo tried, just once, to convince Fiore that Bartolo’s reasons for wanting to see Burdette defeated and dead far outweighed getting disarmed in a bank lobby. After all, Burdette allowed an undercover cop into the School of Turin and destroyed years of preparation. Antwerp would have been much different if it weren’t for him.

  Fiore wasn’t amused.

  Nico thought it was funny as hell.

  Bartolo told them the assault would fail. It was a stupid move. He�
��d never worked in the United States but he knew from stories—from Jack and others—how responsive the police were. Fiore thought everyone was half-assed like the Carabinieri. And if they did show up, Fiore said they had more than enough firepower to handle it. Obviously they didn’t.

  You couldn’t tell soldiers anything.

  Nico wasn’t there when it went down. He wasn’t even in the state. Nico learned about the debacle in Newark as he was waiting on his return flight to Rome.

  There was small consolation knowing that one of the American cops had shot Fiore in the face. But even that, Salvatore acted like it was somehow Nico’s fault. So, Nico kept his distance while he was back here. Nico wanted to stay at a hotel, but Salvatore wouldn’t hear it. Nico knew that it was just because his cousin wanted him close by. Either to plan or to shoot. Both outcomes were equally likely.

  So far, though, there hadn’t been much of the former and obviously none of the latter. Salvatore was spending a lot of his time with his accountant, Mazza. There had been a phone call, but Nico wasn’t privy to it, and so far, his cousin had not seen fit to share any details. After that, there were some hurried, angry conversations with Mazza. Nico wasn’t privy to those either. So, he was content to drink by his cousin’s pool and not be the focus of his anger. Nico was in one of the rooms with one of the TVs, nursing a glass of wine because he could, when Salvatore came in.

  Nico was lounging on the large leather couch and perhaps making himself a little too comfortable, a little too at home. At least that was what he gleaned from the look on Salvatore’s face when his cousin walked into the room. He walked into the center of the room and folded his arms. He didn’t pour himself a glass of wine, didn’t do anything other than look at the television and scowl. Nico took that to mean it was time to turn it off. He did. It was a little after midnight and Nico wondered if he’d been asleep, maybe he could’ve avoided this scene until his cousin calmed down. Probably not. Nico set the remote on the coffee table and stood.

  “There’s gonna be an exchange,” Salvatore said.

  “For what?”

  “The diamonds. The guy that stole them before you could has them and is going to sell them to me. You’re going to go get them.”

  Nico kept his feelings to himself, but he thought that, too, was funny as hell. Somebody stole the diamonds right out from under the police, posed as one of them. Either Vito and his American partner had a third partner or it was Burdette. That seemed like exactly the kind of vulture move that Burdette would pull. Let everyone else do the heavy lifting and come in and steal the score. That’s how they got into this situation in the first place. Burdette could have been a part of the greatest jewelry theft in history, but instead he let a policeman into their midst. Then instead of seeking his own fortune, he chose to steal Nico’s.

  “Where are they?”

  “They will be in Monaco.”

  “Why Monaco?”

  “Because that’s where he fucking said they would be,” Salvatore snapped. Nico knew there was only so far he could push, and judging by his cousin’s tone, that line wasn’t nearly as far away as he thought it was.

  Nico held up his hands. “Sal, I’m on your side here. I’m just asking a question.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  Okay, so much for that.

  “You’re going to fly to Monaco with a couple of my men. You’re going to make the exchange. He’s going to call you and tell you when and where.” As if anticipating Nico’s question, Salvatore snapped irritably, “I already gave him your number.”

  Great, but how’d he get yours, Nico really wanted to know, but this didn’t seem like question time. Maybe Vito decided to make a different play, double-cross his partner, and this third guy was part of that scheme. That would explain how this guy could get a mafia don’s personal phone number. But if it was Burdette, he was working with Bachetti, and Nico would assume that unless he was totally out of the game, this was the kind of thing that Enzo could figure out.

  “The seller, what’s his name?”

  “Clint Sturdevant,” Salvatore said.

  “When do we leave?”

  “First thing in the morning. Fabrizio is organizing it.”

  “Anything you want done to the guy?”

  “I don’t give a shit about him. I just want the diamonds. As soon as you have them, I want you on your way back here, you understand?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  Nico didn’t ask if he was getting paid for this, and he assumed that he wasn’t. What a bunch of bullshit. A week ago, he was looking at twenty million euros to the find the diamonds and bring them back. Now, he was just another errand boy singing for his supper. That in and of itself was an insult. These were his diamonds, and he didn’t understand why none of these fucking people—Jack, Vito, Salvatore—could understand that. He assembled the School of Turin. He trained them. He planned the Antwerp job, and he fucking pulled it off. The mistake he made was not planning the escape better. Well, that and one of his people was a computer guy, not a real thief. He only stole things online and wasn’t used to what it felt like to run. He completely fell apart and the escape plan unraveled. And in a matter of hours. The bitter irony was that asshole was never caught. But they sure as hell found Nico.

  Nico realized, in time, that he’d been too clever by half. He was trying to throw the police off the scent by continually lying about how much he’d stolen, changing his story constantly. Eventually, the judge had enough of that bullshit and charged him with contempt of court and added more time onto his sentence. Six years—because they never found the diamonds—turned into ten. Then he did something equally stupid and violated his parole by going to the US looking for Burdette. They arrested him when he returned and threw him back in prison. Six years turned into sixteen. If he’d have kept his mouth shut, Nico would have done his time, gotten out, gotten his diamonds, and then retired an obscenely wealthy man. His wife might even have taken him back.

  He’d keep his mouth shut now, though.

  “Okay. So, I wait for his call and make the exchange. You haven’t mentioned money, so I assume that’s being done electronically?”

  “That’s right,” Salvatore said.

  “I’ll go pack a bag. Fabrizio will have guns?”

  “Yes, but only as a precaution. I don’t want another goddamn shootout. I want you to get the diamonds and then this guy can fuck off to wherever he came from, you understand?”

  Nico nodded. He understood very, very well.

  35

  Jack landed at Newark at about six in the morning.

  He was flying to Paris and from there to Nice in four hours, which was plenty of time. The Pelican case was small enough that Jack could carry it on with him. He grabbed his things and went to call an Uber. Then he texted Enzo from the burner and let him know that he’d arrived. Enzo, not surprisingly, was awake.

  Jack didn’t blame his friend for not wanting to make the trip. Jack had agreed to take both sets of diamonds, and he was nervous as hell. If the plan fell apart, if they were caught, this was where it would happen—at the airport, trying to go through security. It had been a long time since he’d tried to smuggle something through an airport, and he had to believe the scanning technology was much better than the last time he’d pulled something like this off. But it was the only option he had.

  Jack would have felt safer chartering an airplane. He had a ghosted corporate card that he could’ve used, but knowing that the FBI had a plant in the Cannizzaro organization, they could easily learn that the buy would take place in Monaco instead of Rome. Then it would be simple investigation to look at chartered flights from the US to France. At least with a commercial flight, there were a lot more names to check. Sometimes, invisibility meant just blending into the crowd.

  Jack met Enzo out front of the airport.

  They would take separate flights to Europe, just in case. Enzo’s left later in the day.

  They cleared security easily. The TS
A agent took one look at the expensive camera equipment and decided he wanted nothing to do with it, closed the cases up, and sent both through the machine. Then Jack found a family bathroom. It was early and the airport was uncrowded. Jack took both cases into the bathroom and consolidated all of the diamonds into one. When that was done, Jack gave Enzo the empty one. Afterward, they walked to a bar in Jack’s terminal and got a drink. They both ordered beers and took them to a table by the window. There was no one else around, and they could stash their cases under a nearby table, out of the way.

  “I’m sorry, man, I just couldn’t do it,” Enzo said in a low voice. “I just kept thinking about what I would say if they asked—”

  Jack held up a hand. “What you were trying to do is the hardest thing. It’s not like the other things we do. It’s a different skill. Don’t beat yourself up, okay?”

  Enzo nodded, but Jack could read on his face how he felt.

  Jack took a long drag off his beer. “Long way to go for us to just have to bring them back to Italy, anyway.”

  “You know how you’re going to play it yet?”

  “Straight, I guess. I’m not really worried about Cannizzaro trying anything. The money is already in escrow, and he doesn’t get the diamonds until the money is in our account. Since the transactions are automatic, he can’t cancel them and get his money back like if it was cash, so I think he’s committed to paying.” Jack shrugged. “I mean, there’s always something he could try. I suppose he could try to kill me out of spite, but what does that get him? He’s already out thirty-five million.”

  “I still don’t like going into this without protection. We can stall for a day or two, right? I know a place I can get some guns, and I know a couple guys I can trust. Let’s get some backup.”