Diamonds Aren't Forever

by Connie Shelton

“Good.” Werner met Pen’s gaze with her own steady blue eyes. “And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I really do hope your friend says I’m wrong about the necklace.”

  Penelope nodded, unable to think of a good response. Surely, Sandy Werner had to be wrong. Certainly. After all, she was a banker, not a jewelry expert. Penelope zipped the velveteen pouch inside her leather handbag and walked to her car. She could think of only one place to go—to the jeweler with whom she had worked for two decades, the certified gemologist who had appraised her collection for insurance purposes, the man who’d made several of Pen’s favorite pieces. His shop sat on North Street in the heart of Scottsdale’s most exclusive shopping district. She took it as a positive sign when she was able to get a parking spot a short walk from the front door.

  Regis Potts came from the back room immediately when Penelope identified herself to the young woman at the counter. His perfectly capped teeth and neat, receding gray hair went well with the thousand-dollar business suit and five-carat diamond pinky ring, the dazzler all of his clients wanted to emulate in their own collections.

  “Pen, how lovely to see you again!” Regis was nothing if not a consummate host.

  He started to ask how he might help her, but it took a fraction of a second for him to notice how distraught she was.

  “Come, come. Let’s sit in my office and visit a moment.” He raised his eyes to his clerk. “Juliane, a pot of tea please.”

  The young woman nodded and scurried away while Regis steered Penelope gently toward the room where they’d transacted most of their business. Furnished more like a living room than a business office, the lighting nonetheless was aimed toward the antique coffee table and designed to give gold, silver and gemstones the best possible effect to please the customer and ensure a tidy sale.

  Regis indicated the grouping of sofa and two comfortable armchairs, and Penelope chose one of the striped brocade chairs.

  “Pen, we’ve known each other a very long time. I would ask if you’re doing well, but at a glance I can tell something has greatly upset you.”

  She reached into her purse and brought out the cloth bag, starting to undo the drawstring top, when Juliane arrived with a fully laden tea tray. Pen dropped the jewelry bag into her lap until Regis had taken the tray, centered it in the middle of the table and indicated he would pour. Both waited until Juliane had closed the door behind her. Wisely, Regis continued to hold back and let Penelope make the next move.

  She thrust the bag into his hands. “Please tell me what this is.”

  “What do you think it is?” he said after lifting the exquisite necklace and holding it up in the light. The diamonds and emeralds sparkled with such intensity Pen felt somewhat reassured. Sandy Werner had been wrong. But he was holding it overly long.

  “You’re familiar with my collection,” she said nervously. “You know these pieces intimately and have appraised them for insurance companies who are extremely particular about such things.”

  Something in his face closed ever so slightly.

  “Are you …?”

  “Oh, Regis, I’m not doubting you at all. I’m doubting the necklace. Please tell me it’s mine, that it’s real.”

  In a flash, he pulled a loupe from his jacket pocket and concentrated upon the individual stones. Each place he focused his attention caused his head to shake a bit more firmly.

  “It’s not. I’m so sorry but this isn’t the same piece I’ve seen before. I can tell you that without even consulting my measurements and diagrams. The stones are decent copies but they are of the variety created in the laboratory. Cubic zirconia, lab emeralds. The platinum may be real but, if so, it’s a very thin veneer of plating over something far more base. More likely, it’s not even that.”

  “Someone said it’s the workmanship that gives it away.”

  He nodded. Did she detect moisture in his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s not even close to your grandfather’s work. To put it crudely, if his work competed in the World Series, this is high school softball.” He dropped the necklace with a thump on the black velvet display board he always kept on hand. “My dear, how did this happen?”

  Chapter 5

  The whole story spilled out. The necklace going on loan to the Philpont Museum for a show on the royal jewels of Europe, the robbery six months ago where three armed men took the night guards by surprise and were able to bypass the museum’s supposedly state-of-the-art security system. The police working the case for a few months but leads petering out quickly. Penelope’s desperate hope that the private investigator might have better luck, not being constrained by the complexities of a bureaucracy. Dick Stone’s call yesterday that he had located her piece and would deliver it today.

  “I was so thrilled to see it again, I didn’t even look closely. Regis, I feel like such a fool, a bloody old fool. Why didn’t I bring it to you before I paid him for his services?”

  “Darling, it’s not your fault. You are the victim in all this.”

  Penelope felt herself bristle. “One thing I am not, my friend, is a victim sort of person. I shall figure out what to do.”

  Her mind raced. “I need to place a phone call.”

  He excused himself, leaving her alone in the office. She pulled out her phone and immediately dialed the bank.

  “Sandy, I need you to stop payment on a check for me.” She gave the information, having to take a deep breath when she got to the amount, $104,000 which represented the detective’s hourly rate plus a finder’s fee. Why she had ever agreed to that, she had no idea. Desperation—it had caused her to act rashly.

  The bank’s catchy theme music played, interrupted by perky-sounding ads for brokerage services and the best rates on CDs. Pen’s exasperation rose as a full eight minutes ticked by before Sandy Werner came back on the line.

  “I’m afraid it’s not good news,” she said.

  Pen felt her spine stiffen.

  “The check has already been cashed.”

  “Cashed? My god, I thought at the worst it would be sitting in his account.”

  “He walked into the Paradise Valley branch and convinced someone it was your wish that he have access to the cash immediately. Of course since there was no question of there being sufficient funds in your account … the assistant manager told me he verified your signature and, well, apparently the man was very persuasive. He left there not more than fifteen minutes ago.”

  Silence from Penelope as her mind churned.

  “Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” Sandy had tears in her voice. “I’m so sorry. I wish I knew what to do.”

  “I’ll call the police right now. Maybe there’s still something …”

  “I feel personally responsible somehow.”

  “Nonsense, Sandy. If nothing else, it was your sharp eye that led me to question the necklace’s authenticity immediately. Perhaps there’s a chance the police can retrieve the money yet.”

  “Please let me know what they say. If there’s anything at all I can do—”

  Chapter 6

  Frank Morrell breezed out of the Paradise Valley branch of Desert Trust Bank twenty minutes after he walked in. There had been one brief moment of anxiety, when the female teller decided to call on a male assistant manager to okay the cashing of such a large check. Frankie wowed them with his best smile and sent the teller a secret wink. Sure, I understand, the gesture said, must make sure the customer has enough in her account to clear this.

  He made inane small talk with the cute little teller, kept his gaze averted from the security cameras, while inwardly holding his breath. This was one area where it could all go wrong. As a rule he stayed away from technology. No GPS in a car, no cell phone registered under his own name or that of his many aliases. Pop had coached him well. Don’t make their job easier, son. Make them work hard to find you.

  Yeah, that was the golden age of grifting, back in Pop’s day. No internet. None of that Facebook crap where people looked up all their old high school buddies (not that Frank had
buddies back in school). Movies today showed the government with eyes everywhere and ways of tracking a guy to the ends of the earth. Frank knew the reality wasn’t quite so weighted in favor of the law. He tested the limits and still managed to get away every single time. His offshore accounts were divided into small enough amounts Uncle wouldn’t be interested, not to mention the money was in many banks under many names.

  Still, times were changing. He had plenty of cash to live in fine style for the rest of his life, even if he made it to a hundred, double his father’s age. Maybe he ought to think about retiring after this one. Break down the real necklace, have the big stones recut, the smaller ones sold off as needed … Yeah, he could live a long time on what he already had.

  The assistant manager had returned with apologies for the delay, along with twenty paper-banded packs of hundred-dollar bills. They fit easily into Frank’s briefcase. Obviously, Penelope Fitzpatrick’s account was well funded.

  He practiced nonchalance as he closed the case and walked out of the bank. He’d parked the Toyota at the edge of the parking lot, out of sight of the people he’d just dealt with. Ten minutes later he was on the ramp to the 101 freeway. He let out a whoop. How could he even consider giving up this life?

  From the moment he’d closed his fingers around that check for more than a hundred thousand dollars, Frank had debated the split with his partners. A long con like this one required the help of insiders. The agreement had been a small fee up front with a 30-30-40 split at the end, Frankie taking the larger share because he’d come up with the idea and had fronted all expenses.

  Okay, the others had done their parts. But c’mon, they weren’t the pros here. Frankie planned and executed the job and took the risk. Those guys had earned their fees but, he decided on the spot, that was it. He’d remained vague about exactly when and where they would meet up. Good thing. Because Frankie Morrell was on his way to the airport.

  Chapter 7

  Penelope assured Sandy Werner she would stay in touch, ended the call and dialed the number for Detective William Caplin, the head of the Major Crimes unit, the man who had led the initial investigation of the museum robbery and the one who’d given her the name of retired detective Richard Stone who was now a private investigator.

  “Of course, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I remember you. I’m afraid we have nothing new on the museum case. As I told you back in February, we followed all the leads we had. Nothing’s changed.”

  “I take it you haven’t talked with your friend, Mr. Stone.” She could hear the chill in her own voice.

  “Well, not since our First Fridays gathering a couple weeks ago. Bunch of us meet up for lunch at a pub we like, once a month.”

  “Did he say anything about my missing necklace?”

  “Why would he? I’d asked him awhile back if he’d taken your case and he said he never heard from you. I assumed you’d given up on recovering the piece and just decided to file with your insurance company.”

  “That’s not at all true,” she said, sitting straighter in her seat in hopes it gave her voice more authority. “Your so-called friend has lied to you. I’ve been in contact with him regularly and he came to my home this morning. He brought the recovered necklace—except that it’s a fake. I want the man arrested.”

  She could hear papers rustling at his end of the call.

  “Describe him to me,” Caplin said in a terse voice.

  “You know him!”

  “I know the Richard Stone I recommended, retired police officer, one of the most honest men on the planet.”

  “He’s in his late forties, I suppose … slender, average height, dark hair with a little gray at the temples. I didn’t notice his eye color.”

  “Rich Stone is sixty-two with a gut like a basketball. Pretty much bald on top, and his remaining hair is completely gray. How did you first meet the man you hired?”

  “Called him, of course. At your reference.” Of course, now that she thought about it, she’d left a message on a machine and waited for the investigator to return her call.

  “Somehow, someone intercepted you.” Caplin gave a large sigh. “I’m afraid you’ve been taken in by a con man.”

  “Can’t you put out a warrant, catch him and arrest him? I’ll be happy to pick him from a lineup or whatever it is you do in these cases.”

  “You said he came to your home. What was he driving? Did you get a license plate number?”

  “It was an average sedan—I don’t know what make. And no, I didn’t memorize the license. Why would I have thought to do that?”

  “Ma’am, with the description you just gave me I’d have to bring in at least forty-thousand men in this city alone.” He let a moment go by. “Did he touch anything at your house, surfaces we might take prints from?”

  She thought about it. Stone had worn white gloves when he handed over the necklace. At the time she thought keeping the stones clean showed professionalism on his part. Now it looked as if he was a pro of a different sort.

  “Our bunco division has mug shot books of known con artists in the area. You’re certainly welcome to come downtown and go through them. Maybe you’ll spot him. It would at least give us a starting place.”

  Her hopes rose a bit. Surely she would know Dick Stone’s face if she saw the right photo.

  “I’ll warn you though, it’s very likely this is a guy from somewhere else. Chances are, he left your house this morning, abandoned that plain vanilla car and picked up his real one. He could be halfway to California, Utah or New Mexico by now.”

  “But—”

  “The story of the museum robbery made national headlines six months ago. That’s ages in the life of a master criminal—plenty of time for him to commission a copy of your necklace and show up, promising he could find it with his superior detecting skills. It might have been pure luck that he chose the name of the same retired detective I recommended, but more likely he found some way to listen around, put out feelers and figure out that I would give you Rich Stone’s name. These con guys have uncanny good instincts.”

  “So, there’s nothing we can do?”

  “I’ll review the case file, put the word out and see if I get any hits. It’s possible the museum people may have some ideas, although we pretty well beat that horse to death months ago. I’d suggest you file an insurance claim on the necklace and get on with your life. The odds you’ll ever see your real one again are slim to none. Lower than that—minuscule to non-existent.”

  Chapter 8

  At the rental car return office, Frank went into the men’s room and removed the fake scar and scraped the touch of black off his tooth. The gray in his hair would have to be washed out, but he decided that wasn’t such a problem. The fact that his hair was dark on his ID and a bit gray in reality would only muddy the process if the police began questioning people, asking them to describe him. The answers would be so jumbled they would have no real idea who they were after. He grinned at himself in the mirror.

  With the locked briefcase gripped tightly in one hand and a wheeled carry-on bag in the other, he entered the airport. The new kiosk check-in method suited him perfectly—no chatty ticket agent to see his face up close. He’d already planned his route and chosen the airline most amenable to last-minute changes. In under five minutes his existing ticket for San Diego was changed to an earlier flight to Miami.

  He wheeled his bag to the security area, pleased to see the lines were long and the TSA agents harried. A shift change was due to take place in twenty minutes so none of them would want to get into a lengthy examination of a passenger. As long as you gave them no reason to suspect you.

  Of course Frank had a huge piece of bling and a hundred thousand reasons in his briefcase.

  “Is that cash in your briefcase?” asked the agent who’d done a double-take at the monitoring screen.

  “Yes, it is. I need for you to hold this case up where I can see it while I walk through the scanner. I’m not allowed to have it out of my sight.”r />
  Frank reached into his jacket and produced a business card. Richard Stone, Certified Gemologist, Tiffany and Co. He’d duplicated the famous logo exactly and used the exact font and card stock as the sample card he’d picked up at the store in Scottsdale. The laptop computer and small wireless printer in his carry-on bag were the sort any businessman might take on a trip.

  The young agent didn’t question a thing. He politely walked alongside Frank, carrying the cash and the real necklace until he placed the case back in Frank’s hands. How stupid Frank’s partners had been not to insist that one of them hold the real necklace while Dick Stone delivered the fake to Penelope Fitzpatrick. The difference between a rube and a pro, he thought with satisfaction.

  “Thank you very much,” Frank said to the TSA man, turning and smiling as he walked toward the gates.

  The secret to a successful con is to become the role you are playing, Frank Senior had always told him. Right now, Frank was a Tiffany representative on his way from a meeting with a wealthy client to another meeting on the east coast. The Miami flight was being called for boarding as he approached. Feeling flush at the moment, he’d upgraded his ticket to first class so he walked right onto the plane.

  In Miami he would visit the airport locker where he’d stashed his passport and a ticket he’d purchased for Cartagena, Columbia. A guy he knew there had a boat. Within forty-eight hours there would be no paper trail connected to either Dick Stone or Frank Morrell.

  Chapter 9

  Penelope clicked off the call, feeling her hopes plummet. The detective was the second person to suggest an insurance claim. Maybe she should do it. But this was her grandfather’s legacy. She couldn’t simply let it go.

  She dropped the phone into her purse and stood up, almost at the same moment Regis Potts opened the door. Had he been eavesdropping?