“Okay, good.” By now Sandy and Gracie had also gathered behind Pen to watch.
Amber opened another screen which showed the interior of the bank from different angles. The man stood still a moment, looking toward the tellers. He chose one who was young and pretty and headed to her window. The camera behind the tellers picked up his face but since it was set to sweep a row of four teller windows, it only returned to him every few seconds. Amber isolated him, leaving out the other customers, and the women saw a series of photos where Dick Stone gave the female teller a charming smile while presenting the check and a driver’s license. He kept his gaze lowered while she typed at her computer terminal.
“He’s absolutely aware of the camera,” Amber said. “See how he’s making sure not to look directly at it? He turns slightly each time it comes toward him, so we’re mostly seeing his shoulder and the back of his head.”
The teller apparently asked him to wait a moment and soon a man appeared.
“That will be the branch’s assistant manager,” Sandy said.
The next shot showed the male banker taking the check and going away. From the young woman’s body language, apparently Stone was flirting with her. He seemed completely at ease. The time stamp indicated passage of less than ten minutes before the assistant manager returned with stacks of bills.
“He got the money. Barely a question asked,” Pen said.
“They would have verified that the check was genuine, had all the proper watermarks and magnetic ink. Then they would have checked your account to be sure it would clear. As long as the man presented identification showing him to be the person the check was made out to, there was no real reason not to give him the money,” Sandy said.
Pen felt a little sick inside. Some part of her had held hope the bank could admit to making a mistake and return the money to her account. Obviously not.
“Okay, now he leaves the bank,” Amber said. “Let’s see where he goes.”
She skimmed ahead through the video, following the back of the business suit as the man passed out of range of one camera and into another across the parking lot. He got into a plain white sedan.
“Looks like a rental car to me,” Gracie said.
Amber watched footage of the car backing out of a parking space, halted the motion, then zoomed in on the bumper where she magnified a tiny sticker to show the Alamo rental logo.
“That’s amazing,” Penelope said.
“Give me another minute,” Amber said. “Have an extra cookie or something.”
She looked a little irritated at being hovered over, so they all complied. Pen fully expected she would be pacing the floor before an answer came but it literally took the time to finish a delectable butter cookie before Amber gave a grunt of triumph.
“Ha! Alamo Rental shows a white Toyota rented by Richard Stone being returned at 1:19 on the twenty-third. They don’t have cameras at their counters or I’d have that little sucker’s face on file again. But … since normal procedure is to bus the customers over to the airport terminal, he’ll turn up there and I can pick him up again.”
For some reason, airport cameras in the main halls near the ticket counters didn’t show the same man with graying hair and a business suit.
“He’s done a little disguise work,” Amber said, sounding a little more knowledgeable than she should have. “I’ll check the airline flight manifests next. But I’ll need a little more time for that.”
The tea was gone and the cookies had been reduced to mere crumbs on the serving plate. Gracie ticked off a couple of items on her checklist.
“We’ve made great progress so far,” she said in the tone of a Little League mom giving a pep talk. “Here are your assignment sheets. I suggest we meet again in a few days so everyone can report her progress. What do you think, Pen? This really is your call.”
Penelope nodded, feeling a little dazed. So accustomed to writing her own plot, weaving the details together, she’d not worked at a team effort in a very long time. The idea that each member would take some of the burden was a new concept—and a huge relief.
“I don’t need a few days,” Amber said. “No one by the name of Richard Stone checked in for any flight that day. It’s like he walked into the airport and vanished.”
Chapter 16
Pen thought of Amber’s comment all the way home. The man she knew as Richard Stone had gone to the airport, then vanished. Sandy was probably correct—he must have changed identities at that point. Possibly, he’d had a different persona all set up in advance. All he would have needed to do was walk into the terminal and check in under another name. Changes in clothing, perhaps wearing a hat, sticking to crowded areas—whatever he’d done, the women had not been able to spot him on camera.
Her initial unease about Amber was mitigated by the amount of data the young woman had been able to find in such a short time. Pen smiled at the memory of Sandy’s startled expression when she saw how quickly the bank’s security footage became available. Despite Amber’s assurances that she had no access to customer accounts or bank financial records, Pen had the feeling Sandy was going to drop the hint that her employer might want to double check their online security levels. At any rate, Pen was happy to have Amber on her team now.
She parked her car in the garage, entered the house, and walked into her office. She laid the papers from Gracie on her desk and stared at the clutter, unable to concentrate well enough to pick up the pages of plot notes she’d made three days ago. Her writing routine was certainly suffering as a result of this whole mess with the missing necklace.
She picked up Gracie’s notes once again. Gracie had taken Sandy’s initial simple plan and expanded upon it.
Identify Richard Stone. Amber was working on that.
Find out what he did with the real necklace. No idea how they would do that.
For now, she couldn’t even contemplate the last step: Steal the necklace back. Other than the time in seventh grade when she’d been lured by a tube of Passion Pink lipstick at the neighborhood variety store, Pen had never stolen a thing in her life. Given the repercussion—Mum forcing her to return the lipstick and apologize to the store’s manager—it had never again been a temptation. She put on her reading glasses and looked at Gracie’s rounded handwriting.
Penelope will request copies of police reports regarding the original theft and ask what the police did to track the stolen goods. I can do that much, Pen thought. Detective Caplin might be embarrassed by the fact they never solved the case but surely he can’t deny me access to the information.
Sandy and Gracie will investigate at the museum. Break in if necessary.
Pen blanched a little at the thought. Now Amber, there was a girl who would likely have no qualms about it. She’d been a little testy when the meeting adjourned; the fact that she’d not come up with all the answers in one afternoon clearly gnawed at her. Amber would surely find more answers to get them on track in their mission. Once again, Pen felt glad to have the Heist Ladies on her side.
Pen picked up the phone, intending to call Detective Caplin, then remembered it was Sunday afternoon. Let the man at least have his weekend, she thought. Before she set the receiver down it rang in her hand.
“Pen, it’s Sandy.” Her friend sounded keyed up. “I’ve just learned there’s a gala fundraiser at the museum tomorrow night. It could be our way in. We just need tickets, and I figure you’ve got the connections to pull it off.”
Penelope thought about it. She’d heard about the fundraiser but the event had been sold out for weeks. She’d declined complimentary tickets for herself and Benton. The museum allowed her million-dollar necklace to vanish. She’d felt a certain righteous indignation that they still wanted her support. But now—
“How many tickets?” she asked Sandy.
Chapter 17
Annie Straw handed Todd Wainwright a sheaf of papers.
“What’s this? Filing?” he asked. “Isn’t that your job?”
The
saucy intern looked him in the eye. “It will be. But Mr. Higgins wants you to look over everything before I file them. It’s just a bunch of bills of lading, receiving papers on the Grand Canyon artifacts exhibit for next month.”
Todd snatched the pages from her.
“In a mood, are we?” she asked. “Everyone else is looking forward to the gala tomorrow night.”
He turned away, stalking back toward the cubicle that served as his office. Sure, all the interns thought it was great fun to dress up and hobnob with the society folks who were invited annually for the museum’s biggest fundraiser. He hated squeezing into a tuxedo. Those monkey suits only looked good on tall, slim James Bond types.
The main exhibit hall had been rearranged, display islands pushed to other areas, and round tables with eight chairs each had been rolling in all morning. The plain gray walls were now festooned with gold, copper and silver bunting, in keeping with the theme: Strike it Rich in Arizona! A play on the state’s mining history, going along with the big exhibit running this month. Balloons in metallic colors were being formed into a huge entry arch this morning. Flowers and plants had been gilded and arranged as table centerpieces, while on the more rustic side of it an old mining cart and a few picks and shovels added to the glorified mining theme.
Live and silent auctions were planned, each item fitting the same subject. He knew of several pieces of valuable jewelry that would no doubt attract sizeable bids. Everyone had carefully avoided talking about the events of last autumn, especially the missing emerald-and-diamond necklace. Of course, no one here knew that the necklace and its status had been so recently under investigation again. Which reminded him, why had he still not heard from Dick Stone?
Annie startled him, peering around the corner of his cubicle with a cardboard box in her hands. “It’s something more for the gala, I suppose.”
Todd nodded toward the corner of his desk and she set the package there. He recognized the return address of the company where museum flyers were printed.
“Annie!” The female voice belonged to another of the spring interns. “I wanted to ask you if you’ve bought your dress yet.”
Annie gave Todd a wary look and steered the other young woman away. “I found the most gorgeous …” Their voices trailed off.
Employees had been told to wear the colors of precious metals—Todd’s only nod to the theme was a gold bow tie. He’d heard the ladies talking about how much fun they’d had shopping for glittering new dresses. Personally, he thought the whole thing was a bit much, considering mining was dirty, dust-covered work.
After you’d done these events a few times, it became more a matter of dreading the stiff, rented tuxedo and spending hours with a smile on your face in response to the b.s. chatter from men who compared their brokerage accounts and bragged to each other about their yachts down in Mexico.
Meanwhile, he was nothing but a glorified paperwork shuffler. Todd flopped into his swivel chair. See? There was a new memo someone had dropped on his desk in the few minutes he’d walked to the copy machine and back. He set aside the pages Annie had given him and glanced at the printout. It was the final guest list for the gala.
As third in command at the museum he was expected to memorize the names, know their credentials, and be ready to chat and smile with any of them. He scanned the list. Most were the city’s elite, already familiar to him since they attended every year. At the bottom of the second page, he came to a sudden stop. A few last-minute guests had been added: Penelope Fitzpatrick plus one, and Sandra Werner plus one.
He didn’t know this Sandra Werner but he sure as hell knew who Penelope Fitzpatrick was. They’d never met but her name had been on his mind for more than six months.
Surely she’d been sent an invitation early on, so why was she only now added to the list? This week, of all times. Could she be suspicious of the museum staff? Worse, could she have any idea of his own involvement? He thought frantically. What would he say to the woman when they met?
Chapter 18
Penelope squared her shoulders, steeling herself for a confrontation. Her persistence was wearing Detective Caplin’s nerves thin, and she knew it. Considering herself something of an amateur psychologist—a matter of pride when it came to creating solid characters for her novels—she loved to figure out the motivations and reasoning behind the actions of people she dealt with. In her opinion, Caplin was simply fed up with her. He knew he and his department appeared inept when they failed to find her stolen necklace, worse so when his recommendation of a private investigator went completely wrong. Now he wished Penelope and every reminder of this case would simply go away. That was her take on it, anyhow.
She pulled open the door at police headquarters and walked through a noisy, crowded room full of the very sorts of people she almost never had to associate with—poorly dressed women with dirty-faced, dirty-diapered babies, sullen teens with earbuds plugged into their heads, gaunt females in tacky sequined tight dresses. Pen felt a tug of empathy for their circumstances; they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t have to be. It was visiting hour at the jail.
Feeling decidedly out of place in white linen slacks and a purple Thai silk blouse, she edged her way through the throng and presented Caplin’s business card to the tired-looking officer behind his bulletproof glass enclosure. He gave the card a bored glance, picked up a phone and punched a couple of numbers. In a moment, the door to her right buzzed and the lock clicked open. She escaped into a long hallway painted shiny gray.
On her last visit, Caplin had been almost cordial, nearly accommodating. She’d been here at his suggestion to look at mug shots. This time, she had phoned ahead to see if she could take a look at the case file on the museum robbery. He’d refused. When she’d tossed out the fact that she knew his superior officer quite well, he’d grudgingly agreed that she could come down here this morning. She took a deep breath and put on a smile.
A female officer stepped into the hall and greeted her.
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, this way please.” With a sweep of her arm, the officer showed Pen into a small room containing a metal table with four chairs. “Detective Caplin sent this file. He said you may make notes but cannot take the file with you.”
“Is there a copy machine?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to allow you to make copies. Just your own handwritten notes, please.”
Pen glanced at the brown folder the woman set on the table. The contents looked very skimpy. A few years ago, as research for a book, a police officer she’d befriended in Chicago allowed her to browse a murder case file. The thing was huge, nearly a foot thick, with pages and pages of witness testimony, transcripts from interrogation of suspects, photos and diagrams of the scene of the crime. This file, covering the police investigation of the theft of a million dollar necklace, probably contained no more than twenty pages. The difference, she supposed, in the value of things versus a human life. She looked up at the officer.
“This is it?”
“Everything we have, I’m told. Detective Caplin did mention that the case was handed off to the feds at some point. It could be they took the most pertinent information.”
He’d never told Pen that. Most likely, the local police had spent very little time on it. Either way, it was rotten luck.
Pen sat in one of the chairs and flipped open the folder’s cover. The female officer closed the door and stood just inside, her hands behind her back. Really. I need to be watched? She pulled her reading glasses from her Gucci bag and settled in, lifting the file’s cover.
The page on top was a printed form, apparently the final requirement for the police to close the case. In the space for “Resolution of Case” it simply said “Unsolved.” She paged quickly through to the sheet on the bottom, the original police report filed the night of the robbery. It contained the responding officers’ observations and the basic facts: date, time, location, circumstances.
The following pages were transcripts of interviews, first w
ith the museum employees. The robbery had been discovered by a Helen McGraw when she showed up for work Tuesday morning. It was noted that the museum was open Tuesday through Sunday each week, closed Mondays. So the last time any employees were on site was Sunday evening. The museum had closed to the public at five o’clock.
Past five, only two interns and a cleaning crew of three, supervised by the Assistant Director’s assistant, Todd Wainwright, remained. The interns both left around six p.m., although not together. The cleaning crew finished around eight o’clock. Wainwright said he had additional paperwork to do and had stayed until nearly ten, when he was simply too tired to finish.
He locked up and started home, but halfway there began to question himself. Had he remembered to set the alarm system? He turned around and went back. Finding the doors securely locked, he set the alarm and went home. No, he had not walked through the building to examine the displays. No, he had not checked the safe where the rare jewels were put at night. He was certain he had done all those tasks earlier.
But he was tired? The interrogating officer asked it several times.
Yes, said Wainwright, he was tired. But he’d been with the museum many years now. He always followed protocol and could do the shut-down procedures in his sleep. He was 99.9 percent certain—no, make that 100 percent certain—he had locked away the gemstone collection, had set the infrared sensors in the exhibition halls, and had securely locked the building.
And yet, he had forgotten to set the main alarm system. Even in print, the detective’s tone sounded stern.
For no more than twenty minutes, probably more like fifteen, was Wainwright’s response.
The detective noted that Wainwright was in severe distress while answering the questions. Pen felt sure the recorded tapes would substantiate that claim.
Diamonds Aren't Forever Page 5