Death and Diamonds

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Unless, of course, they didn’t trust Bobo. Which I could totally understand. I could easily see a guy like him working for the mob, or for some bloodthirsty warlord, for that matter.

  I was just thinking that maybe I’d made a mistake and should have let Joe take the job of guarding Naomi, when she said, “Bobo, did you see my iPod? I think I left it in the limo.”

  “Nope,” he said, not taking his eyes off me.

  “Could you go and check?”

  He didn’t seem wild about the idea. “Why can’t Wimpy here go check?” he said.

  “Don’t be silly, Bobo. Frank”—she smiled (she knew my name!)—“doesn’t even know where the limo is. We’ll be right here waiting for you, don’t worry.”

  “I don’t know. . . .” he said, flexing his scary muscles and balling his hands into fists.

  “You can totally trust Frank,” she assured him. “I already do.” She gave me a smile that would have melted me into jelly if Bobo hadn’t been standing there.

  “Okay,” he grunted. “Whatever.” Sticking his finger in my face, he said, “Behave yourself, understand?”

  “Totally,” I said—squeaked, actually.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He left us there, and I exhaled for the first time since he’d grabbed my hand.

  Naomi giggled. “Bobo’s really a pussycat,” she said. “He’s just very devoted to me, that’s all.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A real pussycat.” I shook my hand out, trying to regain the feeling in it.

  “Are you okay, Frank?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ve got another hand, anyway.”

  That giggle again. “You’re sweet,” she said. Reaching for my good hand, the left one, she drew me over to her and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Cute, too. I’m glad you’re here. I feel safer with you around.”

  “Really?” I said. “Seems like Bobo could take care of anything that came up.”

  She shook her head. “He’s not too bright,” she said in a half whisper. “He never finished third grade, you know?”

  “Aha. What’s he been up to since then?”

  She sighed. “He’s had a rough life,” she said, but didn’t go into any more detail. “But he’s turned the corner now.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Frank?” She got up, came over to me, and put her arms around my neck. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  I could barely breathe. Her face was only inches from mine, and I thought I might even faint. “Um . . . sure . . .”

  “I’m scared about tonight.”

  “You are?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why?”

  “When you said the mob might try something? Well, that got me thinking . . . you know, Shakira used to have a boyfriend in the mob.”

  “She did?”

  This was news to me—and not good news either. “Who was it?”

  “I forget his name, but it was a weird one . . . something about shivering . . .” She wrinkled her perfect brow, trying to remember it. “But I remember he did time in Sing Sing, for jewelry theft.”

  Alarm bells were going off in my head. Really loud ones. “His name wasn’t Shakey, was it?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it—Shakey. Shakey Twist! How did you know?”

  6.

  Something Wicked This Way Comes

  I prowled around the inner corridors of the convention center for about an hour, stopping a few times in the control room, which was now fully occupied. I asked the operators how long they’d been there, and they told me they’d been at their posts since before the diamonds had arrived.

  I checked their names against the roster posted on Harris’s computer, and they all checked out. So these people had all gone through security clearances before even being hired. I felt that I could trust at least this part of the convention center’s security. If the mob had a plan to steal the diamonds and had someone on the inside, at least it wasn’t in the control room.

  I was still worried about those air shafts, to be honest. I wondered if the mob, or Sanguillen, could have placed people inside them before security even showed up. But I dismissed that possibility. How would anyone survive that long in an air shaft without food or water—or, come to think of it, a bathroom?

  I wandered outside and did a circuit of the entire convention center. I saw security teams checking cameras mounted on trucks, testing alarm systems, and patrolling the perimeter of the complex.

  No shortage of people on duty, at least. In fact, if anything, there were too many of them to be efficient. The logos on the security trucks were from three different companies!

  I was on a grassy hill overlooking the main gate when I saw a stretch limo pull up, surrounded front and back by Bayport Police cruisers. The police deployed on all sides of the limo as the chauffeur went around to open the passenger door.

  And out stepped Shakira.

  Oh, man! She was wearing a white fur coat, which she immediately slipped out of and handed to the chauffeur. “Leave it in the limo,” she told him. Without even looking his way, she sashayed past him and through the open gate.

  I bounded down the hill after her, eager to introduce myself before she went inside.

  Bayport’s finest stopped me. “Hey, it’s Joe Hardy!” said Lieutenant Rogers, a friend of ours on the force. “Whatcha doin’ here, Joe?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” I answered, brushing the wrinkles out of my shirt. “I’ve been hired to look after Ms. Shakira here. Just for today.”

  “Get out!” he said with a laugh. “Nice try, Joe. Shoulda thoughta that one myself.”

  “No, it’s true!” I insisted. “Ask Mr. Harris.”

  “The head of security? Okay, let’s do that.” He whipped out his walkie-talkie and called in his ID.

  Meanwhile, Shakira had been taking all this in. She gave me a big smile and a wink, and I could tell right away I’d made the right decision letting Frank guard Naomi.

  “Harris says you’re legit,” Lieutenant Rogers said, sticking his walkie-talkie back in its belt holster. “Congratulations, Joe—I don’t know how you managed to get the job, but any time you need some help . . .”

  “Sure thing,” I said, clapping him on the back. “I’ll take it from here, guys.” I offered Shakira my arm. “May I show you inside?”

  She slipped her arm through mine and gazed at me with a twinkle in her huge, brown eyes. “Nice going . . . Joe. I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  And if I wasn’t hooked before—well, now I was toast.

  “Let me take you down to your dressing room, Ms. Shakira.”

  “Oh, come on, Joe—it’s just Shakira, okay?”

  “Sure. Sh-Shakira.”

  We walked arm in arm down the hallway, with me pulling her huge rolling suitcase.

  “So, a personal bodyguard?” she said with a sly grin. “How did I rate getting one of those?”

  “I, uh, I think they just want to make sure you’re okay—I mean, the jewelry’s worth a lot of money, and, well, y’know . . .”

  “They’re afraid someone’s gonna take it, aren’t they?” she said, letting out a scornful laugh. “Well, you know, Joe, if someone really wants to take it, nobody can stop them.”

  “Well, I’ll sure try,” I assured her.

  Again, that laugh. “You’re a nice boy, Joe,” she said. “I like you. But trust me, if somebody wants that jewelry badly enough—and by somebody, I mean somebody big—not you, not the police, not Superman or Batman or Spiderman or any man is man enough to prevent it.”

  I took that as a personal challenge—with a secret bonus. If someone tried to steal the jewels, and I stopped them, Shakira would rate me as a superhero. We reached the dressing-room area and passed right by the open door of Naomi’s room. Shakira stopped in her tracks. “Well, well, well,” she said, seeing Naomi and Frank sitting close to one another. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Naomi shook her head an
d frowned. “This could have been such a classy show, and they had to go and ruin it by inviting you.”

  “What happened to your ex-con bodyguard?” Shakira asked. “What was his name, Dodo?”

  “Bobo,” Naomi spat back. “He went to get my iPod. This is Frank. Frank Hardy. He’s my bodyguard for the day.” She saw me and waved. “Hello, Joe. I see you found her. I hope you don’t feel too bad about having to guard her.”

  “Frank’s my brother,” I explained to Shakira. “And I don’t feel bad about guarding you. Not at all.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she said, stroking my cheek with her long, painted nails. “She just thinks she’s all that and a bag of chips. Even though her bodyguard has spent more time in Sing Sing than out.”

  “Speaking of ex-cons,” Naomi said, “how’s your boyfriend Shakey?”

  Shakira, who had been about to move on, stopped. “You know I haven’t even seen him in three months,” she said. “At least I dated a top dog. You’re the one who associates with the dregs.”

  “Bobo’s loyal, at least,” Naomi shot back. “And he cares about me—even though we’re just friends, and always will be.”

  “Come on, Joe,” Shakira said, grabbing my sleeve and pulling me on down the hall, “I can’t take any more of her jive.”

  Her dressing room was just a few doors down. It was exactly like Naomi’s, in reverse—kind of like their personalities, in fact.

  I’ll be honest—I was already in love. Not only was she fine in the extreme, she also had the brass to sling it out with the likes of Naomi Dowd, who’d had me tongue-tied just an hour before.

  “I don’t want you getting any wrong ideas,” Shakira said. She shut the door of the dressing room, opened her suitcase, and immediately started hanging up her clothes for the show—a series of incredible outfits ranging from gowns to, well . . . I guess they were bathing suits.

  “I went out with this guy, Shakey,” she said, coming right out with it. “He used to be a real bad dude—been in Sing Sing for something, I forget what—oh, yeah, jaywalking! Can you imagine going to prison for jaywalking? There was some tax cheating, too, I think—but that was a long time ago. For two years he’s been out of that place, and while I was seeing him, he was legit, just like you or me.”

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Bobo Hines

  Hometown: Brooklyn, NY

  Physical description: Age 25, 6’, 3“, 246 lbs. of solid rock muscle. Pockmarked, mealy complexion, shaved head, beady black eyes that always look suspicious and angry. So many tattoos he could open up a store. Bad teeth, bad breath, bad dude.

  Occupation: Personal security guard/bodyguard for Naomi Dowd. Could be something more, but no one really knows.

  Background: Abandoned as a baby in a garbage can in Brooklyn, Bobo came up the hard way. Third-grade dropout, and never known for his brains. The Downtown Huggermuggers gang became his family when he was nine. Got his first tattoo at eleven, served his first time at thirteen, in juvie. Graduated to Sing-Sing for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon (his fists). There he met lots of guys even meaner than him—including the notorious mobster Shakey Twist. Bobo claims to have gone straight since his release—and he does have a good job with Naomi, though no one knows what made her hire him. Was she really just trying to polish her image?

  Suspicious behavior: It’s more his past than his present that’s worrying—but he’s mean and dangerous, the kind of guy who could blow at any moment.

  Suspected of: Being the inside man in Shakey Twist’s plot to steal the diamonds from the convention center. Who better than him? They know each other from Sing-Sing, right?

  Possible motive: Naomi pays well—but not that well.

  “Meanwhile, her precious Bobo probably got out last week—with a new tattoo, I’ll bet. What was he in for this time? Assault? Armed robbery?”

  “He was in prison?”

  “Oh, yeah—didn’t she tell you?”

  “I, uh, really didn’t get a chance to talk to her much.”

  “Tell me something about the great Miss Naomi Dowd—if she’s so prim and proper, never been in trouble or anything, how come she picks a guy like that to be her bodyguard?”

  “I, um, couldn’t really say. . . .”

  “I haven’t even got a bodyguard!” Shakira went on, basically forgetting I was even there. She was pacing the room half the time, and spent the other half hanging up her outfits. “I don’t need a bodyguard—just let someone try and mess with me! I’m tough. Raised on the streets of Brooklyn.”

  “Really? Brooklyn, huh?”

  “That’s right, Dwight.”

  “Joe. Joe Hardy.”

  She stopped, caught herself, and laughed shyly. “Sorry—I know it’s Joe. Dwight, that’s just an expression. As in, “Hop on the bus, Gus. Make a new plan, Stan.”

  “Watch your head, Fred.”

  “Ha! You’re funny!” She took my hand in hers. “What do you know, Joe?” She nodded slowly, looking at me the whole time. “Listen, you don’t think I’m part of any ‘inside thing,’ do you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Inside thing. You know—because I went out with someone in the mob. And there are all these jewels. . . .”

  “If the people putting this show together had thought that, they wouldn’t have asked you to model,” I said.

  “Maybe they had second thoughts,” she said sadly, still looking at me. “Maybe that’s why they hired you—to keep an eye on me. Make sure I don’t do anything bad.”

  “Nah. I mean, they hired my brother to watch Naomi, right?”

  She seemed to consider this for a second. “I guess you’re right—but let me tell you something about Naomi. Her career is this”—she held her thumb and forefinger a teeny bit apart—“close to over, and when it is, guess who’s gonna be the next big thing?”

  “You?”

  “That’s right, Joe. You’re looking at her. I’m just biding my time, that’s all. Biding my time. She’s got a big fall coming, that Naomi. And when she falls, nobody’s gonna pick her up, because she’s been mean to every one of them.”

  Her anger shook me, and for the first time, I took a step back and considered Shakira from a distance. Obviously, she hated Naomi with a passion. But why? Was it just professional rivalry? Or was there something more . . . something deeper, and more dangerous?

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Shakira

  Hometown: Ocean Point, New Jersey

  Physical description: Age 20, 5 ‘, 9 “, weight. . . well, skinny. Mocha complexion, long, shiny, reddish-brown hair, huge dark eyes, full lips.

  Occupation: Up-and-coming supermodel, probably number two in the world right now in earnings per year, behind only Naomi Dowd.

  Background: Born and raised in Brooklyn, discovered when she won an international teen modeling contest and was signed by the biggest agency in America. Unmarried. No present boyfriend, but has had several in the past—among them the notorious gangster from Atlantic City, Shakey Twist.

  Suspicious behavior: Moody, and she’s got a real temper. Also, seems to have it in for Naomi Dowd, or is it the other way around—or both?

  Suspected of: Being part of Shakey Twist’s plot to steal the diamonds from the convention center. She says she and Shakey are a thing of the past, but is she telling the truth?

  Possible motive: Are you kidding? Diamonds are forever!

  “I think I’m going to lie down and rest for a while,” she said. “It’s been a long flight. I was on the red-eye from Antwerp.”

  “Antwerp?” That was where Carlos Sanguillen had gone missing!

  She yawned and stretched. “Would you mind waiting outside for me? I promise I won’t steal anything in the meantime.”

  She smiled so I’d know she was joking. But you know what they say—there really are no jokes. On some level, she wanted me out of her sight.

  I felt hurt, rejected. If she didn’t want me around while she slept, it was because I ha
dn’t earned her trust—yet. “Sure. I’ll sit just outside the door, okay?”

  “So long as it’s shut tight,” she said, yawning again—a little too much of a yawn to be real, I thought.

  Something wasn’t smelling right here.

  “Here’s my cell number, in case you need to reach me.” She handed me her business card. It had her face on it. I put it in my pocket as a souvenir. Whether or not I ever called that number, I was going to keep her card for life.

  I shut the door behind me and sat down on a stool I’d brought out into the hall with me. Behind the door, I heard the shower going—and then I heard Shakira speaking. She was talking on her cell phone, I realized. But she’d turned on the shower so I wouldn’t hear what she was saying.

  With time to kill, I sat there, thinking. I asked myself, if I were planning a big jewel heist in this place, how would I do it?

  First I’d have to disable the perimeter protection systems—the closed-circuit cameras and the motion-sensing laser-based alarm systems. To shut down the motion detectors, I’d just have to pay a secret visit to the circuit-breaker boxes. For the cameras, I’d either have to shut off all the power to the entire convention center—and they’d have a backup system in place—or I’d have to get to every one of those cameras and disable them individually.

  No, wait—I wouldn’t have to get to all of them. Just the ones that covered the area I was going to pass through on my way in and out of the center.

  If I wasn’t already inside.

  I stared up at the air vents embedded in the ceiling of the hall. Someone could get through to the hall where the diamonds were by shimmying through the ducts. Of course, they’d have to get past the police guarding all the entrances—unless they removed a grate and climbed in through it.

  But back to the cameras. They’d still have to disable them. . . .

  And then I thought back to the moment before Shakira’s arrival had distracted me. I’d been thinking there were too many different security firms working on this job. Three of them, in fact. . . .