STOLEN
ALISON GOLDEN
&
Gabriella Zinnas
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
DIANA HUNTER WILL RETURN…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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PROLOGUE
THE STREET IN front of the elegant building that housed the Four Seasons Hotel was packed. A throng of people crowded around the red carpet leading to the entrance. Camera flashes exploded almost every second. Dozens of limousines were queuing up, waiting to let their occupants out. As the long, black vehicles rolled to a stop, a team of valets swooped in to open the doors for Vancouver’s élite, all dressed up in their glittering, shimmering finery. Rich businessmen, politicians, TV and film personalities exited the cars and, collecting themselves as they took their first strides toward the entrance, prepared to enjoy an evening of dancing and dining to support the British Columbia Children’s Hospital.
Charlene Evans surveyed the scene with approval. She had been instrumental in organizing the evening and was pleased to see it turning out so well. She watched as men in tuxedos accompanied women in beautiful dresses adorned with sparkling jewelry as they walked the red carpet. They paused to have their pictures taken and then walked into the hotel, crossed the marble floor of the lobby, and into the winter wonderland that the ballroom had been transformed into.
White silk drapes hung from the ceiling. White tables and free-standing bars lit from within with blue lighting dotted the discothèque area, while the dining room featured large, round tables with snowy white tablecloths. Even the chairs had been draped in white fabric to add to the wintery feel of the room.
Music was playing in the background, and there was a stage set up for a band that would play later. As people walked in, they were met by staff with trays laden with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
“I have to give it to you, Charlene. Everything looks amazing,” said Neil Johnson, the chairperson of the BC Children’s Hospital Foundation.
She smiled. “Thanks. I’m glad all that hard work paid off. Now, let’s hope it pays off a little more literally in donations.”
“I’m sure it will. Who can say no to helping sick kids?”
Charlene laughed. “Well, even if they could, they won’t because they all want the good publicity that comes from donating to a cause like ours.”
“I’d accuse you of being cynical if you weren’t completely correct,” he said with a laugh. “Now, let’s get out there and rustle up some money for the hospital.”
Charlene nodded and they went their separate ways.
A few hours later, after the four-course dinner had ended, the band started to play and several of the attendees made their way to the dance floor. Charlene picked up her glass and took a sip of champagne. She leaned in to her neighbor, who was trying to tell her something. Suddenly, she felt groggy. It was almost imperceptible and at first, she didn’t realize anything was wrong. But something wasn’t quite right. She could feel it. She put her hand up to her throat and froze. Her diamond necklace was gone…the diamond necklace she had been lent by a prominent jeweler and committed to wear in return for a hefty donation to the hospital.
Her heart began to pound. Exclamations of surprise sounded throughout the ballroom. It was like an echo that, instead of getting fainter, built up momentum as one person after another cried out in astonishment and indignation. The music petered out. Charlene looked around, her palms sweaty, her breathing picking up speed.
“My jewelry! It’s all gone!” exclaimed one woman.
“My cash, too!” said a man. The same sentiment was repeated by one guest after another after another.
“We’ve been robbed!”
“But how? When?” cried a woman.
Charlene couldn’t believe it. They had been robbed. But the woman was right. How? When?
“Someone call the police!” shouted a man with the face of an angry pit bull. He was so red, Charlene was afraid he would pass out.
When the operator answered her 911 call, she explained that all the attendees at the Annual Crystal Ball had been robbed. How many robbers? She had no clue. Had it been a stick up? No, there had been no gunmen. Pickpockets? Maybe. She just didn’t know.
“I have three hundred guests missing all the jewelry, money, and other valuables they came into this ballroom with three hours ago. I don’t know how it happened, when it happened, or who did it. Please send someone.” She was trembling, and her voice had gone up several octaves. She had never felt so violated in her entire life. It wasn’t just that she had been robbed. It was that someone had got their hands on everyone’s valuables without anyone noticing a thing.
CHAPTER 1
DIANA HUNTER RUBBED her eyes with the heels of her hands and let out a satisfied groan. She had just spent five hours trying to polish an article into something that readers of the news and crime magazine she worked for would enjoy reading. She rarely spent so long on such a short piece, but there was something about this one that had kept her going. Initially it had been a diamond in the rough, so to speak, but now it was a beautiful, shiny gem.
She stretched her arms out behind her, working out the kinks in her shoulders. Max, her Maltese terrier, came bounding into the room and put the brakes on just a little too late as he crashed right into one of the chrome legs of her glass desk.
“Poor baby,” she cooed as she leaned over to pet him. Max, of course, was pretending that nothing untoward had happened. If one thing was true about her adorable dog, it was that his ego was so big, it walked into the room five minutes before he did. Crashing accidentally was something he simply didn’t do. Not our Max. At least, not according to the look he was sporting that said he had done it on purpose and that it was all part of some grand doggy plan.
Diana got up from her seat. Max clearly wanted some attention, and it was high time she gave him some. Maybe a nice walk would be a good idea. Both of them could use some fresh air.
As she headed toward her bedroom to change, her phone started to ring. She glared at the offending object she knew was about to ruin her plans but picked it up anyway. She cocked an eyebrow when she saw the caller ID. Bill Donaldson, Superintendent of Investigative Services, Vancouver Police Department.
“Hello, Superintendent. How can I help you?”
Thoughts rushed through her mind. Had Hopkinson finally relented? Ha
d he gotten over his refusal to work with her all of a sudden? Did he know anything about the call his superintendent was making?
After getting entangled in Hopkinson’s last case, determined to see some more action, Diana had made a few calls, pulled a several strings, and called in a number of favors. The result was a position acting as a special consultant to the Vancouver Police Department. They could call on her to support their investigations whenever they felt her skills were needed.
But there, she had hit an immutable solid object. The Chief Constable had been more than happy to avail himself of her services, but no one in the Vancouver Police Department would work with her. Detective Peter Hopkinson included.
It had been totally frustrating. Diana’s experience involved working with the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service, but most of the staff of VPD were not allowed to know that. All they knew was some simple-minded magazine editor was trying to get all up in their business. She sighed. The file on her was classified and had to stay that way, but it still rankled.
Hopkinson was a different story. He just didn’t want her on the job. She didn’t know why exactly, but he had been the first to lead the charge against her, and he had an ally in Bill Donaldson. The head of Vancouver Police Department may have been happy to have her, but his superintendent was not. Nor his detective.
“I just want to make one thing clear. I did not want to make this call, but—”
“Let me guess,” she interrupted him. “You got a call from those above.”
“Your powers of deduction are astounding.” His view of the situation was clear. She couldn’t blame him. She knew she had to prove herself; her role in their previous interaction hadn’t covered her with glory. That didn’t mean she was going to take the superintendent’s snark lying down, however.
“Superintendent,” she said, emphasizing his rank, “I would have thought that a man in your position would want to use all the resources at his disposal to keep the good people of Vancouver safe. I would have also thought that you’d value the opinion of the Chief Constable, a man you obviously greatly respect, and that you’d take the time to discover precisely why he believes I might be of use to you.” She stopped there. She was being officious. She wanted to get into VPD. Antagonizing the Superintendent of Investigative Services was not the way to do it.
She heard a deep sigh. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “You’re right. I shouldn’t make assumptions.
“How can I help?” she asked without rancor.
Another deep breath. “I really don’t know. Just come in. We can talk about the case and go from there.”
“Very well, Superintendent. I can be there in forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll leave word at the front desk. Someone will bring you up to Major Crimes.”
“Thank you.”
A grunt was her only reply after which the line went dead. She looked down at Max, who whimpered, put his chin on the floor, and looked up at her with his most appealing eyes. He realized his walk was shot for now.
“Here we go again, Max,” she said with a small smile. When she had first started out with CSIS at the age of twenty, she had faced the same resistance as she was experiencing with VPD. Many of the veteran, mostly male, agents had also been reticent to work with her, even after she had completed her training with flying colors. She had been thought too young and vulnerable. She had proved her value then, and she would do it again. The difference was now, ten years down the line, she had a lot more experience and confidence under her belt.
She missed the work. Missed putting bad guys away. She also wanted access to VPD resources. Progress on her own investigation had slowed since she had stopped working for CSIS. And there was something about a certain detective she had worked with previously that drew her like a moth to a flame. She wanted to show him what she could do. In their previous case, working on a murder inquiry related to organ trafficking, they had butted heads constantly, but there was something about him…
She went into her bedroom and opened up her wardrobe. A pinstripe pantsuit with a light blue buttoned shirt would do well enough. She dressed quickly, pulled her hair back into a neat chignon, tamed her bangs with some hairspray and applied a little makeup. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough to give her a polished look. She slipped on a pair of flat boots; high heels would have conveyed entirely the wrong message. She had also learned that, at 5’9”, compounding her height with heels worked against her when trying to build bridges with shorter, flat-footed policemen. She glanced in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. She looked professional, confident, and ready to take on the world.
Grabbing the keys to her Prius, she headed out. Along with recycling and buying locally, driving an environmentally friendly vehicle made her feel like a slightly smug, self righteous, though thoroughly good citizen. It was also helpful when she wanted to blend in with the crowd.
Five minutes later, she pulled out of her parking space and immediately hit traffic. It was a relatively short drive from English Bay Beach to VPD Headquarters, but today traffic on Beach Avenue was at a standstill. She groaned and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, shifting anxiously in her seat. She wanted to make a good impression with Donaldson and arriving late was not going to do it.
Eventually, she turned into the parking lot of VPD headquarters. She had precisely three minutes to spare, so she broke into a run. She would not be late. Reaching the building, she paused to catch her breath and smooth herself down, then pulled open the doors to the place her own father had once worked. She steeled herself. This was not the time to be sentimental. It was show time.
She walked up to the front desk and smiled at the two constables manning it. “Hello, I’m Diana Hunter, and I’m here to see Superintendent Bill Donaldson. He’s expecting me.”
“Yes, of course, Ms. Hunter,” said one of the constables cheerfully. She savored his friendly attitude because she knew it wouldn’t be long before she would be eyed with suspicion and disdain. The constable turned to a woman who looked to be in her early twenties and whose uniform showed the rank of constable 4th class. If Diana remembered her insignias, that meant she was just one step above a lowly cadet. Diana smiled at the police officer with sympathy. “Stevens, take Ms. Hunter up to Superintendent Donaldson’s office.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman replied as she stepped forward. “If you’ll follow me, Ms. Hunter.”
Diana made to walk after her, but the male constable stopped her. “You’ll need this, Miss,” he said as he handed her a visitor’s pass.
“Thank you,” she said radiating another smile. After putting her bag through the x-ray machine and herself through a metal detector, Diana followed Constable Stevens onto the elevator. The officer stood ramrod straight and was silent, which suited Diana just fine. The last thing she wanted was to make small talk. She needed to think. Why had the superintendent been driven to seek her assistance?
A minute later she was being led through a long corridor. There were offices and conference rooms of various sizes to the left and right, some of which were empty while others were bustling with activity. Most of the “walls” were actually glass, and though they did have blinds, they conferred little privacy. It was like being in a fishbowl.
A pang of emotion sliced through her. It had been over ten years since the death of her father. Ten years since he had wandered these very same corridors. She glanced around, looking for anyone older, anyone who might have known him. Maybe she would have the opportunity to speak to them. See if they had worked with her father. Even find more about what happened the night he had not come home.
Stevens stopped in front of a door that seemed to lead to the only office that didn’t have glass walls. She knocked on the door. A gruff voice barked, “Come in.”
“Superintendent, sir, Ms. Diana Hunter is here to see you,” the female constable said.
“Well, bring her in,” he snapped.
“Yes, sir,” the constable stammered and moved
out of the way to let Diana walk into the superintendent’s office.
“Ms. Hunter,” he greeted her with a curt nod.
“Superintendent Donaldson,” she replied.
He looked up to see the constable still hovering. “That’s all, Constable.”
The woman quickly left the room, closing the door behind her as quietly as she could.
“Please, sit,” the superintendent said. He was trying very hard to be polite.
“So, what can I do for you, Superintendent?” Diana got straight to the point. Wasting his time would not be appreciated.
He eyed her as if he was looking at some strange creature that had invaded his planet and was about to wreak havoc on his well-ordered existence.
“Damned if I know,” he said with a shrug. “The Chief Constable seems to think you are the answer to all our prayers. I have no idea why. But, if the Chief Constable wants you, who am I to say no? He’s the boss.”
“You never know, I might be useful to you,” she said, with a smile.
“Last time you tried to be useful, I had to put my reputation on the line to save your hide. I’m not in the habit of working with hot-headed women. I like my blood pressure where it is, thank you very much.”
“So I’m not your favorite person then, Superintendent?”
“You are not. And I have a problem with you being forced down my throat, especially when I have no idea why.”
“I’m not in a position to reveal my background, but I will be an asset to your team. I can show you, if you give me the opportunity to do so.” Most of the work Diana had done for CSIS was classified far above the level that Superintendent Donaldson had access to. Even the Chief Constable was unlikely to know much at all.
She had been trying to coax the superintendent along, but her words had had the opposite effect, judging by the way his frown deepened.
Stolen (A Diana Hunter Mystery Book 3) Page 1