by Unknown
The Hope Diamond would be another matter entirely. The gem was a United States national treasure so she’d just have to make sure she covered her tracks well and didn’t get caught.
Marguerite closed her eyes in pleasure as René slipped his sensitive fingers between her thighs and began to gently stroke, sending waves of warm tingles up through her belly. She could feel him hardening against her, a signal he was ready for another round. He pulled back a strand of her blazing hair to kiss her neck. She felt his hot breath as he whispered in her ear, “Attaches-moi.”
She loved it when he talked dirty. René knew how to spark the flames which always burned brightly in her, but before Marguerite succumbed completely to her lover’s touch, she couldn’t help smiling like the cat that ate the canary. As much as the young Frenchman made her breath catch and the blood surge through her, the biggest thrill of all was her secret: after almost fifteen years of Ghostly activity, all the world longed to know the phantom jewel thief’s true identity, but no one did. Only Marguerite was privy to that exclusive information.
****
The lights went out, leaving only the ominous green glow of the security lamps to illuminate the hall outside Dornal Zagen’s prison cell. He had been marked present during the evening’s eight p.m. roll call. Now he was expected to settle in and go to sleep like the rest of the inmates at Ossining Penitentiary.
But tonight Dornal had other plans.
The thin-faced prison guard with the pock-marked complexion and slicked-back hair had remembered to leave his cell conveniently unlocked. He’d met Dornal’s stone-gray eyes for a moment, just to make sure they both knew what was going on. Then he’d walked away, leaving the notorious Austrian jewel thief’s metal door slightly ajar. Dornal wondered how much his mysterious employer had bribed the guard to assist in his escape, but he had no time for speculations as the alarm system would only be down for five minutes. He’d have to hurry.
At 6’4”, with a shock of white-blond hair and Nordic pale skin, he should not have blended so well into the dark shadows of the prison corridor, but with an almost robotic ability to contain his own energy and move efficiently in situations such as this, he was able to pass by the rows of occupied cells in the blink of an eye—a phantom passing unnoticed in the night.
As he reached the medical wing, perhaps the most feared area of the prison, he paused outside the door, his blood running cool through his veins. He paused just long enough to listen and make sure no one stirred inside.
All quiet.
Noiselessly, he pushed open the door and dropped to the ground, slinking toward the front desk where a nurse sat reading tabloids and smoking menthols. She wasn’t supposed to be there. He’d been told they shut down the admissions room of the medical wing at night. With the alarm only turned off for a few more minutes, he had no time to dwell on her unwelcome presence.
The Austrian’s nose dusted the puke-colored floor as he inched slowly past her. He didn’t have time for this. He could feel the seconds ticking away as he moved one muscle at a time, silently making his way across the floor like some cold-blooded reptile stalking its prey.
At last he reached the hallway, which led into private rooms where inmates lay hopeless in their beds praying for death’s release. Dornal slipped by, unmoved at the plight of his fellow prisoners. Who were they but a bunch of futureless, low-level drug pushers and street trash? The world would be better off without them.
He passed the operating room with its Plexiglass windows, which allowed spectators to watch from the hallway. The cold glint of steel caught his eye. His brain calculated like a computer how much time had passed, how much time he had left, and how long it would take to make a momentary detour.
In a flash, he was inside the operating room. His eyes swept the pedestal next to the sink where some careless or distracted nurse had left a scalpel out to dry instead of locking it securely away in the cabinet across the room with the rest of the instruments. His hand closed around the knife with its razor-thin blade and then he was back in the hall moving fast toward the fire exit.
One of the patients in a room to his right let out a loud curse and began screaming gut-wrenching gibberish at the top of his lungs. The insane shrieking would have chilled the blood of any normal human, but all Dornal felt was annoyance. He couldn’t help but wonder, as he retreated back into the operating room, why this idiot wasn’t kept sedated.
He held his breath as his fellow inmate screamed pitifully into the lonely night. Surely the nurse would come through with a needle full of whatever dope they were using to shut their patients up. The seconds ticked by and no one appeared.
Dornal had no choice but to head back into the hall and make a break for the fire exit. He fingered the steel blade in his hand. If he met the nurse along the way, she wouldn’t hold him up for more than a few seconds.
But evidently the nurse wasn’t coming and he reached the fire exit without any more trouble. The door was supposed to be unlocked. At least it would be as long as the operating system that controlled the alarm was still down, but Dornal trusted nothing and no one. He cautiously put his hand on the knob and twisted until he felt the click. It was unlocked. The last thing he heard before the heavy door shut behind him was the whimpering sound of the patient in the room down the hall. Then he was in the stairwell flying down the steps on silent feet. When he reached the bottom, the door to freedom awaited, beckoning him. His heart was hammering now, even as his brain remained calm and cool. He’d learned over the years that he could not always control the instincts of his body, but he could always keep his mind clear.
How much time had passed? Was the alarm system still off? On or off, this was the closest he’d been to freedom in a long time and he would make his move. Forcefully, he pushed the door open.
Sirens screamed out from every direction and the giant spotlight atop the watchtower at the perimeter of the jail swung around, combing the building with a bright-white beam. The yelping of dogs let loose from the security stations raised the hair on the back of his neck. If there was one thing he didn’t like it was animals, especially ones trained to go for the jugular.
He looked down and saw the storm drain his employer had promised would be there. It had better be unscrewed, because he’d never have time to unfasten the dozen or so bolts that held the cover down onto the cement. Holding the scalpel between his teeth, he grabbed the edges of the cover and pulled.
The spotlight was just bearing down on him and he could sense the bloodhounds picking up his scent as they turned in their tracks on the open field and charged in his direction. The heavy iron cover rolled away and he shimmied down into the tunnel, replacing the cover behind him only moments before the choppers roared overhead with their thermal detectors and probing spotlights.
Inside the storm drain it was pitch black and he had to crawl on his hands and knees in the enclosed space. The air was stagnant with mold and rotting debris. He could hear the unnerving scratch of little rodent feet ahead of him, but none of that mattered. What did matter was that he wouldn’t make very good time this way. Unfortunately, he didn’t have many options.
The prison security would have him in a moment if they had seen him go down the storm pipe. But he didn’t think they had and if that was the case, he still had a chance…
****
John made a beeline for the newsstand and picked up the New York Post, ignoring the rain that was creeping down the collar of his vintage suit and the jostle of pedestrians brushing past him.
The show before the show at this year’s Academy Awards Ceremony proved to be more exciting than the awards themselves. The Puck Diamond, known for its whopping 33.19 carats and flawless beauty, was stolen from its famous owner, Katherine Park, just before the ceremony began. Because the ring appeared to vanish into thin air, there is speculation that this could be the work of the Ghost.
The Ghost first began spooking authorities over fifteen years ago when a piece known as the Winged Isis di
sappeared from the neck of Rachida Al-Mansure, the wife of Moroccan pasha Zaffar Al-Mansure. The crime took place aboard the pasha’s yacht anchored off the coast of Alexandria during a glamorous New Year’s Eve bash. Since that time, the Ghost has repeatedly staged thefts around the New Year’s holiday or other high-profile events.
Many believed the international jewel thief had at last returned to the proverbial grave when cat burglar Dornal Zagen was put behind bars three years ago. Since Zagen’s arrest, no new Ghost stories have unfolded, but with the theft of Miss Park’s famous gem, authorities say they are not ruling out the possibility that the phantom thief is back in business.
Hollywood loves a good Ghost story, but some here in Tinseltown worry that this latest exploit could be just a trailer for coming attractions. With more than ten million dollars worth of gems stolen in 1998 (the thief’s busiest year), everyone from starlets to studio heads have been reminded to lock up their loot. Perhaps the most serious threat to the glitterati will be in the nation’s capital at the Diamond Ball scheduled for next Saturday. The charity event, sponsored by First Lady Lillian Spencer, is being held to raise money for a new library in Anacostia, a DC neighborhood infamousfor its urban blight. The Smithsonian will permit many of its greatest treasures to be modeled during the ball in a jewelry fashion show.
John folded the paper under his arm and handed the grumpy Italian newsstand attendant seventy-five cents. The old vendor sat morosely, blowing his nose with a handkerchief and staring out at the gloomy weather. “Rain again,” he muttered, as if the world could bring nothing good to any of them.
John barely nodded in reply. He was too lost in thought for doom-and-gloom chitchat.
He reread the article on the subway ride to the Upper West Side, but as he was leaving the Eighty-Sixth Street station, he tossed the paper in the trash. The Ghost was no longer any of his business.
****
Veronica sat curled up in a worn velvet chair by the fireplace of the Upper East Side brownstone she shared with her father, celebrated archeologist, Buzzy Rossmore. She had been living with the old man since her divorce three years earlier. At first, the family home had been a refuge from prying eyes and wagging tongues, but after a while she had grown so comfortable, it seemed there was really no reason to leave.
Perhaps other twenty-something girls in Manhattan would have found living with a crusty academic a cramp to their flirtini-filled lifestyles, but Veronica was more interested in Socrates than sexual exploits and happier to take long, solitary gallops through Central Park on her pure-blooded Arabian, Ramses, than intoxicated rides on some stockbroker after an intolerable Gen-Art function.
Perhaps she craved the security of the house itself, which had been her grandmother’s. There was something wonderfully permanent and reassuring about the weathered brick exterior and the creaking wood floorboards after growing up in every far-flung place the globe could offer. Veronica had inhabited everything from pitched tents in the Egyptian desert to gilded Moroccan palaces filled with servants to strictly-run European boarding schools. She had lived in thirteen countries in twenty years. Now, with her mother gone and the horrifyingly public collapse of her marriage, she had only her father and this well-worn, but quietly beautiful, house to cling to. She felt at last as if she had a place to settle in for a while.
Veronica had been assisting her father in one way or another since she was the little girl who had stood awestruck by his side, gaping up in the shimmering heat at the strange paintings covering the walls of a pharaoh’s forbidden tomb or gently wiping dust with a fine brush to reveal the statue of a forgotten Indian goddess in the jungles outside of Calcutta.
Now that the daring exploits of his youth were behind him, her father had at last settled into a tenured position at Columbia University as the head of the archeology department. He made no secret of the fact that without Veronica’s sharp mind and organizational skills many of his ground-breaking bestsellers or the highly regarded academic papers he published would never have made it to print.
It was for an article scheduled to be published in The American Journal of Archeology that Veronica now studied a series of photographs taken in a recently discovered tomb at Abaydos in the lower Nile Delta. A curtain of sable-soft hair fell across the rows of hieroglyphics and her eyes started to burn as she deciphered the final lines of Egyptian symbols. A tight knot gripped her neck from leaning over her work so intently all evening.
Pushing aside the papers, she stretched, enjoying the feel of thick silk pajamas gliding across her skin. Pulling off her cat’s-eye glasses, she ran perfectly manicured fingers through her long, dark hair, pulling it away from a face so flawless she had been dubbed the “Dream Deb” of 1995. Not that she cared what the society drones thought of her, but it was what they had said just the same.
She closed her eyes and allowed the fire to warm her feet for a moment, luxuriating in the feel of the heat stealing up her toes to her bare ankles.
The chimes of the doorbell floated up from the ground floor below.
She glanced at the scarred antique clock which ticked discreetly on the mantle. It was after nine o’clock, too late for one of Buzzy’s many friends or colleagues to be calling, and she was not expecting company.
Veronica rose and made her way through the dark house down two flights of stairs to the elegant, if slightly disheveled, entry hall, ignoring the chill of the marble floor against her bare feet. She was just about to open the front door to investigate when the lights flicked on in the hall. Buzzy Rossmore, wrapped in a frayed, old Japanese yukata, his usual bedtime attire, made his way down the stairs, his bushy white brows and wiry hair standing on end.
“Who’s come a-calling?” croaked the old man good-naturedly.
With the lights on, Veronica noticed the envelope lying just inside the doorway where someone had slipped it through the brass mail slot. She leaned down and picked up the letter, turning it over for clues to its origin. “I don’t know.”
The envelope bore her name across the front in anonymous typewritten letters.
“Maybe it’s a note from an admirer,” chuckled the old man.
Veronica frowned and carefully tore open the letter. Her face remained as smooth as glass as she read the note, but trying to hide her anxiety, she quickly jammed the letter back into the envelope.
“So? What does it say?”
Veronica smiled. “It’s nothing.” As her fingers folded and unfolded the envelope, she prayed he would let it go.
“Indulge an old man,” said Buzzy, gently slipping the paper from her hand.
Annoyed, Veronica crossed her arms across her breasts, as her father read her mail. “You’re by far the nosiest person I’ve ever met.”
“Made a career of it,” mumbled the archeologist as he pulled the letter out of the envelope and read.
Veronica studied her father as his face darkened and his usually good-natured expression vanished.
He looked up. “Perhaps now you’ll stop being so headstrong and listen to me!” Buzzy angrily slapped the note down on the hall table. “Is this what it takes?”
Veronica’s chin rose a notch and a combative fire kindled in her eyes, but she said nothing.
Shaking his head, Buzzy turned away and started back up the stairway. “I’ve had enough, Veronica. This Goddamn Diamond Ball! I’m going to take care of this whether you like it or not!” He turned back momentarily to glare at her. “You’re still my daughter!”
Veronica bit her lower lip to keep back a sharp response as she watched her father lumber up the stairs. There was no point in arguing with him when he was in a state.
Whether in anger, or simply by reflex, Buzzy snapped off the light as he reached the landing, leaving her bathed in the moonlight spilling through the hall windows. She could hear him grumbling to himself as he disappeared into the darkened second floor.
Veronica exhaled a long breath and picked up the note again. Narrowing her eyes in the dim light, she slowly we
nt over the short, typewritten sentences. There was nothing to be found on either the letter or the envelope to reveal the identity of the author.
Glancing up from the page, she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. The shimmer of moonlight on diamonds played at her throat and peeped out like stars from behind the dark hair that didn’t quite cover her earlobes. “Ice Princess” had been one of Derrick Chapin’s favorite snide little pet names for her—derogatory and complimentary at the same time, as he had so often been during their brief marriage. She searched her own dark, India-ink eyes looking for something beyond the flawless image.
When will this finally be over? She looked at her reflection, but the cool moonlit beauty who stared back seemed to possess more secrets than answers.
Chapter Two
John stopped off at Zabar’s, the famed gourmet delicatessen, on the way to his mother’s house. He picked up bagels and lox, matzo ball soup, and crunchy kosher pickles—all the Jewish food his Catholic-Croatian mother was crazy about. He ordered himself a turkey and provolone sub from the deli counter and headed to the register. A pretty cashier with big brown eyes and long wavy hair rang him up.
“That’ll be $22.45,” she informed him cheerfully.
John scanned his wallet. It was filled with maxed-out credit cards and no cash. “Try this,” he said hopefully, handing the cashier a credit card. He held his breath as she swiped it through the machine.
This is no way to live.
The register beeped and, to his relief, spit out a sales receipt for the groceries.
The cashier smiled and handed him the bag of gourmet goodies. As he met her eyes, she blushed and coyly cast down her heavily mascaraed lashes.
John smiled back. It was amazing how women could respond so positively to a smile or a polite, “How are you?” Back in his drinking days, John had come to the conclusion that women were difficult. Of course, this thought usually came while he was puking his guts out in front of a date on the pavement outside his favorite dive bar or wavering on his feet while making improper suggestions in some poor girl’s ear with alcohol-drenched breath. But, lo and behold, with the onset of his sobriety, suddenly female admiration glowed warmly toward him from all corners. Too bad Simon had strongly suggested he not get seriously involved with anyone just yet. Following Simon’s suggestions had been tough but so far he was right on the money. John picked up the bag of groceries and waved goodbye to the cashier.