by Unknown
“You’re kidding!”
Quinn sighed. “I wish I freakin’ were.”
“How did he get out?” John was curious despite himself.
“How’s he do a lot of things?” asked Quinn, disgusted. “No one has any idea. The alarm went off and they found his cell empty.”
“So he vanished into thin air?”
“That’s exactly what he did.”
John was silent. He automatically began laying a plan in his head to catch the notorious thief and maybe find out for sure this time if Zagen really was the Ghost.
“Look, here’s the thing,” said Quinn, interrupting John’s thoughts. “I’m using all my resources right now to deal with this Puck Diamond mess. You can imagine with the press and Katherine Park what a nightmare it is. Now Dornal Zagen breaks out, and, on top of that, the First Lady has decided to throw a big charity event—The Diamond Ball. All the big jewelers, like Cartier and Bulgari, are going to be there with models wearing their loot. The event’s being held at the Smithsonian and do you happen to recall what’s in the Harry Winston Gallery of the Smithsonian?”
“The Hope Diamond. I just read about it in The Post.”
“That’s right, the fucking Hope Diamond. The most famous jewel in the world. It’s like the worst security nightmare since…I don’t even know when!”
“I am so glad I don’t have your job.” John shook his head in the dark.
He could hear Quinn nervously lighting a cigarette. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yeah,” said John, emphatically.
Quinn changed his tactics. “But it could be a great time to catch a few thieves, huh? You know they’re all out there salivating—old Granny, the Ghost, Maggie the Cat, Nicholas Bezuhov, and now Dornal Zagen is on the loose.”
“I feel so out of the loop.” John couldn’t help the old thrill that was starting to run through him.
“So come back and help me out!” begged Quinn.
John sat back and thought about it.
Quinn exhaled. “You there?”
“I’m thinking,” said John, watching a tugboat float down the Hudson. “I wish there was some way I could sort of stick my toe in. I don’t want to go back to the FBI and get into it again. I realize it’s too soon and feel like I fucked up enough the first time around.”
“Well, there actually might be a way for you to do that.”
“What are you talking about?” asked John.
“There’s this old family friend of the First Lady, some Park Avenue brat, Veronica Rossmore. She has a treasure trove of jewels and is coming down for the party. Her father asked if we knew of anyone who could drive her and her booty down to DC and watch out for her at the Diamond Ball…”
John cut to the chase. “In other words, she’s looking for a bodyguard.”
“Exactly. It pays insanely well. I mean, really good money, and all you’d have to do is hang out with a beautiful, rich girl and escort her to the ball. I’d have the benefit of knowing someone who had a clue was watching her so I can do my job and not have to worry about it.”
John hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Listen, you just said you wanted to get your feet wet and you’d be doing me a big favor. There’s no one I’d rather have around at this Smithsonian thing than you,” urged Quinn. “And who knows…some of our old friends might show up. Maybe we’ll finally put the Ghost to rest.”
The whole idea gave John a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he did need to make some money. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
“How much did you say this pays?”
“Twenty thousand. I’d do it myself, if I weren’t so slammed.”
“Twenty thousand dollars!” John was certain he had heard wrong.
“That’s right.”
John was instantly suspicious. “Why so much?”
“They want the best. With people like this, the more money they spend, the better quality they think they’re getting,” explained Quinn, like he knew the rich.
“Just tell me what I have to do to get this job.”
“You just need to call her old man. Buzzy Rossmore, I think the name is.” John could hear his old partner routing around looking for the information. “I’ve got to get a better filing system,” Quinn complained.
“Why don’t you just call me in the morning with the information?” suggested John, picturing the usual mess of files, photos, old coffee cups, and whatever else had found its way onto Quinn’s desk.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. My wife’s going to kill me if I don’t get home soon.”
“Say hello to Diane for me.”
“Okay, talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay, and thanks. I appreciate your help.” John could hear Simon lecturing him in his head about gratitude and remembering to be thankful for the help we receive.
“Sure thing.”
****
Dornal set sail at dawn, taking the boat down the Hudson River to New York harbor. Not wanting to answer a lot of questions at the various marinas in town, he anchored offshore and jumped into the yellow rubber dinghy he found tied to the back of the sailboat. The launch sped along the polluted water until he reached the small private dock that serviced The Water Club. The swanky restaurant was located aboard a barge that could be accessed from the highway or the little dock off the East River.
Dornal threw a line to the white-jacketed boat hand, who quickly secured the dinghy and welcomed him to the club. He slipped his sunglasses on as he entered the elegant dining room with its plush booths and magnificent view of the river.
The maitre d’ approached. “Are you here for brunch, sir?”
Dornal nodded.
“Will it just be you?” inquired the maitre d’ politely.
“Yes.” Dornal scanned the room for the most secluded table. “May I have that one?” he asked in his clipped, nearly perfect English, indicating a corner booth.
The maitre d’ smiled. “Right this way.” He led Dornal to a table with crisp white linen and a small crystal vase filled with black lilies. Dornal couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a decent meal as he took the menu and began to review its offerings. That pathetic alcoholic from the FBI had made sure of it.
Dornal flashed back to that cold night in Chicago. He could still see the snow floating down outside the posh little jewelry shop, the diamonds glittering like ice in the moonlight. He could smell the scent of pine from the Christmas wreath that hung over the shop door and feel the end of John Monroe’s pistol pressed up against his kidney. In that moment, his fifteen-year crime spree had come to an end. That scene was seared into his memory banks more than any other.
The waiter approached. “Good morning, sir. Would you like to start off with something to drink?”
“Black coffee,” responded Dornal, “and I’ll take the scrambled eggs with crab cakes, too.”
“Very good,” replied the waiter, with a slight bow before heading into the kitchen.
Dornal pulled the dead man’s cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. The call connected and his employer answered.
“It’s Dornal.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Manhattan and I need money.”
“Didn’t you get the envelope I left in the glove compartment?” His employer sounded annoyed.
“I never made it to the car.”
There was silence for a long moment. “Go to the Three Brothers’ Diner on Eighty-Sixth Street and Columbus at five this afternoon. At the coat-check booth, tell them you left a brown suede jacket there. If they ask for the check slip, say you misplaced it but that there is a green wallet and a set of keys in the pocket of the jacket. Inside the wallet, you’ll find money and your instructions.”
“Got it.”
“When you arrive in Washington, I’ll call you at the number we agreed upon.”
“I’ll call you,” said Dornal.
“That’s not the plan…”
; But Dornal had hung up; he liked to make his own plans.
After the food arrived, he resisted his urge to wolf it down, eating and then finishing up with hot, black coffee. He paid with the dead man’s credit card. He didn’t care if the Feds traced it because he’d be out of Manhattan in the next few hours anyway. He left the dinghy tied to the restaurant’s dock and exited The Water Club through the main entrance on East Thirtieth Street.
Dornal walked a few blocks north along the river promenade. When no one was watching, he chucked the cell phone into the water where it sank to the bottom with the rest of the trash. He wished it was John Monroe’s lifeless body which was slowly sucked under the murky olive waves. He reassured himself that he’d track Monroe down with the same ruthless efficiency he performed all his tasks. Soon, John Monroe would be the only ghost left in town.
****
It was bright and early when John received a call from Buzzy Rossmore. The old man was pleasant on the phone, assuring John he had come so highly recommended he was confident this would all work out beautifully. His voice had the easy charm of old money. Good manners had probably been bred into Buzzy so early in life, he wouldn’t know how to behave any other way.
It must be nice, John thought as he listened to Mr. Rossmore speak. The archeologist asked John to drop by around three o’clock to meet his daughter and go over the details of the assignment. John agreed before hanging up.
He decided to walk through Central Park on his way to the Rossmore’s East Side town house. It was a bright, balmy day and the trees were bursting with new, green life, while the magnolias had begun to bloom all around Belvedere Lake.
John passed well-dressed little kids running wild through the playground at the foot of the large, bronze statue of Alice in Wonderland. Jamaican nannies chatted together on park benches while keeping one eye glued to their tiny charges. In Sheep’s Meadow, private school students lay out on picnic blankets soaking up the first weak sun of the season. They gathered in clusters listening to iPods, drinking diet sodas, and smoking clove cigarettes as they checked each other out from behind dark sunglasses.
He strolled past a patch of earth where Dutch tulips pushed up insistently in beds of red, yellow, and orange. They screamed, “Spring is here! Rejoice!” A little Chihuahua, dressed in a peach angora sweater and matching hat, danced over to the flowers on his tiny feet and christened them, his proud Park Avenue mommy beaming at him, exclaiming, “Good baby! That’s a good boy!” in a baby-talk voice that belied her fifty-plus years.
As he turned onto Fifth Avenue and left the park behind, John passed the Metropolitan Museum with its grand, white-columned façade and dancing fountains. Street artists had their easels out and painted bad Manhattan cityscapes for tourists to buy.
John made a right onto Ninety-First Street and scanned the elegant row of town houses. He spotted number 12 about halfway down the block. It was modest-looking compared to some of the wedding cake homes on the block with their carved stone gargoyles and elaborate decorative iron fences and balconies. The Rossmore’s house was a three-story brick building with neat, white trim around the windows. Red geraniums spilled out of window boxes and sat cheerfully in large cast iron pots by the front door. John rang the bell and waited.
The door was promptly answered by an Asian woman in a pale blue maid’s outfit. She looked sleek and elegant and smiled graciously. “You are Mr. Monroe,” she informed him.
“Yes, I am,” agreed John.
“Mr. Rossmore is not home yet. He said to tell you he would be a little detained, but Miss Veronica is waiting for you upstairs if you’ll follow me,” she said, with a polite bow.
John wasn’t sure if he should bow back so he just kind of inclined his head a bit. “Thanks.”
The maid led him through the small but beautifully decorated entrance. It contained a mahogany hall-tree on which several rumpled tweed jackets and an old trench coat were draped. These were clearly good quality but in desperate need of a pressing, perhaps even retirement. A few stray hats and mufflers left over from the winter and a pile of books on ancient Egypt were also stacked on top of the antique table beside the hall tree. The floor was worn but highly-polished black-and-white marble squares. Poised on a small table across from the doorway, a blue and white porcelain Chinese vase overflowed with an arrangement of fresh cut flowers which filled the room with the scent of roses and springtime lilacs.
They made their way up a narrow staircase to the second floor landing and into an old-fashioned parlor with sliding pocket doors. The room had warm wood paneling and a pale-green stained-glass Belle Epoque chandelier. Books lay around everywhere in neat piles and a giant periwinkle-blue Victorian sofa was positioned under the bay window that looked out onto the quiet street. Ancient maps, yellowed and fragile looking, lined the walls. The bust of an old Roman bigwig rested on the mantle of the black marble fireplace, which boasted a cheerful blaze though it wasn’t the slightest bit chilly out.
“Would you like some jasmine tea?” the maid asked, indicating a beat-up leather club chair for him to sit in.
“Oh, no thanks,” said John, trying to get his bearings.
“You might as well,” said a low feminine voice as an expensive-looking brunette swept into the room. She was dressed in a white halter dress with a simple, formfitting cardigan. It was difficult to tell if she was tall or not, because she wore high strappy shoes that showed off her pearly toes with their soft polish. Her hair was pulled back behind one ear to reveal a pair of dark blue eyes, lined with a faint trace of black. Her cheekbones were high but not severe, her skin glowed like an alabaster lamp, and her softly curved lips shone with pale pink gloss. She had a timeless face, a beautiful face, but there was something guarded and unapproachable in her expression. The elegantly old-fashioned scent of L’Heure Bleue trailed after her in tantalizing wisps. She barely looked at John as she slid into a chair by the fire. “I’m having some and my father won’t be home for a bit.”
She didn’t seem to want to look at him, but he was sure getting an eyeful of her. It had been a while since he’d felt such a primal physical attraction to a woman.
He barely noticed as the maid slipped discreetly out of the room.
“Well, you must be Veronica,” said John.
She looked up, her eyes sweeping over him in a cold, detached appraisal. He flashed his brightest smile, complete with dimples and wickedly sparkling green eyes. She didn’t seem impressed.
“Oh, don’t you tell me,” she said, with an arch of her perfectly manicured brow. Turning back to the fire, she put her hands out in front of the blaze.
This isn’t getting off to a good start.
“I’m John Monroe,” John rose to shake her hand.
“You don’t have to get up. I know who you are.” She picked a bit of invisible lint off her cardigan and tossed it into the fire.
Annoyed, John sank back down. “I’m assuming you’re Veronica.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that. Did you say yes?” he asked in the same tone he used to interrogate the crack dealers and two-bit stoolies who used to make his life hell when he still worked for the Feds.
She gave him a look, and sauntered over to his chair. She plastered on a big smile and stuck her hand out like a robot. “I’m Veronica Rossmore. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you so much for coming to see us in our home. We are very appreciative.” She shook his hand mechanically, dropped the smile, and went back to her chair.
“Nice brooch,” he observed, ignoring her rudeness. “Looks like…,” he thought about it for a moment, “Gillot or Cartier, early 1900s.”
She swiveled in her chair and looked him up and down again. “So, you can do more than point a gun.”
“Where did you get it?” he asked.
She got up again and slid onto the arm of his chair, unpinning the glittering brooch from the breast of her cardigan and handed it to him. He took it gingerly. The piece was e
xquisitely made up of diamonds and platinum arranged in the shape of a charming little bow with two pear-shaped stones hanging like teardrops from the bottom of each ribbon. The value was not in the quantity of diamonds used, which equaled less than three carats he estimated, but in the incredible craftsmanship. He flipped the brooch around and checked out the maker’s mark. Gillot, just as he’d predicted.
“It was my grandmother’s,” she informed him proudly.
He handed it back to her. “Don’t wear it on the subway.”
“I don’t take the subway,” she said rising, all chumminess gone.
“I was kidding.”
“Hmm.” She settled back into her chair by the fire and picked up a book.
The maid arrived with a modern set of ceramic cups and a squat teapot on a matching tray that looked a little out of place in the old-fashioned parlor.
“Thank you, Iris.” Veronica ignored the tea and flipped the page of her book.
“Thank you,” mumbled John as Iris once more slipped out of the room.
He sat uneasily in front of the tea set watching Veronica lazily read as if she were completely alone in the room.
“Aren’t you going to have some tea?” he asked to break the silence.
“Yes,” she said, without moving at all.
John looked at the steaming pot and looked at her. If she was waiting for him to serve her, she could wait forever.
She licked her thumb and flipped another page.
“Can I pour you some?” he asked.
The book was raised up higher now covering most of her face and she had turned even more toward the fire on her swiveling chair.
“No, thanks,” she answered after a moment’s pause, as if he had dragged her away from some fascinating sentence and she needed a moment to compute what he had asked her. She waved a hand from behind the big armchair, fluttering fingers toward the tea tray. “Feel free to pour yourself a cup,” she advised him.
Grudgingly, he gave into temptation and poured a cup.
Five minutes or so passed and he observed, “I feel like I’m in the waiting room of a really expensive shrink’s office, or maybe the dentist.”
She smiled in genuine amusement, whether at his wit or the uncomfortable position she was putting him in he couldn’t tell, but she put the book down. “I suppose I should be straight with you.”