by Unknown
“Okay, I believe you,” said John smiling.
“I’m not done,” she snapped. “After that, in 1911, Evelyn Walsh McLean, who was married to the owner of The Washington Post, got her hands on the diamond and her son was killed in a car accident, her daughter overdosed on sleeping pills, and her husband ended up in an insane asylum. Finally, after she died, Harry Winston bought the Hope and was smart enough to donate it to the Smithsonian, which put it right here, safe and sound.” She smiled at him, satisfied at last. “Now do you understand why you couldn’t pay me to take ownership of this necklace?”
John stared at her beautiful face, her dark blue eyes glowing and alive. “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded.
She nodded as if to say, “damn right I am,” but knew she didn’t need to say it.
“Next you’ll be telling me you believe in astrology, too,” he joked.
“Well, as a Capricorn I’m not supposed to, but I do anyway,” she admitted. “Don’t you believe there must be a bit of truth in something so ancient?”
John laughed. “I never did, but then I kept dating Gemini women—with disastrous results. Everywhere I went I seemed to fall for one. After a while, I started to think there might be something to it and swore off future Geminis.”
Then she surprised him.
“Well, since I’m not a Gemini, what are you doing tonight, John?” she asked, tilting her face up to his with a flirtatiousness he hadn’t seen from her before.
“I…I don’t know,” he stammered, like a school kid caught unprepared.
“You must know DC a little.”
“Sure, I used to come down here a lot for work.”
“Well,” she bit her juicy lower lip, “maybe you know some quiet little place you could take me to dinner?”
“It’ll help me keep an eye on those diamonds of yours since you insist on wearing them around,” he joked.
“Do you like to mix business with pleasure?”
“I normally don’t,” he said, trying to be honest.
“I do,” she said, suggestively.
“But you’re not doing any business down here. Just going to a party and showing off your rocks.”
She smiled that same Mona Lisa smile she had smiled in the car yesterday when she refused to tell him about the Hope.
“I’ll make a reservation at a little Italian place I know for eight o’clock—but it isn’t fancy,” he warned her.
“That’s okay.”
They started moving out of the Hall of Geology, timing their feet to walk in a slow, mutual pace so they could talk.
“What are you up to now?” he asked.
“I’m going to a dress fitting for Saturday night.”
“I better go with you since you’re wearing a king’s ransom,” he cautioned her.
She stopped walking and turned to look him straight in the eye. “Let’s get one thing straight.” She jabbed a surprisingly sharp fingernail into his chest. “My overprotective father is paying you to watch out for me at the Diamond Ball. Okay, I’ve agreed to that, but that’s it. If I want to walk stark naked all by myself through the worst ghetto in Washington with nothing on but my diamonds, that’s my business.”
John would have liked to see that, but he only said, “Point taken.”
She thrust out her hand and he took it. Her skin was soft and cool, her fingers wrapped around his palm and it felt right. He forced himself to let go after the appropriate two pumps.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“Maybe I’ll…” he was going to say hit an AA meeting, but instead replied, “Maybe I’ll stick around here. It looks like there’s a great exhibit of WWI flying ace planes from the banners I saw in the lobby.”
“You do that.”
He realized he had been dismissed for the rest of the afternoon, which he didn’t like one bit.
He watched her float down the corridor in her fluttery chiffon dress. When she was gone, he wandered back into the mineral gallery and poked around. There were brightly lit slabs of natural amethyst quartz from the Rio Grande, shining lemon yellow sulfur from Yellowstone National Park, and opals of shifting colors from the Cyclades. Rocks, crystals, and boulders filled every corner of wall space in the dim room.
“ROCKS TELL STORIES,” declared one museum sign. “ROCKS REMEMBER” and “ROCKS INFORM,” said some others.
John stepped up to a big, brightly lit replica of the earth’s core. It looked like a giant orange with a section cut out. The sign by the display read:
Inside Earth, beneath its familiar surface and thin crust, lie a rocky mantle and iron core. The inner earth is hot. Its core is hotter than the surface of the sun. The inner earth flows and churns. In the outer core, a churning dynamic liquid iron generates Earth’s magnetic field.
John thought about Veronica as he looked at the model of the world with its cold rocky surface and the hot inferno within. She had surprised him with the come-on. Every time he thought he had her pegged, she changed. He wondered what lay beneath her surface, how many different sides of Veronica Rossmore there were and how he’d know when he’d seen them all.
Chapter Seven
Oscar Kelly, the superintendent at the John Adams Apartments in Georgetown, watched in amazement as the old woman in front of him raced up the steps, as chipper as a puppy in a fresh green field, while he dragged his ass up after her.
“I just can’t wait to see my Army!” chirped the old bird as she reached the third floor of the converted townhouse.
“You’re sure he said he left the key with me?” asked Oscar, as he reached the landing.
She turned big, watering eyes on him. “Oh yes, that’s what he said. He told me he would be at work baking all day for that fancy caterer he works for.”
Oscar looked her over again. “Okay, he must have just forgotten to let me know on the way out this morning. Sometimes he gets busy and he forgets things…like the rent!” Oscar let out a big laugh like a whale blowing its spout.
“Oh, I hope poor Army isn’t having money problems.” She looked troubled.
“He does pretty well for himself with all those cookbooks he writes.” The superintendent’s words reassured Delores as he unlocked the door and held it open for her to shuffle past into the apartment.
“Well, thank you so much for your help, Oscar,” said the lady, and with a friendly little wave, she closed the apartment door.
What a sweet old lady. Oscar headed back downstairs.
Inside the apartment, Delores Pigeon looked around and nodded in approval as she entered the kitchen. The room was big and airy with a nice window overlooking the C & O Canal. Pots of fresh rosemary, lavender, and mint grew in the sunlight that streamed onto the windowsill. Shiny copper pans hung above the Viking range and the white tile walls gleamed with cleanliness. From a successful chef, she expected nothing less, but one never knew what one would find when one entered a house unexpectedly.
Now for the chamomile tea.
With her prim white gloves on, she opened the kitchen cabinets until she found a pretty orange tea tin. Chef Armand never failed to mention on his television specials that his very favorite accompaniment to the delicious desserts he whipped up was a nice cup of chamomile tea. In fact, he swore he never went a day without drinking a pot.
The Granny hummed slightly off-key as she opened up her black alligator purse and took out a packet of fine cinnamon-colored powder. Carefully, she removed the lid to the tin of loose tea and sprinkled the powder over the crushed chamomile leaves.
Hmm…
She threw in a good pinch more. Satisfied, she closed the tin, replacing it on the shelf. Returning the packet of powder to her bag, she snapped the purse shut and stepped into the living room. She peered out at the fire escape just outside the living room window. It seemed to be in good repair. Without a second look, the Granny slid open the window and crept down the fire escape to the alley below.
As her sensible black shoes touched pave
ment, she decided to head back to that lovely furnished apartment she had rented. It would be delightful to see all the sights of the nation’s capitol but, she remembered with a sigh, she did have those brownies to bake…
****
John met Veronica in the hotel lobby at a quarter to eight. He was there first, nervously drumming his fingers against a fluted column, craving a cigarette, craving a shot of Maker’s Mark, but just drumming his fingers instead and watching the posh crowd mill around.
The elevator doors opened and there was Veronica. She wore a dark red strapless dress that clung to her curves. Her lips and nails were red, too, and her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders. A massive diamond-and-ruby necklace lay propped against the tops of her breasts, which swelled out of her dress provocatively. The necklace was the only jewelry she wore, but it was enough. It looked like the kind of piece you would see on Queen Victoria at an important royal event. Strands of glittering icy diamonds laced around her throat like a sparkling spider’s web, and the eye-popping, pear-cut ruby glittered devilishly, a perfect pigeon’s blood red. If Veronica had attached a roaring police siren around her neck she couldn’t have attracted more attention. She smiled when she caught John staring.
But he wasn’t the only one.
Veronica’s eyes flickered over to a tall, thin man in a tuxedo; his dark hair was greased back and he wore a white flower in his lapel and a blonde DC debutante on his arm. John narrowed his eyes as he realized who the man was. There was no mistaking Nicholas Bezuhov, also known on the jewel thief circuit as the White Russian.
Nicholas must have seen him, too, and he would certainly know John after all the years of cat-and-mouse they had played together. Of course, it was also possible Nicholas was just getting an eyeful of Veronica and her big ruby necklace. Either way, John didn’t like it.
Neither did the blond debutant. “Come on, Nicky,” she said in her cool, boarding-school voice. “We’ll be late for dinner.”
With a polite nod, Nicholas moved on. The debutante gave Veronica an icy stare as they passed her on the way into the elegant dining room, which was already full of senators, foreign diplomats, and the occasional well-heeled tourist who came to see where the Washington power brokers broke their bread.
Veronica sized up the blonde and dismissed her in the blink of an eye. Then she walked to John who was still staring after Nicholas Bezuhov.
“Do you know that man?” she asked, following his gaze.
“He calls himself Prince Bezuhov,” said John, disgust seeping into his voice. “Fancies himself some kind of Russian aristocrat, but according to our records, he’s pure peasant masquerading as the great-grandson of the Grand Duchess Anastasia like all the rest of the Euro-trash he runs with.”
She raised a manicured brow. “I get the impression you don’t like him.”
“I don’t like phonies and he’s one of the worst. I didn’t like the way he was eyeing your rocks either.”
She patted his arm. “Well, that’s what I have you for—to protect me and my rocks.” She was making fun of him, but he didn’t care. She looked so beautiful that she could make all the fun she wanted.
Still, he was concerned about her diamond stash upstairs. “You sure you don’t want me to put your jewels in the hotel safe? You have to understand, with this guy on the premises, you’re very likely to come home tonight and find it all missing.”
“Don’t worry,” she said confidently. “They’re in a very safe place.”
John shook his head. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t force her to lock up her valuables if she didn’t want to. “I hope you have good insurance.”
Veronica wanted to take her convertible, but John wasn’t letting a woman drive him around if they were on a date. Since the elevator doors slid open to reveal Veronica at her bombshell best, it was clear this truly was a full-fledged date.
He held out his arm and she slid her hand through the crook of his elbow as a team of capped bellhops rushed to open the door for them. The night was soft and warm with a hint of summer in it.
“By the way, you’re overdressed,” he informed her as they slid into one of the taxis that stood in line outside the hotel.
“I know.” She settled in next to him as the cab pulled away.
****
Across the street, Dornal Zagen’s dead, gray eyes followed the red taillights of the taxi as it disappeared down the avenue.
So Veronica Rossmore and John Monroe were together. The Austrian thief smiled. That made things simple. With the two people he most wanted access to right under his nose, it was as if the stars had aligned to assist him in his plan. Or perhaps, his employer had arranged it.
As he struck a match and watched the flame sizzle and burn for a moment before lighting his cigarette, he pondered what exactly the two of them wanted from each other. Surely, Monroe was there in some sort of professional capacity—probably as a bodyguard. It had looked, however, from Veronica’s red-hot dress and the even hotter look in their eyes when they stared at each other, as if there were more to it than that.
Dornal smirked. Veronica wasn’t exactly known for fraternizing with the help, let alone sleeping with them. She was rumored, in certain circles, to have other, more intense, obsessions.
Dornal flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and turned to go. In the end, it didn’t really matter why John Monroe and Veronica Rossmore were shacking up. Before this was all over, Monroe would be dead and Veronica…
Well, he’d just have to think about what he could do with the lovely Veronica Rossmore.
****
John had picked out a cozy Italian place with dark red walls covered in grainy black-and-white photographs of the old country. Big mirrors reflected the glow of softly lit lamps, which were set out on tables draped in checkered cloths. Wine bottles hung from the ceiling and the tender voice of Corelli crooning a Puccini aria played in the background.
Veronica smiled as the short, stout maitre d’ escorted them to a black leather booth and dramatically fluffed a napkin in the air to lie on her lap. Their waiter recited every dish on the menu with the passion of an ardent young lover pontificating on the curve of his lady’s derrière. Veronica ordered the eggplant parmesan and a glass of merlot. John got the lasagna and a soda.
She looked around the room. “I was right. You’re a complete cornball.”
“Why? Because I’m not too cynical and jaded to enjoy a blatantly romantic atmosphere?”
“Are you calling me cynical and jaded?” she asked.
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“I can respond to a romantic atmosphere as well as the next girl—if I’m with the right man,” she said, her eyes sparkling wickedly.
The waiter set their drinks down on the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Don’t drink?” she observed, looking him up and down like she was trying to figure him out.
He held her stare. “No, I don’t.”
“Why not?” she asked, running a finger around the rim of her wine glass.
“The Irish really shouldn’t,” John replied with a smile.
She smiled, too. “I hope you don’t have any objections to my…” She pointed to her glass.
“On the contrary, I think you should get good and soused. It’ll give me an advantage over you.”
“You’ll need it,” she replied, with a self-satisfied smile.
“Don’t be too sure.”
“You know, it’s probably not right for me to have asked you out,” she said. “It probably would make my father angry.”
“Is that why you did it?”
“No.” She took a sip of wine.
“Then why did you?” he asked seriously.
She gave him her Mona Lisa smile. “Maybe I wanted to get to know you a little better.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I might like you,” she admitted. “I think you’re a nice, honest guy. There aren’t many of those around.�
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“You don’t really know me,” he said, dropping his eyes. All the terrible, low, cowardly things he’d done in the past flashed before him; the lies he’d told, the money he’d borrowed, the people he’d let down before he got sober.
“Why don’t you drink?” she asked him for the second time.
He looked up and saw sincere interest in her eyes. She wasn’t playing games. She really wanted to know.
“Because I’m an alcoholic.”
“Why?” she asked, and now there was intense interest written all over her face.
“Why?” he asked confused.
She leaned in closer to him. “Yes, why?”
“I don’t know,” he said, fiddling with the breadbasket. “It’s just one of those things. You either are or you aren’t.”
“So nothing happened to you? Nothing made you like that?” She seemed cagey and desperately curious all at the same time.
He looked at her more closely, but he still didn’t get why she was asking. “My father was an alcoholic and they say it runs in families. He died when I was seven.”
She sat back and nodded her head slightly, like she had found what she’d been looking for. Then she said quietly, “My mother died when I was twelve. I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I don’t like to talk about my dad, either,” he said, and their eyes met. They understood each other perfectly. They both knew what it was like, that hopeless grief and the lost feeling of things no longer being okay in the world—that they never would be again. They both had the raw wound still open, like it was only yesterday when their childish worlds had shattered. In just one glance, they understood that about each other.
She took a sip of wine. “Tell me a joke.”
John searched his mind. He knew a million of them. That’s all they did at AA meetings, stand around smoking cigarettes and telling jokes like it was one big cocktail party—minus the cocktails.
“Okay,” said John. “A panda walks into a bar, sits down, and orders a sandwich. He eats the sandwich, pulls out a gun, and shoots the waiter dead. As the panda stands to go, the bartender yells, ‘Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going? You just shot my waiter and you didn’t pay for your sandwich!’ And the panda yells back, ‘Hey man, I’m a panda! Look it up!’ and storms out of the bar. Well, the bartender grabs his dictionary and looks up ‘panda’ and it says: A tree-dwelling marsupial of Asian origin, characterized by distinct black and white coloring. Eats, shoots and leaves.”