by Unknown
“Goddamn it!” swore the old man, looking around the room for his dog. “Where’s Jefferson?”
As he looked around, he heard the bulldog snoring in the corner. Infuriated, he went to Jefferson and shook him. “Where the hell were you when this happened?”
Jefferson just whined in his sleep and farted.
“That’s about the size of it,” said the old man shaking his head in disgust before he picked up the phone to notify the authorities.
Chapter Ten
John was fast asleep when his phone rang. Blindly reaching out his hand in the darkness, he fumbled for it. His fingers closed around the receiver. “Hello?”
“John…” It was Veronica. She paused and he was surprised to hear the badly suppressed sound of her sobs across the line. “My jewels are gone. They’ve been stolen!”
“I’ll be right there.” John slammed down the phone. He knew this was going to happen.
Veronica had dried her eyes by the time he pulled on some clothes and raced down to her bedroom. Her eyes were red and puffy and she was paler than her bedsheets. She hadn’t yet changed out of the black evening gown, but that was all she wore. Her diamonds were noticeably missing. She looked naked without her sparkling jewels and he realized it was the first time he had ever seen her unadorned.
“They’re all gone,” she said, wiping her runny nose with her hand. She sounded as heartbroken as a mother whose baby had just been kidnapped.
John scanned the room. “Have you touched anything?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, there was nothing to touch. The door to my room was locked from the inside and so are all the windows.”
John walked to the windows and inspected the locks. It was all as she said. Next he checked the air conditioning vent, but the screws holding it in were perfectly in place. There was no other way into the room. “Tell me what happened.”
Veronica sank into a chair and ran her naked fingers through her hair. “I came home from dinner at about ten-thirty. I sat down on the loveseat over there by the windows and I guess I was so tired I fell asleep. When I woke up, I knew something was wrong. I raised my hand to touch my necklace and it wasn’t there. Then I looked down and my bracelets were gone, too. Someone slipped the jewelry right off my body while I was sleeping! How on earth could they do that without waking me up?”
“I don’t know. What happened after that?”
Her dark blue eyes welled up and she pointed to the jewelry case resting on her vanity table. “Well, I went straight to my jewelry case, which I found locked by the way, and everything inside it was gone.”
John narrowed his eyes. “The case was locked when you left for dinner?”
She nodded her head.
“And when you went to look for your jewelry, it was still locked? You had to unlock it to look inside?”
“That’s right.”
He kneeled in front of the jewel case being careful not to touch it. “Where’s the key for this?”
“It’s in my purse. I’ll get it,” she said, rising.
She pulled a deep burgundy alligator purse out of the closet and produced the key.
“It’s exactly where I always keep it,” she said, bringing the bag over to him and pointing to a little zippered compartment inside the purse. “You see?” She shook her head. “I just don’t understand how all this could have happened while I was asleep in the room. How did the thief know where my key was? It’s as if…” her voice trailed off.
“A ghost came and took them.” John finished her sentence and added, “Or maybe the Ghost.”
“Oh God.” She sank down on the bed and put her head in her hands. “That’s what I was afraid of. Have you ever recovered anything he’s stolen?”
“I’m not so sure it is the Ghost.” Though he had to admit it sure as hell seemed like it from everything he’d ever seen of the elusive jewel thief. “What about Nicholas Bezuhov? He didn’t pay you a visit tonight, did he?”
She raised her chin, a little life coming back into her face. “No, he wasn’t here and he didn’t do this. He’s my good friend, John. He would never in a million years steal from me. He knows what my jewelry means to me.”
“All the same,” said John, “I’d like to find out where he was this evening.”
Veronica looked annoyed. “Don’t you think we should be busy trying to track the real thief instead of wasting time with Nicholas? Besides, even if it was the thief you call the White Russian, didn’t you say he always leaves a calling card? There’s no card in this room that I can see.”
She had a point there, but John was beginning to think maybe Nicholas only left calling cards when he wanted to confuse the authorities. What better way to portray your innocence than by throwing everyone on the scent of a supposedly different thief?
“Listen,” said John, “in a minute I’m going to call someone at the FBI and get him down here. I promise you he’s going to want to talk to your Russian friend—calling card or no calling card. Now, we can let him take your pal in for questioning or we can go ask him ourselves right now. What do you want to do?”
Veronica looked miserable. He knew she didn’t like either option but finally said, “All right, let’s go.”
They didn’t say a word as they made their way down to room 211. He was too busy thinking and she was still too upset. When they reached the White Russian’s room, John stood aside and motioned toward the door. “Go ahead. He’s your buddy.”
Glaring at John, she raised her hand and knocked on the door, calling softly, “Nicky, it’s Veronica.”
There was no answer.
“Try again,” said John.
She did, but there was still no answer.
“He’s not here,” she said. “I’m going back to my room and call the police.”
“Wait a moment,” said John thinking. “You go downstairs to the lobby and ask the concierge if he’s seen Nicholas tonight. I’m going to wait right here until you come back and tell me what they say.”
“This is ridiculous, John. You’re chasing the wrong man!”
John turned and looked straight into those teary eyes. “Listen, Veronica, do you want your stuff back or not? You may not think much of me, but I did have a pretty good track record in my years with the FBI. I’ve caught more thieves and recovered more stolen jewelry than anyone else in the department—then or now.”
“But you never recovered anything stolen by the Ghost, and that’s who took my jewels. I know it and you know it!” Veronica shot back, her temper obviously starting to rise.
“Maybe it was the Ghost,” admitted John, “but maybe it wasn’t. Either way, you have to believe that there is no one else who offers you a better shot of recovering your things than me. So I need you to help me, and I need you to help me now, before the trail gets too cold.”
They stared each other down for a tense moment, but at last, Veronica nodded. “All right, I’ll meet you back up here in a minute.”
When the elevator doors had safely closed behind her, John scanned the hallway. All was quiet. He took a “Do Not Disturb” sign off the knob of a nearby room and carefully slid it between the crack of the door to room 211 and the molding. He shifted the sign around until the lock clicked. Slowly, he pushed the door open to reveal the White Russian standing in the entrance. The thief was wearing a navy silk dressing gown and an antique ebony cigarette holder was stuck in his mouth. His black eyes were cold and unamused.
“Can I help you?” he asked, in his thick Russian accent.
“Can I come in?” asked John curtly.
“No, I’m afraid you cannot. I have a guest with me.”
“Why didn’t you answer the door when Veronica knocked just now?”
The White Russian exhaled a stream of smoke through his nostrils like a dragon. “I just told you, I have a visitor and do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Listen, Bezuhov,” John said in his best tough cop voice, “Veronica Rossmore’s entire jewelry collection wa
s stolen tonight, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re the number one suspect.”
The White Russian narrowed his black eyes and didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he surprised John by asking, “Is she terribly upset?”
“You’re damn right she’s upset. Maybe you can tell me where you were this evening?”
“Jessica and I went to the Kennedy Center for the ballet. We just got back to the hotel about twenty minutes ago,” replied Nicholas.
“Did the concierge see you come in?”
“Yes, in fact, I picked up a note from him on my way in,” said the White Russian smoothly.
“Who’s the note from?” asked John.
“None of your business,” snapped Nicholas.
“What ballet did you see?”
“Giselle, my favorite. I still have the tickets if you’d like to see them,” he sneered in mock helpfulness.
“Jessica in there, too?” asked John.
Nicholas turned his head and called, “Moheta, could you come here a moment please?”
The debutante stepped out of the shadows, clutching a pale pink satin robe across her naked breasts. Her hair was disheveled and John could just make out a purple bruise under her left ear, which she tried to cover by wrapping her hand around her throat. “What is it, Nikoli?” she asked in her well-bred voice.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, miss,” said John, “but can you tell me what you did this evening?”
Jessica blushed clear to the roots of her blonde hair and looked at Nicholas confused.
“He means where did we go tonight,” explained the White Russian.
“Oh,” said the debutant. “Well, we went to dinner at the Willard Room and then to the ballet.” She looked John up and down trying to figure out what he was doing there.
“I’m sorry, miss. My name is John Monroe. I’m working as a bodyguard here in the hotel and my client’s jewels have just been stolen.”
“But what has that got to do with us?” asked Jessica, mystification written across her baby-soft face and innocent pale-blue eyes.
“It has nothing to do with us,” said Nicholas. “So if you don’t mind, Mr. Monroe, we’d like to go back to bed.”
I bet you would, John watched the dishy debutante turn away and disappear back into the dark room.
“Veronica know about her?” asked John.
“Good night,” said the White Russian and shut the door in his face, just missing John’s nose by a fraction of an inch.
A few moments later, the elevator doors opened and Veronica stepped out. John made his way down the hall to her. “What did they have to say downstairs?” he asked.
“They told me Nicholas was out all evening but came in about twenty minutes ago with that same blonde girl he was with last night.”
“All right,” said John. “I just spoke to him and he gave me the same story.”
“You see? I told you he had nothing to do with this,” said Veronica, annoyed.
“We’ll see about that.” John jabbed the elevator button with his finger. “In the meantime, we better officially report the theft.”
“Yes, we should,” she agreed.
The elevator arrived and they stepped in. John leaned back against the wall and inspected Veronica. She looked miserable. Her dark hair hung in lose clumps where she had clawed it from its pins, a faint line of black mascara streaked her pale cheek. She was a far cry from the immaculately dressed, poised woman he had become used to over the past few days. He felt a swell of sympathy for her and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Veronica. We’ll get your jewels back.”
She looked at him and smiled wanly. It was clear she didn’t believe him.
The elevator doors slid open, but John put his hand on the HOLD button. “Listen, why don’t you let me take care of this? You go upstairs, wash your face, change into something else, maybe have a glass of wine. I’ll be up in a moment. It could be a long night once the authorities get here. You may want to camp out in my room while they dust yours for prints.” He didn’t tell her he was beginning to get the feeling they wouldn’t find any.
She nodded and looked relieved. “Thank you, John.”
He gave her a wink. “Don’t worry.” He stepped out of the elevator and the doors whispered shut behind him.
****
Half an hour later, Veronica’s hotel suite had turned into the three-ring circus John had known it would. Downstairs the press was already clogging up the lobby, waiting for their first scoop on the latest installation of the Ghost chronicles.
When Quinn arrived, John realized it had been a long time since he’d laid eyes on his old partner. Quinn’s little paunch had turned into a full-fledged potbelly and his hair seemed to have thinned dramatically. He wore a gray slicker against the rain that had begun to pour down outside and his wet, mouse-brown hair was plastered against his skull.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he announced to the room full of cops. “I had to fight my way through the vultures downstairs.” He shook his head like it was all too much.
“Sorry to bring you out at this hour,” said John, walking his ex-partner over to Veronica, who had slipped into a pair of jeans and a black cashmere sweater. “This is Miss Rossmore.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Quinn, distractedly sticking out a chubby hand for her to shake.
She nodded and murmured, “Nice to meet you.”
She had sunk into a morose depression so deep John was almost shocked by it. Where had the feisty, confident woman gone? He studied her as she quietly moved into a corner of the room and sat with her head propped up on one elbow watching the police check out the room.
Quinn frowned. “She okay?”
“She’s taking this pretty hard.”
“Well then, maybe she should have kept her freakin’ jewels in the hotel safe,” whispered Quinn irritably. “I cannot believe this night. I really can’t. Do you know where I just came from? Guess! Why don’t you guess?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you.” Quinn stuffed a cigarette in his mouth and flicked the lighter repeatedly in short sharp jerks until it finally produced a flame. “Senator Hayes’ house. And do you know why I was there? Because friggin’ Maggie the Cat, or at least I’m pretty sure that’s who it was, hit the place and took off with the Mogul Emerald.”
“The Mogul Emerald?” John mentally tried to place the stone.
“You’ve been out of the game too long,” observed Quinn with his first grin of the evening. “It’s a massive square-cut emerald. It used to belong to the maharajas of India. About a hundred years ago, someone got the idea to etch Islamic prayers into it. The senator’s wife, who’s a nut about New Age stuff, bought the thing last year during their peace-making trip to the Middle East. She thinks it will protect her and her family from terrorist attacks. She’s fucking freaking out.”
“Maggie the Cat does love her high-profile jewels,” said John, remembering some of her past suspected heists.
“Yeah, God forbid she hit up a jewelry store and steal a few engagement rings,” grumbled Quinn.
“So what makes you think it’s her?”
Quinn started counting off the reasons on his chubby fingers. “One—she’s in the area. Two—this is her kind of rock. Three—my men found a, a…what do you call it? A sparkle? No. A sequin, they found a friggin’ sequin on the floor of Senator Hayes’ bedroom.”
John shook his head. “That’s pretty flimsy evidence, but I see what you’re saying. Once again, you know who did it but can’t prove it.”
“Isn’t that always the game,” complained Quinn, looking discouraged.
“Well, it looks like it’s been a busy night,” said John, patting his friend on the shoulder.
“You said it. Anyway,” Quinn scanned the room, “what about this? What have you got?”
“I hate to say it, but it looks to me like the Ghost,” admitted John.
“Are you sure? It’s been a long time
since the Ghost’s been in action.”
“But the Puck Diamond—”
“Turned out to be the Granny who pulled that one off. I managed to identify her in the crowd after watching that damn video frame by frame for about twelve hours straight. Now we just have to catch the old broad so I can get Katherine Park off my ass.” He put his palms together and turned his eyes toward heaven. “Please, dear God.” He took a long drag off his cigarette and snatched up a crystal ashtray from the bedside table to flick his ash into before it dropped onto the expensive carpet. “And you know what? I’m beginning to have a theory about the Ghost.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“What if there is no Ghost?” said Quinn, raising his eyebrows dramatically.
“What do you mean?” asked John, confused.
“I’m saying,” said Quinn, stabbing his cigarette into the air, “what if there never was any Ghost? What if we’ve just been attributing any well-executed jewel theft to the Ghost? Think about it. We find a clean robbery with no breakin and no fingerprints and we say, ‘Aw Christ, it must be the Ghost.’ But it could be all kinds of different thieves at different times.”
John shook his head. It didn’t seem right, though logically it would explain why they had never been able to find this almost mythical jewel thief. “I don’t know,” said John skeptically.
Quinn shrugged. “It’s just a theory. Anyway, what about the White Russian? Any chance he could have pulled this off?”
“Well,” said John, “no calling card and he has an alibi that, at least superficially, checks out. Still, I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
Quinn nodded his head in agreement. “What about Maggie the Cat? We know she hit the senator’s tonight. It’s not like her to rob more than one place in an evening, but then again, how often are you going to have this many prize jewels all in the same town at the same time. We gotta to thank this fucking Diamond Ball.”
“Not her style.” John remembered the flamboyant red-haired acrobat who had gracefully somersaulted her way through some of the most exclusive private vaults and safe-deposit boxes in Europe. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s Zagen.”