by Unknown
“And now,” gushed Kay, unable to keep the excitement from her voice, “for the first time in the museum’s history, we have allowed our most prized possession to be worn at a public event. Our model is the lovely Miss Veronica Rossmore. I’m sure you’ve all guessed that the famous treasure I’m talking about is none other than the Hope Diamond!”
The crowd went silent in anticipation as they looked down the empty red carpet. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see the diamond that bore the most infamous curse of any jewel in history. John felt himself tense up as the seconds ticked by and Veronica did not appear. Almost starting to panic, he was about to push his way through the crowd and find her when Veronica stepped into the spotlight.
Cynthia Spencer may not have looked much like a princess while she walked the runway, but Veronica did. With the deep blue diamond shimmering and sparkling against her white skin, she cast a spell over the guests as surely as if she had waved a magic wand covered in pixie dust. As she made her way down the carpet, the audience rose to a standing ovation that sounded like an earthquake shaking the giant hall. Veronica, poised and calm, smiled at them; her face glowing and radiant, her eyes sparkling the same twilight blue as the Hope.
Someone who didn’t know her might have thought Veronica was basking in the love of the crowd like an insecure starlet blossoming under the approval of the masses. John knew, however, that it was the diamond itself giving her this high. The feel of its cold weight against her breastbone, the subtle life of the gem radiating its energy to her, whispering all its dark secrets and infamous history. She communed with the gem the way some hippies hugged trees or a great jockey caught the rhythm of his horse.
She turned back down the runway and as she passed him she caught his eye and winked.
When the lights on the catwalk went down and the ball commenced, John had to fight his way through the crowd to reach Veronica. A throng of admirers, camera crews and, he feared, potential jewel thieves swarmed around her vying for her attention. As last she gave her final interview for the eleven o’clock news and came to his side. She grabbed his hand in hers and said, “Let’s get a drink. I’m about to melt from standing under all those hot lights!”
“Over here,” John pointed to a gap in the crowd at the end of the long bar. They moved quickly so any lingering press would get it that showtime was over.
Apparently, Cynthia Spencer had the same idea, and cutting them off, slipped ahead in the bar line. She leaned her elbows on the wood, her imperial diamond necklace scraping the bar, which was wet with splashes of liquor from the fast-paced pouring of the overworked bartenders. “Hey, let me have a rum and Coke,” she called to the nearest man behind the bar.
He caught her eye and held up his hand to let her know he heard her and would be with her in a minute. She turned to Veronica. “Can you believe this? My sorority house has better bartenders than this! They needed to hire, like, way more people!”
John realized Cynthia had not tripped on the hem of her dress as she traversed the catwalk out of pure awkwardness. The president’s daughter was completely hammered. Veronica ignored the girl, biting her lip as if holding something back.
Cynthia wavered on her feet a bit and turned back to the bar as the bartender handed her a drink. “Thanks,” she said, her eyes fastened on the glass in her hand. Before stepping aside to let John and Veronica order, she took a deep drink. An infuriated expression squished up her piggy little face and she slammed the glass down on the bar. “Why is there no alcohol in this?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Spencer,” said the bartender, looking uncomfortable. “Those were my orders.”
“Whose fucking orders? I can’t even have a drink at my own party?” she yelled. People nearby were turning to stare.
Veronica gripped the president’s daughter by the shoulder and said softly, “Come with me, Cynthia. We’re going to have a little talk…” Before she could go any further, the lights went out, plunging the ballroom into darkness.
Like a blind man, John grasped for Veronica, his hands brushing up uselessly against the tightly packed bodies of panicked guests. He called her name, but in the chaos of voices, he was just one more babble of confused sound.
Then he heard her through the crashing chairs and women’s screams. “Let go!”
John pushed his way toward her voice but he wasn’t making it too far. Just as he was about to lose his temper, he heard a hum and saw the security lights snap on as bright as the afternoon sun.
The stunned guests instinctively stepped back to reveal Dornal Zagen dressed as a secret service agent. He and Veronica were in the midst of a violent tug of war for the Hope Diamond. The blue gem glittered on its icy chain between the white-knuckled fists of Veronica and the thief. The Austrian was gritting his teeth and John could see his temples pounding as Veronica held fast with every ounce of willpower she had. At their feet a wire clipper lay on the floor, evidently used to cut the necklace from Veronica’s throat.
Like the flash of a camera, John took it all in. Then he sprang forward along with about fifteen secret service men.
Dornal froze. Something had gone wrong. The lights had come up much too early. Cursing, he wrenched the Hope out of Veronica’s bleeding fingers.
John and the secret service men had almost reached him when the thief swung back his arm and threw the cursed diamond as far across the room as he could.
Stunned, the security men stopped in their tracks. The jewel caught the light and sparked like stardust over the outstretched fingers of the party guests until it landed on the down escalator that connected the rotunda with the lobby on the first floor.
A riot broke out as everyone from DC matrons to secret service men pounced, falling over themselves on the moving escalator like the Marx brothers in one of their classic movies.
In the chaos, no one noticed Zagen clamp his iron fist over Veronica’s mouth as he dragged her toward the side exit. No one except John.
He could see the terror in Veronica’s eyes.
“Put the knife down!” ordered Quinn, who, catching on, had crept up from another direction.
But Zagen ignored the FBI man and stared at John with hatred.
“Put the goddamn knife down!!” screamed Quinn.
“I’m going now,” said Dornal, his voice frosty like Alpine air as he began to back away.
Not this time; John leveled his Glock at Zagen’s face. He heard Quinn’s panicked voice like a fly buzzing around him, telling him not to shoot. The chances of hitting Veronica were too great.
John met her eyes. She dropped her chin slightly. He got the signal.
Veronica smoothly lowered her hand and grabbed Zagen’s balls, hard, digging in with her long nails. Taking advantage of the Austrian’s momentary surprise, she ducked just as John squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot echoed off the marble floors and pillars. Everyone froze in shock as the room went silent.
He’d missed.
Just above Zagen’s massive right shoulder, a bullet hole pocked the white marble column.
Cursing, the Austrian grabbed hold of Veronica even more fiercely than before and raised his knife to slice her throat open.
The women screamed and Veronica closed her eyes.
John felt the world slow down into a nauseating surreal moment. He had seen plenty of death in his career at the FBI, to the point where he’d become numb to it. But now, to watch Veronica’s throat slit in front of him and be powerless to stop it was too much. In a moment of pure madness, he flung his gun aside and went for Dornal. There were no thoughts, no plans, just tunnel vision with the Austrian and Veronica at the end of it.
He realized later he must have yelled or made some sort of desperate sound, which startled even the cool Austrian enough to flick his eyes up for a moment and see John coming at him like a rabid animal. All it took was the flick of those eyes.
Before anyone understood what had happened, the convict’s arms went limp, freeing a surprised Ve
ronica. His pale face turned ashy blue and his gray shark eyes rolled back in their sockets before he collapsed into John’s arms. Astonished, John looked down at the back of the Austrian’s head. It took a moment for him to register what he was looking at. Someone had shoved a cake cutter deep into Dornal Zagen’s brainstem.
Chapter Fifteen
John staggered under the weight of the Austrian’s body, but even as he struggled to hold the convict, he caught a glimpse of an older woman with gray hair slipping down a dark corridor and out of sight.
As the security men recovered from their surprise, John found himself surrounded by helpful hands.
Quinn stepped forward, pointing down the hall where the old lady had just escaped. “Get down there!” he urged his men.
But John, dumping Zagen’s body in the helpful hands, leapt forward. “No! I saw the killer. He was dressed as a security guard, too. He ran behind the crowd to that exit over there.” John indicated a fire exit in the corner of the room.
Quinn turned a squinty-eyed look of distrust on John. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! You’re losing valuable time!” insisted John.
Quinn shifted nervously on his feet and then made his decision. “All right, let’s go!” His men took off toward the exit John had indicated.
All around them, a firestorm of flashbulbs went off and the cacophony of voices swirled. Through it all he saw Veronica crying quietly with her back against a pillar; one slender hand wrapped protectively around her naked throat.
John cut through the crowd, put his arm around her waist, and began to lead her out of the ballroom. “Come on,” he said, gently walking her past the gaping onlookers.
“As soon as the lights went out, I grabbed it,” she said, looking pale and shaken. “I didn’t even feel him cut it off my neck. Suddenly, it was just loose in my hands and he was pulling it away.” Her usually soft white palms were cut and bleeding.
“I’m just glad you’re all right. You saved your life by fighting back. Remind me to take you with me next time I’m in a jam,” said John, smoothing back her hair.
She smiled, a bit of color coming back into her cheeks. “You’re the one. I’ve never seen anyone look like such a complete maniac as you did when you came charging at him, but who do you think…,” she paused and turned slightly pale again.
“Maybe if you’re real nice, I’ll tell you some day.”
“You know who killed him?” she asked in a surprised whisper.
Before he could respond, Kay Hopkins appeared at their side, bug-eyed and sweating. “Dear God, Veronica, are you all right, honey?”
Veronica nodded.
“I can’t believe you saved the diamond! You could have been killed!” she exclaimed.
“Where is the Hope?” asked Veronica.
Kay opened her hand to reveal the blue diamond winking up at them. “I have it right here. Secret service managed to grab the necklace before it was smashed to pieces at the bottom of the escalator.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t have broken,” said Veronica, with a wan smile. “Diamonds are pretty tough.”
Kay’s brow puckered at the sight of the torn skin on Veronica’s palms. “Look at your sweet little hands! Come along, honey. Let’s get you and this diamond back to the salon.” She put a motherly arm around Veronica’s shoulders as she led her and John, trailed by a small army of secret service men, back to the Adam’s Parlor.
Veronica sat quietly on the green silk settee as Georgette scurried forward with a first aid kit.
“Allow me,” said John, taking the kit from Kay’s assistant. He pulled out a packet of gauze, a few cotton balls and a small bottle of antiseptic. “This is going to sting,” he warned before gently applying the antiseptic to the cuts on Veronica’s palms.
She grimaced a little but didn’t pull away as he wrapped her hands in the gauze. “You look like the mummy’s bride,” he joked.
She smiled, but he could tell she was still shaken up from the drama in the ballroom.
The parlor was filling up with excited, chattering women coming to return their borrowed jewels, though the First Lady and her daughter had been whisked back to the White House by secret service at the first sign of trouble. Josephine’s imperial crown and Marie Antoinette’s earrings would have to wait until morning to be returned, but the Hope was now locked safely away in the Smithsonian’s vault.
“Well, you look exhausted,” said John to Veronica. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”
“That would be heaven,” she agreed, “but won’t they need us here for questioning?”
“I’m sure as long as we promise not to skip town, Quinn won’t object to us getting a little sleep. For tonight, let’s just say you’re under my custody.”
She smiled. “I like that idea.”
****
The wind was cool and refreshing as the platinum convertible sped down Constitution Avenue. The stars had come out and they twinkled sharply in the clear skies above. John and Veronica had snuck out the back entrance of the museum, avoiding the mess of TV cameras and news reporters who had arrived to cover the Ghost’s grand finale.
Veronica rested her head against the seat with her eyes closed. “I’ll be so glad when this night is over and I’m snuggled under the covers fast asleep.”
John’s cell phone started vibrating. He saw Quinn’s number as the incoming caller and pushed the answer button. “How’s it going down there?”
“Well, he’s dead as a doornail!” announced Quinn.
“Did you find the killer?”
“Not yet, but we’re dusting down the murder weapon right now looking for prints.”
John knew they wouldn’t find any.
“Guess what we did discover, though, in Zagen’s pocket?” crowed the FBI man.
“What?”
“A friggin’ journal and do you know what’s inside?”
“Dornal’s favorite Linzer Torte recipe?” joked John, blinking his eyes to stay alert.
“Every heist. The date, the time, even the rocks he stole. All our Ghost stories wrapped up in a nice, neat little bow. It’s perfect.”
John’s eyes were open now. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope. Can you imagine? Freakin’ psycho, huh?”
John was incredulous. “He carried a notebook of evidence against himself?”
“Yup.”
John digested this in silence as he turned onto Maryland Avenue. Who would do something like that? It was just plain stupid. Dornal Zagen may have been a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Of course the Austrian did have the kind of meticulous, methodical mind that would keep an accurate accounting of his life. Everything in its proper place. One more item checked off the list. Was it possible this journal was part of some sort of obsessive-compulsive ritual?
“Hey, you there?” asked Quinn.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m just trying to get used to the idea.”
“I know. A case like this…well, it goes on for so long and then when it’s finished…you almost feel disappointed.”
“It’s crazy,” agreed John.
“Well, I’ve got a few things to wrap up here, but then I’m going home for my first decent night’s sleep in I don’t know how goddamn long. I can deal with the rest of the details in the morning.”
“You do that, buddy,” said John.
“Sayonara.”
They hung up. John slipped the phone into his pocket and glanced over at Veronica. Her head was still leaning back on the car seat and she was staring up at the stars flashing by.
“So, that man was the Ghost?” she asked.
John was still shaking his head in amazement. “Looks like it.”
“Thank God that’s over!” she said, before closing her eyes and drifting off.
When they reached the Monticello, it was well past midnight. John was tempted to swoop Veronica up from where she dozed, but she sleepily opened her eyes and stepped out on her own.
They did
n’t say much on the elevator ride up to the fourth floor, but when they arrived at her door, she turned to John and lightly kissed his lips. “Thank you for taking such good care of me tonight.” She held up her bandaged palms.
“I’m just happy you’re still in one piece.” He slipped his hands around her hips and moved in closer, but she gently stepped away.
“We’ll have plenty of time when we’re back in New York…” She didn’t finish the sentence but her eyes told him everything she didn’t need to say.
He nodded. “Okay,” and kissing her forehead, he watched as she unlocked her door.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I just need a good night’s sleep,” she said as she slipped into her room. “Good night, John,” and she closed the door.
John stood there for a moment, scanning the hall for any nefarious activity, but there was none. The Ghost is caught, he reminded himself, still not quite able to grasp the concept as he slowly made his way down the hall to his own room.
He snapped on the lights as he walked in and tossed his jacket and pistol on the bed. He sat down to unlace his shoes when the New York Post article with the photograph of Veronica sprawled on the ground caught his eye.
He picked it up and looked at her lying on the floor where Derrick Chapin had thrown her in his jealous fit. How could he ever have believed this broken girl was the Ghost? Veronica wasn’t a criminal, just a beautiful magnet for violent men. He cringed, thinking about the scene he’d thrown in the car on the way to the ball. He’d been wrong about her. Wrong about everything. What else was new? His fingers lingered for just a moment against Veronica’s image before he put the picture away.
But then he frowned and picked it up again.
There was something about the photograph that bothered him.
He re-examined it. Nothing had changed, of course. Her legs still cranked to the same crazy angle, her dress was still up around her waist, her neck thrown back to expose the magnificent necklace…
Then it hit him.
He pulled the photograph directly under the bedside lamp to get a better look, but it was difficult to see. Still holding the Xerox photo, he picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.