Confessions of a Master Jewel Thief

by Bill Mason

  Old habits die hard. I started each day in Florida by going to a nearby bookstore and buying all the newspapers for Fort Lauderdale, Miami, Palm Beach and Naples. Over coffee I’d carefully scan the society pages, like old times but just for laughs now. I found quite a few things that seemed very interesting, but beyond reading, I didn’t undertake any of the usual prospecting-type activities to see if any of them might fit the bill as The Last Big One. All other considerations aside, I was by now too well known to local authorities on the east coast of Florida.

  Of course, Naples was on the west coast.

  24

  Prey No More

  SITUATED ON the Gulf of Mexico, Naples is considered by many the crown jewel of southwestern Florida. The county seat of Collier County, it’s a playground for the well-off that boasts the highest ratio of golf courses to golfers in the entire country. It has spectacular fishing, great shopping and pristine beaches, and is a convenient jumping-off point for a visit to the Everglades. The county was founded in 1923 by entrepreneur Barron Gift Collier, and the family name seemed to pop up everywhere I turned.

  One place it popped up a lot was in the Naples society pages, in the form of one lady whose married name I can’t recall but who was part of the Collier family. There was literally not one party, ball or charity gala I read about that she didn’t attend, and most of the newspaper stories included at least one picture of her, always wearing a lot of jewelry. I could feel the old juices begin to flow but didn’t take them seriously, because, after all, I was rehabilitated. I decided to take a ride down I-75, though, just to sniff around and see what it felt like to be assessing the potential again. Strictly for laughs, of course, and to see whether I might even have the balls if it was for real, because you never really know until you’re right there.

  When I got to Naples, my first stop was the public library to have a glance at my old friend the city directory. I found the lady, who was listed along with her husband as living in a condo that was actually on Marco Island, northernmost of the Ten Thousand Islands and even more of a subtropical paradise than Naples, twelve miles to the north. The handy little directory listed their suite number, and a bit of searching got me the names and suite numbers of all their neighbors as well. Then it was off to Marco Island.

  Theirs was a spectacular high-rise, maybe sixteen stories, and from the suite number I gathered they were somewhere close to the top. It faced the Gulf of Mexico, and there was a large, fancy hotel just two buildings away, which was perfect, because there was a lot of foot traffic in and around the place. As was typical in posh Florida resort areas, the neighborhood was also dotted with low-cost motels. I checked in to one about a mile down the road, thinking maybe I’d wander back and see what the building looked like after dark.

  Instinctively, I stayed in the room for the rest of the afternoon, a strange thing to be doing in such a beautiful place. But I didn’t want to roam around and take the chance of somebody noticing my face. I felt a little dopey lying low like that, since this whole trip was such a silly idea in the first place, but, as I said, old habits die hard. One habit I did break, though, was carrying tools of the trade around with me. I used to not worry about it because I was in the property management business and could excuse a lot of tools, including lock-picking equipment, as necessary for my job. Now, though, I was supposedly in the “prehung door” business, and I was selling them, not making them, so it would be tough to explain away things like power saws and chisels. All I had with me was a screwdriver, a pair of old cloth work gloves and a penlight.

  Nighttime arrived and it was moonless. I can’t remember if I’d planned it that way or if it was just luck. I drove back and parked in the hotel lot, which was busy as hell and crowded, then walked to the beach and took a casual stroll down to the high-rise. Once there I turned inland, going past the pool and around to the front. To my surprise there was no doorman on duty, just an intercom with a buzz-in system. I slowed slightly as I tried to absorb all the details, but didn’t stop walking. By the time I reached the glass lobby door, I had my screwdriver out. A little sideways pressure on the jamb popped the bolt free and the door swung open easily. A quick check of the lobby directory and then I’m in the elevator heading for the lady’s floor, which is indeed at the very top.

  There’s another suite opposite theirs across the hall, but no others on the floor, so I’m guessing these units are huge. The locks on the door look formidable, especially since I don’t have any tools, so it’s up the stairs to the roof, which is (of course) unlocked, to have a bird’s-eye look at their patio. When I emerge into the night air, I realize that it’s been a long time since I was that high up in the sky without an airplane surrounding me. It’s a dizzying but exhilarating feeling looking down from about 170 feet up, and the lights of Marco Island are breathtaking against the black of the sky and the even inkier darkness of the gulf.

  The patio below me is about twenty feet long, and a concrete overhang covers nearly the entire thing, leaving only the front railing exposed. The overhang is just four feet below where I’m standing, so this is no problem at all. Jump down onto it, then use a rope to lower myself to the patio. Piece of cake, really, except I don’t have a rope. Which is a damned shame, and a challenge, and my mind suddenly starts to race. Go back down and buy a rope? Even if I could find a store with the right kind of rope at this time of night, buying one would look suspicious, and the odds were high the salesman or cashier would remember me if a high-rise robbery were reported the next day. I could always come back another time, but that would mean I was back in the well-planned burglary business, which I’m not ready to admit to myself. No, this may have been fun, but now it’s over.

  Stepping carefully so as not to alert anybody below me that someone is stomping around on the roof, I make my way back to the stairway door and can hardly believe it when I see a twelve-foot work ladder propped up against the side of the little structure that houses the top of the elevator. There’s nothing at all on this roof except me and that ladder, and I’m feeling like this is a sign from God or something, without stopping to consider whether God is in the habit of giving encouraging signs to thieves.

  Sign or no sign, I’m still a professional, so I head back to the stairs, down the elevator, out the lobby and onto the beach. Looking up, I can see that their entire unit is dark. Around the building to the street, another look up, and I see the unit across the hall is dark, too. So are the ones on the floor below on both sides of the building.

  Back to the big hotel. I use a lobby pay phone to call their number, letting it ring ten times before hanging up and calling again, checking each digit carefully. No answer.

  Collier condo, Marco Island. The arrow shows where I tried to position the legs of the ladder.

  Now I start to get really stupid, and I can feel myself getting stupid, but there’s just no stopping it. I’m thinking, It’s only about nine o’clock so they’ll probably be out for a couple more hours, or maybe they’re not even in town at all tonight, and if I can get that ladder positioned somehow I may not need a rope and if the patio door is locked the screwdriver will open it and if they should come home I can get back up the ladder and pull it up behind me before they even know anyone is in there but if it all works it could be a great haul and then I’m back in the bucks and this will really be The Last Big One. . . .

  Nothing like a well-considered, carefully planned plan. The momentum of my thinking is making me nervous, because some part of me is still rational and knows exactly how irrational the other part is being, but it’s still just a lark and I want to keep pushing myself just to see what happens. I can call it off anytime I want and come back again later with the right equipment.

  Come back with the right equipment? What the hell am I thinking? I’m rehabilitated, for heaven’s sake.

  Right. Soon I’m back up on the roof. I carefully lower the ladder to the overhang above the patio, jump down after it and then walk to the edge and look down. The patio, whi
ch is much farther down than I expected, sticks out from the building about two feet more than the overhang I’m standing on. I can see that it’s covered in slippery-looking tiles, but the ladder has rubber feet that might stop it from sliding around. There is also the protective guardrail; jamming the ladder’s feet up against it where it meets the tile floor should stop the ladder from moving.

  I go back to get the ladder, swing it out over the edge of the overhang and then begin lowering it. I’m trying to ignore the cement walkway sixteen stories down, which is tough, because in order to prevent the ladder’s weight from pulling me over, I’ve got to kneel awkwardly right on the edge of the overhang. I can’t steady myself with one hand, either, because I need both hands to lower the ladder rung by rung, and suddenly I’ve got a real problem: Seems the overhang is a whole lot higher above the patio than I assumed. By the time I’ve got hold of just the top rung, the bottom of the ladder still hasn’t touched down. There’s no sense lowering it any further because there’d be nothing to prop the top of the ladder against once it went below the edge of the overhang. Some sign from God.

  So I’m crouching there hanging on to this useless ladder, when one of the dumbest damned ideas I’ve ever had in my entire life pops into my head. The bottom of the ladder may not reach the patio floor, but it will reach the top of that guardrail. And since the guardrail sticks out about two more feet than the roof I’m standing on, the ladder will have some lean to stabilize it, but not so much that the bottom will be prone to slipping off the rail. Maybe my weight on it will help the feet grip the railing. Sure, that’s a wonderful idea.

  Holding the ladder over the edge with one hand, my other arm stretched back toward the building to balance myself, I lean out as far as I can without tipping over. It’s just enough to position the bottom of the ladder above the guardrail. I lower it slowly until the feet touch down, then relax my arm to put some weight on the rail. When I’m no longer holding the ladder up but only balancing it, I jog it around a bit to make sure the feet are planted solidly, then push down and jog it some more to test how well it seems to be gripping. Then I let it lean against the edge of the overhang next to my knee and let go. So far so good.

  I stand up. One hand on the overhang, one on the ladder, I swing a leg over and get one foot on the third rung from the top, and put a little weight on it. It seems to be holding pretty good, so I twist around a little more and now I’m standing with both feet on the rung. I’ve still got a hand on the edge of the overhang as I take one step down, then another, and then I grab the overhang with both hands. I don’t plan to let go of that chunk of concrete until I absolutely have to.

  Another step down, then another. My hands are above me now and I take one more step and finally let go of the overhang, and just like that and for no apparent reason the top of the ladder lurches sideways, and by the time I realize that one of the ladder’s feet has slipped off the railing, I’m going sideways and down.

  The ladder is falling, with me on it.

  Instinctively, my hands let go of the ladder and shoot out for the only solid thing in reach, the edge of the overhang, which is high above me now. I barely get my fingers on it when the top of the ladder slams into my hands, the stinging pain almost making me lose my grip on the concrete. I’m swinging crazily back and forth as the ladder bounces off me and then suddenly vanishes. Hanging by my fingertips, I hear the sickening sound of crunching metal and look down over my shoulder, which is when I realize that I got thrown so far to the side I’m no longer above the patio. My feet are dangling above sixteen stories of empty space, and below me I see the ladder bouncing wildly off the patio two floors down, twisting in two directions at once and then smashing into yet another patio with an even louder sound, then another and another, and then it’s in slow motion, growing smaller as it spins like a blade until it finally crashes into the cement walkway and flies apart, raising a racket that I’m sure can be heard in Miami.

  One thought is ricocheting around in my head: It could have been me. The image is a paralyzing one, but this is no time to be paralyzed, so I fight against the panic and pull myself up until I can throw a leg over the edge of the overhang and scramble back up onto it.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been more traumatized. I couldn’t even stand up, but just lay there, despite knowing that all that noise was going to bring a lot of people running. My limbs felt like limp ropes and my head reeled so badly I could hardly remember where I was. Struggling to think clearly, I eventually got up, climbed the four feet back onto the main roof and staggered to the stairway, but this time kept going rather than take the elevator. I didn’t want to get trapped if somebody surmised that the noise had come from a malfunctioning elevator and decided to cut the power.

  About five floors into my descent a young woman and an elderly man came through the doorway and into the stairwell.

  “What was that?” the man said in alarm. “That sound, what was it?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Sounds like, uh, something fell off a balcony.”

  “I think it came from the gulf side,” the lady said.

  I nodded and ran down the stairs ahead of them. In the lobby about a dozen people were milling around, peering out the glass front and afraid to go outside.

  “I think it came from the other side,” I said as I marched toward the front door. “I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Be careful!” several voices rang out.

  “I will,” I replied bravely, and headed out the door, around the back and down the beach. I kept walking until I reached the hotel, found the bar and had two stiff shots of vodka even before I’d firmly settled on the stool.

  Only after my nerves stopped screaming did it occur to me that maybe that ladder had been a sign from God after all.

  Fran finally finished her probation and we moved to New York City to start a new life.

  We went almost completely legit. We started buying large lots of costume jewelry and reselling it at antique shows around the tristate area of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. Pretty ironic, when you stop to think about it: I used to just toss fake jewelry into a dumpster if I found some among the legitimate goods after a score, and here I was, old “El Gato” himself, hawking the stuff to tourists.

  I also started restoring furniture, an enjoyable hobby and mildly lucrative when I wasn’t giving the stuff away to the kids. Fran and I bought a place in Connecticut where I could work and store the finished goods, and soon I had a stream of steady customers coming by to see what I was working on. I sold almost every piece before it was even half completed. Mark was now married and getting a business started, and Laura was in college in Tallahassee. They visited us often, especially when we were in the city, but Suzi was in South Africa, which made dropping in a little difficult.

  Mark had surprised us all when he decided that a normal job wasn’t for him and announced that he wanted to go off on his own and become a sand sculptor. I can’t say I was too pleased at this decision. Here was a superintelligent young man with four years of college under his belt, and I felt he was about to throw his life away. Just goes to show how wrong a parent can be. He started his own business and made it enormously successful. He and his “Team Sandtastic” travel the world creating sand and snow sculptures for conventions, fairs, festivals and theme parks on behalf of major international corporations. At it for over fourteen years, he’s won a world championship title and holds three Guinness world records.

  I said Fran and I were “almost” legit. Our businesses were enjoyable but didn’t generate the income we would have liked. I still had a lot of stolen jewels secreted in Cleveland and Florida, and I’d periodically dip into the inventory and sell some pieces on Forty-seventh Street in New York, and some of the fancier stuff at Christie’s and Sotheby’s.

  Barb’s brother Augie was living on a houseboat on Biscayne Bay in Florida. We’d visited him several times and I loved the laid-back style of living right on the water. About two years after we
’d moved to New York, he called to say that he and his girlfriend were buying a bigger houseboat and would Fran and I like to buy theirs. It took me about five minutes to decide, but Fran was a tougher sell. “Nice Jewish ladies don’t live on houseboats,” she sniffed.

  “Nice Jewish ladies don’t run away with jewel thieves, either,” I pointed out. Eventually, I was able to convince her that we could move our business down there for the winters and come back north in the summers, so we packed up and moved. We were smack in the heart of one of the more upscale parts of Miami Beach, an area loaded with art galleries, fancy restaurants and impressive mansions, and friends and family were always visiting.

  About two years after we got down there, another houseboat came on the market. It had been owned by the parents of the Bee Gees, and I thought that Mark, who’d recently moved to St. Thomas, might be interested. Mark loved the idea of living on a houseboat near us, so he came to Florida, bought the boat and lived with Fran and me while we completely remodeled. By that time Barb and Fran had gotten to know each other and hit it off well, so Barb was over often to see her brother, son and me.

  Shortly after we finished, Hurricane Andrew decided to drop in on Florida, and we were ordered to evacuate. Mark was already away on a sculpting job, and I sent his wife, Fran and Barb to stay with Laura in Orlando, but I couldn’t bring myself to abandon those boats. Then the police started coming around with loudspeakers ordering everybody to leave, and that sealed it for me: I wasn’t going anywhere.

  The storm moved slightly south and spared us its full fury. At daybreak, six of the seven boats tied to our dock had made it. The dock itself, though, was about 90 percent destroyed. Mark’s boat, Augie’s and mine came through with only minor damage, but boats had sunk all over the bay. The city got on our case to close down the dock, and even though we fixed it as best we could despite the fact we didn’t own it, they still bitched. A year of legal wrangling went by and then Mark presented me with my first grandson, right on my own birthday, too. (As of this writing Fran and I are blessed with nine grandkids between us.) Mark decided it was now time to leave and I agreed, so we both put our boats on the market. Mine sold first, and we were terribly sad watching it being towed away.