Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 01 - A Brilliant Plan

by Alex Ames

  “This is what Thomas Cornelius is looking for!”

  Mundy chewed his lip, tapping his fingers on the desk. “What is the scenario? Andrew Altward somehow brought the long lost Maximilian Jewels into his possession and stored them in his showroom safe?”

  “Exactly. A burglar breaks in, nicks the Maximilian Jewels and kills Wally Eastman, the night watchman,” I continued the tale.

  “Altward finds out that the Maximilian pieces are gone and tells the police that a different set has been stolen. Why?” Mundy didn’t sound convinced.

  “Because he got them from illegal sources. According to Benito… ”

  “Who the hell is this Benito?” Mundy interrupted. His cheeks slightly flushed with jealousy, poor Mundy.

  “Professor for Latin American history at UCLA. He wrote some of these papers. Anyway, where was I?”

  “Maximilian, illegal sources, Altward….” Mundy helped out.

  “Right! The Maximilian Set was stored at a Mexico City museum. So how would they get into Altward’s possession? Illegal sources! So he was afraid that the police or the insurance company would ask awkward questions about its origin if he reported the theft,” I said.

  “So the Maximilian is stolen by our unknown thief. What is Thomas Cornelius’ role in all this?”

  “Altward’s wife said that they did some dealing together. Come to think of it, even Thomas admitted it to me. Maybe Thomas helped to finance the initial purchase of the jewels. Or he is in his classical role as a middleman and already has a buyer lined up.”

  “And now that the jewels are gone, he is worried about his investment,” Mundy nodded. “How much money are we talking about anyway?”

  “The only description we have of the set is not very specific,” I picked up the thesis copies. “Most of the pieces were small, mainly made of gold, great simplicity and some few, extraordinary stones set into the body.” I thought for a minute. “If you talk material value here, a ring might be in the higher five figure range, maybe eighty thousand dollars, and the larger pieces like the small crown or the tiara could go well into the six figure range.”

  “Like two hundred thousand?” Mundy asked.

  “Yeah, depending largely on how many stones were used for each piece. So we come out at a retail value around a million-five or two million dollars.”

  “Retail?” Mundy was probably thinking of a jewelry display in a Wal-Mart store.

  “Mundy, you go into a shop, you buy retail. Wal-Mart, Tiffany’s or Jane Craft, doesn’t matter.”

  “Never figured you for a retailer, your stuff is so exclusive and all,” he waved his hand around my workshop.

  “I am not a retailer. I am an arts and crafts store.”

  “Figure the difference,” Mundy rolled his eyes.

  “Anyway, go into a chain jewelry store like Tiffany’s and buy something made of the same materials and craft-quality similar to the Maximilian Jewels and you would probably pay around one million dollars for all ten pieces.”

  “But the Maximilian Jewels are antiques. Collectors items, aren’t they?” Mundy asked.

  “That is the gazillion dollar question. How much would such a set bring on the market? Are we talking antique? Then maybe double or triple retail value.”

  “This is ridiculous. Are we playing ‘How high can you get?’ or what?”

  I shrugged. It is all a matter of buying and selling markets. The Maximilian Jewels come with a great story and history. It may thrill a serious collector.”

  “How much thrill when we talk Picasso?” Mundy saw where this was going.

  “Maybe six to eight million.”

  “Talk about Mauritius?”

  “Come again?”

  “You know, rarest stamp in the world,” Mundy knew it all.

  “I see. Above ten million dollars. Easily. No limit.”

  We were silent for minute, let the figure sink in.

  “Ten million reasons to kill for,” Mundy mused.

  “Ten million reasons for Thomas to kill me,” I sighed.

  Later, lying in bed, I thought about the Maximilian Jewels and their extraordinary value. Maybe we had just stabbed in the dark and the jewels turned out to be non-attractive stuff that didn’t pique the interest of collectors and investors at all. Then we would talk about considerably lower sums. But I assumed that Thomas knew what they would fetch and that it was a good investment.

  The thing I wondered was why Thomas was dealing with such a local player as Andrew Altward, who was not even known in the high-class art circles back East? Perhaps Altward had initiated the deal or had the connection to the original source. And had brought Thomas along for the investment.

  Dead of the night. My eyes opened suddenly, something or the other had woken me.

  A sleepy glance at the alarm showed two-fifteen, all quiet. My subconscious had given me a message and I wondered what it was. Something I had thought of or said last evening but it hadn’t clicked then. I mentally rewound the conversations I had with Mundy and my thoughts from last night before falling asleep.

  ‘Non-attractive stuff,’ what if it turned out to be non-attractive jewelry. Benito’s words: “spectacular jewelry.”

  And I knew why I would never become a good detective.

  “I am not decent!”

  “Open up, you moron,” I knocked again at Mundy’s door.

  Mundy stood in his doorframe in teenager PJs, uncombed hair, and without glasses. “You need another alibi?”

  “Not decent? With those PJs, you can walk in on every cocktail party in town without raising a single eyebrow,” I stated.

  He stepped aside to let me in.

  “I am so stupid,” I told him and walked past him into his living room. He had a small two-bedroom apartment on the second floor in a typical L.A. style complex, 20 or so four-apartment units with central pool and community areas.

  He continued standing in the doorframe, looked out to see if we had disturbed anyone, shrugged and closed the door. “Coffee, water?”

  “You asked me if we had a description of the jewels and I said that we didn’t.”

  “Coffee!” Mundy trotted behind the kitchen counter to throw the switch on the coffee maker, filling in water, rummaging in drawers.

  “I have seen the Maximilian Jewels,” I shouted.

  Mundy’s head came around the cupboard like a flash. “You did?”

  “Well, not all of them but one piece.”

  “Will she tell me?”

  “Around Phoebe Eastman’s neck when I interviewed her with Ron. I later remarked on the particular classy design and Ron and I even mused how a poor artist like her could afford such a piece of jewelry. I had used the word ‘spectacular’ to describe it, same word as Benito used to describe it, too.”

  For the next two minutes, all that could be heard was Mundy’s effort to create a hot strong coffee. I slumped on his sofa and he sat akimbo on the floor, handing over the steaming mug.

  Mundy rubbed his beard stubbles. “Let me see if I get that right, because it is obvious that we had the wrong story earlier this evening.” The steaming mug fogged his glasses and he fingered them clean.

  “Phoebe Eastman has one of the Maximilian pieces in her possession and runs around with it on.”

  “That means that they are not stolen?”

  “Altward and Cornelius have a project going on with the Maximilian Jewels. Burglary at Altward’s gallery, something got stolen but not the Maximilian Jewels.”

  Mundy picked up the story. “Altward enters the gallery in the morning, discovers the burglary and the dead watchman. He has an inspiration. Why not take the break-in as a good excuse to have the set to myself. Altward tells his partner Cornelius that the Maximilian Set has been stolen. So he is able to double-dip.”

  “Double-dip?”

  “Maximilian Set plus the Montenhaute pieces that he claims from the insurance.”

  “Where do we think the inspiration came from?” I asked and then answer
ed myself. “Because Altward has a better buyer at hand,” I added.

  “How did Phoebe get into possession of the set?”

  “Altward had to find a safe place. Not the office obviously. Not his home, also too obvious. So he stored it at her place to get it away from the police and his partner.”

  I wagged my head, “Think so? Another place where the police are most likely to turn up because of her dead father.”

  “And, of course, it still does not explain how the necklace ended up around Phoebe’s neck.”

  We sipped our coffees for a while.

  “You know,” Mundy said suddenly. “There is another possible storyline.”

  “There is?”

  “Maybe there is a much simpler explanation, Phoebe has the Maximilian Set in her possession because she stole it.”

  My mouth was agape. “Come on, Mundy!” I exclaimed and fell back on the sofa.

  “No, think it through. The question of the ‘how’ is still open. But not anymore if you come to think of the Eastmans as a team. Daddy works for the security company. Probably has some codes or knows some overrides. No alarm. Phoebe sleeps in Altward’s bed and maybe has pillow talk access to the alarm deactivation code or door key or whatever. And maybe she even knows what pieces are most expensive. Father and daughter plan and execute the break-in. They are discovered by Altward. Some confusion, Wally Eastman in his uniform is standing beside a masked unknown person, Phoebe, rummaging in the Maximilian Set hideaway. A fight. Wally Eastman dies. Altward kills him, maybe an accident. Phoebe gets away with the Maximilian Set, unrecognized.” Mundy folded his arms as if to say, ‘Beat this!’

  I hid my face in a cushion. “I hate you,” I screamed into the upholstery.

  Mundy looked concerned. “Is it because you didn’t see this possibility or because you got female competition in the business? Why should you be the exclusive cat burglar of Southern California? Maybe she is ‘Cat burglar, the next generation?’”

  “I am not that old!” I threw the cushion at him.

  I made a very bad drawing from memory of what I had seen around Phoebe Eastman’s neck, did corrections here and there until I was satisfied. I scanned it and sent it to Professor Benito Salanca in an e-mail.

  I sat on hot coals for a while, called him around nine and asked him to check his mail.

  “When you had a look at the Maximilian stones, did you remember a necklace that looked similar to my drawing?” I inquired. He could be heard clicking on his computer.

  “Did you have a phase of artistic telepathic inspiration last night?” he asked while he checked his mail.

  “No, when we conducted interviews down in San Diego, one of the witnesses wore a similar necklace. I noticed it then but didn’t connect it to our case. Then last night it clicked.”

  “Intriguing. I wish I could give you a more definite answer but I am not 100 percent sure. The style matches, I agree. But there were many pieces at the same time on presentation. I remember the tiara because I had seen the drawing before. But the necklace? Let’s say, 70 percent probability. Does that help you?”

  “It has to. Thank you, I owe you an expensive dinner when this is over,” I offered.

  “You will never be able to get out of this one,” Benito said, laughing.

  Chapter 23

  TIME FOR ME to start a little clandestine operation, Calendar style. The window was no problem at all. Simply take a piece of plastic to move the latch and slide it open. I cut some anonymous plastic from a water canister, to use a credit card was very amateurish and could prove very embarrassing if lost on the job.

  I had to remove some little crystal animals from the windowsill and climbed in carefully; put the stuff back on the sill. The little Maglite shone through the bedroom and showed an empty, clean bed with a quilt on it and some colored cushions. The door to the living room was open, so was the door to the bathroom.

  Phoebe Eastman had not picked up the phone when I called her house from a payphone just minutes before, so I was comfortably sure that she wasn’t at home. Two of the windows had the circulation vents open so the air in the apartment was fresh.

  I closed all the curtains and switched on the lights in each room. It looked much the same as it did the week before when Ron and I had visited her.

  When I worked an apartment, it was usually to find jewelry or valuables. Except for what I had researched in order to come prepared, I generally had no direct connection to the owner of the property. But this time, since I was looking for indications of involvement into another crime, it was a little different. I was looking for anything that would give Phoebe Eastman away as the burglar of the Altward Gallery, the stolen Maximilian Jewelry or any other. I was also checking for insider alarm traps that would reveal to a careful owner that someone had searched the apartment. Little things such as positioning a bottle in the kitchen at an invisibly marked spot or sorting the socks in a special order. If little Phoebe was indeed in the same business as me, I was sure to find some indications.

  Scanning the room, I decided to start with her personal affairs.

  The small secretary in the corner of the living room didn’t offer anything spectacular. The obituary of her father, cut from the San Diego Chronicle. Some notifications from the police regarding the murder, the coroner and some insurance paperwork. Her father’s life insurance policy was worth a little over thirty thousand dollars, nothing spectacular. Another one from the security company where he had worked, another ten thousand. I found her checkbook; she was not rich, steady income from a job or some such in the five hundred dollar per week range. Some other incoming checks in various irregular periods with some thousand dollars over the last year or so. Seemed that this money was what kept her afloat and enabled her to live in La Jolla. Money from Altward?

  She had a small laptop on a writing desk. I booted it up, got stopped by a Windows login screen. I inserted my little do-it-all-stick with useful hacker tools, rebooted and bypassed the security. But nothing worth mentioning on the disk. Some harmless private e-mails to relatives and friends. Some e-mails from Altward when he appeared to be traveling. Typical ‘I miss you dearly, can’t await our next time’ content. A few letters to various galleries. Some pictures of unknown people and places. That was your life, Phoebe Eastman.

  I moved on. No hidden doors, hollow wall spots or loose floorboards that I could find. A box with fashionable jewelry in the back of a drawer, nothing expensive, low and mid level retail. A diverse range of regular clothes from medium priced chain stores and some expensive designer stuff here and there. An expensive pair of jeans by D&G. An Armani jacket. A Versace bikini. Probably gifts from Altward or some other rich boyfriend.

  Nothing that I found indicated that Phoebe was a cat burglar like me. Or she was as careful as I was, which would really bug my ego. But so far, nothing was out of the ordinary, a perfect simple life with few highlights.

  I did some more searching, poked the sugar bowl, searched the freezer, and did the toilet water closet thing. Even found her little stash of grass, tucked away between ramen noodle soup packages. But this was California.

  I scanned the pages of the few books she had, unpacked some boxes that didn’t look like they had been unpacked for a long time, found college and school stuff in there, old diaries. Speed-read some of the diary pages, schoolgirl stuff of broken hearts, football jock dates with guys called Ken, Henry and Paul and a slight fascination with her body mass around the time she was eighteen.

  I stashed everything away exactly as I had found it, made a last relaxed look around the rooms; sometimes I had an inspiration for hiding places. Nothing.

  Call it a night. Looked as if Mundy’s theory had been shot. Phoebe was nothing but a night watchman’s daughter with a rich boyfriend. Or, and that disturbed me significantly, she was as clever as I was. Had she searched my apartment as I had just searched hers, she would have learned exactly as much about me as I did about her.

  I let myself out through the
window, re-latched it and faded away into the night.

  I stopped my car near a public phone and gave two rings to Mundy’s home number, indicating that everything was OK and that I was on my way to number two. Poor Mundy, he had insisted on coming along for the little mission but, of course, it was more important for him to provide me with a solid alibi.

  Newport Beach was a beach-harbor community along the Balboa Peninsula in Orange County, pretty nice, at least in summer. On this dark autumn night, it was a bleak affair, maybe compounded by the exceptionally chilly 45-degree night. That was in my favor because at this temperature, South Californians without a proper wooly wardrobe tended to stay inside and study their heater instructions. The map had shown Altward’s weekend home to be on the beachfront of Newport Beach, near the small car ferry over to Balboa Island. I parked the car several blocks away from Altward’s house and walked to the correct address, looking over my shoulders to see whether a late night patrol was cruising the area. I crossed the street, took a small passageway between houses and walked the seafront promenade for the last yards to his address. Altward’s summer apartment was on the ground floor with a small balcony. I pondered for a second whether to enter from the front door or from the balcony. The yellow light from the promenade overhead light was murky, blending the details, making it hard to see. I turned at the walkway to check out the front of the building. There was a central well-lighted entrance to the apartment units. That was that. Too many risks to enter from the front. Small unit probably meant that the inhabitants knew each other by sight; I remembered that Juanita had spoken to neighbors who knew Altward by name. And I hadn’t had the time to check for the type of front door lock.

  So I continued my stroll, out of the complex and back to the promenade. I went as far as where the apartments ended; Altward’s balcony was still in sight. I sat down in the night shadow of a group of beach palms and spent about half an hour checking the surroundings.