She located her personal file on the Avenue diamond and clicked it open. It was nearly twenty pages long and contained all the information a girl passionate about jewelry could ever hope to find. She began perusing the paragraphs. She knew many of the facts by heart, but it was the legend of the Avenue diamond that intrigued her. Park had a hunch that whoever had stolen it was in for a shocking—and potentially violent—surprise. You didn't just grab an incredible piece of jewelry and bounce. There were severe consequences for disrupting the energy of midtown Manhattan shoppers.
A whopping 110 carats, the Avenue diamond was valued at $21 million and owned by Tiffany. It was not for sale. It was not on regular display in a store front window. It was released for public viewing only twice a year: in late April, to coincide with the spring spending frenzy that affected every serious shopper, and the day after Thanksgiving, to mark the official start of the holiday season. Long lines thronged Tiffany at both times, with hundreds of tourists pressing up against the windows to experience the sparkle of the magical stone's light. The diamond was a Manhattan fixture, but it had toured the world a decade ago, wowing the citizens of every continent and drawing admiring stares from the kings and queens of Europe and the Middle East. And whether prince or pauper, people always asked the same questions: Was the legend true? Did the diamond really possess otherworldly powers? Could it heal or harm depending on the situation?
Yes, it can, Park thought, the questions reverberating through her own mind. She and Madison and Lex were living proof of that. Had their mother not worn the Avenue diamond that night so many years ago, they probably wouldn't even have been born. Or—worse—they could have been born to a pop star and given trashy names like Broadway, Columbus, and Amsterdam. Park shivered just thinking about it.
No, she couldn't wait for the police to track down the diamond. It meant too much to her family.
She scrolled down to page ten, finding exactly what she was looking for. It was the section of her research she had collected directly from Long Phat, PhD, an internationally renowned gemologist with offices in Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Johannesburg. Park had met Dr. Phat two years ago on one of his rare trips to the United States. He'd been impressed by her jewelry collection and, following a sizeable donation to his scientific institute, had agreed to a brunch date at the St. Regis. Park had interrogated Phat for nearly two hours and in that short expanse of time learned his personal beliefs about the Avenue diamond. The legend and lore—replete with their supernatural overtones—were real. The diamond, he told her, was as old and wise as the earth itself. He had seen its unearthly power create and destroy. It was a stone to be cherished, admired … and feared.
The 110-carat diamond had been discovered nearly fifty years ago in the wilds of the Amazon jungle. Bitsy Bellingham Bard, an American socialite on safari with her explorer husband, Gaston Parpedieu, had stumbled down an embankment during a violent rainstorm. When Bitsy landed facedown in a puddle of mud, she felt several bones in her body snap like twigs. She couldn't move. She couldn't see her husband in the lashing leaves and fronds. Pain wracked her body and she struggled for breath. Certain she was dying, Bitsy saw a pinprick of light emanating from a nearby rock bed and felt an instant sense of peace. The light undulated; it shimmered and shook. Then the earth shook too, a jolt that raised the ground and ripped a crack through the sodden floor of the forest. The quake was fast but powerful, and the sudden seismic shift created a small opening in the rock bed. Bitsy dragged herself toward the cave, following the same brilliant stream of light. But it wasn't an angel taking her to the Saks in the sky. It was a stunning stone formation catching its first hint of the sun. Weak and broken, Bitsy touched it and felt a comforting heat surge through her body. She stood up. She wiped the muck from her boots. Her broken bones were healed, her pain gone. For two days, she and Gaston hacked away at the rock wall until the diamond came loose.
Bitsy, a worldly and cultured woman, had friends everywhere—even in the Amazon. As the story went, she took the diamond to a tribal shaman, who held it in his hands and saw a vision in the glimmering rays. It was a vision of Fifth Avenue. It was a vision of shoppers and stores and stunning opulence. He told Bitsy the diamond had been revealed to her by the gods in trust and honor. She was not to squander or sell it. She was not to destroy it. The shaman chanted an incantation over the diamond, did some sort of two-step dance, and handed it back to Bitsy and Gaston. They chartered a private plane back to New York, and Bitsy soon unveiled the diamond to the world. She christened it the Avenue diamond because she said it would forever protect and preserve the eminent expanse of Fifth—from Central Park right down to Washington Square. Shoppers would always feel at home, and the world's greatest retailers would flourish and expand. The diamond, Bitsy told countless interviewers, had incredible powers; it was to be guarded at all costs from loss or damage, lest its wrath take hold. If the diamond ever was stolen, Bitsy promised that it would find its way home within forty-eight hours, leaving the thief “broken and burned.”
The world got its first glimpse of the diamond's mysterious pull shortly after Bitsy died. Her greedy nephews, Amos and Arnold, inherited the diamond but quickly sold it to an Arabian prince, pocketing major bucks. That very week, Amos slipped on his toupee, cracked his head open like an egg, and died instantly. Arnold, a notorious drunk, downed a martini in one gulp and choked on the accompanying olive garnish. A few years later, the Arabian prince sold the diamond to Tiffany for an undisclosed amount, citing numerous odd health problems, including impotence and huge diamond-shaped hemorrhoids.
Since then, Tiffany had proven a good home for the Avenue diamond, though Park couldn't understand why the store agreed to loan it out to celebrities, royalty, and other important people these days. Venturina Baci should have been the only exception. But Julia Roberts had worn the diamond one year to the Oscars, and it had also graced the necks of Sarah Jessica Parker and Jennifer Lopez. Had Zahara Bell been killed for the diamond? Park wondered. Was it an act of robbery? What unsuspecting, nonsuperstitious person wouldn't want to get his or her hands on the Avenue diamond?
In Park's file were several JPEGs of the ravishing rock. Long ago, it had been delicately attached to a thick gold chain—only suitable, Park thought, for long thin necks of the celebutante variety. Now she studied the pictures, which showed the diamond from various angles. The four Cs that comprised a di-amond's worth—color, clarity, carat, and cut—were supremely evident here. The Avenue's color was the best color possible: none. An absence of color was a rarity in diamonds and signified the highest quality. This allowed light to be reflected and dispersed as a rainbow, enchanting even the most astute eyes.
The Avenue's cut was a “round brilliant” one, the most popular cut for a diamond because it ensured optical beauty without damaging the stone's natural atomic framework. When cut to exact and mathematically proven proportions, a diamond's symmetry produced unerring beauty and luster. The Avenue was no exception; light entering it from any direction was reflected through the top, allowing flashes of vibrant color.
In terms of clarity, which measured the surface and internal characteristics of a diamond, the Avenue was perfect. There were no blemishes or inclusions, nor were there any polish lines or marks that clouded its radiance. Many years ago, the Avenue had received the highest clarity grading possible—an F, which stood for flawless.
Just reading the notes made Park's heart beat a little faster. She was getting antsy in the chair, her panic levels rising. What if the psycho who had killed Zahara Bell was on his way out of the country by now? He could sell the Avenue diamond on the black market for a whopping amount of cash. That would mean the end of an era for jewelry admirers like her. It would leave a huge void on Fifth Avenue, and in the elegant fabric of this magnificent city she called home.
She stood up. She shook the tension from her body. She glanced out the window at the brightening sky and imagined what the day would bring. More reporters and cameras. More questions. Le
x's stolen dress. The three of them stumbling on a body. A missing legendary diamond. And the fact that someone—a stranger—had gained access to their home with the sole intention of framing them and tarnishing the Hamilton name. Would anyone believe that she and Madison and Lex were innocent? How would the general—and generally adoring—public react to the scandal? And did Detective Mullen, with his suspicious comments and terrible clothes, believe them?
Turning her eyes back to the laptop, Park felt overcome by a sense of anger she had never before experienced. She was incredulous. She was outraged. Huffing and puffing, she slammed her hands down on the desktop and let out a little unladylike grunt. It was one of her rare and unexpected forays into the world of negative thinking and loss of control. It happened to her maybe twice a year. She hated it.
We have to find the killer. And we have to find the diamond!
“I know,” she murmured, closing her eyes in a sudden rush of emotion.
It was time to up the ante on their investigation. She knew it. She had denied the inevitable for too many hours now. But as Jeremy Bleu's face flashed before her, she felt a hot tingle shoot through her body.
She hadn't meant for it to happen that way. Not completely.
Physical attraction was a weird thing: when it hit you and took over, your knees got wobbly and you did things without thinking clearly. Park hadn't had a boyfriend in many months and she didn't necessarily want one now, but she did acknowledge the fact that warmth and body contact were good things. She missed them. At this point, Jeremy wasn't much more than a fling, yet she couldn't dispel him from her mind. There'd been a connection between them, an instant electric current. This, she thought, was what people called chemistry.
But why had he ditched her last night? Did he know that Zahara Bell had some sort of information on him—a little newsworthy nugget about him losing millions of dollars? What was he so afraid of? She and her sisters hadn't run away in those moments of panic. Neither had Coco. They had nothing to hide. Did Jeremy really think he was going to disappear and leave them to clean up this mess? The very thought of it enraged Park.
Running out on her had been the wrong move. She felt hurt and belittled, as discarded as the items on a clearance rack.
Why did you run, Jeremy? What are you trying to hide?
She paced the floor. She forced herself to retrace every minute of last night, from the moment she and Madison arrived at the gala to the moment her and Jeremy's eyes met. She pictured him in that split second, freezing the image in her mind's eye. Gorgeous. Hot. A tall Roman god dressed to the nines in a sleek D&G tux. Crisp white shirt and gleaming gold cuff links. The dark scarf draped around his neck—
She blinked. The image vanished. Her heart slammed in her chest.
The scarf.
Jeremy had been wearing a scarf at the gala, a dark silk and wool scarf that blended softly into the charcoal color of his suit. He hadn't been wearing it when they were making out in the ladies' room. She was sure of it. She remembered pushing the suit jacket off his shoulders and sliding it down his arms as their lips met. She remembered kissing a trail to his neck, her face hot against the starched white fabric of the shirt. He hadn't been wearing the scarf. And with a rush of clarity, Park realized why that little detail was making her stomach churn.
She saw that same scarf again several minutes later—around Zahara Bell's neck.
Oh, my God.
Her cheeks flushed. Blood roared in her ears.
It can't be.
But it was.
Taking a deep breath, and determined to maintain her composure, she walked calmly to the nightstand beside the bed and picked up her cell phone. She flipped it open. She retrieved the text message she, Madison, and Lex had received from the anonymous number.
Three minus one is much more fun.
A scare tactic. Cute.
She slammed the phone shut.
It didn't make sense, but the thought that Jeremy could have actually killed Zahara Bell, stolen the Avenue diamond, and then made out with her was too twisted to believe. She wasn't afraid of him. She was too pissed off to be anything but outraged. What he needed was a good shakedown, a proverbial kick in the ass.
She flipped open the phone again and began scrolling through her address book. The Pierre Hotel. He'd told her he was staying in one of the penthouse suites. Park found the number and waited for the line to connect. A laconic-voiced operator answered at the front desk. “Penthouse A,” Park said. “It's an emergency.” Nearly a minute went by before a male voice answered.
“Hellooohh?” It was Jeremy—in disguise and suddenly sounding very British.
“Cut the bullshit, Bleu,” she barked into the phone. “I know about the scarf. I made the connection. Would you like to explain yourself, or should I just call the cops?”
Silence. And then his breath filling the distance between them. He said, “I can explain, Park. I can explain everything. Please don't doubt me.”
She tightened her grip on the cell phone. “There'll be a limo outside your hotel in exactly one hour. My chauffeur's name is Clarence. We can talk, but we're doing it on my turf. Got it?”
“Yes. I'll be there. I can explain, Park. Please let me explain.”
“Fine. See you soon. Oh, and Jeremy?”
“Yeah?”
She stared across the room at the picture of the Avenue diamond gleaming on her laptop. It inspired her. “Don't fuck with me. It'll cost you big-time.”
13
Who's That … Girl?
Clad in a black and white French maid's uniform, a blond wig covering his bald head, Chicky Marsala studied his reflection in the smoky mirror that hung on the door of the overcrowded closet. By his own account, he looked hot. Several layers of drugstorepurchased Maybelline foundation had transformed his blotchy skin into a smooth and radiant complexion. There was no trace of stubble on his chin, and the short hairs that usually peeked out of his nostrils were all but gone. The only problem was the bra hooked behind his back: the rolls of clean underwear stuffed into the D-sized cups kept shifting, which made one boob droop and the other bounce. Maybe no one would notice. It was early, and from a distance he was the epitome of a big sexy chick with lots of junk in the trunk.
Turning sideways, Chicky gave his profile a onceover. The wig was an expensive model that he had purchased in a high-end retail costume shop on Broadway; the blond tendrils tumbled down to his shoulders but didn't hide the big silver hoops hanging from his ears. The uniform was good quality too. It was polyester and Lycra, and it rose up nearly to his neck. His lips, naturally thick, were painted a bright shade of red. Now he faced the mirror one last time and pouted seductively. He blew himself a kiss and smiled. He was ready to complete his mission.
My camera, he thought. My pictures and my money.
He flicked off the lights in the studio apartment and reached for the black purse by the door. He opened it carefully, checking to make sure he had packed all the necessary tools. He had pliers, string, duct tape, three old credit cards taped together to form a thick lock buster, and a pair of leather gloves. At the very bottom of the purse was his most prized possession: a handgun. He had enough rounds to take out a small army, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He really didn't want to kill anybody today, especially not those Hamilton girls.
Outside, Chicky hailed a cab and instructed the driver to head south. Scrunched in the backseat, he reviewed the plan in his mind several times. Get into the building, preferably through the front entrance. If that proved fruitless, he'd hit the hidden side doors. Having weaseled his way into countless luxury high-rises in the past, Chicky knew all the secrets. Those side doors usually weren't alarmed because the housekeepers and maintenance crews came and went at all hours. It cost millions of dollars to live in Fifth Avenue digs, but all those ritzy residents didn't know squat about what went on way down on the ground floor. After getting in, he'd ride the elevator up to the penthouse—everybody in New York knew the Hamiltons li
ved in the penthouse—and then he'd start scratching on the door. He wouldn't knock. He'd scratch. Always worked like a charm. People wouldn't open their doors if they thought a human being was on the other side, but they'd pop the locks in case a little kitty or puppy was hungry. When someone answered, he'd shove his way into the penthouse and hold the gun up. Then he'd force those girls to hand over his camera.
Sure, they'd probably recognize him. But in between pissing their pretty panties and grabbing each other for support, they'd turn the goods over. Then he'd bind their hands together with the string. A few quick slaps of tape across their lips and they'd have no choice but to shut up. Then it was back down to the lobby and out through the way he came in. Hop into a cab, get home, chuck the clothes, put on jeans and a jacket, and hop the subway to Penn Station. He'd catch a bus upstate and be in the woods by the time the cops sorted through his aliases and positively identified him. He knew exactly whom to call after that. The underground picture market people weren't interested in turning him in. They were only interested in getting their hands on lurid images they could print and sell all over the world.
“Did you say the corner of Madison and Eightieth, ma'am?” the cab driver asked.
Chicky smiled. The guy had called him ma'am. “Uh, yes,” he replied in a low, squeaky voice. “Thank you.” He stared straight into the rearview mirror and gave a girly giggle.
On the Avenue Page 12