Operation Prince Charming

by Phyllis Bourne

  “We can talk about it now. You don’t punch a time clock, you rob houses and they aren’t going anywhere.”

  No, Taj thought. He did more than simply rob houses. He’d come up with a foolproof plan that practically turned burglary into a white-collar crime. He didn’t even get his suit wrinkled.

  Plus, the cops never knew what subdivision he was going to hit until he was already gone.

  “So, why aren’t you saying anything? Are you with her now?”

  “I’m not with anyone but you.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, where are you?”

  “As soon as you stop interrogating me, I’m headed to the Knightsbridge Subdivision to make us some money.”

  “I tried to call you three times last night, and you never returned my calls.”

  Taj exhaled sharply. “My battery ran down. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  Ten minutes later, Taj realized he was repeating the same words and getting nowhere with her. He glanced at his watch again. “We’ll discuss this later when you calm down. I have to go to work.”

  “Don’t you dare hang—”

  Taj powered the phone down and tossed it in the car’s glove box. He hoped he’d come across something sparkly this morning to appease her.

  Hunter tossed a paper sack on Pete’s desk.

  Spending time with Ali last night had put him in a good mood this morning. So he’d picked up Pete’s favorite breakfast when he’d stopped for coffee, on the way to the work.

  “Thanks, man.” Pete dug into the bag and pulled out the blueberry muffin. He took a huge bite and rolled his eyes heavenward.

  Hunter stopped short as he caught sight of the magazine laid open on his desk. Photos of a beaming Erica and the man he’d caught her with smiled up at him.

  He picked up the magazine. The hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck prickled, just as they had the first time he’d encountered Erica’s new man. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the photos and then looked up at Pete.

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t do it. It was there when I got here.” Pete devoured the last of the muffin and licked the crumbs from his fingers. “My guess is it was Bishop. He always reads that rag.”

  Hunter shook his head. “Take a look,” he said, handing Pete the magazine.

  Pete looked at the photographs. “It’s Erica hugged up with some guy,” he said. “Taj St. John. Never heard of him.”

  “Look closer,” Hunter said.

  Pete shrugged. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “Check out the pin on the lapel of the guy’s jacket.”

  Hunter stood by as Pete examined the magazine photos. “It’s a fleur-de-lis,” Hunter said. “One of our victims listed a fleur-de-lis lapel pin as part of the property stolen from her home, remember?”

  Pete nodded. “It’s probably just a coincidence. There has to be tons of pins like those.”

  Hunter stroked his chin with his hand. American flag pins were common, but not this one. “I’ve got a hunch this is our guy.”

  Pete sighed. “Are you sure your hunch isn’t about this St. John character being with Erica?”

  “Even if that were true, and it’s not,” Hunter began, “when has a hunch of mine ever been wrong?”

  Both Hunter and Pete knew the answer to that question. So far, Hunter’s hunches had been dead-on.

  “I’ll check to see if the records management system has anything on St. John,” Pete said.

  Sitting down at his desk, Hunter pulled Making a Scene’s Web site up on his computer screen. He clicked his way to the photos of Erica and St. John and then picked up his phone.

  “Mr. Pryor, Detective Coleman calling.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember you from the other day. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen anything suspicious yet,” Art Pryor said. “So I can’t tell you any more than I did last time we talked.”

  “Do you have Internet access where you are?” Hunter asked, not sure if he had called a house or a cell phone.

  “Yeah,” Pryor replied. “I’m at work, so I’m sitting at the computer now.”

  “Give me your e-mail address. I have a Web site I want you to take a look at.” Hunter sent the link to the pictures and waited for Pryor to retrieve the e-mail.

  “Hey, this is the guy I told you about. I saw him on Christie Street when I was out walking Mike,” Pryor said.

  “The man standing next to the woman in the red dress,” Hunter confirmed.

  “Yeah, him. Only he was wearing a suit, not a tuxedo, when I saw him, but that’s definitely the same guy.”

  Hunter looked up at Pete, who was standing by his desk.

  “Taj St. John, if that’s his real name, doesn’t have any outstanding warrants or an arrest record,” Pete said.

  “It’s him. This St. John character is our guy,” Hunter said. He began to fill Pete in on his conversation with Art Pryor, but was interrupted by the precinct’s administrative assistant.

  “There’s a woman on the phone who says she has a tip on the burglaries,” she said. “You guys want to take it?”

  Pete rolled his eyes, and again, Hunter couldn’t blame him. Ever since they’d made an appeal to the public for help, they’d received plenty of calls. None of them had turned up anything remotely helpful.

  “Okay, put her through to me,” Hunter said.

  “Detective Coleman here.”

  The corners of Hunter’s mouth pulled into a smile as he listened to the angry woman’s tirade.

  “Please, ma’am, don’t hang up,” he said, trying to keep her on the line. “Can I at least get your name and a contact number?”

  “I told you where he is. Now you just deliver the damn message.”

  Left with the dial tone, Hunter hung up the phone and turned to Pete.

  “Did she know anything?” Pete asked.

  Hunter rose from his seat. “Let’s go check out Gray Street in the Knightsbridge Subdivision,” he said. “I think there’s a well-dressed man over there who pissed off the wrong woman.”

  Erica popped into Hunter’s mind. He had to warn her. He retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket as he and Pete dashed out to the precinct parking lot.

  The phone just rang at her penthouse. When she didn’t answer her cell phone, Hunter left a message for her to call him immediately.

  “You okay?” Pete asked as he slid into the passenger side of the Chevy Malibu.

  Hunter nodded. “I’ll be okay when we catch up to St. John.”

  Ali hung up the phone, surprised that it didn’t start ringing again.

  She released a sigh when it remained blessedly silent. The response to the newspaper ads had been overwhelming. She and her aunt had been fielding calls from potential students all morning.

  Both classes were full and there was already a waiting list.

  Ali heard a light tap on her open door and looked up to see her aunt in the doorway.

  “Sorry I couldn’t talk when you popped into my office earlier, but the phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Ali chuckled and beckoned her aunt inside. “I think we should consider an additional set of classes to accommodate more students.”

  “Great minds think alike. I was going to suggest the same thing to you.” Her aunt slid a pink message slip across Ali’s desk. “Oh, by the way, your agent called when you were on the other phone line. He said it was important.”

  Ali picked up the paper and shrugged. Leo was probably just doing some housekeeping and wanted to let her know he was dropping her from his roster, she thought.

  Her aunt glanced up at the clock, which showed the approaching noon hour. “You have any plans for lunch?”

  “Why? Are you cooking?”

  “Unless you want to spend the afternoon in the emergency room, no,” her aunt said. “I was thinking more along the lines of going out for Chinese. You know that place I like across town.”

  “Sounds good. I
’ll grab my car keys.”

  When they returned from lunch, Ali dropped her purse on her desk and the pink message slip fell to the floor. She picked it up and stared at it a moment.

  “Might as well get it over with,” she muttered.

  Her agent answered on the first ring.

  “Great news, Ali,” he said.

  It had been so long since Leo had sounded this happy to talk to her, Ali nearly didn’t recognize his voice. She picked up a catalog on her desk and began thumbing through it.

  “What’s going on, Leo?”

  “Channel Four called. They changed their minds, they want to go through with the television show.”

  Ali abandoned the catalog. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope, they want you down here ASAP,” he said. “How soon can you get a flight?”

  Dozens of questions paraded through her mind as her brain scrambled to process the fact that she’d actually gotten the television show.

  After being dragged down to rock bottom, she was finally on her way back up.

  “Are you still there?” Leo asked.

  “I’m here. I’m still in shock,” Ali said. “What happened, Leo? What made them change their minds?”

  “Their host was arrested in some big drug bust down here. Real sleazy stuff,” he said. “They want to revamp the show and stick you in as host.”

  “Wow, this is all happening so fast,” she said.

  “I got them to go up twenty percent on their original offer, and they’ve already faxed over the contracts,” Leo said. “All we’re waiting on is your signature and you.”

  Ali got her agent off the phone with a promise to call him when her plane landed in West Palm Beach.

  Excited, she immediately scrolled through her cell phone contacts until she located Hunter’s name. She could hardly wait to share her news.

  “Hunter, my agent—”

  He cut her off. “I’ll have to call you back, sweetheart,” he said. “See you tonight.”

  That’s just it, Ali thought. If she could snag a last-minute flight to West Palm Beach, she wouldn’t be here tonight.

  The conversation with Leo danced in Ali’s head as she walked down the hallway to her aunt’s office.

  She’d left Florida unemployed and humiliated, but it looked as if she was going to return with a bang.

  Ali paused in front of her aunt’s open door. Her mouth dropped when she saw Aunt Rachel focused on the screen of the laptop Ali had given her months ago.

  “What’s going on here, Auntie?”

  Her aunt looked up at her and smiled. Ali couldn’t help noticing the sparkle in the older woman’s eyes.

  “It’s time I joined the twenty-first century,” her aunt said. “Who knows? I may even get myself an iPod.”

  Guilt warred with excitement as Ali remembered why she’d come to her aunt’s office. Her gaze wandered to the portraits of her great-grandmothers on the wall, and her mouth fell open in surprise.

  Her photo hung on the wall next to her aunt Rachel. It was the one from the jacket of her last book.

  “I had a picture of you enlarged and framed,” her aunt said. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  Ali sucked in a breath.

  “What is it, dear?” her aunt asked. “You’re not upset about my adding you to the Spencer wall, are you?”

  Ali shook her head. “No, it’s just…It makes what I have to say even harder…” She paused. “The call from my agent earlier, it wasn’t to drop me.”

  Her aunt’s smile faded.

  “The deal for the television show is back on the table. They want me to come down there tomorrow.”

  The older woman closed the lid on the laptop. “Oh. Well, that’s wonderful news for you.” Her aunt’s voice held a note of cheerfulness, but the light in her eyes had visibly dimmed.

  “Yes, it’s exactly what I’d hoped for,” Ali said hesitantly. But somehow it didn’t quite feel like it anymore, she thought.

  “So, when are you leaving?”

  Ali spoke over the lump lodged in her throat. “My flight leaves tonight. I meet with my agent and representatives from the television station in the morning.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Auntie, I know we had big plans for the school, but…” Ali’s voice trailed off.

  Her aunt rose from her chair and walked around her desk. Then she surprised Ali by wrapping her arms around her and pulling her into a hug.

  “This is your life, Alison,” her aunt said. “You have to do whatever you feel will bring you the most happiness and fulfillment.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Taj donned his gloves, slid the crowbar between the door and the doorjamb of the second house on his Knightsbridge Subdivision hit list, and listened for the crack of splintering wood.

  Either the wood was getting cheaper or his job was getting easier, he thought. Not that he’d have to do this much longer.

  He was due at Erica’s this evening to talk about his handling her finances. He’d been prepared to put off the Knightsbridge Subdivision for another day, but she had some luncheon scheduled.

  Taj could hear the rumble of cement mixers and the continuous beat of a jackhammer from the construction crew a few houses down as he walked through the dining room, which still smelled of fresh paint and new carpeting.

  “Typical,” he muttered, looking at the showroom-fresh furniture. What was it about new houses that made people insist on cramming them with brand-new furniture and the biggest televisions they could find? he wondered.

  Deciding to shake up his usual routine, Taj stopped by the home office first. He took a seat in the big leather chair behind a massive desk and set his briefcase down beside him.

  He tugged on the top middle drawer.

  Locked.

  Taj started to go for his crowbar, but hesitated. He opened the top, side drawer and, sure enough, keys.

  Again, typical and so predictable, Taj thought.

  The second key he tried opened the drawer and his eyes fell upon a gold Rolex. He immediately took the Movado he was wearing off his arm and slipped on the Rolex, which was definitely a keeper.

  By the time he’d finished in the office and cleaned out the bedroom, his briefcase was bulging with cash, jewelry, and a laptop computer.

  He smiled to himself as he walked to the front door. He wondered how much this briefcase would weigh once he filled it with cash from Erica Boyd’s bank accounts.

  Taj opened the door, stepped out on the porch, and froze. The flashing blue lights of squad cars greeted him, accompanied by at least a dozen officers with guns pointed squarely at him.

  How?

  The word reverberated through his mind as he dropped the bulging briefcase and stumbled down the porch steps with his hands up, complying with their barked orders. His plan was perfect, Taj thought, as he lay spread-eagle on the ground in his designer suit with his nose pressed against the concrete.

  How could they have figured it out?

  A big, burly cop in plainclothes handcuffed him, informing him of his rights as he yanked him to his feet.

  Taj looked up—directly into the face of Erica’s ex.

  “How did you figure it out?” he asked, the question burning inside him.

  Taj staggered as Erica’s ex grabbed the front of his jacket. He braced himself for the punch he was certain to come. The guy had looked as though he wanted to kill him back at Erica’s penthouse.

  Instead the cop’s face broke into a smile, and he pointed at the stolen pin on Taj’s lapel. “This pin and a very angry woman you apparently hung up on earlier led us right to you,” he said.

  Emerging from her bubble bath, Erica wrapped herself in a thick bath sheet.

  She was glad Taj left early this morning. She wanted to be on point when she faced the Ladies’ Lunch League membership committee this afternoon. She’d even shut off both her house and cell phones so she wouldn’t be disturbed. She needed to be mentally prepared for her me
eting with the committee.

  Erica walked into her bedroom to take another look at the peach linen suit she’d laid out on the bed. She ran her trembling fingers across the smooth silk of the matching blouse and tried not to let her nerves get the best of her.

  After all, she’d been quite generous to a lot of the members’ pet causes. Yet she still lacked Vivian Cox’s endorsement, she thought.

  Every time she’d managed to corner the woman, Vivian somehow changed the subject or slipped away.

  “Well, you’ll just have to make an impression on the rest of them,” she said, slathering on a dollop of scented body cream.

  After all, she had been making inroads lately. She and Taj had made Making a Scene magazine, and she looked forward to seeing photos of them from last night in the next issue.

  No, she didn’t feel the same way about Taj as she had felt about Hunter. However, with Taj at her side, she was close to getting the recognition she deserved.

  Erica exchanged the towel for her dressing gown, and sat down at her vanity to apply her makeup.

  When she was dressed, she reached into her handbag for her cell phone. She powered it on to see if she’d received any calls from Taj or the Ladies’ Lunch League.

  The phone chirped several times, and Erica looked down at the tiny screen. Twenty-seven messages. What on earth was going on?

  Carrie’s number flashed on the screen as the phone buzzed in Erica’s hand.

  “Miss Boyd, I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour,” her publicist said breathlessly.

  Erica blew out a sharp breath. “Carrie, can this possibly wait? I have a very important meeting with the membership committee of the Ladies’ Lunch League this afternoon.”

  “Fine,” Carrie snapped.

  Erica pulled the phone away from her ear a moment and glared at it, not caring for Carrie’s tone.

  “So, what do you want me to tell the reporters calling about you?”

  “What?” Erica asked.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Carrie asked.

  “Know what?”