Once the jewels were on the dressing tables and the models in place, Shea approached “his” necklace, as did the other assistants working the show. He glanced at the guard to make sure it was okay to remove the first piece, and at the man’s nod, he slipped his fingers beneath the edges of the necklace and lifted it from the case.
It was heavy and ornate, more like a collar than a necklace. The gold work was intricate and held dozens of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. He carefully walked to the model, who was already dressed in the first outfit of the trio she’d wear for the show.
He intended to make the swap during the change into her second gown and be out of there well before the last dress change.
He draped the necklace around her neck and secured it.
“It’s heavy,” the model said with surprise. Shit. Despite all the research Shea had done on the piece, none of the descriptions had mentioned the weight, and the replica in his pocket was not as heavy.
“It’s just your nerves, love. It’s not often you have millions around your neck,” he said using his mark’s accented voice. Although in truth, on other jobs she likely had worn jewelry that was almost as expensive.
He moved back to the case and removed earrings and a bracelet that had been lent by another royal to complete the outfit. Neither was of interest to the prince, which would help him with his distraction.
The model popped off the chair. Shea was tall, over six feet, but with her heels she towered over him. She was nearly half his weight and her body lacked the womanly curves he preferred.
He walked with her to the left wing of the stage where she took her position to wait for the speeches to end and the show to begin. From what he had seen of the plans for the show that Hammer had hacked, they had a little more time between costume changes than in a traditional runway show. The emcee was going to offer a detailed history of each of the jewels being worn, as well as of the designer and dress since the fashions were eventually being auctioned off. That auction would take place in a few months when the show was held again at Russian Nights, the Ivanov casino in Atlantic City.
Applause snapped him from his thoughts and he realized Princess Tatiana had just finished her speech and was walking from the podium to the edge of the stage where he stood with the model. She walked by and smiled. A friendly, radiant smile that held not a hint of phoniness.
She was lovely up close. Far lovelier than how she had appeared through his lens as he snapped off those intimate photos on the balcony.
“Thank you for helping out,” she said, and continued on her way to her front row seat close to the runway.
She sat down next to Prince Pyotr, and on her other side was an older couple. Her parents without a doubt. The older man had the exotic Ivanov eyes which gazed on his daughter with fatherly pride, but Tatiana took after her mother more. Even in her late fifties the woman was stunning, with midnight hair that was only starting to show the first few hints of a silvery gray.
Both women were wearing a wealth of jewels, and the thief in Shea itched to swipe them, but after tonight he was done with this life for good.
The low pulse of a bass beat started and the lights in the theatre dimmed. The emcee strolled to the podium and began his spiel, introducing the first set of jewels, the designer, and the gown.
As the model moved away from him and onto the stage, a bright spotlight fixed on her and the assorted precious stones and gold snapped to life, brilliant and glittering beneath the kiss of the lights.
Extraordinary. No wonder Sergei coveted the necklace.
With a shake of his head, he pulled himself away to prepare for the costume change.
Time to make the swap.
…
Tatiana excitedly grabbed Peter’s hand and beamed a smile at him, apparently so caught up in the event that her fear of what could happen had disappeared.
Peter wished he could let go of his concern as easily, but his gut was tight with tension. He wanted this night to go exactly right for her. Wanted them to get through it without the Thief of Hearts making off with what was probably the most priceless piece in the entire show.
The necklace was gleaming and jumping with highlights as the model strutted down the catwalk before them and paused at the end to stand there while the emcee did his little rundown about the provenance of the jewels and described the gown.
Beautiful, he thought, his gaze transfixed on the necklace. It shimmered and danced beneath the lights, almost alive.
“Rumor has it that this necklace once belonged to distant cousins of the Romanovs. During the Russian revolution it was believed lost, but has since been recovered,” the emcee said.
Recovered by someone who might not have been the original owner, Peter thought as the emcee continued. It made him wonder if that was why Prince Sergei had run out earlier. Not an emergency, but a desire to avoid seeing something that should have been his now flaunted in front of his face.
But if that was the reason, why buy a ticket to the event in the first place? Why leave before it started?
To have an alibi, his cop’s intuition screamed. Somewhere not where Sergei knew a crime was about to be committed. It was the most logical explanation.
Peter dropped his gaze from the necklace to the smartphone in his hand where several feeds were visible. He freed his hand from Tatiana’s and swiped the keypad, flipping to another set of views. And that’s when he thought he saw him.
Prince Sergei.
But Tony’s people had confirmed that the prince left the hotel a short time after Peter saw him in the lobby.
Peter made that view larger, but there was no longer any sight of Sergei. He flipped to another nearby feed, but again, there was nothing but guests moving to and from one of the gaming salons.
He shook his head in chastisement. Paranoid much? He was letting his fear get the better of him.
He returned his attention to the show, but every now and then, he’d look down. Check the feeds.
Better safe than sorry.
Because his damn gut was still doing somersaults.
…
The second dress for the show hung on the rack, awaiting the return of the model.
The hair stylist hovered nearby, ready to change the model’s upswept do into a different style to match the next gown.
Shea waited for that moment also, the paste necklace carefully tucked into his sleeve. With a well-practiced motion, he’d let it slip down while placing the real necklace into his pocket.
With the muted sounds of the music and talk filtering backstage, his model returned and he went into action. He unzipped the back of the gown and gently eased the sleeves down her arms, but when he did, he made a point of scraping the sleeve along her bracelet. He had snipped several of the threads inside earlier and left them in a tangle that wasn’t visible or noticeable to the model, but he knew it was there. And just as he’d planned, the tangle of strings snagged on the ornate facets of the bracelet.
He tugged feebly, making it appear that he was trying to free it, when in fact he was making the tangle worse.
Seeing there was an issue, the security guard for his station came over. “Is there a problem?”
“The bracelet seems to have caught on something.” Shea stepped away as the guard took over, trying to undo the tangle while he walked behind the model.
“Let me get this off to avoid a similar problem with the next gown,” he said, and undid the necklace, earning a quick look from the guard, but the man immediately returned to trying to free the bracelet, aware they had a schedule to keep.
Perfect. Shea walked over to the dressing table and the hairdresser leapt into action with the model, creating even more misdirection. The guard’s gaze skipped from him to her and back to the bracelet still snared within the sleeve.
While the guard’s head was turned to his task, Shea quickly perused the area and confirmed that all eyes were on other things and that there was no sign of Prince Pyotr.
With a q
uick flick of his wrist, the paste necklace dropped into his hand and he pocketed the real one. He laid the fake on the dressing table, picked up a small pair of scissors, and handed them to the guard. “Maybe these will help,” he said.
The man took the scissors and with a few snips, he cleared the tangle and smiled.
Shea went to work on helping the model out of the dress while the guard returned to his position by the dressing table, his gaze fixed on the fake necklace. An almost visible sigh of relief passed over the man and Shea had to battle back a laugh.
He finished dressing the model and hung up the first gown. He waited a few steps back while the hairdresser changed out the hairstyle, and then it was time for Shea to place the necklace back on the model. He approached the dressing table and met the guard’s gaze. “May I?”
The guard snapped a sharp nod and Shea picked up the necklace, walked to the model, and once again secured it around her neck.
“You look lovely,” he said, and the model beamed a smile at him.
“I must be getting used to it. It’s not as heavy anymore.”
He smiled back and patted her shoulder. “Your nerves are gone. Now let’s go out there and kill this second set.”
He walked with her to the stage, but there were still several models waiting in front of her. The show was running with a slight delay. Excellent.
“I’m going to head back and prep for the next change,” he whispered to her.
He strolled backstage, but instead of going to his dressing table area, he kept on going. At the look from one of the guards at the stage exit, he said, “Bathroom break.”
The man nodded, opened the door, and Shea hurried out and down the hallway toward the restrooms. But once he turned the corner and was out of sight, he whipped the smartphone from his pocket to see what has happening on the various video feeds.
All seemed clear, but as he stepped into the restroom and into one of the stalls, he noticed movement by the clothing shop where he was supposed to make the drop of the real necklace.
Every shop had been closed in anticipation of the fashion show because of the security risk they presented. But there was someone clearly entering the clothing shop.
Someone who looked disturbingly like Mouse, his team member.
What the fuck? He enlarged the image, but by then the person had slipped out of view of the camera.
Despite his concern about seeing Mouse, Shea couldn’t hesitate. Even with the delay, he had very little time before the model returned for the third costume change, and his absence was noticed.
He reached up and tore off the blue Mohawk wig, dropped it into the toilet, and flushed. He had already tried out a similar-sized wig in another toilet without an issue. He smiled as the blue swirled away like toilet bowl cleaner. Then he reached into his jeans pocket and removed a small pouch with make-up remover wipes. With swift, sure strokes, he scrubbed off the face tattoo, using several wipes to remove the design and flushing each wipe to eliminate any evidence of his deception.
When the last wipe came away fairly clean, he stripped off his jacket and T-shirt. He turned both inside out, reversing the black T-shirt to a bright red, and the black leather jacket to the khaki lining he had sewn inside.
Exiting the stall, he walked to the sink, washed his hands, then bent, scrubbing at his face to remove the last traces of the painted tattoo.
He rose and dried his face, pulled a black knit beanie from his pocket, and eased it onto his head to complete his transformation.
Satisfied, he strolled out of the bathroom and down the service hallway to the elevators, the weight of the necklace a dangerous reminder that something might be amiss with his plan.
What the hell was Mouse doing here?
Chapter 23
Peter risked Tatiana’s displeasure to skim through the various video feeds midway through the fashion show.
He noticed a man walking down the hallway, head tucked down and barely visible beneath the upturned collar of his khaki jacket. He wore a black beanie that also obscured a good portion of his face. There was something that nagged at him about the man. Something really familiar.
Tatiana nudged him, reminding him to pay attention to the show, but he held up his hand and enlarged the image. Unfortunately, the man walked into one of the dead zones by the elevator banks.
He flipped to another feed and noticed several tourists strolling through the public areas of the lower mini-mall level where they had closed all the shops. It had been too difficult to shut down access to that area since there were so many entrances, but the greatest threat was from the shops directly below the ballroom and amphitheater.
Feeling too uneasy to keep sitting there, he leaned close to Tatiana and whispered, “I have to go. Keep your phone handy.”
“Is something wrong?” she asked, alert to his every nuance.
He shook his head. “Just me being paranoid, but stay alert.” He kissed her cheek, then ducked down to keep a low profile until he hit the aisle. Almost at a run, he hurried from the theater, his gaze half on the video feeds as he swiped through them, and half on the crowd around him.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so he slowed his breakneck pace through the feeds, concentrating instead on the activity in the hallways and lobby as he headed for the stairs.
Tony had positioned himself at one side of the lobby and was on his radio, giving instructions to the crew manning the show while also keeping control of the casino areas. Although their main concern had been a theft during the show, casinos were always vulnerable to an attack. There had been some recent armed robberies of several casinos in the States, in addition to a rash of them in France, Germany, and Switzerland just a few years ago.
Peter hoped that their focus on the fashion show hadn’t made them vulnerable in other ways.
He walked over to the security chief. “Everything okay?”
The man nodded. “Everything is in order, Prince Pyotr.”
“Detective Roman,” he reminded the man. While the news was obviously out about who he was, since he’d made no secret of his identity at the dinner last night, he intended to resume the non-royal life he had chosen.
But with one big difference. Tatiana would be at his side.
Peter clapped the man on the shoulder. “Glad to hear everything is okay. I’m just going to reconnoiter the lower level.”
“As you wish, Detective Roman,” Tony said with a nod and a half bow. No matter what Peter was called, to Tony he was still a prince.
Peter turned on his heel and headed back toward the hall that passed the ballroom and stage entrance for the amphitheater. He walked in the direction he’d seen the man on the video feed going, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Several guests were strolling through the hall on their way to the nearby gaming salons.
Losing some of his discomfort, he contemplated returning to the fashion show, but figured that at this point, he might as well continue his walk.
…
Shea hurried to the clothing shop while keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. And for Mouse.
There were more people down in this area than he liked. He had expected that with all the activity on the floors above, few people would linger down here, but there was a couple walking toward him and another group of people waiting for an elevator.
He fingered the lock picks in his jacket pocket. He’d have to work quickly to avoid exposure.
When he reached the clothing shop, he stopped to look at the window display, taking advantage of the sparkling clean windows to watch the activity behind him. The group stepped onto the elevator and the couple he had seen earlier was taking the stairs up to the lobby area.
Shea rushed to the door, slipped on latex gloves, and took out the picks. But to his surprise, there was already evidence of pick marks around the lock. He grabbed the knob and it twisted without any resistance.
This was not good.
Battling back his concern, he slipped into the da
rkened shop and hurried to the back storage room where the suit that Sergei had ordered should be waiting for him.
When he walked in, he almost tripped over a body sprawled on the floor.
Mouse.
He dropped to his knees beside his team member. “Mouse! What the hell!”
Mouse looked up and grabbed for him feebly, his movements uncoordinated.
“Sorry,” he said weakly, but from deep in his chest came the rattle of blood.
A death rattle, Shea recognized.
He took hold of Mouse’s hand and it was sticky with blood. He swept away his team member’s jacket and an immense dark splotch of blood marred his shirtfront. It looked black in the dim glare of the emergency lights in the storeroom.
“What happened, Mouse? What’s going on?” he asked in dismay, but just then the lights snapped on.
Prince Sergei.
The prince stood a few feet away, a silenced gun in his hand. He jerked the muzzle up and down for Shea to get up.
He came to his feet, dread filling his gut. So not good.
That’s when he noticed something else. Along with a ladder, several of the ceiling tiles lay scattered on the floor alongside Mouse. Shea looked up and his heart stalled.
The beams of the subfloor had been exposed and small bricks of C4 were duct-taped to them, assorted wires leading back to a timing device.
Ten minutes, it read. As he watched, the LED numbers snapped to life and began counting down. Shea’s pulse took off.
Sweet Jesus. “What have you done, Mouse?” he muttered, and glanced down at his team member. His eyes were wide open and sightless. In the dim light, the large pool of blood beneath his body was now visible along with Shea’s boot prints from stepping in it.
“He helped me right a wrong, Mr. Smith,” Prince Sergei answered calmly.
“Why? Why kill him?” Shea asked and glared at the prince, but he knew the answer was a twisted version of the truth. It was clear from the maniacal look on the man’s face that he wasn’t dealing with a full deck.
Prince Sergei held out his free hand and wiggled his fingers. “My necklace, please.”
To Catch a Princess (Entangled Ignite) Page 19