Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors

by Alex Ames

  “Maybe you are a cock that likes to strut around with the success dangling in his pockets, mocking all the other suckers at the party. ‘Look here, I stole them, and you don’t know it yet. Read it in tomorrow’s papers.’” I mocked his strut.

  Rip laughed aloud. “Very good, we could make an actress out of you. But consider this, how did I know that I had to lift Pretty’s necklace? Was I warned that the police were going to raid the party? I decided to steal the diamonds, strut around with them in my pocket, meet you, flirt a little, and then have great sex with you after the party at your place. Or a plan similar to that one. How would I have known beforehand that a raid was going to take place?”

  “Maybe you are so clever that you bought some kind of insurance before you opened Swan’s safe?”

  Rip laughed again and shook his head several times.

  What an utterly ridiculous sight we gave. Hand in hand, walking along the beach like a pair of lovers.

  And to top it off, Rip stopped, took my other hand, and faced me. “Calendar, I really enjoyed that evening with you. You are a beautiful girl with strange resources, as I experienced firsthand when you reworked that necklace for your purpose on the fly. But don’t you think that you are wrong when it comes to me? Just because they forgot to search me doesn’t make me a burglar who got away.”

  “But you got away. From your fake-name pizza job and the party. You gave the police the wrong address and haven’t been seen since. They are still looking for you, believe me.”

  “Maybe I am a shy guy?” Rip offered as he smiled and walked on.

  “Why are you here, Rip Delaware, or whatever your real name is?” I asked him, not following. Rip walked on a few yards and then turned around.

  “To meet again with a fascinating girl and see how she is doing.” He continued walking away from me.

  “If you give me your number, you could see me even more,” I shouted after him, not really expecting an answer.

  If I had any chance to stop him from leaving, the time was now. The beach was quite narrow at this strip, and there were some other joggers and an occasional car on the upper level road. I started to run after him and stupidly gave myself away by shouting, “Stop, you bastard!”

  Rip simply started to run, too, and we jogged about thirty yards apart through the heavy sand, slowing us down. Rip reached the road first, and of course he had his exit planned: a taxi was waiting with a running motor on the other side of the street. Rip ran across the street, smoothly opened and closed the door, and the taxi rolled off. He probably had every step prearranged, telling the driver something like, “I have to call it quits with my girlfriend and need you for a getaway before she rips my head off. Here’s fifty. Keep the motor running.”

  I stood at the curbside of the road, looking after the cab and trying to memorize the license plate, breathing heavily after the sprint. Then I looked left and right in vain, hoping to find another taxi, but this was LA after all and not New York City.

  But I noticed another thing. About one-hundred yards further up the road, I could make out a parked police cruiser with a trouper holding binoculars in his hands, looking in my direction. He had probably seen our little scene.

  I turned back to finish my morning run. What else could I do?

  And I wondered what the policeman had made out of it.

  What I had heard, I didn’t like—for several reasons, and every single one a good one. First, I didn’t like him making references to “any other cat burglar” as if he somehow knew that I was a cat burglar. Well, from a twisted point of view, I was. He had been there when I had been caught supposedly doing just that. Second, he referred to Pretty McAllister’s necklace as “ugly,” a description that no sane amateur nor professional would have chosen for a necklace that came from one of the most acclaimed jewelry designers in the world and cost a big bundle. Rip had somehow managed to unbalance me with his unspoken hints that he had the upper hand for now and appeared to be one step ahead of me—and he would probably stay there for some time until I got wiser or better. Another thought struck me. In our conversation, he never openly admitted any involvement in the stealing of the jewels at Swan’s party. Denying tactics? Or some sort of truth? Some outlook for the quest to clear my good name.

  I arrived home twenty minutes later, wound down, had a shower, and then ate a quick breakfast of a bowl of cereal and a bagel dipped into the cream cheese tub. I scanned the morning paper I had purloined from my landlady’s mailbox—she was a notorious late sleeper and never up before 11:00 A.M.—and debated whether to call Lieutenant Graves and Fowler Wynn to tell them about my morning encounter with our prime suspect. Something was very odd around here, and I just couldn’t make that out. Why was Rip still around? Why had he met with me? Was there anything good to be achieved by convincing me of his innocence?

  The phone rang; it was Nicole Berg. She told me that she had fixed a date with producer Phil Krueger for late afternoon, and she asked if that was fine with me

  It was. We chatted for a few more minutes about meaningless stuff like girlfriends do, and that was that.

  When I was ready to leave for the shop, the phone rang again. It was the hyperventilating, soft hippie voice of Annie Otis, telling me that someone had broken into the shop and cleared out the safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Burglar’s Safe Burgled

  There is one rule to the game: never get caught. Sticking to it—admittedly some flaws applied lately—was easy. I did not have hot items in my shop safe. Everything that was stored and sold in my shop was legit and legal, with bills and certificates to prove that. So I had nothing to fear from seeing about eight policemen and police crime scene investigators crawling around my shop. Mrs. Otis had called the police first, when she arrived early to do some internet surfing from the store’s iMac and found the locks broken and the safe open. After she’d tried to call and missed me, Annie had informed my almost-boyfriend that maybe that poor girl needed her friend most, now. Mundy and I arrived at the same time and were led into the cordoned-off area.

  Mr. Andretti from the flower shop next door showed his sympathies, and I apologized for the mess and the lost business, but he waved it off. “They will come to my shop this afternoon to hear the story from me. I will make up the lost money, easily. Don’t worry, Calendar.”

  Inside my shop, I found Chief of Police Henry Steward conferring with some of his people. When he saw me, he smiled, excused himself from his people, and walked over to Mundy and me. I introduced them, and Henry measured up his competition.

  Turning to me, he said, “Sorry for the mess, but my people will be out before noon.”

  “Thanks for reacting so fast, Chief,” I said, meaning it. Due to budget cuts and understaffing, some victims of smaller crimes had to wait more than a day before the crime scene was processed and could be cleaned up. I looked around and couldn’t see any obvious damage in the shop front. “At least no vandalism.”

  Henry Steward nodded. “Looks like a straightforward professional job to me. The locks to the back door were picked professionally, just few scratch marks along the blending of the lock.”

  I didn’t tell him that it was not that professional to leave scratch marks, but that the burglar probably had wanted to get in as quickly as possible with a minimum amount of noise. In the end, it all came down to confusion tactics—leave some obvious blunders and discrepancies to dazzle the cops. But I couldn’t tell Henry that.

  Henry continued. “He was skillful with the alarm. It didn’t go off. He either knew the code….” He looked at me.

  “My shop assistant Annie Otis will tell you the same. There are three people who know the code, and all of them are present in this room. Mundy Millar, Annie, and myself. None of us wrote it down, it is changed monthly, and we take care to make sure that no one looks over our shoulders before we type it in.”

  Henry probably had heard it all, so his face remained wary. “You said it. He either knew the code or did so
me clever rigging. We are investigating it right now. The door to the workshop wasn’t locked, so he walked just right in.” My nod confirmed that. We walked into the workshop where two other CSI guys were dusting my safe—or what was left of my safe.

  Mundy peered at it. “This looks like it’s right out of a French gangster movie of the sixties.” He was referring to the burned off hinges and strategically placed holes in the door of the safe.

  Henry agreed. “I will have to send the photos to the FBI. Maybe they have a similar modus operandi somewhere in their database. It is a very peculiar style of opening the safe. Not the latest model, by the way.”

  I showed him my palms. “I am not one of these shop owners who can afford the latest model of everything. It is a mechanical one, pretty good, and will stop most criminals for quite some time. So I was told. But obviously this is someone who knew where to burn the holes in order to crack it.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” Henry asked me.

  “Aren’t I supposed to ask you that question?”

  “Me first,” Henry gave his small smile again.

  “Actually I do. The same guy who rode me into the Collins party mess.”

  “Rip Montana?” Henry searched for the name in my police report.

  “Rip Delaware. We met this morning while I was jogging on the beach. Out of the blue, he stopped me and bothered me with questions about why I suspected him of slipping me the necklace—and accused me that I had sent the police onto him.” I slapped my hand on my forehead. “The whole morning I was looking for a reason why he would meet me on the beach, why he was taking the risk. Now I know: he spent the night raiding my safe, and that was his way of gloating over me.”

  Mundy scratched his head. “First the Swan Collins’ jewels and now your stuff. I could imagine Swan Collins; he supposedly did some other celebrity burglaries before. But why your shop? Why is he fixated on you?

  “Maybe he is on a revenge job of some sort?” I proposed. “Or maybe he hoped to find the Acura and the Imperial diamonds in there.” I saw Henry’s blank face and explained, “The two diamond eggs I supposedly stole.”

  “Did he get a lot of mileage out of your safe?” Henry asked.

  “The safe is clean?” I asked because the technicians were blocking the view.

  “We didn’t find any jewels … at least not what I would assume we’d find in a jewelry workshop-slash-store. Just some business papers.”

  I nodded sadly; for the first time since Annie had called me with the news, I felt tears dwelling under my eyelids. “Then he got some miles out of it. Most of my raw materials, the current display collection, and some work-in-progress stuff. Somewhere around two to three million dollar purchase and retail value.” Mundy drew a sharp breath, he had probably never realized what expensive stuff I had lying around in my shop. I couldn’t help it and started to sniff. Rip had taken some valuable stuff from me—beautiful jewels that I had poured a lot of my heart blood into. Gone!

  I had to give a hiccough when Henry and Mundy passed me tissues simultaneously. Mundy then put his arm around me in a very sweet gesture and patted my hand helplessly.

  Henry looked truly worried about my well-being and asked, “I hope you are well insured, Calendar.”

  There it was again, the hiccough. And another one. Then my sniffing and silent weeping was overcome by whiny giggles. Giggles gave way to snorts and snorts to laughter. Tears of sorrow and laughter ran down my face, and I had to sit down. Mundy and Henry looked at each other, clueless.

  “But you are insured, aren’t you?” Henry asked again.

  Between the laughter and the cries, I managed to squeeze some words through my lips. “This is the best part. Don’t tell Fowler Wynn, but I am insured with his company!”

  Fowler Wynn arrived half an hour later, informed by Henry. No one had told him, yet, but his insurance company would tell him soon enough. For now, Fowler did his utmost possible not to gloat over my misery.

  The police had packed up, and Mundy had gone to work, leaving me with an empty, ruined safe, a dusty interior, and two cried-out shop ladies. Annie gave me a heartfelt hug and started cleaning up.

  “You must admit, the situation has ironic and tragic proportions,” Fowler was telling me.

  “I will hear the details, whether I want to or not,” I said, resigned, wondering if I could cry on command to make Fowler uncomfortable.

  “The alleged burglar is a victim of another talented burglar.”

  “That is not ironic; that was intended,” I said.

  “While you are under suspicion of a jewelry theft, someone steals your jewels.”

  I leaned forward, so that none of the others could overhear us. In a low voice, I growled, “Shut up, Fowler. The safe was cleared out while I was breaking into the apartment of one of our suspects, Jeannie Anthony.” I gave him my hardest look, and he actually blinked first. “We are in this together, don’t you forget!”

  “Sure, Calendar. Remember our deal: you find the cat burglar of Hollywood for me, and you go free.”

  “Seems like he found me first,” I muttered dryly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Getting Drunk With Mundy

  In the late afternoon, I had delayed lunch with Mundy at Louise’s Pizza in an almost-empty restaurant, with room to cry. Mundy offered to treat me.

  “How far does the break-in to your store set you back?” He looked at me critically. “You may be the greatest cat burglar ever, but I know that most of your take flows into your charity through back channels.”

  “It is not my charity,” I snapped. “And for your information: I am able to pay for my own lunch.” Mundy was referring to the Children Unreserved Foundation, where I participated and—anonymously, of course—donated most of my illegal proceedings. Maybe the Robin Hood thing gave me some offset from the actual immoral act of stealing.

  Mundy moved a little backward in his chair. “Whoa, Calendar! Just asking as a friend and one-way lover, I have no clue about your personal finances. So, a theft of two million dollars is all right with you?”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to sound rude … it has been a bad day, after all.” I took his hand and pulled him closer to the table. “I am all right when it comes to money. First, I am well-insured, and I always update the inventory list every evening. Every item is documented. That will cover any stupid questions from the insurance company. Plus, most of my inventory, especially the expensive jewels, commissions, and the currently unused raw materials are stored in the safe of the bank opposite my shop. I just get the stuff out of there for what I plan to work on that week. So, Rip was able to grab the collection on display, the raw materials, and some almost finished stuff.”

  Mundy let go some air through his closed lips. “You juggle some valuables, esteemed girlfriend! I saw the jewelry lying around in your shop but never dared to add up the values. You are a strange duck. All that money! If you cashed in, you would be set for the rest of your life … but, no, you wouldn’t like that. Because you need the touch of diamonds.” Mundy often tried to analyze me in order to get behind the reasons of my little “adventures.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mundy,” I said. “No mistake, what was stolen sets me back, business wise. I have to build a new retail collection quickly, and that will take me weeks—with time I don’t have currently. Plus, I have to buy some raw materials first, which means a trip to Philadelphia, New York, or Amsterdam, if I don’t want to pay a fortune on the West Coast diamond market.”

  Mundy waved a tut-tut finger at me. “I think the judge will hate to see you flying east.”

  “You’re right, silly me.” I made a face. Hadn’t thought of that little glitch. “Pity the insurance doesn’t cover lost business.”

  “Are you planning to close the shop until the chase for the ‘Celebrity Cat’ is over?” Mundy asked.

  “Until I am in the clear, yes,” I said, and the pizza arrived. Louise, the owner, approached our table and gave me some h
eartfelt words of sympathy. Bad news travel fast in a small community like Redondo Beach.

  When we were alone again, Mundy asked around his pizza, “What’s your theory? Why did Rip break into your safe and steal your collection?”

  “Maybe Rip doesn’t like my hair?” I speculated, and Mundy rolled his eyes. “Okay, seriously: he either is looking for something that he assumes I have in my possession, or he is trying to hurt me.”

  “Or he simply needs the money,” Mundy added. We simultaneously shook our heads and had to smile. “Okay, strike that.” Mundy wiped his mouth and poured us more wine. “Why not get drunk in the afternoon at the end of a bad week?”

  “That is the best idea of the week so far,” I agreed wholeheartedly.

  We toasted at that. And emptied our glasses.

  “So, it is search or hurt. My money is on the search,” Mundy speculated, refilled our glasses, and waved to the waiter for more wine.

  I shook my head; at least I had to give the impression of wavering in my opinion. “But he tried to hurt me before when he slipped me the Pretty McAllister necklace and delivered my head on a platter to the police. I count that strongly toward ‘hurt.’”

  “Either way the question of course is: why? Any ideas? Dumped boyfriend? Did you cat-burglarize any competitive location recently? Maybe shortly before he planned to hit the same spot? Did you steal anything recently he may want to obtain for himself?”

  “How does he know me? It is not like our trade advertises in the yellow pages. There are not many people in the business who know my identity,” I replied.

  “If you take it logically, that is exactly where you should start: answer the why. Start with the people who know of your secret cat burglar identity. How many?” Because I didn’t answer right away, Mundy insisted, “Earth to Calendar. How many? If it takes you that long to calculate the number, it may be better to make a short list of the people who don’t know your secret identity!” Mundy joked.