Diamonds Aren't Forever

by Connie Shelton

  Pen liked the addition of the exclamation points. Their chance of success was beginning to feel real.

  Chapter 32

  Frank slept late the next morning and woke with a vague unease about his latest marks, the Andersons. Had he managed to keep his British accent firmly in place all evening? The lobster dinner had gone well. Somewhere around ten o’clock, he’d tired of pretending to be drunk from his water martinis and had switched to the real thing. Tom Anderson, of course, was well in his cups by then, and Danielle had begun rubbing Frank’s leg with her bare foot under the table.

  He’d managed to slip her hotel key card from her purse when she left it behind on a trip to the ladies room. Not that he intended to use it for what she had in mind—it would come in handy for his own plans later.

  The three had hung out in the bar until well after midnight, Frank playing it cagey about his investment advisor. Anderson persisted—what would it take for him to get in? Well, I don’t know, Frank responded, it was a pretty exclusive group and the really hot deals didn’t come up very often. The whole thing became almost hilarious, with Tom practically drooling into his late-night Drambuie and Danielle sending seductive glances which became more pathetic since the woman could barely hold her head up.

  If either of the marks had noticed Frank’s accent slipping, they wouldn’t remember it this morning. He tossed the sheets aside and stared out his balcony window at the peaceful blue water. The beach curved around the small lagoon where the hotel sat, a few miles away from town. Palm trees waved in the gentle breeze and already the bikini set were beginning to spread towels on lounge chairs and rub oil into their already-bronzed skin.

  Yeah, he thought with a sigh, I could stay awhile and really get into this lifestyle. Except he never settled very long anywhere. If everything fell into place today, he would be taking his leave sooner rather than later.

  He took a quick shower and dressed in tropical-weight pants and a flowered shirt, the all-important money belt with the necklace in it strapped securely to his waist. The room phone rang as he picked up his sunglasses and cell phone. He ignored the noise. Damned front desk, no doubt, wanting to pester him again about that credit card situation. He walked out.

  At ground level, he paused beside the stone wall where he’d begun the play yesterday with Tom and Danielle Anderson. He surveyed the beach, ignoring the relentless swoosh of the waves—too boring to keep his attention—and focusing on the people. He spotted them almost right away, Danielle’s upright posture and proud bosom next to Tom’s shuffling gait, about a quarter mile in the distance and heading his direction. Frank smiled and stepped out into the sunshine.

  He raised his cell phone to his ear, walking along to a spot where there were no loungers nearby, gesticulating and talking as if he were on the most important call of his life. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Tom Anderson had spotted him. He turned his back to the couple and paced a few steps the other direction, turned again, paced toward the waterline, still gesturing, still ignoring Anderson.

  When the mark moved within earshot, Frank went into the play.

  “Archie, I’m on an island, for god’s sake!” Pause. “Yeah, yeah, well sure there are … let me think …” Pause. Definite interest from Anderson, although the man had half-turned away in a gesture of offering privacy. “What time is it there? Okay, I’m on it. I’ll get to the bank immediately. You watch for my transfer and make sure you get me into this thing today!”

  He snapped the phone shut and pretended a startled reaction as if he noticed the Andersons for the first time.

  “Oh! Tom, Danielle, I was hoping to run into you. Have you had your breakfast? I’ve been considering the brunch buffet inside …” He waved vaguely toward the hotel. “Then it turns out I can’t. Just got a call … listen, must rush.”

  He started to turn away.

  “That was your advisor guy, wasn’t it?” asked Tom. “Sorry, I heard you call him Archie. That’s the one, right?”

  “Well, yes. I’m afraid he’s just given me the most brilliant tip. You’ve heard the copper market has been in the crapper for months now? At any rate, the market closes in London in about an hour. It’s Friday, you know.” He punctuated his words with quick little gestures. “If I don’t get to the bank in town this very minute, I completely lose out.”

  “Wait—can I get in on this one too?” Tom asked. The hunger on his face was a sweet thing.

  “Oh, Tom, I don’t know. It’s such a limited offering …” He counted three silent beats. “Look, ride along and we can discuss it in the car.”

  “What about brunch, honey?” Danielle whined.

  “Get whatever you want,” Tom told her, pulling a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “Have a little fun in the gift shop too.”

  Frank was already five paces ahead, aiming for the pathway that bypassed the lobby. The flash of cash—what a rookie move—to prove he could afford to play with the big boys. Tom caught up, puffing slightly to match Frank’s rapid stride.

  A Rolls Royce limo sat at the curb. The hotel had several of them for their VIP guests and the driver barely glanced at Frankie’s gold room key before he opened the door to the back seat. Unless Tom knew about the perks of the penthouse suites, he would likely assume this was the private car of Woodsworth Coddington IV. Frank was not about to burst that delightful little bubble.

  “First Cayman Bank,” he told the driver. “As quickly as possible, please.” Good, polite Englishmen always said please.

  The limo glided down the driveway and onto the island’s main road. Frank jabbered on about copper futures and the price of gold and how all those things were such an integral part of the jewelry business. As the airport appeared on their right, he happily spotted several private jets parked near the fencing.

  “Ah, they’re taking good care of my baby,” he said, waving vaguely toward them.

  “Is yours the one with the blue tail?” Anderson asked, saving Frank the potential disaster of not knowing the various models. Plus, it was the biggest one.

  “Yes, the Kristina. I called her after my dear fiancée who was tragically swept away in a riptide on Bali, only days before our wedding.” Careful, Frankie, not too many details.

  “Oh—so sad,” said Tom, averting his eyes from the plane.

  Ten minutes later the car pulled up outside a turquoise and white building. “Here we are, sir,” said the driver.

  “Wait here,” Frank told the man. “I shouldn’t be long.” Under his breath he said to Tom, “Quickest ten-fold return I’ll ever make.”

  “I’m coming along,” Tom said. As they approached the ornate brass-trimmed doors he added, “I really want in on this investment, Woody.”

  The rope tightened. The man was his.

  “All right then. Let’s do some paperwork.”

  Frank strode to the counter for international transfers and explained the need to move funds from his account at this bank to someone in London. The attractive black woman handed him a simple form and he began filling in account numbers. In the space for Amount of Transfer he wrote $1,000,000.

  Tom’s eyes widened. “I, uh, don’t have quite that much to put in. Is a lesser amount okay?”

  Frank stiffened. “How much less?”

  “Afraid I can only go two-hundred grand.”

  “I’m sure that’s fine,” Frank assured him. “I began much smaller as well.”

  “I’ll need those forms too,” said Tom to the teller. “I assume with the right routing numbers I can move money from my U.S. account as well?”

  She smiled. Accommodating the quirky needs of wealthy people kept her employed. Tom wrote his own bank account number from memory, then copied the “Send To” account number from Frank’s form and filled in the amount, $200,000. The teller took their forms and began inputting data into her computer.

  “Your receipt, Mr. Anderson,” she said with a smile, handing over a slip.

  Anderson stared at it a moment, put it in his
pocket and let out a long breath.

  The woman looked at Frank. “I’m afraid you forgot to sign your form, sir.” She pushed it back toward him.

  “Oh, that was inattentive of me.”

  The one place where Anderson could catch on to the whole scheme, if he was watching. Frank stole a glance and saw that his mark had turned toward the door. He dashed off the actual name on the account, his own, and passed it quickly to the woman. If she saw he was transferring money from his Cayman account to an identically registered one in Switzerland she gave no indication.

  Five minutes later the two men walked back out to the Rolls.

  “All right, old chap,” said Frank in his most jubilant Woodsworth voice. “All we have to do now is lounge around our lovely hotel, enjoy the beach and wait for the market to open Monday with news of our coup. I have a feeling your Danielle will be ever so grateful to you.”

  Chapter 33

  Bill Caplin sat in his generic government car a half-block down the street from the house where a robbery suspect lived with his mother. The stupid kid (had they always been this immature at twenty-five?) shot at a convenience store clerk, hit a can of oil on the shelf instead, grabbed the cash from the till but tracked the damn oil out the front door and down the alley. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out the prints would lead to the home of this punk who’d been caught on camera robbing the same place two weeks ago. The house was less than a block from the store.

  Caplin’s purpose in sitting here now, rather than hauling the kid out by the scruff of his neck, was to make sure the perp didn’t leave the house before the crime scene folks arrived to bag his shoes. Procedure! It became more ridiculous with each passing year.

  Bending over backward to follow cumbersome rules and treat suspects with more respect than the victims got, those were only a couple of the reasons Caplin was more than ready to retire. But every time he thought of retirement, it reopened the festering anger at the fake Dick Stone, anger that always seethed just below the surface.

  Sure, he still had his city pension coming but that fifty grand would have bought him the boat he planned on taking down to Mexico, living on it while his skin turned dark brown and he ate shrimp every day. A guy could live like a king on a couple grand a month down there. Without that boat, he’d be paying for housing and it kind of burst the whole bubble of his vision. Now, he’d have to take a second job for a few years and save every scrap before he could do the dream. Dammit, he didn’t want to wait for it. His old man and brother had died in their early sixties when the old ticker gave out. Bill had been ‘this close’ to realizing his vision.

  Meanwhile, every passing day made it harder to admit what had happened. Reporting the theft of such a chunk of his retirement money was simply too humiliating. Yeah, yeah, he knew that’s what most victims of con men felt and that’s why so few of those guys were ever caught or prosecuted. But geez, he was a cop. He should have seen through the guy and arrested him on the spot. His fist tightened around the steering wheel until he heard something crackle. He released it and shook out the tension.

  He’d pretty much decided he would keep quiet and just pursue it on his own. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a copy of the mug shot Penelope Fitzpatrick had tentatively chosen, a small-time grifter named Frank Woods. So far, Caplin had only had time in his off hours to learn that Woods was just one of many aliases this guy used. He wished he knew more about computers—some shortcuts would sure help at this point.

  His cell phone rang and he took the call without looking at the readout.

  “Hey, detective, it’s me. Todd Wainwright.”

  Shit. This guy was becoming a pain in the neck.

  “Have you caught up with that Dick Stone guy yet?”

  Why did people think police work went the way it did on TV—every crime solved and all the loose ends wrapped up in an hour?

  “No, Todd. I’ve got a lead on his identity but nothing on his whereabouts yet.”

  He could hear the museum guy grousing at the other end. Too bad.

  “Todd, I’ll let you know when I have anything. You know, you’re free to search for him too.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have any idea how.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t exactly have the complete resources of the department here,” Caplin said. “Not unless you want your name brought into it and the whole thing a matter of record.”

  “No, no. That’s okay. I’m sure you’re doing all you can.” Todd thanked him and ended the call.

  “Damn straight,” Caplin muttered to the empty car.

  Chapter 34

  Penelope checked her email every five minutes for the rest of the afternoon, and something delightful seemed to be waiting for her each time.

  From Gracie. To All Heist Ladies: Success! Our man identified by manager at the Grand Cayman Regent. Registered as Woodsworth Coddington IV (seriously!!). He’s staying in the penthouse suite and there’s a little question about his credit card. They were not aware of a woman staying with him, but if I get in touch with my “aunt” would I please have her visit the front desk?

  From Pen. To All: This will be fun! I have four seats booked—everyone in?

  From Amber. To All: My passport’s at my mother’s. No time to get it  Wish I could, but better stay near computer at home in case you need further research.

  From Gracie, Sandy and Pen. To Amber: Sorry you can’t come but good idea about the research.

  From Pen. To Gracie, Sandy: Flight leaves at 11:00 tonight. You have two hours to pack!

  From Sandy. To Pen: Yowza! Will I be back for work Monday morning?

  From Pen. To Sandy: We can make it happen.

  Pen went immediately to the airline site, canceled Amber’s ticket and finalized reservations for the other three. They would arrive Saturday morning and return Sunday afternoon. She could only hope it would provide enough time for the confrontation with Frank Morrell and to retrieve the stolen cash and necklace. If banks there were not open on Saturday, Pen was prepared to extend her own return for an extra day. It had been a long time since she’d made such spur-of-the-moment travel plans and she found herself getting excited.

  She called Benton and told him only that she needed to make a quick trip, asking if he would drive her to the airport. At this point, she didn’t want to get into explanations or the need to defend her actions. She just wanted to go.

  Nine p.m. brought a flurry of excitement as the Ladies met in front of the American Airlines ticket counter. Sandy headed for the check-in kiosks but Pen touched her shoulder.

  “Over here,” she said, indicating a window at the counter.

  “First class?” Gracie squeaked. “You booked us first class?”

  “It was a pretty full flight and this was the only way to get seats together.” Pen hedged. She’d really wanted to do something nice for the girls in return for the time and effort they were spending to help her. Then she caught Gracie’s stricken look. “Oh, my—don’t be mistaken. This is completely my treat.”

  Relief. Then a wave of giddy excitement. They were on their way to the Caribbean.

  Chapter 35

  “Danielle and I are going to treat you to lunch, Woody.” Tom Anderson leaned toward Frank across the seat of the Rolls Royce, on their way from the bank back to the Grand Cayman Regent. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing me along today.”

  “Lunch would be very nice,” Frank answered, working to keep up his British reserve, since all he really wanted to do was get out of this man’s presence and yelp for joy.

  Two hundred grand in his Swiss account after a couple days socializing with this auto parts businessman, the guy who thought he knew so much about investing. He resisted the urge to sneak a glance at his watch. All he had to do was keep the Andersons in the dark and avoid the hotel manager for another sixteen hours.

  “Man, Monday morning can’t come soon enough for me,” Anderson was saying. “I can’t wait to take a look at that ten-fold
return you promised.”

  Frank forced his smile to mirror Tom’s eagerness. “It will be grand, won’t it?”

  The car rolled to a quiet stop in front of the hotel’s main entrance. Tom got out at the curb. Frank climbed out on the side away from the building.

  “Look, I’ve got a quick stop to make,” he said. “Let’s meet at the beach. I heard about a tasty little place for lunch and it’s only a short walk.”

  “Great,” said Tom. “Danielle’s probably already out working on her tan. I’ll tell her to put on some clothes. Fifteen minutes?”

  Frank sent him a little salute as he ducked into a narrow pathway beside the building. No way was he going to wreck things now by walking through the lobby. Alone in the shade of a huge tree with flaming red flowers, he let out a long breath and rolled his shoulders a couple of times to release the pent-up energy. He loved to play the con, loved to watch the mark lay down his money, especially loved watching those dollars move along right into his bank account. He didn’t love the idea of having to keep up the pretense this many more hours.

  How was he going to keep Anderson from checking with his own bank, potentially stopping the funds transfer and botching the deal? At the very least, he had to keep the guy occupied until after banking hours, another four or five hours. The afternoon stretched ahead, much too long.

  He patted the money belt where the necklace and cash sat, felt his pockets and found the two cell phones. Damn, he’d meant to get rid of the one from Arizona. The thing was like an anchor around his neck. He pressed a button on it and saw another call from Todd Wainwright. Geez, would that guy never let go?

  A glance at the time told him he had a few minutes yet before meeting the Andersons. He ducked between two buildings and headed for a small pier where he’d seen fishing boats dock when they picked up their charters. He wondered how deep that water was, supposed it didn’t matter—almost any amount of salt water could ruin a cell phone.