“We have a room number,” said Pen. “How about a visit instead? There’s simply nothing like the face-to-face interview.”
Gracie raced off to get dressed and ten minutes later they were standing in front of room 325. There was no answer to Sandy’s knock at the door.
“Now what?” Pen asked. “We seem to have reached an impasse.”
“They have to come back sometime soon,” Sandy said after using a house phone to verify that Mr. and Mrs. Anderson had not checked out.
“Well, it seems unproductive to sit outside this door, waiting them out. They could be on a sightseeing tour or having lunch followed by beach time … what if they don’t come back before dinner?”
“Come,” said Pen. “I have an idea.”
They rode the elevator down in silence and found the hotel’s main restaurant, an open-air place with beach views and a well-stocked bar. Pen walked up to the bartender.
“Might I have a hotel guest paged in here?” she asked.
He nodded. When she gave the name, the handsome man smiled. “I’ll save you the trouble. That’s Mr. and Mrs. Anderson over there, the table by the rock wall.”
Pen turned to the others with her hands spread. See there? Simple.
Chapter 39
“Pardon me—Mr. Anderson?” Pen asked as she approached the table. Sandy and Gracie had decided to hang back rather than overwhelm these strangers.
The man wore his polo shirt and tan khaki slacks well; everything about him said ‘successful businessman.’ The wife was attractive in an overdone way—too-long acrylic nails, too-large bleached hair, too-gaudy diamond on her hand. She might have done better to have gone a cup size smaller on the breast implants, and her lovely complexion would soon be ruined if she kept up the tanning, but none of that was Pen’s concern at the moment. She only wanted information about Frank Morrell’s plans if she could get it.
“I apologize for intruding on your lunch,” she said. So far, lunch only consisted of cocktails. “I’m looking for a man called Woodsworth Coddington. Someone said you might know him?”
Anderson’s smile brightened. “Oh, Woody! Yes, of course. Are you related?”
Related? Pen had to pause and think what he meant by that.
“I just thought … your accent being so similar.” He gestured toward the third chair at their table and she sat down.
“Oh, right. Well, no. We’re more just acquaintances.”
It didn’t seem to matter to Tom Anderson, and his wife barely smiled as she shielded her eyes from the sun and took small sips of her drink.
“We met Woody our second day on the island. Great guy. We really hit it off.”
“I wonder if he might have mentioned his plans? Where he was traveling after this?”
“Well, no. Danielle and I figured he might be down for lunch soon. Thought we’d treat him to dinner tonight. And then Monday we planned to run into town together, a little business deal we’ve got going.”
Business deal. Pen’s alarm bells began clanging furiously.
“Em, what sort of business deal? If you don’t mind my asking. It’s just that I—”
“Well, I can’t tell you the exact nature of it, of course,” Tom said.
“It’s all on the up-and-up,” said his wife, the first time she’d spoken. “Woody’s got contacts like you wouldn’t believe. He’s in the jewelry business, you know.”
“Oh yes, I know.” Pen felt a sickening flip in her stomach.
“So generous, honest as the day is long …” Tom took another sip from his glass.
“He said he could get us a super deal on some rubies,” Danielle said. The sparkle was beginning to come back to her eyes.
“Mr. Anderson, I’m afraid—”
For the first time he looked at her seriously.
“It’s just that this man calling himself Coddington … His real name is Frank Morrell and he managed to barely escape the authorities in Arizona.” She didn’t know if that part was true but it sounded more convincing than ‘he stole my necklace.’
“Oh, that can’t be right,” Anderson said. “This guy, well, he was English. So proper, so refined.”
Such a great actor. Pen could see she was getting nowhere with them.
“We’re going to the bank on Monday where we’ll check our accounts for the returns on this investment we did. Look, he put five times more into it than I did. He’s got a lot more to lose and there’s no way he’d want to do that. The man is very savvy.”
She smiled weakly. Savvy was right.
She pressed on. “But he said nothing to you about his travel plans after Cayman? Was he going home or was he going somewhere on business?”
Both Andersons shook their heads.
Pen stood and said goodbye. She’d spotted Gracie and Sandy walking a pathway toward the beach, and she headed their direction. A short stroll was all the time it took for her to relay what she’d learned from the Andersons.
“I feel badly that they also got swindled by him, but what else could I have done? They refused to believe me.”
Sandy patted her arm. “You did what you could. We have his business card and if we can get Morrell arrested we can give this information to the police.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s best.”
“I wonder if he has roots in England,” Gracie pondered. “Maybe that explains why he was on that particular flight? Going home to someone?”
Pen didn’t think so. He’d been utterly convincing as an American, a private investigator in Arizona. They walked back toward the hotel, discussing what to do next, but no one had any great ideas.
Feeling a little edgy about the deception they were pulling themselves—staying in a lavish suite they weren’t paying for—the ladies decided to hole up there with the Do Not Disturb sign out. If someone came around and confronted them, Pen would explain and pay for one night.
It was late afternoon when Amber emailed Sandy again: Found an Anton van der Went online. Diamond merchant from Amsterdam. Not a good reputation. Watch out.
Pen immediately placed a call to Phoenix.
“I don’t know how it’s related,” Amber assured her, “but when I came across the guy’s name and diamonds in the same sentence I thought you should know. Apparently he runs a storefront in the diamond cutting district, so some of his sales must be legit. But there are complaints about him too. He was accused five years ago of accepting stolen merchandise and re-cutting the stones so they could be sold anonymously.”
“Book us on a flight to London,” she said. “The first one out of here.”
Sandy was waving for her attention. “I can’t, Pen. I have to be back at work on Monday.”
Gracie nodded at Pen’s inquiry whether she wanted to go along. “I’ll call Scott and let him know.”
Amber had something to add: “Morrell was booked through to Zurich on this morning’s flight. I haven’t been able to absolutely confirm whether he actually went …”
“Make it Zurich,” Pen said, “for myself and Gracie.”
“I’ll email your confirmation numbers the moment I have them,” Amber said.
Pen turned to the others. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep here. Gracie, I know we packed for the tropics and I’m afraid we’ll find this clothing unsuitable for Switzerland in April, but we can purchase a few—”
She stopped herself. It was exactly what Morrell had done, the reason he’d abandoned his local clothing in his room. She felt confident they were making the right decision.
That night, she tossed in bed, still uncomfortable about the large hotel bill. In the dark, she padded to the hall table where the dunning notice lay. At the bottom she wrote down the information she knew—Morrell’s real name and what little they knew about him. She enclosed cash for the value of one night, the one they were spending right now. She felt badly about the nights he had not paid for, the expensive meals and the extravagant gift shop purchases—especially since he’d no doubt worn the Rolex out of
here—but it was the best she could do to help.
Chapter 40
“Detective Caplin, what’s this on your computer?” Captain Remington stood behind Bill’s chair, walking up so quietly Bill jumped.
Bill’s eyes darted between the captain’s face and his screen. It was pretty damning—he was using the department’s facial recognition program to look for a match on the mug shot Mrs. Fitzpatrick had identified as the man she knew as Richard Stone. If he stopped in mid-search, he would have to start over, but the program’s use was normally restricted to crime lab technicians working on the most urgent cases.
“It’s not personal business, is it? You know I warned everyone …”
“No, sir.” It grated on him to show deference to this man twenty years his junior. It really was time to retire. “This is a suspect in that robbery at the Philpont Museum last fall. One of the victims identified him but we have reason to believe he uses a number of aliases.”
All of that was true but it didn’t please Remington.
“Didn’t we determine the stolen item only qualified as petty larceny? Why are we wasting department time on a case this old?”
“The suspect identification is a recent development. I just thought I’d—”
Remington picked up two folders from Caplin’s desk. “These newer cases are more urgent. Get on them. You can piddle around with that cold case on your own time.”
Caplin held his tongue. “Yes, sir.”
He glanced back at his monitor where the comparison photos were ticking by. Remington had walked on, no doubt to nit-pick someone else’s work. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if Bill left the program running while he worked these other files. He made a show of opening the folder on top and picking up his desk phone to call one of the witnesses in another convenience store robbery.
Pissed him off that a few hundred bucks from a convenience store got priority over a valuable piece of jewelry. Of course he had to suppress thoughts of his own involvement and the fact that the necklace’s value had been purposely faked. A whiff of that around the department and he would be out on his ear in disgrace.
He punched in the number for the witness he’d already spoken to twice. He just needed to verify a little discrepancy. While the phone rang, he glanced back at the screen.
A match against his Richard Stone photo had showed up. The name on the other mug shot was Frank Morrell. Then it got interesting—Morrell was aka Frank Martin, Martin Frank, Frank Woods, Stone Martin and some others. He hung up the phone when it went to voicemail.
A rush of relief. Finally, some solid leads. He made sure Remington was nowhere nearby, then hit the key to print out the dossier on Morrell. A stroll to the printer across the room and he snagged the info he needed.
Remington had said to work the museum case on his own time—well, fine. He would do that. He had fourteen vacation days he’d not been able to take last year (because an intense case held him up) so he would use them now. He put in the request, framed more as an emergency, with HR then gathered the current-case files off his desk and dumped them on another guy’s desk before walking out the door.
He’d no sooner made it to his personal car than his cell phone rang. Damn. Was Remington going to disapprove the vacation time, make him come right back? But the readout showed Todd Wainwright’s name.
“What?” Caplin knew his tone was rude, but really, he’d basically told Todd he would let him know if there were developments.
“Uh, Detective?”
“Yeah, Todd.”
“Just checking to see—”
“Nothing, Todd. I’ve got one new lead but no time to work on it yet. I know your loans are due. I know your life is going to shit. Mine is too. I just can’t help you right now.” He clicked off the call and put the ringer on mute. Right now, he didn’t want to hear from anyone.
He got in his car and started to back out, belatedly remembering he’d left his list of passwords in his desk. Not that it mattered. He had no access to the department’s resources outside the city’s intranet system. He was going to have to use old-fashioned police work to do this. He exited the police garage and headed toward the airport.
Chapter 41
Frank walked past the high-end airport gift shops, contemplating some shopping in Switzerland. It could be a kick. Not that he had much desire for the trappings of the rich—fleecing them out of their stuff was much more fun. Plus, he already had the Rolex he’d picked up on Grand Cayman. But his business cards with the Tiffany logo were still in his briefcase and who knew what interesting doors would open for him?
He bypassed the baggage claim and walked out the front doors.
“Holy crap!” He gasped as black needles of icy rain went straight through his tropical clothing.
He dashed straight back inside. Twenty minutes later he emerged wearing an Armani wool suit and overcoat, fur-lined gloves and a thick scarf around his neck. Better, although everything here was so Euro-stylish he would probably not wear them beyond this trip. He’d feel way too conspicuous back in Indiana. Assuming he went back to Indiana anytime soon. Depended whether the Phoenix police had put it together and learned his real identity by now.
With that in mind, he flagged a taxi.
“Alpen Haus Hotel,” he said.
“Zat is a nice one,” the driver said. “Good neighborhood.”
Frank knew it would be. Aboard the flight he’d chatted up a well-dressed couple and asked where they liked to stay in Zurich. He casually mentioned the name of his bank, planting the idea he’d like to be near it.
The driver headed south on the 51, acting as if the wet highway and reflected oncoming headlights were no problem.
Frank felt exhaustion sweeping over him; he needed a good night’s rest. In the morning he would scope out the whole situation. First priority was to get to the bank and transfer Tom Anderson’s two hundred grand to another of his own accounts. It had to be in a different bank, preferably in another country, definitely under a fresh alias. There must be no direct way to trace the money. He’d worn out the good name of Woodsworth Coddington IV, so it needed to retire for awhile.
His Tiffany business cards said Richard Stone; unfortunately, all the wrong people knew about that one. From the money belt, he came up with a passport for Richard Frank—it would work for his hotel registration and he could always print more cards if needed. For a fraction of a second, he wondered what he was doing here, why he kept up the game, carried multiple passports and tried to keep all his names and backstories straight.
During the long flight he’d felt on edge, the electrical realization that one small slip-up would reveal him to the authorities. Since the museum robbery, he’d taken an additional hundred grand from the old lady, two hundred grand from that bozo on Cayman, and stiffed the hotel there for around twenty-odd.
His mother’s voice lurked in his head, “Frank, when is it going to be enough?”
She’d been talking to Frank’s father. A generation later, she would say the same thing to her son if she knew.
When would it be enough? He gave the question a full minute’s thought, then discarded it. No one said it ever had to be ‘enough.’ The game, the chase—that was what made his heart race and laughter well up within him. He was in it for the fun. Fatigue talking, that’s all this was. He leaned back in his seat and half-dozed for the duration of the ride to the city center.
The taxi came to a stop on a quiet street a few blocks off the Bahnhofstrasse; it seemed like a decent neighborhood where Frank could sleep and recoup his strength. He checked into the Alpen Haus, getting a room on the third floor. Once he’d checked the windows and double-locked the door, he stripped and headed for the shower, laying his money belt with the necklace on the vanity in the bathroom. No way he wanted that baby out of his sight until he met with the diamond cutter from Amsterdam. The meeting was still two days away.
Chapter 42
An icy clear sky greeted Pen and Gracie when they landed in Zurich. Th
e first class flight attendant had been a cordial young woman who told them a storm had passed through during the night, dropping temperatures to unseasonable lows. They’d already discussed the fact their wardrobes for the Caribbean would need to be augmented in Switzerland. Back in London, while waiting for the connecting flight, they’d each picked up a jacket and pair of warm pants—jeans for Gracie and wool for Pen.
Standing at the baggage carousel, Gracie heard her phone chime with an incoming text message.
“From Amber,” she said.
She held out the phone for Pen to see: Your hotel is Swisshotel Parade. Call me once you’ve checked in.
“Thank goodness for her,” Gracie said.
Pen nodded. They retrieved their bags, left the customs area and slipped their coats on before walking out to the sidewalk. A blustery wind told them the storm had not completely passed through. Pen stepped up to the first cab in the taxi line and gave the driver their hotel information.
As they entered District 1 in the heart of old Zurich, Gracie ogled the view.
“I can’t believe I’m here. Europe! My god, it’s just like all those historical romances I used to read—except for the cars. The buildings are so old. Oh, look at that church, how cute!”
Pen smiled. As they crossed the blue-green River Limmat, she remembered her first trip to Europe since her childhood, the sense of history and her own awe at everything. The ancient buildings were reminders of America’s youth as a country. They passed a couple of museums and soon she spotted the more modern aspects—shops under all the major designer names, upscale cafés and coffee houses. They would certainly have no problem finding anything they needed in this neighborhood of gray stone buildings and cobblestone streets.
“Scott would love this,” Gracie said. “Did I ever mention he’s a history buff?”
Her dark hair swung in an arc as she switched views from the right to the left side of the taxi. “Hard to imagine the only thing I ever used my passport for was a couple trips to the beaches in Mexico. I have to talk him into a trip here together sometime.”
Diamonds Aren't Forever Page 12
