Diamonds Aren't Forever

by Connie Shelton

  The taxi slowed and Pen noticed a discreet gold-lettered sign showing they had arrived at the Swisshotel Parade. Heavy glass doors opened to a mid-sized lobby of gleaming marble floors, modern groupings of furniture and a dark wood registration desk. Abstract art decorated the walls and Gracie looked a bit disappointed, no doubt expecting something a bit more ancient-looking.

  Their room reflected the same modern décor.

  “Don’t worry,” said Pen, “once we’ve caught our breath we’ll surely find time to take in a cathedral or two. Maybe we can find a castle. There are loads of historic places nearby.”

  She had her phone out and was adding the international dialing code for the U.S. to Amber’s number.

  “How was your flight?” Amber asked over a connection as clear as if she were in the next room.

  “It’s all going well,” Pen said. “We’re in our hotel. Nice choice, by the way, although Gracie was hoping for something old enough to have a few ghosts.”

  “Only the décor is new. The building dates way back so maybe she’ll see some medieval knight roaming the halls.”

  “Where do we go from here?” Pen asked. She put the phone on speaker so Gracie could get the information first hand.

  “You’re gonna love me for this. Our Frank Morrell should be staying nearby. He gave his name as Richard Frank and his hotel as the Alpen Haus. I looked it up and it’s not far from where you are. It might only be a tram stop away … or maybe walking distance. I can’t tell exactly from my online map, but I can send you a picture of the building.”

  Seriously? Pen and Gracie exchanged a glance.

  “Where did you get this information?” Pen asked. “Or is it better if I don’t ask?”

  Amber laughed. Her voice changed pitch slightly. “Hello, this is Sara Jones with American Airlines. A passenger from our flight 42 left a valuable item aboard his Cayman to London flight and we need to have it delivered to him …” In her normal voice she added, “He had to list a hotel on his disembarkation form for Immigration.”

  “So, assuming he was truthful with them?”

  “Yeah, could be a big assumption,” Amber agreed. “But it was a late night flight. Hopefully, he was too tired to think up a lie. He would have to know Zurich very well to have made up this place. It’s a small, boutique hotel near the Paradeplatz.”

  “We shall check it out.”

  “Be careful. That gem cutter, Anton van der Went? A little further background check on him shows an arrest in New York a few years ago. He beat up a guy who stiffed him on a fee, got sentenced to thirty days.”

  “So, if possible, we want to get to Mr. Morrell or Mr. Frank before this diamond cutter shows up,” Gracie suggested.

  If it’s not already too late, thought Pen.

  Chapter 43

  Frank woke up feeling like a sack of garbage. After sleeping all night and nearly half the next day, his head felt thick and woozy. His throat was scratchy and he remembered some kid behind him on the plane had coughed through most of the flight. Dammit—he couldn’t afford to be sick right now.

  He stumbled from bed and stared out the window to the street three stories below. The rain had stopped but it was still a miserable gray out there. He needed to get to the bank—should have set his alarm and done it this morning—and really wanted some food but hated the prospect of dressing and walking around a strange city in the wind he could see funneling down the narrow streets, whipping the coats of the few passers-by. Maybe this place had room service.

  The good news, he supposed, was Anton van der Went should be here late tomorrow. Frank hoped to get a chunk of cash for the gemstones in the necklace. Once sold, he could stop sleeping with it under his pillow and quit strapping the awkward shape of it around his waist. The high from making a million-dollar score was quickly fading; at this point he just wanted to cash out. He’d be lucky if van der Went offered thirty percent and he successfully countered with fifty. More likely it would come out somewhere around thirty or thirty-five, bottom line.

  Still, along with his other successes, the trip to Arizona hadn’t been a waste. That chubby guy who worked at the museum would take the fall, if one was to be taken. Last Frank had heard, the cops bought the story about the piece being worth very little and had quit pursuing the case. At least he could rest easy on that score. The old lady was another story.

  When he’d returned the fake necklace to her, he got a funny feeling. She wasn’t the typical older, easy mark. This one had something—he wasn’t sure what. Social connections, almost certainly. But there was more. A cheesy writer might call it ‘indomitable spirit.’ You know, like when one of those investigative TV reporters interviewed a person on the street and raved about his or her pluck.

  Frank didn’t personally believe in that “go the extra mile” b.s. To him, spirit was what he had—a free-spirited, fun attitude toward life. Make every minute count, rack up all the scores you could, come out the winner! Now, that was spirit.

  He turned away from the chilly window and rummaged through his few bits of clothing to find something warm to wear. Other than the designer suit he’d purchased at the airport, his choices were cotton slacks and a stupid flowered shirt that fit in nowhere except an island. His stomach rumbled and he searched futilely for a menu. Where did a guy get some food around here?

  He ended up putting on a robe he found in the closet and sitting at the little desk to boot up his computer. In under ten minutes, he’d discovered his hotel was only a couple blocks from the biggest pedestrian shopping district in the city. The bank he sought was right there and surely he could find food. With no choice but to buck up, he put on the woolen suit and overcoat and walked down to street level.

  While I’m at it, he thought, turning a corner to get out of the bracing wind, I’d better come up with some ordinary clothes. Can’t meet this Dutch guy wearing Armani—he’ll laugh at my demand for a higher cut. Can’t exactly hang out inconspicuously either.

  When he spotted Barclays Bank, he headed that direction first. When it came right down to it, money was more important. Completing his last job, getting Tom Anderson’s money completely out of sight, took precedence over his growling stomach. He would treat himself to a fantastic lunch once he finished business. See? Mom really would be proud of his work ethic.

  At the counter he took several deposit slips and filled them out in various amounts until the total equaled two hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Part of it went to an account in London, part to Nevada, part of it right back to Grand Cayman. At this point, Tom Anderson would have a difficult paper trail to establish to prove all this had once been his money. That is, if the man had nerve enough to admit he’d been so stupid. Most of them never did. Most likely, Anderson would go to his grave believing he’d just been unlucky in his investment.

  Ah well, what did Frank care? This guy made so much money selling car parts at rip-off prices to people like Frank’s mom, in a year’s time he’d have it all back. Frank refused to have a scrap of sympathy for the mooch.

  He collected his deposit receipts and walked out, taking it as a good sign that the clouds had parted and a good-sized patch of blue sky showed. Some phrase about weathering the storm flitted about in his head. He spotted a sidewalk café where the outdoor tables were all but abandoned; however, inside the place was well lit and inviting. He ordered the biggest sandwich on the menu.

  His meal no sooner arrived than his phone chimed with an incoming text message: NOON TOMORROW, IN FRONT OF THE CLOCK MUSEUM. VAN DER WENT.

  Clock museum. Where the hell was that? Frank took a bite of his sandwich and reread the message. On a city map where every place seemed to contain gasse, strasse or platz how would he know what a clock museum would be called?

  WHERE IS IT? he texted back. People who used all capital letters always seemed pretentious to him, but he could play this game. Plus, he would bet money the gem cutter wouldn’t transact a deal out in front of some public place. There would be a secondary place
they would go together before Frank would agree to bring out the necklace.

  He finished his lunch with one eye on the phone’s display at all times but van der Went’s lack of response seemed to say, Don’t be a stupid American. Find it.

  Okay, he decided, he could find it.

  Chapter 44

  Detective Caplin woke with a sense of unease, the vague restlessness of having no plan for the day. Then he remembered—he didn’t have to go to work. He’d taken vacation days to devote time to finding Richard Stone and getting his cut of the money, to get his retirement fund back. He rolled out of bed and stared at his unshaven face in the bathroom mirror. What if he simply stayed this way? Never went back, gave up the dream of the boat and Mexico?

  He could live off his city pension, even these few years short of full retirement he was vested enough in the plan to get most of his monthly amount. Another year and he could claim at least a portion of his Social Security. But then what? He’d sit here in his average little house in his average little suburb, watching sports on TV all day while he drank beer and got fatter and fatter in his recliner chair. He slapped his cheeks to work up the blood, to snap himself into a frame of urgency.

  He had two weeks to catch up with Stone—except he had to start thinking of him as Frank Morrell now—to find him and somehow drag the money out of him. Who knew? The weasel could have spent it all by now and Caplin didn’t want to take some luxury car or condo in Miami in trade. He wanted his cash. Making himself angry all over again gave him a shot of energy.

  He got dressed—no suit today, just jeans and a decent brown button-down shirt. His instinct was to walk out the door but he reminded himself he would get more accomplished with a little groundwork. He set a pot of coffee to brew and sat down at the small desk in the corner of his living room where he’d assembled his information. Cold case files could leave the station so he’d brought this one home, along with the printout from yesterday where he’d identified many of Morrell’s aliases.

  Problem with a guy like Morrell was they changed names like they changed their socks, sometimes even more often. And Caplin didn’t have use of the department’s resources for this one. Although he owned a laptop, he had little knowledge of all this new social media stuff. He used his to send emails to his kids and to browse pictures of boats for sale. He shoved the image of his dream retirement boat aside now and picked up the phone. Old fashioned police work—that’s what he’d told himself.

  He started with what he knew. The last time anyone had direct contact with Frank Morrell was when he’d delivered the fake necklace to Penelope Fitzpatrick. According to her, the investigator ‘Richard Stone’ had driven away in a plain white sedan. Only about a million of those in this city, Caplin thought.

  His own knowledge of Stone/Morrell was practically nil. They’d met when Todd Wainwright at the museum dropped a bombshell during questioning over the robbery. The two, Wainwright and himself, had been alone in the museum director’s office where Caplin had called each employee aside.

  “I know who did this,” Todd had whispered, a knowing look on his face, a certain squint to his eyes. The look of the rat who’s about to give up a cohort.

  “Tell me.”

  Wainwright shook his head. “I can do better. I can get you a cut. Especially if this investigation kind of stalls out.”

  Just that morning, the wife had given her ultimatum. You brood all the time, your misery is infecting the whole family and I’m sick of it. Drop this dumb idea of a boat and Mexico or I’m out of here. She’d left for work and he had the feeling she might not come home that night.

  “I’m listening,” he’d told Wainwright.

  “Later. I’ll be having a beer tonight after work at The Pelican.”

  And that’s when the whole scam came out, how this thief knew a guy … He would switch the real necklace for a fake, the owner would get back what she thought was her real jewelry, this guy could fence the real one for a whole lot of money and he was willing to do a split. An insider at the museum and a cop who wouldn’t pry too hard—each could earn a share.

  Caplin was no rookie and he’d seen plenty of stings before. Wainwright didn’t look like the type, but you never knew. He’d insisted on meeting Richard Stone face to face and seeing the real necklace. Their one and only encounter had taken place in the men’s room at a pancake house, midday, only the two of them, Stone body-blocking the door while Caplin took a close look at the necklace. It was the real deal, he felt sure.

  Stone would need a couple months to have the piece copied and he wanted the investigation to fade away during that time. Wainwright would do his part, now Caplin had to do his. The necklace, Caplin knew, was worth over a million dollars. A third of that—yeah, it would set him for retirement nicely. Even more so without the drag of a wife who didn’t share his dream. They set up a simple set of coded messages they could use to stay in touch, shook on it, and Stone had pocketed the necklace and walked out.

  Caplin’s coffee sent out an enticing aroma and he went to the kitchen for a cup. Everything had gone perfectly, including his divorce four months ago, until Stone didn’t show last week. An hour sitting under that freeway overpass, watching Todd Wainwright’s agitation. Caplin knew they’d both been had within the first fifteen minutes.

  He carried his mug to the desk, opened the file and took up where he’d left off with phone calls to the rental car agencies and airlines. It was tedious, hearing ‘no’ all the time, but he’d done this his entire career. He knew eventually there would come a ‘yes.’

  Chapter 45

  Gracie paced the hotel room, clearly antsy after their call to Amber. “How are we going to get the necklace back from this Frank Morrell or Richard Frank or whatever name he’s using, before he meets with the gem cutter?”

  “My dear, that is the big question, isn’t it?” Pen had insisted upon having a moment to unpack.

  “Okay, we know Morrell’s hotel. I think we should get over there and just stake out the place. We’ll surely catch him coming or going, right?”

  “Better yet,” Pen said, straightening her spine, appearing taller all at once. “I shall walk in there and knock on his door. I’ll demand my necklace back.”

  “Uh … are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Well, what better? Spotting him on the street might be difficult.”

  “I worry about your safety if you do this alone. At the very least I should be with you.”

  Pen considered. That much was true. “The hotel will surely have a security guard or burly bellman we can call upon to join us.”

  Gracie obviously wasn’t keen on the plan, but the idea they might have the necklace in their possession within the hour was definitely appealing.

  “Let’s do it.”

  They grabbed their coats, stopping at their hotel’s concierge desk for directions, then headed toward Paradeplatz. Their friend’s hotel would be just two blocks farther, according to the very polite gentleman. Crisp air greeted them on the street and they started out at a brisk clip.

  “I’m nervous about this,” Pen admitted as they walked along. “What if he’s already met with the gem dealer? My precious treasure could be gone forever.”

  “Amber got the other man’s name, Pen. If she can track his movements we’ll have that to fall back on.” As long as he hasn’t already been here, taken the necklace and left the country again. She didn’t voice that thought to Pen.

  The Alpen Haus proved to be a quaint little hotel, three stories on a semi-residential street with a pastry shop next door. The small lobby was filled with heavy furniture, a bit oversized for the space, and carved cuckoo clocks in a display on one wall. A young man in his twenties stood behind the desk; Pen swore she saw him tuck a smartphone out of sight as she glanced in his direction. She made a show of rummaging in her purse.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered.

  Gracie merely stood by while Pen approached the desk clerk.

  “My nephew is st
aying here,” she said. “Nice looking American with dark hair. I’m afraid I’ve lost the note telling me his room number. His name is Richard Frank. Please look it up for me.”

  There was probably some rule against giving out a guest’s number but Pen pretended she didn’t know of it, hoping the young clerk cared more for getting back to his messages from a girlfriend or someone. He checked the computer and wrote a number on a small slip of paper. Without a word, he pointed toward an elevator in a recessed niche to his left.

  Pen and Gracie rode to the third floor, each wondering a little nervously what they would encounter.

  “Three fourteen,” said Pen, leading the way.

  At the door, she stood a little straighter. Gracie held off to one side. A gentle knock brought no response. A slightly firmer knock. No sign of motion, no flicker of light beyond. Pen felt the hope drain out of her. How simple it would have been if she could have talked to him, let him know she would stand no nonsense—she wanted her family heirloom back. Let him understand how important this was to her. Anyone with a shred of empathy would surely not keep it.

  But this. No response whatsoever.

  “He’s not here,” Gracie finally said. “Let’s go.”

  “Do you suppose my necklace is in the room? Maybe we can get in somehow?” But in her heart she knew it was too much to hope. An item valued at more than a million dollars wasn’t something one left in a hotel room.

  “Okay, there have to be other ways to tackle this,” Gracie said as they rode the elevator down. “We’ll get back in touch with Amber. Maybe she’s learned more about the gem dealer and we can do something with that.”

  “Perhaps we can run a fake-out on them, a way to keep the two men apart so that other man doesn’t have the chance to get my gems. Sort of a divide-and-conquer maneuver, although I don’t know exactly how we would manage it.”