His first clue that the plan wouldn’t work was when he felt a yank at the back of his collar. He spun around.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Frank Morrell. Or should I say Richard Stone?”
Frank turned to find himself face to face with the cop from Phoenix.
Chapter 72
Caplin almost laughed at the look of pure shock on Frank Morrell’s face when the con man spun to face him.
“Surprised? Yeah, even American cops can have a passport these days.” He loosened his grip on Morrell’s collar when the man turned to him with a smile.
“Bill! How good to see you here!”
Caplin felt his eyebrows rise. “Let me guess—you were just looking for me because you have that necklace with you?”
“Well, no. I don’t have the necklace anymore.”
Caplin sensed he was telling the truth.
“So, then you’ve got my share of the money,” he said. “You were about to bring it to me, huh?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Well, I should say I was going to head home and bring it to you in Phoenix tomorrow. The cash is in the safe at my hotel right now.”
Caplin watched the man’s face. Frank kept his eyes locked with Caplin’s and there wasn’t a trace of a stammer in his voice. Yet something was off.
“Who’d you sell the piece to?”
“Some guys.”
“Come on, just any old guys? Was it somebody connected with this show?” Caplin gave a nod toward the building. “Or you just happened to be walking by and decided to hang out here awhile?”
“Actually, yeah. I saw there was a gem show in town, wanted a look. Guess my name didn’t make it to the invitation list. Couldn’t get in.” Frank’s gaze dropped, first to his shoes then slid to a spot somewhere on the ground behind Caplin. “What about you? Been inside? Bet it’s quite the deal in there.”
Caplin sprang while the con man’s guard was down, reaching out and grasping his throat, shoving him hard, driving him up against the building ten feet away.
“Listen, punk. I’m not impressed with your good-old-boy manner and your breezy friendliness. You and I are not pals. You’ve taken something of value from an unsuspecting woman and then proceeded to screw your partners. That behavior makes me want to choke the shit out of you.” He tightened his grip on Morrell’s throat, enjoying the surge of power he felt as the man’s eyes bulged.
Morrell tried to speak but only guttural crackles came from him.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you too well.” Caplin let up slightly on the pressure.
“Golden Tigers,” Morrell gasped. “They have … the necklace.”
“The international jewel thieves? How’d you get in with them? Never mind. Where are they keeping the stolen jewels?”
Morrell’s eyes darted side to side as he dreamed up a story. Caplin shoved his head against the stone wall again. “Don’t make up some bullshit story, man. Nothing says I have to let you walk out of here. Tell me where they are.”
Morrell tried to clear his throat, but his words came out with a rasp. “I don’t know. They talked some … some foreign language.”
“So tell me the parts you did catch. I see it in your eyes, dude. You know more than you’re telling me.”
“A house on Rue Trois, like a safe house. Anton took me there.”
“Give me the street address. Now!”
“One twenty-two.”
“What else?” Caplin again tightened his grip for a moment.
“I caught … mausoleum.”
“Hey, you there!” Down the walkway a uniformed officer was running toward them. “Qu'est-ce que tu fais?”
Caplin’s attention focused on the man who came toward him, nightstick drawn.
“I’m a police detec—”
But in the moment of inattention, Morrell wriggled free and ran. He grabbed something from the ground near a park bench and headed east. By the time the gendarme reached Caplin, Morrell was out of sight.
Chapter 73
Pen felt dead on her feet by the time the ladies had covered the entire show and arrived back at their hotel. With comfortable clothing and glasses of wine they sprawled over the couches and chairs in the suite’s living room. They’d already discussed the disappointing results of the jewelry search: no sign of Pen’s heirloom necklace or any of the stones.
“So, what next?” Sandy asked.
“Well, I do have a bit of news,” Pen said, “something I was saving until we had a bit of privacy. The detective from Phoenix is here in the city. I spoke with him.”
Wide eyes and incredulous stares all around.
“The same man who told you his department was dropping the case because your necklace wasn’t worth it?” Gracie asked.
“He acknowledges that was not true. Apparently someone working at the museum switched the documents so it would look as though my necklace was a reproduction.”
“And then proceeded to help the thief get in to steal it.” Sandy’s voice was firm.
“He didn’t go so far as to admit that. There is still quite a lot I don’t fully understand,” Pen said. “The good news is that he’s here in Nice because of a strong lead and he thinks he can recover my property.”
“But we can do that,” Amber pointed out. “We found those same leads and we got here first.”
“I know. I know, my dear, but it’s not a matter of who was here first. It’s a matter of getting the necklace. He has contact with the local police and many more resources than we do.”
“So you’re saying we give up? Quit and let the police handle it?” Gracie seemed a little indignant at the idea.
“No way,” said Amber. She had picked up her laptop from the table and was already tapping away at the keys. “We can finish this thing on our own. I don’t trust that detective. I mean, do you? Really?”
Pen saw the logic of Amber’s argument, truly. Suddenly she wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“Let’s do both,” Sandy suggested. “I mean, it can’t hurt to let this policeman keep working on it. But we can do the same.”
“And we’ll get there first,” Amber declared. “The Heist Ladies will not be outdone!”
Chapter 74
The safe house was dark when Bill Caplin approached. He’d parked his rental car down the block, both because of the need for stealth and because parking spots on these narrow streets were hard to come by. The French officer who’d questioned him outside the Nice Acropolis seemed reluctant to become involved with an American cop tracking an American suspect.
“Ze judges are, how do you say, hesitating to issue warrants for such cases,” he’d said when Caplin told him about the safe house and the deal that apparently went down there this afternoon. “We can file the paperwork. It will take some time for approval.”
Fine, thought Caplin, I’m not waiting for the thieves to get completely away with the necklace while you dick around with paperwork. So what if he broke into their house and had a look around? What would they do, report him?
One thing his police training had taught—how to search a place thoroughly. He first used the simplest ploy, walked up to the front door and knocked. Listened for the slightest hint of a sound or light from within. A second knock was met with complete silence as well. He walked around to the back, keeping an eye on neighboring houses which seemed in the midst of standard evening routines—people at dining tables, others with television sets on.
Caplin kept to the shadows, blending in with surrounding shrubbery until he came to a back door that faced a small garden full of weeds with one struggling palm tree that would have been beautiful with only a little care. The place had the air of a rental or temporary owner; clearly, no one cared about maintaining the small stone structure or its grounds.
He stood at the dark back door listening to the surrounding sounds. It had four glass panes above a solid panel at the bottom. Some kind of curtain covered the glass. A window faced the yard and he stretched to peer into a small
kitchen, but there wasn’t sufficient light to tell what lay beyond. Beside the sink sat a whiskey bottle—he assumed whiskey—he couldn’t read the label. A moment later he heard a large vehicle coming up the street, most likely a bus.
At the exact second it passed the house, Caplin used the heel of his shoe to break the glass in the back door. No one reacted; he’d barely heard the sound of it himself. He stepped back into his shoe, reached inside and twisted the doorknob. He was in.
It took less than two minutes using his pocket flashlight to get the layout of the small house. Living room with a dining L, small galley kitchen, one bedroom, one bath. Furnishings looked like rentals, not the kind of stuff a person bought for himself. One picture of the bargain store variety in the living room. No TV, no personal effects. Yeah, Morrell had been right. This was temporary digs for somebody.
He thought back to the conversation with Morrell, the scraps of information the con man shared. Some kind of estate, a mausoleum—clearly not in this neighborhood. He began his systematic search with the bedroom, the most common place people hid valuables. Nothing taped beneath the dresser drawers, nothing between mattress and box springs on the double bed, nothing in any of the garment pockets or in the shoes. The wardrobe was something of a joke; the few masculine garments were the sort one packed for a quick trip, not a man’s entire wardrobe.
He moved through bathroom and living room to the kitchen, searching quickly and quietly along the way. In the freezer compartment of the fridge, a small packet of cash was wrapped in foil and labeled “Poulet” which Caplin thought meant chicken. Rather an old ploy if these guys were pros. Someone would be back, but this was another reason he believed the safe house was used sparingly and very short-term. He picked up the telephone receiver and found it dead. No surprise—everyone used cell phones these days. The telephone directory next to it was dated 2010, so someone had subscribed to a land line here a few years ago. He carried the directory with him.
One last glance back toward the dining table, where empty glasses smelling of alcohol made rings on the cheap wood surface. Five chairs sat at odd angles, as if the occupants had risen and left quickly. The meeting Morrell mentioned? Most likely.
A small white square on the floor caught his attention and he aimed the light in that direction. A graphic design and some printed words covered it. He walked over and picked it up. A matchbook. How many years since he’d seen one of these? The logo was of a palm tree and the words said Restaurant Jardin Palm.
“No idea you would come in handy so quickly,” he muttered to the telephone directory, setting it on the table and opening it.
The Palm Garden Restaurant had an ad in the business pages stating its premier location near the Palais de Forestiere. Something to do with a palace and a forest, he thought, although he had no idea for sure. But it was a lead. And a lead could always be followed. He took the matchbook and the directory with him and locked the back door when he left.
Chapter 75
The Heist Ladies were tired but too wound up over the evening’s events to immediately fall asleep. Gracie brought out a bottle of wine, which she poured into four glasses as Pen paced the suite’s large living room.
“I keep thinking about Detective Caplin,” Pen said when she paused to pick up her glass. “He’s on the trail of Frank Morrell but I got the feeling there’s more to this than he’s telling me. Despite what he said, I have a deep-down feeling if he gets to Morrell first I’ll not see my necklace again.”
“So, we need to get there first,” Amber said.
“Quite simple on the face of it, but how?”
“The detective promised to keep you in the loop, right?” Sandy asked. “So, call him and ask if he’s learned anything new.”
“This late at night?”
“It’s only a little after ten. Surely he’ll be awake.”
Amber was right, Pen realized. She needed to let go of her idea that everyone worked nine-to-five. She had no idea if his mobile phone worked in this country but it was worth a try. She tapped his number and put the phone on speaker so the others could hear.
There were traffic sounds in the background when he picked up. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I hope you enjoyed the gem show and are safely tucked in at your hotel again.” A car door slammed and the surrounding noises abated.
“I’m just fine, thanks for your concern.” Pen rolled her eyes and Amber held back a snicker. “I’m calling to see what you’ve learned. French police were talking as I left the show, something about an American cop roughing up a suspicious American man outside the venue.”
He made a little denial sound but Pen interrupted.
“It’s too much of a coincidence, detective. You were there. There’s every reason to believe Frank Morrell was there. I’d simply like to know what happened.”
“Like they said, I roughed him up a little.”
Amber pulled a Yes! with her fist.
“And during this I supposed he talked a bit?” Pen asked.
“Not much. He told me he’d been to a safe house today and sold the necklace.”
“Oh, no. Where—?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve already been there and no one’s around. I’m leaving now to follow up one small lead. Somebody in the group frequents the Palm Garden restaurant. Places around here stay open late so I’m heading there now.”
“That’s all he told you?” Pen pressed, her voice wavering.
“Well, as I was doing my best to choke the little prick, he squawked out something about a mausoleum. I guess that’ll be next on my list to track down.”
Pen saw Amber madly typing on her laptop keyboard.
“Please keep me posted, detective. I’m very upset that my necklace is now in other hands.”
“I know. The authorities are on the trail of this theft ring and I’m doing my best to follow the guy Morrell was dealing with.”
Amber’s face lit up and she pointed rapidly at her computer. Pen ended the call with Caplin and stepped behind Amber’s chair to see what the excitement was about.
“To hell with the restaurant,” Amber said. “I’ve found the mausoleum.”
Chapter 76
“If you think about it, it’s the perfect spot for those guys to have hidden the jewelry.” Gracie backed away to let Sandy have a peek.
Amber had brought up a map on her screen, one that showed topographical details. A little balloon-shaped icon pointed to Restaurant Jardin Palm. The cursor wiggled a bit in their little computer guru’s control.
“Now, here, just across the road and down less than a half-mile, is a big estate. On the grounds of the estate, a private mausoleum.”
“How did you figure this out?” Pen asked.
“Well, as soon as he said the word I could picture a seldom-used place with all sorts of nooks and crannies where things could be hidden. I mean, some kind of stone coffin thingy—what could be better as a treasure chest no one would ever touch?” Amber’s eyes glittered. “So I went to the map, searched mausoleum and came up with a variety of them, some at public cemeteries, some private. A public place wouldn’t work for them—too many people with access. With the location of that restaurant plugged in, well, there are only a couple private mausoleums very close and this one makes the most sense.”
She zoomed the photo in for a better look. The hilltop estate had a winding road leading to it and was set well above the city. Fortress-like walls surrounded the property, and from them the occupants would be able to see anyone approaching by car or from the sea. Amber pointed out the main house, an elegant Mediterranean mansion with white walls and red-tile roofs over its central section and two wings. Pathways led through formal gardens and to a swimming pool. On the east side sat a small structure of marble with a domed roof. When she turned the photo to view it straight-on they could make out the word Mausolée on one line and du Leblanc below.
“How high are those walls?” Sandy asked.
“Hard to say, and I don’t see many gates,�
�� Gracie said.
Pen studied the photo. “How do you suppose we will ever get inside?”
Chapter 77
Caplin cursed the fact he hadn’t gotten a GPS with the rental car. It hadn’t seemed important at the time—he really needed to move into the modern age or retire. That simple beach house in Mexico was looking better and better. He studied his map once more, meandered several blocks out of the way, finally found the Restaurant Jardin Palm. He walked in at ten minutes to closing, hoping he’d find a comforting drink and someone who spoke English. He got lucky on both counts.
“The kitchen is closing,” said the bartender who wore a name tag saying he was Henri.
“That’s okay. A whiskey, neat, will do me just fine.”
Henri served it in a heavy glass. “You are not a tourist, I think,” he said, eyes traveling over Caplin’s suit and tan overcoat.
“I’m not. I’m looking for another American friend who’s traveling in the area. He said something about staying with some buddies in this part of town. One of them recommended this restaurant.”
Henri wiped a glass with a spotless white towel. “Could be. Especially if your friend is rich. This coastline brings the wealthy from many places.”
Caplin thought of Morrell’s many targets. “That sounds like the sort of people this guy likes to hang out with. You probably know all the locals around here?”
“Locals? Oh, the residents. Oui, many are my customers.”
“Any of them entertaining a lot of guests this week?” It was a guess, based on what Frank had said about the group at the safe house.
Henri’s eyes narrowed. “Who is asking?”
Diamonds Aren't Forever Page 20
