Chapter 84
The deadbolt slid back with a laborious click. Pen pushed the door open and flashed her light around the interior.
Three stone vaults, large rectangular boxes made to contain human remains. Aside from some carved stone plaques on the walls, the small room held nothing else. The Heist Ladies stared. No one had thought what it would mean to get the lid off one of these things, to possibly encounter a corpse.
“Where do we start?” Sandy asked.
Pen noticed the lid of one box sat less straight than the others. “This one’s been moved.”
Each woman took a corner and shoved with all her might. The stone lid might have moved a quarter inch.
“This could take forever,” Gracie said.
“It could break our backs,” Pen added, feeling a twinge already.
“Okay.” Amber paced to the doorway and back. “We need to be smart about this. We don’t have to remove it completely, right? Sliding one end of it aside just enough for a peek inside would be good enough.”
They gathered at one end and concentrated their effort. The lid moved three inches.
“Again!”
Six more inches.
Amber aimed her light into the dark space. “Well, it’s not a skeleton.”
A noise from outside caught their attention. Gracie crept toward the door, her flashlight in her fist in case the guard needed another sedative.
Two more bursts.
“Oh my god, I think it’s gunfire!” Gracie said.
Chapter 85
Four shots. An impossibly long twenty seconds of silence. Static on the radio. The Humvee moved into the lead position as the commander demanded a report from the eight SWAT men. Two more shots, then the radio crackled.
“The guards are down. Repeat—guards are down! We’re opening the gate for you!”
The Humvee began to roll, followed quickly by the commander and the two vans. As the vehicles passed through the open gate, four of the SWAT team gripped handholds on their van and leaped to the back bumper for the ride. The other four had, presumably, run ahead on foot.
Caplin barely regained his seat before his van moved up the road. His nerves felt stretched taut, his stomach aflutter—not from the ride now. He tried to imagine what they would encounter when they reached the mansion.
Chapter 86
“Now!” Sandy ordered, taking a surprisingly strong hand. “We have no time to dawdle here, ladies. Let’s get this thing moved!”
No one questioned her authority. The bank manager in her had stepped to the forefront. With all four of them shoving, the vault lid swung aside. They stopped pushing when the large container was half open.
“Suitcases?” Tiny Amber had to stand on tiptoe to see into the depths. “Why would the vault have—?”
“It makes perfect sense,” Pen said, reaching over the edge and tugging at the handle of the nearest one. “Bags like these would hold a lot of jewelry, plus the men could grab them and leave at a moment’s notice.”
A roar sounded in the distance, some type of large vehicle coming on fast.
“No time for explanations, girls. We’ve got to get out!” Sandy again spurring them on.
“I’m not leaving without my necklace if there’s a chance it’s here,” Pen declared.
“Quickly then!”
They began digging with a vengeance. Two airline carry-on bags, three duffles. Pen unzipped a duffle bag which was filled with small pouches and boxes. Through the cloth of a gray velveteen bag she felt a familiar shape. She tore at the drawstring top and reached in.
“Oh, my.” Gracie’s breath caught.
“It’s my piece,” Pen said, her eyes glowing. As she touched the stones a vivid memory of her mother flashed forward, telling Pen about her grandfather’s heroic efforts to get the family out of Russia at the most dangerous time, their trek through miles of wasteland until they reached the sea and stowed away aboard a freighter, all the while carrying the final remains of his once-thriving business.
“Pen, we need to—”
“Yes, you’re right,” she said.
“Wait,” Amber said. “Look at these.”
In one hand she held an exquisite enameled egg encrusted with sparkling gems. A small box revealed a diamond ring.
“I think these are the pieces we read about, things taken from individual owners. I want to return them.”
“We can’t possibly man—”
The roar of vehicles grew louder. Sandy stood at the doorway. “Men are surrounding the house. If we don’t get out now we never will.”
That settled it. Pen zipped the velveteen bag inside her coat pocket. Amber pocketed the egg and the ring. The rest of it would have to be sorted out by the police. Pen left with a backward glance, hoping the rightful owners would all get their things back.
Chapter 87
Caplin waited patiently—partly at the French commander’s orders, partly because he really didn’t want to be caught up in a gunfight. He needed to arrive at that beach in Mexico unscathed.
“All right, detective,” the commander’s lieutenant said, signaling him toward the front door of the white stone mansion.
Caplin entered a splendid wide hall, where the plush oriental carpet was somewhat askew and an expensive-looking vase lay in shards where it had hit the marble floor. On their stomachs, lying in a row were nine handcuffed men—some clothed only in their undershorts, some wearing nothing, all with sleep-rumpled hair.
“A couple of them woke in time to take shots at us,” one of the SWAT team said to the commander. “Most were in their beds when we pulled them out.”
“Sir, I’m afraid one of them got away,” said another officer as he came down the staircase to Caplin’s right. “I’ve got men searching the grounds.”
The American detective looked closely at the faces but none was Frank Morrell. A wave of disappointment rose in him. Was Morrell right now running through the forest below? Or had he never been with the Tigers in the first place?
Chapter 88
Pen could hardly catch her breath by the time they reached the car. Abandoning the rope ladder, practically flying over the wall and down the trail—all to loud shouts and the flashing lights of police vehicles. It crossed her mind that someone—probably Caplin—might have reported that the women intended to get the necklace back. Had he set the local police on their trail?
Surely not. He had seemed so sincere when they spoke. On the other hand, Richard Stone, aka Frank Morrell, had been very sincere as well. Con men always were.
She felt an adrenaline crash by the time they arrived at their hotel. She fell into bed immediately, the velveteen bag clutched in her hand.
Surprisingly, Pen awoke at seven amazingly refreshed. She sat up in bed, taking a few minutes for herself, admiring her grandfather’s handiwork once again. If only he’d lived long enough for her to have known him. The family faces came back to her, dear Mum and Dad. How they had struggled through the years and yet held firm to their resolve not to let Grandfather’s masterpiece out of their hands. She felt a flush of mortification as she realized she would have been responsible for its loss.
Out in the suite’s living room she heard voices. She donned a robe and joined the group.
“Late breaking story,” Sandy read from a newspaper someone had brought in. “Nine members of the notorious Golden Tiger jewel theft ring arrested in a raid on the home of billionaire magnate Etienne LeBlanc.”
“That accounts for the gunshots,” Amber said, barely looking up from her laptop. “It says here that one man got away but police do not believe he was a member of the gang.”
For some reason a picture of Frank Morrell flashed through Pen’s mind. Oh, never mind, she thought.
“Just curious …” Gracie said. “Does that story mention anything about the jewels being recovered? I mean, specifically whether any items were not found?” She gave a pointed stare toward the Fabergé egg on the coffee table.
Amber sm
iled up at them all. “Nope. Not a word.”
Chapter 89
Frank Morrell smiled at himself in the mirror.
“Frankie, you still got it,” he said to his reflection, giving one last dab at the scratch above his eyebrow with a wet paper towel. He tossed the towel into the trash bin, hoisting his new knapsack onto his shoulder. It was five a.m. and the train for Cannes would leave in twelve minutes.
One final glance to check his appearance. His image blurred a little as this morning’s events replayed in his mind. Pandemonium when a bunch of cops raided the mansion on the hill. Frank’s plan all along had been to sneak away; he’d been lifting useful items for the two days he’d been there. A couple shirts here, toiletry items there, the small backpack from a closet in what was probably the owner’s son’s room. His payoff from the necklace, of course, stacked neatly in banded packets at the bottom.
At three a.m. he’d been lying on the bed in the room they’d given him, watching the numbers tick by on a digital clock, unable to sleep but waiting for the perfect moment. The gang had spent most of the night talking quietly in a room with the door shut. He knew they were plotting their robbery of the gem show. Lub had ordered Frank to mind his own business; he would get his orders when they headed for the Acropolis the next day.
That didn’t interest Frank anymore, not since he’d figured out about the mausoleum. His idea was to wait until they all fell asleep, either talk his way past or overpower the guard at the mausoleum, and help himself to a nice chunk of the loot. He knew they were keeping it there; why else would they station a guard where supposedly there were only dead old bones? Seriously. How stupid did they think he was?
Frankie’s too smart—he don’t fall for that shit, he said to himself.
About an hour after the mansion had gone quiet, conversations ending, bedroom doors closing, that’s when all hell broke loose. And the moment the front door burst inward and he heard cops treading through the halls—that’s when ol’ Frankie bailed. Out his bedroom window and down a drainpipe. He’d glanced wistfully at the path to the mausoleum but screw it—no way was he hanging around for this deal. He ran through the woods and leaped over the wall, skirting the hubbub at the guard gate and made his way to the highway, where he’d given a late-night cabbie a sob story about being in a car accident and how his wife had been waiting for him at the train station for hours … the usual drill. It got him a lot of sympathy and a free cab ride to the station.
Now, all he had to do was make that train. He wouldn’t hang around Cannes—it was too nearby and the situation was too hot. Before the end of the day, he planned to be in Spain or Italy—no plan was firm until he scoped out the situation—and by that night he’d somehow be on a plane for America. No one had any reason to associate him with the Golden Tigers, so the big robbery at the gem show would have them all scrambling for a bunch of Eastern European thugs, not some happy-go-lucky American who, they would be told, had won big in Monte Carlo and was heading home.
He left the men’s room and walked toward the platform where his train should be rolling in just about now. He’d just passed through the archway and cleared security when he heard a familiar voice.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Richard Stone. Er, I should say Frank Morrell.” Detective Bill Caplin stepped out from behind a concrete pillar and blocked Frank’s path.
“Do I know you?” Frank put on his most winsome look.
“Okay, play it that way,” said Caplin. “I know you’ve got a pile of cash on you, and you know that you owe Todd Wainwright and me our shares. All I have to do is yell ‘bomb’ and there’ll be a dozen men down your throat in a second.”
“And down yours a minute later when they discover I don’t have a bomb.”
“But the cash will be of interest to them. And my police ID trumps whatever fake story you’ve got cooked up.”
Frank glanced around. His train was filling up—he probably had thirty seconds to get aboard.
“How is young Todd anyway? Did he get canned? I never figured him for one who could keep up a story very well.” Frank kept his eyes on Caplin but his attention was acutely focused on that train.
“Todd isn’t my problem right now. You won’t be either, if you pay me what you promised. Otherwise, my problem is getting you back to Arizona for prosecution.”
Frank only caught half of that last sentence. At a moment when the crowd thinned, he bolted, dashing aboard the train a split-second before the doors closed.
Chapter 90
Bill Caplin smiled as the train pulled away. “Right where I want you, jerk face.”
He tapped a contact name on his phone. “The five-twelve train from Nice to Cannes,” he said to the gendarme at the other end.
He fumbled to upload the photo he’d taken of Frank before his quarry noticed him, knowing the French police were at the ready to capture the American who’d eluded them at the raid on the LeBlanc mansion in the early hours of the morning. A passing teen smiled at the old man’s dilemma and pointed to the correct icon—the photo was on its way.
No doubt Frank Morrell had left enough of his fingerprints and DNA around the house—a few stray hairs in the bathroom, a used toothbrush, prints on a drinking glass. Too bad there was no one to testify that he wasn’t really a member of the gang.
Caplin had heard French prisons were unbearable. Dark, dank stone cells a man couldn’t stand up in, where they threw you in naked with a bucket for your waste and twice-a-day bread and water to eat. Old Frankie would be begging for extradition to the United States within a day or two.
And if he somehow didn’t get convicted by association with the Golden Tigers, Caplin had an extradition order ready and waiting; it could be filed on a moment’s notice.
Too bad for Frankie Morrell.
He sighed deeply. Too bad for me, too. With the case in the hands of international police, Caplin knew he and Todd Wainwright would never receive their shares from the Philpont robbery. His vision of the boat in Mexico dimmed.
Just as well, he thought. The shadow of the stolen money would hang over him, and he couldn’t imagine living out his retirement years looking over his shoulder.
Chapter 91
Penelope’s telephone rang as she was setting out a wedge of excellent aged English cheddar along with wine glasses and a Cabernet she’d been saving for a special occasion. It had been all she could do not to break it out when Benton picked her up at the airport three days ago. Her jubilation over retrieving her heirloom had buoyed her mood throughout the long transatlantic flight. But tonight was an even more special occasion.
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, how are you? Bill Caplin here.”
“I recognized your voice, detective. Or have you retired already?”
“Paperwork’s in the pipeline. I’ll be out of here at the end of the month.”
“I hope it will be everything you’ve been wanting.”
There was a pause before he spoke. “It’s been a positive month. I wanted to let you know Frank Morrell was arrested in the south of France and immediately agreed to extradition.”
Pen felt a cloud pass over her jubilant mood. “Will I need to testify?”
“The evidence alone will probably be enough. I will most likely be called back and I’ll let you know if you’re needed. I’m sorry to say your necklace was not recovered among the pile of jewelry found at the estate where most of the gang was arrested.” He paused for a long beat. “I have a feeling you already knew that, though.”
Pen quickly changed the subject. “What about the couple on Grand Cayman? Will he face charges for that crime as well?”
“Hard to say. So far, I gather Tom and Danielle Anderson haven’t pressed charges. The man seems to have a blind spot about admitting his gullibility and the extent of the loss. If he doesn’t report the crime and sign a statement, well, there’s not much the police can do. Whether they follow up or not, it will take a long time to figure out all of Morrell’s various bank accounts and fin
d a paper trail showing where their money went.”
Pen heard a vehicle in her driveway.
“I have guests,” she said, wishing him well, both in sorting out Morrell’s crimes and in his upcoming retirement.
A second car arrived before she got to the door. The Heist Ladies had arrived and it was time to open that special bottle.
Chapter 92
Sandy waited a moment for Gracie and Amber to step out of Gracie’s car, and the three approached Pen’s front door together.
“Welcome! Welcome,” said Pen, spreading her arms wide to embrace each of them in turn. “Is everyone doing well after the long journey?”
There were a few groans about jetlag but also smiles all around. Pen ushered them into her living room where the wine and cheese waited on the coffee table.
“I’d love to hear about the return of the other items we recovered,” she said as she poured wine into four glasses. “Reports?”
Amber went first. She had wanted to stop in New York on her way home to check in with relatives, especially her aging grandmother. The diamond ring’s owner in Manhattan was an easy addition to her trip.
“The lady reminded me of you, Pen. Classy,” Amber said. “She lived in this most fantastic apartment and you could tell the place was sort of a shrine to her husband who had died twenty-five years ago. Mrs. Rubenstein, her name is—she was so happy to get the ring back. She told me it was her engagement ring. Can you imagine? A young couple with the money to have something like that? She actually cried when I handed it to her. She said she’d given up hope of ever seeing it again—that’s when she really cried.” Amber took a deep breath. “Anyway, she made a point of saying there’s a reward in it for each of us and she will be eternally grateful.”
Diamonds Aren't Forever Page 22
