When he was done, she smoothed her hair and adjusted the necklace, touching it with the tip of her index finger. “It looks real, doesn’t it?”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Kaiser felt like a player. In fact, he was a player, arriving at Franco’s in a limousine—the same one that was carrying Josephine Moore. Outside Franco’s it was a madhouse, a stylish club crowd thronging the door. Limousines lined the street, waiting to discharge important and pretentious people. Paparazzi were cordoned off, more than one satellite van taking up space in the parking lot. Parking attendants were dashing from one vehicle to another. Scores of thrill seekers were roped off, the crowd going mad when Josephine Moore alighted.
Franco’s in-house security couldn’t handle an event of this magnitude, and he’d tapped Nathan’s company, hiring extras to man the crowd and provide protection for the stars. As soon as Josephine stepped out of the limo, two bodyguards flanked her. She was whisked through the crowd and taken inside, the rest of them following at a discreet distance. Coming up the walkway with his arm around Amber’s waist, Kaiser felt on top of the world.
Amber was the strawberry blond girlfriend of Anthony’s date. In the limo she’d pressed her leg against his, letting him take her hand. She was a good looking girl, a little bashful, but Kaiser felt certain he’d be taking her home tonight. It was so easy. He never got laid when he was with the Bureau. In fact, he’d picked up more girls in the past few months than he picked up in the previous twenty years. Hanging with Louie, he always met women.
There were a lot of beautiful girls at Franco’s. Trying desperately to get noticed, they were gyrating to music on the main floor, a good many of them crammed up against the bar. Outside, on the patio, another hip crowd surrounded the neon-lit bar. The stairway to the upper level was closed to the public; it was invitees only. Guests were required to show a photo ID. Even NBA players and their reality star girlfriends were waiting in line. But Louie’s group zipped through. Arriving upstairs, they met Franco and his pretty wife, Kathy.
Morgan’s party was in full swing, filled with people directly and indirectly connected with The Blue Diamond. Josephine Moore made her rounds, greeting friends and colleagues. Amber recognized a couple of designers and an aging rock star. She wanted to take pictures, but Kaiser told her no, it wasn’t allowed. He could tell she was nervous, glancing anxiously about, and he escorted her into the private room Louie had reserved.
It was a few steps up and off the bridge overlooking the lounge. It was a narrow room with intimate lighting and several padded leather couches and chairs. A flat screen on the wall showed the main club, where a Vegas entertainer was performing. Platters of hors d’oeuvres were spread on a long table and a full bar, sexy barmaid included, was setup. The room’s private balcony overlooked the Walker Hotel and the picturesque beach beyond it. The full moon was shining over the Atlantic, a big, brilliant ball of yellow.
Louie’s group settled into the room, people coming in and out. Morgan and his wife came in, his wife taking umbrage when Victor called her doll. Morgan might have detested Louie, but he was sure making money with him. Josephine flitted in and out, bringing in celebrities and show off’s. Amber and her girlfriend wanted to dance, so Kaiser and Anthony took them downstairs, mingling with the patrons on the first floor. By midnight Morgan’s bash was starting to wind down. Kaiser and Amber were back upstairs, snacking on shrimp cocktail, when Franco stepped in and made a beeline to Louie, bending to whisper something in his ear. Louie’s expression went flat. Turning to look at Franco, he said, “He’s here, tonight?”
“Downstairs. I tried to turn him away, but he insists on seeing you. He has a woman with him, a looker.”
Louie dropped his head into his hands, massaging his temples as though he had a headache. He sighed. “Okay. Bring him up.” He turned to Josephine, sitting on the arm of his chair. “Baby, why don’t you take the ladies to the party? Maybe you can introduce them to your famous friends?”
Josephine rolled her eyes. “Come on, girls. I guess it’s boys only right now.”
The women traipsed out. Kaiser remained with Louie’s inner circle. He didn’t think he belonged, but nobody asked him to leave. He stepped onto the balcony, gazing out over the Walker. The night was bright with stars, the big moon high overhead, bathing the sea in an iridescent light. He breathed in the salty air, the heady smell of flowers and warmth, the magic of Miami. When he walked back inside, Franco was leading a stooped, sickly man into Louie’s presence. Leaning on an aluminum cane, the guy wore a dinner jacket that hung on his bony frame. Shiny with oil and sweat, his flaxen hair was plastered to his skull. He had the pallor of one who is gravely ill.
Kaiser could tell by Louie’s expression that the man’s physical condition was a shock to him. He said, “Hans, my friend, you are not well?”
Hans did not immediately answer, his pale eyes gleaming in the dull light. Beside him stood a blond goddess, her large violet eyes scanning the room. Wearing a knee-length white leather coat with a silver fox-fur collar and a pair of spiky sandals, she looked like she had just stepped out of a fashion shoot; a glamour girl from head to toe.
Leaning on his cane, Hans said in Brit-proper English. “My doctors can find no cure for my malady, Louis.”
“I am sorry to hear this.” Louie’s eyes conveyed distress for his friend’s illness. He gestured at the ample seating, glanced politely at the goddess. “Please, won’t you sit?”
“I did not come to visit, Louis,” said Hans. “Marguerite and I cannot stay.” He drew a deep, wheezy breath. “You have cursed me, my friend.”
Louie’s eyes went to Victor, some silent signal there that made Victor stand a little taller. Louie said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Your gift … it has been a curse to me. I wish to return it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Hans spoke to Marguerite in French. It was gibberish to Kaiser, but Marguerite opened the collar of her coat, slipping it off of her shoulders and letting it slide, unattended, to the floor. To Kaiser’s astonishment she was naked, having worn nothing beneath her coat. She was breathtakingly beautiful and Kaiser missed the obvious. It wasn’t until Victor said, “Ah, Christ,” that he noticed the necklace around Marguerite’s swanlike neck, the radiant blue diamond dipping between her exquisite breasts. The necklace was identical to the one Josephine Moore was wearing; confused, Kaiser thought it was the same one. But everyone was staring at this one, and in a flash, it occurred to Kaiser that this was the real thing: Greta Harper’s long lost treasure.
Hans gave an order, and Marguerite lifted her arms and unfastened the clasp. She removed the necklace and gave it to Hans. With a trembling hand, he offered it to Louie. “Take it,” he said. “It’s yours.”
Louie looked at the necklace, then at Hans. “I won’t accept it. We had a deal—”
“The damned thing is cursed. It has been the ruin of me.” His arm drooped, muscles contracting abnormally, and Kaiser wondered if he had Parkinson’s. Hans would have dropped the necklace if Louie did not reach out and grasp it. “I’m a dying man, Louis. Deals mean nothing to me.” He wheezed brokenly. “I want peace now; peace. It torments me. Did you know that if you hold the diamond in your hand long enough you will see the faces of all those who have died for it? Now, when I touch it, I see my face. Mine, and hers,” he looked pointedly at Marguerite.
She stood motionless, violet eyes clouded with emotion. Her hands, long fingernails painted scarlet, hung at her sides, her golden hair cascading over her bare shoulders. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing.
It was Victor who broke the spell. Scooping her coat off the floor, he draped it over her shoulders. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold, doll.”
Hans said, “You may touch her.”
Victor recoiled as though burned. Cane tapping the floor, Hans turned, M
arguerite stepping forward to support him. He nodded vaguely at the men, looked solemnly at Louie. “Good-bye, Louis.”
Louie slid the necklace into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket, patted it. “I’ll keep this in trust for you, Hans.”
Hans’ eyes were fever bright. “Get rid of it, Louis. Throw it back into the hole from which you took it. It will bring nothing but misery and death to any man who owns it.”
* * *
Hans’ outing had exhausted him. Returning to his suite at the Ritz, he collapsed onto the bed, Marguerite helping him to undress and then massaging his limbs. He complained of pain; she gave him two oxycodones. When he fell into a restless sleep, she took the silver-plated .22 he had once presented to her and held it to the side of his head. He woke with a start, his eyes meeting hers. She smiled coldly. “Fool,” she said.
Pressing a pillow over the gun to muffle the noise, she pulled the trigger. The gun made a sound like a champagne cork popping, lodging somewhere in Hans’ brain. She drew back the pillow, watched blood trickle from the entrance wound. Hans’ eyes were opened wide; he was staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Marguerite felt his pulse. There was none.
She washed her hands and slipped on a black evening dress before putting on her shiny white leather coat. She checked and reloaded the .22, tucking it into her pocket. Hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, Marguerite strode purposely toward the elevator. In the lobby she asked the valet to summon a cab. She had a very short wait, a taxi pulling forward immediately.
Holding the door of the cab for her, the driver said, “Where to, Miss?”
She smiled coldly. “Franco’s,” she said.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Louie and Josephine were exiting Franco’s when Hans’ lovely mistress stepped from a line of people waiting to enter the club. At first, Louie did not see her. The street scene was chaotic, throngs of celebrity watchers cordoned off in the parking lot, along with dozens of paparazzi. Patrons were milling about, latecomers still arriving. Taxicabs and limousines were vying for space on Collins, with the police diverting traffic around them.
Josephine’s bodyguards flanked them. Victor was directly behind him, Anthony still in the club. Kaiser, having said his goodbyes, was preparing to go his own way. But they were all stunned by the mad rush at the door. A hundred bulbs flashed. Fans began chanting Josephine’s name, her bodyguards trying to move her through the crowd.
An intrepid photographer ducked beneath the security rope, scrambling toward them. Josephine froze, pressing protectively against Louie as her bodyguard wrestled with the photographer, his equipment clattering to the ground. Josephine’s limo was at the curb, and as the other bodyguard hustled back the encroaching paparazzi, Louie started leading her toward it. That’s when Marguerite stepped between them and the vehicle.
In the confusion no one thought to block Marguerite. She was clearly one of the beautiful people, standing there in her shiny white coat and silver heels, her blond hair shimmering in the floodlights. But as soon as Louie saw her, he knew she was trouble. Her violet eyes locked on Josephine’s necklace, and he realized she must have thought it was the real one. Instinctively, he pushed the starlet toward her bodyguards, but for a moment it was bedlam, with cameras flashing and fans screaming. Adding to the confusion was a news chopper, circling overhead, its bright lights panning over the crowd.
Marguerite lifted a tiny silver pistol and aimed it at Josephine. “Give me the necklace,” she said.
Ironically, with the confusion from the noise and pressing mob, few people saw what was happening. Paparazzi broke rank, rushing Josephine, her bodyguards again tangling with them. Franco’s security pushed back the onlookers, mistakenly shoving Victor aside as Louie instinctively stepped in front of Josephine. Marguerite pulled the trigger, muzzle flashing like a firecracker just before a hot, searing pain ripped into his chest. He stumbled, trying to escape the second bullet. It slammed into him, stealing his breath. He went down, Josephine tumbling with him, screaming hysterically—most of the crowd assuming she was the victim—and pandemonium ensued, all of it caught on camera.
Marguerite was poised for her third shot when Kaiser fired his Glock, the side of her head exploding like a starburst.
* * *
Angie was watching CNN when the crawl reported that the actress Josephine Moore had been shot at a South Beach nightclub. Half asleep in her bed, Angie perked up. She and Stella had seen The Blue Diamond that very afternoon, and both women had loved it, becoming avowed Josephine Moore fans.
The details were sketchy; the actress gunned down by a crazed fan outside of a popular nightclub. CNN went to a commercial break, and Angie switched to Fox. They were reporting that Josephine Moore and an unnamed man were both shot. They cut to an aerial view of the scene. It was chaotic, showing ambulances and police cars, a huge crowd pressing against a police barricade.
Angie recognized Franco’s and got a funny feeling, switching to the CBS affiliate just in time to see a replay of her husband being shot. Immediately, her phone started ringing. It was Tony; Victor had called him, and he was on his way over to get her.
Angie hung up. She started to dress; her hands were shaking. Years ago, she’d lived in fear of this. But not anymore, things were different now. She pulled on her jeans and called Victor. He was crying. He said, “He was alive going into the ambulance, Angie. I don’t know anything more. Anthony and I are on our way to the hospital.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Tara was sleeping when Nathan’s phone rang. It wasn’t just any phone, it was his private cell; the one she didn’t dare to answer. The buzzing ringtone penetrated her dreams, made her turn over, half-awake.
Nathan took the phone into the attached bath, his voice low and muffled. He stepped back into the bedroom and snapped on the bedside lamp. Reluctantly, Tara sat up, yawning sleepily. She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand: Two a.m. Her eyes went to Nathan’s. He said, “Tara—”
His tone was serious, and she looked expectantly at him, anticipating that he might leave her for one of his covert missions. She knew from experience that his private line ringing in the middle of the night frequently precipitated such action. She said, “What is it? Do you have to leave?”
He shook his head, gave it to her straight. “Louie’s been shot.”
It took a moment for his words to penetrate, sliding into her blood like ice. The color leeched from her face. Tara said, “Oh my God. Is he—?”
“He’s alive. But he’s lost a lot of blood—I guess it could go either way. That was Anthony on the phone. He wanted us to know, you, specifically.”
Tara crossed her arms over her chest, rocked forward. Panic surged in her. She saw Nathan’s dark eyes studying her, and she turned away for fear he would see her heart reflected on her face. She struggled for composure. “How …?”
“Coming out of Franco’s about an hour ago.”
Nathan flicked on the television. Because of Josephine Moore, it was non-stop coverage, the same scene replaying on all the cable channels. Without speaking another word to Nathan, Tara slipped out of bed, grabbing her robe from a hook on the back of the door.
She went across the hall, tiptoeing into her son’s room. The nightlight was on, revealing her child asleep in his crib. Louie’s child: Little Lewis Roth. He lay on his stomach with his rump in the air, his steady breathing filling the room. Tara smoothed the unruly curls on Lewis’s head before adjusting his blanket. The Mickey Mouse clock in the room ticked ominously, grating on her nerves. She feared Louie was dying, wanted suddenly to go to him. Had he seen the picture of Lewis she’d given to Victor?
Tara hadn’t spoken to Louie since that day he came to the house, signing over his hotel. At the time she’d seen in his eyes that he still loved her, taking a keen satisfaction from it. Now, fighting the urge to cry, she wondered if he was de
ad or dying. Would he think of her now, at the end?
She stood in Lewis’ room so long that Nathan came and got her, leading her downstairs. He sat her on the couch in the den while he made her a cup of tea, spiking it with brandy. Tara turned on the television. The “unnamed man” of earlier reports had become “Louis Morelli, real-estate mogul.” The station kept replaying the clip of Louie lying motionless outside of Franco’s. It was horrible to see.
Tara caught Nathan’s eyes on her. She said, “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
He sat on the opposite end of the couch, deliberately putting distance between them. “Hard to say: Anthony said it was a small caliber; he may not be. But the range was close—it depends on where he was hit, if any vital organs were affected.”
She stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against the china. Her hands were trembling. Nathan said, “I know what he meant to you, Tara. I know what you had together. Suppose he does die; what then? What will you do?”
“My God, I don’t want him to die. Don’t talk like that. I owe so much to Louie … he made me what I am, Nathan, gave me the life I have today. Without Louie I wouldn’t have you or Lewis or the Walker—.”
“Are you sorry you married me?”
“God no.” She said it sincerely, meaning it, although they’d quarreled earlier, after Victor left. She’d accused him of hiding things from her, concealing the truth about his work.
His eyes were intense, burning. He picked up the remote and killed the picture, the room blinking into shadow. Sasha, never far from her master, came in, looking from Tara to Nathan before settling herself near his feet. He said, “You can’t pretend you don’t love him, so don’t even try.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 32
