Death and Diamonds

by Franklin W. Dixon

  He did. “Locked.”

  “Figures.” I moved my arm, and it hit the computer’s mouse. That made the sleep pattern on the monitor go away. Luckily, the guard must have been logged in, because I was able to access the computer’s files.

  “Call up a schematic of the convention center,” Frank said.

  “I know what to do,” I said, still cranky from my headache.

  I called up the schematic, which wasn’t hard to find, and it showed a network of passageways, complete with circuits, and those all-important air ducts. Looking up, I spotted one just over my head.

  “I’ll bet that’s how they’re getting to the exhibit hall where the diamonds are,” Frank said. “Print out a copy of that. Better make it two—one for each of us in case we have to split up.”

  “Got it,” I said, pressing the Print button. The sheets were printed in seconds, and we each whipped out our trusty pocket flashlights, testing them to make sure they were working properly. “Well?” I asked, pointing upward toward the air ducts. “What do you say?”

  Frank grabbed a chair and placed it under the grating. “After you.”

  I unscrewed the grate, then hoisted myself up into the air shaft.

  It wasn’t that gross, considering. The center was only four months old, so the shafts hadn’t had a chance to collect too much dust or mold. Good thing, because Frank is a big sneezer, and we were going to have to keep really quiet up in there. A cool breeze wafted through—also good, because judging from the way it was outdoors, you could have fried an egg in those ducts if the AC wasn’t on.

  I crawled forward enough to let Frank get up inside. Meanwhile, I checked my schematic drawing. “Okay,” I said. “How ’bout we head for the dressing rooms?”

  “Shouldn’t we go straight to the exhibit hall?”

  “Depends whether the diamonds are still there—in other words, whether the show is starting on time.”

  “Why don’t we go by way of the main theater?” Frank suggested. “That way, we’ll know where to head next—and it’s pretty much on the way to everything from this end of the center.”

  It was a good plan, and so that’s what we did. But let me tell you—it takes time to crawl through an air duct. Lots of time, and we had a long way to go. The only good part was that, if the thieves were getting in this way too, at least they were no longer gaining on us.

  We soon got used to crawling. We had to go slow, though, because we couldn’t afford to make any noise—if security or police personnel heard us making a racket up in the air shafts, they might mistake us for thieves. If that happened, they’d shoot first and ask questions later.

  We followed our schematic map, and soon, in the distance, we could hear Vincent Carrera’s amplified voice. The show was starting!

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” we heard him say, “welcome to the biggest diamond show of the twenty-first century!”

  His voice carried perfectly, echoing down the air duct toward us. It came from everywhere and nowhere, so we still had to use our schematic to guide us, until we arrived at a grate directly over the main theater. Below us sat a crowd of hundreds of people. A lot of the women were wearing gowns and diamonds, with the men mostly in tuxedos. Many of them were looking around to see who else was there.

  Scattered among these obviously wealthy folks was a bunch of people equipped with notebooks and charts. I took these to be the professional diamond buyers, probably representing major jewelry firms and stores. They looked like they’d flown in from all over the world. This really was, as Carrera had said, the biggest diamond show of the twenty-first century.

  “We are gathered here together for a high purpose, ladies and gentlemen,” he was saying. “The fabulous jewels you will be seeing were obtained by illegal means, and captured by the international forces of law and order.”

  That got a round of applause. When it died down, he continued, “Today we offer them to you, the public—not as illegal gems, but as legally certified jewelry. All proceeds of this show—ALL proceeds, I repeat—will be going to the charities listed in your programs, to help the victims who paid for these gems with their pain and loss. They, and we, are most grateful to you for your generosity. Please bid well, with them in mind.”

  Funny, but there was a guy sitting in one of the back rows who looked very familiar. I could have sworn he was that Philippine warlord who’d had the diamonds taken from him.

  No . . . it couldn’t be . . . they wouldn’t have let him in here, would they? He’d have been recognized and arrested.

  “Hey, Frank,” I whispered, “isn’t that guy Carlos Sanguillen?”

  “Where?”

  “Here, I’ll move up so you can see—he’s sitting two rows from the back, all the way over to the right of the center aisle.”

  After he’d had a look, Frank said, “That’s Carlos Sanguillen, all right—he looks just like his picture.”

  “Funny he should be here, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “More than funny. Hey, Joe—he’s getting up.”

  “He is?”

  “Yeah, he checked his watch, looked around for something or someone, and now he’s leaving the theater out the back door.”

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Carlos Sanguillen

  Hometown: Manila, Philippines

  Physical description: Age 40, 5 ‘, 9 “, 140 lbs. Well dressed in dark linen suit and silk tie. Tanned complexion, mean eyes, thick black mustache, longish black hair. Evil-looking guy if there ever was one.

  Occupation: Warlord and terrorist. Besides killing, kidnapping, and bombing, makes millions peddling illegally mined diamonds, uses proceeds to buy arms and explosives, etc.

  Background: Born and raised in the slums of Manila, moved to Jolo Island as a young man, got involved with gangs there, soon rose to the top by being more violent than any other gangster on the island. Gradually morphed into a guerrilla leader as the army tried to crack down on his operations—but he’s still a gangster and killer at heart. Thought to have various wives and girlfriends stashed away, but their identities are a closely guarded secret.

  Suspicious behavior: Meetings with Shakey Twist; e-mails that mention Shakey; has been spotted in Antwerp, the international diamond trading center, in the last week; and is now here in Bayport. Just a coincidence? Not likely.

  Suspected of: Being Shakey Twist’s partner in a plot to steal the diamonds from the convention center.

  Possible motive: Millions of dollars’ worth of gems returned to their rightful owner, so he can sell them himself, for his own personal charity.

  “Something’s happening for sure,” I said. “We’d better get back to the dressing rooms and make sure the girls are all right.”

  “I’ll go,” Frank replied. “You stay here—if they bust into the theater, drop down and keep them occupied till I get back.”

  “How will you know I need you?”

  “Bang three times on the shaft—the sound will travel.”

  “Good plan,” I said. “And you do the same if anything’s shaking on the other end.”

  “Will do.” He took off, shimmying away into the darkness.

  I got back to monitoring the main theater. Shakira was down there, covered with diamond jewelry from the tiara on her head to the ankle bracelets on her legs. In between were several bracelets, a pendant necklace, a brooch on each lapel, a pair of incredible earrings—plus a navel ring, a nose ring, and rings on most of her fingers. The diamonds alone must have weighed ten pounds!

  Meanwhile, Carrera was lovingly describing each item while Shakira moved up and down the runway, showing the items off to all potential bidders and to the many people who’d come just to gawk.

  Soon the bidding began. One by one, each item was bid on, bought, and cataloged by assistants.

  It took a mere thirty minutes before every diamond on Shakira was claimed. With a big smile and a wave, she blew kisses to the crowd, then walked back down the runway and exited stage left.


  “Don’t worry, folks, she’ll be back soon, covered in another set of even more fabulous gems!” Carrera said, smiling broadly. “In the meantime, here’s the world’s most beautiful woman—with the possible exception of Shakira, that is—Ms. Naomi Dowd!”

  The crowd erupted, hooting and hollering and standing up to stare, while the spotlights searched the stage right entrance.

  But nobody appeared.

  “Ms. Naomi Dowd!” Carrera repeated, to more applause and shouts of approval.

  Still nothing. The spotlights circled in vain. Naomi Dowd was nowhere in sight.

  A uniformed security woman trotted onto the stage from the opposite side and went up to Carrera, whispering something in his ear.

  His smile vanished. “What do you mean?” he asked her, forgetting that his microphone was still live. “Well, where is she? She can’t have disappeared into thin air!”

  I hadn’t heard Frank banging three times—but I started in his direction immediately.

  I didn’t need three knocks to know that there was trouble ahead.

  9.

  The Heist

  It felt like forever till I got to the spot over the dressing room. I was sure I’d arrive to find Naomi lying dead on the ground. Luckily, as I got closer, I heard her voice.

  She was okay—but that didn’t mean she was out of danger.

  She was talking to someone. I stopped crawling long enough to identify the other voice: Bobo’s. Good—she had some protection, at least. I decided to take a quick peek, then find the nearest exit from the air shaft and get down to her as soon as possible.

  “How do I look?” she was asking.

  “I dunno,” Bobo said. “It’s kinda blinding, if you ask me.”

  “Oh, Bobo,” she said, “come on—I need an honest opinion. Should I wear the brooch like this? Or should I pin it lower, like . . . this?”

  “Babe, you know better than I do. I’m just a thug, y’know? Doin’ my job. Which doesn’t include beauty advice.”

  I was staring down at them by this time. Naomi was totally covered in jewels. I thought of knocking on the grate and telling Bobo to unscrew it so I could drop down, but something held me back. Lucky thing, too—if I’d done that, I’d never have seen what I saw, and we’d never have cracked the case.

  Just as I was about to knock on the grate, I remembered the signal Joe and I had arranged. I didn’t want Joe to think I was knocking for him, so I hesitated.

  As I considered my options, there was a knock on the dressing-room door.

  “Who is it?” Naomi called.

  “You’re wanted onstage, Ms. Dowd.” A man’s deep voice . . . with some kind of accent . . .

  Filipino!

  “Coming,” she said. “Bobo, open the door for me, will you?”

  As he reached for the knob, the door burst open, and four people—men, I guessed—wearing gas masks and dressed in black, came through the doorway. Three of them had guns, but it was the fourth, the one with the sprayer, who stopped Bobo dead in his tracks before he could put his fighting skills to work.

  Whatever they were spraying, it worked fast. Naomi drooped into two of the men’s arms and they sat her down in a chair. I probably would have been knocked out too, except that the gas seemed to be hugging the ground, not rising my way.

  Two of the intruders tied Bobo’s hands and feet with duct tape, while the other two removed all of Naomi’s jewelry.

  “Okay!” the one who’d gassed Bobo and Naomi said in his accented voice. “I’ll wait for Shakira—you go get the rest of the diamonds and I’ll meet you back in the hall.”

  “No,” said another of the gang, stepping forward and pulling out a gun. “Leave Shakira to me.”

  The first guy put an arm out and grabbed the second’s gun hand.

  “Don’t worry,” said the second guy. “I’m not gonna hurt her.”

  The guy’s gun hand didn’t look too steady—it was shaking a lot, in fact—so maybe he was nervous.

  I fidgeted quietly, hoping Joe was on his way. I hoped he’d figured out by now that knocking three times was a pretty stupid plan. If I’d knocked—if I’d made any sound at all—these guys would have shot the air duct, and me, full of holes.

  The four thieves split up out in the hallway. I had to choose which way to go. Number two had said he wouldn’t hurt Shakira, but I couldn’t trust that. Joe might not be in time to save her himself. Besides, I had a better chance of overpowering one crook than three of them armed with knockout gas.

  But Plan A didn’t work out after all. By the time I got myself turned in the right direction, crook number two was out of sight. Which way had he gone? Where would he wait for Shakira in ambush?

  I knew I’d never find them in time, so I knocked three times (finally!), turned back around, and headed for a location where I knew there’d be action: the exhibit hall.

  I wondered how the thieves had gotten through the security cordon, with its camera systems and its motion detectors wired to alarms. Then I remembered the trucks, from three different companies—these guys had been fooling with those systems all day long!

  I reached the grating overlooking the exhibit hall. There was a layer of gas floating along the floor here, too—anything less than seven feet tall was inside the cloud. As it began to clear, I saw the bodies of seven security personnel sprawled out cold on the floor.

  The thieves didn’t seem concerned about tripping the motion alarms, and it was easy to see why—there were no laser beams anywhere. All those red points of light I’d seen that morning were nowhere in sight.

  Still, there were those special glass cases. Because of their extra-tough plastic backing, it would take these guys half an hour, at least, to hammer through them—time enough for security to foil the robbery.

  Right?

  Number two returned.

  “Did you find Shakira?” asked the guy I had pegged as Sanguillen.

  Number two stuck his shaking hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a fistful of diamonds. “Found her,” he said.

  What had they done to her?

  “We don’t have much time,” said Sanguillen, or whoever he was. “Any minute the cops will realize what’s up. Then they’ll all be down here like monkeys on a banana, and there won’t be enough gas for all of them. Get to work!”

  One of the others fished a sledgehammer out of his backpack.

  Good luck, I thought, picturing him hacking away in frustration until the police arrived.

  But then, another one of the gang took something else out of his backpack—a nail gun. He aimed it at one of the cases and shot a nail straight into the glass.

  “This is the beauty part, Mr. S.,” he said to the guy with the accent. “The heat of the nail gun melts the plastic backing, so you can hammer right through the glass. That’s how Shakey pulled off the job at the Getty Museum last year.”

  I’d heard about the Getty heist, but didn’t know Shakey Twist was involved. Nothing was ever brought to court—as usual.

  This looked every bit like a collaboration between the Twist mob and the warlord Carlos Sanguillen. Between them, they’d thought of everything—except me and Joe.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do at the moment. True, there was an exit ladder straight ahead of me. But if I went down there now, I’d only be able to fight as long as I could hold my breath.

  I had no choice but to act as a silent witness. The thieves smashed every case in the hall in the space of three minutes. Just as they finished, with the gas dissipating, footsteps sounded in the distance, along with a lot of shouting and coughing.

  The gas wasn’t powerful enough any longer to knock the police and security guys out, but it was still good enough to slow them down—just long enough for the thieves to make their getaway.

  I lowered myself down the ladder in time to see the last of them running down the dark hallway and out an emergency exit. No alarm sounded—naturally.

  Never mind, I told myself as the conve
ntion center’s protectors arrived on the scene. We’d have the tapes in the control room and me as a witness to back them up.

  All of us were coughing, even though the gas had pretty much disappeared. My eyes burned, and the lights were suddenly way too bright.

  Chief Collig burst into the hall. “What the—?” In one sweeping glance, he took in all the shattered and empty display cases.

  Hal Harris and Vincent Carrera were right behind him. “The diamonds!” Carrera was shouting hysterically, over and over again. “The diamonds!”

  Harris put a hand on Carrera’s shoulder. “Take it easy—the police will get your diamonds back for you.”

  Carrera glared back at him. “That’s very comforting,” he said sarcastically, “coming from a man like you, who was just telling me this morning how impregnable your convention center was.”

  That remark caught Harris right in the gut. “We’re dealing with some pretty savvy crooks here,” Chief Collig put in.

  “You mean Carlos Sanguillen?” I asked.

  The chief looked at me, startled. “Frank Hardy. I thought you and Joe were providing extra security. Where were you when the diamonds were stolen?”

  “We were . . . we were tracking the robbers’ movements,” I said.

  “And?”

  “We, um . . . we were stuck in the air ducts,” I had to admit.

  “I see. Nice job.”

  Ouch.

  “Now, what makes you say Sanguillen’s involved?”

  “Well, he was here tonight, wasn’t he?”

  The chief could not have looked more surprised. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “Are you saying you actually saw him here?”

  “He was right in the back of the theater during the first part of the show,” I said.

  “Impossible!” Chief Collig snorted. Then he seemed to reconsider. “My men weren’t inside the theater, of course; we wanted to leave that to center security—” He looked over at Harris and frowned. “But obviously, we were right outside the building, keeping a tight perimeter. Sanguillen must have been heavily disguised when he got through.”

  “Not if he came in through the air ducts,” I pointed out. “I just crawled through some of them myself to get here.”