I spied a bookshelf in the corner and hurried to it through the crowd of bored tourists, pulling out a book about the house. I flipped through it, but couldn’t find a picture of anything that looked like the belt I’d seen in Teresa’s photo.
My interest was in how careful the fake was. Not that I really knew what I’d do with that information, but it could be handy to have.
I went through three more books before I found one with a chapter on costumes, and I flipped eagerly to the first page. Right square in the middle of it, under the chapter heading, was a large leather belt glittering with gold and jewels. The text told me Elvis hadn’t worn real diamonds around his torso. But the gold, the book said, was real. I looked around the shop, suddenly wondering about those coins.
I pulled out my phone and opened my eBay app. I was pretty practiced at finding stuff there, because it was where most of my designer shoe collection had come from. I searched for “Elvis coin” and came up with several hundred hits. Pierce said the stolen ones didn’t have a fencing report, though. So either the cops hadn’t found them, which seemed unlikely if I could do it with a simple search, or these silver Franklin Mint ones weren’t what they were looking for.
My shoe money was on the latter.
I found the display in a locked glass case on the back wall. And I was right: they weren’t just any limited-edition coins featuring Elvis’ face.
They were gold coins.
I opened my web browser and looked up the price of gold.
Better than twelve hundred dollars an ounce and climbing.
That was more than “Christmas money,” unless Santa was feeling very generous this year. Or unless the bickering mystery women were splitting it several ways.
“Would you like to see something from inside the case?” The clerk’s voice came from behind me, and made me flinch with surprise.
“What kind of gold are these coins made of?” I smiled. “And where did they come from? I’m looking for a Christmas gift for my mom.”
“Depends. Some of them are pure 24-karat, some are plated,” he said. “We don’t mint them, if that’s what you’re asking. They’re imported. People overseas went nutters when he died, made all kinds of limited-edition valuable things.”
“Can I see a few of them?” I asked, swallowing hard. I had a feeling I’d just found the common thread in the thefts—gold—which meant they were very likely the work of the same person or people.
He pulled three out and laid them on top of the case.
I picked up the first one, inspecting the gleaming finish under the plastic casing. The face of it was imprinted with Elvis’ head, the back with music notes and “The King of Rock ‘n Roll.” I weighed it in my hand. It was heavy.
“Is this one solid gold?” I asked.
“Good eye.” He grinned. “It is.”
“Do you have certificates or something for them?”
“Of course.” He picked up a portable file and opened it, laying a thick, orange and gold rimmed paper on the counter. It claimed the coin I was holding was number sixty-four of two hundred fifty made in Australia in 1993.
“Are these the only collectible coins you sell here?”
“Yep.”
“And they’re always locked in this case?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyebrow went up a little.
So whoever was switching them had a key. Or was handy with a lock picking kit.
I stared at the coin, wondering if it was the real thing. And how the thieves were making the fake ones the detective had described. The answer was in finding out who took that belt, I was sure.
“How much?” I asked, sticking a hand into my bag.
“Depends on what you want,” he said. “The solid gold ones are fifteen hundred, and the plated ones are between three-fifty and five hundred.”
“I’m going to have to think about it,” I said, handing the coin back. “But thanks for your help.”
He laid them carefully back in the glass case and locked it.
“Just come back by if you change your mind,” he said.
I smiled and strode out of the shop, pretty sure I knew why the coins had just disappeared instead of being fenced. I pulled out my phone and dialed Detective Pierce.
EIGHT
Christmas gold
“Y’all can’t find where the coins are going because they’re not,” I said in a rush when Pierce picked up. “Rather, they’re not coins anymore. They’re melting them and selling the gold. I think.”
“Slow down,” he said, background noise fading. “I missed about half of that. Who is this?”
Oops.
“Sorry.” I laughed. “It’s Nichelle Clarke from the Richmond Telegraph. The reporter locked in Graceland? You said earlier there was no report showing the coins from the gift shop had been fenced, right?”
“Not that saw,” he said. “It’s weird, for a theft case that old.”
“I think I know why,” I said. “The coins aren’t just any coins. They’re gold, commemorative heirlooms from overseas Graceland acquires and sells in the gift shop.”
“Okay.” He drew the word out. “Help me catch up, here, Miss Clarke.”
“I was just over there looking at them, and looking at photos of the belt that’s gone,” I said. “The thing they have in common is that they’re gold. Gold is ridiculously high right now.”
“They’re melting it!” He might as well have shouted “Eureka!” and he was so loud I almost dropped the phone.
“Bingo. It wouldn’t be worth quite as much as these things retail for, but it’s close enough because of gold prices. And a great way to skirt getting caught, especially if they’re swapping them out with fakes, like you said.”
“No wonder my buddy said you were trustworthy,” Pierce said. “You’re quite a detective yourself.”
“There’s more. I found a schematic of the air ducts and went back to the trophy room to look at the vents, and there’s a camera in one of them, trained on the empty display case. Semi-pro, too, because it’s the kind of camera I’ve seen TV folks use on investigative stories. They’re not cheap. Anyway, one of the guards told me earlier that the security feed was spliced. That’s how. Maybe y’all can get prints off of it?”
“I am thoroughly impressed, Miss Clarke.” I heard computer keys clicking.
“Just chasing the story,” I said. “But thanks.”
“I saw your report come up on CNN a little while ago,” he said. “I did request a unit out there. It shouldn’t be long now. I hope.”
“I think I’ll keep leaving that out,” I said. “The natives are getting restless here. I’ve seen several people chewing out various security folks.”
“I see,” he said. “Well, you’ve certainly been a help to me, so what can I do for you?”
“Can I get a comment on the record about the gold investigation?”
He cleared his throat. “I can confirm that the Memphis Police Department is looking into the possibility of a theft ring operating out of Graceland,” he said seriously.
“Thank you, detective.”
“Thank you, Miss Clarke. Let me get back to the station and I’ll see what I can dig up. They have to have someone processing the gold for them. I’ll call you if I come up with who or how.”
I hung up and dialed Bob.
“I need to get some photos to Larry,” I said when my editor picked up. “Has he gone on vacation yet?”
“I don’t know,” Bob said. “You have art?”
“I do. Page him quick, then I’ll fill you in.”
He clicked me onto hold.
“He’s waiting,” he said when he came back on the line.
“The first one is easy. I took it with my phone,” I said. “But I need him to check so
mething out, and the other one is on a camera that belongs to a lady I met. I need Larry to have it at full resolution. Any ideas?”
Bob blew out a short sigh. “I don’t suppose you have your laptop?” he asked.
“Not on me.”
“Let me ask Larry. Send him what you’ve got and what to look for.”
I clicked off the call and called up the photo I’d taken of the image in the book, attaching it to an email in the highest resolution my phone would allow. The “sending” bar inched across the screen, and my phone beeped the “low battery” signal.
Shit. I clicked the screen dark.
I wasn’t sure what I wanted Larry to look for, to tell the truth. I wanted to know how good a fake the belt in Teresa’s photo was.
I thought about Dale and the mysterious women I’d overheard, wondering again if they might be in cahoots, stealing coins, or the belt—or both.
Then there was friendly Elvis the gift shop clerk, who knew an awful lot about the coins.
And, you know, about a hundred other people I hadn’t had a chance to talk to or gauge suspicion of. And that was just employees. Though I was pretty sure the culprit worked at the mansion.
“You don’t seem to understand,” a pleading voice broke my concentration. “I have to go out to my truck.”
I whirled, looking for the source of the commotion, and found an older man in jeans and a golf shirt squaring off with the guard I’d talked to in the kitchen earlier.
“My wife needs her heart medication. It’s an emergency. We didn’t bring it in because we thought we’d be back for lunch.”
Damn. Mutiny, ahoy. Which would make a great story, when I wasn’t stuck in the middle of it.
“Sir, we’re so sorry for the inconvenience,” Calvin said, trying to keep a soothing tone. “If you’d please just stay with us a little longer. We’re happy to offer you a pass to return another day, too.”
Way to miss the point, Calvin.
“Won’t do me no good to have a pass if my wife has a heart attack because of your nonsense.” The man cast a worried glance at a woman on a bench along the outside west wall of the house. She was leaning back, eyes closed.
Double damn. I didn’t want anyone to end up in the hospital, and I knew no one else here did, either. The guard was a nice guy. Maybe he just didn’t understand.
I caught the guard’s gaze over the man’s head.
His eyes betrayed confused helplessness. I could tell he wanted to do something, but he wasn’t sure about getting in trouble with his boss.
I was interested to see how Dale would handle this situation, too. I strolled over and offered a smile. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”
“There’s gonna be if he don’t get me the hell out to my truck,” the man said.
“Why don’t you call someone and see what you can do about that?” I smiled at the guard. “I know no one wants to see this situation become any more difficult. It could turn into a PR nightmare if someone gets sick, and that isn’t in anyone’s best interest, right?”
The guard nodded and fumbled a handheld radio from his tool belt.
The man smiled at me. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” I said. “I think everyone’s on edge today.”
He scurried over to his wife and I retreated to a corner, stepping behind a large rubber plant. Dale was there in less than three minutes.
He smiled and put a hand out for the man, then gave the woman a concerned once-over. After a quick conference with the guard, he took the man’s car keys and walked toward the gate, and my heart took off at a gallop.
What if it was him and he was about to get the belt off the property? I tossed a glance at the couple, suddenly wondering if they were in on it, too.
The man turned to tend to his wife, and Calvin hustled back inside, probably ecstatic to be rid of the whole situation. No one was watching Dale. What better cover for smuggling something out of a lockdown?
I took off after his big hat.
Hanging back, I watched as he let himself out the gate and locked it behind him. He crossed Elvis Presley Boulevard. When I was pretty sure he wouldn’t notice, I crept over to it and looked through. He wandered through the parking lot clicking the key fob, and finally stopping next to a battered midnight-blue Silverado when its headlights winked. He wasn’t carrying anything, and the only place I could see him possibly hiding the belt was under his hat.
I couldn’t see what he did behind the door, but he didn’t remove the hat. He also didn’t seem to be in there very long, and he did come up with a pill bottle. So much for that theory.
As he crossed back to the gates, a satellite truck rounded the corner and pulled to a stop across the street. Dale glanced at the Donna-Karan-suited reporter and jogged back across the street, waving a “no comment” as he locked the gates. He charged past me without so much as a single glance, appearing intent on both getting away from the cameras and getting the lady her medicine.
I watched the reporter turn to her cameraman, pointing to the things she wanted shots of. Another truck turned into the parking lot, this one with an NBC logo. I wasn’t too worried about it yet. I’d expected other reporters to show up when the story hit the wires. I was still the only one inside.
I turned to catch up with Dale. He took the medication to the woman and disappeared back inside the house.
I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes. Strike two. Well, maybe. It didn’t rule Dale out, but the old couple was clean.
My phone buzzed, and I raised it to my ear.
“Bob said you need to send more photos?” Larry asked when I picked up.
“I do. And my phone is almost dead. Thanks for hanging around. I don’t know how to get the pictures off this little old lady’s camera to send them to you. I’m hoping you have a magic trick for that.”
“Depends. What kind of camera?”
“A teeny little Nikon digital.”
“You have a Blackberry, right?”
“Yes, but I can’t take pictures of her pictures for you. I want the higher resolution, and I also can’t kill my battery.”
“But you can put her micro SD card in the slot on the side of your phone and copy them off to me. Though I can’t help with the battery,” Larry said.
“I can?” Is that what the tiny slot on my phone was for?
“It should work. Most of those little cameras use the micro technology.” Larry said.
“You’re brilliant,” I said. “Drinks are on me next time.”
“Awesome. What do I look for when I get them?”
“I want to know how good the copy in her pictures is of that belt I already sent you the photo of,” I said. “And then … anything out of place.”
“Gee, that’s not vague,” he said with a chuckle. “You got it, Lois. Bob says we’re feeding to the wires. I’m happy to help. Go get ‘em.”
“I’m giving it my all. Thanks, Larry.” I hung up and charged back inside, looking for Teresa.
NINE
Photo Finish
Teresa was sweet about loaning me her memory card, which was just as bitty as Larry said it would be and slid right into the port on the side of my phone. Score one for technology.
I thanked her and warned her against adding to her coin collection on this trip. She raised an eyebrow, but nodded and waved as I turned to my email.
I highlighted the thumbnails of about ten photos taken in the awards hall that morning and attached them to an email to Larry, cringing when the battery percentage dropped to seventeen. I couldn’t turn the phone off, because detective Pierce might try to call. Plus, I needed to send Bob an update. I turned the screen brightness down so far I could barely see text, opened an email, and started typing.
Memphis police continued t
o search for suspects Friday as suspicion mounted that a theft ring was operating out of Graceland Mansion.
“I can confirm that the Memphis Police Department is looking into the possibility of a theft ring operating out of Graceland,” Det. Lionel Pierce of the MPD said.
The Telegraph has learned that the items missing from Graceland—several collector coins, according to police, and a belt Elvis wore onstage, an unnamed Graceland security guard confirmed—have one thing in common: they’re all made of gold. At noon Friday, the precious metal was trading at more than $1200 an ounce.
Inside Graceland, tourists have been kept on the property for going on two hours, and security officers are starting to have difficulty with people wanting to leave. So far, officers have been able to keep everyone calm, but this reporter has witnessed a couple of tense moments. One man was upset because his wife needed medication that was left in the car, and he wasn’t allowed to retrieve it.
Acting Head of Security Dale Leonard diffused the situation and went to get the medication himself.
I finished typing the story, elaborating on the scene inside the mansion and finishing with a promise for more updates soon. After I sent it, I clicked my phone off and pocketed it.
Dale.
The gift shop clerk.
The mysterious women in the locker room.
Someone else I hadn’t noticed, maybe.
I cataloged what I knew, which was that the crooks were tech savvy (the camera, plus the spliced video footage) and smooth enough to pull this off for months before anyone even noticed. They knew good stuff from junk. They knew the buildings and had been in the locker room. They had access to the belt and the coins.
That meant they had to have a plan for getting that belt off the property. And before the police arrived—assuming they thought the police were coming.
Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) Page 19
