by Dee Brice
“Well, what is it?”
“I got a call last night. The caller refused to give his name, but insisted he could prove what he was going to tell me is true.”
Quelling the impulse to shout at Nick’s dallying, Damian waited in silence.
“He said you and Tiffany Cartierri plotted the theft, executed it and murdered the two bank staff when they caught you in the act. He said you had turned rogue for a ‘piece of ass’.”
“You are certain the caller was a man.”
“Almost positive. It could have been a woman with a naturally deep voice.” Nick shrugged.
“Was the call routed through Lyons?”
“No, it came directly to my flat, on my private line. I know because the line was clear, without that hollow sound you get when Lyons’ taping.”
“Well, that ups the stakes, does it not? But it also raises a few questions.”
“Like how did he, or she, get my private number?”
“That, and how did he, or she,” Damian parroted, “know about the murders? After all, we have managed to keep the murders out of the papers.” Sighing, he said, “Thanks, Nick. Can you delay reporting this until tomorrow?”
“I can give you forty-eight hours. Which should give you time to catch up with your Tiffany Cartierri.”
“Pardon me?”
“In case you’re interested, Ms. Cartierri’s booked on a midnight flight to Bogotá. Seems she’s developed a yen for Muzo emeralds and a wealthy Colombian named Emilio Santana. When I tell Reynard, he’ll put out a Warning Notice at least. If he doesn’t go straight to Wanted.”
“Damn!” Damian exploded as his door shut with a nearly silent click. He should have known she would run again. But now he had a legitimate reason to follow her. He pulled his valise from the armoire and tossed his clothes, willy-nilly, into it.
He had a plane to catch. Whether Tiffany realized it or not, her leaving that note in the wastepaper basket was a plea for help. And now, because of that anonymous call to Nick, Damian’s reputation and maybe his life were as much at risk as hers.
And Emilio Santana would happily welcome his godson into his home.
* * * * *
On the plane en route to Bogotá, Damian decided Nick had done a brilliant job of putting together the information Damian wanted. Somehow, exactly how he did not want to know, Nick had managed to get files that various courts had sealed years ago. And from somewhere the young researcher had unearthed a photograph of the Cartierris—Mr., Mrs. and ten-year-old Miss—vacationing on the yacht of Kratzistani oil emir Amad Al Bandin. Mr. and Mrs. Cartierri looked as if they suffered from boredom. The young Miss Cartierri, who surely belonged at home playing with her dolls rather than on a yacht loaded with the emir’s female playmates, looked nothing like either of her parents.
Putting aside the photograph, Damian read every report, every newspaper article Nick had assembled. Reports that his brother Michael had not had access to twelve years earlier when Tiffany was fifteen or so. Reports that showed a clear connection between the thefts of some of the world’s most famous emeralds and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cartierri’s travels abroad.
Every instinct in him shouted that Charles Cartierri was Michael’s elusive Emerald. The reports, however, proved otherwise. The Cartierris had dined in public, seen a major play, been photographed with the victims at the very moment the thefts supposedly occurred.
Miss Tiffany Cartierri, at bedtime treated like the child she was, had been asleep in her room, her vigilant nanny, governess, tutor—watchdog of the moment—on guard in the next room. Tiffany’s were the records the multinational courts had sealed to protect her.
Groaning his frustration, Damian raked his fingers through his hair, then stretched his entire body in an effort to relax his cramping muscles. In addition to feeling like a pretzel, he felt like a fool and a dupe.
Twelve years ago, having accurately profiled a new, emerging Colombian drug lord, Michael’s ego had been dealt a nearly mortal blow. He had seen the patterns in the Emerald robberies—any fool with half a brain could have seen that much—but the identity of the perpetrator had eluded him. At twenty-five, Damian’s twin had felt like a failure, a one-night, one-time wonder. His superior at Interpol had blamed it on Michael’s too recent triumph over the drug dealer, but his brother still had blamed his failure on his own stupidity.
Only now did Damian realize that Michael had been destined to fail. By withholding those critical files, someone had seen to his failure with a deft and subtle hand. Michael’s captain, now promoted to inspector? Or someone else, someone clever enough, devious enough, to remain hidden all these years?
Shrugging, feeling as if he was throwing off an impossible burden, Damian retrieved the Cartierris’ photograph and stared at the child in the picture. Even at the tender age of ten her eyes held shadows. Secrets.
Secrets he intended to uncover.
He closed his eyes and, with little effort, recalled the crime reports he last had seen twelve years ago. Michael shared them, hoping fresh eyes would give him new insights.
The victims’ profiles were virtual carbon copies. All were in their mid-thirties to early fifties. All were wealthy to the extreme. Old money, titled money and plenty of it. Most had children or grandchildren nearly the same age as Tiffany traveling or staying with them when the robberies occurred. Despite being able to replace the heavily insured pieces, all had been outraged that they had suffered at the hands of a common thief.
Michael had thought Emerald brilliant. Damian had agreed. And, apart from the thefts, the thief had never hurt anyone.
The scenes of the crimes were similar as well. The most luxurious suites in the most expensive hotels throughout the world. Villas, castles, or palaces, the victims’ own or belonging to the Cartierris’ close friends. All the thefts occurred between the hours of eleven p.m. and two a.m., the servants having retired or fallen asleep at their posts, the owners returning from gambling, nightclubbing, or theater opening.
Only emeralds taken. Damian still could not say why. But Charles Cartierri’s apparent obsession with those particular gems offered a clue—or yet another red herring.
In every case, the bedroom safe stood open, as if to taunt the victims.
No physical evidence and never any sign of forced entry. Well, once the local police thought they had found a clue. No one could account for a single emerald stud they had discovered on the dresser. Left behind or overlooked among the untouched diamonds, rubies and pearls no one could say. The owner admitted having stud earrings, but thought them lost years earlier. Since they were inexpensive and no longer held even sentimental value, they had not been insured. The potential evidence had been dismissed as unimportant.
Why? What motivated this highly organized criminal? Why take only emeralds? Why? Why? Why?
That question had haunted Michael until the day he died. Was Damian any closer to finding an answer?
* * * * *
As her plane descended through a cloudbank and touched down, TC felt her ears pop. Of all the harebrained things she had done in the last few weeks, this neck-or-nothing race to Bogotá had to fall at the top of the list! Second only to her mad involvement with Ian Soria.
Sir James had been curiously circumspect when TC’d dropped the name at lunch. He had admitted a previous acquaintance with her nemesis, but only as the Santanas’ godson and the son of the English ambassador to Spain. Ian’s mother was distantly related to the Spanish royal family, he’d added with a speculative glance at TC who had hidden her eyes behind oversized dark glasses. She had ignored the look and resisted the impulse to rub her gritty-feeling eyes. Sleeplessness exacted a cruel payment.
At least she had garnered an explanation for Ian’s overbearing, high-handed manner, she thought while she gathered her purse and carryon. He probably thought he could have any woman he wanted, for as long as he wanted, simply by waggling his aristocratic fingers. But, if sex was what he wanted, why attempt murder? Was he s
ome sort of psychopath who used his family connections to cover up his crimes?
“Señorita Cartierri?” a soldier asked when she deplaned, her questions unanswered and unanswerable. A chill of fear chased down her spine while perspiration formed over her lip and brow. The young man’s uniform looked crisp, while TC felt as if she had taken a shower with her clothes on. His fingers rested on the butt of his revolver, his stance overtly relaxed, but his eyes radiating tension.
“Yes?”
“You will please to come with me, señorita.”
Do I have a choice? TC wondered as he took her carryon and clicked his heels. Well, if she was going to prison, she would go in style. How many others had an armed guard as escort? With a sidelong glance at the young man, she wondered if she could overpower or outrun him. Deciding that was the surest way to get killed or end up in some deep, dark hole, forgotten by everyone, she stepped to his side and matched his stride.
“Your luggage will arrive shortly, señorita. In Customs.”
He vanished before she could protest, even if she’d had a mind to. She found herself inside what appeared to be a VIP lounge, poshly furnished and blessedly cool. A pitcher of icy lemonade and a chilled glass stood on the tile coffee table. If this was Customs, she was the only first-class passenger going through it.
Her heartbeat accelerated, stalled, then raced on, pitter-pattering like windblown rain. Maybe this setup was to lull her into feeling secure, she thought while she looked for an exit. The door she had come through had disappeared into the paneling and there was no obvious way out. Fighting her rising panic, she sat and tried not to feel the walls closing in around her.
A sudden noise—a key turning in a stubborn lock?—startled her. Her heart pumped tumultuously and she was certain stark terror filled her eyes. Another soldier, a colonel this time, entered at a brisk pace and stopped within inches of where she sat.
“I apologize for the inconvenience, Señorita Cartierri. With this theft, one cannot be too careful.”
TC knew better than to feign innocence about the theft of Isabella’s Belt. Her passport showed she had been in London when news of the theft broke. She would have to live in a vacuum not to have read about it or heard the newscasts. Besides, as the daughter and widow of renowned gemologists, a certified gemologist herself, she would know of something so monstrous in the world of priceless gems.
“I read about the theft, Colonel…?”
“Mendez,” he supplied with a smile that revealed large white teeth beneath his luxurious black mustache.
“Colonel Mendez,” she acknowledged as she stood and smoothed the skirt of her pale green linen suit. “What I don’t understand is why anyone would try to smuggle Isabella’s Belt into Colombia. Isn’t that rather like carrying coal to Newcastle?”
To his credit, the colonel made no pretense of understanding the simile. Instead, with none of the impatience Charles Cartierri always displayed over her ignorance, he said, “In Africa the Emerald Road leads from Zaire. In South America that road begins at Muzo.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”
“There is no better place than Colombia, señorita, from which to dispose of individual stones. But first, one must be able to prove one has possession of the entire article.”
“And you think I—” Biting her lip, she suppressed a nervous laugh.
“You have sometimes acted as courier for your father, señorita. You could be carrying gems from the Belt or a sum of money sufficient to assure a contact of your sincerity to buy.”
Allowing herself a small laugh, TC offered her purse.
The dark-haired colonel held up his hand. “I already know how much money you have in your possession. It was counted while you slept en route. With my deepest apologies, Señorita Cartierri.” He offered his arm, which she took.
As he led her through the artfully concealed door, she observed, “To my knowledge, Charles Cartierri has never stolen anything.” Not directly, at any rate.
“Two points, señorita, and then we will speak no more of this unpleasantness. First, Isabella’s Belt and possessing it would tempt all the saints in heaven.”
“And second?” she prompted as their footsteps echoed through the otherwise silent corridor.
“A curious choice of words, señorita, but perhaps suited to the situation.”
As Colonel Mendez led her outside, TC noticed a man forcing a woman away from the baggage claim area. There, a single piece of luggage waited in threatening solitude. Had the soldiers used their dogs to sniff out contraband? Were they waiting to seize whoever claimed the bag? TC wondered, relieved that her luggage already had cleared Customs.
“Yes?” She couldn’t keep a touch of trepidation from her voice as bright, blinding sunlight burned her eyes.
“‘To my knowledge.’ A strange defense of your father, Señorita Cartierri. Or was it of yourself?”
Before she could form a response, another voice intruded.
“If you are through with my guest, Colonel Mendez,” Emilio Santana intoned in a silky voice that sent shivers skittering over TC’s skin, “I shall take her home.”
“My apologies for the delay, Señor Santana. Señorita.” The colonel saluted and then marched smartly back the way he had come. He looked cool and calm, conditions TC resented wholeheartedly.
“You were not mistreated? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. The altitude here makes me feel a little breathless.” She smiled at her host, a silver-haired, distinguished-looking man in his mid-sixties. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”
“And you, querida, are more beautiful than ever. Rogelio will be delighted when he sees how lovely you are.”
TC chuckled. “How old is your grandson? Four? Five?”
“Ah, TC, you have stayed away too long. Rogelio is ten and quite the—”
“Dandy, like his grandfather?” She linked her arm through his and they matched strides to his limousine. Across the road, in a park paved with bricks, international flags waved in welcome.
Settling into the blessedly warm interior of the limo, she sighed, then started. “My luggage.”
“In the trunk, querida, as is that canvas bag you seem to carry everywhere.”
The silky voice had returned. Wondering what had prompted that earlier oddly threatening timbre, TC shivered. She forced a grateful smile, then closed her eyes. Soon they left the El Dorado airport behind and descended into the lower mountains.
“I could have saved you a long drive, Emilio. The airport at Medellin is much closer to your home.”
“I had business in Bogotá. Besides, despite the decrease in lawlessness in Medellin, a woman as beautiful as you could have been kidnapped.”
“Flatterer,” she said.
They chatted about inconsequential things before the conversation turned to family. As if sensing her reluctance to talk about her father even in the most casual terms, Emilio Santana did not ask about Charles Cartierri but said, “How is your lovely step-mama?”
TC shrugged. “I haven’t seen Esmé since William’s funeral, but Charles says she’s well. She’s keeping busy with her charities and semiannual redecorating.” The silence stretched, making her uncomfortable. A true gentleman—it struck her as strange that Emilio had not offered his condolences.
As if inside her mind, Santana mirrored her shrug. “I cannot feel sad that you are free of William, querida. It was an unnatural marriage to an unnatural man. I cannot imagine why Charles allowed it.”
“He didn’t know or didn’t want to know,” TC murmured, twining her fingers with his. As always, Emilio Santana both fascinated and repelled her.
“The latter, I believe.” As if sensing her discomfort at discussing her father, Emilio patted her hand, then said, “I will leave a car at your disposal. In a few days, when you are rested, you may explore at your leisure. Of course, we shall spend time in Bogotá. Later, once everyone has settled in.”
“Gracias, Emilio.”
“Por nada, querida. Now, sleep.” After drawing her feet into his lap, he slid into a corner of the limousine and slipped off her shoes. “Are you comfortable?”
Feeling warm for the first time since leaving Paris, TC sighed. “Lovely,” she murmured and fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
Damian stood in the shadows of his balcony and watched Emilio Santana exit the long white limousine. After delivering a softly spoken order to his chauffeur, the elegant man turned back and offered his hand to the slender woman emerging from the limo’s dark interior. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in wild disarray, much as it had over Damian’s pillows that memorable and all-too-brief night in St. Anton. Aware that her suit was rumpled, that she carried her shoes, shoes as frivolously feminine as the ones she always wore, he yawned to force the tension from his clenched jaw.
Had they made love? he wondered, clenching his teeth once more, fighting the image of her long, slender legs wrapped around Santana’s thick waist.
“Mine,” he muttered to himself, his hands balled into fists. Fists he wanted to smash into his godfather’s face.
With a feral snarl, Damian strode through the French doors into his bedroom. Barely aware of the ornately carved, massive furniture from the Colonial period or the cool tiles beneath his bare feet, he shed his clothes and headed for the shower.
Tonight he would lay claim to her, by damn. Tonight he would teach her where she belonged. And no one, especially not Emilio Santana, would interfere.
Under the stinging flow of hot water, Damian imagined a slender woman clinging to him for support. Clinging to him with passion.
* * * * *
Resisting the urge to fling herself across her bed and sleep for a week, TC opened the French doors and stepped out on her bedroom balcony. In spite of the elevation and the fact that spring had not officially arrived, the air felt crisp yet balmy. Probably, she surmised as she stretched and sucked in a breath of cool, clean air, because of Colombia’s proximity to the equator. In the far distance, higher mountains ringed the valley like sentinels. Her gaze was inexorably drawn to the stone walls that surrounded Emilio’s compound. Surveillance cameras and electrified barbed wire topped the high walls.
