by Unknown
“Good evening, Mr. Monroe,” said a pleasant female voice.
“Hi there. This might seem like an unusual request, but would it be possible to have a magnifying glass sent up to my room right away?”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” said the woman’s smooth voice. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
How about a case of Maker’s Mark and a carton of Marlboro Reds?
“No thanks,” said John and they hung up.
A moment later there was a discreet knock at the door. He opened it up and traded a sleepy-looking bellboy a few bucks for a magnifying glass.
Closing the door, he went back to the light and laid the photograph down on the bedside table. He held the magnifying glass over the exotic necklace Veronica wore.
There it was.
The famous Winged Isis with its delicately engraved golden image of the Egyptian goddess and a pair of finely crafted lapis lazuli wings fanned out across Veronica’s breastbone. The necklace was rumored to have been part of the magnificent Nefertiti treasures and was once worn by the fabled queen herself. It was the first article of jewelry the Ghost ever stole.
“No wonder you didn’t want your picture taken, Veronica,” he breathed.
Before he had time to think, John tossed the paper aside and headed for the door. But he stopped midway, and making a u-turn, walked to the sliding glass doors that led out onto the balcony. He slid the glass open and the hum of the traffic below and the cool air hit him as he stepped outside and scanned the rows of empty balconies lined up between his bedroom and hers. There were five of them, all about two feet from one another. It would be easy to make it across.
He pulled off his slippery black dress socks and climbed across the balconies as carefully and quietly as he could until he had reached hers. The curtains were half open. A big rectangle of light illuminated the balcony. He slipped into the shadows and held his breath as he watched her go to the closet and carefully hang up her fur wrap. Then she went to the minibar and, pulling out a bottle of white wine, poured herself a glass and sat down at the vanity table against the far wall of the room. She sat with her back to him, but he could see her beautiful face reflected perfectly in the vanity mirror.
There was nothing sleepy-looking about her expression now. She looked tense and glanced over her shoulder as if she wanted to make sure she was completely alone. Then she reached down into her cleavage. With her bandaged hand she fumbled at her breast for a moment and slowly drew the necklace out on its chain of glittering brilliants. Dangling it like a cat holding a mouse by the tail, she held it up so the cold blue fire of the stone blazed before her eyes. She stared as if hypnotized at the Hope Diamond, watching it sparkle and shine in red, purple, and green incandescence. John stood just outside the room watching her.
Veronica sensed something, shifted her gaze, and their eyes met in the mirror.
They were both caught.
Slowly, Veronica placed the jewel on the vanity table and turned as he slid open the glass door and stepped into her room.
“You’re the Ghost.”
For a long moment she did nothing. Just looked at him with her smooth, unreadable face. Then she nodded, defiant, and yet he sensed a flicker of fear in her eyes, the vulnerability behind the ice.
“You switched the diamonds. When? During the blackout?”
She nodded again and then dropped her dark blue eyes to the floor.
His head spun. Anger, betrayal, and an annoying desire to protect her all whirled through him. “Why?” he demanded, coming to stand above her chair.
She looked up at him but said nothing.
“You certainly don’t need the money!” he fumed as he paced the room trying to clear his mind. “You know how I knew it was you?”
She wasn’t looking at him now and she didn’t answer.
“I saw the picture of you in the Post with the goddamned Winged Isis around your neck! What in the hell is that about Veronica? Did you just prance around Manhattan in all the loot you’ve picked up over the years?”
“Maybe I did!” she said, her eyes blazing. “Who are you to judge me anyway? Have you never done anything wrong in your life? Anything you regret?”
“Sure I have, but the difference is, I don’t do the things I’m not proud of anymore.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand one thing,” he said. “We’re returning that diamond tonight. We’ll figure out a story.” He ran his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp trying to think up a plan. “We’ll say you were protecting it from Dornal Zagen, or…”
“I can’t do that,” she said, her voice cool and even.
“I’m not going to give you the choice,” he responded, and before she could stop him, he snatched up the diamond and held it in his fist. Her eyes flickered over him, sizing him up.
“Don’t bother,” he told her. “You don’t stand a chance.”
“But I do,” said an all too familiar voice from the entrance hall.
John snapped his head around to see Quinn closing the door quietly behind him, a Smith and Wesson 640 revolver clutched in his right hand pointed straight at John’s heart.
Chapter Sixteen
“Give her back the diamond,” commanded the FBI man.
John slowly opened his hand and Veronica stepped forward and took back the Hope.
When he’d recovered his breath, John asked, “What the hell are you doing, Quinn?”
“I’m just following orders,” said his ex-partner still leveling the gun at him.
“You want to put the piece down and explain all this to me?” asked John.
“When Miss Rossmore’s safely on her way, I’ll fill you in,” promised Quinn.
John turned around to see Veronica wrapping the diamond in a silk scarf and placing it in her bag.
“Where are you going, Veronica?”
She stopped and looked at John, her eyes pleading with him not to ask.
“Where are you going with that diamond?” he repeated. “Even you wouldn’t be crazy enough to wear that to your little Park Avenue parties. So what are you going to do with it? Are you going to lock it up somewhere for your own private enjoyment? Never mind that it’s a national treasure and belongs in a museum…”
“Do you think I’m that selfish?” Veronica couldn’t take any more; her veneer cracked and the words rushed out in a torrent of emotion. “Yes, I suppose you must, but I’ll tell you what I’m doing with it. I’m taking it to Amsterdam where I’m going to have it cut and sell it to the highest bidder! You want to know why? It’s because…”
Quinn stepped forward and grabbed her arm. “That’s enough, Miss Rossmore. The less he knows about it, the better for him.”
Furiously, she stared at Quinn’s hand on her arm, slowly raising her eyes up to his red, sweating face. He unclenched his fist and stepped back a pace.
“What have they got back there at the Smithsonian?” asked John, nailing her with his eyes. “Some fancy fake Nicholas Bezuhov knocked off for you?”
She didn’t answer.
“Shut up, John,” barked Quinn.
“What about your jewelry?” John refused to back off. “What happened to that?”
“It was never stolen. I had it all along,” she said, unwilling to look at him.
John could tell she was lying. “Then show it to me, Veronica.”
“That’s enough!” said Quinn, once again aiming the revolver at John. “No more questions.”
John didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to argue with a man holding a gun. Even if that man was supposed to be his friend.
Back to business now, Veronica snapped her purse shut and walked to the closet where she pulled out a small suitcase and a camel-colored wrap-coat, which she put on over the elegant evening gown she still wore. She slung her purse over her shoulder and, picking up her suitcase, headed for the door.
“Everything should be all set.” Quinn took a step towar
d her while still keeping a watchful eye on John. “The car’s waiting downstairs and I got word right before I came that the plane is ready, too.”
She nodded and then turned to look at John. He could tell she didn’t want to look at him but couldn’t help herself. She bit her lower lip and he felt as if she were bursting to tell him something. “Goodbye, John.” She turned to leave the room.
Her hand was on the doorknob when he said bitterly, “I thought we were going to trust each other, Veronica.”
Her face was as cold and hard as any diamond in the world. “Yes, I thought we were.”
And then she was gone.
John turned angrily on his ex-partner. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”
Quinn wiped his shining forehead with the back of his shirtsleeve and motioned with the gun for John to sit down. “Let’s watch a little TV,” suggested Quinn.
“You watch some fucking TV,” growled John, stepping toward Quinn, but his old friend raised his gun and aimed it once more at John’s heart.
“The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you, but you need to chill out for few minutes.” Quinn’s voice sounded desperate and shaky, not a sound John had ever heard before.
John stopped where he was and examined his ex-partner. He looked like hell. His mousy hair was plastered to his skull, his flabby jowls hung down, the lines in his face were etched so much deeper than they had been only a year ago. John could probably get the gun from him, but that was probably, and he had learned a long time ago that the margin for error when it came to handling loaded firearms had better be zero. He threw up his hands in defeat and sat down on the edge of the bed.
Some of the tension in Quinn’s face melted away and he slipped his gun back in the holster. “I’m thirsty as hell. You want something to drink?” he asked as he walked over to the minibar and took out a can of beer.
John shook his head.
Quinn pulled up a chair opposite him and opening his beer took a long, deep drink. Then he sighed, took another pull and put the can down on the end table next to him. He laced his hands together and leaned in toward John.
“Look, I know this all seems fucked up. It is fucked up. I mean…it’s fucked up, but not the way you think, Johnnie.”
John just stared him down.
“I just don’t want you to think this is me.” Quinn was obviously feeling the heat of John’s glare. “I mean, we worked together for a long time and we’re friends and…” He grimaced and, grabbing the can of beer, took another long drink and sat nervously fiddling with the aluminum tab.
John still said nothing.
“Okay, you want to know?” asked Quinn finally. “I’ll tell you, if you want to fucking know. I’ll tell you, but I mean, this cannot leave this room. The fact you’re even in this room is already a problem, a very big problem, which…” He shook his head.
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
Quinn looked up and then back down at the floor. “Okay, here’s the story. You know that this ball tonight was a benefit for the Library Fund?”
John nodded.
“Well, the organization heading up the whole thing is a charity group called The Donald Spencer Children’s Library Fund. The chairwoman for the group is Lillian Spencer. She runs a lot of these things, as the president’s wife, which you can imagine. But here’s where we get to the problem. The treasurer, if you can believe it, is Cynthia Spencer. Apparently, the First Lady thought it would teach her kid responsibility.” Quinn laughed at the absurdity of the idea. “But that’s not how it all played out. See Cynthia, as treasurer, had access to all the donations, which have come pouring in over the last six months. This event was a twenty-five-grand-a-ticket affair, and with over 350 takers, we’re talking about close to ten million dollars here.”
Quinn paused to take another drink and shook his head in disgust. “So anyway, spring break rolls around, and Cynthia and her little coke-addicted, Yalie boyfriend head south to a little island called Nevis. Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Nevis, but apparently they have quite a casino there, and in the casino, they have a special private VIP room where it’s a million dollars just to walk in the fucking door. Well, I guess Cynthia and her boyfriend cranked up a few too many lines and she decided she was a big shot. So she goes back to her little hut on the beach, or wherever the fuck she was staying, and pulls out the checkbook she just happened to bring along with her for the Library Fund. She goes back to the casino and writes them out a big one million dollar check. Within minutes the casino, which is run by a bunch of crooks, verified the account and the cash, and our little princess is off and running. Well, by the end of the night, Cynthia and her boyfriend have ripped through over six million dollars and the kid’s library charity is shit out of luck.”
Quinn shook his head in disgust and then, fumbling in his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up, leaned back in the chair, and took another swig of beer. John could tell he was starting to enjoy himself now. Quinn always loved to tell stories and this one was a doozy.
“So,” he continued, “when Lillian Spencer finds out about this, she loses her mind, right? Because what Cynthia’s done is illegal, immoral, and it’s going to start a scandal that could rock her husband right out of the White House once the press gets their hands on it. So she wracks her brains about what to do.”
“Why didn’t she just replace the money herself? God knows the Spencers certainly have enough.”
“Well, that’s what I thought,” said Quinn nodding his head in agreement, “but apparently there’s rich and then there’s rich. The Spencers are rich but they’re not super rich to the point where coming up with six million dollars wouldn’t seriously set them back.” He shrugged. “So anyway, the First Lady’s trying to come up with a plan, when suddenly she remembers something. She remembers that her dear old family friend Veronica Rossmore is the most accomplished jewel thief in the world.” Quinn leaned forward, excitement glowing in his eyes. “You see, they caught her, John. It was three years ago, right before we snagged Zagen…”
“Before I snagged Zagen,” John corrected him.
“Whatever,” Quinn waved his cigarette in annoyance. “The point is, Veronica Rossmore goes to Spain and she’s partying in some nightclub in Madrid. She makes a few friends, Carmen and Lorenzo Mandosa. She goes home with them for a little after-hours entertainment. So they’re all back partying at her new pal’s apartment and she says she’s got to go use the powder room. Lorenzo points her in the right direction. She heads down the hallway but she can’t stop herself from slipping into the master bedroom and rifling through Carmen’s jewelry box. She hits the jackpot and finds a Cartier dragon necklace, but before she knows it, they catch her in the act and call the Madrid police. Well, Veronica Rossmore sure didn’t want to spend the next twenty years rotting in a Spanish prison. So she called her mother’s old school chum, Lillian Spencer, to see if she could pull a few strings and get her out of the jam. It wasn’t easy, but the First Lady pulled it off. The thing is, now, Veronica owed her big time.”
John shook his head in disbelief. “If Veronica was the Ghost and the Spanish police captured her, how could we not have known about it?”
Quinn rolled his eyes. “Johnnie, we don’t know a lot of what goes on. We know what people like Lillian Spencer want us to know and that’s it!”
Quinn looked angry for a moment, but after a drag of his cigarette and another gulp of beer, he calmed down and resumed the story. “So, on top of all this, the First Lady is incredibly superstitious, to the point she had the friggin’ White House feng shuied.”
John nodded his head, remembering the story being featured in the papers. But something was bothering him. “There’s one thing I don’t get. The Ghost was the best of the best. If Veronica really was the Ghost, how could she get caught in such an amateurish heist?”
“Well,” Quinn explained, “the thing about your little friend is, she’s got a
bit of a psychological problem. I don’t think that young lady was ever stealing for profit.” Quinn laughed derisively. “I mean, the girl is loaded. She’s got more of what you might call a compulsion.”
“You mean she’s a kleptomaniac.”
“Bingo. It seems like toward the end she just started getting sloppy and was caught in the grip of her illness or something.” Quinn shrugged. “I don’t pretend to understand crap like that.”
John understood it, but he wasn’t about to share with Quinn how it felt to be so totally out of control you couldn’t stop yourself from rushing down the road to self-destruction.
“Anyway,” Quinn continued his story, “they’ve got this infamously cursed diamond right here in the nation’s capital spreading its bad juju all over the place. It’s been bugging Lillian Spencer the entire time her husband’s been in office. So she thinks to herself, maybe she can kill two birds with one stone—no pun intended.” Quinn snickered at his own bad joke.
John wasn’t laughing.
Quinn sighed and shook his head. “Okay, so Mrs. Spencer thinks she can get the Hope out of the country and sell it to our enemies. The Library Fund gets its money back, the bad guys get the bad luck, and Veronica Rossmore has to help her do it!” finished Quinn triumphantly, spreading his chubby hands wide in the air like a barker at a circus.
John narrowed his eyes. “What about Bezuhov? How’s he mixed up in all this?”
“He’s not,” said Quinn.
John took it all in for a moment. Then he asked, “Who’s she selling it to and when?”
“That I don’t know,” said Quinn. “And neither, I think, does anyone other than Veronica Rossmore. The First Lady felt the less she knew about the whole thing the better. So as long as the money shows up in the Children’s Fund bank account within the next few days, I don’t think there will be any questions asked.”
“Lillian Spencer sure puts a lot of trust in Veronica,” John observed dryly.
