THE COLD FIRE-

by Unknown

  “Not really,” Quinn snorted. “If that money doesn’t show up in the account on schedule, it won’t be too hard to track down Miss Rossmore and put her behind bars for life.”

  “And what if Veronica told the truth and put the First Lady and Cynthia Spencer behind bars instead?” asked John angrily.

  Quinn looked at John with pity. “Don’t be an asshole, Johnnie. You know how rich people are. They all stick together and cover each other’s asses. It’s how they’re able to get away with so much shit that you and I would fry for.”

  John knew it was true. No matter how much Veronica probably resented being forced to ply her trade for the benefit of Cynthia’s Spencer’s coked-out gambling spree, he didn’t see her stepping forward to make a federal case out of it either.

  “Well, now you know,” said Quinn, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaling. “So I’m going to have to kill you.”

  John looked up sharply at his ex-partner’s threat, but Quinn just sat there grinning.

  “Under the circumstances, I don’t think that’s very funny,” growled John.

  Quinn’s grin broadened, but then he said seriously, “You know, Johnnie, this can’t go anywhere.”

  John nodded his head. He was as bad as all the rich people Quinn had been talking about. He’d keep his mouth shut and let it go on, just like Veronica. He wondered if he’d even tell Simon.

  You’re only as sick as your secrets, he could hear the old AA fart cautioning him. John felt about as cheap and crappy about himself as he had in a long time.

  Quinn looked at his watch. “Well, I guess I can let you outa here now. Miss Rossmore should be safely on a private jet to Amsterdam, and you and I can go home and get some sleep for once.”

  John said nothing.

  “Hang on, I’m just gonna take a leak,” said Quinn heading for the bathroom. “Then we’ll both leave here together. I’ll walk you to your room and make sure you’re tucked in nice and cozy with a glass of warm milk and a good book.”

  “You’re the man with the gun.”

  “Don’t you forget it.”

  John frowned. “There’s still something I don’t understand. Why hire me if you didn’t want me to know what you were up to?”

  Quinn shook his fat face, his jowls waggling back and forth. “That was the old man’s idea. Of course, Mr. Rossmore knows nothing about Veronica stealing the Hope and he legitimately wanted to make sure she was protected. When I found out he was planning to hire a bodyguard, I knew that was trouble. The last thing we needed was someone snooping around, but then…,” the FBI man hesitated and shifted his eyes.

  “Then what?” John knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “Well, I thought of you. I knew I could keep tabs on you, and if you started to find anything out I’d know about it. Let’s face it, Johnnie, you’re not the guy you used to be…I mean, after your crack-up. I know you don’t drink anymore or anything, but I figured your brain’s so scrambled, I wouldn’t have to worry about you putting two and two together.” Quinn shrugged his pudgy shoulders.

  So that’s what everyone thought. John had figured as much, but it was still hard to hear.

  “How much is Lillian Spencer paying you?” John shot back.

  Quinn smiled, but his eyes froze up. “Hey, it’s not like that, Johnnie. This is a matter of protecting the president’s family. There’s so much crazy shit going on in the world right now, the last thing we need is a big scandal to stall out the administration and keep the President from just doing his job. It’s for the good of the country.”

  John shook his head. “The good of the country, huh?”

  “Listen, partner, don’t make me nervous about you,” said Quinn glancing down at the revolver still griped in his hand.

  “I’m the last thing that should be making you nervous.”

  Quinn exhaled and wiped his short, shiny forehead. “All right, I can’t wait for this freakin’ night to just be over.”

  Quinn stepped into the bathroom and John looked around the suite. Something shiny sitting on the corner of the vanity table caught his eye. He walked over and saw it was Veronica’s car keys on a silver chain. Acting on instinct, he picked them up and slipped them in his pocket just before Quinn emerged from the bathroom.

  “Come on,” said his ex-partner, “let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Quinn marched John down to his room, and just as he’d promised, he stood there chain-smoking and waited for John to brush his teeth and strip down to his boxers before climbing into bed.

  “Well, I’d love to read you a fairytale, but I gotta get back to my own room and get some friggin’ sleep,” said Quinn approaching the bed.

  “How ’bout you just tell me real quick about how Zagen was involved in this whole thing,” said John.

  Quinn raised his brows and swallowed hard. “Listen, I had no idea he’d behave like such a freakin’ psycho. For all he knew, he was scoring a get-out-of-jail-free card and all he had to do for it was steal the Hope Diamond. At least that’s what he thought. Of course, it was a setup to catch him in the act and end this damned Ghost story once and for all. We could pin all the robberies on him and allow Veronica to get out of town with the real diamond.”

  “Veronica think that one up?” asked John bitterly.

  Quinn shrugged and looked away. “No, buddy, I did. But you know, obviously I had no freakin’ idea Zagen was going to go crazy and try to kill her.”

  John just glared at his ex-partner, but before he knew it, Quinn had slipped a pair of handcuffs out and was fastening John’s wrist to the decorative wrought iron bedpost. “Sorry, pal,” he said with a smirk. “But I can’t have you doing anything stupid tonight. I’ll be by tomorrow…”

  But that was as far as he got before John clocked him in the chin with his free hand. Quinn’s head jerked back and he fell into the end table.

  “That’s for almost getting Veronica killed!” shouted John as he got out of bed, no easy task with one hand cuffed. He slugged the FBI man one more time, knocking him unconscious. “And that’s for almost getting me killed too!”

  John breathed hard as rage flooded him. He could murder Quinn with his bare hands.

  He flexed his knuckle and shook out his wrist, inhaling deeply. Closing his eyes, he repeated the serenity prayer over and over in his head as he sank back onto the bed.

  God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

  He said it until it became a mantra. Then he just sat there for a moment with his eyes closed and willed himself to calm down. His anger subsided as his blood pressure slowly returned to normal.

  He leaned down toward Quinn and frisked the unconscious FBI man until he found the key to the handcuffs. After setting himself free, John awkwardly lifted his ex-partner’s chubby frame onto the bed, cuffing him to the headboard and leaving the key just out of reach on the side table. He pulled a blanket up to Quinn’s chin and tucked him in for the night. He’d have a nice black eye and a sore chin when he woke up tomorrow. John shrugged. His ex-partner had been complaining about needing a good night’s sleep for the past forty-eight hours—now he’d get it.

  John dressed quickly and switched out the light as he left the room making sure to post the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the door.

  He made his way down the back stairs to room 211. He listened at the door, but no sound came from the White Russian’s suite. John glanced around quickly and jimmied the lock.

  The door clicked opened. He slipped into the pitch dark room as quietly as possible. He stood in the entrance hall listening for a moment, but the place seemed dead to him. Carefully he took a few steps farther in and snapped on the lights.

  The suite was empty.

  John searched the closets and drawers, but came
up with nothing.

  He left the suite and headed down to the front desk. A thin, unfriendly-looking woman stood behind the polished wood staring at him as he came toward her. Self-consciously, John ran his fingers through his hair. Did it show on his face that he was involved in some mysterious doings? He quickly flashed the concierge one of his bright, disarming smiles. “Hello there, how are you?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Um, I was wondering, is Nicholas Bezuhov still in residence here?”

  “The prince?” she asked, coming a bit more to life.

  John bit his tongue. “Yes, that’s him.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, sir. He checked out around six o’clock this evening.”

  “Right before he left for the ball…,” muttered John to himself. Then remembering the concierge, he smiled again and handed her a few bills. “Thanks.”

  ****

  The platinum convertible flew down the highway as fast as John could push her. At well past two a.m., the road was almost empty. The air was sharp and cold; the wind smacked his face as he pushed a hundred miles per hour, but he didn’t feel it. Pennsylvania was a blur in the dark whipping by him, but he didn’t see it. There was only one thought on his mind—getting the Hope back from Veronica. There was only one person who could help him do that. Old Buzzy Rossmore.

  The idea had come to John as Quinn was walking him to his hotel room. He had realized, as he watched his sallow, potbellied ex-partner, that he hated what Quinn had become—just a scared little man doing what he was told with no more moral fiber than a rodent.

  Maybe John had once been like that, too. Maybe that was part of the reason he drank. His mind flashed back to where he had been this time last March. He had woken up and gone into the office as usual. He’d brought his coffee thermos filled with cheap vodka—just for maintenance. He would drink steadily all morning, sneaking shots in his cubicle until he found himself in a stall of the men’s room with his thermos in hand just sitting there drinking.

  Then something had happened. Even though he’d already put away almost the entire contents of his thermos, he hadn’t gotten drunk. The alcohol wasn’t working.

  A wave of panic had hit him hard and he’d looked around the industrial bathroom for something to help. Of course there was nothing. He’d stood there disoriented with his heart pumping and his adrenaline flowing. He’d felt his chest tightening up and he couldn’t breathe. He had rushed to the sink, and turning on the faucet, caught up handfuls of clean, cold water and doused his face in the icy blast. He hadn’t stopped until his cheeks were numb and the fear was a little more under control. Then he had raised his head and stood there with the water dripping off his nose.

  One question had stood out in his mind. What now?

  With shaking hands, John had picked up his thermos again and sucked down the last remaining drops of lukewarm vodka. Then the strangest feeling had washed over him. He had felt as if he stood outside himself and saw clearly for the first time the desperate, angry man standing there trying to chase the demons away, trying just to get through another Tuesday afternoon.

  He had examined his face in the mirror, as if looking at a stranger. It struck him then that he was an alcoholic just like his dad. His expression was the same as his father’s had been, the trapped secretive look in his eyes. There was no denying it. John had wondered in that moment how he’d managed to justify what he’d been doing for so long.

  He hadn’t known then that he would have to leave the FBI, or that he would have to go sit in musty church basements and listen to a bunch of people whine about their lives, or that he’d have to make coffee for those same whiners, or take orders from a crotchety old bastard like Simon. He hadn’t known anything except if he didn’t stop then, that day, that hour, he never would.

  Since that time a year ago, if he’d learned one thing it was that he could never hide from the truth again and he had to do the right thing.

  He still didn’t know if there was a God or not, but he knew the devil intimately and he knew when he stood at the crossroads, too. If he wanted to find a God to watch over him and guide him, he couldn’t just close his eyes and pretend. He couldn’t just say Cynthia Spencer and the Children’s Library Fund weren’t his problem. Or that it didn’t matter if a hunk of sparkling blue rock, the color of Veronica Rossmore’s eyes, sat in a museum for the people to see or not. Maybe other people could do it and live with themselves, but for him, it would only be a matter of time before it ate away at his soul and he reached for that first drink. Maybe it would take awhile. Maybe even years, but it would mark the turn down the wrong path at the crossroads.

  He reached in his pocket and fingered the beat-up black box that housed the photograph of his father and his WWII medal. He thought about the hero his father had once been and then about the wax-faced man with the poisonous liver lying dead on the kitchen floor. That was where a wrong turn at the crossroads could lead you.

  At a quarter to four, John pulled up in front of the red brick town house on Ninety-First Street. All the homes on the block were dark and quiet. Maybe the city didn’t sleep, but this particular section of the Upper East Side sure did. John parked the car, and fighting an attack of nerves, walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The musical chimes echoed through the silent house. John tapped his foot nervously on the doorstep. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say, or even why he thought Buzzy could help him. After all, the old man seemed to have about as much control over his strong-willed daughter as he had himself.

  He heard the sound of slippered feet shuffling down the stairs. John swallowed and stood a little straighter as the door opened. There was Buzzy Rossmore in his Japanese yukata, his gray hair rumpled, a curious look on his face.

  John noticed for the first time that the archeologist had the same eyes as his daughter, only hers were cold and hard on the surface with yearning haunted depths beneath, if you could get that far. Buzzy’s crackled with good-natured intelligence and had almost an innocent quality, like a baby’s eyes.

  “What has she done now?” asked the old man.

  “She’s stolen the Hope Diamond.”

  Buzzy raised his bushy, white brows and just stood there for a moment. Then cocking his head toward the stairs said, “Then you’d better come in.”

  The old man led the way up to the same parlor where John had first encountered Veronica. The room looked peaceful and quiet, lit by the lamplight spilling in from the street outside. John thought once again how much it looked like an old-fashioned room out of another century.

  Buzzy turned on a few table lamps and motioned for John to sit down. “Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. Monroe?”

  “Oh, no thank you,” said John, feeling awkward now for having woken up the old man in the middle of the night. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I probably should have waited ’til morning.”

  “Nonsense,” said Buzzy firmly. “It’s not as if I were asleep. It seems the longer I live, the less sleep I need.”

  John didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded.

  “Anyway,” said Buzzy sitting down in the ancient leather chair by the fireplace, “maybe you should tell me about Veronica and the Hope.”

  John explained the situation as well as he could, making a great effort to emphasize that it had not been Veronica’s choice to steal the famous jewel. When he finished, Buzzy sat quietly, his old face sagging like a hound dog’s.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” said John, not really knowing what to say but wanting to break the silence and somehow comfort the old man.

  Buzzy Rossmore looked up. “Why should you be sorry? I’m grateful to you for telling me.” He sighed and rubbed his heavily lined forehead. “Lord knows Veronica certainly wouldn’t be volunteering the information. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

  “Listen, Mr. Rossmore, maybe I’m speaking out of turn, but it seems to me Veron
ica’s a big girl, and no matter how much I like her personally, she’s the one who decided to become a thief.”

  “You’re not a parent,” observed the old man with a sad smile, “or you would never say that. You’re also wrong about your premise. Veronica may be a big girl now, but she wasn’t always. You see, all this began when she was still a child, after her mother died. I didn’t know at first. We were in Luxor and I was working on a dig in the Valley of the Kings. That’s how I dealt with Marie’s death. I went back to work and put everything I had into it. I didn’t want to think about my wife’s suffering and what I had lost. No amount of mourning could bring her back, but when I was doing the work I loved, at least I felt like I was building a future for myself and Veronica. Only, I’m afraid, maybe what was best for me wasn’t necessarily best for her. It seems glaringly obvious to me now. She was left alone too often in a foreign country with very few friends her own age. She put on a brave front and never let me see her cry; I just assumed she was all right.

  “On Veronica’s first birthday after her mother died, I wanted to do something special for her. So I brought her to Alexandria. The minister of culture was throwing a New Year’s Eve party aboard his yacht and I thought Veronica would enjoy getting out on the water and watching the fireworks display over the harbor. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, including Veronica. I suppose the champagne flowed rather freely and some of the guests got a bit feisty. There was one woman in particular, Rachida, the beautiful wife of a Moroccan pasha who was famed for her exotic looks and such. Perhaps we spent a little too long engaged in conversation. At any rate, I don’t think Veronica liked the woman. I imagine she was still missing her mother. I suppose we both were missing Marie.” A wistful expression crossed Buzzy’s careworn face.

  “It’s difficult to lose someone you love,” said John sympathetically.

  “Yes, yes it is,” replied the old man, his face still folded into a frown. “At any rate, the long and short of it is, Rachida wandered up on deck to watch the stars over the Mediterranean. Having had a few too many cocktails, she nodded off in a deck chair. The rest of us were below in the ship’s grand salon playing charades, of all things. I never noticed Veronica slip away. Later that night when the pasha went on deck to look for his wife, she was still resting in the deck chair, passed out from the alcohol. Her necklace, the priceless Winged Isis, had vanished.” The old man shook his head still not quite able to believe it.