by LYDIA STORM
“It’s possible,” nodded Quinn, his brow darkening.
“And…there’s another reason I think it was him,” said John quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Well, let’s just say, I saw him today.”
Quinn turned slightly purple. “What? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I should have. I just thought you had enough on your plate,” John explained.
“Where the hell did you see him? Was it here at the hotel?”
“No, it was out in the street. He was driving a white BMW, but I’m afraid I didn’t get the license plate number.”
Quinn exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Jesus H. Christ, this is all just a mother-fucking mess.”
“What are you going to do?” asked John.
His old partner mopped the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Well, I guess I’m gonna look for the Granny for Katherine Park, Maggie the Cat for Senator Hayes’ wife, and then try and find Zagen and figure out, once and for all, if he is, in fact, the Ghost.”
John patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, partner. After tomorrow night, I have a feeling a lot’s going to come clear.”
“It better.” Quinn sighed and looked over at Veronica sulking in the corner with a glass of white wine in her hands. “Anything more she can tell me that you didn’t over the phone?”
“I don’t think so,” said John, an unconscious frown of worry creasing his brow as he, too, turned his attention to Veronica.
“She sure is a knockout,” said Quinn.
“She’s exhausted and very upset. You think we could clear everyone out of here for now? There’s nothing to find, I swear.”
Quinn thought about it for a moment and nodded his head. “Okay…the fucking Ghost, huh?”
John shrugged.
“All right, I’ll have a little chat with the hotel manager downstairs. Then I’ve got to catch a flight to Islip where the freakin’ Ballet de l’Aire are performing aboard some jerk’s private yacht and I can listen to those French fucks BS me about how Maggie’s been with them all night long. Then I have to get on another plane and be back here by tomorrow afternoon in time to get ready for the goddamn Diamond Ball,” griped Quinn.
“I hope you have a trip to the Caribbean lined up after this one’s over,” said John sympathetically.
Quinn grinned. “Hey, at least I got you to help me out over here—unofficially, of course.”
“You know I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Quinn slapped John on the back. “That’s my partner.” Then raising his voice, he called out to everyone in the room, “Okay, folks, let’s take this party downstairs. The lady needs some sleep.”
When they had all gone, Veronica still sat pensively swirling her wine. John squatted beside her and she raised her head. “They’re not going to be able to find my jewels, are they?” She looked like a kid asking him for the truth about Santa.
He gently brushed her hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “They’re just a bunch of rocks, Veronica. You have insurance, don’t you?”
The hurt in her eyes hit him in his heart. “It’s just…” She trailed off and looked down at her drink.
“Well,” he patted her shoulder, “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”
He rose and was about to leave, when she spoke his name so quietly he almost thought he’d imagined it. He turned around and she stood up, placed her drink on the side table and twisted her fingers together. “I just want to say that I’m sorry we’ve had so many arguments and that I’ve been difficult.” She bit her lip. “I know you’re a good person, John.”
He shook his head. “No, listen, I’m not the easiest guy to get along with. Lord knows I have my faults and…” There were so many things he wanted to explain, but all he said was, “I’m sorry, too.”
She nodded her head in acceptance.
He was about to leave again, but on impulse he walked back and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She smiled up at him and their eyes met. The gentle pattering of rain against the window and the subtle scent of anise and orange blossoms rising up from her perfume were the background notes of a moment that stretched on and on.
The heat was still there between them, and standing alone with her in the room where she had writhed under him screaming his name only twenty-four hours ago wasn’t easy. He thought of slipping his hands under her sweater to the soft skin around her hips and then pulling her against him so he could feel her breasts beneath the thin cashmere press against his chest. Then he would kiss her with all the hunger and violence he had kissed her with the night before. It would be so easy…
But as she cast her eyes down, he came back to earth. He knew it was the wrong time. So he just said, “Try to get some sleep.”
“You too.” She walked him to the door, stepping aside as he made his way out.
He heard the lock click behind him a moment later. She could lock the door all she liked, he thought, it wouldn’t keep the Ghost out. Of course, she didn’t have anything the thief wanted anymore. The only person who wanted what Veronica Rossmore had locked away in her bedroom was him.
****
At a quarter to six the next morning the parking garage under the Monticello was deserted. The first blue light of dawn had just begun to erase the dark corners of Nicholas Buzuhov’s suite when he’d tiptoed out, leaving Jessica fast asleep in the bed they’d torn apart the night before. The practiced thief hadn’t forgotten to slip her car keys in his pocket before slinking out. Now in the parking garage, he wandered through the levels looking for her Cadillac. He spotted it in between a black Range Rover and an acid green Volkswagen Bug.
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he hit a button on the key chain, and with a cheerful blip, the Cadillac’s locks sprung open. Nicholas slid into the backseat, closing the door behind him. Even though he knew the place was empty, he looked around again for security cameras, or any sign of life, before opening the black valise he’d brought with him.
Certain he was unobserved, he slid the little key into the case’s lock and popped it open. Nicholas smiled at the blaze of shimmering stones that glittered up at him in the dim light of the garage.
“Quite a collection, Veronica,” he whispered, as he let his fingers roam through the piles of star-bright diamonds and the deeper tones of the rare colored jewels. It was a shame he would have to sell it all. The connoisseur in him appreciated what a spectacular array of gems he had in his possession, but the grim reality of money could not be overlooked. No matter how exquisite the design of an art deco bracelet or how magnificently a ruby necklace pulsated with red fire under his gaze, business was business. That was something he had to keep in mind if he wanted to continue with the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to ever since picking up his lucrative little sideline. Nicholas snapped the case shut and locked it again.
“Now, Jessie, if you’ll just be good enough to hold this for me for a little while,” whispered Nicholas as he slipped the valise under the passenger seat in front of him. It was not the safest place in the world. He usually preferred a nice Swiss bank vault, but it would only need to stay there for the next twenty-four hours. He felt quite confident that by this time tomorrow morning, the most daring jewel theft in history would be complete and the Hope Diamond would leave its home in the Smithsonian forever.
When Nicholas returned to his room, he came bearing a tray of fresh raspberries and whipped cream scented with the faintest whiff of vanilla. He laid the tray on the bed next to Jessica as she opened her eyes.
“Good morning, slatkaya,” he said, murmuring the endearment in his Russian accent.
Jessica smiled sleepily. “Good morning.”
Nicholas dipped a ripe red raspberry in the cream and held it dangling just above her mouth. “I brought you breakfast.”
“Mmm, so I see,” she raised her head a touch to catch the berry between her lips, but Nicholas pulled it a
way and used it to spread a line of cream down between her naked breasts and across her ticklish belly. She moaned softly as he rubbed the ripe berry against the tender folds between her legs, and it burst apart, its sweet juice spilling down the inside of her thighs. He lapped up the juice with his warm tongue for a few exquisite moments. Her fingers curled in his black hair as his mouth moved to the swell of her nipple and his gentle bite arched her back. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her against him, spilling fresh berries and cream across the white bed linen. All in all, the morning was starting out very well, thought Nicholas, before he crushed the society girl’s mouth under his own.
Chapter Eleven
At a quarter to eight, John was roused by the insistent sound of the phone ringing next to his ear. His first instinct was to pull a pillow over his head and ignore it until it stopped, but it could be Veronica. Reluctantly, he answered the phone.
“It’s Quinn.”
John glanced at the clock. “What’s up?”
“Listen, John, we’ve had some developments.” Quinn sounded nervous.
“What? Did you find Maggie the Cat?”
“Yeah, yeah, we found her here aboard ship with her troop. She has all kinds of alibis, but I don’t believe any of them. I’m convinced half the fucking Ballet de l’Aire is in on it and they’re all covering for her.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll find a hole in their story somewhere,” reassured John.
“I damn well hope so, but in the meantime, I’m more concerned about the Ghost.” Quinn sure did sound worried. “Or maybe I should rephrase that. The First Lady is very concerned about the Ghost and she’s come up with a truly cockamamie plan. Her and Veronica Rossmore. I spent the last hour trying to talk them out of it, but in the end, she pulled rank.”
“What do you mean?”
“Veronica Rossmore has lost her mind over the theft of her jewels and the First Lady is freaked out that the Ghost is going to make an appearance at the ball tonight. So they got this idea.” Quinn paused for a moment. “It’s so insane, I don’t even want to tell you.”
“Just tell me,” said John, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Well, they’ve decided the best way to catch the Ghost is to lay out some bait and set a trap.”
“Oh no,” moaned John, shaking his head.
“Yeah, you know how a lot of the women attending the ball are going to be wearing the Smithsonian jewels? Well, they’ve decided to let Veronica prance around in the fucking Hope Diamond all night.”
“No!” John sat straight up in bed, fully awake now.
“Yes,” said Quinn, “and they’re going to lie in wait for the Ghost and try to catch him in the act.”
John was speechless for a moment. “Did you tell them it won’t work and they are putting Veronica in serious danger? Dornal Zagen is on the loose, for God’s sake.”
“You know, I even put the boss on the line. I don’t know what he said to them, but you know how women are. Veronica’s crying and Lillian Spencer is in there giving orders.” Quinn had the tone of a beaten-down man who has been henpecked his entire life.
John shook his head. “There’s something not right about this.”
“EVERYTHING is not right about this!” exclaimed Quinn.
“This isn’t safe for Veronica. The Ghost may not be the only thief likely to show up tonight. What if Dornal Zagen gets there first with his automatic rifle going off? She wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Hey, you don’t have to tell me.”
“I’m going to find Veronica and talk some sense into her.”
“Please do.” Quinn sounded like a wet rag being wrung.
“Okay, I’ll check in with you later.” John hung up.
He quickly dressed and, bypassing his usual morning routine, headed straight to Veronica’s room.
He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He called her name and knocked some more, but he got nothing.
He went downstairs and his friend, the chubby concierge, was there on duty. “Good morning, sir,” he said with a cheerful smile.
“Good morning,” said John. “Did you happen to see Veronica Rossmore from room 47 go out this morning?”
The concierge shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I just came on duty a few minutes ago.”
“Well, thanks anyway,” said John, disappointed, but then he had a thought. “Could you check my box? Room 22.”
“Certainly, sir.” The concierge ran his fingers over the mahogany mailboxes until he came to 22. Beaming, he pulled out a note. “Here you go.”
John gave the man a tip and, unfolding the note, leaned against the desk as he read. It was written in Veronica’s elegant hand on the hotel stationery.
John,
I’m going out for the day. I’ll meet you in the lobby at 7 p.m. You’re my date for the Diamond Ball tonight, so please make sure you’re in a tux. You can charge one to the room in case you don’t have one with you.
V
John refolded the note and slipped it in his back pocket. What the hell was she up to?
He turned back to the concierge. “Is there a good greasy spoon diner around here?”
The concierge thought about it for a moment. “The closest place I can think of is Spanky’s. It’s a bit far away, though. Would you like me to call you a cab?”
John shook his head. “No thanks, I could use a nice long walk.”
****
It was chilly outside. The fickle March weather had snatched spring from the air and John shivered as he walked down Independence Avenue. He didn’t mind the cold; it woke him up and enlivened him which was exactly what he needed right now—to wake the hell up. He rubbed his hands together and across his face. He could feel his brain springing to life. The cobwebs on the deductive cogs, which used to run like a well-greased cuckoo clock during his FBI days, were clearing away and the wheels were starting to turn again.
He thought about Quinn’s theory that the Ghost was a true phantom of their imaginations; something he and the press had dreamed up to explain any perfect jewel theft. He knew it wasn’t true. He could feel it when he was near the Ghost, the same way people claimed to be able to feel real spirits hovering around them, even if they couldn’t quite make them out with their eyes. Maybe you couldn’t always see an apparition, but your spine tingled and you sensed something elusive and mysterious in the air around you. That was how he had felt last night in Veronica Rossmore’s room.
He wished he could pin it all on the White Russian, because he didn’t like phonies and because he was jealous of his relationship with Veronica. It might not be Bezuhov, and yet John felt somehow the man was mixed up in all this. Maybe that dishy blonde, Jessica, too.
He reached the diner with its bright pink neon sign and metal rail car exterior. He stepped inside gratefully, feeling the warm blast of heat against his chilled cheeks and hands. God bless diners; he took in the familiar surroundings though he had never visited this particular establishment before. The metal walls, the orange 1950’s leather booths and matching stools at the counter, the buzz of everyday Joes grabbing a cup of coffee or plate of bacon and eggs, the eighty-year-old hostess with too much war paint reeking of cheap perfume—for a sober alcoholic, a diner was Mecca.
The hostess led him to a booth by the window and slipped the plastic menu on the table. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” John smiled warmly.
His smile didn’t register on her and she shuffled away in her sneakers and pantyhose toward the counter. The last customer had left The Washington Post in the booth’s corner and John picked it up.
The headlines screamed: “GHOST STRIKES AGAIN!”
John quickly scanned the article. It said everything he already knew, which wasn’t much. The waitress plopped his coffee on the table, and he ordered the Sammy’s Special, which was two eggs, two pancakes, two sausages, and a pile of hash browns. He didn’t know who Sammy was, but he liked his choice in breakfast food.
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John flipped through the rest of the paper until he hit the entertainment section. There on the front page was a big picture of the Hope Diamond, glittering its blue fire, along with a feature article on tonight’s ball.
“Fast work,” he muttered to himself as he let the paper drop. They must have had to stop the press to get this one out so quickly. He picked up the paper again and finished reading the article. It read like an infomercial for the Hope as well as some of the other Smithsonian treasures.
He put the news aside when his breakfast arrived and gave his full attention to Sammy’s Special. When he was finished, he tossed his crumpled napkin on the empty plate and let the waitress give him a refill on his coffee. The Ghost headline caught his eye again. He asked the waitress if he could borrow a pen.
She frowned like this was an unreasonable request, but said, “Sure,” pulling a black ballpoint from behind her ear. “Just give it back when you’re done.”
“I will,” he promised as she shuffled away.
He pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and began to list all the Ghost’s past heists. It read like an underground resume:
1988—New Year’s Eve, Alexandria, pasha’s yacht, Winged Isis necklace stolen from pasha’s wife.
1989—New Year’s Eve, NYC, Pierre Hotel, diamond bracelet stolen from Trina Surma, wealthy widow from Buenos Aires.
1990—New Year’s Eve, Vienna, Victorian diamond tiara stolen from Princess Charlotte of Malstonia.
1991—New Year’s Eve, Scotland, diamond and emerald necklace, bracelets, and earrings stolen from Duchess Fiona Malachi of Glamis.
1992—New Year’s Eve, Palm Beach, canary diamond ring stolen from Suzy Eaton, an American plastics heiress.
1992—August 5th, Lake Como, Italy, Fire of the Maharaja ruby ring stolen from Italian businessman Giovanni Freni.
That was where the pattern changed. 1992 was the year the Ghost was no longer content to steal exclusively on New Year’s Eve but had begun to branch out to other times of year.
Why?
It made sense from a practical standpoint to steal on the one night of the year when people dressed to the nines and pulled all their most valuable jewels from their bank vaults.
