by LYDIA STORM
It also made sense that the Ghost stole mostly diamonds. Diamonds were easier to fence than emeralds or rubies, which often had distinctive inclusions or coloring which made them unique and easy to trace. When it came to trading a stone in for cold hard cash, diamonds were always the best bet. The thing was, the Ghost’s booty never showed up on the black market and he did upon occasion pick up some very famous, distinctive pieces of jewelry, which would be impossible to sell anonymously and difficult to hide. Apparently the Ghost didn’t like to play by the rules—even his own.
John continued scribbling down every theft attributed to the elusive thief until the year 2000 when John had captured Dornal Zagen and the thefts had abruptly stopped.
Until now—maybe.
He sat staring down at the Ghost’s resume. John had always worked under the assumption that he was dealing with some kind of off-the-charts genius. Someone who could do what all the other notorious thieves combined could do. Someone with the acrobatic skills of Maggie the Cat, the balls of the Granny, and the elegant taste and knowledge of gems the White Russian possessed.
Dornal Zagen had all of these qualities. He could outwit complicated computer alarm systems, crack uncrackable safes, and climb up a three-story building like a trained monkey. During his years with the FBI, John had let the theory circle around in his head like a swarm of birds swooping and diving until he picked up a drink and things quieted down. At least for a little while.
He knew logically it made sense that the ruthless Austrian was the Ghost, but something inside him just wasn’t buying it. Not even after Zagen hit Sing Sing and the thefts stopped. Now as he looked at the evidence in front of him, another thought crossed his mind.
What if he’d been looking at this the wrong way the entire time? Maybe the Ghost didn’t need to have any of these super-criminal qualities. Maybe all he really needed was access.
John pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and started dialing.
Buzzy Rossmore answered the phone in his usual good-humored tone.
He has no idea what happened. John’s heart sank. “Good morning, Mr. Rossmore. It’s John Monroe.”
“Oh hello, John. How are you?”
“I’m fine, but I’m afraid we’ve got a little problem down here.” John rubbed his forehead as he plunged ahead. “Veronica hasn’t called you?”
“No,” said Buzzy, sounding concerned. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, but…unfortunately, all of her jewelry was stolen last night.”
“All of it?” The old man sounded shocked.
“Yes, all of it. People around here seem to think it’s the Ghost.
“I see,” said Buzzy soberly. “He managed to get into the hotel safe?”
John swallowed hard. “She wouldn’t keep her stuff there. I begged her but she refused.”
“That’s just like her, headstrong…” but the old man stopped himself from finishing the sentence and paused. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t blame you. I’m sure you did everything you could.”
“Oh, don’t throw in the towel yet. I’m going to track down the Ghost and find out what happened to those jewels. That’s a promise.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line and then the old man said, “Do that, John, and I’ll double your money. I just hope…the last thing we want is a lot of press or scandal. My daughter had an incident several years back with her ex-husband and…well, I hope you can be discreet.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, but you might want to pick up the newspaper. I don’t know what the New York papers are carrying, but down here the latest Ghost story is all over the front page.”
Buzzy sighed. “I better call Veronica.”
“Before you do, Mr. Rossmore, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Not at all,” said the old man politely.
“Was your daughter with you in Egypt in 1988?”
“Yes, she was.”
“And what about Vienna in 1990? Or Italy in the summer of 1992?”
“She was at school in Switzerland during those years and she always liked to jump on the Eurail and travel around the continent on vacations. Why do you ask?” inquired Buzzy.
“I’m trying to put together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, Mr. Rossmore.”
“Well, you let me know how the picture comes out.”
“I give you my word, you’ll be the first person I go to,” said John. “And once again, I’m very sorry about your daughter’s jewels.”
Buzzy sighed again. “Well, you know they’re all insured. It’s just…some of them belonged to my late wife and Veronica was very attached to those particular pieces. I think I better call her and see how she’s doing.”
“All right, I’ll let you know the minute I have any news,” promised John.
“Thank you.”
But before he could hang up, John asked, “Mr. Rossmore, one last thing before you go. Does New Year’s Eve hold any special significance for you?”
The line went quiet for a moment. “It’s Veronica’s birthday.”
Chapter Twelve
After John hung up with Buzzy Rossmore, the waitress slipped the bill on a plastic tray under his nose. John spaced out on the tray without seeing it. He held his cell phone in his hand debating. He didn’t know if he should call Quinn, or his AA sponsor Simon, or just get on the next train back to New York and forget the whole thing.
He picked up the list scrawled out on the paper napkin and studied the Ghost’s resume. New Year’s Eve was Veronica’s birthday. It was entirely possible that she had been at the scene for every theft. John would have to do a lot more research to be sure. He hadn’t been working for the FBI during the two incidents in Alexandria and New York. Vienna had been his first Ghost hunting experience.
The Fasching Season, Austria’s carnival period, had just kicked off with the famous New Year’s Eve Kaiser Ball at the Hofburg Imperial Palace. The Baroness Hull had invited several distinguished individuals to attend the ball with her and then vacation at her family’s 17th century Schloss just a few miles outside the city.
Dressed in old-fashioned ball gowns and white tie and tails, the baroness and her guests had waltzed their hearts out to the romantic strains of Strauss’s famous melodies in the candlelit palace halls until, donning their silk-lined furs, they had ventured out through the sugar-coated city of picturesque baroque buildings. The ladies’ diamonds glittered like ice in the frozen moonlight as they awaited the New Year with the rest of Vienna in the square outside of St. Stephan’s Cathedral. The holiday revelers had laughed and cheered with the gathered crowds as the massive bell struck its yearly toll and rang in 1990. At last they had brought the party back to the Schloss, inviting several people they met during the course of the evening to join them.
The festivities whirled madly on until dawn, but not everyone had stayed up for the fun. Some of the elderly guests had retired to bed as soon as they returned to the Schloss and during the night someone had made their way into the ninety-seven-year-old Princess Charlotte’s room and nabbed her diamond tiara. The old lady hadn’t even realized the treasure was missing from its case until her maid checked the following day as part of her usual packing ritual. True to form, the Ghost had left no clues.
It was Interpol who had first noticed the pattern of New Year’s Eve jewel heists. They linked the theft to the same person who had struck in Alexandria and New York the two previous years. As a result, John and Quinn had been called in to see what they could add to the equation. Unfortunately for the Malstonian princess, John and his partner had not been able to find out much more than the European authorities.
Considering the princess had been a known Nazi sympathizer, John hadn’t felt too badly for her. It was really Lloyds of London, who had insured the tiara, who had been jacked. But then again, John wasn’t exactly in love with big insurance companies either. Still, if there was one thing he hated, it was an unsolved mystery and his obsession w
ith the elusive jewel thief had begun on that first trip to Vienna.
This had also been the period when the European press really began to run with the story. In no time, the Ghost was front-page news all over the continent. The publicity hadn’t exactly made John and Quinn look like brilliant agents and that had been a problem, too.
John looked at the list scrawled out on the napkin in front of him and thought about the dates. If Veronica was twenty-seven now, in 1988 when the first theft occurred in Alexandria, she would have been… He wrote on the napkin working it out—twelve.
He put down the pen. Could the notorious jewel thief who had eluded the FBI, Interpol, and Scotland Yard for over a decade really have been a twelve-year-old girl?
He shook his head and laughed softly to himself, but then he grew serious. After all, this was serious business. The jail time for all the thefts the Ghost had committed was enough to send her away for life. He better have his facts straight.
Assuming she was the thief, what had she done with the jewels? It would be too risky trying to carry them through customs as often as she and her father traveled. She couldn’t have sold them unless she’d had them cut first and how would a prepubescent girl even know about something like that?
Of course, she was friends with Nicolas Bezuhov. He could have cut the stones and sold them for her, but he hadn’t gotten into the jewel thief game until the early 1990s and he had never been in the same location at the time of a Ghost theft. John wondered again about Veronica’s relationship with the White Russian. He wondered if Nicholas really had just been showing her some jewelry in his room the other day, or if they were lovers after all.
But then he remembered the dishy, blonde Jessica. Spoiled debutantes like that weren’t usually too keen on sharing.
Another thing, if Veronica was the Ghost, then who had stolen her jewels? She could have staged the whole thing herself, but why would she fake having her own stuff stolen? What purpose would it serve?
He remembered Veronica’s expression when she looked at him and told him her jewels were missing. Either she deserved an Academy Award or she was truly heartbroken. He remembered her eyes filled with hurt and that brought other images to his mind. Images of Veronica zipping through traffic in her platinum convertible, cool and confident; of the way she looked when she had come down to the lobby in her red dress with that enormous ruby around her neck, glowing and alive with the promise of their night to come; and the almost unearthly beauty of her asleep, mahogany hair framing a pale, troubled face. What had she been dreaming about to pucker her brow and lock up her jaw like that?
Were any of those images of Veronica the real one? Or were they all fakes to hide what lay beneath the pretty wrapping paper?
The old waitress broke his train of thought as she blurted out, “You all finished here, honey? I got a line of people waiting for the table.”
John smiled, and slapping a couple bills down, stood up and let the old lady do her thing.
He stopped off at the Southeast branch of the public library on his way back to the Monticello. He trotted up the steps of the weathered, old brick building, which, like everything else in this town, was fronted by a neoclassical portico complete with four white fluted columns. He passed through the doors and made his way to the information desk.
After waiting in line for what seemed like forever behind a gaggle of eager-looking Capitol Hill interns, he finally reached the reference librarian. He was a middle-aged hippy guy with salt-and-pepper shoulder-length hair and round John Lennon glasses. “Can I help you?” he asked in a soft voice.
John asked him if they kept old copies of the New York Post around.
The hippy librarian said they did and pointed him toward a small room in the back of the building with the word PERIODICALS engraved in gold letters over the door.
John plowed through the dusty shelves of plastic-bound newspapers until he found what he was looking for. There in the society pages of the April 29 issue, Veronica Rossmore lay splayed out on the floor of the Metropolitan Museum. The headline read: Park Avenue Princess Takes A Fall At Costume Institute Ball.
He read the accompanying article, but it didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. Her drunk, art dealer husband, Derrick Chapin, had pushed Veronica in a jealous rage. As a result, she had tumbled down the grand marble steps of the Metropolitan’s Great Hall to the astonishment of the well-heeled guests.
John felt bad looking at Veronica lying there with her dress up practically around her waist, her head thrown back to one side exposing her long throat and the fabulous necklace she wore. He wished suddenly that he had been there to pull her dress down and to look reassuringly into her eyes when she came to. Maybe give old Derrick Chapin a square right hook to the chin and see how he liked having his lights knocked out.
Suddenly he saw himself as if from a distance. This was an unnerving occurrence, which sometimes happened to him now that he was sober. He observed himself getting way too emotionally caught up in something that really was no longer any of his business. Next thing you know, he’d be searching through Veronica’s underwear drawer, looking desperately for signs of her guilt or innocence.
If he’d learned anything in the past year, it was that pursuing one of his obsessions usually wasn’t good for him or anyone else. Granted, it was his obsessive nature that had made him a good detective for the FBI. He’d loop on a case night and day until he figured out the vital clue and landed his man. Maybe he’d gotten his man, but he also ended up at the bottom of a discount vodka bottle. He never wanted to end up there again.
He put the paper down and took a deep breath. He needed to go back to the hotel, get his tux pressed, and relax. Maybe he’d do a little meditation, maybe watch ESPN on the satellite TV. If Veronica Rossmore was the Ghost, it was none of his damn business. It was time for him to back off.
But despite his resolution, he couldn’t stop himself from dropping a dime in the library Xerox machine and running off a quick copy of the Post article before leaving the building.
****
Veronica lay soaking in the large whirlpool tub surrounded by lightly foaming bubbles. She inhaled the scent of relaxing lavender, but it did little to dispel the tension that still kept her body as tightly wound as a metal spring. On the side of the tub, the note rested next to a flickering candle and a bar of Italian milled soap. She had found it slipped under her door when she returned to the Monticello late that afternoon. Just like the first one she’d received at her father’s townhouse in Manhattan, the note was a simple, white piece of paper with a typewritten message:
Veronica, unless you wish to participate in an exorcism, stay away from the Diamond Ball tonight.
There was no signature, of course. Veronica frowned as she tried to figure out who could possibly be sending these messages. She was already nervous about the plan she and Lillian Spencer had cooked up for Veronica to wear the Hope tonight. This warning only increased her apprehension.
Still, she firmly believed it was time for these Ghost stories to come to an end. If that involved a bit of risk, so be it. The note had told her to stay away unless she wished to participate in an exorcism. Well, an exorcism was just exactly why she was going in the first place.
She watched her perfectly manicured big toe as it poked through the suds. The cherry-red nail polish stood out against the white porcelain and silvery bubbles. She wondered if she should show the note to John.
She didn’t want to worry him and he already had enough to keep him busy with the disappearance of her jewelry the night before. She chewed on her lower lip. She liked John Monroe. She liked him more than she had liked any man in a long time. Maybe after this whole thing was over, and the Ghost was finally laid to rest, just maybe something real could happen between them. She was suddenly glad he would be there tonight. She didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but maybe she could use a little protection—just this once.
Deciding she wouldn’t worry him with the n
ote, she picked up the paper in her dripping fingers and laid it flat across the water line. The black ink began to fan out and dissolve across the page until the typewritten words were nothing but a blur.
Veronica sighed. If only she could stay in this soothing tub of warm water all night long.
****
Dornal Zagen stood at the phone booth in the crowded Metro station and punched in the number of his employer. The phone rang for a long time until finally a voice came on the line. “You haven’t been behaving yourself, Zagen.”
“I’m all ready for tonight,” said the Austrian, ignoring his employer’s displeasure.
“You’d better be. We can’t afford any mistakes.”
“There won’t be any.”
“Good, now remember, the lights will only be out for three minutes, but that should be more than enough time for you to slip the Hope off Veronica Rossmore’s neck and get out of there before the security lamps go on.”
“Three minutes will be sufficient.”
“And don’t forget, I’ll be watching you, Zagen.”
“I won’t fuck up my end,” said Dornal coldly. “Don’t fuck up yours.”
His employer hung up and the line went dead.
Three minutes. That would be more than enough time to slit Monroe’s throat and then take off with Veronica Rossmore and her precious diamond. The girl’s father was worth millions and he’d be willing to part with every last penny to save his only child’s life. Besides, it would be a pleasure to hide out with the beautiful heiress for a few days. He hadn’t been with a woman in three years and the thought of wiping the proud expression off her face sent a perverse thrill up his cock.
And she wasn’t the only woman who would get what was coming to her.
Dornal knew there’d be competition among the thieves for the fabled Hope Diamond, but Marguerite Gateaux was the only one who posed any real threat to him. Tonight he would execute his plan to get that red-haired bitch permanently out of his way. He smiled his wintery smile. He’d find out if cats really do always land on their feet.
