Stealing the Golden Dream

by Sally J. Smith

  “Give Keegan my regards. You don’t need to take a shift at the museum. We should be able to … hey, what’s this?”

  Parked on the street up ahead outside the Arizona Heritage Museum were enough emergency vehicles to man the entire first response team of a small city. “I gotta go, babe.”

  “Eddie, what?”

  “I just gotta go.”

  He accelerated up the block, rounded the iconic Bob Parks Bronze Horse Fountain and skidded to a stop. He threw open the car door, leapt out, and ran into the building.

  A Scottsdale uniformed cop inside the door grabbed him by the arm and yanked him around. “Hey, man. You can’t go in there. This is a crime scene.”

  Eddie jerked away and stopped just short of clocking the cop.

  “It’s okay, Officer,” Detective Ann Murphy called from across the room. “I know this man. I’ll talk to him.”

  “What’s going on?” Eddie asked.

  The Scottsdale Police detective had been Jordan’s friend for a couple of years now, and lately the two women had grown close. Ann’s usually unlined face looked tired—more than tired. Exhausted. Disheartened. She ran her hand through her short blonde hair. Her shoulders slumped. “Eddie, you better sit down.”

  Chapter 2

  Eddie held his head in his hands and didn’t look up when Jordan walked in. He sat on a bench in the same room where the coin collection had been displayed. It wasn’t there anymore. A scuffle at the center of the room caught her attention. Tank and Diego, two-thirds of Eddie’s crack team, were trying to strong-arm their way through a cluster of police and medical personnel. The police did a fair job of keeping them outside the circle.

  Eddie was clearly suffering and not in the mood for company. She crossed to where Ann Murphy and her partner, Detective Neil Thompson, stood with the county medical examiner.

  The body was visible now. She didn’t mean to look, didn’t want to, but couldn’t help herself.

  Muggs lay on his back. The blood pooled beneath him on the slick travertine had soaked into his signature Hawaiian print shirt. His long blond hair was matted with it. His handsome face was frozen in a grimace, and it was no wonder. The vicious knife wound ran from his gut to his breastbone. Why would somebody do such a thing?

  The whimper she’d tried so hard to hold in slipped out.

  Her throat closed up but not from nausea, from nearly unbearable emotion. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Her voice was as raw as her pain.

  “Looks personal, doesn’t it?” Ann said from behind her.

  Jordan turned from the body. “Personal? Nobody hated Muggs, certainly not enough to want him dead. The man had no enemies.” She added, “Thanks for calling me, Ann.”

  “When I saw how hard Eddie was taking it, I knew he needed you.”

  Jordan glanced over at her partner, her lover. His closed-in posture was a study in devastation.

  “And those two?” Past the archway, Tank and Diego were ushered to the front door where they waited. Their barely contained grief and rage radiated from every pore.

  Ann shook her head. “God help the man who did this if those two get hold of him.”

  “What happened here?” Jordan asked.

  Detective Thompson walked up, his long, mournful face as serious as ever, his tone sarcastic. “What does it look like? Someone robbed the place and killed your friend.”

  “Don’t be a dick, Detective,” Ann said.

  “The coin collection in this room was worth over five million.” Eddie’s voice was barely audible. He stood and crossed the room to join them. He walked like an old man, his posture slumped, his gait labored.

  “Hell, for five million I’d rob the place myself,” the disgruntled detective grumbled.

  Eddie’s head came up. “If you killed one of my friends in the process then I’d have to come after you, just like I’m going after the son of a bitch who butchered Muggs.” Not a threat or a promise—simple statement of fact.

  Jordan recognized the look on Eddie’s face. She’d seen it before. Lethal commitment. It frightened even her.

  The lanky detective’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and walked away.

  One of the cops came to the archway and leaned in. “Detective Murphy, there’s a man out front. Says he’s the curator.”

  Ann nodded. “He’s here to take inventory. Let him in. I’ll be out to talk to him.”

  “Mind if I tag along?” Jordan asked.

  “Okay, but remember, it’s my interview,” Ann warned.

  Jordan turned and looked at Eddie. “Coming?” His attention focused across the room where the body bag was being loaded onto a gurney. His gaze followed the progress as his friend was wheeled out.

  Jordan stepped in front of him. This shouldn’t be his last memory of Muggs.

  His eyes met hers. “I’m going with Muggs,” he said. “Me and the boys. You know what I need.”

  She nodded. “I’ll find out everything I can.”

  Eddie left. Diego and Tank followed him out as the young officer escorted a short, older man into the crime scene room.

  Jordan followed behind the detective, who met him halfway and stuck out her hand. “Detective Ann Murphy.”

  They shook. “Sid Hunter, head curator here.” His small brown eyes were filled with dismay as they took in the empty display cases. His gaze settled on the dark blood staining the shiny floor. He rubbed his hand over the sparse hair on his head. “Oh, my goodness gracious. I saw them wheeling out a body. Someone was killed?” He spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent.

  Jordan stepped forward. “I’m Jordan Welsh, Mr. Hunter, of Shea Investigations and Security.”

  “Oh. The special hire, right? The Brenners had the trustees contract you for this exhibit.”

  “It was our man on duty here last night who died.”

  Sid shook his headand shook it and shook it. “Terrible, terrible thing.”

  Ann broke in. “Mr. Hunter, please go over the area as thoroughly as possible. We need to know what’s missing.”

  “No need to go over the room, Detective Murphy. I can tell you what’s missing.” His hand swept the cases in front of him. “Everything.”

  “Which was …?” Ann prompted.

  “The exhibit was all first run, primo. There were seven sets of gold coins from the short-lived Dahlonega mint in Georgia. They were graded at an average sixty-seven out of seventy—higher than any other remaining Dahlonega pieces. It was the entire Golden Dream Collection. We had the dies on display, other paraphernalia, and quite a few individual coins and partial sets. Goodness gracious. I’ll have to look them up to compile an accurate list.” His gesture encompassed the dozen or more display cases. “You can see from the empty cabinets how extensive the collection was. The small individual sleeves each coin was packaged in would make it way too easy for someone to steal the coins once they got the displays open. The pictures tell the whole story.”

  He walked along the wall. The two women followed as Sid pointed to the framed prints of mining sites and old buildings. “They only minted at Dahlonega, Georgia, a few years. Pre-Civil War. Not many of the coins remain. It’s why they’re valued so dearly. And ah, they’re not like any other U.S. coins you’ve ever seen. Just beautiful. Works of art really.” He turned to Jordan. “Miss Welsh, the museum’s board members have asked me to meet with them this evening. It would be helpful if you could attend as well.”

  “Of course,” Jordan said.

  After Sid Hunter retired to his office to catalogue the missing items, Ann made a detective’s to-do list of her own. “Finish the forensics, including fingerprints. Make sure the scene’s adequately photographed. Collect any other possible evidence. Interview all employees. Review the closed circuit tapes.” She looked up at Jordan. “I forget anything?”

  Jordan’s eyes met Ann’s. Put a bullet in the monster. But she only shrugged.

  “Jordan.” The determination in Ann’s voice sent a clear messa
ge of commitment. She intended to work the hell out of the case. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, and if I have anything to do with it, sooner not later.”

  Lupe’s Cantina in Central Phoenix had been Muggs’s favorite sleazy dive. Over the years, he and Eddie, Tank, and Diego had tossed back more shots there than Jordan would like to admit. A good share of those shots went down tonight, according to Lupe anyway.

  Jordan got the call to come and haul her men away around a quarter to six in the evening. They’d been drinking since they left the morgue around eleven a.m.

  “I’ve been watching these hombres all day, and now it’s time for them to go. Too much liquor. Too much sadness,” Lupe said.

  Lupe was obviously right, about everything. Jordan knew it the minute she walked in.

  “Ya know,” Eddie slurred. “I knew Muggs longer than you two. We were friends first. Always had my back. Loved that guy. Our golden boy. To Muggs.”

  They clicked glasses, downed the shots and poured another round from the nearly empty bottle of Herradura Selección Suprema.

  Diego sniffled. “He was one hell of a Marine. Here’s to Muggs.” His smooth Latino features were a bit slack, courtesy of the tequila. His curly black hair stood up here and there as if he’d had his hands in it.

  “To Muggs,” Tank and Eddie repeated. Another clink of glasses and another shot bit the dust.

  “From the halls of Monte-z-u-u-ma …” Diego began in a key Jordan didn’t recognize. The others joined in.

  Jordan sighed. Their misery tugged at her heart.

  From the bar came, “Hey, you guys. Quiet down over there. We’re trying to watch the game.”

  The trio was obviously not a big hit.

  The singing stopped.

  Tank stood, pulled back his shoulders, and flexed his impressive pecs. “You got something against the Marines? That’s downright un-American.” He looked like an inebriated pit bull.

  “Pipe down, dammit.” The guy’s tone was even more annoyed.

  Eddie, Tank, and Diego looked at one another. Jordan cringed at the glee and resolve on their faces.

  Eddie stood, sort of, weaving so badly she doubted he’d stay upright for long.

  “Why don’t you come on over here and make us?” Eddie Marino, glib as ever.

  Jordan sighed. Perfect.

  It took less than a minute for the loud-mouthed sports fan and his buddies to be all over Eddie and the two remaining members of his crew. It was lucky the boys were all three sheets to the wind. They still put four over the bar and would have done more damage if the bouncer and six of his friends hadn’t deposited them on the sidewalk.

  Jordan collected them, managed to get all three loaded into her silver Pilot, and drove them to their separate homes.

  There was no way on God’s green earth Jordan planned to let Eddie Marino anywhere near the museum board members. He was a loose cannon, and she didn’t want any cannonballs ricocheting around while she labored to salvage the agency’s reputation.

  At seven fifteen Thursday evening, Jordan met Sid Hunter at the Paradise Valley residence of Sarah and Rachel Abromowitz, the aging spinster sisters who headed up the board of the Arizona Heritage Museum.

  They lived in a sprawling, Frank Lloyd Wright-style house among the rolling foothills and narrow roadways of the primo real estate of Paradise Valley just west of central Scottsdale. Jordan admired the character and clean lines. Though it was, sadly, one of what had come to be called “tear-downs.” The next time it changed hands, the lot would probably be razed to host a slick McMansion. Too bad.

  Sarah Abromowitz came to the door in a glittery lounging gown and velvet slippers. Her dark hair was pulled up on top of her head in a tight knot. She wore minimal makeuptaupe eye shadow and a rust-colored lipstick. She was eighty-five if she was a day.

  “Do come in, please.” Her voice was husky, and she spoke slowly and distinctly.

  She led them through the old but elegant residence to a rear patio. With the outdoor heaters and mini-buffet, it seemed to be set for a cocktail party rather than a business meeting. An enormous pitcher of martinis, complete with a saguaro cactus swizzle stick, was the main feature of the table. Jordan accepted a drink from Rachel, a near carbon copy of her sister only with hair the color of a Mexican sunset. Rachel appeared to be a few years younger than Sarah.

  Sid Hunter hovered nervously on the edge of the patio. He was the hired help, ill at ease in the environment.

  “Mr. Hunter. Miss Welsh.” Rachel’s accent, like Sarah’s, sounded like Midwestern old money. Jordan recognized it from her mother’s coffee klatches in the Lake Forest residence with other dames who helped her plan this or that society event.

  Sid Hunter and Jordan sat side by side on a loveseat. The niceties took about fifteen minutes or so. No, they didn’t care for hors d’oeuvres. No, they had better stick to one martini. And yes, such a marvelous house. It was obvious the two lovely women were lonely and grabbed at every chance to entertain.

  “We’re simply mortified at the turn of events down at the museum,” Sarah said.

  Rachel nodded, then said, “We’ve asked you here tonight to beg you and your associates to follow through on this matter. The museum’s reputation is at stake.”

  Jordan didn’t miss the unspoken inference that Shea Investigations’ reputation was at stake right alongside the museum’s. “Of course.” She hoped she sounded confident. “Rest assured. We’ve cleared our caseload and are assigning our entire staff to the recovery of the coin collection.”

  The two ladies looked at each other, nodded, smiled, and in tandem took a sip of their martinis.

  Chapter 3

  On Friday morning, Jordan lay listening to Sadie snore softly at the foot of the bed. Outside the Arcadia door, the big Acacia tree in the backyard swayed with the breeze. Another beautiful, early spring morning in the Valley of the Sun, but a day, like all those in the future, which had dawned without Muggs Baxter. “Bad Boys” blared from her phone—that would be Detective Murphy calling. Maybe there was already a break in the case. She snatched up her cellphone.

  “Annie, I’m here. You get something?”

  She glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. Ann was really busting her hump on the case.

  “I did, but you’re not going to like it. You need to meet me at Eddie’s place.”

  “Eddie’s place?” Jordan was wide-awake. “What’s going on?”

  “Not over the phone,” Ann said.

  There was something strained and unfamiliar in Ann’s voice that made Jordan nervous, something that sounded too much like police business.

  “That sounds ominous.” Jordan tried to lighten things up, but when Ann didn’t respond, she said, “You’ve got me worried.”

  “Just get your butt down to Eddie’s now.” Ann hung up.

  She had a really bad feeling. Her stomach churned in confirmation. What was up? There was only one way to find out. She jumped out of bed.

  After a quick walk through the shower, she pulled her wet hair back with a tortoise clip then slid into a pair of skinny jeans, an indigo cotton boyfriend shirt her mother bought her at Barney’s, and a pair of purple sneaks. A quick look in the mirror verified it was passable for SDG: shower, dress, go.

  Due to rush hour traffic, it was over forty minutes later when Jordan rang Eddie’s bell.

  When he didn’t answer, she banged on the door. Still nothing. She used her key and went inside.

  The place looked just as she’d left it the night before, clean and tidy except for Eddie’s clothes strewn across the sofa. She had gladly helped him shed those clothes. He was too drunk to do it himself or to do anything about the feelings he aroused in her, especially naked.

  Eddie’s condo was on the eighth floor of a high-rent building in the bustling North Scottsdale central corridor. It was sleek and modern, just like Eddie. And at the moment, it was tomb quiet. He must still be asleep. After last night, she wasn’t surprised.

  His bedr
oom was dim, his long, lean silhouette defined under the dove gray sheets they’d cuddled under during her sleepovers.

  She stood back from the bed. “Marino, wake up.” She knew better than to get too close. He might punch her lights out.

  Eddie moaned and rolled over onto his back. “Jordan? Whatcha doing here? Is it morning?”

  “Get up and get dressed. Ann’s on her way.”

  “Here?” He sat straight up and grabbed his head. “Madonn’.” He swung his legs out, and his feet hit the carpet. “I need coffee.”

  When he stood the sheet fell away. Her gaze took in his naked body, the sinewy lines of his strong legs, the hard planes of his torso. No man had the right to be so beautiful. She cleared her throat. “I’ll make you a cup.”

  A few minutes later, he joined her in the kitchen wearing jeans, his signature black T-shirt, and a pair of moccasin loafers. Jordan slipped a pod into the coffeemaker and hit the button. The aroma of the rich Kenyan blend filled the condo.

  He took the cup and inhaled the steam. “You don’t know how bad I need this. Did Ann say what she had?”

  “No. Just said to meet her here.” Jordan reached into the fridge for the cream, trying to shake off the nerves his question kick-started.

  The doorbell rang. Eddie sipped his coffee as he crossed the room and opened the door.

  From the kitchen Jordan could see Ann in the hallway. She wore black gabardine slacks and a two-button blazer over a white cotton blouse with red Converse high-tops. It was her standard detective uniform.

  “Come on in. You want some?” Eddie lifted his cup.

  “No thanks.” Even from across the room, it was easy to see Ann didn’t look him in the eye. “Eddie, I hate this, but I have to ask you some questions.”

  Jordan came from the kitchen. She’s in professional mode, and she looks like hell. That’s not good. What did Ann want with Eddie?

  “Questions? Sure, ask away.” He seemed unruffled and sat on the leather sofa patting the empty spot beside him.

  Jordan took it.

  Ann sank into the cushions of the orange slouch chair from Copenhagen, the one Jordan hated. A small black notebook and pen appeared from Ann’s pocket. “First of all, I need to know where you were Wednesday night.”