MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (15 page)

“Seriously, call me
if you need me.”

“I will,” said the
kid, looking antsy.

John knew he
wouldn’t. As he walked out of the vestry, his heart sank. Before the day was
out, the kid would probably drink or light up a pipe, snort something or shoot
up—whatever it was he was into. That was the sad fact of the disease they
shared.

John left the church
feeling almost as discouraged as when he had entered. The sun was beginning to
set, sending warm rays over the charming street with its Revolutionary War
townhouses and the bright little gardens packed with blooming, spring
perennials.

Slowly he walked
along the cobblestones until he reached the church garden halfway down the
block. It was enclosed in black wrought-iron gates. At the garden’s center
stood a stone statue of Mary wearing a crown, with the baby Jesus cradled in
her arms. She looked disappointed and downhearted, too, but behind her stood a
beautiful weeping willow. Its bows arched protectively over the Virgin’s head,
its strong trunk at her back and the setting sun shone through, silhouetting
her. At her feet bloomed lavender, white roses, orange day lilies, and deep
magenta hydrangeas.

John shuffled to a
stop and turned to face Mary in her serene garden. Unexpectedly, he felt a
gentle wave of peace warm him as he gazed at the statue. Maybe things weren’t
as bad as he thought.

Though he felt
slightly foolish there on the public street, he bowed his head to offer up a
silent prayer.

It took less than a
second for John’s adrenaline to surge as he heard the bullet whistle over his
shoulder and knick the black iron gate where his head had been only a moment
before. He was flat on the ground as a second bullet whizzed over him. He had
his hand on his Glock 27 before he could think about it. He spotted the BMW
across the street with a man sporting dark glasses and shocking, white-blond
hair behind the wheel. John pulled the trigger, sending a loud popping noise
echoing off the cobblestones. It had been a long time since he’d fired a gun,
but like riding a bike, all his training came back in a flash and he fired
again, shattering the rearview mirror on the Beemer before it took off with a
squeal of tires down the street.

John’s brain started
to work now, along with his adrenaline-hopped reflexes. He knew it was Dornal
Zagen speeding away.

Mad as hell, John ran
hard after the car. He knew he didn’t stand a chance of catching the Austrian
thief, but he would damn well try anyway. Pausing for a moment to aim his gun,
he shot out the back left tire of the sports car as it swung around the corner.

Behind him, John
could hear the doors of the sedate townhouses opening and feel the glare of worried
eyes upon his retreating figure as he flew down the street. He hit Pennsylvania
Avenue and discovered he was in luck. The BMW was stuck in the gridlocked mess
created by an accident between a small sports car and a motorcycle, fortunately
harming no one, but creating the traffic jam from hell. Vehicles had almost
come to a complete standstill as everyone waited for a traffic cop to wave cars
past the accident one at a time.

As John advanced on
the BMW, Dornal jumped out and took off running into a nearby alley. John was
on his tail as they raced down the pavement.

The Austrian thief
ran fast, but John ran faster. He reached out and his fingers grazed the back
of Dornal’s coat, but with a sharp turn, the convict swerved into a doorway and
they found themselves in the middle of the giant barn-like space which held the
Eastern Market. The building was filled with vendors selling fresh produce,
colorful cut flowers, and kosher meat.

The thief burst
through a stall, overturning a display of Granny Smith apples and ripe Georgia
peaches. The people in the crowded market panicked and screamed as Dornal
turned and pinched off another shot in John’s direction, missing him by a
fraction of an inch, before leaping over a counter bursting with dyed hot pink
and orange carnations.

Pushing an ancient
Korean fishmonger out of the way, John leapt forward and caught the Austrian’s
sleeve, knocking the UMP submachine gun across the floor. John shoved his own
pistol in the thief’s ribs.

“Stop right there,
Zagen! You’re under arrest,” John puffed, as sweat ran down his flushed cheeks.

Dornal’s free hand
closed around the handle of a toddler’s stroller that a frantic mother had not
been able to pull away in time. Quick as lightning, the scalpel was at the
little girl’s rosy throat. The child burst into tears, as her hysterical mother
screeched, grabbing at John’s arm and trying to pull him away.

“Drop the gun,” said
the convict curtly, his dead shark eyes nailing John’s.

There was a
ninety-nine percent chance John could pull the trigger before Zagen hurt the
kid, but John knew if something went wrong, he’d have the image of the little
brown-eyed girl in her denim overalls and the feral cries of her grief-stricken
mother burned into him for life.

“Please, please drop
your gun!” whimpered the mother as her fingers dug into his arm.

Anger pumping through
every cell in his body, John replaced the safety and slid the Glock 27 across
the floor away from the Austrian.

The frantic mother
screamed again as Dornal backed away with the toddler’s stroller.

“Let the girl go!”
yelled John, squeezing his fists tight in impotent rage.

As Dornal reached the
exit, he gave the stroller a hard push and it went flying in John’s direction.
Cursing, John caught the toddler before the stroller slammed into the corner of
a stainless-steel meat counter. Shoving the kid into her sobbing mother’s arms,
he ran after Dornal, but as he burst onto Seventh Street, he saw no evidence of
the thief.

Coming to a halt, his
breath flowing in ragged bursts from his lungs, John turned and swung his head
from left to right. He looked up at the trees and the roofline of the Eastern
Market. With a sick feeling in his gut, John knew he’d lost Dornal Zagen. He
collapsed onto a bench out front as the wail of sirens heralded the arrival of
the DC police.

John’s head shot up.
He wasn’t a federal agent anymore and carrying a concealed weapon and getting
involved in a shootout was no longer an officially sanctioned activity for him.
Sure, Quinn could probably get him out of any trouble with the police, but he
didn’t need an incident like this to go on his record if he ever hoped to
rejoin the FBI.

Before he knew it,
John was on his feet and back inside the market. The Glock still lay on the
floor in the corner of the room. Without breaking his stride, he snatched up
the pistol and ran back through the alley. He’d decide what to do once he was
back in the quiet of his hotel room and could think straight again.

It was dark by the
time John returned to the Monticello. He grabbed a cold seltzer out of the
minibar, kicked off his shoes and lay back on the king-sized bed. It had been a
while since anyone had taken a shot at him. It was no mystery why Dornal Zagen
was trying to kill him or what he was doing in DC. If John were not very much
mistaken, he’d see the notorious thief again at the Diamond Ball tomorrow
night. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He’d been dodging bullets for most of his
adult life, but he was concerned for Veronica. What if the Austrian thief had
penned the letter warning her to stay away from the ball? If only she’d listen
to reason.

Then again, maybe she
knew how to take care of herself better than John expected. After all, if she
was friends with Nicholas Bezuhov, she might not be as innocent as he had originally
believed.

What really troubled
him was whether to tell Quinn about his encounter with Zagen. His ex-partner
had enough on his plate to overwhelm ten men. Besides, over the years John had
come to feel that Dornal was his bone to pick. The fact that the Austrian
convict had just tried to blow his brains out only made this more clear. If he
had not stopped to pray…

John grew thoughtful
as he pondered this. The only reason he was alive now was because he had bowed
his head in reverence. Was it a sign? Was God watching out for him after all?

Why now? Why did God
seem to be around sometimes and not others? And why were so many messed-up
things allowed to go on if there was a God? There were so many things he
couldn’t come to terms with. His father’s death, Veronica and the White
Russian, the junkie kid who wouldn’t get sober. John wondered why he was given
the gift of sobriety but that poor kid was stuck in his own private hell. None
of it made sense. He felt like he would never understand God and His plan.
Simon had told him he didn’t need to understand, but John had spent his entire
adult life trying to use his agile mind to uncover the mysteries, figure out
the crime. It was hard to just throw up your hands and trust.

He let out a long,
deep breath and a fleeting sense of the peace he’d felt in Mary’s garden came
back to him. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers, but he was at least willing
to admit his life had been saved by a prayer today—even if it was just a
coincidence.

He rolled his eyes up
toward the ceiling and whispered, “Thank you.”

He sat quietly for a
moment and then picked up the remote, turning on a sports channel. It was time
to give his brain a rest. If he couldn’t drink and he couldn’t smoke, well, at
least there was college basketball. Forget Zagen, Veronica Rossmore, the White
Russian, Simon, the sad junky kid, and the true nature of God and the universe.
He would anesthetize himself in the fascination of March Madness.

About forty-five
minutes into the game, there was a knock at the door.

He jumped up and
opened it before he had a chance to think.

Veronica stood there
looking as beautiful as he’d ever seen her. She was dressed for dinner in a
black evening gown. Her hair was coiled in an elegant chignon at the nape of
her neck. The usual blast of white rocks shimmered at her earlobes, wrists, and
throat. She seemed poised and calm.

“I hope I’m not
intruding,” she said in her low voice, the scent of
L’Heure Bleue
faintly wafting into the room.

John marched over to
the TV and snapped it off. “No, that’s fine.” He sounded cold even though he
could feel his neck and face catch fire and his body tense up on red alert.

A bit of the sparkle
died out of her eyes. “I thought I’d just say hello and let you know I’m going
out for the evening.”

“You shouldn’t be
going out alone. It’s dangerous,” growled John.

“John, I really
can’t…”

But he cut her off.
“And by the way, why didn’t you tell me you’re friends with the White Russian?”
John sounded more hostile than he wanted to.

Now it was her turn
to a go a little red, the color washing becomingly into her cheeks as she
crossed her arms over her breasts. “It’s none of your business who my friends
are.”

“It is when they’re
notorious jewel thieves and I’m being paid to guard your rocks.” He couldn’t
help adding, “Besides, I mean, Veronica, the guy’s like a bad character in a
Pink Panther
movie. How could you
possibly be friends with him?”

She shook her head
and came toward him so that she stood in all her overwhelming beauty just an
arm’s length away. “I’ve known Nicholas for a long time. I met him in
Switzerland when I was at school. We both share a passion for jewels, which a
lot of other people don’t fully understand. We’ve had the similar experience of
living all over the world, never being in one place for more than a year or
two.”

“I see, and do you
have any other criminals among your acquaintances?”

“Nobody has any proof
he’s the White Russian.” Her dark blue eyes flashed in defensive loyalty for
her friend.

“There’s proof and
there’s proof, Veronica,” said John, sounding cynical and bitter. “Is he here
for the Hope Diamond?”

She looked him square
in the eye. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I asked
him.”

“And you believe
him?” asked John incredulous.

“Yes, I do!” She was
furious. “Nicky knows as well as anybody that the diamond is cursed. He
wouldn’t go near it with a ten-foot pole!”

“So he’s Nicky now,”
said John mockingly.

“I told you, he’s an
old friend and, I might add, a true artist,” she said indignantly.

“He’s an artist all
right—a con artist!”

“He happens to be one
of the most talented jewelers in the world,” Veronica informed him haughtily.
“He’s created exquisite pieces for everyone from Princess Diana to Nicole
Kidman!”

“Really. Is that why
you snuck into his room this afternoon without letting me know?”

Veronica opened her
mouth to say something, but instead pressed her lips tight and her eyes turned
as hard and cold as the icy diamonds that shimmered in teardrops around her
throat. “Have you been spying on me?”

“What were you doing
sneaking into a known jewel thief’s room?” he demanded, nailing her to the wall
with his eyes.

“He just acquired
some new stones and he was showing me his jewels.”