MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (19 page)

“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.

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 5
^th
, 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.

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.”

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.