MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (20 page)

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 with 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 note, 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.

A train roared into
the station and Dornal hustled through the rush-hour crowd to get aboard. With
the Diamond Ball starting in less than two hours, he had no time to waste. The
doors slid shut behind him and the train lurched forward.

Dornal clutched the
metal pole and watched the dark tunnel flash by as he mentally reviewed his
plans for the evening. His employer wanted a new Ghost story. He’d teach
everyone at the Diamond Ball that restless spirits don’t always play nice.

****

When John came
downstairs, the platinum convertible sat humming in front of the Monticello
with Veronica in the passenger seat. She wore a simple, floor-length gown in a
shade of deep blue that matched her eyes. Her dark hair hung loose and fell
over one eye in glamour girl waves. A white fur wrap was draped carelessly off
her shoulders and she sat drumming glossy pale pink nails against the
dashboard, evidently impatient for him to slide in and take the wheel.