MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (25 page)

“We’ll have plenty of
time when we’re back in New York…” She didn’t finish the sentence but her eyes
told him everything she didn’t need to say.

He nodded. “Okay,”
and kissing her forehead, he watched as she unlocked her door.

“You’re sure you’re
all right?”

“Yes, I just need a
good night’s sleep,” she said as she slipped into her room. “Good night, John,”
and she closed the door.

John stood there for
a moment, scanning the hall for any nefarious activity, but there was none. The
Ghost is caught, he reminded himself, still not quite able to grasp the concept
as he slowly made his way down the hall to his own room.

He snapped on the
lights as he walked in and tossed his jacket and pistol on the bed. He sat down
to unlace his shoes when the
New York
Post
article with the photograph of Veronica sprawled on the ground caught
his eye.

He picked it up and
looked at her lying on the floor where Derrick Chapin had thrown her in his
jealous fit. How could he ever have believed this broken girl was the Ghost?
Veronica wasn’t a criminal, just a beautiful magnet for violent men. He
cringed, thinking about the scene he’d thrown in the car on the way to the
ball. He’d been wrong about her. Wrong about everything.
What else was new?
His fingers lingered for just a moment against
Veronica’s image before he put the picture away.

But then he frowned
and picked it up again.

There was something
about the photograph that bothered him.

He re-examined it.
Nothing had changed, of course. Her legs still cranked to the same crazy angle,
her dress was still up around her waist, her neck thrown back to expose the
magnificent necklace…

Then it hit him.

He pulled the
photograph directly under the bedside lamp to get a better look, but it was
difficult to see. Still holding the Xerox photo, he picked up the phone and
dialed the front desk.

“Good evening, Mr.
Monroe,” said a pleasant female voice.

“Hi there. This might
seem like an unusual request, but would it be possible to have a magnifying
glass sent up to my room right away?”

“I’ll take care of
it, sir,” said the woman’s smooth voice. “Is there anything else I can get
you?”

How about a case of Maker’s Mark and a carton of Marlboro
Reds?

“No thanks,” said
John and they hung up.

A moment later there
was a discreet knock at the door. He opened it up and traded a sleepy-looking
bellboy a few bucks for a magnifying glass.

Closing the door, he
went back to the light and laid the photograph down on the bedside table. He
held the magnifying glass over the exotic necklace Veronica wore.

There it was.

The famous Winged
Isis with its delicately engraved golden image of the Egyptian goddess and a
pair of finely crafted lapis lazuli wings fanned out across Veronica’s
breastbone. The necklace was rumored to have been part of the magnificent
Nefertiti treasures and was once worn by the fabled queen herself. It was the
first article of jewelry the Ghost ever stole.

“No wonder you didn’t
want your picture taken, Veronica,” he breathed.

Before he had time to
think, John tossed the paper aside and headed for the door. But he stopped
midway, and making a u-turn, walked to the sliding glass doors that led out
onto the balcony. He slid the glass open and the hum of the traffic below and
the cool air hit him as he stepped outside and scanned the rows of empty
balconies lined up between his bedroom and hers. There were five of them, all
about two feet from one another. It would be easy to make it across.

He pulled off his
slippery black dress socks and climbed across the balconies as carefully and
quietly as he could until he had reached hers. The curtains were half open. A
big rectangle of light illuminated the balcony. He slipped into the shadows and
held his breath as he watched her go to the closet and carefully hang up her
fur wrap. Then she went to the minibar and, pulling out a bottle of white wine,
poured herself a glass and sat down at the vanity table against the far wall of
the room. She sat with her back to him, but he could see her beautiful face
reflected perfectly in the vanity mirror.

There was nothing
sleepy-looking about her expression now. She looked tense and glanced over her
shoulder as if she wanted to make sure she was completely alone. Then she
reached down into her cleavage. With her bandaged hand she fumbled at her
breast for a moment and slowly drew the necklace out on its chain of glittering
brilliants. Dangling it like a cat holding a mouse by the tail, she held it up
so the cold blue fire of the stone blazed before her eyes. She stared as if
hypnotized at the Hope Diamond, watching it sparkle and shine in red, purple,
and green incandescence. John stood just outside the room watching her.

Veronica sensed
something, shifted her gaze, and their eyes met in the mirror.

They were both
caught.

Slowly, Veronica
placed the jewel on the vanity table and turned as he slid open the glass door
and stepped into her room.

“You’re the Ghost.”

For a long moment she
did nothing. Just looked at him with her smooth, unreadable face. Then she
nodded, defiant, and yet he sensed a flicker of fear in her eyes, the
vulnerability behind the ice.

“You switched the
diamonds. When? During the blackout?”

She nodded again and
then dropped her dark blue eyes to the floor.

His head spun. Anger,
betrayal, and an annoying desire to protect her all whirled through him. “Why?”
he demanded, coming to stand above her chair.

She looked up at him
but said nothing.

“You certainly don’t
need the money!” he fumed as he paced the room trying to clear his mind. “You
know how I knew it was you?”

She wasn’t looking at
him now and she didn’t answer.

“I saw the picture of
you in the
Post
with the goddamned
Winged Isis around your neck! What in the hell is that about Veronica? Did you
just prance around Manhattan in all the loot you’ve picked up over the years?”

“Maybe I did!” she
said, her eyes blazing. “Who are you to judge me anyway? Have you never done
anything wrong in your life? Anything you regret?”

“Sure I have, but the
difference is, I don’t do the things I’m not proud of anymore.”

She shook her head.
“You don’t understand.”

“I understand one
thing,” he said. “We’re returning that diamond tonight. We’ll figure out a
story.” He ran his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp trying to think
up a plan. “We’ll say you were protecting it from Dornal Zagen, or…”

“I can’t do that,”
she said, her voice cool and even.

“I’m not going to
give you the choice,” he responded, and before she could stop him, he snatched
up the diamond and held it in his fist. Her eyes flickered over him, sizing him
up.

“Don’t bother,” he
told her. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“But I do,” said an all
too familiar voice from the entrance hall.

John snapped his head
around to see Quinn closing the door quietly behind him, a Smith and Wesson 640
revolver clutched in his right hand pointed straight at John’s heart.

“Give her back the
diamond,” commanded the FBI man.

John slowly opened
his hand and Veronica stepped forward and took back the Hope.

When he’d recovered
his breath, John asked, “What the hell are you doing, Quinn?”

“I’m just following
orders,” said his ex-partner still leveling the gun at him.

“You want to put the
piece down and explain all this to me?” asked John.

“When Miss Rossmore’s
safely on her way, I’ll fill you in,” promised Quinn.

John turned around to
see Veronica wrapping the diamond in a silk scarf and placing it in her bag.

“Where are you going,
Veronica?”

She stopped and
looked at John, her eyes pleading with him not to ask.

“Where are you going
with that diamond?” he repeated. “Even you wouldn’t be crazy enough to wear
that to your little Park Avenue parties. So what are you going to do with it?
Are you going to lock it up somewhere for your own private enjoyment? Never
mind that it’s a national treasure and belongs in a museum…”

“Do you think I’m
that selfish?” Veronica couldn’t take any more; her veneer cracked and the
words rushed out in a torrent of emotion. “Yes, I suppose you must, but I’ll
tell you what I’m doing with it. I’m taking it to Amsterdam where I’m going to
have it cut and sell it to the highest bidder! You want to know why? It’s because…”

Quinn stepped forward
and grabbed her arm. “That’s enough, Miss Rossmore. The less he knows about it,
the better for him.”

Furiously, she stared
at Quinn’s hand on her arm, slowly raising her eyes up to his red, sweating
face. He unclenched his fist and stepped back a pace.

“What have they got
back there at the Smithsonian?” asked John, nailing her with his eyes. “Some
fancy fake Nicholas Bezuhov knocked off for you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Shut up, John,”
barked Quinn.

“What about your
jewelry?” John refused to back off. “What happened to that?”

“It was never stolen.
I had it all along,” she said, unwilling to look at him.

John could tell she
was lying. “Then show it to me, Veronica.”

“That’s enough!” said
Quinn, once again aiming the revolver at John. “No more questions.”

John didn’t like it,
but he wasn’t going to argue with a man holding a gun. Even if that man was
supposed to be his friend.

Back to business now,
Veronica snapped her purse shut and walked to the closet where she pulled out a
small suitcase and a camel-colored wrap-coat, which she put on over the elegant
evening gown she still wore. She slung her purse over her shoulder and, picking
up her suitcase, headed for the door.

“Everything should be
all set.” Quinn took a step toward her while still keeping a watchful eye on
John. “The car’s waiting downstairs and I got word right before I came that the
plane is ready, too.”

She nodded and then
turned to look at John. He could tell she didn’t want to look at him but
couldn’t help herself. She bit her lower lip and he felt as if she were
bursting to tell him something. “Goodbye, John.” She turned to leave the room.

Her hand was on the
doorknob when he said bitterly, “I thought we were going to trust each other,
Veronica.”

Her face was as cold
and hard as any diamond in the world. “Yes, I thought we were.”

And then she was
gone.

John turned angrily
on his ex-partner. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”

Quinn wiped his
shining forehead with the back of his shirtsleeve and motioned with the gun for
John to sit down. “Let’s watch a little TV,” suggested Quinn.

“You watch some
fucking TV,” growled John, stepping toward Quinn, but his old friend raised his
gun and aimed it once more at John’s heart.

“The last thing in
the world I want to do is hurt you, but you need to chill out for few minutes.”
Quinn’s voice sounded desperate and shaky, not a sound John had ever heard
before.

John stopped where he
was and examined his ex-partner. He looked like hell. His mousy hair was
plastered to his skull, his flabby jowls hung down, the lines in his face were
etched so much deeper than they had been only a year ago. John could probably
get the gun from him, but that was probably, and he had learned a long time ago
that the margin for error when it came to handling loaded firearms had better
be zero. He threw up his hands in defeat and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Some of the tension
in Quinn’s face melted away and he slipped his gun back in the holster. “I’m
thirsty as hell. You want something to drink?” he asked as he walked over to
the minibar and took out a can of beer.

John shook his head.

Quinn pulled up a
chair opposite him and opening his beer took a long, deep drink. Then he
sighed, took another pull and put the can down on the end table next to him. He
laced his hands together and leaned in toward John.

“Look, I know this
all seems fucked up. It
is
fucked up.
I mean…it’s fucked up, but not the way you think, Johnnie.”

John just stared him
down.

“I just don’t want
you to think this is me.” Quinn was obviously feeling the heat of John’s glare.
“I mean, we worked together for a long time and we’re friends and…” He grimaced
and, grabbing the can of beer, took another long drink and sat nervously
fiddling with the aluminum tab.

John still said
nothing.

“Okay, you want to
know?” asked Quinn finally. “I’ll tell you, if you want to fucking know. I’ll
tell you, but I mean, this cannot leave this room. The fact you’re even
in
this room is already a problem, a
very big problem, which…” He shook his head.