MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (4 page)

A loud ding announced
that the elevator had finally lumbered its way down to the lobby and John
pushed open the heavy steel door. He punched the button for the fifth floor and
a small wave of apprehension started at the pit of his stomach. Had he
remembered everything at the store?

The elevator came to
an abrupt stop, which almost sent his groceries flying. He stepped out into the
familiar old hallway. When he was a kid, he used to play hockey on the shiny
linoleum floors before his mother returned from work. He found himself wishing
he could just stop with those memories instead of continuing in time and
remembering how much she had suffered watching him destroy himself with
alcohol.

“You can never pay
your mother back for all the years of boozing and acting like an asshole,”
Simon counseled him, “but what you
can
do is be the best son possible here in the present.”

John had taken this
advice to heart, and slowly his mother’s suspicions had been replaced by
confused smiles when he showed up with potted plants for her, scrubbed her
kitchen floor, and took her out for Chinese food or the symphony. Still, old
habits die hard, and he knew she had her eye on him, waiting for him to screw
up.

He pushed open the
door and the smell of lavender talcum powder and potpourri air freshener
greeted him. “Mom?”

Rose’s head popped
out from the den. Her hair was perfectly coifed in a silver bouffant and she
had her reading glasses on. Her face spread into an annoyed smile.

“Johnnie, you didn’t
tell me you were coming tonight.” Her Yugoslavian accent was still strong after
thirty years of living in the US. “I got nothing to make you for dinner.” But
she gave him a kiss as he entered the den.

“I brought
you
food, Mom.”

“Oh, what you got?”
She peered into the bag and began pulling out items. “You got those cookies?”
she asked hopefully.

“No, I forgot to get
them.”

The one thing he
didn’t get.

“Oh well, that’s
okay.” She shuffled into the kitchen with John in tow.

“What are you going
to eat?” she asked, opening cabinets that were stocked to bursting with enough
food to last through any terrorist attack they could cook up. She looked at her
stash and shook her head as if the cans and boxes of food had in some way
disappointed her.

“Don’t worry, I have
a turkey sandwich.” John gently closed the cupboard doors only to have her
reopen them.

“That’s it?” she
asked astonished. “You don’t want no soup? I got extra coleslaw I made for
lunch yesterday in the fridge.”

“No, I’m okay.
Seriously.”

Rose raised her
eyebrows and shook her head.

“I’m going to run
now, Mom.”

“But you just got
here.”

“I know, but I have a
lot of stuff I need to take care of.”

“What stuff?” she
demanded. “You don’t got no job.”

“Well, I think maybe
I need to deal with that.”

“You going back to
the FBI?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he
was suddenly getting defensive. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I need
to do something.”

“Yeah,” she said
shaking her head. “You got to do something. Why don’t you become a teacher?
That’s a good job.”

“I’ll think about
it,” he promised, nodding his head politely.

“Yeah,” she
persisted, “you could get good benefits.”

“That’s right, I’ll
think about it.” He started to inch his way out of the kitchen.

“So, you gonna go
now?”

“Yes, I’m going to
get a good night’s sleep.”

She couldn’t argue
with that. “Well…that’s good,” she sighed.

He kissed her cheek,
but she grabbed his arm and said, “Oh, wait a minute. I have something to give
you.”

While she shuffled
into her bedroom, John ripped the deli paper off his sandwich and started
eating. He was halfway through the sub when Rose reappeared with a little black
box in her hand and an impish grin lighting up her face.

“What’s that?”

She came to John’s side so they could
both look from the same angle. Rose lifted the lid to reveal a Silver Star that
had belonged to John’s father. During WWII, Bill Monroe had sprinted through a
hailstorm of German bullets to rescue a wounded soldier in his regiment. John
had never heard his father talk about the incident but his Aunt Maureen loved
to brag about it at Thanksgiving dinners after she’d had too many cocktails.

For the second time
that night, John felt tears stinging his eyes. Pasted inside the lid of the box
was a little dog-eared black-and-white photograph of Private Bill Monroe in his
uniform. It had been a long time since John had seen the photo and the medal.

“Here,” Rose pressed
the box into John’s hands. “This is for you, for your one year. I want you to
remember that your father was a hero. Now you are a hero, too.”

“Are you sure?” John
knew this was one of his mother’s most prized possessions.

“You just take good
care of it,” she warned sternly.

“I will,” he
promised. “Thank you.”

They shared a warm
moment, mother and son smiling at each other, remembering his father in a good
way.

“I’ll call you
tomorrow,” promised John.

“Okay, I hope you
sleep good and be careful. It’s dark out there,” she warned him.

“Don’t worry, Mom,
I’ll be careful.” He shook his head as he walked out the door. Nine years with
the FBI and his mother still thought he couldn’t make it three blocks without
getting stabbed to death by evil hoodlums. Some things never changed.

****

Dornal could see the
faintest glimmer of moonlight reflecting off the water as he finally reached
the end of the slime-covered storm drain. He inhaled deeply and the chill air
cleansed his lungs after the putrid stench of the tunnel he’d been crawling
through for hours. As he climbed out, he found himself on the shore of the
Hudson River. Across the water, he could see the Palisades rising up dark and
mysterious and to his back lay a tangle of pitch black trees.

This wasn’t supposed
to be his stop on the pipeline. His employer had arranged for a car, clothing,
and money to be waiting for him in one of the alleys off the storm drain. But
after setting off the alarm, Dornal knew he needed to get as far away as he
could without any risk of being seen. The underground tunnel had provided the
cover he needed.

Instinctively, he
crouched down as the whir of a helicopter reached his ears and he could see the
searchlight sweeping through the trees behind him. It wouldn’t be long before
the chopper’s heat vision cameras picked him up.

The Austrian thief
quickly slid into the freezing river. The snow in the Hudson Valley had only
begun to melt two weeks ago. Dornal knew, even with his tough physique, he
wouldn’t survive long in the frigid water, but for the moment, it took care of
the heat vision cameras. In this ice bucket, his body temperature was sinking
fast.

He scanned the water
with his gray shark eyes, spotting a sailboat anchored offshore about a quarter
of the way into the river. It was difficult to tell from here if anyone was
aboard, but it was that boat or the chopper-infested forest. Still grasping the
scalpel he’d picked up in the prison operating room, he began to swim toward
the boat.

As he got closer, he
could see a dim light coming from the cockpit and the shadow of someone walking
around inside. Things were going to get messy.

He didn’t like for
things to get messy. It was the mark of an amateur, but, then again, this
hadn’t been his plan in the first place. He’d have to make the best of the situation.
Once he had the Hope Diamond in his possession, he’d be back in charge.

Quiet as the mist
rising off the water, Dornal swam to the side of the boat and, grasping the
anchor line in his iron grip, began to raise himself out of the river.

With the deftness of
the professional thief he was, he swung himself over the rail, his powerful arm
muscles rippling under the prison jumpsuit before he landed silently on deck.

The helicopter was
still cruising around, sweeping the shoreline with its bright beam. Dornal had
to get inside the cabin fast.

Peering in the
window, he saw a man in a faded blue T-shirt and beat-up jeans sitting in the
glow of a hurricane lamp with a guitar on his lap. As far as he could tell, the
man was the only person on board. Dornal fingered the scalpel. At least he had
a good, clean instrument.

The thief leaped down
to the back deck just outside the cabin door, purposely landing with a loud
thud. He stepped to the side with the boat’s wheel at his back and waited for
his prey to emerge.

A square of golden
light illuminated the deck as the cabin door opened and the man tentatively
stepped out. Before the man could react, Dornal twisted his victim’s arm and
pulled him back against his own big, barrel chest. The scalpel’s blade flashed
in the moonlight before it bit flesh and slit clean through the man’s jugular.

Without missing a
beat, Dornal dragged the body into the cockpit and stripped it bare. He peeled
off his own dirty prison jumpsuit and pulled it over the man’s lifeless limbs.
Then he paused for a moment, paralyzed by the sound of a chopper approaching
fast. He held his breath as the white beam spilled in the narrow windows and
the roar of the propeller whipped up what sounded like a tornado directly
overhead. He could hear the whir of the engine as the electronic bird circled
over the sailboat, combing every inch of the vessel with its bright light.
Dornal crouched low, waiting.

After one final pass,
the helicopter roared down the river and he allowed himself to exhale. He waited
a moment to be sure and then slipped back on deck. The chopper was moving
farther away now. He could still see the searchlight but the ominous sound of
propellers was fading out of earshot. Going below again, the convict picked up
the body and carried it to the lower deck.

With only a minor
splash, he sent the man into the river and watched as the bright orange
jumpsuit disappeared under murky water. He had no illusions that once the body
washed ashore it would fool the police for long, but it might slow them down a
couple of days and he wouldn’t need much more time than that.

Heading back inside,
the thief found a suitcase full of clothes. He slipped on a pair of faded jeans
much like the ones his predecessor had been wearing and a warm wool sweater. In
one of the cupboards of the tiny kitchen, he found a bottle of Remy Martin. He
took a couple slugs straight from the bottle and felt the warmth flow back into
his frozen flesh.

After a bit more
searching, he found the dead man’s wallet with his license, credit cards, and
$120 cash. He studied the photograph of the man. With some brown hair dye,
Dornal could pass. He took another long, slow pull from the bottle. He’d
managed to find himself an identity, a mode of transportation, and a place to
crash all in one fell swoop. For the first time in months he smiled. If there
was one thing Dornal Zagen enjoyed, it was efficiency.

He relaxed back onto
the banquette that served as both sofa and bed in the small boat. Two things
were on his mind, the Hope Diamond and revenge. His plan to seize the Hope at
the Diamond Ball was already worked out and it was just a question of waiting
until the right time. Meanwhile, he had only to discover the whereabouts of
John Monroe to take care of his other plan. It was going to be a pleasure to
execute the former FBI man.

****

John arrived home to
his cramped one bedroom apartment on West End Avenue. The apartment was in one
of those 1970s buildings that looked like the projects but wasn’t. He had
decorated accordingly.

He fidgeted with the
little black box in his pocket, finally pulling it out as he sat down in his
chair by the window. So much light poured in from the street lamps and the
twinkling George Washington Bridge, he could see quite well without switching
on the mushroom lamp he had found in an old junk shop. He held the box with his
father’s medal in his hand, turning it around in his fingers.

The sharp ring of his
phone jolted him out of his reverie.

Don’t let it be a crazy newcomer,
he prayed,
remembering the myriad of jonesing heroin addicts, speed freaks, and
potty-mouthed alcoholics he’d given his number to in the last month, inviting
them to call him any time they needed a friend.

Warily, he picked up
the receiver. “Hello?”

It was his old
partner from the FBI. “John, it’s Quinn. I’ve been calling you all night.”

“Quinn!” said John,
relieved. “Sorry, I thought you might be someone from AA.”

There was a pause on
the line.

“John, have you
watched the news or read the paper lately?”

“The Ghost strikes
again.” John parroted the newspaper headlines.

“We could use your
help.”