ItTakesaThief (19 page)

Leaning close, she said in Nick’s ear, “You have some
influential friends.”

Nick grinned, removed her cape, then draped it over the back
of her chair. Settling, TC looked around. Most of the men were costumed as
conquistadors, others wore the garb of Spanish grandees. The women’s costumes
ranged from geographically incorrect Mayan princesses to those of the valid
Muisca, complete with the intricate gold jewelry for which that tribe was
famous. TC felt a twinge of pride that only she wore the stately garb of Queen
Isabella. Her smug smile faded, however, when she realized every woman in sight
wore a replica of Isabella’s Belt.

“It’s the theme for tonight’s fiesta,” Nick explained when
the band took a break.

“I suppose they’re all fakes, just like mine is.”

“Probably, but nowhere near the quality of yours. Are you
sure yours is a fake?”

TC ran her fingers over the cabochon emerald that formed the
centerpiece of the Belt, the belt Nick had brought from Ian’s hotel suite last
night. “I told you to have it authenticated,” she said, her voice icy even to
her own ears.

“I don’t think you’re lying, Tiff—TC. I just wish we could
recover the real Belt and find the murderer.”

“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.” She sighed, then
twitched her shoulders and sat up straighter. “Maybe the Belt is in Europe.”

Leaning forward as if to ensure nobody overheard, he said,
“Why do you think it never left Colombia?”

She shrugged. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Here’s
how it goes down when a major heist occurs. First, there’s shocked silence,
like everybody’s holding one long, collective breath. Next come the whispers,
the speculation as to who took it and whether or not the item will be sold as
is or broken up. Then the rumors start and you begin to hear names. Among the
impossible, you hear the improbable. Finally, if you’re lucky, you come up with
a few possibles and then one or two names that are not only possible, but
probable.”

“So what’s different this time?”

“Nothing’s happening. No whispers, no speculation. Nada.
Zip. Zilch. The silence is deafening.”

“Which led you here.” Nick settled back in his chair.

She shrugged again. “If you don’t hear anything at one end,
try the other.” She glanced over Nick’s left shoulder, glaring at him. There
was only one way Ian Soria could have known where she would be tonight. Nick
had told him. “Unless you want me to make a scene, you’ll keep him away from
me.”

Nick looked over his shoulder, then turned to her with a
placating smile. “Ian isn’t the only one we have to worry about. Look over your
shoulder, Tiff.”

She did. “Vultures gathering for the kill,” she muttered as
she stood. Stepping away from the table, she headed away from Emilio Santana,
Sir James Foster and Charles Cartierri. Better the devil she knew than a pack
of unpredictable curs.

“Dance with me,” she demanded, then put her arms over Ian
Soria’s magnificent shoulders. She knew Spanish grandees often padded their
doublets to make their chests appear deeper, their shoulders wider. Even before
she touched him, TC knew Ian needed no such artifice.

“I missed you, Tiffany darling.”

“Last night was the longest, most miserable night of my
life,” TC admitted, delighted when passion and some indefinable something more
flared in his dark eyes. Last night she’d made a tactical error. Last night she
had made him aware of the depth of her distrust and had given him time to
formulate another plan. Tonight she intended to correct those mistakes. From
now on, she wouldn’t let him out of her sight. If he intended to kill her, he’d
have to do it face-to-face. He’d dogged her steps for days on end. From now on,
she’d be his shadow.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“We cannot. If we run, they will only follow.”

From her breasts to her toes, she felt his gaze roam over
her. Breathless with sudden longing, she managed to say, “Then I suppose we
must confront the inevitable.”

“Si, querida, I think we must.”

Like synchronized swimmers, they glided back to the table
where Nick waited with TC’s detractors.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Charles Cartierri
demanded in a belligerent voice.

“Now, Charles,” Sir James soothed, “stay calm.”

“I insist you arrest her,” Emilio Santana bellowed over the
band’s rendition of a Little Richard song.

“For what?” Nick asked.

“For stealing my emeralds.”

“For stealing paste?” TC shouted back, then shot an
apologetic glance at Nick for betraying his confidence. No one except the two
of them was to know the unset emeralds were merely green glass.

“I think we should adjourn to someplace quieter and more
private,” Ian suggested, draping TC’s cape over her shoulders.

“I agree,” Sir James said, smoothly guiding both Emilio
Santana and Charles Cartierri toward the stairs.

“I thought you couldn’t get in here without a costume,” TC
said to Nick.

“Mere mortals require costumes,” Ian observed with a wry
smile. TC felt his arm tense under her hand and saw that his eyes shifted
constantly, reminding her of a Secret Service agent she had dated once.

“Jesu,” Nick muttered.

TC followed his gaze to find George Fox staring at her.
Sensing he would like nothing better than to clap her in handcuffs, she
shivered. Determined not to let him see her fear, she lifted her chin and
marched up to the little man dressed like a Spanish Napoleon.

“Perhaps you would like to join us, Mr. Fox.”

“Some other time, Ms. Cartierri. Or should I say Señora
Soria? I…checked the hotel register.”

She forced a smile. “I should have known we couldn’t fool
you, Mr. Fox.”

“Are you mocking me, Ms. Cartierri?”

“Heavens, no. I’m simply curious as to how you knew I was at
the Luxembourg.”

“You have great legs. Later, after I watched the security
camera tapes, I recalled your slave bracelet.” A slight shrug accompanied his
speech.

“Thank you, Mr. Fox, for your candor. And for the
compliment.” She stepped away, then turned back. “One other thing, if you
please. Ian always refers to you as George, so why do you call him Hunter?”

“Code— It’s his name.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Fox.” As she walked away, she sensed
George Fox was trying to signal Ian, but his efforts seemed uninspired. Had the
supposed slip been deliberate? After Nick’s betrayal—telling Ian where she
would be tonight— she didn’t know whom she could trust.

Looking directly at Ian, the man to whom she had given her
heart, the man who had repeatedly betrayed her, she said, “I think you ought to
confiscate every one of those belts. There’s a chance one of them might be the
real thing.” Without a backward glance, she pushed by Ian and Nick, barely
aware of the throng that protected her from pursuit.

Last night had been the longest night of her life. Tonight
threatened to be even longer, but she had changed her mind. Somehow, she had to
get away from Ian Soria. Spotting Charles Cartierri and his contingent outside
the revolving door, TC veered left and, after several wrong turns, managed to
find a back door.

Now what? she wondered as she picked her way through the
garbage-strewn alley and struggled against her tears. She couldn’t go back to
Nick’s cottage. In all probability that was the first place Hunter would look
for her. And certainly Nick would experience no feelings of disloyalty for
telling Hunter where she had spent last night. Not if what she now
suspected—that Nick and his friend were both law enforcement officers—was true.
Nor could she go to Charles Cartierri, who always believed the worst of her.

Sighing defeat, she allowed a few tears to seep from her
closed eyes and conceded that even Sir James seemed to have shut his heart to
her. Who else could have sent that damning evidence to Interpol?

She opened her evening bag and withdrew a handkerchief, then
daubed at her eyes. Returning the hanky to its place, she discovered the key to
the suite she had shared with Ian Soria. Or whatever his name was.

It afforded temporary refuge at best, but at least she
should have a few hours before he returned. A few hours to recover her
shattered self-confidence. A few hours in which to decide what she could do to
find the murderer and clear herself.

Yes, that’s what she’d do. She would take refuge in Ian
Soria’s lair, then decide how to clear her name. Later, much, much later, she
would lick her wounds and try to mend her broken heart.

Chapter Thirteen

“Where the devil is she?” Charles Cartierri demanded, his
voice loud enough to be heard over the blast of rock ‘n’ roll that shook the
glass walls of Bogotá’s premiere nightclub.

“I have no idea, sir,” Nick Troy said.

Damian noted how his friend’s eyes probed the deep shadows
of the buildings across the street and flicked up and down the neon-lighted
thoroughfare of the entertainment district. So, Nick was concerned—either about
Tiffany’s safety or her whereabouts. Damian was concerned about both. Where was
she? Why had she run away just when it seemed she might finally trust him?
Could she face him only when there was no one present who might refute what she
told him?

“Where did she spend last night?” Sir James asked, his
negligent tone belied by his tense posture.

Nick’s gaze darted to Damian, then back to Sir James’ face.
“I don’t know, sir.”

“Horseshit, Nick,” the older man contradicted. Signaling for
a taxi, he herded them into a group, then wrangled them into the cab. “I think
she stayed with you and I think that’s where she’s gone now. You bear a strong
resemblance to my stepson William, TC’s late husband. I think she would trust
you, Nick. I think she’d return to the place, to the person with whom she feels
safe.”

He almost bought it, Damian admitted to himself. But the
fear in Sir James’ eyes, the sweat beading his brow, alerted Damian that Foster
was not as forthright as he seemed. Nor did Damian believe that Tiffany would
take the easy, obvious way out. If they found her at Nick’s, Damian would eat
his velvet doublet.

Charles Cartierri’s hand on his shoulder captured Damian’s
wandering attention.

“I want to tell you the truth about…her. In private.”

Maybe he also would hear the truth about the stolen emeralds
from his godfather.

“And then,” Sir James said from the taxi’s darkest corner,
“I want you to hear my truth about Em—about Tiffany.”

“I’m sure you do, sir.”

Damian had never been more certain of anything in his entire
life. He just did not know whose truth might be the truth.

* * * * *

Since the older men had deferred to him, Damian signaled
Nick that he would take the first round of questioning. Nick nodded, guiding
the other two away from the living room. Damian waited until Charles Cartierri
had settled in the overstuffed wingback chair, then sat on the sofa across from
the older man. From the kitchen, he could hear Nick’s low but cheery voice
offer Sir James and Emilio Santana drinks and their mumbled responses. Out of
the corner of his eye, he caught the flare of some quickly masked emotion in
Charles Cartierri’s eyes, but by the time Damian looked fully at his companion,
Cartierri’s face wore an expression of long-suffering forbearance. Then, as he
drew a deep breath, his expression crumbled.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Charles Cartierri said,
at last looking at Damian. “Have you evidence…? Do you intend to arrest her?”

“Where were you when the theft occurred?” Damian hoped
Cartierri would not pretend ignorance of the theft Damian meant.

He did not. “My wife and I were staying at the Georges Cinq.
I was to examine the Belt on Friday—authenticate again, if you will.”

“Is that the usual procedure?”

“Not usual, but in this case—such a valuable artifact, shipped
without a courier… Emilio and I decided re-examination was necessary.”

“Why was the Belt shipped rather than couriered?”

“So not to draw unwanted attention. Emilio supervised its
shipment from Bogotá and Monsieur de la Croix—the bank manager—took receipt of
it in Paris.” His lips thinned, then parted. “Does she need an attorney? I
retain one here in Bogotá for business purposes, but—”

“When did the Belt arrive in Paris?”

“The Monday before the theft, I believe. My wife and I
arrived in Paris on Wednesday, did a little sightseeing, relaxed.” He flashed a
brief smile. “Played tourist, if you will.”

“Why so much time between the Belt’s arrival and your
re-authentication?” Damian wished he had a recorder, but decided to forego
asking Nick for his. The rhythm he was establishing seemed more important than
a verbatim record.

“Again, Emilio didn’t want to draw attention to the Belt’s
location. As far as the curator at the museum knew, the Belt would arrive a day
or two before the exhibit opened, nearly a month later.”

“A month after it actually arrived in Paris?”

“Yes, Emilio… We both thought the Belt would be perfectly
safe in the bank’s safe deposit vault. Especially since no one but Emilio, Sir
James, the bank manager and I knew its location.”

“You did not know that your daughter was responsible for
security at the museum?”

“At the museum, yes. I didn’t know she knew where the Belt
was being kept.” He sighed, raked his perfectly styled hair with pristine,
manicured fingers. “I suppose James told her.”

“You suppose? Why should Tiffany not know where the Belt
was? Was she not responsible for arranging its safe delivery to the
Luxembourg?”

“I don’t know who was responsible for transporting it
between the bank and the museum.”

“Mr. Cartierri, why would your daughter—”

Cartierri sprang to his feet, distress in his eyes. “You
can’t imagine how painful this is, having to reveal to a stranger, to an agent
of the law, horrible things about the child one has raised.”

Damian crossed an ankle over his knee. Draping one arm along
the sofa back, he stared. Under Cartierri’s concerned façade, he sensed a
stronger emotion, but what it was Damian could not begin to guess.

“The trouble started,” Cartierri finally said, apparently
unfazed by Damian’s silence, “the summer the girl turned ten. She began to
steal things. At first it was only from Esmé and me—a bottle of perfume, a few
coins from my change caddie—but, by the time her twelfth birthday came, she’d
graduated to more expensive trinkets. It got so bad I couldn’t leave her alone
in the workshop, let alone among the display cases. Esmé would have to strip
the girl down to her skin every night to make sure she hadn’t stolen something
from my shop or, worse, from the girls at school.”

Cartierri brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from his coat
sleeve, sighed heavily, then went on. “Of course, we got her the best help we
could afford. Esmé wanted—”

“Excuse me, but who is Esmé?”

“My wife wanted to treat the girl herself, but I couldn’t
allow that, of course. After all—”

“Why not?”

“As I was about to explain, Esmé, my wife, was too close to
the girl to be objective. Besides, she spoiled the girl shamelessly and might
well have been the cause of the problem.”

“Was she?” Damian took growing satisfaction from his
interruptions. Cartierri lost his rhythm, his irritation evident in his
expression.

“No, she wasn’t. Other therapists decided the girl’s
kleptomania was brought on by adolescence and a need for more attention. The
stealing stopped for a while. Until the girl met William Foster. And, of
course, William’s stepfather, James Foster. James was William’s mentor in every
way.” He shifted a pointed glare toward the kitchen.

“When was that?”

“When she turned thirteen. Esmé and I took her to England.
That’s when and where she met that son of Satan, William Foster. That’s where
and when the girl started stealing from Esmé’s and my friends. And that is when
she began stealing things of real value. Diamonds. Rubies…” He paused as if
using the hesitation to point up his next words, as if he and Damian shared a
secret no one else in the world knew. “And, of course, emeralds.”

“Does that have some special significance, Mr. Cartierri?”

For a brief moment Cartierri looked completely taken
off-guard. Then he smiled, a momentary pulling back of his thin lips from even
white teeth. “I thought it might be significant to you. I understand you gave
the girl the name. Emerald, I mean.” He sighed, a long-suffering sound. “When
the girl decided to marry William, a gemologist of some talent, I offered to adopt
him. I needed an heir, someone worthy of inheriting CCartierri. But he betrayed
me. The girl saw to that.”

Rage as hot and uncontrollable as a forest fire surged
through Damian and brought him to his feet. Someone at Interpol had a big mouth
and Damian would bet his last dime he knew who. George Fox had more to answer
for than his persecution of Tiffany.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Cartierri,” he said coldly.
“Wait in the kitchen, if you will.”

Pacing the living room of Nick’s cottage, Damian waited for
his godfather to appear.

“Time for a reality check, my man,” he said to himself,
admitting he disliked Charles Cartierri. When compared to Damian’s own father,
Cartierri seemed a sorry excuse for a parent. Still, he knew of worse. What
Damian found hard to accept was Cartierri’s eagerness to sell out his own
child. And his knowledge of Emerald’s nickname could explain why she—if indeed
Tiffany were responsible for the thefts all those years ago—had managed to
avoid arrest. Inside information from someone at Interpol would have ensured
her freedom.

And, much as Damian hated to admit it even to himself, it
was possible that Cartierri was guilty of nothing more than—what did the
Americans call it?—tough love? But why wait to get tough until she had
committed murder?

His stomach clenched. Was he letting his feelings for
Tiffany cloud his judgment? Having made love to her, was his testosterone
getting in the way of clear thinking? Should he take himself off the case, his
objectivity compromised by a pair of limpid emerald eyes and a sinuous body
that could make Satan pray?

Dios! Had Tiffany known all along who he was? Had she
seduced him, knowing she intended to rob and murder?

“Damian.” His godfather’s voice brought a merciful end to
his silent self-interrogation.

“Padrino, please sit down.”

When Emilio had complied, choosing the sofa rather than a
chair, Damian sat beside him and willed himself to patience.

“Have you reported the theft of your emeralds?” he asked
when Emilio said nothing, seeming intent on the toes of his polished black
shoes.

“No, I have not.” He sighed, ran his fingers through his
hair, straightened his tie, then sighed again.

“Why not?”

“I have no desire to see TC imprisoned. All I want is for
her to return the stones and never…”

“Darken your door again?” Damian provided, unable to keep
the sarcasm from his voice.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Emilio quit fidgeting and
angled his body toward Damian. “I liked the girl. I took her into my home,
introduced her to my family, trusted her as I trust you. She betrayed me.
Worse, she betrayed Rogelio, who admires her immensely.”

“Is it possible someone else stole the emeralds?”

“It is always possible. Even with my security, some stones
go missing. Dios! The very guards I hire to protect them often cannot resist
their beauty. But in this case, Damian, only the finest gems were taken. My
guards may be greedy, but they do not know a chip from a cabochon.” His gaze
slid from Damian’s and he shot his cuffs.

“When did you discover the theft?”

“The morning after she left with your friend Nick. Charles
called—”

“Cartierri?” Perhaps the interruption technique would also
work on his godfather.

“Yes, that Charles. He called, wanting to see what gems I
had available. Off the record, Damian, Charles is thinking about expanding into
Bogotá. It makes sense, if you think about it. No shipping costs or thefts en
route to his shops here. Security costs become nil and you rake in all those
lovely tourist dollars. Many foreigners come to Colombia solely for our
emeralds, so why not take advantage? And Charles has an international
reputation for selling only the finest, which gives him a leg up on unknown
local merchants.”

“Do you know who shot at Rogelio?”

“Dios, no! When did that happen? Where?” His swarthy skin
pale, Emilio gripped Damian’s forearms with vise-like fingers.

“The morning Tiffany visited the mines. The morning she was
wounded.” Freeing himself from his godfather’s grasp, Damian paced to the
fireplace, toyed with a knick-knack on the mantel and then said casually,
“Rogelio was with her.”

Damian expected another outburst. What he got was a man who
had aged twenty years in the blink of an eye. More pale than only a moment ago,
Emilio Santana shook as though an earthquake rumbled through him.

“I don’t believe it,” the old man said, shaking his head.
“She must have faked her wound somehow.”

“I was there when it happened. As was your grandson.” Hating
himself for applying this kind of pressure on a man already palsied by fear,
Damian continued. “Rogelio made the better target, mounted as he was while
Tiffany was just coming up behind him. A lucky piece of shooting, that. Creased
her scalp, but never touched the boy, even with a barrage of bullets flying
about.”

“Why wasn’t I told? Damn you, why didn’t you tell me about
Rogelio?”

“Tiff—” Dios! Had Tiffany asked Damian not to tell Emilio
because she was truly afraid for her own safety? Or was Emilio right? What if
Tiffany had set up the entire incident? Damian had not actually seen her shot.
When she and Rogelio rode off on Diablo, Tiffany could have… What? Shot herself
in the head while Rogelio watched? Shot herself so that the bullet only grazed
her scalp, but left no powder burns or any residual odor? Did she go off
somewhere, shoot herself and then wash her hands and face to remove the
evidence of a self-inflicted wound? No, that whole scenario would not play,
even in his wildest imagination. And José Santana, Emilio’s son, had treated
her. If he suspected anything, surely he would have mention it. Still…

Feigning a nonchalance he did not feel, Damian shrugged. “No
serious harm done.”