MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (13 page)

The White Russian
stood in Veronica’s doorway looking well-rested and like he had just come from
the posh barbershop downstairs. He wore cream-colored pants and a light blue,
button-down shirt. John almost rolled his eyes when he noticed the ascot tied
neatly around the thief’s neck.

“Well, good morning,”
said Nicholas Bezuhov, his Russian accent making him sound just a little bit
like Dracula. “I thought you’d retired. What brings you here?”

“I wish I could ask
you the same question,” growled John.

Nicholas smiled
brightly. “Why, I’m here for the Diamond Ball, of course.”

“I bet you are,” said
John. “What are you doing outside Veronica Rossmore’s room?”

“I don’t know,” said
the White Russian, looking John up and down with an amused smirk. “What are
you
doing sneaking out of her room in
last night’s suit?”

John took a step
forward, forcing Nicholas to back away from the door. “That’s none of your
fucking business,” he said, his temper rising. “And if you know what’s good for
you, you’ll walk away and not come back around.”

The White Russian
laughed. “I’m sorry, but it is not a crime to pay a visit to an old friend, now
is it?”

That took the wind
out of John’s sails. That changed everything.

“If you don’t mind,”
said the thief stepping forward and reaching for the door. But John’s hand shot
out and grabbed Nicholas’s wrist in a tight grip.

The White Russian’s
dark eyes glittered dangerously. “You are beginning to annoy me.”

“Miss Rossmore is
asleep right now,” said John. “I don’t think she would appreciate you busting
in on her.”

They stared each
other down for a moment, but a maid pushing a breakfast cart rounded the
corner, leaving it parked in front of a room two doors away. John and Nicholas
turned to look at her and she nodded politely.

“Well,” said
Nicholas, pulling his hand away and straightening his cravat, “I’ll come see
Veronica later on.” He started to walk away.

“What happened to the
blonde?” John called after him.

The thief turned with
an amused grin. “You mean Jessica? Do you know her?”

John didn’t answer.
He just watched his man.

“What am I saying? Of
course you don’t.” The White Russian’s grin broadened. “I’ll see you later, Mr.
Monroe.”

“We’ll be watching
you,” warned John.

Nicholas didn’t look
worried. “It was my understanding you are no longer a member of the
FBI—something about a drinking problem.” He smiled nastily.

“Still, there’s
nothing to stop me from making a citizen’s arrest if anything disappears from
this hotel.”

All mock innocence,
the White Russian threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.
As I said, I’m just here to attend the Diamond Ball—charity, you know.” His
smile deepened and he turned away.

John watched the
jewel thief as he walked down the hall, careless and arrogant. After the
elevator doors closed behind him, John turned back to Veronica’s door. There were
a few things he’d like to ask her, but he was too angry. He decided to head
back to his room, take a shower, order some eggs, and cool off.

****

When John returned to
his room there was a message waiting from Quinn.

“Call me back,”
barked his ex-partner on the hotel voicemail.

John went to the
minibar and opened it. He had to smile. It was jammed full of seltzer and
pretzels. He pulled out a seltzer. The bubbles burned his throat, but the cold
burst first thing in the morning felt good. He stripped off his wrinkled
clothes and jumped in the shower. It was nice to take a shower in such a
blindingly clean, white bathroom. There was plenty of room to move around, good
lighting, and good-smelling bath products lined up along the marble sink. He
closed his eyes as the explosion of cool water jets washed away last night’s
sweat and this morning’s anger. He let it all go down the drain. Pulling a
fluffy towel from the rack, he rubbed it through his hair and all over his body
and then donned the white terry robe hanging on the bathroom door.

He headed into his
room and sat down in a patch of sunlight on the floor. He crossed his legs
Indian style, the way Bethany, an ex-pothead in his Thursday night AA meeting,
had shown him.

He took a breath in
and then exhaled long and slowly. His mind went back to Bethany. He remembered
how she had taught him one night at two a.m. to stop the thoughts whirling in
his mind from looping over and over on the same old bad news. John had come to
her after not sleeping for three days straight, and he knew that if he didn’t
get some rest soon, he would go crazy. Simon had made the call to Bethany.
Mercifully, she hadn’t seemed to care about the late hour.

Bethany had sat John
down in her yoga-den living room with its honey-toned candles. The floor had
been covered in old flea-market Persian rugs and the room smelled like incense.
Bethany had seemed to glow with an inner light, her soft brown eyes reassuring.
Her tanned hands, covered in silver rings, were gentle as she ran her palm along
his spine, showing him how to sit straight and relax at the same time. She had
touched his third eye with her finger and told him to focus. She taught him how
to breathe deep and let everything go with a long exhale.

Before sobriety John
would have stayed away from Bethany and her meditation room like it was a den
of ghetto-raised pit bulls, but that night he learned how to meditate and he
finally slept.

Since then, whenever
the world spun off its axis, he had learned to sit down and pretend he was in
Bethany’s apartment with the incense swirling and Indian chants playing in the
background. If he was lucky, he experienced a fleeting moment of peace.

He sat now with his
eyes closed and felt the sunlight warm on him. He slowed his breathing down and
let his mind go blank like a television screen without a channel, all white
fuzz. But out of the fuzz Veronica emerged, her eyes glowing dark blue, her
naked breasts swelling up against him, the ruby around her neck crackling like
a fire…

Frustrated, he opened
his eyes. His room was peaceful and orderly except for his wrinkled suit which
he had thrown on the floor. He couldn’t meditate right now. So he switched
positions and climbed onto his knees. Squeezing his eyes closed again, he
whispered, “God, help me to do your will today and to stay out of trouble.
Thank you, Amen.”

He stood up, pulling
his robe tighter around him, and punched Quinn’s number on the phone.

“Special Agent Quinn
Brown.”

“It’s John.”

No one was bothering
with the niceties this morning.

“Maggie the Cat’s
booked herself a little show on a private yacht floating off Long Island,”
announced Quinn, sounding like he’d been up all night.

“I can top that,”
said John. “I saw Nicholas Bezuhov this morning outside Veronica Rossmore’s
room. Said they were old friends.”

“The White Russian?”
asked Quinn.

“Your friend and
mine.”

“He knows Veronica
Rossmore?”

“That’s what he
says,” replied John.

Quinn exhaled a world
of worry and stress into the phone. “I don’t like that at all.”

“Me neither, makes my
job tougher, but why’s it so bad for you? It gives you more information on
him.”

“It’s b-bad for me,”
Quinn stuttered the way he sometimes did when he was mad, “it’s bad because I
have my hands full! We still don’t have a clue about what happened to the Puck
Diamond and Katherine Park is like a goddamn dog with a bone over the whole
thing. Half my people have gone off to Houston where the president is meeting
with the entire Arab world’s leaders to try and straighten out that mess. The
last thing I need to worry about is Nicholas Bezuhov running off with Veronica
Rossmore’s jewelry collection!”

“Listen, partner, you
don’t have to worry about that,” John tried to reassure his friend. “That’s
what I’m here for, right?”

There was a pause on
the other end. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. You know what you’re doing. So I’m
not going to worry about it. I’m crossing that one off my list.”

“Good.”

“All right, I’ll see
you at the Diamond Ball,” said Quinn wearily.

“I’ll see you there.”

“I can’t wait till
this friggin’ thing is over,” barked Quinn right before he hung up.

John was thoughtful
as he put down the receiver. Had Quinn always been this stressed out and John
just hadn’t noticed because he’d been too lost in his own vodka-drenched haze?
Then again, dealing with Katherine Park, the First Lady, the Hope Diamond, and
a bunch of jewel thieves circling the Smithsonian like sharks would be enough
to give anyone a good bloody ulcer.

****

Pandemonium reigned
at the normally well-run Fabulous Food catering company. Nancy Malone, the
owner of Fabulous Food, had just hung up the phone with her pastry chef,
Armand. One way or another, he’d spent the entire morning on the toilet with
gut-wrenching cramps and nausea that left him as green and limp as a piece of
overcooked asparagus. With the Diamond Ball only a little more than twenty-four
hours away, this was a major catastrophe.

As every caterer and
restaurateur in DC was aware, the First Lady had a serious sweet tooth and was
notoriously fussy about her pastries. Since this was the biggest event of the
year for Lillian Spencer, failure to provide anything but absolute perfection
could mean losing out to her archrival, Le Grand Gourmet Catering, for all
future White House parties.

Mentally Nancy ran
through the list of suitable pastry chefs in the area. Almost all were either
already employed at one of the city’s major hotels or restaurants, impossible
to deal with, or out of town. Nancy put her head in her hands. She was on the
verge of stamping her feet and screaming her head off, the staff in the kitchen
behind her tasteful little gourmet shop be damned!

The tinkle of the
bells attached to the shop’s front door made her look up. A sweet-faced, little
old lady in a beautifully tailored dress and a plaid shawl made her way past
the neatly lined shelves of champagne vinegar and tins of beluga.

“Good morning,” said
the old lady cheerfully.

Years of plastering
on smiles in impossible situations served Nancy well. In a flash, her pearly
whites were on display as she greeted her customer. “Good morning. How may I
help you, ma’am?”

“Well, I’ve just
moved here from Philadelphia and was told by many people that you are the very
best caterer in town.”

“That’s very kind of
you.” Nancy wondered how much money it would take to steal famed pastry chef
Casper Dupres from the Willard Room for one night.

“Well, I’m no
gourmet,” said the old lady with a warm smile, “but I’ve been told I make the
best cookies and brownies in the universe and I was wondering if you might be
interested in carrying them in your lovely shop?”

Nancy didn’t have
time for this. “You know, we bake all our own…”

But now the old lady
lifted the napkin that lay over her basket to reveal an array of beautifully
arranged dark chocolate brownies dripping with fudge sauce, golden cookies
dusted with powdered sugar, and light fluffy meringues smelling sweetly of
lemon and orange oil.

“Oh,” was all Nancy
could say, staring at the pile of homemade goodies.

“Maybe you’d like to
try something, dear?” asked the old lady kindly, handing Nancy a chocolate chip
cookie.

“Well, why…thank
you,” said Nancy, accepting the cookie.

The caterer took one
bite and her eyes popped out of their sockets. Being in the gourmet food
business, Nancy had had the opportunity to eat a lot of tasty desserts, but she
had never in her life tasted such a perfectly scrumptious chocolate chip
cookie.

“Now try the
brownie,” urged the old woman, eagerly shoving a rich fudge brownie at the
caterer.

Nancy swallowed her
cookie and took a bite of brownie.

Chocolate heaven!

When Nancy had
recovered from the divine experience, she grabbed the basket and said, “Wait
one moment, would you please?” and whisked the goodies back to her kitchen
staff.

Everyone from the
head chef to the dishwashers sampled the homemade yummies and it was
unanimous—they were the best damn desserts anyone there had ever eaten.

“Like my Nana used to
make,” declared the sous chef with tears in his eyes as he crunched on a lemon
cookie glazed with a light sugar coating.

Nancy rushed back to
the front of the store where the old lady waited patiently. “Did they like
them?” she asked sweetly.

“Your desserts are
incredible,” declared the caterer. “Where did you learn to bake like that?”

“Oh, from my own dear
grandmother when I was a little girl on the farm,” said the old lady with a
wistful smile.

“Look,” said Nancy,
unable to stop herself from snagging a sugar snap, “I think the good Lord sent
you to me today. Our pastry chef is sick with a stomach flu and we’ve got a
huge, I mean a
really
important event
tomorrow night. Could you, I mean, I know this is ridiculously short notice,
but is there any way you could make enough of these desserts for 350 people by
tomorrow night?” Nancy knew she had desperation written all over her face.