MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (17 page)

“All the same,” said
John, “I’d like to find out where he was this evening.”

Veronica looked
annoyed. “Don’t you think we should be busy trying to track the real thief
instead of wasting time with Nicholas? Besides, even if it was the thief you
call the White Russian, didn’t you say he always leaves a calling card? There’s
no card in this room that I can see.”

She had a point
there, but John was beginning to think maybe Nicholas only left calling cards
when he wanted to confuse the authorities. What better way to portray your
innocence than by throwing everyone on the scent of a supposedly different
thief?

“Listen,” said John,
“in a minute I’m going to call someone at the FBI and get him down here. I
promise you he’s going to want to talk to your Russian friend—calling card or
no calling card. Now, we can let him take your pal in for questioning or we can
go ask him ourselves right now. What do you want to do?”

Veronica looked
miserable. He knew she didn’t like either option but finally said, “All right,
let’s go.”

They didn’t say a
word as they made their way down to room 211. He was too busy thinking and she
was still too upset. When they reached the White Russian’s room, John stood
aside and motioned toward the door. “Go ahead. He’s your buddy.”

Glaring at John, she
raised her hand and knocked on the door, calling softly, “Nicky, it’s
Veronica.”

There was no answer.

“Try again,” said
John.

She did, but there
was still no answer.

“He’s not here,” she
said. “I’m going back to my room and call the police.”

“Wait a moment,” said
John thinking. “You go downstairs to the lobby and ask the concierge if he’s
seen Nicholas tonight. I’m going to wait right here until you come back and
tell me what they say.”

“This is ridiculous,
John. You’re chasing the wrong man!”

John turned and
looked straight into those teary eyes. “Listen, Veronica, do you want your
stuff back or not? You may not think much of me, but I did have a pretty good
track record in my years with the FBI. I’ve caught more thieves and recovered
more stolen jewelry than anyone else in the department—then or now.”

“But you never
recovered anything stolen by the Ghost, and that’s who took my jewels. I know
it and you know it!” Veronica shot back, her temper obviously starting to rise.

“Maybe it was the
Ghost,” admitted John, “but maybe it wasn’t. Either way, you have to believe
that there is no one else who offers you a better shot of recovering your
things than me. So I need you to help me, and I need you to help me now, before
the trail gets too cold.”

They stared each
other down for a tense moment, but at last, Veronica nodded. “All right, I’ll
meet you back up here in a minute.”

When the elevator
doors had safely closed behind her, John scanned the hallway. All was quiet. He
took a “Do Not Disturb” sign off the knob of a nearby room and carefully slid
it between the crack of the door to room 211 and the molding. He shifted the
sign around until the lock clicked. Slowly, he pushed the door open to reveal
the White Russian standing in the entrance. The thief was wearing a navy silk
dressing gown and an antique ebony cigarette holder was stuck in his mouth. His
black eyes were cold and unamused.

“Can I help you?” he
asked, in his thick Russian accent.

“Can I come in?”
asked John curtly.

“No, I’m afraid you
cannot. I have a guest with me.”

“Why didn’t you
answer the door when Veronica knocked just now?”

The White Russian
exhaled a stream of smoke through his nostrils like a dragon. “I just told you,
I have a visitor and do not wish to be disturbed.”

“Listen, Bezuhov,”
John said in his best tough cop voice, “Veronica Rossmore’s entire jewelry
collection was stolen tonight, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re the number
one suspect.”

The White Russian
narrowed his black eyes and didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he surprised
John by asking, “Is she terribly upset?”

“You’re damn right
she’s upset. Maybe you can tell me where you were this evening?”

“Jessica and I went
to the Kennedy Center for the ballet. We just got back to the hotel about
twenty minutes ago,” replied Nicholas.

“Did the concierge see
you come in?”

“Yes, in fact, I
picked up a note from him on my way in,” said the White Russian smoothly.

“Who’s the note
from?” asked John.

“None of your
business,” snapped Nicholas.

“What ballet did you
see?”

“Giselle, my
favorite. I still have the tickets if you’d like to see them,” he sneered in
mock helpfulness.

“Jessica in there,
too?” asked John.

Nicholas turned his
head and called, “
Moheta
, could you come here a moment please?”

The debutante stepped
out of the shadows, clutching a pale pink satin robe across her naked breasts.
Her hair was disheveled and John could just make out a purple bruise under her
left ear, which she tried to cover by wrapping her hand around her throat.
“What is it, Nikoli?” she asked in her well-bred voice.

“I’m sorry to disturb
you, miss,” said John, “but can you tell me what you did this evening?”

Jessica blushed clear
to the roots of her blonde hair and looked at Nicholas confused.

“He means where did
we go tonight,” explained the White Russian.

“Oh,” said the debutant.
“Well, we went to dinner at the Willard Room and then to the ballet.” She
looked John up and down trying to figure out what he was doing there.

“I’m sorry, miss. My
name is John Monroe. I’m working as a bodyguard here in the hotel and my
client’s jewels have just been stolen.”

“But what has that
got to do with us?” asked Jessica, mystification written across her baby-soft
face and innocent pale-blue eyes.

“It has nothing to do
with us,” said Nicholas. “So if you don’t mind, Mr. Monroe, we’d like to go
back to bed.”

I bet you would,
John watched the dishy debutante turn away
and disappear back into the dark room.

“Veronica know about
her?” asked John.

“Good night,” said
the White Russian and shut the door in his face, just missing John’s nose by a
fraction of an inch.

A few moments later,
the elevator doors opened and Veronica stepped out. John made his way down the
hall to her. “What did they have to say downstairs?” he asked.

“They told me
Nicholas was out all evening but came in about twenty minutes ago with that
same blonde girl he was with last night.”

“All right,” said
John. “I just spoke to him and he gave me the same story.”

“You see? I told you
he had nothing to do with this,” said Veronica, annoyed.

“We’ll see about
that.” John jabbed the elevator button with his finger. “In the meantime, we
better officially report the theft.”

“Yes, we should,” she
agreed.

The elevator arrived
and they stepped in. John leaned back against the wall and inspected Veronica.
She looked miserable. Her dark hair hung in lose clumps where she had clawed it
from its pins, a faint line of black mascara streaked her pale cheek. She was a
far cry from the immaculately dressed, poised woman he had become used to over
the past few days. He felt a swell of sympathy for her and squeezed her arm
reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Veronica. We’ll get your jewels back.”

She looked at him and
smiled wanly. It was clear she didn’t believe him.

The elevator doors
slid open, but John put his hand on the HOLD button. “Listen, why don’t you let
me take care of this? You go upstairs, wash your face, change into something
else, maybe have a glass of wine. I’ll be up in a moment. It could be a long
night once the authorities get here. You may want to camp out in my room while
they dust yours for prints.” He didn’t tell her he was beginning to get the
feeling they wouldn’t find any.

She nodded and looked
relieved. “Thank you, John.”

He gave her a wink.
“Don’t worry.” He stepped out of the elevator and the doors whispered shut
behind him.

****

Half an hour later,
Veronica’s hotel suite had turned into the three-ring circus John had known it
would. Downstairs the press was already clogging up the lobby, waiting for
their first scoop on the latest installation of the Ghost chronicles.

When Quinn arrived,
John realized it had been a long time since he’d laid eyes on his old partner.
Quinn’s little paunch had turned into a full-fledged potbelly and his hair
seemed to have thinned dramatically. He wore a gray slicker against the rain
that had begun to pour down outside and his wet, mouse-brown hair was plastered
against his skull.

“I’m sorry it took me
so long,” he announced to the room full of cops. “I had to fight my way through
the vultures downstairs.” He shook his head like it was all too much.

“Sorry to bring you
out at this hour,” said John, walking his ex-partner over to Veronica, who had
slipped into a pair of jeans and a black cashmere sweater. “This is Miss
Rossmore.”

“Nice to meet you,”
said Quinn, distractedly sticking out a chubby hand for her to shake.

She nodded and
murmured, “Nice to meet you.”

She had sunk into a
morose depression so deep John was almost shocked by it. Where had the feisty,
confident woman gone? He studied her as she quietly moved into a corner of the
room and sat with her head propped up on one elbow watching the police check
out the room.

Quinn frowned. “She
okay?”

“She’s taking this
pretty hard.”

“Well then, maybe she
should have kept her freakin’ jewels in the hotel safe,” whispered Quinn
irritably. “I cannot believe this night. I really can’t. Do you know where I
just came from? Guess! Why don’t you guess?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you.”
Quinn stuffed a cigarette in his mouth and flicked the lighter repeatedly in
short sharp jerks until it finally produced a flame. “Senator Hayes’ house. And
do you know why I was there? Because friggin’ Maggie the Cat, or at least I’m
pretty sure that’s who it was, hit the place and took off with the Mogul
Emerald.”

“The Mogul Emerald?”
John mentally tried to place the stone.

“You’ve been out of
the game too long,” observed Quinn with his first grin of the evening. “It’s a
massive square-cut emerald. It used to belong to the maharajas of India. About
a hundred years ago, someone got the idea to etch Islamic prayers into it. The
senator’s wife, who’s a nut about New Age stuff, bought the thing last year
during their peace-making trip to the Middle East. She thinks it will protect
her and her family from terrorist attacks. She’s fucking freaking out.”

“Maggie the Cat does
love her high-profile jewels,” said John, remembering some of her past
suspected heists.

“Yeah, God forbid she
hit up a jewelry store and steal a few engagement rings,” grumbled Quinn.

“So what makes you
think it’s her?”

Quinn started
counting off the reasons on his chubby fingers. “One—she’s in the area.
Two—this is her kind of rock. Three—my men found a, a…what do you call it? A
sparkle? No. A sequin, they found a friggin’ sequin on the floor of Senator
Hayes’ bedroom.”

John shook his head.
“That’s pretty flimsy evidence, but I see what you’re saying. Once again, you
know who did it but can’t prove it.”

“Isn’t that always
the game,” complained Quinn, looking discouraged.

“Well, it looks like
it’s been a busy night,” said John, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“You said it.
Anyway,” Quinn scanned the room, “what about this? What have you got?”

“I hate to say it,
but it looks to me like the Ghost,” admitted John.

“Are you sure? It’s
been a long time since the Ghost’s been in action.”

“But the Puck Diamond—”

“Turned out to be the
Granny who pulled that one off. I managed to identify her in the crowd after
watching that damn video frame by frame for about twelve hours straight. Now we
just have to catch the old broad so I can get Katherine Park off my ass.” He
put his palms together and turned his eyes toward heaven. “Please, dear God.”
He took a long drag off his cigarette and snatched up a crystal ashtray from
the bedside table to flick his ash into before it dropped onto the expensive
carpet. “And you know what? I’m beginning to have a theory about the Ghost.”

“Oh yeah, what’s
that?”

“What if there is no
Ghost?” said Quinn, raising his eyebrows dramatically.

“What do you mean?”
asked John, confused.

“I’m saying,” said
Quinn, stabbing his cigarette into the air, “what if there never was any Ghost?
What if we’ve just been attributing any well-executed jewel theft to the Ghost?
Think about it. We find a clean robbery with no breakin and no fingerprints
and we say, ‘Aw Christ, it must be the Ghost.’ But it could be all kinds of
different thieves at different times.”