MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (3 page)

Inside the storm
drain it was pitch black and he had to crawl on his hands and knees in the
enclosed space. The air was stagnant with mold and rotting debris. He could
hear the unnerving scratch of little rodent feet ahead of him, but none of that
mattered. What did matter was that he wouldn’t make very good time this way.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have many options.

The prison security
would have him in a moment if they had seen him go down the storm pipe. But he
didn’t think they had and if that was the case, he still had a chance…

****

John made a beeline
for the newsstand and picked up the
New
York Post,
ignoring the rain that was creeping down the collar of his
vintage suit and the jostle of pedestrians brushing past him.

The show before the show at this year’s Academy Awards
Ceremony proved to be more exciting than the awards themselves. The Puck
Diamond, known for its whopping 33.19 carats and flawless beauty, was stolen
from its famous owner, Katherine Park, just before the ceremony began. Because
the ring appeared to vanish into thin air, there is speculation that this could
be the work of the Ghost.

The Ghost first began spooking authorities over fifteen
years ago when a piece known as the Winged Isis disappeared from the neck of
Rachida Al-Mansure, the wife of Moroccan pasha Zaffar Al-Mansure. The crime
took place aboard the pasha’s yacht anchored off the coast of Alexandria during
a glamorous New Year’s Eve bash. Since that time, the Ghost has repeatedly
staged thefts around the New Year’s holiday or other high-profile events.

Many believed the international jewel thief had at last
returned to the proverbial grave when cat burglar Dornal Zagen was put behind
bars three years ago. Since Zagen’s arrest, no new Ghost stories have unfolded,
but with the theft of Miss Park’s famous gem, authorities say they are not
ruling out the possibility that the phantom thief is back in business.

Hollywood loves a good Ghost story, but some here in
Tinseltown worry that this latest exploit could be just a trailer for coming
attractions. With more than ten million dollars worth of gems stolen in 1998
(the thief’s busiest year), everyone from starlets to studio heads have been
reminded to lock up their loot. Perhaps the most serious threat to the
glitterati will be in the nation’s capital at the Diamond Ball scheduled for
next Saturday. The charity event, sponsored by First Lady Lillian Spencer, is
being held to raise money for a new library in Anacostia, a DC neighborhood
infamous
for its urban blight. The
Smithsonian will permit many of its greatest
treasures to be modeled during the ball in a jewelry fashion show.

John folded the paper
under his arm and handed the grumpy Italian newsstand attendant seventy-five
cents. The old vendor sat morosely, blowing his nose with a handkerchief and
staring out at the gloomy weather. “Rain again,” he muttered, as if the world
could bring nothing good to any of them.

John barely nodded in
reply. He was too lost in thought for doom-and-gloom chitchat.

He reread the article
on the subway ride to the Upper West Side, but as he was leaving the
Eighty-Sixth Street station, he tossed the paper in the trash. The Ghost was no
longer any of his business.

****

Veronica sat curled
up in a worn velvet chair by the fireplace of the Upper East Side brownstone
she shared with her father, celebrated archeologist, Buzzy Rossmore. She had
been living with the old man since her divorce three years earlier. At first,
the family home had been a refuge from prying eyes and wagging tongues, but
after a while she had grown so comfortable, it seemed there was really no
reason to leave.

Perhaps other
twenty-something girls in Manhattan would have found living with a crusty
academic a cramp to their flirtini-filled lifestyles, but Veronica was more
interested in Socrates than sexual exploits and happier to take long, solitary
gallops through Central Park on her pure-blooded Arabian, Ramses, than
intoxicated rides on some stockbroker after an intolerable Gen-Art function.

Perhaps she craved
the security of the house itself, which had been her grandmother’s. There was
something wonderfully permanent and reassuring about the weathered brick
exterior and the creaking wood floorboards after growing up in every far-flung
place the globe could offer. Veronica had inhabited everything from pitched
tents in the Egyptian desert to gilded Moroccan palaces filled with servants to
strictly-run European boarding schools. She had lived in thirteen countries in
twenty years. Now, with her mother gone and the horrifyingly public collapse of
her marriage, she had only her father and this well-worn, but quietly
beautiful, house to cling to. She felt at last as if she had a place to settle
in for a while.

Veronica had been
assisting her father in one way or another since she was the little girl who
had stood awestruck by his side, gaping up in the shimmering heat at the
strange paintings covering the walls of a pharaoh’s forbidden tomb or gently
wiping dust with a fine brush to reveal the statue of a forgotten Indian
goddess in the jungles outside of Calcutta.

Now that the daring
exploits of his youth were behind him, her father had at last settled into a
tenured position at Columbia University as the head of the archeology
department. He made no secret of the fact that without Veronica’s sharp mind
and organizational skills many of his ground-breaking bestsellers or the highly
regarded academic papers he published would never have made it to print.

It was for an article
scheduled to be published in
The American
Journal of Archeology
that Veronica now studied a series of photographs
taken in a recently discovered tomb at Abaydos in the lower Nile Delta. A
curtain of sable-soft hair fell across the rows of hieroglyphics and her eyes
started to burn as she deciphered the final lines of Egyptian symbols. A tight
knot gripped her neck from leaning over her work so intently all evening.

Pushing aside the
papers, she stretched, enjoying the feel of thick silk pajamas gliding across
her skin. Pulling off her cat’s-eye glasses, she ran perfectly manicured
fingers through her long, dark hair, pulling it away from a face so flawless
she had been dubbed the “Dream Deb” of 1995. Not that she cared what the
society drones thought of her, but it was what they had said just the same.

She closed her eyes
and allowed the fire to warm her feet for a moment, luxuriating in the feel of
the heat stealing up her toes to her bare ankles.

The chimes of the
doorbell floated up from the ground floor below.

She glanced at the
scarred antique clock which ticked discreetly on the mantle. It was after nine
o’clock, too late for one of Buzzy’s many friends or colleagues to be calling,
and she was not expecting company.

Veronica rose and
made her way through the dark house down two flights of stairs to the elegant,
if slightly disheveled, entry hall, ignoring the chill of the marble floor
against her bare feet. She was just about to open the front door to investigate
when the lights flicked on in the hall. Buzzy Rossmore, wrapped in a frayed,
old Japanese yukata, his usual bedtime attire, made his way down the stairs,
his bushy white brows and wiry hair standing on end.

“Who’s come
a-calling?” croaked the old man good-naturedly.

With the lights on,
Veronica noticed the envelope lying just inside the doorway where someone had
slipped it through the brass mail slot. She leaned down and picked up the
letter, turning it over for clues to its origin. “I don’t know.”

The envelope bore her
name across the front in anonymous typewritten letters.

“Maybe it’s a note
from an admirer,” chuckled the old man.

Veronica frowned and
carefully tore open the letter. Her face remained as smooth as glass as she
read the note, but trying to hide her anxiety, she quickly jammed the letter
back into the envelope.

“So? What does it
say?”

Veronica smiled.
“It’s nothing.” As her fingers folded and unfolded the envelope, she prayed he
would let it go.

“Indulge an old man,”
said Buzzy, gently slipping the paper from her hand.

Annoyed, Veronica
crossed her arms across her breasts, as her father read her mail. “You’re by
far the nosiest person I’ve ever met.”

“Made a career of
it,” mumbled the archeologist as he pulled the letter out of the envelope and
read.

Veronica studied her
father as his face darkened and his usually good-natured expression vanished.

He looked up.
“Perhaps now you’ll stop being so headstrong and listen to me!” Buzzy angrily
slapped the note down on the hall table. “Is this what it takes?”

Veronica’s chin rose
a notch and a combative fire kindled in her eyes, but she said nothing.

Shaking his head,
Buzzy turned away and started back up the stairway. “I’ve had enough, Veronica.
This Goddamn Diamond Ball! I’m going to take care of this whether you like it
or not!” He turned back momentarily to glare at her. “You’re still my
daughter!”

Veronica bit her
lower lip to keep back a sharp response as she watched her father lumber up the
stairs. There was no point in arguing with him when he was in a state.

Whether in anger, or
simply by reflex, Buzzy snapped off the light as he reached the landing,
leaving her bathed in the moonlight spilling through the hall windows. She
could hear him grumbling to himself as he disappeared into the darkened second
floor.

Veronica exhaled a
long breath and picked up the note again. Narrowing her eyes in the dim light,
she slowly went over the short, typewritten sentences. There was nothing to be
found on either the letter or the envelope to reveal the identity of the
author.

Glancing up from the
page, she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. The shimmer of moonlight
on diamonds played at her throat and peeped out like stars from behind the dark
hair that didn’t quite cover her earlobes. “Ice Princess” had been one of
Derrick Chapin’s favorite snide little pet names for her—derogatory and
complimentary at the same time, as he had so often been during their brief
marriage. She searched her own dark, India-ink eyes looking for something
beyond the flawless image.

When will this finally be over?
She looked at her
reflection, but the cool moonlit beauty who stared back seemed to possess more
secrets than answers.

John stopped off at Zabar’s,
the famed gourmet delicatessen, on the way to his mother’s house. He picked up
bagels and lox, matzo ball soup, and crunchy kosher pickles—all the Jewish food
his Catholic-Croatian mother was crazy about. He ordered himself a turkey and
provolone sub from the deli counter and headed to the register. A pretty
cashier with big brown eyes and long wavy hair rang him up.

“That’ll be $22.45,”
she informed him cheerfully.

John scanned his
wallet. It was filled with maxed-out credit cards and no cash. “Try this,” he
said hopefully, handing the cashier a credit card. He held his breath as she
swiped it through the machine.

This is no way to live.

The register beeped
and, to his relief, spit out a sales receipt for the groceries.

The cashier smiled
and handed him the bag of gourmet goodies. As he met her eyes, she blushed and
coyly cast down her heavily mascaraed lashes.

John smiled back. It
was amazing how women could respond so positively to a smile or a polite, “How
are you?” Back in his drinking days, John had come to the conclusion that women
were difficult. Of course, this thought usually came while he was puking his
guts out in front of a date on the pavement outside his favorite dive bar or
wavering on his feet while making improper suggestions in some poor girl’s ear
with alcohol-drenched breath. But, lo and behold, with the onset of his
sobriety, suddenly female admiration glowed warmly toward him from all corners.
Too bad Simon had strongly suggested he not get seriously involved with anyone
just yet. Following Simon’s suggestions had been tough but so far he was right
on the money. John picked up the bag of groceries and waved goodbye to the
cashier.

He sauntered down
West Broadway to Eighty-Second Street, enjoying the spray of spring rain on his
face. The streets were lined with dark brownstones and art deco apartment
buildings with their uniformed doormen hanging out in front smoking cigarettes
and waiting for their shifts to end. John nodded cordially to them as he made
his way to number 224. There was no fancy-pants doorman here. Just a dusty
lobby with a row of metal mailboxes and a chandelier with a few cracked
crystals and one missing light bulb.

As he waited for the
elevator, he couldn’t help but notice himself in the smoky, mirrored wall
across the hallway. At thirty-three, he didn’t look half bad in the snappy
vintage suit he had donned for the big AA birthday bash. His short, dark hair
was neatly cut and his dimples flashed as he smiled at his one-year-sober self.
The green eyes he had inherited from his Irish father sparkled with a bit of
the devil in them, but overall he decided he looked like a fine, upstanding
man.