THE COLD FIRE- Page 5

  “I would like that.” John placed his cup on the table now that they were getting down to business.

  “I’m sorry you’ve gone to the trouble of coming here, but I have no intention of allowing anyone to babysit me. My father insisted I meet you and see how harmless and unobtrusive you would be, but it doesn’t matter. I’m a private person.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t like people hanging around.”

  “You’re kidding?” John snapped sarcastically.

  “You can wait for my father, if you like, and we can go through the charade. I promise you, though, after you leave, I will let him know in no uncertain terms that I am not interested in…”

  But she stopped midsentence at the sound of the door closing downstairs. John and Veronica stood awkwardly as Buzzy Rossmore climbed the steps to the parlor.

  The archeologist had a bright, welcoming smile on his face as he entered the room. His manner was warm and jovial. John liked him on sight. Buzzy was clad in an older style, gray flannel suit with a crisp white handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket, which nearly matched the shock of hair that stood out on his head. His sparkling blue eyes radiated intelligence and had a certain childlike innocence to them.

  “Well, John, I’m so glad you could make it!” exclaimed Buzzy, as if they’d been buddies for years.

  “I’m glad to meet you,” said John politely.

  Buzzy kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Hello, sweetheart.” Veronica lifted her brows and threw herself down on the couch, apparently resigned to the ordeal ahead of her.

  “Please make yourself comfortable.” Buzzy sunk into the seat by the fire which Veronica had vacated.

  John accepted the invitation and sat down.

  “So, you’ve had a chance to meet Veronica.” The old man smiled in his daughter’s direction.

  “Yes,” John said, not knowing if he should elaborate.

  “Well, Lillian says you’re a retired FBI man. Though I must say, you look pretty young to be retired. You must have been doing something right!” He laughed at his own joke and continued. “Anyway, Lillian said before you left the FBI, you specialized in catching jewel thieves.”

  It took John a moment to figure out who Lillian was, until he caught on that the old man was talking about the First Lady. “Yes, I followed the Ghost around for several years. It didn’t get me very far though. He’s still at large.”

  “But you captured several other notorious thieves,” Buzzy commented, enthusiastically.

  “I did help bring a few people down,” admitted John.

  “Well then, what we’d like you to do should be child’s play for someone with your background. We don’t want you to catch any thieves, just make sure no one gets their hands on any of Veronica’s treasures.”

  John looked over at Veronica. She sat tight-lipped with her arms crossed over her breasts, her Gillot brooch shimmering like fairy dust in the late afternoon sunlight.

  “I’d like to help you, Mr. Rossmore,” John said, trying to be polite. “But your daughter says she doesn’t want a bodyguard.”

  “It’s true, Daddy,” she said quickly. “If you’d just spoken to me about this before dragging…,” she looked at John, obviously trying to remember his name.

  He helped her out. “John.”

  She ignored him. “You know I hate having people around. I’ll have no privacy at all.”

  As John watched her try to convince Buzzy, he remembered something from his doings with the Manhattan blue bloods. During his time tracking jewel thieves, it was inevitable that he would pick up a little Park Avenue gossip. It must have been about three years ago that he had heard about Veronica and her husband who had thrown her down the grand staircase at the Metropolitan Museum’s Costume Institute Ball in a jealous rage. There had been lots of pictures of the event floating around the tabloids. That year the ball’s theme had been ‘Goddesses’ and Veronica had come dressed as the Egyptian deity Isis. She had adorned herself in a vintage 1930s beaded gown and piles of the gems her father had given her during their time on archeological trips to the East.

  There had been one particular photo of Veronica lying unconscious at the foot of the staircase with her ball dress fanned out all around her, her shapely legs exposed, and her head thrown back showing off a swan’s neck encased in an exotic necklace. She had looked like a fancy broken doll flung on the ground by a careless child. Standing over her was her drunk husband, his black bow tie hanging loose around his neck, his jaw dropped open as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. For about a month this picture, and others of Veronica and her husband, had graced the covers of the New York Post and People magazine. Then it had all blown over and gone away.

  John studied her more curiously now.

  “I will not have you put yourself in danger, Veronica,” insisted her father. Taking a piece of paper from his breast pocket, he handed it to John. “We received this last night.”

  John unfolded the paper and read the note. It was typewritten on a plain, white piece of paper.

  “Stay away from the Diamond Ball, Miss Rossmore, or you could find yourself an unwilling character in the latest Ghost story, to which there will not be a happy ending.”

  “Have you notified anyone yet? The police or the FBI?” asked John.

  “We don’t want any publicity, and really, I’m not afraid of ghosts,” insisted Veronica.

  “Miss Rossmore, you really ought to take this seriously. Why don’t you let me take this down to the lab? They could test it for fingerprints, DNA, all kinds of things.”

  “I really think this whole thing is silly,” she said with a cold smile. “I’m a big girl and I don’t want a high profile police investigation or a bodyguard.”

  “Will you at least promise to be more careful with your jewels?” pleaded Buzzy. Clearly his little girl had him wrapped around her finger.

  “What’s careful?” she asked.

  “She won’t be,” exclaimed the old man, now turning to John. “She flaunts her diamonds all over the place, even wears them on the subway or walking through Central Park alone—at night, for God’s sake!”

  So she did take the subway. What else was she lying about? John raised his brows at Veronica, but she wasn’t looking at him. She had fire in her eyes and all her attention went to her father.

  “I can take care of myself and you know it.”

  Her father shook his head and collapsed back into his chair looking as if his daughter would be the death of him. “You understand, Veronica, that I have a very important lecture to give on Saturday night. I cannot accompany you to this affair.”

  “I’m not asking you to!” she said, exasperated.

  “Veronica, I will not be able to sleep at night worrying about you and those jewels. Not with this Ghost on the loose and every other thief worth their salt probably lining up to take turns stealing from the people attending this ball!”

  Veronica shook her head and a curtain of dark hair fell over one eye. Annoyed, she pushed it back behind her ear.

  “All right,” said Buzzy with a sigh, “I’ll cancel my lecture.”

  John almost smiled. So he and his mother weren’t the only people who went through this.

  “You will not cancel your lecture,” declared Veronica.

  Buzzy was about to reply, when he turned to look at John and, taking a deep breath, remembered himself. “John, I’m so sorry. Perhaps I can call you tomorrow when my daughter and I have straightened this thing out.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” John rose and handed back the note. He paused a moment, not wanting to interfere but feeling it his duty to say something. “You know, you really should call the cops about this note. The person who wrote it might be dangerous.”

  Buzzy nodded his head. “Thank you, John. Veronica and I will discuss the matter and decide what we think is best.”

  John shrugged; it really wasn’t any of his business.

  Buzzy rose. “I’ll walk you o
ut.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, here,” the old man pulled a beat-up leather checkbook out of his jacket pocket, “let me at least compensate you for your wasted time.”

  John shook his head. “It’s okay.”

  “It would make me feel better.” Buzzy’s pen was poised over a blank check.

  John felt Veronica’s cool eyes on him, watching to see if he’d take the money.

  “Seriously, Mr. Rossmore, I had a great walk through the park on my way over here. It was a pleasure meeting you and your daughter. You don’t owe me anything.” John couldn’t help but wonder just how much the old man would have given him.

  “Well…all right.” Veronica’s father slipped his checkbook back into his jacket. “Thank you for coming by; I’ll be in touch.”

  John nodded to Veronica, who sat stone-faced tapping her heel on the ground. She inclined her head a fraction of an inch in his direction.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Veronica.” He flashed a smile in her direction. “Maybe I’ll catch you on the A train sometime.”

  She smiled back with hard eyes. “Don’t count on it.”

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, John sat quietly reading a passage out of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous as he’d done every morning for the past year. This morning he’d been reading about Step Two: “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”

  He drank his coffee and thought about this concept. He still had trouble with the idea of a Higher Power. If there was one, why had his father’s liver burst one day? Why had he watched his old man vomit blood all over the immaculate floor his mother had spent hours scrubbing before she left to run the day’s errands? Why should any seven-year-old be left alone with his father crumpled against the refrigerator, the older man’s eyes bugged out with fear, his face a waxy yellow? John could go back there in a heartbeat and see his father coughing up noxious poisons, unable to speak or move until his system was so polluted it shut down completely. Then he had just been a dead man with a little boy shaking his beefy blood-drenched shoulder. The little boy had cried and screamed but there had been no one to help.

  John closed his eyes and whispered, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”

  That’s when the phone rang. It was Veronica.

  “I’m downstairs in my car,” she said, in her cool, low voice. “I’ll give you ten minutes to get down here. If you have a tuxedo, bring it. Otherwise, we’ll be gone four days, so pack accordingly.”

  He was in a bad mood and a lot of not-so-nice comebacks sprang to mind, but instead he said, “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

  “Okay, eleven minutes.” She hung up.

  He was used to having to pack on the double from his days at the FBI. When a jewel thief struck, whether it was in Lisbon or Los Angeles, he had to be on the first plane out before the trail got cold.

  When John came out of his apartment building, he found Veronica waiting in a platinum convertible. Her hair was covered by an iris print scarf and she wore big bug-eyed, Jackie-O sunglasses, a perfectly pressed sleeveless button-down shirt, and a preppy floral skirt. But what caught his eye was the shimmer of diamonds dancing around her wrists as she clutched the steering wheel and another white hot sparkle peeping out from beneath her collar.

  “Showing off your collection?” John asked, tossing his suitcase into the back seat and sliding in next to her.

  She smiled and shook her glittering wrist in front of him so the diamonds danced in the sunlight. “This is nothing.”

  Then she reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope with his name scrawled across it. “My father asked me to give this to you.” She presented it to him with a pearly white smile that seemed a little too much like a smirk.

  “What is it?”

  “Probably money.” She shifted the car into gear and tore away from the curb. “I’m sure you’ll have expenses and things and my dad, being the sucker he is, probably threw in a nice advance, too.”

  John slipped the envelope in his pocket. He sure wasn’t going to give Veronica Rossmore the satisfaction of watching his eyes light up at the sight of a few greenbacks or a fat bank check.

  She pulled onto the West Side Highway and quickly shot ahead of a cab driver who was vying for the same crack in the traffic flow to get into the fast lane. She appeared to be in a good mood today. Something about getting out on the open road with the wind whipping around them seemed to appeal to her.

  John watched the Hudson River flash by in a blur. “Of course, it would have been better to hire a limo with bulletproof glass and tinted windows.”

  “I detest limousines,” she scoffed. “I think they’re the most vulgar cars. Any wannabe rap star or pimply seventeen-year-old on a prom date can drive around in one.”

  She had a point.

  “Still, if you want security…”

  “But I don’t want security, or rather, I’m not worried about it. It’s my father who’s the big worry-wart.”

  “I take it he’s not coming to the ball?” remarked John.

  “No, he hates these big social things.”

  “What about you?”

  “I hate them, too, but Lillian Spencer was a friend of my mother’s. They went to Vassar together and she specifically asked me to come and, of course, I am curious to see all the beautiful jewels. I won’t be able to stand most of the ladies wearing them, but that doesn’t matter. Just seeing this collection of gems all in one place will be something.”

  He could imagine her eyes lighting up behind the Jackie O’s. “It’ll be a security nightmare is what it’ll be.”

  “But there will be secret service and the museum’s security and, of course, I’ll have you,” she said with a slight condescending lilt to her voice, which John did not appreciate.

  “Listen, I’m telling you, it’s a security nightmare. You’re lucky your father had the foresight to hire someone to watch over your stuff,” he insisted.

  She shrugged and they rode in silence after that all the way through the state of New Jersey.

  Somewhere around Trenton, Veronica reached over and flipped open the glove compartment. She pulled out a CD and slid it into the built-in player on the dashboard. The velvety voice of Lena Horn purred out of the speakers with a swanky band arrangement to back her up.

  Veronica sang along with Lena as she flew past the other cars on the highway. John liked the way she drove. She was sure of herself and had quick reflexes. She didn’t tailgate, choosing instead to jump ahead of any slowpokes on the road. He stretched back in the leather seats and watched the world fly by with the sun on his face and the music soothing his spirit. This might not be such a bad job after all.

  They were speeding through Pennsylvania when Veronica said, “So tell me some exciting stories about your days at the FBI chasing jewel thieves.”

  “Well, let’s see.” He thought about it. “The man who gave me the most trouble is your friend the Ghost.”

  “The one who wrote the note.”

  John nodded.

  “I read about him in the newspapers,” said Veronica. “He took Katherine Park’s diamond ring.”

  “It’s possible. I’ve tracked him all through Europe, down to Charleston, and over to Los Angeles, among other places. The thing about him is…he doesn’t leave any trace—nothing.” John bit his thumb and shook his head. “Every other thief leaves some kind of telltale sign. Some of them are just glorified thugs who pull off jewelry store robberies like they were hitting a local gas station. Some of them are so caught up in their own crazy game they get arrogant and leave calling cards.”

  “Actual calling cards?” asked Veronica, unable to keep the interest from her voice.

  John smiled. “One guy does. He calls himself the White
Russian because he claims his family goes back to the aristocracy of the Russian Empire, though it’s more likely he’s a descendant of the craftsman from the House of Fabergé. He seems to have inherited some of their skill with jewels.”

  “What has he stolen?” she asked.

  “His biggest heist was about five years ago. He grabbed a Burmese ruby the size of an egg out of the hotel room of a Saudi Arabian sheikh.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “Well, yes and no,” said John. “We knew it was him. He left his card for Christ’s sake. He was staying in the same hotel, but we had no proof and we couldn’t find the ruby on him.”

  “Was the stone ever recovered?”

  “No, the thing about the White Russian is since he’s a jeweler, he cuts all the stones himself, which makes it more difficult to track him down. Normally, you get your guy when they try to sell the stones or get them cut,” John informed her.

  “If most thieves get caught cutting their stones, why don’t more of them do it themselves?” she asked, revving the engine and speeding up to pass a big rig truck.

  “It’s no easy thing to cut a gem,” he explained. “That’s a serious craft, often passed down through generations. There are only a few places in the world you can even get it done.”

  “The White Russian, he’s a trained gem cutter as well as a master craftsman?”

  “The official name for it is a lapidary, but yes, that’s his deal,” said John.

  “What about the Ghost?” she asked. “Why can’t you track him when he gets his stones cut, or do you think he knows how to do it, too?”

  “There’s something about him,” said John, drifting back into the past. “You go to the scene of the crime where the Ghost has struck and there’s nothing. No fingerprints, no broken locks, nothing disturbed in any way, and there’s no word on the street either. Not a peep. The stones don’t show up on the black market.” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”