MOONLIGHT ON DIAMONDS (9 page)

After they had
checked in, a team of porters led them to room 147 and opened the door. As they
were about to head in, John suddenly envisioned Veronica plopping her jewelry
case on the bed and opening it up for all to see. He knew already, just from
the few hours he’d spent with her, it was the kind of thing she would do.

He jumped in front of
the entourage before they could enter the suite. “Thanks, guys, I’ll take it
from here.” After he peeled bills out of his wallet and handed them out like
candy at a playground, the porters wasted no time in disappearing.

Inside the room,
Veronica stood with her arms crossed. “Why did you do that?”

“Because this is not
a secure situation for your jewelry,” John said quietly. He tried to step into
the room. But before he had a chance, she shoved her hand hard against his
chest, blocking him.

He tried to reason
with her. “Listen, why don’t you let me take your stuff down to the hotel
safe?”

“Why don’t you mind
your own business?” she snapped and closed the door in his face.

He stood there for a
moment with his Irish rising hot and fast. Then he closed his eyes and prayed silently. He took a deep breath and
pushed the doorbell.

She didn’t answer.

This time he put his
finger on the bell and didn’t take it off. He could hear the melodious little
chimes repeating themselves over and over and over again.

The door sprang open.
She had taken her scarf off and her hair fell lose around her shoulders. She
had removed her sunglasses, too, and her eyes crackled like the blue flames at
the hottest part of a fire. “Well?’’

“I was going to say,
your father is not paying me to mind my own business.”

Their eyes locked in
a battle of wills until she took a breath and said, “What if I double his rate
and you leave me alone?”

John raised his
eyebrows in surprise.
Forty-thousand
dollars for doing nothing?
Of course, that would be wrong, and he didn’t do
wrong things anymore. Sober members of Alcoholics Anonymous did not do wrong
things if they wanted to stay sober members of Alcoholics Anonymous. He closed
his mind to the temptation before he did something he shouldn’t. “I’m sorry,
Veronica, we both know I can’t do that.”

“Well, I’m not
handing my jewelry over to anyone else,” she said stubbornly.

“It’s a hotel vault
where it will be safe,” he reminded her.

“You don’t get it,”
she snapped. “This is my mother’s jewelry. It belonged to her and I’m not
giving it to you, or a hotel vault, or anyone else. It’s nonnegotiable.”

Annoyed, John paced
up and down the hall, his steps muffled by the expensive carpet. He finally
turned back to her. “All right…but if those rocks get stolen…”

“They won’t,” she
said, firmly.

“But if they do…” he
jabbed an index finger her way accusingly.

“They won’t,” she said,
gritting her teeth and once again the door was closed in his face.

When he reached his
own room, John was still mad. He opened the minibar and it was lined with
little jewel-colored bottles of poison—Russian vodka, Kentucky bourbon, French
cognac. He marched over to the phone and dialed the operator. He told them his
room number and asked them to clean out the minibar.

“Would you like to
replace that with anything else?” asked the obsequious desk clerk.

“Sure, how ’bout
seltzer and pretzels—lots of them?”

There was a slight
pause on the line and then, “We’ll take care of it, sir.”

After they hung up,
John stood there for a moment before he picked up the receiver again. He dialed
a number ingrained in his memory.

Quinn answered. He
sounded stressed out without even knowing who was on the line. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” said John.
“What’s wrong?”

Quinn exhaled. “You
don’t even want to know.”

“Well, I took the
Rossmore gig. I’m in DC staying at the Monticello.”

“Nice.” Quinn sounded
impressed. “I’m in DC, too. Did Miss Rossmore tell you about the rehearsal
tomorrow at the Smithsonian?”

“What is this, a
wedding?” asked John, annoyed that Veronica had
not
informed him about it.

“They’re doing a
fashion show for jewels. It’s an excuse for every rich dame in town to show off
her rocks and have everyone applaud.”

“Must be nice,” said
John.

“Anyway, I’ll try and
make it over there. I’ve already got your security clearance and all that
malarkey, but listen—no gun.”

“What!” exclaimed
John, outraged.

“They don’t want you
carrying a gun. I’m sorry, you’re not officially back yet and you’ve had your
drug problems…”

“Alcohol—I had an
alcohol problem and let’s not pretend that half the force isn’t hopped up on
something.”

“Listen,” said Quinn,
trying to calm his friend. “This isn’t me, okay? It’s not even about you. I
shouldn’t have said that. They don’t want
anyone
carrying guns, except a few of the secret service guys watching the First Lady
and her daughter.”

There was a pause.

“John, are you
there?”

“Yeah, okay,” muttered
John.

“Listen,” his old
partner reassured him, “I’m really glad you’re going to be there. We’ve already
gotten word that Nicholas Bezuhov is in town, we lost sight of the Granny last
week, and still no word on Dornal Zagen.”

“He’ll surface one of
these days.”

“No kidding. I just
don’t want it to be at the freakin’ Diamond Ball. It’s going to be like a jewel
thief convention, so anything you can do to help us out…”

“That goes without
saying.”

“Okay, well, I gotta
go.” The exhaustion in Quinn’s voice fed through the phone line.

“Don’t let the
bastards get you.” It was the old line they always fed each other when things
got tough. He could picture his ex-partner’s smile.

“I won’t, buddy.”

****

Veronica slumped in
the corner of her hotel room’s damask loveseat staring moodily at the jewel
case which had caused so much drama between her and John this afternoon. He had
only been doing his job. Her father was paying him to watch her jewels and she
had not been very helpful. She must have appeared completely irrational. Of
course, he didn’t understand. How could anyone really know what these diamonds
meant to her?

She went to the jewel
case, unlocking it and pulling out a finely crafted diamond bracelet. She held
it tenderly as she struggled to retrieve memories that were harder and harder
to recall, like dog-eared photographs which had begun to disintegrate from
being handled too much.

An image of her
mother came, dressed in cool, white linen against the Egyptian heat, as she
held out a cup of mint tea sweetened with honey. Her mother helped little
Veronica hold the cup with both hands and take a sip, her diamond bracelet,
brilliant in the bright sunlight, dancing before Veronica’s eyes.

Her mother smiled
warmly. “Taste good, baby?”

The sunlight, and
shimmering diamonds, and her mother’s perfect love all fused and glowed around
her like a magic spell.

The bracelet now in
her hand became a blur as her eyes welled up. Gently, she returned the treasure
to its case. She brushed the tears from her lashes and quickly snapped the case
shut. When a person died what was left of them? The love she felt for her
mother would never fade, but she couldn’t physically hold onto that love with
her own two hands when she needed so much to hold onto something. She couldn’t
wear that love like an amulet against her heart for courage when she was afraid
the way she could a shimmering jeweled pendant. Diamonds were the only
indestructible thing she could count on to always be beautiful, always perfect,
always survive…

The knock on her door
snapped Veronica out of her reverie.

“Veronica,” John’s
voice sounded muffled through the door. “It’s me. Are you in there?”

She hesitated.
Despite their earlier argument, she had to admit now that the sound of his
voice was comforting. There was something warm and good about him that she
liked, despite her annoyance at his professional duties.

She started toward
the door when she heard him strike up a whistled tune on the other side. She
stopped and stood there smiling as the sound of his little melody floated into
her room. Leaning back against the door, she crossed her arms, thinking. What
was she going to do with John Monroe?

****

Marguerite Gateaux
longed for the feel of dice in her hands the moment she arrived aboard the
French financier’s yacht
La Sirène
. A
casino had been set up this evening as a diversion for the billionaire’s
international guests. Tonight, Marguerite was a hired hand. She was to perform
on the web of fishing nets which hung from the ceiling decorated with gauzy
draped seaweed, shimmering giant oyster shells, and ropes of black Tahitian
pearls. The ship’s grand salon had been designed for the party to look like a
scene out of Davy Jones’ Locker complete with a treasure chest overflowing with
fabulous goodies to be presented to the highest roller of the evening.
Marguerite had dressed for the occasion by ordering a designer minidress.

She had been afforded
a sumptuous stateroom, which her considerate employer had stocked with dozens
of white iceberg roses overflowing their elegant vases and a box of
lavender-scented chocolates from Maggie’s favorite Paris confiseur. The real
attraction, however, was the fact that the yacht was anchored just off Oyster
Bay in Long Island Sound, less than three hours’ drive from the nation’s capitol,
and after all, that was the true reason she had come to the U.S. this time
around. The Diamond Ball was only a few nights away, and Maggie the Cat was
itching to see how the Hope would catch the light and explode with brilliance
against her naked flesh.

René escorted
Marguerite down to the casino and everyone turned to look as the glamorous
redhead entered the room. She made straight for the craps table where a few of
her colleagues from the Ballet de l’Aire had already congregated. She could
tell from their joyful faces and applause that the table was so hot she might
just get burned if she wasn’t careful.

Marguerite placed ten
$1,000 bills on the green felt. Her heart sped up as the croupier handed her
back a pile of golden chips minted for the occasion to look like sea-salvaged
Spanish doubloons. She pushed a few coins René’s way and began to lay her own
across the pass line. Her stage manager, Marcel, handed her the dice. It wasn’t
Maggie’s turn, but everyone at the table knew she had infallible luck and they
wanted in on it.

She shook up the dice
and tossed them across the felt. They rebounded against the table wall and then
came to a halt in the center.

Seven!

The table exploded
with delight as the croupier handed out chips and doubled the pass line bets
for everyone.

She picked up the
dice again and tossed them hard across the table. Everyone held their breath,
waiting to see if Maggie could work her magic a second time. But the dice
turned against her and a pair of snake eyes stared up at them. She frowned as
the croupier swept the gold doubloons from the table.

Concentrating harder
this time, she carefully placed a stack of coins on the table. She turned to
René and gave him an encouraging wink, then once more shook the dice and tossed
them across the table. Everyone cheered and clapped as they bounced along but
went silent when they turned up a now very unwelcome seven.

Some of the guests
began to drift towards the roulette table or the bar as Marguerite passed the
dice to an ageing British pop star. She brought one of the gold coins to her
mouth and chewed on it absentmindedly, trying to decide whether to continue or
walk away.

Marguerite placed her
attention back on René who had begun to pout. “Come along, René. I need you to
help me into my costume.”

An hour later, as she
sat before her dressing table expertly applying makeup for her performance,
Marguerite pondered her misfortune at the craps table. As an experienced
gambler, and jewel thief, she had learned over the years that one of the
biggest elements of luck was knowing when to walk away and she could feel the
tide strongly against her. Should she forget the Hope and return to France? Her
gut told her it was the right thing to do, but desire gripped her so intensely
it could never be filled with the rugged lustful thrusts of young René. She
yearned for the famous blue diamond as she had not for any other jewel.

Marguerite powdered
her face absentmindedly. Perhaps she could find a way to petition the gods for
a little luck—or maybe she would just have to steal it.

She turned to René
who lay naked on the bed, his glorious tanned body resting comfortably, his
cheeks flushed and covered with the sweaty glow of lovemaking.

“Can you do me a
favor,
cher
?” she asked.

He pulled a few pillows
behind his head and propped himself up. “What is it?”