GETTING HER MAN: Prologue
Mandeville, on the north
side of Lake Pontchartrain, was an upscale community where the crime rate
was low, houses and yards were large and pretentious, and people had a
lot of free cash to spend on pricey trinkets.
Exactly the kind of pricey
trinkets he wanted, in particular.
The one thing he'd learned
early on was that if he wore a repairman or delivery uniform, he became
invisible. People let him poke around outside their homes with few questions,
and inside as well, depending on how forceful and professional he sounded.
And people responded to questions from "official" companies on the phone
with far more trust than they should.
It made his job so much easier,
sad to say -- and the more affluent the community, the more complacent. Unlike
the rougher parts of New Orleans, where people routinely trusted nobody
else and installed door and window grills, and owned mean dogs, those who
lived in these picture-perfect suburbs relied on the security of alarm
systems that too often didn't work as well as they thought. Amazingly,
some still didn't take any precautions beyond locking their doors and windows.
Tonight's house would make
his task unbelievably simple.
No dogs, an out-dated silent
alarm system rigged for interior protection only -- and yet all inside blissfully
asleep, safe and snug in their beds, visions of rising stock markets and
juicy returns dancing in their heads.
He targeted the back entrance
because the artistically landscaped bushes and vines mostly concealed the
door, and because it had a basic lock which took him only seconds to open.
Jimmying the deadbolt took
a bit more time, and he closed his eyes as he gently rocked the pick, listening
intently, alert to the slightest change. Picking locks was more a science
than a craft, with its own laws of physics, and when he felt the familiar
give, he carefully opened the door and stepped inside the dark, quiet house.
If not deactivated, the alarm
would alert the security company 60 seconds after his entry, and then they'd
call the owners. Unless something went terribly wrong, he'd have what he'd
come for and would be out the door before that call. All the same, he remained
on the alert for any movement or noises. Since he wasn't armed, the last
thing he wanted to encounter was an irate homeowner with a shotgun. Or
the police.
He moved quickly forward,
virtually invisible in the black coveralls he wore over his street clothes,
each step silent. He knew exactly where he had to go -- he'd been here a week
ago to "repair" the air conditioner that, in the wee hours of the morning,
he'd disabled by disconnecting the outside fuses. He'd bluffed away until
the harried housekeeper had let him in to check the entire house. Once
he found what he was looking for, he left, made a brief show of tinkering
around outside, and then "repaired" the big central air unit simply by
plugging the fuses back into their sockets.
The living room he stood
in was huge, and ruthlessly decorated to proclaim how much money the king
of this castle -- a trial lawyer working in New Orleans and an acquaintance
of anybody who was anybody -- made each year.
Within several seconds, he'd
opened the flimsy lock on the curio cabinet. What he'd come for rested
on the middle shelf, artfully arranged on the glass -- and next to a silver
frame holding a photograph of a smiling couple.
The man's arrogant expression,
and the woman's timid eyes and smile, briefly caught his attention, leaving
him with a prickling of guilt.
No time for that.
He scooped up the necklace into the palm of his black-gloved hand, then
carefully wrapped it in cotton, and slid it into his pocket.
He shut the cabinet door,
but not before he'd left his "calling card" behind, and then slipped out
as quietly as he'd come, and disappeared into the darkness of night.
Six months later
At the familiar clomp of
thick-soled boots, Diana Belmaine glanced up from her desk to see her part-time
secretary walk into her office. Luna was twenty-two and pretty, with pale
skin and a penchant for dark nail polishes, bloodred lipstick, black hair
dye, and black lace. Not surprisingly she moonlighted as a vampire guide
for night tours of New Orleans.
In a disapproving voice,
Luna said, "You didn't tell me you had an appointment today."
Diana removed her reading
glasses, then sat back, arching a brow. "Because I don't."
"Well, there's this old guy
by my desk who says he's here to talk to you."
"Does the old guy have a
name?"
"Mr. Jones." Smiling didn't
mesh with Luna's image, but humor lit her dark eyes all the same. "I'm
thinking probably a close cousin of Mr. Doe and Mr. Smith."
Real clients -- those wealthy
enough to require her services -- weren't keen on announcing to the world
they needed a private investigator. They almost never came to her; she
went to them. Most of her business deals transpired over café au
lait and beignets at the Café du Monde, at somebody else's office,
on the phone, or in dark bars.
Diana sighed and pushed to
her feet, reluctant to waste time when she had a report to prepare on her
recovery of a stolen Picasso. The insurance company who'd hired her probably
wouldn't be surprised to learn that the painting's owner -- a cheery, white-haired
oil company exec going through financial difficulties following his third
divorce -- had arranged the theft so he could collect on the insurance settlement.
A trick as old as dirt, and
people never, ever learned.
She followed Luna to the
small waiting area of her three-room office suite, which was decorated
in baronial tones of burgundy, navy, and tan, and located on the second
floor of an old St. Phillip Street building, not far from the market. The
lazy
whir-whir-whir of the ceiling fan blended with the street noise
filtering through the filmy chiffon curtains: chattering tourists swarming
through the French Quarter, beeping horns, and the plodding clop of hooves
as a mule-drawn carriage rumbled past.
An elegant, silver-haired
man stood by the window. He wore a conservative dark suit and carried a
large leather briefcase -- a lawyer to somebody with lots of money?
Thank God she'd worn a dress.
Its lime green silk played up her blond hair and lightly tanned skin, and
while the sheath's slim lines skimmed her curves a bit more than she'd
prefer for meeting a potential client, it was still tasteful and businesslike.
"Hello." She walked forward,
spine straight, shoulders squared. The man turned, and she noted a white
rose adorning his lapel. "I'm Diana Belmaine."
"Edward Jones." The man shook
her hand in a firm, brief grip. "You're the private investigator who specializes
in stolen antiquities, I presume."
"Yes, and I also specialize
in art, jewelry, heirlooms, and antiques. I handle fraud cases, too, though
not as much as when I worked with Sotheby's." She paused. "Have you lost
something, Mr. Jones?"
"I'm afraid so."
Diana took in his diamond
tie tack, the expensive suit, and smiled. "And you'd like me to find it."
"Oh, yes."
Her smile blossomed into
a full grin. "Lovely. Let's talk, shall we? This way, please. Hold all
my calls, Luna."
Luna looked amused again,
despite her lack of a smile. "Will do, Boss."
Mr. Jones politely nodded
at Luna and followed Diana into her office. The packed bookshelves and
framed licenses on the wall lent an air of authority to the room, as did
stately chairs in tufted oxblood leather and the massive oak desk from
a cotton exchange office that had gone out of business long ago. The overall
impression was one of power. Masculine power specifically, which helped
overcome the annoying handicap of looking more like a Grace Kelly society
girl than a private eye.
"Have a seat." She closed
the door. "Would you like coffee or something else to drink?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
Curiosity piqued, Diana sat,
pushed aside the clutter on her desk, and asked, "What can I do for you,
Mr. Jones?"
As an answer, he hauled his
briefcase onto his lap. After dialing in the combination and snapping open
the fasteners, he withdrew an accordion file and dropped it on her desk
with a weighty thump. He didn't push it toward her, and she didn't touch
it.
"This file contains all the
information you should require to investigate my client's recent loss."
"You're a little ahead of
the game here. How about you tell me your client's name, first."
"Steven Carmichael." When
her brows shot up, the lawyer smiled thinly. "You are familiar with my
client?"
"Of course. Anybody in the
antiquities business knows his name. And it so happens Mr. Carmichael approached
me a month ago about taking on a case after the police investigation stalled.
Something about missing crates of Mayan artifacts, destined for his new
gallery." Diana tipped her head to one side. "But he hired another investigator."
That rejection still stung,
especially since she suspected that the wealthy and powerful Carmichael
had passed her over because he came from a generation that didn't believe
a woman could handle a "tough" job. It wouldn't be the first time sexism
had cost her a case.
"Ah, yes...I am aware of
that situation."
"Did Mr. Carmichael ever
recover his missing antiquities?"
"Not yet."
She managed not to smile.
"That's too bad."
The lawyer fixed her with
a hard, assessing gaze. "A most unfortunate affair, I agree, but not the
one I'm here about. Mr. Carmichael has an urgent matter he needs addressed
at once, and it's of a more personal nature."
"I don't do people," Diana
said, repressing a sigh. "If what Mr. Carmichael has lost is a girlfriend
or mistress, I can't help."
"Actually, what Mr. Carmichael
has lost is something more along the lines of a family heirloom. An ancient
one, which I believe puts the matter in your area of expertise, Ms. Belmaine."
"It would help if you'd tell
me exactly what it is."
"Nothing elaborate, but it
has a great deal of sentimental value to my client. It's a small alabaster
box containing a lock of hair and a two-inch-high statuette made of solid
gold. It's Egyptian. Eighteenth Dynasty, in particular."
"From a tomb?"
"Yes." Jones cleared his
throat. "The Pharaoh Tutankhamen's. And the alabaster box was inscribed
with the name of Queen Nefertiti." Jones folded his hands on top of his
briefcase. "My client believes the lock of hair is hers, so he is very
anxious to get it back."
No kidding.
Nefertiti, the most fabled
of Egyptian queens -- the mere mention of her name brought to mind images
of her timeless beauty and grace, the mystery of her ultimate fate.
At a niggling sense of unease,
she asked, "May I ask how Mr. Carmichael came into possession of such an
item?"
"Legitimately."
"Completely legitimately,
or sort of legitimately?"
The antique mantel clock
on her desk delicately ticked away the seconds.
"Ms. Belmaine, a great number
of the antiquities in museums and private collections were acquired by
less than ethical means. Today they call it looting; back in the old days
they called it collecting. It's the way of the world. And my client possesses
the required provenance papers and terms of sale."
Official paperwork did make
Carmichael's purchase lawful and justified efforts to retrieve it. It was
also true that many antiquities, even some on display in world-famous museums,
had been plundered -- by adventuring British lords, short French emperors,
professional looters following family tradition, modern-day organized crime,
or even academics who should've known better but couldn't resist temptation.
Of course, the box and its
contents could be clever forgeries. But taking on this case would be a
change of pace from the half-assed insurance frauds and mundane thefts
she'd investigated lately. Life had been awfully tame for the last couple
years, and she could use a real challenge. Something, anything,
to give her wits a decent workout.
"So when did Mr. Carmichael
discover the box was missing?"
"Three days ago." Knowing
he'd hooked her, Jones's mouth tipped in a small, satisfied smile. "It
was stolen from his gallery, the Jade Jaguar, over on Julia Street. You'll
find all the details in this file, including the names of anyone with access
to the building and a guest list for the gallery's opening night gala,
a week ago."
"Parties are always a prime
opportunity for thieves -- and the timing fits," Diana murmured. "But I didn't
know Mr. Carmichael collected ancient Egyptian pieces. I thought his interests
were strictly pre-Columbian."
"It's his main interest,
yes, but first and foremost he's a collector of rare and beautiful art."
Diana weighed the lawyer's
polite, if carefully bland, expression. "You've already hired an investigator
to recover the Mayan shipment. Why not have him look into this latest theft,
as well? Why did you come to me?"
"My client feels that your
expertise is better suited for this situation. He wants this investigation
to be discreet and delicate. I'm sure you're aware of the recent trend
toward repatriating antiquities to their country of origin. An artifact
such as this could explode into an international incident."
Diana raised a brow. "Did
Mr. Carmichael report the theft to the police?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Jones made an impatient sound.
"Oh, come now. Surely you can understand why my client is reluctant to
involve law enforcement authorities of any sort. He doesn't want to risk
losing the artifact or the considerable amount of money he paid for it."
Not to mention the possibility
of having his moral character publicly called into question -- which certainly
explained the man's desire for a "discreet" and "delicate" investigation.
"There is one other thing."
Jones reached into his briefcase, and removed a plastic Ziploc bag. It
held a playing card -- the jack of spades. "This was left in place of the
artifact, obviously by the thief. My client was careful not to touch it,
in case there are prints."
There wouldn't be any, though
she'd check to be sure. This case had all the earmarks of a professional
and well-planned job.
"May I?" she asked. The
lawyer handed over the bag, and she studied the card. It was the thief's
signature; an introduction as personal as a handshake, and as unique as
a fingerprint. A zing of excitement shot through her.
"A thief with style." She
smiled. "My favorite flavor of deviant."
"Forgive me for failing to
share your enthusiasm, Ms. Belmaine." Jones removed another file from his
briefcase, then clicked it shut. "I've taken the liberty of drawing up
a contract for your fees and services. I'll leave both the contract and
evidence files for your perusal. You have the night to think it over, and
I'll return to your office by eight o'clock tomorrow morning to finalize
matters. If that's convenient for you."
Diana peeled back the top
of the folder and glimpsed the fee in question. She hoped her eyes hadn't
visibly bugged out of her head. "It's convenient."
"Of course you understand
that everything we've spoken about is to remain in absolute confidence."
When she nodded, Jones stood, smoothing his suit coat. "Very good. It's
been a pleasure talking with you."
Diana stood as well. "One
last question, please. Does your client have any potential suspects in
mind?"
The man's expression remained
neutral, and after a moment he said, "I'm sorry, but no."
"All right." She smiled politely.
"Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow, then."
After the lawyer left the
office, she looked down at the bulging folder on her desk and frowned.
The purpose behind this monster file was clearly to prevent her from asking
a lot of inconvenient questions.
The reason could be as simple
as Steven Carmichael's reluctance to reveal he owned plundered property
that could stir up an international hornet's nest. Then again, maybe he
had something more to hide.
She had no reason to trust
the man or any of the information in the file, and his lawyer hadn't been
telling the truth when he said there were no suspects -- his hesitation, the
way he'd schooled his expression, said he was hiding or lying about something.
Nothing new in that. The
first thing any private investigator learned was that people lied to you.
All the time. The boy next door, little old ladies, cops, priests, beggars
and rich men, winos and pillars of the community...everybody lied.