ItTakesaThief (29 page)

“Charles bribed a stagehand to sabotage the star cover.
Emilio rigged the shower.” Esmeralda’s face was filled with disappointment at
her husband’s behavior. “And he shot at you.”

“Endangering his own grandson? What kind of monster is he?”
Tiffany’s eyes blazed. She held herself rigid, as if one word more would make
her strike out at whoever spoke it.

“He was not himself, Tey Cey. Charles convinced Emilio that
you spotted the fake Belt in Paris, that you came here to blackmail him into
giving the real Belt to you. I know this is no excuse, but I ask you to try to
forgive him.”

Her face nearly the color of the snowy linen tablecloth,
Tiffany shoved back her chair. “I’m not a saint, Señora Santana. After
everything that has happened to me, to Rogelio, at your husband’s hands, I
don’t know if I can ever forgive him.” Whirling, she fled.

She had directed the words to her hostess, but her gaze had
fastened on Damian. His heart felt as if it was taking a nose-dive off Pico
Cristobal Colon, but he surged to his feet and started after her. If he gave
her time, she would shut him out of her life forever. Before he reached the
door, he stopped, knowing she needed time to sort out her emotions. He could
only hope she would realize how much he loved her.

Chapter Eighteen

Later that day, wearing a black linen suit and silk shirt
with a black-on-charcoal tie, Damian settled at his godfather’s desk. He had
dressed in black for an unpleasant interview fast approaching. He wanted to
look dangerous and intimidating. In the meantime, the even more unpleasant task
of searching for further evidence of Emilio’s duplicity fell to him, a duty he
was reluctant to discharge. He knew his duty, but he also sensed that Emilio’s
greed went no farther than his lust for Isabella’s Belt. Damian was certain he
would find no evidence of drug smuggling or gunrunning or any other more
heinous crime.

He soon swiveled the high-backed chair and stared out the
windows, his view of the mountains unobstructed. He would simply sit and enjoy
the bright blue sky, the jagged mountain peaks, the sense of being suspended
between heaven and earth.

At precisely the arranged moment, the intercom on Emilio’s
desk buzzed. Adrenaline surged through Damian’s body. He both dreaded and
welcomed this interview, this chance to avenge himself and Tiffany on the
traitor who had abetted, however unknowingly, this plot to frame the woman he
loved. George Fox had been cooling his heels for nearly an hour. It was time
for Damian to throw the agent out of the frying pan and toast his ass in the
fire.

“Hunter,” Fox greeted. When Damian neither stood nor offered
his hand, the agent blinked, then shrugged.

“Sit, Reynard,” Damian said, his tone deliberately
insulting.

To his credit, Fox took his time removing his ever-present
raincoat, folding it, then placing it over the back of a nearby chair. Only
then did he sit. There was about him an Old World refinement that, despite
Fox’s rumpled appearance, reminded Damian of his own grandfather.

Steeling himself against sentimentality, Damian decided to
let Fox off the hook, for the moment. Making a brief excuse for his incivility,
Damian said, “Have you made the move to Lyons?”

Fox harrumphed. “The new headquarters have no character.
Glass and steel. Soulless. No—”

“Place to smoke?” Damian suggested and shared a laugh with
his companion. At last he led Fox into a discussion of their present case.

The medical examiners finally had established the time of
the bank staff deaths as between four and five p.m. Both had been subdued by a
stun gun, then garroted—an act that did not necessarily require great strength,
but an element of surprise. Which the stun gun provided.

“After interviewing all bank employees and the customers
who’d come in between three and five,” Fox went on, “the Paris police have a
theory. They believe Mr. de la Croix accompanied his murderer to the safe
deposit vault. After opening the client’s box, he left. His head cashier saw
him on the main floor around four o’clock. According to his secretary, some
fifteen minutes later the client demanded to see him again.”

“Then what?” Damian asked, looking up from the timeline he
was doodling on a scrap of paper.

“Nobody seems to know exactly. The staff was involved with
finishing up with customers and closing out. Being Friday before the long
Easter weekend, many last minute customers went in and out.” Fox grinned
briefly. “The French apparently mistrust modern technology like automated money
machines.”

“Perhaps they simply prefer human contact. An attractive
teller, an exchange of pleasantries,” Damian suggested, shrugging. “The point
to this being what?”

“Nobody saw the assistant manager go down to the vault.
Nobody knows why he did. Nobody saw any of them—client or employees—leave the
bank. Obviously, since two of them were already dead.”

“I thought the bodies were discovered on Saturday.”

“They were. Santana had arranged for Charles Cartierri to
authenticate the Belt on Saturday when the bank was closed. I suppose because
he could be sure nobody interrupted. Anyway, when nobody appeared to admit him,
Cartierri called the bank president and raised holy hell. The president arrived
several hours after getting the call. Which is when he and Cartierri discovered
the bodies.”

“Why the delay?” Damian doodled a hangman’s noose.

Reynard flushed. “The Frenchman was entertaining his
mistress.”

“So, who was the client who lured de la Croix and his
assistant to the vault?”

“Nobody knows.”

“What?” Damian ground out from between clenched teeth.

“Nobody signed in to access a box between three and five
p.m. Nobody used a keycard to go out after the bank closed. I know it’s
strange, but the bank requires a card to get out after-hours.” Fox drew a deep
breath, then said, “Obviously your Emerald—”

“Speaking of Emerald, how do you suppose Charles Cartierri
learned about that soubriquet?”

Looking directly into Damian’s eyes, Fox said, “So that’s
what this meeting’s all about.” Quirking an eyebrow, Damian shrugged. “Have you
asked Cartierri?”

“I could, but I would rather keep this between us. Unless
you wish to broaden the investigation?”

“Can you keep it quiet?” Fox challenged.

“I think that will depend on what you tell me about your
relationship with Charles Cartierri.”

Fox nodded. After a brief hesitation he said, “School ties.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Fox raised a bushy brow and regarded Damian with a sneer.
“Surely the son of the ambassador to Spain knows all about school ties.
Ox-bridge, Oxford, et cetera.”

Damian knew he had nothing to gain by mounting his high
horse, but he could not resist saying, “I was tutored at home until sent to
military academy. Only after that did I attend Oxford. I do, however,
understand the concept of loyalty. However misplaced.”

“Touché, Hunter. Anyway, about six years ago, around the
time Ms. Cartierri married William Foster, I ran into Charles in Paris. We had a
few drinks, went on to dinner, then to Charles’ hotel for a nightcap. There was
a commotion in the lobby, caused mostly by the Paris police who were
investigating a robbery.”

“I think I see where this is leading. Tell me, Reynard, were
you recognized there in the lobby? Or—”

“Or did I, once enclosed in Charles’ suite, brag?” Reynard
grimaced. “A little of each, I suppose. I was recognized. Unlike our school
days when he treated me like shit, my host seemed impressed. Even at Eton,
Cartierri was a self-centered prick, but that night he seemed almost human, as
though we were equals.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “The robbery that
night, the fact that I’d been hailed with respect, Cartierri’s own memories of
famous thefts, the brandy… I was proud, yet humble. I told him about the rash
of robberies that had occurred some five to ten years earlier, then humbly
confessed that I—that we at Interpol—had never solved the crimes, had never
brought Emerald to justice.”

Damian steepled his fingers and studied Reynard for a long,
silent moment. The older man looked pale and sweaty, Damian noted, wondering
whether guilt or panic had brought on this reaction. A combination of both,
most likely. Guilt at divulging company secrets. Panic that he might lose his
pension if Damian reported the lapse to Fox’s superior.

“That was all?” he said when he figured Reynard had sweated
long enough.

“Excuse me?”

“Did Cartierri say anything else? Infer, perhaps, that Ms.
Cartierri might have committed the crimes?”

Reynard laughed. “Good God, Hunter, why would he even think
such a thing? Ms. Cartierri was barely twenty when she married William Foster.
She would have been,” his expression told Damian of the calculations running
through the agent’s agile mind “sixteen when she quit.”

“Hmmm. Then why do you think Ms. Cartierri is our elusive
Emerald?”

Reynard started, clearly shocked by the sudden coldness in
Damian’s voice. “Because she was in the bank the day of the theft. Because the
surveillance tapes show her interest in the Luxembourg security system. It’s
obvious she was making alternative plans. If she couldn’t steal the Belt from
the bank, she’d steal it from the museum.”

Fox held Damian’s gaze for several seconds, then looked down
at his hands.

“Let me suggest an alternate theory,” Damian said softly.
“Charles Cartierri entered the bank during that last-minute crush on Friday.
Since the bank was busy, he convinced de la Croix not to have him sign in. They
went down to the vault together. When de la Croix went upstairs, Cartierri discovered
the Belt was gone. Furious, he demanded the manager return. When de la Croix
would not—or could not—tell Cartierri who had been in his safe deposit box,
Cartierri stunned, then garroted him.”

“You’re suggesting Cartierri intended to kill de la Croix.”

Was that relief Damian saw on Reynard’s face? Relief he
heard in the man’s voice? He would play this game of cat and mouse a little
longer. It would make the denouement all the sweeter.

“If not the bank manager, then someone else. I believe
Cartierri intended to take the Belt himself, then report the theft. He even may
have convinced Emilio to split the insurance money. But that was merely a side
benefit to his scheme.” He studied Fox’s face. Seeing no reaction, Damian
continued. “Cartierri knew James Foster had access to the safe deposit box—he’d
seen the signature cards that included Sir James and Emilio. And, of course,
his own. After murdering de la Croix, he began to see how everything could work
in his favor. He either saw Tiffany enter the bank earlier in the day or de la
Croix mentioned seeing her. And that gave Cartierri the opportunity to frame
her for the theft of Isabella’s Belt and the murder he had just committed.”

“B-but how? She’d gone to the bank in the morning. How could
he make it seem she’d come back?”

“I do not think he got that far. I think the assistant
manager came down to tell them that the bank was closing. When he saw his
superior on the floor, Cartierri had no choice. He killed him too. One more
murder to tally against Tiffany.”

“That’s a lot of conjecture, Hunter. Can you prove any of
it?”

“I believe I can. For one thing, Tiffany was at the
Luxembourg museum when the murders occurred. You saw those tapes yourself. You
also saw how people reacted to her—despite her frumpy attire.” Fox grunted.
“She caused the same stir at the bank when she visited in the morning. Even in
the afternoon crush, I believe she would have gotten the same reaction.
Customers and tellers would have noticed her.”

“Wasn’t Cartierri caught on tape when he came in? When he
left?” Fox leaned forward in his chair, seeming fully committed to solving the
crime.

“No. For some reason yet to be discovered, all the bank’s
security cameras failed around three that afternoon. With the long weekend…”
Damian shrugged, leaving Fox to draw his own conclusions. But that failure
might explain the anomaly Nadim mentioned to Tiffany. Just how her friend had
gotten the information, Damian refused to consider. One Interpol leak was all
he could handle just now.

“Which gives Cartierri plausible denial. Nobody can prove he
was in the bank.”

“True. Except for one small mistake.” He let the pause
lengthen until Fox demanded to know what the mistake was. “Cartierri had a key
to the bank’s back door. A key de la Croix always carried. A key no one else
had, except the bank president.”

Fox snorted. “Dumb bastard. Why didn’t he just throw it
away?”

Again Damian shrugged. “Perhaps he planned to plant it the
same way he had his wife plant Emilio’s emeralds. Another strike against
Tiffany. But I have an even better theory.” Fox rested his elbows on his knees,
his gaze sharp on Damian’s face. “Did you know the Belt was a fake, Reynard?”

“Of course not. How would I?”

Damian shrugged. “I thought Charles Cartierri told you. He
said he did.”

“He’s lying.”

Damian stared until Fox sat back, his gaze shifting to his
now clenched hands. When he opened his fists, Damian figured the agent had
sweated long enough. “May I use you as a sounding board?”

“Can I stop you?” When Damian remained silent, Reynard shrugged.
“Go ahead.”

“When you met Charles Cartierri in Paris all those years
ago, he told you his daughter was Interpol’s ‘Emerald’.”

“Why would—”

“Since Tiffany was a minor and all the records had been
sealed, he knew you could do nothing with the information Also, since there was
no physical evidence to tie her to the thefts, he was assured you could not
reopen the cases. Unless another theft occurred—one with the same modus
operandi as the others—Interpol would not involve itself. Hence the recent
theft at the Georges Cinq.” Damian paused long enough to make Fox sweat. “But
that theft was insignificant when you discovered Isabella’s Belt had been
stolen.” Damian expected some blustering, but Reynard said nothing. “You went
to the Banque de Medellin in order to take the Belt before Cartierri could
authenticate it on Saturday. When you discovered the safe deposit box empty,
you figured your partner had cut you out of the insurance fraud scam. Furious,
you saw a way to turn the table, make it appear Cartierri had stolen the Belt
himself. You summoned the bank manager to the vault, stunned, then garroted
him. When de la Croix’s assistant found you with his manager’s body, you had to
kill him as well.”

“Interesting theory. Not provable, but interesting.”

“Oh?” Damian arched one eyebrow.

“For one thing, why would I take a garrote with me?”

“Because you knew the theft had occurred on Thursday, the
first day you visited the vault. You went back on Friday, murdered de la Croix
with the express intent to frame Charles Cartierri. You could not resist
telling him though, could you? Flaunting your cleverness. And now that you had
the upper hand, you could bleed him dry. When you told him, he convinced you
both of you could go free. That is when you agreed to frame Tiffany for your
crimes. Yours and Cartierri’s crimes.”