Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors (6 page)

I made motions as if to get up and get it over with, swiped aside imaginary breadcrumbs, swooped up the six small diamonds from my dress, hid them in the palm of my right hand, stretched, feigned a yawn—and swallowed them.
 

“Jesus, you are a piece of lady!” Rip muttered.
 

We got up simultaneously as if we belonged together, nodded at our table companions, who had neither noticed nothing I’d done nor the sudden ankle charm and bracelet around my left leg and wrist. The DEA agents didn’t notice either, and we walked to the side exit of the tent. We gave our names, showed our driver’s licenses, and had our earlobes punctured for blood. Then we entered a compartmentalized area of hospital-type curtains that made up a little questioning room. We got the boss-treatment. Lieutenant Lucas Graves was standing in one corner, and behind a little foldable desk another detective typed away on a laptop. Lucas Graves introduced himself briefly and shook our hands with a sympathetic smile; this was the raid of the century, and he had to be polite and courteous toward his rich and famous suspects.
 

“This will only take a minute and not hurt a bit,” he smiled wanly. A certain tiredness already showed through after about a hundred interviews with the same joking introduction. “We’ll ask you a few questions, and then you will be searched in the next compartment.” He indicated the exit on the other side. “Ladies to the left, gents to the right.”
 

“Everyone just one cross,” I muttered.

Rip had to hiccup to stifle a laugh, and Graves either did not notice or was simply tired of actors and movie people. He looked at his assistant, who had stopped typing a second ago, and gave a nod. Graves asked, “And your name, madam?”

“Calendar Moonstone, Redondo Beach. Guest of Mrs. Nicole Berg.” I gave them my address and rummaged through my purse to present my driver’s license. Fortunately, Graves forgot to ask for my profession. He gave me a quick look-over, purely professional, and his glance stopped for a merest moment pm the jewels around my limbs and around my neck. He had seen jewelry around each and every female body so far; I was not an exception. My stuff didn’t match the description, so his eyes moved to Rip.
 

“And you, sir?”

“Rip Delaware, Santa Monica. I am with actress Jeanette Anthony.” He took his driver’s license from his wallet and handed it over to the assistant, who copied the data into his laptop.

We continued to stand, which probably meant a short interview.
 

Graves looked at us. “Did you two notice any activities related to the consumption of illegal substances?”
 

Did he made up those questions or did his lawyer?

We dutifully shook our heads and answered, “No.”

“Were you asked to participate? Were you offered any drugs? Did you overhear any party guests or caterers talking about drug use?” Graves did his best not to sound bored, but he definitely was.
 

We answered each question the same way—no, no, no!

“Have you been around Mrs. Pretty McAllister, the lady with the missing necklace tonight?”

“What do you mean by ‘around,’ sir?” I asked to bring a little more pepper into the Q and A.
 

“Did you join a conversation with her? Or like, did you have a place close to her at dinner time?” Graves gave me a fatherly smile.

Stick with the truth, Calendar girl.
 

“I shook her hand when my friend Nicole Berg introduced us, and we exchanged pleasantries. That’s about it. I ran across her several times after dinner at the party, but we didn’t talk after that one time.” The assistant dutifully clicked away on his computer, and Graves nodded toward Rip.

“I saw her several times, too—you couldn’t avoid it at this party—but I didn’t come into contact with her. No one introduced us, didn’t dare to test any pick-up lines on her, sorry.”

“Did you notice her necklace at any time at the party?”

“Like, when she had it around her neck, and when she didn’t?” Graves nodded, and I thought for a minute. “No, sorry, I cannot remember. She wore her necklace at the ceremony and when we were introduced, but I didn’t particularly notice during the party. Can’t help you there.”

“Any what about you, sir?” Graves asked Rip.

Rip gave him his brilliant actor smile. “Sorry, with beautiful girls, I tend to look at other features than her jewels, if you know what I mean.”

Graves gave a hint of understanding by smiling wanly again. “Anything you can say that appeared suspicious to you? Things out of order, strange conversations, odd people or behaviors?”

We both shook our heads. Who were we to give away our little secret?

“All right, thank you for your time….” He had to glance at our driver’s licenses to remember our names.
Atta boy.
“Mrs. Moonstone, Mr. Delaware. If you step along there, a colleague will perform a quick body search and check your belongings. Thank you for your time and your understanding. Have a good night.” He shook our hands, and we started to make our way toward the left and right exits of the compartment. Graves had already turned toward the entry to bring in the next guests when Rip suddenly cleared his throat and stopped in his tracks.
 

Lieutenant Graves asked, “Is there anything else, Mr. Delaware?”

“Eh, yes, sir, there is.” Rip looked clearly uncomfortable, and I had a very bad feeling about this, life, and the universe. “It is, l-like….” he stuttered like a schoolboy. My initial thought was it was an act, but of course, he was an actor after all. Rip took a deep breath, avoiding my pleading small girl looks. “If you are searching Mrs. Moonstone here, you will probably find nothing suspicious.”

Graves suddenly looked a lot less like the friendly weathered policeman but like an aged terrier dog, ready to shred the trouser leg of the postman to pieces. He looked at Rip, then at me, once more running a comparison of the stolen necklace and the items around my neck, arm, and ankle, still getting a negative.
 

“Can you specify exactly what you mean, sir?”

“I, I…,” Rip stammered in his schoolboy fashion, and I really thought he overplayed it, once more, “…she offered me sex so that I would not say anything.”

“Sir, for not saying what?” Graves came closer, the typing of the assistant had stopped, and I could hear shuffling feet from the entry to the compartment. Graves eyed me like a snake.

“She had the stolen necklace in her purse when the raid came down, and she reworked it into the bracelet and the ankle charm with a tiny tool you will find in her purse.”

Everything stopped. Everything! Rip’s last words were echoing in my head, blood pounding in my ear. The floor wobbled back and forth before my eyes, and I felt tears coming up as a typical woman defense. If in jeopardy, cry! I had to steady myself and grabbed Rip’s arm. Graves helped me, too, and they sat me down on the assistant’s chair.

“Madam, is that true?”

I didn’t say anything, couldn’t press out a word from my dry throat. Graves took my left hand and studied the double-winded bracelet closer. He turned my arm, inspected the lock, and discovered the signs of improvisation.
 

“Madam, is it true what Mr. Delaware just told us?”

Tears were streaming down my face. I felt hot and cold all over, my party dress soaked in sweat and fear.

“Is it true?” Graves asked again, his voice hard as a steel rod.

I opened my eyes for a second and saw his grim face just inches from mine. I could even smell the remains of his aftershave. In the background was Rip with a sorry and sheepish look on his face, arms crossed, watching me but not meeting my eyes. Suddenly three other policemen were standing in the entry, staring at me, too.

“Lawyer!” was all I could croak.

CHAPTER NINE

Bait Baited

Suddenly the cops guarding the estate got moving. One of the front guards stepped into the car that blocked the exit and drove it out of the way as one of the unmarked DEA raiding squad SUVs came down the driveway of the estate and drove out without stopping. The cameras followed the SUV briefly, but then the reporters continued to interview the celebrities still leaving the party after the search.

“Can you follow that car, please?” Fowler commanded with a soft voice. “Without being noticed, at that.”

Peter was startled for a second but revved up the car and pulled out of the parking lot, making a quick U-turn. “Any idea where they are going?” he asked.

“Either the local police station or downtown police HQ,” Fowler said with conviction.

“Well, either way, we will find out in a few seconds…,” Peter said, keeping his distance. “Left, that makes it the local station.”

“Still, stay at a distance but keep them in sight. They don’t expect to be followed, but we’ll play it safe.”

“Is it illegal to follow a police car?” Peter mused.

“Who is the American?” Fowler asked.

“I am an insurance specialist, not a lawyer! Would the policemen mind if they noticed us?” Peter said.

“It’s not the policemen that I am worried about. It is the girl.”

“What girl?”

“The girl in the car between the two officers in the back.”

“And how do you know that?”

Fowler shrugged. “Hunch.”

“Hunch, my ass,” Peter muttered.

“Not on your life,” Fowler muttered back in a dry attempt at British humor.

CHAPTER TEN

Behind Bars

The door of the holding cell fell into its lock with a dull sound that spelled “game over.” It was six in the morning, and I had some hours of questioning, transfers, and booking procedures behind me. My fingers still showed stains of fingerprint ink, and my face had to be a mixture of tear-stained mascara and smeared ink, not to mention my one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar hairdo. And my shattered ego.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t deny,” had been one of Uncle Mortimer’s wise teachings when he had shown me the ropes of jewelry theft. “Until you go before the court, anything can happen. Get yourself a good lawyer, stay mum, don’t give in, and don’t volunteer.” I had been sitting in his workshop beside him as we were crafting wonderful diamond engagement rings made from stolen gems we had looted the night before.
 

Maybe I was romanticizing my apprenticeship with him, but the words had come back to me like a voiceover in a badly scripted movie as Graves and other policemen had questioned me. They had asked me for my profession, the evening show, the party, my companions, my relation to Mrs. Nicole Berg, Swan Collins, Rip Delaware, Pretty McAllister, and about one thousand other people who I had or had not heard of but had never met. I gave them no responses, asked for more coffee. They had to stop after about an hour of questioning because my lawyer Terrence Peters arrived and ordered some time with his client in his typical calm voice.
 

He waited until the last policeman had filed out and made sure that the recording equipment on the interrogation table had been switched off and the curtain over the mirror was drawn. Then he tapped his pencil on his notepad and looked at me with tired eyes. It had been three in the morning, and he had taken the care to dress in a gray suit and a blue college tie. Terrence and I both volunteered for the same charity, and I had used him for all my occasional legal troubles. He was very patient with “his exotic client,” as he affectionately called me. If necessary, he fought like a tiger for his clients’ rights. His dark hair with gray streaks gave him a distinguished look, and he could pass as a Richard Gere stand-in. He looked at me with interest and pity.
 

“Do you need anything? Coffee, smoke, hygiene?” he asked, and I shook my head. Terrence gave me a fatherly look. “You sure run in prominent circles. Swan Collins’ after-show party! You are my first client who made it into that crowd.”

I sniffed. “And probably the first one who got arrested there, too.”

“How long have we known each other? Three years, four?” Terrence asked, and I nodded. “And I was busy writing briefs and defending you from these wild accusations of jewelry theft from that joker from England…. What was his name again?”