Family Jewels Page 3

  Again she’d gazed through the magnifying loupe. “They’re really hard to decipher, Mr. Andrews. The best I can do is guess.”

  “Please,” he urged, “tell me what the numbers are now? Exactly, the way you see them.”

  Cynthia had started to argue but he stood poised with a pen and small spiral notebook, a look of total hope shining from his eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Reluctantly she’d read off the numbers and he’d taken great care to copy them down, repeating each one.

  His eager demeanor evaporated. He clicked off his pen and pocketed the spiral notepad. “Thank you, Miss Lyons. I shall go now.”

  “Oh. Okay. You can return tomorrow morning at eight. I’ll have the certificate for your insurance then, as promised.”

  “Yes, of course. Tomorrow morning. Goodbye.”

  Staring at the clock now, she wondered if he’d forgotten about his diamond. Very strange. It was midnight and Mr. Andrews was officially eight hours shy of three days late.

  Determined to start fresh in the morning, Cynthia slid off her chair and stretched through the exhaustion that claimed her entire body. Picking up the little box and paper certificate from the shelf, she flicked off the studio lights, closed the door and walked down the darkened hall to the bathroom.

  Her safe was hidden in the wall behind the medicine cabinet over the sink, tucked well out of sight. When she’d first moved into this apartment two years ago, she’d had to chisel through brick to make the ten-inch-square, hardened steel box fit inside. She was confident it was the best solution. According to the magazine, Jeweler’s Insider, that was one of the least likely spots for common thieves to search out.

  She put the boxed diamond and certificate inside the safe, reset the lock and replaced the mirror. Then she washed her face in the sink and brushed her teeth.

  “Mo?” she called out down the hall as she closed the bathroom door. “C’mon, baby boy. Time for bed.”

  There was no answering meow. Moses usually came running when she called him, unless the hedonistic animal was already snuggled on her pillow. More than likely she’d find him there.

  Entering her bedroom, she closed the door and armed the motion detector for her apartment from the wall panel. The little light flickered red for a split-second before it steadied on green. She blinked, uncertain of trusting her tired eyes. Had she really seen that red flash? It was most certainly green now. Shaking her head, she decided she’d imagined it.

  Light from the city spilled past her window, casting her bedroom in a soft purple glow. She liked the muted night color and tugged the curtain only partially closed. When she turned to undress for bed she noticed her cat’s absence from his usual spot on the pillow. That wasn’t normal.

  “Moses, where are you?”

  A low, throaty growl sounded from under the bed. Cynthia dropped onto her hands and knees and lifted the dust ruffle up. Hidden in the far corner by the wall were two glowing, green cat’s eyes. His white fur was fluffed out in alarm, making him look twice as big as he really was.

  “Mo? Baby, what’s wrong? Come on out of there.”

  She flattened herself on the floral rug and reached an arm in as far as she could with the hope of grabbing him by the collar. He hissed and scooted backward.

  The sudden, sharp crack of breaking glass made her scramble out from beneath the bed and jerk upright in surprise. Confused, heart pounding in her ears, she listened for more noise.

  Glass crunched under someone’s foot. From the living room? Questions of how an intruder had gotten past the steel bars outside her windows and not set off the alarms flooded her mind for one paralyzing second.

  She glanced up at the security panel on the wall. All of the lights still flashed green. How was that possible? What happened to the alarms? Standing she dashed over to the panel and slammed her palm down on the red panic button.

  Nothing.

  The police should have been notified immediately! They should be calling her, asking if this were a real emergency. She used both thumbs to press down on the button again and again. It remained silent.

  Oh, no, no, no! This can’t be happening.

  She whirled away from the door and reached for the phone on her nightstand. It wasn’t there. All day she carried the cordless phone from room to room. Exhaustion had made her careless tonight. She’d left it on the table in her studio.

  The sound of the intruder’s muffled steps told her he’d already found that room. She listened to him move around in the small second bedroom she used as a studio, while her heart beat against her rib cage like a battering ram. The intruder wouldn’t find anything significant left out on the work table. Religiously, she kept everything in her safe. Unless he was a jeweler, he wouldn’t know what to do with her valuable tools.

  The floor in the hall creaked.

  The intruder moved closer, coming toward her bedroom. Cynthia’s heart squeezed up into her throat, making it hard to swallow. Her mind raced. What to do?

  She tiptoed to the closet, opened it and crouched down in the dark corner. Using her fingertips she teased the door almost shut. The near total darkness was unnerving. There was no sound for an unbearable number of seconds. She tried to slow her rapid breathing, clear her head and think straight.

  Why had she been targeted for a break-in? She maintained a low profile in her community and in her business life. No flashy signs announced her location or profession in this building. She only listed her phone number in a small yellow pages ad. Potential clients had to call to arrange a visit. She kept a detailed logbook, did everything she was supposed to do to stay safe.

  Careful footsteps drew closer. She heard the bathroom door open. She cringed, praying the intruder wouldn’t suspect where her safe was hidden. Aside from Mr. Andrews’ uninsured diamond it also contained her personal collection of precious gems and scrap gold.

  Insuring all of them was something she couldn’t afford.

  A thin light flickered under the seam of her bedroom door. The intruder’s steps stopped. Cynthia’s heart tripled its erratic beat. She bit her lip welcoming the sharp self-induced pain. She had to stay alert and ready.

  The concept of rape or murder spurred her into action. She took a mental inventory of her bedroom, searching for a weapon. The golf club. It was a birthday gift for Dad and it was propped in the corner. The red and white sale tag still dangled from the leather-wrapped handgrip. Salvation lay in the Big Bertha’s cold forged steel shaft.

  Inside the closet she heard the bedroom door latch click and open. A thin beam of light flashed briefly over the closet. She heard his breathing. He wheezed as if he had asthma, shallow and fast. Was he nervous? Maybe she could talk to him, use his fear? A self-defense class in college had taught her to try, if given an opportunity.

  Then again, Criminal Psych 101 had taught her that more than likely this excited him and he couldn’t wait to do her harm.

  Suddenly hiding in the closet didn’t seem like a good idea. He could trap her in there without any room to fight. She had to get out now. Before he could reach this side of her bedroom, Cynthia burst out from her hiding place and dived into the corner where the golf club rested against the wall. She landed hard on her knees and curled her fingers tightly around the cold, hard metal. Breathing hard, she stood up, ready to swing.

  The man walked in slowly, his steps measured and careful. He trained the light on her face and eyes but wasn’t able to blind her. The penlight he used wasn’t strong enough for that. She saw him clearly when the light flicked away.

  She had to notice everything about him, even the tiniest details. Information was power and you never knew what you could use in your defense.

  Dressed from head to toe in flat black, his body outline was medium height, thin and wiry. Cold, dark eyes glittered from between the slits of the black ski mask that covered his face.

  He chuckled as if her assessment amused him. “Look at you, trying to act so brave.”

  Adrenaline zapped thr
ough her veins with an icy rush. She forced the rising bile that spiked up her throat back down. There would be time enough for throwing up later.

  The man flexed his gloved fingers almost as if he anticipated a fight to the death with her. Cynthia’s stomach clenched. She jerked her weapon up higher, drawing upon her determination not to go down without a fight.

  He stood at the foot of her bed, scanning the walls and floors with his penlight. “Where’s the safe?”

  Her mind raced. Don’t answer him.

  “I know you have a safe. Tell me where.”

  “Get out!” She tightened her grip on the golf club, fingernails biting into her palms “Get the hell out!”

  He moved forward again, turning the corner around her bed, pinning her in so that no hope for escape remained. She didn’t trust her legs enough to jump up on the bed and run. He’d lunge. He’d catch her…

  “Don’t be stupid, bitch. Just give me the Russian diamond and I’ll leave.”

  How could he know about that? Her mind dizzied with speculation.

  She sucked in a deep breath and caught the cloying, musky scent of his perspiration. In combination with the bitter taste in her mouth, she fought the urge to gag.

  “I have an alarm,” she announced firmly. “The police have already been notified of your break-in.”

  His laughter sounded so evil, it raked her spine with lethal intent. “You have an alarm,” he mimicked with ghoulish delight. “Piece of cake. Now where’s the fuckin’ safe?”

  Cynthia’s gaze automatically sought out the monitoring panel on the wall by the door. That’s why no alarms had gone off, why the panic button didn’t work. He’d bypassed it! Horror rushed into her brain with dizzying speed. She was on her own.

  “Have it your way, then.” He flicked off his tiny penlight. “Guess I’ll just have to work it out of you.”

  A shiny metal object slid out from his sleeve, catching the city lights from her window. He flipped a switchblade open and waved it in the air, letting her have a good look. Cynthia’s heart stopped and then thundered back to life like a galloping wildebeest inside her chest. Even in the dim light of her bedroom, the polished steel gleamed. Sharp, so sharp. Like a surgical blade. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening to her. This sort of thing happened to other people, anonymous faces on TV and in the newspaper.

  Cold reality sank in. He was going to kill her. “I don’t have anything! I swear!”

  “Lying bitch.” His teeth glowed white against the black ski mask. He sliced through the air with that deadly knife and laughed.

  This was it, the moment of truth. She sucked in another deep breath, keeping her eyes on the hand with the knife. If he got close enough, she’d swing the golf club at him with all her might and hopefully break his arm.

  A white streak shot out from under the bed. Moses! The cat attacked the man’s ankles like a shadow of flying fur, moving too fast for her to tell which side of him was head or tail. Caught off guard, the intruder jumped backward, desperately trying to fight off the growling cat with his free hand and the knife. The grisly image of her pet being gored by that switchblade spurred her into action.

  “No!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare hurt him!”

  Cynthia swung her golf club on top of his spine. A loud grunt exploded from him. Moses continued to grab and bite into the man’s calves, digging in with his long, sharp incisors and curved claws.

  The man howled in pain and swore every combination of nasty words she’d ever heard, at the same time slicing his knife down in a deadly sweep. He was going to kill Moses!

  She lifted her club and crashed the heavy end on his head, catching him across the temple. It sounded like she’d hit a rock. Moses flew up in the air with an ear-splitting screech, landed on her bed in a tumble of white fur and flailing legs and then scrambled down the hall. The intruder stood motionless for a moment. Had she stunned him? She didn’t dare take her eyes off him to spare another split-second for Moses. In slow motion, the man dropped his knife, fell to one knee and grabbed his head with both hands.

  Cynthia watched, body trembling, breathing hard and fast. If he so much as moved a muscle…

  Groaning pitifully, he tried to stand again. She lifted her weapon for another swing. He stumbled back, away from her, still clutching his head. At the door he turned and ran, awkwardly bumping against the wall. Glossy dark streaks of blood remained after his rapid retreat.

  Her breath rasped in and out of her lungs. Glass crunched loudly beneath hurried footfalls. Did he climb through the window, going out the same way he came in?

  Unable to move, she stood frozen for several long minutes, just listening. She shook so hard that she thought she’d crack every bone in her body from the tremors. Slowly, sensibility returned. His discarded knife lay on the floor near the bed. The switchblade was evidence and she knew better than to touch it. She kept her grip on the golf club.

  Still she didn’t trust the man was entirely gone. She tiptoed to the bedroom door, holding her weapon like a sword and peered down the hall.

  Empty.

  Could he be unconscious or lying in wait somewhere else in her apartment? Cautiously she searched, flipping on lights as she went. He was gone. She hurried to find the cordless phone and dialed 911.

  Chapter Four

  The insistent trill of his cell phone woke Trevor from a dreamless sleep. Jet lag always hit him hard the first day whenever he flew across the Atlantic pond. He reached under his pillow, felt his gun, moved his hand to the nightstand and found the annoying phone.

  “St. James,” he answered groggily.

  “Wakey, wakey,” a jolly male voice said in a thick Scottish brogue. “Got something for ye. Are ye up?”

  “Am now.” Trevor recognized the sound of his support agent’s overly cheerful greeting. “Talk.”

  “Be down at the Sixth Police Precinct on Sheridan Street at nine o’clock. A woman whose apartment was burglarized last night will be there talking to detectives.”

  “How is this important to my case?”

  “She’s a jewelry designer. Mr. Andrews paid her a visit as a client.”

  Trevor sat up, fully alert now and reached for a notepad and pen. “Good job, O’Rourke. Sixth Precinct on Sheridan, nine a.m. Got it. What’s her name?”

  “Miss Cynthia Lyons. For a jewelry designer, she doesn’t have any reputation to speak of, not as far as recognition with Interpol goes. Strictly small-time. They’re sending a squad car to pick her up from an undisclosed hotel.”

  “A hotel? Why?”

  “She decked the burglar with a golf club. He left a blood trail and didn’t get anything he came for. Her apartment has been cordoned off for investigation. I’ve already checked all the hospitals within fifty miles. No males with cracked skulls have visited an emergency room since last night.”

  “Wounded him? Well, good for her.” Trevor grinned at this resourceful woman’s choice of weapon. “Have the New York cops found a reason to impound any evidence from her apartment?”

  “Not legally. She was the victim, St. James.”

  Trevor winced, still fearing he’d hit a dead end. “And the diamonds?”

  O’Rourke sighed irritably. “Miss Lyons won’t confirm nor deny that her client gave her a diamond.”

  “A diamond? Just one, you say? Not a dozen?”

  “Finding that out be yer job, St. James. The only criminal charges are on an unidentified perp for breaking and entering and assault with a deadly weapon. Nothing was taken, so she has the right to keep her goods confidential without police interference.”

  A familiar itch crawled up Trevor’s spine, like it did whenever he knew he was right. She had the stone and was protecting her client and his property. Noble of her, certainly. But not a good thing to do in this case!

  “What’s the last word on Andrews’ whereabouts?”

  “No sign of him. Miss Lyons gave the police a physical description, phone number and an address for him. T
he address was a dupe but the phone is his cellular. He’s not answering. She’s the last witness.”

  “Sounds like she’s cooperative. I’m assuming you’ve already been in contact with Interpol Command?”

  O’Rourke snorted into the phone. “Of course, or I wouldna’ be calling ye! Command has an agreement with the mayor of New York City and he understands the gravity of the situation. The captain of police at that precinct is Darren Hill and he’s expected to hand over control of this case to ye without reserve. That’s all I’ve got so far, St. James.”

  “Thank you, O’Rourke. I’ll call as soon as I’ve spoken with Miss Lyons.” Trevor flipped his phone closed and sank back into the pillow for a moment.

  His hotel room was still dark, the heavy drapery drawn tight against the encroaching daylight and noise of New York City. Now that he was awake, a restless stream of energy hummed through his blood. His mind churned with ideas on how to accomplish his main objective, to convince a jewelry designer that she should give him a client’s diamond—without revealing the stone’s importance.

  Trevor glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand. Two hours before he had to be down at police headquarters. More than enough time for some exercise to use up his excess energy and help him think.

  * * * * *

  Two powerful jets pumped hot water against the tight knot in Cynthia’s spine. She had the hotel’s enclosed rooftop pool and spa area to herself. Apparently seven in the morning was too early for other guests to sample this luxury. Sighing with pleasure, she leaned her head against the aquamarine tiles and closed her eyes.

  But it didn’t work. The events that led to her being at a hotel flashed behind her eyelids with frightening clarity. Helpless to resist, she recounted the last harrowing hours in her mind’s eye for the thousandth time.

  The police had taken their time responding to her emergency call. Would they have been more prompt if she’d been injured? Once they arrived and understood the gravity of her situation, she answered questions as best she could. Then they roped off her front door with yellow and black tape and insisted she couldn’t stay there during the investigation.