Classy.
“Juan.” I hit him with my most bewitching smile. “May I cut to the point? I’m interested in buying a number of your best diamonds. In fact, all of your best diamonds. And I’m in a hurry. I need to be walking out your front door with them in twenty minutes. Do you think we can make that happen?”
He looked me up and down, took in the trashy sweatshirt, the muddy boots, the rental-car key fob dangling from my hand.
“You pay cash?” was all he said.
Velvet trays appeared. I selected a two-and-a-half carat stunner of an engagement ring and popped it on my finger right there. The rest I took in loose stones. The female assistant darted back and forth, matching appraisals and lab certificates to gems.
Juan had his calculator out, keeping a running total. When he hit $200K, he looked skeptical. “Keep going?”
I checked my watch. No time. “No, thanks. That’ll do it.” I turned to the woman. “Would you excuse us for a second?”
She hesitated, glanced at Juan. He nodded.
When we were alone, I patted the padded velvet sleeve in which he’d been placing the diamonds. “I’m not an expert in diamonds, as you’ve probably guessed. But I will be. One day, when I’m not in quite such a rush, I’ll take these and get them appraised. If you have cheated me—if a reputable dealer examines the contents of this bag, plus this ring, and finds them to be worth less than two hundred thousand -dollars—I will find out. And I will come back here, and I’ll shoot you. Just so we’re clear.” I smiled sweetly. “Do you need to make any adjustments?”
He blanched. Stiffened. Reached behind him, picked out two good-size rocks from a tray, and dropped them in with the others I had selected.
“Excellent.” I pulled the cashier’s check from my purse and flipped it over. “Want me to endorse this to Tip-Top Diamonds or to you personally?”
He reached for the check to inspect it. Held it up to the light, ran his fingers over the watermark. “Caroline Cashion’s not your real name, is it?”
“Actually, it is. You’ll have to trust me on that one. The check’s legit. Although I wouldn’t wait too long to cash it.”
Now he was squinting at the amount. “This check’s worth two hundred and fifty grand. I can’t make change.”
“Consider it commission for a job well done. And for keeping this transaction between us.”
He still looked uncertain.
“Juan. I need to go. Do we have a deal?”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and pushed the check across the desk to me. “Endorse it over to my buddy Chuck. He helps with the accounts.”
What did that mean, in dodgy-diamond-dealer-speak? That Chuck was the guy who laundered the money? I shrugged and wrote my signature on the check.
Traffic was surprisingly light on the drive to the airport. I squealed into the Hertz return zone an hour and fifty-two minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart. Before climbing out I reset the GPS unit. Delete all recent destinations? Y/N? it asked. Yes. A backup file was probably synced to some server, somewhere, but no reason to make it easy to retrace my steps.
An attendant materialized at the window. “Evening, ma’am. Read the mileage for me, if you would?”
I checked the odometer and told him the number.
“Returning it with a full tank?”
“Didn’t have time.”
Tutting noise. “That’ll cost you. Next time select the prepaid-fuel option.”
I nearly laughed. It would be difficult to explain to this man quite how far down my list of sins having failed to fill my gas tank would rank. Committing murder has a way of putting one’s other trans-gressions in perspective.
As I made my way toward the airport train, a smile lingered on my face. On the one hand: I had killed a man today. A man who, whatever his flaws, was someone’s husband. Someone’s father. I had terrorized an old lady and locked her in her laundry room. I had deliberately destroyed evidence relevant to a felony. I was about to try to smuggle $200,000 worth of undeclared diamonds out of the country. I was on the run, was possibly looking at life in prison.
On the other: I hadn’t had this much fun in quite some time.
? ? ?
IN THE ATRIUM of the main terminal, I stopped to watch a television tuned to CNN. The volume was muted, but judging from the graphics, the anchor was parsing the Dow’s having hit another record high today, closing at 15,747. If only I’d had time to sock my money in stocks instead of diamonds.
Next up—Celebrities Caught in “Catfishing” Hoax, announced a banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Also ahead, five things you needed to know about New York’s new mayor. I was not news yet, then. CNN was headquartered in Atlanta; they would be all over the murder of a wealthy local lawyer. Sweet Betsy must still be locked in the laundry room.
Delta was inviting first-class passengers to preboard when I reached the gate. That meant I had ten minutes or so. I retraced my steps to a cluster of shops that I’d passed. At Emporio Armani I picked up the plainest, beigest sweater I could find. Also two outrageously overpriced white Tshirts and a pair of black jeans that looked more or less my size. At Coach I made a beeline for a pair of sensible, rubber-soled, mahogany--brown boots. No more stilettos for me. Nothing that might attract attention.
The departures screen displayed my flight’s status as FINAL CALL. I ducked into DKNY, grabbed an oversize pair of dark sunglasses, threw several bills on the counter, didn’t wait for the change.
They were shutting the doors to the gangway as I hurtled up to the desk. A cranky flight attendant scanned my boarding pass, then my passport. No red lights lit up. No alarm sounded. No Homeland Security agent burst forward, screaming for my arrest.
I found my seat. Clicked my seat belt tight. Closed my eyes.
Nine hours and four minutes to Zurich.
PART SEVEN
Europe
Fifty-two
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