Death and Diamonds Read online

  “Frank and Joe Hardy, meet Vincent Carrera, the promoter of tonight’s show.” Turning to Carrera, he added, “The Hardys are here to provide extra undercover security for Naomi and Shakira.”

  “Ah. Excellent,” said Carrera, in a heavy, upper-crust European accent. “So pleased to meet you both.”

  We all shook hands, and then Harris said, “I’ve just been giving them the grand tour of the convention center’s security systems. But perhaps you’d like to tell them about the ‘treasure room.’” He turned back to us. “This,” he said, gesturing at the hall around us, “is the treasure room.”

  “Yes,” Carrera said, giving us all a patient smile. “The spot where we’re now standing is at ground zero, so to speak, of the convention center’s security. If the systems were turned on, we’d all be covered from head to toe by laser motion detectors linked to all the convention center’s alarm systems. If we were thieves, we’d have maybe ten seconds before we were surrounded by heavily armed security personnel.”

  Harris beamed, as if he were the proud parent of a bouncing baby being shown off to admiring relatives for the first time.

  “These glass boxes,” Carrera continued, “are where the diamond jewelry will be stored when it arrives.”

  “When will that be?” I asked.

  He checked his watch. “Any moment now, as a matter of fact. And here they will remain until Naomi and Shakira place them around their pretty necks and arms.”

  He placed a hand on one of the glass boxes. “These are not made of ordinary glass, either. Oh, no. The glass is backed by plastic so tough it would take a well-muscled weight lifter over half an hour to smash through it with a hammer. By that time, of course,” he added with that patient smile, “we’d have him safely in irons.”

  These two guys seemed to me to be overly confident in their preventive measures. In my experience, it pays to never underestimate the bad guys. You never know what surprises they’ve got up their sleeves. After all, they get to make the first move. Not that the security measures weren’t impressive—it was Harris’s and Carrera’s overconfidence that bothered me.

  But who was I to say anything yet? These two were the ones in charge. Frank and I were only here to make sure the models were safe, and that the jewels weren’t stolen from off their bodies. That much, I thought we could handle.

  Carrera’s walkie-talkie chirped, and he answered it. “Yes? Ah, excellent. We’re all ready down here. Make sure the police are in position first.”

  Hanging up, he turned to us. “The diamonds have arrived. If you’d like, you can stay and watch as they’re brought in and certified.”

  It took a while for them to get to the hall where we were stationed, so Frank and I spent the meantime surveying the laser motion detectors and the silent alarm systems, all of them coded and interconnected.

  Everything seemed secure, I had to admit. But professional thieves—especially the mob—are very well educated in this sort of high-tech security. Their whole operation depends on staying one step ahead of the good guys.

  I was pretty sure, given the intercepted e-mails, that they would take a stab at stealing the diamonds, security or no security.

  The gems arrived, along with about a dozen Bayport police and a very efficient-looking man with a leather briefcase. “This is Mr. Nicholas Edmondson, our local gemological expert,” Carrera told us. “Mr. Edmondson, this is Mr. Harris, head of security for the convention center—and these are the personal undercover security guards for the models.”

  “Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank said helpfully, nodding in Edmondson’s direction.

  Case by heavy steel case, Carrera lifted the diamond jewelry out, held them up for us to see, and then handed them to Edmondson, who looked each item over closely with a special high-magnification eyepiece. “Each gem has a microscopic identifying number etched on it with a laser,” Carrera explained.

  “Yes, this is authentic,” Mr. Edmondson said after viewing each piece in turn. “And the number matches. Beautiful . . . just beautiful . . .”

  I’ve got to say, the jewels were spectacular—necklaces with diamonds as big as Ping-Pong balls; bracelets so thick with glittering diamonds that I had to shade my eyes; earrings so big and heavy I wondered if Naomi’s and Shakira’s earlobes would get stretched out by them.

  It took about twenty minutes for Edmondson to certify them all, and for Carrera to load them into their display cases. Then Harris went over to the far side of the hall and keyed in a code number. Suddenly there was a soft humming noise.

  Harris smiled. “The bottoms of the glass cubes are magnetized to hold them firmly in place. I’m the only one who knows the code to release the magnetic locks. During the show, I will come down here and release them, one at a time, so that the models can put the jewels on—and afterward, I’ll lock them right back down again.”

  “Well,” said Carrera, “I think we’re finished here for the moment. Time to go, everybody.”

  “Um, I don’t mean to be a pain,” I said, “but shouldn’t someone stay here with the gems at all times?”

  Carrera gave me his most patient smile. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “The Bayport police have a tight cordon around the entire convention center, and all security personnel have been vetted by Mr. Harris. Besides, the closed-circuit cameras and motion-sensing laser alarms are all on. I think the gems will be safest if they’re left alone until showtime.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever.”

  We were about to follow them out of the hall when Chief Collig met us at the door, accompanied by Officer Con Reilly, one of dad’s old friends on the force.

  “Well, look who’s here!” said the chief—meaning me and Frank. I could tell by his frown that he wasn’t pleased.

  “We’ve been hired on as extra security,” Frank explained quickly.

  “Oh, is that so?” said the chief. “And by whom?”

  “Um . . . by our dad,” said Frank, giving the chief a meaningful look. Even though Chief Collig and Hal Harris knew about ATAC, none of the other guys in the room did, and it was important that they didn’t find out. As I’ve said before, ATAC is a top secret organization, and it’s vital that it stay that way, no matter what.

  “Ah . . . yes, of course,” said the chief, getting the message. He turned to the others. “Their dad is an ex-cop, and a good one too—Fenton Hardy. He still . . . er . . . does some consulting for us.”

  “I see,” said Harris, pleased to see that the chief of the Bayport Police Department was okay with our being there.

  Carrera’s walkie-talkie chirped again. “Yes? Ah, wonderful! We’ll be right up to meet her!” He gave us all a big, wide smile—not at all like the fake, patient one we’d seen up to now. “Well, gentlemen, if you think you’ve seen some beautiful jewels up to now, get ready to be even more dazzled. Naomi has arrived.”

  5.

  Love at First Sight

  I do not consider myself a romantic type. Not at all. But if you’ve ever dreamed of romance, the girl in your mind has to be beyond gorgeous, right?

  Okay, now imagine that girl walking through the door—the real thing. Perfect in every way. So perfect that there’s no possible way she would ever look at you twice.

  Now you have some idea how I felt when the real Naomi Dowd walked into her dressing room, where the rest of us were waiting for her. Joe will tell you that it doesn’t take much in the way of feminine beauty to strike me speechless. I’ve been turned into jelly so many times it’s not funny. It’s almost like a tic with me, or a stutter. I can’t help it, I have zero cool in situations like that.

  But trust me, this was on a whole other level.

  I can’t even tell you what she was wearing—I don’t remember, except I do know she looked incredible in it. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail—I guessed some expensive hairdresser would be doing it up for that night’s show—and she looked around at us with a big, bright smile. “Hi, everybody!” she said in a breathy
voice. “Some place this is, huh?”

  None of us answered at first. Then Carrera said, “Great to see you, Naomi darling.” Going up to her, he gave her an air kiss on one cheek, then on the other. “You’re looking lovely, as always.”

  “Oh, Vincent,” she said, “you’re such a flatterer.”

  From this, I figured out that they knew each other. Of course they did—why wouldn’t they? He was a promoter—the one who’d arranged for her to be in this show. They seemed friendly enough, but I didn’t sense any romantic attachment between them. Somehow, that made me feel good, like maybe she was “available.”

  You know, just in case.

  “Let me introduce you to everyone, Naomi darling,” Carrera went on. Taking her by the arm, he led her farther into the room—which was really big for a dressing room, if you ask me. It had two large sinks, a long mirror surrounded by bright light-bulbs, three really comfortable chairs, drawers, countertops, shelves, and a big closet.

  “This is Mr. Harris, head of security,” Carrera said.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Naomi said, offering him her hand.

  Harris took it but didn’t seem sure whether to shake it or kiss it. “Hal. Please,” he said, just holding it.

  “Okay—Hal, then,” Naomi said, beaming a smile at him. Then she looked over at Joe and me.

  “And these are the Hardy brothers,” Carrera said. “Frank and Joe.”

  “Um, Joe and Frank,” Joe corrected him.

  Naomi giggled and looked us over with a twinkle in her eyes. “And what are you here for?” she asked. “Are you modeling too?”

  Whoa—she thought we were good looking enough to be models? Or wait—maybe she was just joking.

  I was so nervous, it was hard to tell.

  “The Hardys are acting as personal security for you and Shakira,” Carrera explained. “They’ll be undercover.”

  The mention of the name Shakira brought the first frown to Naomi’s face. “I see,” she said, a frosty edge to her voice. “Well, which one of you is mine?”

  I froze solid. What I meant to say was, “ME!!!” But I knew Joe was probably thinking the same thing. I didn’t want to make a jerk out of myself, so I kept quiet and let him answer. What he said totally surprised me.

  “Well, I guess we ought to leave that up to you, Ms. Dowd.”

  “My, my, my,” she said, grinning and letting out a little giggle. “Hmmm. Let me see. . . .” She walked up to Joe and felt his bicep. “You must work out a lot,” she said.

  “Um, yeah, I guess I do,” Joe said. I had to smile—Joe’s usually so smooth with girls, but with Naomi, he was acting more like me.

  Then she walked over to me and looked me right in the eye. I tried to hold her gaze but wound up looking down at my shoes.

  “So you’re Frank?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You’re cute,” she said, running a finger over my cheek.

  I know I must have gone beet red, because Naomi chuckled softly. “You think you can keep me safe for one night?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t even get it together to say yes.

  “Well, I can’t choose between you,” she said. “You both seem fine to me.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said. “You’re pretty fine yourself.”

  I cringed. He sounded like such a jerk, I felt sorry for him.

  “Well, I think we can let you three work it out for yourselves,” Carrera said, rubbing his manicured hands together. “We’d better be getting on, then, Mr. Harris, Chief Collig. Lots to do before tonight. You boys can stay here for now. I’ll let you know when Shakira arrives.”

  They left, and now it was just me, Naomi, and Joe.

  “So, Frank,” Joe said.

  “So, Joe,” I replied.

  I could tell that neither of us was going to give an inch.

  “We could shoot for it,” he said. “Odds or evens?”

  “Odds,” I said. “One, two, three, shoot!”

  I put out two fingers, and Joe put out one. Yes!

  “Two out of three,” he said.

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way.”

  “Hey, bro—age before beauty, right?” I said.

  Naomi turned back to Joe. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Uh . . . no!” Joe said, lying through his teeth. “Hey, fair’s fair.”

  “It’ll all work out,” she said. “And I’ve got a really good feeling about Joe here.”

  “Frank,” I corrected her.

  She giggled and put a hand to her mouth. “Oops! Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “Sorry, Joe,” she said. “I hope you’re not too disappointed. After all, you get to guard Shakira, and she’s not exactly hideous, even if she is a total brat.”

  That caught my attention. So Naomi and Shakira had some bad blood between them. . . . I wondered if Shakira really was a brat, or if Naomi just had a beef with her. In my experience, it usually takes two to tango. Or to have a fight, for that matter.

  “In fact, most guys think she’s pretty fly,” Naomi finished.

  “Yeah. I guess so.” Joe smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  Just the day before, he’d been saying how he thought Shakira was even better looking than Naomi. But now, after meeting Naomi face-to-face, I’m sure he was totally incapable of thinking about any other girl in the universe.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll . . . take a walk around . . . scout things out for tonight.” He gave me a look that was pure envy. “Have fun,” he said, and walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

  “So,” Naomi said, turning back to me. She took her bag off her shoulder and plopped it down on the makeup counter. “What do you guys do in this town—when you’re not on the job, that is?”

  “Um, well, we—” I was about to say we were secret agents for ATAC. That’s how hypnotized I was by her. But I caught myself just in time. “We’re amateur detectives.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” Naomi said, biting her lip in a way that made her even more beautiful. “I’d love to do that—except, of course, I never have time for anything that’s fun. It’s the same old thing every day—shows, shoots, and parties, shows, shoots, and parties, all day and all night.” She let out a sigh. “So tiring.”

  “It sounds like fun to me,” I said.

  “Try doing it for a couple months straight, and then see how much fun it is,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not complaining or anything. But it’s not as glamorous as it looks. Not by a long shot.”

  “I imagine there’s a lot of money in it,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, but you know . . . it goes. The lifestyle’s molto expensivo.”

  “I guess so.” I was starting to feel uncomfortable, alone in this little room with her. I knew she was just a human being, like everyone else—but somehow, to me, she wasn’t.

  “You think Frank will be okay?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry about Joe.” I added a little emphasis to Joe’s name this time.

  “Oops! Sorry again. I’m terrible with names.”

  “It’s okay. Joe’s a big boy—even though I’m the older brother,” I added, just in case she thought I was too young for her. “He can take care of himself.”

  “I’m curious,” she said, suddenly serious. “Why did they think Shakira and I needed extra security?”

  “I think they’re worried about the jewelry being stolen. You know, with it being so expensive and all. And there’s that, um, warlord guy, Sanguillen. The guy who had the jewels confiscated? I hear they lost track of him last week.” I was giving a lot of information—but it wasn’t information I thought needed to be kept secret.

  “Oh! I see.” She thought about that for a minute, taking it in. “I heard he did some awful things to people over there in Australia.”

  “The Philippines, actually. Yeah. So . . .”

  “But they don’t need to worry about me,”
she said. “I mean, after all, I’ve already got Bobo.”

  “Bobo?”

  “Somebody call me?” a loud, gravelly voice barked from over my left shoulder. I looked up—and there, standing in the doorway, and taking up every last inch of it, was the most menacing hulk of concrete I’d seen in a long time.

  “Oh, Bobo—there you are!” Naomi said. “Come on in and meet Joe—Joe, this is Bobo Hines. My full-time bodyguard.”

  I got up and stuck out my hand. “It’s Frank, actually. Pleased to meet you, Bobo.”

  Bobo walked slowly toward me, sizing me up—probably trying to figure out how hard he’d have to blow on me to knock me unconscious. Finally he took my hand, and squeezed so hard he nearly crushed every bone in it. “Good to meet you, Frank,” he said, staring right through me.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” Naomi said, “Bobo’s a sweetheart. He wouldn’t hurt a fly—unless, of course, that naughty fly was threatening me. Right, Bobo?”

  Bobo didn’t smile, or even twitch. Still staring at me, he said, “Word. So . . . what’s he doing here?”

  Meaning me.

  “Oh, Frank’s been assigned to guard me until the show’s over,” she explained. “Isn’t he cute? I think he’s so cute!”

  “Yeah,” said Bobo, gripping my hand even harder. “Real cute.”

  “Uh, could I have my hand back now, please?” I gasped, red flashes shooting across my vision from the pain.

  He released my hand, which was somewhere between numb and throbbing. “Yeah. Sure thing.” Then he turned to her. “What do you need a bodyguard for? You have me.”

  “It wasn’t my idea, Bobo,” she said. “Go talk to the police if you don’t like it.”

  He winced at the mention of the police.

  Bobo was wearing cargo shorts with no belt, no socks, and old sneakers with the laces untied. His shirt had no sleeves—well, to be perfectly exact, they’d been ripped off at the shoulders, exposing his huge, rocklike muscles, covered all over with tattoos.

  There were snakes, and scorpions, and skulls, and the letters RIP, and numbers, and Asian characters—this guy was a walking sideshow. And I, for one, also had no idea why anyone thought they needed me to help him guard Naomi.