Death and Diamonds Read online

  I knew I was right. There was something fishy going on, but I’d let myself get distracted. I wanted to hop right off my chair and go running back outside to get the names of the three firms and the license plate numbers on their trucks. I wanted to alert the police and Mr. Harris that there was something wrong—but my job was to stay with Shakira.

  I walked slowly down the hallway. “Frank?” I called out in a soft voice.

  “Yeah?” He popped his head out through Naomi’s open doorway.

  “I think something’s fishy outside—with the camera setups and the breaker boxes. I want to go check, but . . .” I nodded toward Shakira’s closed dressing-room door. “Do you think you could cover for me? Just for a few minutes?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Her bodyguard, Bobo? He should have been back by now, but he isn’t. He went to get her iPod from the limo.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back any minute, bro,” I said. “He can look out for Naomi while you watch Shakira till I get back.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to,” Frank said, making a face.

  “Cool. Stay alert, bro,” I said as I took off down the hallway. “I think something’s up, and it isn’t good.”

  I jogged around the corner and down the adjoining hallway until I got to the diamond room. The door was closed, of course, and the only way to get in would have been to press my ID’d palm against the ceramic panel—but I didn’t, because I heard voices inside. Men’s voices.

  I couldn’t tell who they belonged to, and I didn’t have long to figure it out—because just then, a strong, muscular arm wrapped itself around my throat, and a hand holding a wet hankie pressed itself over my mouth and nose.

  I smelled chloroform, saw stars—and everything spun into blackness.

  7.

  From the Frying Pan into the Fire

  “I can’t imagine where Bobo could have gone to,” Naomi was saying. “I mean, how hard is it to find a rainbow-painted stretch limo?” She was sitting at her makeup mirror, playing with some eyeliner—but really, she seemed more interested in talking to me.

  If only I didn’t feel so nervous around her, I might have held up my end of the conversation better. Whenever she started asking me questions about my life, I was reduced to one-word answers like “Yeah,” or “I guess.” (Okay, that’s two words—sorry.)

  Within half an hour, I knew the following: She was twenty years old, born in Indiana and raised in Chicago, where she was spotted in a modeling contest at age eight. By the age of sixteen, she was the world’s most famous runway model and cover girl. For the past four years, it had been impossible to avoid seeing her face—on a billboard, a magazine, a TV commercial, a music video—you get the idea.

  Yet alone with her, here in the dressing room, she seemed like just an ordinary girl—except, of course, she wasn’t. Not anymore. I was getting to see the real Naomi—the Naomi she kept inside except for rare moments like this, when she got to spend an hour with someone who wasn’t “in the business” or trying to get next to her for selfish reasons.

  I was there to protect her, that was all. To make sure she didn’t get hurt if somebody tried to steal these incredible diamonds. And for that, she appreciated me. Liked me, even.

  How lucky was I?

  Of course, I knew I was supposed to be keeping an eye on Shakira while Joe was off checking out the cameras and circuit-breaker boxes. And I did take a quick look down the hallway every two minutes or so. But my first job was to keep an eye on Naomi, after all.

  “I hope he’s okay,” she said, biting her lip.

  “Who?”

  “Bobo, silly. Hello, Earth to Frank?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “You think a lot, don’t you?”

  “Me? Yeah, I guess.”

  See what I mean? I wasn’t exactly impressing her with my witty conversation.

  “He never leaves me alone for very long,” she said, her perfect brows knitting with worry. “There must be some problem.”

  “I think Bobo can take care of himself,” I said.

  She laughed. “He is pretty strong. One time, this guy got out of hand with me at a party—and Bobo, you should have seen him, he had that guy in a headlock in two seconds flat. I’ll bet his head still hurts, Bobo squeezed it so hard!”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “He’s very devoted to me, you know,” she said with a sweet smile. “I mean, I hired him at a very good salary, at a time when he couldn’t get a job.”

  “How’d you meet him?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was doing a show in Atlantic City, and the crowds were really over the top. Vincent—he promoted that show too—thought I needed protection, so he talked with some people down there, and the next day, Bobo showed up. I realized I’d seen him the day before under the boardwalk, hanging out with a bunch of guys who looked like gangsters. But once Vincent put him in a suit, he looked fine.”

  “Uh huh. So, let me get this straight—Vincent finds this guy on the street, doesn’t know him from Adam, and hires him to protect you?”

  She blinked a few times, looking confused. “Yeah, I guess that does sound strange—but I mean, look at Bobo. Would you bother me if you saw him standing next to me, protecting me?”

  “I guess not,” I had to admit.

  “So anyway, I decided to hire Bobo for my protection wherever I went. Still, I’m glad you’re here, Frank.” She reached out and took my hand. Her eyes locked onto mine. “You’re smart—much smarter than Bobo, not that that’s such a great achievement. And I’m going to need somebody smart to protect me once those jewels are around my neck.” She drew me closer to her. “You . . . will protect me, won’t you?”

  “Count on it,” I whispered, unable to find my voice.

  She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “Good,” she said. “I feel much safer now.”

  I heard a hostile grunt behind me and turned to see Bobo’s hulking figure blocking the doorway. Had he been there the whole time? While Naomi was kissing me, and telling me how much smarter than him I was?

  I sure hoped not.

  “I don’t like him being here,” he said to Naomi, never taking his eyes off me. “I don’t trust this guy.”

  “He’s fine, Bobo,” Naomi said, clucking her tongue. “Stop being so suspicious.”

  “I got my eye on you, babyface,” he said to me. “Don’t try nothing.”

  Mmm-hmm. Not the brightest bulb in the pack.

  “Listen, I’d better check in with Shakira,” I said. “Joe asked me to keep an eye on her while he was gone . . . and he’s been gone quite a while now.”

  All this time I’d been trying to get around Bobo and out the door of the dressing room. But he wasn’t letting me through.

  “Listen, you,” he said, grabbing me by the shirt and bringing my face right up to his. “You lay one finger on her, and you’re a dead man, understand?”

  “Hey, big guy,” I said, trying to laugh it off but failing, “I’m on her side too. We’re all on the same team, okay?”

  He let go of my shirt. “Remember what I said,” he growled, then let me pass.

  “Naomi, I’ll . . . be back in a few minutes, okay?”

  “I’ll be right here,” she said, blowing me a kiss.

  Bobo saw that. He gave me a look that would have burned right through me if I’d stayed there one more second.

  I was going to have to stay on the big guy’s good side if I expected to do my job of keeping close to Naomi—but how was I supposed to stay on his good side?

  I couldn’t help thinking he was the wrong guy to be protecting her day in and day out. She needed someone much more presentable. More intelligent. Someone like . . . me, for instance.

  I knocked on Shakira’s dressing room door. “Um, hi there. Is Joe back yet?”

  She was alone, sitting there looking sad and fragile and incredibly beautiful. I couldn’t believe Joe would just leave her there alone for so long!

  “He aban
doned me here,” she said. “Nice, huh? So you’re his brother?”

  “Frank,” I reminded her, and we shook hands.

  “Sit down, Frank,” she said. “Are you in security too?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “I’m assigned to Naomi for today.”

  “Oh,” she said, taken aback. “Well, what are you doing here, then? Spying on me for her?” She was joking, but I could tell she half meant it.

  “Me? No, no. Joe asked me to keep an eye on you while he was gone—and Naomi’s already got her bodyguard, so I thought I’d see how you were getting along.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Really. You know, the whole bodyguard thing can get out of hand. I used to have a whole gang of them trailing me around—I think they caused more problems than they solved, starting fights and stuff like that. And like I told your brother, I’m used to looking out for myself. Been doing it since I was a little girl.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” I said. “But once you start putting on the jewelry, we’re going to have to stick close by the two of you. Just in case.”

  She sighed. “Those diamonds are bad news,” she said. “Bad karma, as they say. People were killed and their families destroyed to collect them. Now they want to sell them for charity. Well, that’s all good, but I still say the whole thing is creepy.”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid creepy may be the least of it.”

  There was a short, rapid knock on the door. “Shakira, darling, it’s Vincent. We need you onstage for a walk-through.”

  “Already?” Shakira moaned. “All right, I’m coming.” She opened the door, and I followed her out into the hallway.

  “Oh. Hello there,” Vincent Carrera said. He seemed unpleasantly surprised to see me. “I thought your friend was guarding Shakira.”

  “My brother. He is.”

  “Ah. Well, he won’t be needed for an hour or so. We’re doing a rehearsal with Naomi and Shakira.”

  “But our job is to stay with them,” I said.

  “Well, you can stay with them after,” Carrera insisted. “We’ve got a job to do. There’ll be plenty of us around to keep an eye on the girls.” He gave me a weak smile, and I found myself gritting my teeth and balling up my fists.

  But I let them go. Part of me was worried about Joe, anyway, and I wanted to see where he’d gone off to.

  I went down the hallway Joe had taken. I passed a few security personnel guarding the exhibit hall where the diamonds were stored, and some more on the stairs leading up to the main level.

  But no sign of Joe. On the main level I found an exit door and went outside for some fresh air. It was five thirty, two hours to showtime.

  The sun was glowing over the bay—a fantastic sight. Turning inland, I could see a line of cars and limos snaking up to the convention center’s main entrance and valet parking area. The guests were arriving for the big show. Most were dressed to the nines. Clearly, this was the place to see and be seen tonight. Flashes popped as paparazzi surrounded each new arrival.

  Joe’s absence was really starting to bother me. He wouldn’t have just left Shakira alone for that long unless he was chasing down a lead—or a criminal. . . . He’d said there was something fishy about the camera trucks . . . or was it the breaker boxes . . . or both?

  I decided to circle the outside of the convention center, checking each camera position and breaker box along the way—starting in the rear, away from the crowds. If there was any funny business going on, it would have to be done away from the focus of attention.

  A few times Bayport police stopped me—they don’t all know me—and I had to show them my security clearance. I realized that any thieves posing as maintenance crews would have to have passes like mine to get through the police lines. But if the mob was planning to hit a target this big, they’d have gotten themselves passes somehow. Hey, I had one, didn’t I?

  I saw three different security firms’ trucks parked around the outside of the center. I thought it was a little odd, but then, if you wanted to be extra secure, you’d have different firms keeping an eye on each other, right?

  I was halfway around now, and so far, everything looked normal. On this side, there was a chain-link fence to my left, walling off a construction zone—the convention center was so new, they were still adding on to it.

  As I passed, I noticed that the chain links had been cut and then repaired. Could someone have slipped through and then tried to cover their tracks?

  I was passing one of the utility entrances when I noticed something different. Here there was just one truck. It belonged to the only firm of the three that wasn’t locally based and known to me: Hanley Security, New York, NY.

  I figured Vincent had to have hired this firm from the big city. He was the kind of guy who didn’t trust rubes like us, even if we did have the newest, hottest convention center in the East.

  What interested me, though, was that the truck was empty, but running. Where were its driver and crew?

  Two cables led from the rear of the truck toward the convention center. I followed them along the ground. They disappeared inside a slightly opened set of utility doors.

  If I were Joe and I’d seen that, I’d definitely have gone inside to see what was up.

  I peeked through the open doorway and saw that the cable led to a transformer box. Three men wearing Hanley Security jackets were huddled around it. I followed the wire up the wall from the transformer—to a box marked MASTER ALARM CIRCUITS.

  They looked up and saw me . . . and I saw them—three faces that could have been the models for any murderer’s mug shot.

  I can still see those horrible, scarred faces, even though I never laid eyes on them again. They were the last thing I saw before the chloroformed hankie was jammed under my nose, and I passed out cold.

  8.

  Zero Hour

  I woke up with a headache that felt like a spike going from ear to ear, right through my skull.

  I couldn’t see a thing. For a minute I thought I’d been blinded—but then I saw that it wasn’t completely dark. There were the outlines of objects, flickering in the light of a computer monitor. The monitor was just playing its “sleep” pattern of stars in the night sky that seem to be coming right at you. You know the one.

  It was probably good that the room was so dark, because I was pretty sure any bright light would have jiggled that spike between my ears.

  I tried to get up but couldn’t. My feet were tied together, and my hands were bound behind my back, fastened to some sack of cement, or sand, or something. . . .

  Something that was breathing!

  Snoring, in fact. Come to think of it, I knew that snore. I’d have known it anywhere, spike in my head or no.

  “Frank!” I whispered. “Frank! Wake up, man!”

  Nothing. Frank was out cold, probably on the same chloroform cocktail—I was pretty sure that’s what it was—that had knocked me for a loop. He would have been at least fifteen minutes behind me—it would have taken him that long to get suspicious and/or worried about me.

  So I figured it’d be a while before he woke up. Meantime, I continued to survey the room, while I tried to go over in my mind how I could get us out of this mess.

  Let’s see . . . I had an all-purpose knife thingy in the back pocket of my cargo pants. . . .

  Too bad I couldn’t reach it.

  I saw a pair of scissors on a desk across the room, but that would have to wait until Frank woke up.

  My eyes were adjusting now, and I could see that we were in some sort of guard kiosk—maybe an unused entrance to the parking garage, judging by the sounds of engines on the other side of the wall.

  But if it was a guard post, where was the guard?

  I looked around, and saw another sack of cement lying behind the desk, with its feet sticking out—bound together, of course.

  Okay, so much for the guard. This all added up to one thing—a heist was already in progress. The diamond show was about to start, if it hadn’t a
lready. And Frank and I, whose job it was to protect Naomi and Shakira, were tied together—totally useless!

  “Frank!”

  “Whagumphr?”

  “Frank, wake up, man! We’re missing everything!”

  “Hmmzt?”

  “The show! Frank!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m okay, yeah, okay . . . Okay.”

  He didn’t seem okay—but at least he was awake.

  “Notice anything, bro?” I asked.

  “Ow, my head!”

  “Chloroform, dude. You and me both.”

  “My hands . . .”

  “Exactly. Do you think you could get it together enough to reach into my back pocket and pull out my knife thingy?

  “This is pretty humiliating,” I muttered as he tried to find it. “Did you have to go and get yourself jumped?”

  “Hey, I was just trying to find you, bro,” he said, coming to.

  “Oh, right, this is all my fault.”

  “Well, if the shoe fits . . .”

  “Shut up and cut me loose, okay?” I said, really getting annoyed—although it was me I really could have kicked. How could I have let myself get ambushed like a total amateur? “Hey—watch it,” I said. “That’s my wrist you’re cutting!”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m doing my best. I’m still groggy, y’know?”

  “Well, do better!”

  “Man, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” he said, freeing me at last.

  I untied my ankles, rubbed the feeling back into my arms and legs, and stood up.

  There were no windows in this control room except for the one next to where the guard was supposed to sit. I went over there and lifted the shade that had been pulled down in front of it—sure enough, it was a parking garage. I didn’t see anyone nearby, nor were there any cars. “This must be the end facing the construction zone,” I said.

  “Perfect place to break in,” Frank said, going over to the unconscious guard to check his condition. “He’s alive—but I’m sure he didn’t have much company, way back here at the far end of the complex.”

  “Not until the bad guys showed up. Try the door, Frank.”