Stealing the Golden Dream Read online

  “Another woman.” Jordan let her friend off the hook. “Eddie told me.”

  Ann looked relieved. “I didn’t know how to tell you, but I knew I had to. I always have your back.”

  Jordan squeezed Ann’s hand. “You’re a good friend. Thanks.”

  “So how are things, between you and Eddie I mean?

  The truth came easily in this case. “We’re dealing with it.”

  “Good,” Ann said, “because if you weren’t, I was hoping you’d let me shoot him for you.”

  Once Eddie got the news the body was about to be released, he called Muggs’s parents and told them. Muggs had been a man at ease with his own mortality and had told Eddie his idea of a perfect sendoff. Eddie paid for the cremation and had the ashes shipped to Muggs’s family in Cleveland. With their permission he kept some of the ashes with him. He made it clear the last goodbye would be the way Muggs wanted it.

  “The old man’s taking it real hard,” Eddie said, unable to look away from the small container of ashes on his office shelf. “Like he doesn’t have enough to deal with. Said he never figured to outlive his son, for the love of God. Muggs’s mom is worried all this stress might do him in.”

  Eddie’s concern for Mr. and Mrs. Baxter touched Jordan. Beneath that hard edge he was tenderhearted.

  Diego called and asked Eddie to meet him downtown at a certain deli near the Fourth Avenue Jail.

  “Diego’s got his hands on Owen Shetland’s brother. I’m going down there.”

  “Wait up, Marino.” Jordan hurried to her desk and removed her gun—a Smith & Wesson 38 six-shooter. It was so substantial that when she first started carrying it, she had to do wrist exercises. She slipped it in the exterior pocket of her bag—a gorgeous Maraschino cherry-red leather cross-body chosen specifically for easy-access to anything in the zippered compartment.

  He gave her a look. “You loaded for big game?”

  “You never know what you’ll run into.”

  The deli on Central was a few blocks from the Fourth Avenue Jail. It was standard fast food design—red metal tables with attached black bench seats. The off-white ceramic floor tile and stained grout showed signs of heavy foot traffic. The soda station looked like a war zone; cups, straws, lids strewn over the counter, and puddles of various liquids on the floor screamed for a mop and bucket. All of it bore testimony to a frantic surge earlier during lunchtime. Even the counter staff looked haggard. But the place was quiet now, with only a few stragglers at the odd table here and there. It smelled like salami and fresh-baked bread.

  Diego sat at a table with a dubious-looking fellow who was busy working on a steak sandwich, chips, and a huge soda. A second sandwich sat on a plate at the ready, still wrapped.

  Diego stood. “Eddie. Jordan. This is Al Shetland.”

  Shetland acknowledged them with a loud grunt, but his attention to the sandwich didn’t flag for a second.

  Jordan couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked like the type of man who’d just as soon knock you down as ask you to step aside—the no nonsense, strictly business, let’s get it over type, overly familiar with crime and violence. His build was average with the exception of his chest and arms, which were muscled and overly developed; it was where he gave the impression of brutality. His face was unremarkable, with the exception of his dark eyes. They looked like shark’s eyes, flat and beady, with hardly any discernible white.

  Diego sat back down with Al on his left. Eddie and Jordan took the chairs across from them. Jordan had to breathe through her mouth and fight the urge to bolt. Shetland smelled like a goat.

  They all just sat there watching Shetland make the most of his meal, going so far as to lick the wrappers.

  After he wiped his mouth and picked off the pieces of napkin stuck to his bristle, he folded his hands on the table and smiled. The effort was pleasant enough, but his mouth was the only part of his face participating in the smile. The full effect was pretty creepy.

  “Al, Eddie and Jordan have questions for you about a heist.”

  “How may I assist you?” He spoke with a lilt, in unusual patterns, like an actor in a play. “My acquaintance Diego here, a truly fine gentleman, posted my bail and got my derriere out of lockup. He desires I talk to you? I talk to you.” Al reached around Diego’s shoulders and gave him a little hug.

  Diego visibly tried not to jerk away.

  Eddie dove right in. “I’m going to ask you a few questions about your brother, Owen.”

  Shetland nodded sadly. “My brother was a misguided soul, Mr. Marino.”

  Jordan said, “We’re sorry for your loss, Al.”

  Al shrugged in an exaggerated way so his shoulders rose to his earlobes. “My brother was involved with many not-so-pleasant people. I’m surprised he lived as long as he did.”

  Al’s beady eyes slid Jordan’s way as she asked, “Do you know anyone in Owen’s organization—anyone working for him who might be out for revenge?”

  “No. Nobody in his right mind would aspire to revenge my brother. The world’s a better place without him in it.”

  Jordan looked at Eddie and shook her head. Dead end. A total waste of time. It was obvious Al wasn’t out to avenge his brother and didn’t think anyone else would bother. Time to look under another rock for the killer.

  Shetland looked at each of their faces in turn. “Well then, folks, I need to excuse myself now. I ate a lot, you know. A fellow doesn’t eat much for a day or two then has a beautiful meal like this, he needs to excuse himself.”

  Jordan stood, but Eddie stayed where he was. He didn’t even seem to mind sitting near the oh-so-fragrant Mr. Al Shetland.

  “One more thing, Mr. Shetland,” Eddie began.

  “Just Al.”

  “Al, where were you on Wednesday night?”

  Al’s dark gaze softened. “I was in lock-up, Mr. Marino, and I can’t begin to tell you how appreciative I am your illustrious firm sprang for my bail. If there’s anything I can do for you—”

  “If I need anything, Al, you’ll be the first one I call.” Eddie turned his hand palm up to display a folded hundred-dollar bill. “I thought you might need a little spare change.”

  Al seemed to like the idea of spare change, offering up another of those bizarre mechanical smiles. “Hey, man.” He took the bill from Eddie and snapped it. “Like I always say, change is good for all.”

  Chapter 12

  It was late afternoon on Tuesday by the time they reached the agency digs in North Scottsdale.

  Tank met them in the front room. “I got something.”

  They went to the back room where monitors, computers, and other hi-tech gadgets allowed them to eavesdrop on the general public. Eddie’s toned-down version of the NSA.

  While Jordan and Eddie circled to stand behind him, Tank brought up a video of a late-model Camry stopped in the roundabout in front of the Arizona Heritage Museum. An older Accord came up behind it, never slowed or braked, and smashed into the rear of the Camry. The Camry was shoved forward and sideways. The Accord’s hood looked like a broken accordion.

  Both drivers got out of their cars. The guy in the Camry wore a heavy leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet he removed and tossed in the front seat. The Accord driver also got out of the car, dusting himself off.

  “Powder,” Tank said. “Airbag.”

  The two drivers stood in the middle of the road a few minutes until the Honda guy returned to his car and drove slowly away, steam rising from under the hood. The other guy also went back to his car and drove away. It didn’t appear as if a single word passed between them.

  “Staged,” Tank said.

  “Ya think?” Eddie mused.

  “One more thing here.” Tank adjusted the angle to show a shot of the museum entrance.

  Jordan’s hand rose to her mouth. “Oh, God,” she said. “Muggs.”

  He stood behind the glass door panels, watching the street scene. After a minute, he turned away.

  It was like seeing a gh
ost. The impact was intense. No one spoke for several minutes until Tank said, “Got something else for you guys.”

  He took a minute, opened a second video file, and froze a shot of a man at a table on a café patio. He sat head and shoulders taller than everyone else there. A laptop was open in front of him.

  He zoomed in for a close-up. “This is from two days before the robbery. Footage from the wine bar across the street from Arizona Heritage Museum.”

  Eddie spoke softly. “I might know that guy. Unfreeze it.”

  The man in question stood. “Wow,” Jordan said. “Tall dude.”

  Eddie nodded. “Six foot seven. Palmer Jacoby, top system man in the state, maybe the country, maybe even the world. Dollars to doughnuts he disabled security at the museum.”

  “So that’s Palmer Jacoby.” Tank’s voice held a certain amount of admiration. He turned to Jordan. “Jacoby’s the polar opposite of Eddie. Eddie sets up the systems. Jacoby tears ’em down.” Tank zoomed in on Jacoby’s face.

  Jordan bent for a closer look. Jacoby wore an old-fashioned plaid driving cap pulled down a bit onto his brow. His face was pleasant and ordinary. Only his height was unusual. “Hard for a guy like that to keep a low profile,” Jordan remarked. “Wouldn’t mistake him in a lineup.”

  “If you got the chance,” Eddie said. “Jacoby’s out of London, but he’s worked in the States twenty-five, thirty years. As far as I know, he’s never been caught. The man’s a legend.”

  Every other Tuesday afternoon, the Canasta Cuties held court at Rachel and Sarah Abromowitz’s house in the game room, which was crowded with card tables, dart boards, a foosball table, and no less than two of just about every electronic game box on the market in front of an eight foot flat screen. The Abromowitz girls did love to party.

  After Jordan was introduced to the fourteen members of the canasta club, she declined sangria and finger sandwiches and asked to meet with the two sisters privately.

  They led her into the elaborate sitting room at the front of the house where they all sank into the most comfortable sofas Jordan had ever experienced.

  “So wonderful to hear from you, my dear,” Rachel began, “what do you have for us? Have you recovered the coins?”

  “Not yet,” Jordan said, “but I wanted to bring you up to date. We have a source in Tucson that might lead us to the—”

  Sarah interrupted. “The perp?”

  Jordan suppressed a smile. “Yes, Miss Abromowitz. Perp. I see you know your criminology terms.”

  Rachel applauded. “Bravo, Sarah, bravo.”

  Sarah blushed and said, “Castle and Blue Bloods.”

  “We also are in the process of identifying one of the criminals—a man who’s known to be a security systems expert. We believe he can lead us to the killer and the location of the coins.”

  The two beamed at her. “Excellent, dearest Jordan,” Rachel said. “Your mother must be ever so proud of your work.”

  “Yes,” Jordan said, “she must be.”

  Chapter 13

  It was late Wednesday morning. Muggs had been gone just shy of a week.

  Mary Welsh called the Camelback corridor in central Phoenix one of the few decent neighborhoods. Jordan called it the ritzy part of town, literally. The Ritz Carlton was located at 24th Street and Camelback Road. Right behind it stood the condo complex where Palmer Jacoby lived—twelve stories of stone slabs, stained concrete, steel and glass.

  Eddie parked in the underground garage by the movie theater and they walked over to the high-rise. In keeping with the neighborhood, the building housed a luxurious lobby with a plush seating area near the elevators. A sturdy young man in a white shirt and black trousers stood watch behind the desk.

  “Gina didn’t have the unit number.” Eddie reached for his wallet. “Let’s see if a little grease at the front desk won’t get us what we want.”

  Jordan sized up the good-looking young manearly twenties, probably a college student, short, well-trimmed hair, clean-cut, baby face. She smiled, tugged her shirt down so her cleavage was better exposed, sucked in her stomach and stayed Eddie with her hand. “I got this one, moneybags.”

  She called it her persuasive seduction mode, but considered retagging it her Sofia Vercelli act. It involved languid swaying of her arms, shoulders pulled back, breasts thrust out, lips on full pout, and hips pumping like pistons. It was, for all intents and purposes, a cartoon—more Jessica Rabbit than Jordan Welsh—but it always seemed to work.

  “Hi, there,” she said, daring to add, “handsome.”

  The young man looked up from what appeared to be a delivery log. His eyes started on her face then dropped to her exposed cleavage.

  Perfect. Eat your heart out, Marino.

  “How,” he cleared his throat, “may I help you?”

  “Can y’all do me a favor, sugar?” It was a soprano version of Tank’s Louisiana drawl. “A tall, cool drink of water by the name of Palmer Jacoby lives here, right?”

  The young man’s jaw hung open. She had him. She leaned her arms on the counter. This was way too much fun to be considered work. “Could y’all tell me what floor he lives on? I’d like to surprise him.”

  The young man smiled, displaying teeth his parents probably paid thousands to have straightened to perfection. “I won’t tell you.”

  She pulled away. No way. She had this guy panting. He won’t tell me? What’s up with that?

  His eyes moved beyond her and settled admiringly on Eddie. “But I’ll tell him anything he wants to know. Anything at all.”

  Jordan turned as Eddie grinned, straightened his shoulders and joined her at the reception desk. “Don’t worry, babe. I got this one.”

  The Red Tag sale at Saks Fifth Avenue drew shoppers from far and wide, including a six-foot-seven British thief named Palmer Jacoby, according to Eddie’s newfound BFF, the receptionist at Jacoby’s condo building.

  They found Jacoby in front of a mirror at the hat counter modeling a charcoal gray fedora with a blue-striped band and small pheasant feather. Dapper. By his pose it was obvious he was aware of the fine figure he cut in his gray cord sport coat and black silky trousers. The shirt under the cord jacket was bright blue. A gray plaid driving cap lay on the counter. It was the hat Jordan remembered from the video. Three big, black and white Saks shopping bags sat on the floor at his feet.

  He paid for the hat, left the store, and crossed the grassy courtyard. An escalator carried him to the second story and the Henry the Eighth Pub and Eatery. Jordan had been there at least three times before—twice for lunch when shopping at the mall with her sister Kate and their mother, and once when she met a potential client for late afternoon drinks. The place didn’t look much like a pub but was still loaded with British atmosphere. The dining area was well-furnished with round hardwood tables and captain’s chairs. The British-racing-green walls were decorated with hunting prints of foxes and hounds, elegant steeds, and men in red jackets. The richly polished bar and backbar could have been lifted straight from an uptown London pub. The smell of hops and bar food assaulted Jordan, and her stomach rumbled as she remembered the excellent shepherd’s pie served there.

  Eddie and Jordan waited outside a few minutes then went in and walked straight up to Palmer’s table. Palmer looked up. A shadow crossed his face before he smiled graciously. “Eddie Marino, as I live and breathe.”

  “Big day at the mall, Palmer?”

  A shrug. “Every man has his vice.” His gaze shifted to Jordan. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to yours?” His accent was upper-crust London.

  What a smoothie. Judging from the gray at his temples, he was around fifty. His face was nice, not handsome, but nice. His smile seemed to switch off and on easily, bringing dimples with it. The driving cap was gone, probably in one of the shopping bags. She could see now he had a high forehead made more prominent by the receding hairline. According to Eddie and Tank, Palmer Jacoby was a notorious thief, but Jordan liked him in spite of it.

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sp; Eddie pulled out a chair and held it. Jordan sat. Eddie took the chair beside her.

  Palmer looked from one to the other. “Please,” he said sarcastically, “why don’t you join me?”

  A waiter delivered a tall schooner of dark ale. Palmer raised it to them then drank. Foam lined his upper lip. “Ah, yes, Guinness stout. Breakfast of champions.” He sighed. “I wager this isn’t purely a social visit, eh, Eddie?”

  A stout man in a navy blue blazer approached the table. “Jordan Welsh. It’s good to see you again. It’s been a while.”

  “Hello, Charles. Nice to see you as well. This is my partner, Eddie Marino, and …?” She looked at Palmer.

  He stood and thrust out his hand. “Palmer Jacoby. A pleasure to meet you, Charles.”

  More niceties exchanged. Then Charles said, “I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch. If you need anything, Jordan, let me know.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, Charles.”

  “My best to your folks.”

  “Of course.”

  As Charles walked away, Palmer turned to her. “I’m impressed, Miss Welsh. I eat at this establishment several times a week, and the manager’s never come over and said how glad he was to see me here. Of course, I’m not statuesque and beautiful, but still—”

  Eddie interrupted. “Everyone knows Jordan.”

  Jordan shrugged it off. “It’s a small town when you get right down to it.”

  “Absolutely. Only the fifth largest city in America.” Another pleasant smile from one of the world’s foremost thieves.

  “Palmer, we’re here to ask you a few questions about a place hit in downtown Scottsdale a week ago today. The Arizona Heritage Museum,” Eddie said.

  Palmer’s expression was one of inquisitive interest. “You’ll have to elaborate, my friend. You know I don’t follow the news. Depressing for the most part.”

  Eddie nodded grimly. “Yeah. I remember that about you. Yesterday is past. Tomorrow is coming. Today is what matters. Right, Palmer?”