4
De Jersey needed a big injection of cash to keep his estate afloat and to fund a follow-up to the bullion robbery. His first target was Alex Moreno. He had set the wheels in motion by hiring a private investigator from an advertisement in The New York Times. The man had a lead on Moreno, and de Jersey would fly to New York to confront him. In his study, as his wife slept, de Jersey removed the top right-hand drawer of his antique desk, then reached over to the side of the desk and pulled a section of the edge toward him. A hidden compartment slid open. He walked round the desk to the front false drawers and opened a four-shelved cupboard. First, he removed an envelope and put it on the desk. Next came a large, square makeup box, and last a plastic bag containing two wigs and a false mustache and eyebrows.
He settled back in his chair and shook out four passports from the envelope, all in different names. He laid them side by side, then shredded the one that carried an out-of-date photograph he could never match. The other three were in the names of Philip Simmons, Edward Cummings, and Michael Shaughnessy. He returned the last passport to the envelope and put the other two into his briefcase. Though he had bank accounts and credit cards in all three names, none of them held a substantial amount of money, just enough for emergencies.
De Jersey selected a few items from the makeup box, then placed them in a wooden pencil box. The wigs smelled musty but were in good condition. The glue and cleaning fluids were usable and the wig meshing clean, so these he placed in his suitcase, locking it afterward. He’d always traveled in disguise using his aliases with confidence, but now he’d have to be extra careful. Since the September 11 terrorist attacks in the United States, security at the airports, especially in and out of New York, had been stringent.
On December 26 de Jersey left home and booked into a small hotel close to Heathrow airport as Edward Cummings, an art dealer. The following day, using his British passport, he traveled Virgin, economy class, to New York. When he landed at JFK and booked into the Hotel Carlyle, he looked nothing like Edward de Jersey. His wig was dark and curly with flecks of gray, and de Jersey winced as he eased it off. He used a Pan-Stik suntan makeup base to darken his face and hands, then switched his watch, which had belonged to his father, for a flashy Rolex. He added a thick gold chain, a large diamond ring, and a gold bracelet. His suit was expensive but a shiny, light gray silk. The shirt was white with a pearl gray tie under the stiff collar. Adjusting the pale blue silk handkerchief in the top pocket, he stared at his reflection. The suit was now a little tight, but this added to the persona he wanted to create. Now he took out the other wig: a reddish color, with matching mustache and eyebrows, which had been made for him many years ago by a theatrical costumier. He trimmed the sides of his own hair so the wig would fit tightly and show no gauze. He had arrived as Edward Cummings, but now he was Philip Simmons, and he called the Ritz-Carlton hotel to arrange his first meeting.
“I’d like to speak to a Mr. Donny Baron, please,” de Jersey said.
“One moment, sir. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Philip Simmons.”
There was a short wait; then Baron was on the line. “Mr. Simmons, did you have a good flight?” he asked.
“I did-came out on the red-eye from Los Angeles. Can we meet up?”
“Sure thing. Come for breakfast. I think I have what you need.”
“Good. How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be in a back booth of the Jockey restaurant. Just look for a short, bald guy.”
“Be there in about fifteen.”
De Jersey stared at himself in the mirror over the small telephone table. The game had begun.
He left by the side entrance to the hotel. Shortly afterward he entered the Jockey restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton. Most of the diners were young and rowdy, dressed in an odd assortment of designer clothes-the hotel was a known haunt of rock stars and their managers. So it was relatively easy to find the only short, balding man in the room. Donny Baron provided security for a mediocre band that was usually the support act for bigger names. As de Jersey approached he tried to stand, wipe his mouth, and hail the waiter at the same time, but de Jersey gestured for him to remain seated. “I’ve had breakfast, but please, carry on eating.”
“Mr. Simmons” had spoken to Baron numerous times after seeing the advertisement the detective had placed in The New York Times upon leaving the NYPD. Private investigation work did not yet provide a steady income, so he had recently taken on the job with the rock group.
De Jersey placed an envelope on the table. “You track him?”
“I’ve got a few pals still in the game, you know, guys I was in uniform with. These days, with computers, tracing’s a hell of a lot simpler.”
De Jersey glanced around covertly. Then he patted the envelope, impatient to get his five hundred dollars’ worth.
“He’s here in New York,” Baron said, chewing a mouthful of omelet. He took a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his crumpled, navy blue suit. “Phone number… An address not far from here. Doorman. Prewar building facing the park. Second floor. Pretty impressive. Must have cost a couple. He’s got a place in the Hamptons under renovation: new pool, guesthouse. He goes out there most weekends to walk around the site, check it out. Frequent resident of the Maidstone Arms hotel.” Baron handed de Jersey the slip of paper. “These are my extras: gas receipts, phone, and a couple a meal tabs, and here’s a recent photo-our man’s a sharp dresser.”
De Jersey glanced at the photograph and slipped the paper into his wallet.
“I think you’ll find that’ll cover anything extra.” He smiled and pushed the envelope across to Baron. “I’m glad you were available.”
“Yeah, well, the band I take care of has been doing a recording here before we go on a twenty-city tour.” He smiled ruefully.
“Nice to meet you, Donny. Thanks.” And with that, de Jersey left him.
He walked to Moreno’s apartment building, then stood in the shadows cast by the trees in Central Park, watching the comings and goings. A uniformed doorman stood outside the entrance, leaping to the curb when any of the residents or their guests drew up.
Then suddenly he was tipping his cap and holding open the glass-fronted door. De Jersey’s eyes narrowed when Alex Moreno walked out. He was smaller than he’d expected, about five eight, and wore a full-length navy overcoat with a yellow scarf loose around his neck. He smiled at the doorman, who accompanied him to a gleaming black Lexus sedan and opened the door. Moreno tipped him and drove off. De Jersey checked his watch: ten fifteen. At ten thirty a white stretch limo pulled up. The doorman was kept busy carrying parcels and luggage back and forth as two women and a small child entered the complex. De Jersey moved fast; he crossed the road behind the doorman, entered the complex unseen, and headed upstairs.
He rang the bell of Moreno’s apartment and waited in case a housekeeper or someone else was at home, but no one answered.
At the end of the corridor, a large window with heavy curtains opened onto a ledge, less than a foot and a half wide. The window looked down on a small, square garden; de Jersey noticed that, further along the ledge, which ran the length of the building, there was an open window in Moreno’s apartment. He climbed out and moved sideways along the ledge until he reached the window.
He slipped through it, turning to face the reception room. It was a high-tech space with high ceilings and a minimalist feeclass="underline" stripped pine floors, brown leather furniture, leather-and-chrome reclining chairs around a large plate-glass table, and a wide-screen TV. On the table was a heavy glass ashtray filled with cigarette stubs, the open window no doubt an attempt to air the smoky room.