11
Sylvia Hewitt received the call from Victor Matheson in her office at twelve. Alex Moreno’s car had been found in the long-stay car park at JFK Airport. A police informant friend of Matheson’s had tipped him off that the Lexus was discovered unlocked and empty, the stereo missing, wires hanging loose. Moreno, however, had not been listed on any flight leaving or arriving at the airport at the time the car had been parked.
Inquiring at the Maidstone Arms, East Hampton, Matheson gained another possible lead. Moreno had indeed checked into the hotel. After dining there, he had left and not returned until later in the evening, when he went straight to his room. Early the next morning he left, after settling his account. There had been an incoming call on his arrival and an outgoing call, which Matheson had traced to a local gay club called the Swamp. Since then the club had been sold and was closed for refurbishing.
“Did you find anyone who talked to Moreno that night?” Sylvia asked.
“Not yet. I’ll go back and find who was running the place at the time. There might be someone he spoke to at the club.” Matheson had also talked to Brett Donnelly, a local contractor. He had found Donnelly still at work on Moreno’s property, which had now progressed considerably since de Jersey’s visit. Donnelly was evasive at first, but after Matheson told him he was investigating a fraud, Donnelly became more helpful; he discussed Moreno freely and ventured information about a certain man, Mr. Simmons, who had showed up on-site. “How I figured it,” Matheson said, “this guy, Philip Simmons, was owed cash by Moreno, and they did a deal. Now it looks like Simmons is completely running the show. He’s ordered the renovations to continue, and when the job is done, he told Donnelly he’s selling the property.”
“Do you have a contact number for Simmons?”
“Just a mailbox number. Perhaps when he invoices Simmons, Donnelly will get further information.”
“I hope so. In the meantime, I’ll check if he was an investor. His name’s not familiar, though. Did he say he was English?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Doesn’t matter.” But Sylvia was disappointed not to have more to go on.
Matheson cleared his throat. “If I’m to keep looking for Moreno, I’m going to need an additional retainer.”
“Do you think he’s just upped and done a runner with my money?”
“Could be. Finding that car abandoned at the airport is suspicious. And I have yet to take a look at Moreno’s apartment. No telling what I might find there. There’s always the possibility one of the investors got to him. You should check if one was called Simmons,” Matheson said.
“Even if it was one of the investors, he might have been using a false name.” Sylvia was starting to get into this detective work.
“True. Are the other investors Brits?”
“The main ones are. There are others scattered all over the world, but their losses were not as great.”
“Well, let me see what I can come up with. If Simmons comes into the U.S., maybe I can track him down. I’ve got a lot of contacts at the airport.”
“Don’t do anything yet. Let me get back to you,” she said.
“Whatever you say-but somebody has just got themselves a fifteen-million-dollar property, maybe as a payoff,” Matheson said.
Sylvia thought for a moment. “Okay. Keep on trying to track down this Simmons man. I’ll discuss your findings with the other main investors and get back to you.”
“You’re the boss. I’ll send on my accounts and carry on the work.”
“Keep in touch.”
Sylvia hung up and dialed de Jersey’s number. The housekeeper informed her that both Mr. and Mrs. de Jersey were in Monte Carlo. Sylvia hung up and called James Wilcox, but he refused to speak to her. She hung up, frustrated, then called Tony Driscoll. At first he was rather short with her, but he became intrigued by her discoveries.
“So this private investigator believes that someone received a nice payoff?”
“Moreno signed over the property, and it was all organized by a business adviser named Philip Simmons. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“All I have is a mailbox number for him in New York, and Moreno seems to have disappeared without trace.”
“I see.”
“What I was wondering, Mr. Driscoll, is if we couldn’t, all four of us, pay Matheson’s accounts. You see, if Simmons is taking over Moreno’s property, by rights we should benefit too.”
“Let me think about it,” Driscoll said and promised to get back to her.
A few minutes later he was talking to Wilcox.
“Whatever he’s done, we don’t want to know,” Wilcox snapped. “The less we know the better. But he’s got careless. The stakes are higher for him, and he’s not handling it well.”
“He’s never been violent before.”
“And I hope he’s covered his tracks well, because it’s not going to be too hard to figure out who he is.”
“Yeah. How’re your finances?” Driscoll asked.
“Fucked, but I’m not getting involved in murder.”
“Same here. But we should be careful. You know what he’s like. If he finds out we’ve been talking behind his back-”
“But we haven’t really known him for a long time, Tony,” Wilcox interrupted. “We can’t keep harking back to the old days. A lot of water’s run under the bridge since then. Sometimes I wonder if we ever really knew him at all.”
Wilcox’s words hit a nerve in Driscoll. “We shouldn’t be talking like this.”
There was a pause and then they hung up, as uneasy as they had been before their conversation.
De Jersey had only just got back into bed when Christina returned. She had obviously been shopping again, and a porter was struggling with her purchases.
“How are you feeling, darling?” she whispered and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Not too good. Did you have a happy reunion with your friend?”
“I went to her husband’s little jewelry store. I just looked, but Vibekka was choosing a diamond necklace to wear tonight with matching earrings. It must have been worth at least half a million pounds, but I’d be afraid to wear anything so valuable. She told me she likes to advertise his work! She showed me the most unbelievable Russian tiara. The owner’s grandfather got out of the country with the diamonds sewn into the hem of his coat.”
De Jersey leaned back on the pillows. No wonder Dulay wasn’t interested in working for him-he was hobnobbing with high-society Euro-trash.
Christina yawned. “You are coming tonight, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure. I still feel as if I have a temperature.”
She touched his head. “No, you don’t. You can’t get out of it either. I decided your old dinner jacket wasn’t smart enough, so I’ve got a new one for you, plus shoes, a shirt, and a tie. You have no excuse, darling.” She gave him a wonderfully seductive smile. “Anyway, I want to show you off. I can’t wait to see her face when you tell them who you are. I didn’t mention the estate or the stud.”
He sighed, as if he was still feeling unwell. Maybe he should rob Dulay’s shop and not bother with the Crown Jewels.
De Jersey admired himself in the full-length mirror. The white tuxedo was a perfect fit, as were the shoes and the shirt. Christina wore a pale pink beaded dress that fishtailed out in a slight train behind her.
“I returned the other dresses and replaced them with this. You know, for a man who was at death’s door only hours ago, you have improved vastly.” She smiled at him in the mirror. They made a handsome couple.