Chapter 8

 

At the rental car return office, Frank went into the men’s room and removed the fake scar and scraped the touch of black off his tooth. The gray in his hair would have to be washed out, but he decided that wasn’t such a problem. The fact that his hair was dark on his ID and a bit gray in reality would only muddy the process if the police began questioning people, asking them to describe him. The answers would be so jumbled they would have no real idea who they were after. He grinned at himself in the mirror.

With the locked briefcase gripped tightly in one hand and a wheeled carry-on bag in the other, he entered the airport. The new kiosk check-in method suited him perfectly—no chatty ticket agent to see his face up close. He’d already planned his route and chosen the airline most amenable to last-minute changes. In under five minutes his existing ticket for San Diego was changed to an earlier flight to Miami.

He wheeled his bag to the security area, pleased to see the lines were long and the TSA agents harried. A shift change was due to take place in twenty minutes so none of them would want to get into a lengthy examination of a passenger. As long as you gave them no reason to suspect you.

Of course Frank had a huge piece of bling and a hundred thousand reasons in his briefcase.

“Is that cash in your briefcase?” asked the agent who’d done a double-take at the monitoring screen.

“Yes, it is. I need for you to hold this case up where I can see it while I walk through the scanner. I’m not allowed to have it out of my sight.”

Frank reached into his jacket and produced a business card. Richard Stone, Certified Gemologist, Tiffany and Co. He’d duplicated the famous logo exactly and used the exact font and card stock as the sample card he’d picked up at the store in Scottsdale. The laptop computer and small wireless printer in his carry-on bag were the sort any businessman might take on a trip.

The young agent didn’t question a thing. He politely walked alongside Frank, carrying the cash and the real necklace until he placed the case back in Frank’s hands. How stupid Frank’s partners had been not to insist that one of them hold the real necklace while Dick Stone delivered the fake to Penelope Fitzpatrick. The difference between a rube and a pro, he thought with satisfaction.

“Thank you very much,” Frank said to the TSA man, turning and smiling as he walked toward the gates.

The secret to a successful con is to become the role you are playing, Frank Senior had always told him. Right now, Frank was a Tiffany representative on his way from a meeting with a wealthy client to another meeting on the east coast. The Miami flight was being called for boarding as he approached. Feeling flush at the moment, he’d upgraded his ticket to first class so he walked right onto the plane.

In Miami he would visit the airport locker where he’d stashed his passport and a ticket he’d purchased for Cartagena, Columbia. A guy he knew there had a boat. Within forty-eight hours there would be no paper trail connected to either Dick Stone or Frank Morrell.