Chapter 41

 

Frank walked past the high-end airport gift shops, contemplating some shopping in Switzerland. It could be a kick. Not that he had much desire for the trappings of the rich—fleecing them out of their stuff was much more fun. Plus, he already had the Rolex he’d picked up on Grand Cayman. But his business cards with the Tiffany logo were still in his briefcase and who knew what interesting doors would open for him?

He bypassed the baggage claim and walked out the front doors.

“Holy crap!” He gasped as black needles of icy rain went straight through his tropical clothing.

He dashed straight back inside. Twenty minutes later he emerged wearing an Armani wool suit and overcoat, fur-lined gloves and a thick scarf around his neck. Better, although everything here was so Euro-stylish he would probably not wear them beyond this trip. He’d feel way too conspicuous back in Indiana. Assuming he went back to Indiana anytime soon. Depended whether the Phoenix police had put it together and learned his real identity by now.

With that in mind, he flagged a taxi.

“Alpen Haus Hotel,” he said.

“Zat is a nice one,” the driver said. “Good neighborhood.”

Frank knew it would be. Aboard the flight he’d chatted up a well-dressed couple and asked where they liked to stay in Zurich. He casually mentioned the name of his bank, planting the idea he’d like to be near it.

The driver headed south on the 51, acting as if the wet highway and reflected oncoming headlights were no problem.

Frank felt exhaustion sweeping over him; he needed a good night’s rest. In the morning he would scope out the whole situation. First priority was to get to the bank and transfer Tom Anderson’s two hundred grand to another of his own accounts. It had to be in a different bank, preferably in another country, definitely under a fresh alias. There must be no direct way to trace the money. He’d worn out the good name of Woodsworth Coddington IV, so it needed to retire for awhile.

His Tiffany business cards said Richard Stone; unfortunately, all the wrong people knew about that one. From the money belt, he came up with a passport for Richard Frank—it would work for his hotel registration and he could always print more cards if needed. For a fraction of a second, he wondered what he was doing here, why he kept up the game, carried multiple passports and tried to keep all his names and backstories straight.

During the long flight he’d felt on edge, the electrical realization that one small slip-up would reveal him to the authorities. Since the museum robbery, he’d taken an additional hundred grand from the old lady, two hundred grand from that bozo on Cayman, and stiffed the hotel there for around twenty-odd.

His mother’s voice lurked in his head, “Frank, when is it going to be enough?”

She’d been talking to Frank’s father. A generation later, she would say the same thing to her son if she knew.

When would it be enough? He gave the question a full minute’s thought, then discarded it. No one said it ever had to be ‘enough.’ The game, the chase—that was what made his heart race and laughter well up within him. He was in it for the fun. Fatigue talking, that’s all this was. He leaned back in his seat and half-dozed for the duration of the ride to the city center.

The taxi came to a stop on a quiet street a few blocks off the Bahnhofstrasse; it seemed like a decent neighborhood where Frank could sleep and recoup his strength. He checked into the Alpen Haus, getting a room on the third floor. Once he’d checked the windows and double-locked the door, he stripped and headed for the shower, laying his money belt with the necklace on the vanity in the bathroom. No way he wanted that baby out of his sight until he met with the diamond cutter from Amsterdam. The meeting was still two days away.