Chapter 43

 

Frank woke up feeling like a sack of garbage. After sleeping all night and nearly half the next day, his head felt thick and woozy. His throat was scratchy and he remembered some kid behind him on the plane had coughed through most of the flight. Dammit—he couldn’t afford to be sick right now.

He stumbled from bed and stared out the window to the street three stories below. The rain had stopped but it was still a miserable gray out there. He needed to get to the bank—should have set his alarm and done it this morning—and really wanted some food but hated the prospect of dressing and walking around a strange city in the wind he could see funneling down the narrow streets, whipping the coats of the few passers-by. Maybe this place had room service.

The good news, he supposed, was Anton van der Went should be here late tomorrow. Frank hoped to get a chunk of cash for the gemstones in the necklace. Once sold, he could stop sleeping with it under his pillow and quit strapping the awkward shape of it around his waist. The high from making a million-dollar score was quickly fading; at this point he just wanted to cash out. He’d be lucky if van der Went offered thirty percent and he successfully countered with fifty. More likely it would come out somewhere around thirty or thirty-five, bottom line.

Still, along with his other successes, the trip to Arizona hadn’t been a waste. That chubby guy who worked at the museum would take the fall, if one was to be taken. Last Frank had heard, the cops bought the story about the piece being worth very little and had quit pursuing the case. At least he could rest easy on that score. The old lady was another story.

When he’d returned the fake necklace to her, he got a funny feeling. She wasn’t the typical older, easy mark. This one had something—he wasn’t sure what. Social connections, almost certainly. But there was more. A cheesy writer might call it ‘indomitable spirit.’ You know, like when one of those investigative TV reporters interviewed a person on the street and raved about his or her pluck.

Frank didn’t personally believe in that “go the extra mile” b.s. To him, spirit was what he had—a free-spirited, fun attitude toward life. Make every minute count, rack up all the scores you could, come out the winner! Now, that was spirit.

He turned away from the chilly window and rummaged through his few bits of clothing to find something warm to wear. Other than the designer suit he’d purchased at the airport, his choices were cotton slacks and a stupid flowered shirt that fit in nowhere except an island. His stomach rumbled and he searched futilely for a menu. Where did a guy get some food around here?

He ended up putting on a robe he found in the closet and sitting at the little desk to boot up his computer. In under ten minutes, he’d discovered his hotel was only a couple blocks from the biggest pedestrian shopping district in the city. The bank he sought was right there and surely he could find food. With no choice but to buck up, he put on the woolen suit and overcoat and walked down to street level.

While I’m at it, he thought, turning a corner to get out of the bracing wind, I’d better come up with some ordinary clothes. Can’t meet this Dutch guy wearing Armani—he’ll laugh at my demand for a higher cut. Can’t exactly hang out inconspicuously either.

When he spotted Barclays Bank, he headed that direction first. When it came right down to it, money was more important. Completing his last job, getting Tom Anderson’s money completely out of sight, took precedence over his growling stomach. He would treat himself to a fantastic lunch once he finished business. See? Mom really would be proud of his work ethic.

At the counter he took several deposit slips and filled them out in various amounts until the total equaled two hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Part of it went to an account in London, part to Nevada, part of it right back to Grand Cayman. At this point, Tom Anderson would have a difficult paper trail to establish to prove all this had once been his money. That is, if the man had nerve enough to admit he’d been so stupid. Most of them never did. Most likely, Anderson would go to his grave believing he’d just been unlucky in his investment.

Ah well, what did Frank care? This guy made so much money selling car parts at rip-off prices to people like Frank’s mom, in a year’s time he’d have it all back. Frank refused to have a scrap of sympathy for the mooch.

He collected his deposit receipts and walked out, taking it as a good sign that the clouds had parted and a good-sized patch of blue sky showed. Some phrase about weathering the storm flitted about in his head. He spotted a sidewalk café where the outdoor tables were all but abandoned; however, inside the place was well lit and inviting. He ordered the biggest sandwich on the menu.

His meal no sooner arrived than his phone chimed with an incoming text message: NOON TOMORROW, IN FRONT OF THE CLOCK MUSEUM. VAN DER WENT.

Clock museum. Where the hell was that? Frank took a bite of his sandwich and reread the message. On a city map where every place seemed to contain gasse, strasse or platz how would he know what a clock museum would be called?

WHERE IS IT? he texted back. People who used all capital letters always seemed pretentious to him, but he could play this game. Plus, he would bet money the gem cutter wouldn’t transact a deal out in front of some public place. There would be a secondary place they would go together before Frank would agree to bring out the necklace.

He finished his lunch with one eye on the phone’s display at all times but van der Went’s lack of response seemed to say, Don’t be a stupid American. Find it.

Okay, he decided, he could find it.