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Authors: Samantha Hunter
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around the entrance, indicating it was still an active crime scene. He’d given his official statement clearing Tiffany of any suspicion, and had spent almost the entire time on the phone tracking down any information he could.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much anyone knew; the police were doing a good job of keeping it quiet. Some criminals thrived on attention and notoriety, but these guys were more likely professionals who didn’t want to draw much attention; they didn’t vandalize, kill or do anything that left much evidence behind or that would create a public outcry. They were smart.
However, Garrett had called a friend in London who specialized in art theft. Berringer had provided security for several of his museum’s pieces as they were being moved from D.C. to London. Daniel might know something that even the police wouldn’t.
He’d kept that contact to himself, sharing only a few others with Detective Ramsey, who was still fairly tight-lipped, even given Garrett’s help. Like he’d told Tiffany, Garrett didn’t take it personally. The guy had a job to do and was obviously under a lot of pressure with these robberies.
These thieves could be difficult to catch, Garrett thought regretfully. Time was of the essence; the black market moved fast. Or, if there was no news underground, then they could be sitting on them until things calmed down, he supposed. Or they simply could have been sold directly to a private buyer and once the diamonds were cut, no one would know where they came from.
There were a lot of possibilities, but often these kinds of items—fine art, jewels—were never recovered. Often, they were found in the homes of wealthy, private collectors decades later, if at all.
Knocking lightly on the door, he heard Tiffany talking. She must be on the phone, and he cracked the door, intending to let her know he was there.
She paced behind the desk, pushing her hands through already messy hair, looking and sounding as if she were on her last nerve.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hooper. I know. I told you my fee wasn’t refundable, but obviously you don’t have to pay me the balance since I didn’t get the shot. I could try again, if you want. In fact, how about this? I’ll give it another week, and you don’t have to pay me at all, okay? I just want to finish the job for you,” Tiffany said.
Garrett frowned. Finish the job? What on earth could she be talking about? Mentally noting the name Hooper, his mind flickered over the possibility that Tiffany was lying about the thefts—was she involved?
But nothing in this conversation sounded jewelry-related. What kinds of “shots”? It sounded like Tiff was moonlighting in some capacity, and Garrett thought back to the night of the rehearsal, when she had been so anxiously following the time, and had to dash off “to work” before coming back to meet him.
He paused, wondering what Tiffany was up to. She’d mentioned a fee—a payoff of some sort?
“Thanks, Mrs. Hooper. I promise I won’t give up until the job is done. On my dime.”
She sounded a bit more relieved, and Garrett frowned, not having meant to eavesdrop, and feeling itchy about it. He heard her hang up, and opened the door up completely.
“Hey, Tiffany,” he said gradually, and she spun around, looking guilty, tired and anxious.
The guilty part concerned him.
“How long were you standing there?”
“Just for a second. I knocked, and then realized you were on the phone.”
She became extremely guarded. “You were listening?”
“I overheard some, yes,” he said. He wasn’t going to lie to her. “But it’s none of my business, and I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“But you did.”
“Yeah. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
She nodded faintly, blinking her pretty, catlike eyes and stretching her arms up over her head in a way that drew her shirt tight and garnered Garrett’s interest.
“I saw you come back here about a
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much anyone knew; the police were doing a good job of keeping it quiet. Some criminals thrived on attention and notoriety, but these guys were more likely professionals who didn’t want to draw much attention; they didn’t vandalize, kill or do anything that left much evidence behind or that would create a public outcry. They were smart.
However, Garrett had called a friend in London who specialized in art theft. Berringer had provided security for several of his museum’s pieces as they were being moved from D.C. to London. Daniel might know something that even the police wouldn’t.
He’d kept that contact to himself, sharing only a few others with Detective Ramsey, who was still fairly tight-lipped, even given Garrett’s help. Like he’d told Tiffany, Garrett didn’t take it personally. The guy had a job to do and was obviously under a lot of pressure with these robberies.
These thieves could be difficult to catch, Garrett thought regretfully. Time was of the essence; the black market moved fast. Or, if there was no news underground, then they could be sitting on them until things calmed down, he supposed. Or they simply could have been sold directly to a private buyer and once the diamonds were cut, no one would know where they came from.
There were a lot of possibilities, but often these kinds of items—fine art, jewels—were never recovered. Often, they were found in the homes of wealthy, private collectors decades later, if at all.
Knocking lightly on the door, he heard Tiffany talking. She must be on the phone, and he cracked the door, intending to let her know he was there.
She paced behind the desk, pushing her hands through already messy hair, looking and sounding as if she were on her last nerve.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hooper. I know. I told you my fee wasn’t refundable, but obviously you don’t have to pay me the balance since I didn’t get the shot. I could try again, if you want. In fact, how about this? I’ll give it another week, and you don’t have to pay me at all, okay? I just want to finish the job for you,” Tiffany said.
Garrett frowned. Finish the job? What on earth could she be talking about? Mentally noting the name Hooper, his mind flickered over the possibility that Tiffany was lying about the thefts—was she involved?
But nothing in this conversation sounded jewelry-related. What kinds of “shots”? It sounded like Tiff was moonlighting in some capacity, and Garrett thought back to the night of the rehearsal, when she had been so anxiously following the time, and had to dash off “to work” before coming back to meet him.
He paused, wondering what Tiffany was up to. She’d mentioned a fee—a payoff of some sort?
“Thanks, Mrs. Hooper. I promise I won’t give up until the job is done. On my dime.”
She sounded a bit more relieved, and Garrett frowned, not having meant to eavesdrop, and feeling itchy about it. He heard her hang up, and opened the door up completely.
“Hey, Tiffany,” he said gradually, and she spun around, looking guilty, tired and anxious.
The guilty part concerned him.
“How long were you standing there?”
“Just for a second. I knocked, and then realized you were on the phone.”
She became extremely guarded. “You were listening?”
“I overheard some, yes,” he said. He wasn’t going to lie to her. “But it’s none of my business, and I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“But you did.”
“Yeah. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
She nodded faintly, blinking her pretty, catlike eyes and stretching her arms up over her head in a way that drew her shirt tight and garnered Garrett’s interest.
“I saw you come back here about a
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