Royal Heist (26 page)

Sylvia sighed and gathered her papers together. She opened her briefcase to put them away and saw a photo of herself and David at a Christmas party. She pulled it out. “It was you who got me into this mess,” she said to David’s smiling face. It was a group shot, but it was the only one she had of her lover now; Helen had destroyed all the others. As she looked at it, something caught her eye. One man in the shot stood head and shoulders above the rest. Edward de Jersey. The estate agent’s and Matheson’s words suddenly flooded back to her. “A big man . . . sounded more like a Brit . . .” Now if one man had lost out in the fall of leadingleisurewear, thought Sylvia, it was Edward de Jersey. Could he and Philip Simmons be the same person? The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. She felt like a cat with the cream. She had to think carefully about how to handle Mr. Big Cheese de Jersey. She could either expose him or push him for a payoff, a lot more than she had lost. But first she needed proof.

Early the following morning Sylvia checked out and caught the jitney bus to East Hampton, where she checked in to the elegant Maidstone Arms. This was where Moreno had stayed, and she could see why: it was a charming, elegant hotel with blazing log fires in the stylish public rooms.

After unpacking she went down to the desk and asked to speak to the manager. He was charming too but not very helpful. Moreno had been there numerous times, he said, but he had no idea of his present whereabouts. Sylvia had coffee in a long room overlooking the street and located Moreno’s property on the hotel’s street map. Later she hired a taxi and asked to be driven around Georgica. To her annoyance she’d lost the piece of paper with the address on it that Matheson had given her the night before. All she knew was that it was a large piece of land not far from the ponds and under construction. The taxi driver was chatty, but Sylvia lost interest in what he was saying when they passed a large fenced property with construction in progress. “Could we drive in there?” she asked.

He reversed, and they passed the open drive, still not paved and muddy with tracks from the construction vehicles. They splashed and jolted along until the path widened and she could see the substantial house. It was almost as large as the Maidstone Arms, with a porch, gables, and massive pillars positioned at intervals along what would become a wide south-facing veranda. It was on the crest of a hill, overlooking a pond with willow trees trailing on the banks. There was an Olympic-size swimming pool covered with a dark green tarpaulin to protect it from the debris that littered the site, and a newly constructed pool house with a white stone patio. Then she saw the large Portakabin with the construction company’s name written across it. “I won’t be a moment,” she said and got out.

“Excuse me. Could I see the person in charge?” she called as she approached the open door.

A burly man carrying a hard hat filled the small doorway. “Who do you want?”

“Whoever’s in charge,” she said sweetly.

“Can I ask what it’s about? He’s busy.”

“I’m a friend of the owner, and I just wondered, as I’m here, if I could be shown the house. I’m from England,” she added.

He disappeared, then returned and beckoned her inside.

“I’m the foreman,” said a ruddy-faced man, who was sitting behind a desk.

“I’m Sylvia Hewitt, and I wondered if I could speak to whoever is in charge.”

Sylvia waited in the cramped office as the men cleared up plans and went outside. The foreman said he would see if Mr. Donnelly was around. Ten minutes later Donnelly came in. “You wanted to see me?”

“I would really appreciate it if you could answer some questions for me.”

“What about?”

Sylvia took a deep breath. “I believe a Mr. Moreno owns this property, and I’m eager to speak to him.”

“Well, I can’t help you. We never see him now. Our only dealings with him are through his financial adviser.”

“Oh. I’ll be honest with you,” she said, “Mr. Moreno owes me a substantial amount of money. I was told he might be here. I’ve been trying to make contact with him.”

“Aha,” he said slowly, eyeing her up and down.

“I even hired a private detective. I think he might have spoken to you, a Mr. Matheson.”

“Yeah, but I told him what I’m telling you. I don’t know where Moreno is. He almost left me in a real hole too. He couldn’t make the payments, but it was settled in the end by his financial adviser.”

“Philip Simmons?” she asked.

“That’s right. He’s running the show. I get his orders from his architect and designers. They come down and check everything’s to their specifications.”

“Do you have a contact number for Mr. Simmons?”

The number he passed over was for a law firm in East Hampton. When she asked to be shown around, he said it was not possible.

“Did you ever meet someone called David Lyons?”

“Who?”

“David Lyons was a business associate of Alex Moreno’s, and I wondered if you had ever met him here. Small, dark-haired, balding.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would you mind if I showed you a photograph? It will only take a minute.”

She took it out and passed it to Donnelly. She pointed to David. “That’s him.”

He stared at the photograph, shook his head, and was about to pass it back when Sylvia stopped him. “Is that Philip Simmons with him? Just to the right.” She pointed to de Jersey.

Donnelly stared at the picture. “It sort of looks like him. I dunno. Could be him.”

“But you’re not certain? Please, look at it closely. Is that Philip Simmons?” Her heart was pounding.

Donnelly stared at the photograph, then handed it back. “Like I said, it could be, but it’s hard to tell. Mr. Simmons has a mustache and red hair.”

“But you do think it looks like him?”

“Yes, sort of. What is all this about? Why are you here?”

She stood up, rather flustered. “I’m trying to trace Mr. Simmons.”

“Then I suggest you talk to his lawyers. I gave you their number.” He was obviously impatient for her to leave.

Sylvia walked out of the Portakabin, then decided to take matters into her own hands. She wanted to check out the property, and if anyone asked she would say she was just another English tourist. She inched back over the wooden planks, then onto the path to the house. She made her way to the pool house and peered inside. A white marble floor had already been laid, and ornate light fittings were being hung. A boy with paint-stained dungarees passed her. “Hi there,” he said affably.

“This is going to be very nice.”

“Yeah, it sure is. That marble was shipped in from Italy, and one of those lights cost more than my year’s salary.” He grinned.

“It’s a very large swimming pool,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s one of the first things that was done out here. One end’s more than ten feet. Diving board’s gonna go at that end, and over there they’re gonna lay a tennis court.”

Sylvia thanked him and headed for the guesthouse. She peered inside. It looked fit for Royalty. Then she returned to the cab.

She had lunch in the hotel dining room. Her waiter was a young, rather handsome boy with dark, slanting eyes. He suggested the eggs Benedict, which were a specialty and served with home-cured ham. After she had finished he asked if she’d enjoyed it. “Delicious, thank you.”

She decided to take a chance. “I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to find someone who used to stay at this hotel, a friend. I’m desperate to get in touch with him. His name is Alex Moreno.” She looked at him directly. “Did you ever meet him?”

“I met him,” he said softly.

Sylvia flushed. Could she have struck lucky? “Oh, great! I can see you’re working now, but could we talk later?”

“I’m off duty at two thirty, unless we get busy.” He stepped back.

“I’m in room—”

He shook his head. “Staff are not allowed to go into guests’ rooms, invited or not. House rules. I’ll be in the hotel parking lot at two thirty.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Ricky.” He walked away but turned back briefly and gave her a dazzling smile.

Sylvia went to the coffee area, where she ordered a cappuccino, disappointed that Donnelly had not clearly identified Simmons and de Jersey as the same man. She wondered if she was being foolish. Then, at two fifteen she saw Ricky leave the hotel and meet a blond man on the pavement. They talked for a few moments, then walked out of sight. Promptly at two thirty she went into the hotel car park. It was almost empty, with no more than seven parked vehicles. A black, soft-topped Jeep headed toward her. The blond she had seen talking to Ricky was driving, and Ricky was sitting in the small backseat.

“Hi, you want to hop in?” he said. “We can drive to the beach.” He was tanned with white teeth, bluer than blue eyes, and a whiter than white cap-sleeved T-shirt.

Sylvia climbed into the passenger seat.

“I’m Clint,” said the driver. “What’s your name?”

“Sylvia,” she said. “Where are we going?” she asked nervously.

“Just to the beach. You want to talk, right?” All the way there, Clint chatted like a tour guide while Ricky remained silent.

When they arrived, Clint helped her out and suggested they take a walk. Sylvia looked at Ricky, who remained in the backseat. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

“It’s not me you need to talk to.” He nodded to Clint, who was putting on a leather jacket.

Sylvia walked beside him. The wind was bitingly cold, so she pushed her hands into her coat pockets.

“So, is there some cash in this for me?” he asked, staring ahead.

“Well, I hadn’t anticipated paying anyone, but I can go a couple of hundred. I don’t know what you know that might help me.”

“Maybe something, maybe nothing.” He hunched his shoulders against the wind.

“You met Moreno?”

He nodded, and they walked in silence. After a moment she said she needed to know what he could tell her before she agreed to pay him.

He stopped. “Say five hundred?”

Sylvia sighed. She was really cold now. “Okay, but it’s got to be worth it.”

“Cash?”

“Yes,” she said sharply.

They walked on, and he turned toward some sand dunes. She followed him, and as they reached the dunes he jumped into a hollow. “Out of the wind here,” he said and sat down.

Sylvia joined him. “So, what do you know about Alex Moreno?”

Clint held out his hand. She opened her purse and counted out five hundred dollars. He pocketed them. “He was a real sharp dresser, designer labels, down to his socks. Never wore anything but the purest cashmere sweaters.” She had not paid out five hundred bucks for a clothing catalog, but she said nothing. “I used to meet him when he came down looking for property over the summer. He always ended up at a place called the Swamp, real late, always alone. Sometimes he’d have way too much to drink. He liked the odd joint too, always asking around if anyone had any grass. I guess he was down there maybe four or five times over a few months, and then one night, it would be about the sixth time I’d seen him, he said he was celebrating and did I want to have a drink with him. I said yeah. We both worked there, you see, me and Ricky. That’s how we met. Anyway, Moreno was sitting up at the bar, and he’d had a few already. He said he wanted to get blown, so after we closed he was waiting with his flash new Lexus. We went back to his hotel. He was drunk, and he told me he’d done this great deal, bought some property and got all the building permits agreed. He said it had taken months.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, around July, maybe mid-August. Next time I met up with him would have been around mid-November. Ricky tipped me off that he was in town. He was staying at the Maidstone. I got a call from him. He wanted to see me, so I met up with him at the Blue Parrot—it’s a bar on Main Street. We had a few drinks and went back to his hotel room. We were on the bed when he starts crying. He tells me he’s got into real trouble financially. He rambled on and on, blubbering like a kid about how it was all falling apart. Then he passed out. I took my money and left. I could have taken a lot more, but I reckoned he was the type to cause trouble.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Okay, this would be just after Christmas and he came in real late. We met up again in the bar. He looked beat, needed a shave, but was all cashmered up as usual.”

“December?”

“Yeah, said he’d come to sort out his property. He was having a hard time meeting payments. I thought he was just trying it on again, you know, not wanting to pay me, but then he says he’s real serious about me, wants me to come to New York. He was drinking heavily, said he was staying at the Maidstone as usual but he was meeting someone real early the following morning. Said he was gonna check out of the hotel before breakfast. He said he’d take me to New York and told me to get a taxi to his place for eight. I live way out in Montauk, right? So, anyway, this time he was real edgy, like nervous all the time. Kept on about how much trouble he was in and that he was having a lot of pressure from some guy.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“Just that it was some builder.”

“Donnelly?” she asked.

“I can’t remember. I was real buzzy about him offering to take me to New York and to travel with him. He was making me big promises and, you know, come winter out here, it’s hard to make a living. Summer’s when I make the dough.”

“You get paid for sex?”

Clint’s face tightened. “Moreno offered me a trip, lady. Whatever I get paid for is my own goddamned business.”

“I’m sorry. Please go on. You agreed to accompany him to New York and then what?”

“That I’d see him after this meeting he had was over.”

“Did he say who he was meeting?”

“No, but it was at his property. It’s a huge place over in Georgica Ponds. I was to get there and we’d drive to New York together.” Clint yawned and ruffled his hair. “So I’m packed and ready at seven. This guy was always going on about the place he had in New York just across from Central Park. He sort of made out that he was getting out of his problems, said something about his company crashing but that he might be doing some big deal and his finances would be in better shape and if I wanted we could go to Bermuda.” He was staring at the ocean. “So one of my mates gives me a ride in to the gas station on the corner. I just had to walk across to Georgica Road and over to where Moreno’s house was.”