Royal Heist

4

De Jersey needed a big injection of cash to keep his estate afloat and to fund a follow-up to the bullion robbery. His first target was Alex Moreno. He had set the wheels in motion by hiring a private investigator from an advertisement in The New York Times. The man had a lead on Moreno, and de Jersey would fly to New York to confront him. In his study, as his wife slept, de Jersey removed the top right-hand drawer of his antique desk, then reached over to the side of the desk and pulled a section of the edge toward him. A hidden compartment slid open. He walked round the desk to the front false drawers and opened a four-shelved cupboard. First, he removed an envelope and put it on the desk. Next came a large, square makeup box, and last a plastic bag containing two wigs and a false mustache and eyebrows.

He settled back in his chair and shook out four passports from the envelope, all in different names. He laid them side by side, then shredded the one that carried an out-of-date photograph he could never match. The other three were in the names of Philip Simmons, Edward Cummings, and Michael Shaughnessy. He returned the last passport to the envelope and put the other two into his briefcase. Though he had bank accounts and credit cards in all three names, none of them held a substantial amount of money, just enough for emergencies.

De Jersey selected a few items from the makeup box, then placed them in a wooden pencil box. The wigs smelled musty but were in good condition. The glue and cleaning fluids were usable and the wig meshing clean, so these he placed in his suitcase, locking it afterward. He’d always traveled in disguise using his aliases with confidence, but now he’d have to be extra careful. Since the September 11 terrorist attacks in the United States, security at the airports, especially in and out of New York, had been stringent.

On December 26 de Jersey left home and booked into a small hotel close to Heathrow airport as Edward Cummings, an art dealer. The following day, using his British passport, he traveled Virgin, economy class, to New York. When he landed at JFK and booked into the Hotel Carlyle, he looked nothing like Edward de Jersey. His wig was dark and curly with flecks of gray, and de Jersey winced as he eased it off. He used a Pan-Stik suntan makeup base to darken his face and hands, then switched his watch, which had belonged to his father, for a flashy Rolex. He added a thick gold chain, a large diamond ring, and a gold bracelet. His suit was expensive but a shiny, light gray silk. The shirt was white with a pearl gray tie under the stiff collar. Adjusting the pale blue silk handkerchief in the top pocket, he stared at his reflection. The suit was now a little tight, but this added to the persona he wanted to create. Now he took out the other wig: a reddish color, with matching mustache and eyebrows, which had been made for him many years ago by a theatrical costumier. He trimmed the sides of his own hair so the wig would fit tightly and show no gauze. He had arrived as Edward Cummings, but now he was Philip Simmons, and he called the Ritz-Carlton hotel to arrange his first meeting.

“I’d like to speak to a Mr. Donny Baron, please,” de Jersey said.

“One moment, sir. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Philip Simmons.”

There was a short wait; then Baron was on the line. “Mr. Simmons, did you have a good flight?” he asked.

“I did-came out on the red-eye from Los Angeles. Can we meet up?”

“Sure thing. Come for breakfast. I think I have what you need.”

“Good. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be in a back booth of the Jockey restaurant. Just look for a short, bald guy.”

“Be there in about fifteen.”

De Jersey stared at himself in the mirror over the small telephone table. The game had begun.

He left by the side entrance to the hotel. Shortly afterward he entered the Jockey restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton. Most of the diners were young and rowdy, dressed in an odd assortment of designer clothes-the hotel was a known haunt of rock stars and their managers. So it was relatively easy to find the only short, balding man in the room. Donny Baron provided security for a mediocre band that was usually the support act for bigger names. As de Jersey approached he tried to stand, wipe his mouth, and hail the waiter at the same time, but de Jersey gestured for him to remain seated. “I’ve had breakfast, but please, carry on eating.”

“Mr. Simmons” had spoken to Baron numerous times after seeing the advertisement the detective had placed in The New York Times upon leaving the NYPD. Private investigation work did not yet provide a steady income, so he had recently taken on the job with the rock group.

De Jersey placed an envelope on the table. “You track him?”

“I’ve got a few pals still in the game, you know, guys I was in uniform with. These days, with computers, tracing’s a hell of a lot simpler.”

De Jersey glanced around covertly. Then he patted the envelope, impatient to get his five hundred dollars’ worth.

“He’s here in New York,” Baron said, chewing a mouthful of omelet. He took a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his crumpled, navy blue suit. “Phone number… An address not far from here. Doorman. Prewar building facing the park. Second floor. Pretty impressive. Must have cost a couple. He’s got a place in the Hamptons under renovation: new pool, guesthouse. He goes out there most weekends to walk around the site, check it out. Frequent resident of the Maidstone Arms hotel.” Baron handed de Jersey the slip of paper. “These are my extras: gas receipts, phone, and a couple a meal tabs, and here’s a recent photo-our man’s a sharp dresser.”

De Jersey glanced at the photograph and slipped the paper into his wallet.

“I think you’ll find that’ll cover anything extra.” He smiled and pushed the envelope across to Baron. “I’m glad you were available.”

“Yeah, well, the band I take care of has been doing a recording here before we go on a twenty-city tour.” He smiled ruefully.

“Nice to meet you, Donny. Thanks.” And with that, de Jersey left him.

He walked to Moreno’s apartment building, then stood in the shadows cast by the trees in Central Park, watching the comings and goings. A uniformed doorman stood outside the entrance, leaping to the curb when any of the residents or their guests drew up.

Then suddenly he was tipping his cap and holding open the glass-fronted door. De Jersey’s eyes narrowed when Alex Moreno walked out. He was smaller than he’d expected, about five eight, and wore a full-length navy overcoat with a yellow scarf loose around his neck. He smiled at the doorman, who accompanied him to a gleaming black Lexus sedan and opened the door. Moreno tipped him and drove off. De Jersey checked his watch: ten fifteen. At ten thirty a white stretch limo pulled up. The doorman was kept busy carrying parcels and luggage back and forth as two women and a small child entered the complex. De Jersey moved fast; he crossed the road behind the doorman, entered the complex unseen, and headed upstairs.

He rang the bell of Moreno’s apartment and waited in case a housekeeper or someone else was at home, but no one answered.

At the end of the corridor, a large window with heavy curtains opened onto a ledge, less than a foot and a half wide. The window looked down on a small, square garden; de Jersey noticed that, further along the ledge, which ran the length of the building, there was an open window in Moreno’s apartment. He climbed out and moved sideways along the ledge until he reached the window.

He slipped through it, turning to face the reception room. It was a high-tech space with high ceilings and a minimalist feel: stripped pine floors, brown leather furniture, leather-and-chrome reclining chairs around a large plate-glass table, and a wide-screen TV. On the table was a heavy glass ashtray filled with cigarette stubs, the open window no doubt an attempt to air the smoky room.

The Bang & Olufsen stereo units had chrome cases holding hundreds of CDs, but they were dwarfed by a couple of huge oil paintings, both depicting a full-frontal nude man. The fireplace had been sandblasted and treated to resemble rough red stone; fake logs were stacked in the grate. De Jersey took it all in. Moreno was a man of undeniable wealth but questionable taste. In the hallway more paintings and large photographs of handsome men adorned the walls. Beyond, he located a shining state-of-the-art kitchen with a black-and-white checkered marble floor, a large island, and a restaurant-sized sink unit and fridge-freezer. It all looked as if it had never been used.

De Jersey moved into the office, where a bank of computers lined one wall and massive television screens hung from the ceiling. The leather swivel chair was well worn, the waste bins overflowed, and a large shredder basket was full. The desk, running the length of the room, was stacked with documents, loose papers, notebooks, more dirty ashtrays, and used coffee cups.

De Jersey examined everything, then went through the filing cabinets, gathering as much information as possible. He failed to open the computer files, which were protected by a personal password. His wristwatch alarm went off at twelve, as he had set it, and by one fifteen de Jersey was back in his suite at the Carlyle.

He sat down at the small antique desk and read the hurried notes he had made. When he felt that he had a pretty good assessment of Alex Moreno’s personal life, he went to shower. On his return he began to familiarize himself with Moreno’s business activities. His bank statements made obvious the soaring costs of developing the Hamptons property but not where the money was coming from to pay for it.

At 11:00 A.M. Edward Cummings checked out of the hotel by phone. At eleven ten he left and, as Philip Simmons, caught the twelve o’clock jitney bus to the Hamptons, sitting in the back, where he read The New York Times and spoke to no one. At two thirty he arrived in East Hampton. He hired a car from Pam’s Autos and booked into The Huntting Inn, a B and B. From his room he made an appointment to see Moreno’s contractor at the site at 5:00 P.M. As “business adviser” to Moreno, he had spoken of the need to oversee the progress on the renovations. He learned that Moreno had an outstanding invoice for $155,000.

Moreno’s property stood on a plot of land off the Montauk highway toward the luxurious and most sought-after district of Georgica. As he drove, he looked for Hedges Lane, finally locating it off Baiting Hollow Road.

De Jersey drove past the guesthouse, nearly complete. The main house was partially built. Massive plumbing pipes and air-conditioning vents were stacked beside it. Nearby stood a line of trucks, and on the far side of the skeleton building, he noticed a digger removing earth for the pool. It was freezing cold; the rain puddles were covered with ice, and the winter sun didn’t even begin to warm the air.

No one paid much attention as De Jersey parked the car. His anger grew. The pool alone was costing a hundred thousand dollars and the guesthouse $2 million. The final budget had to be around $7 or $8 million. By the time he returned to London, the property would belong to him.

“Mr. Simmons?”

De Jersey was confronted by a muscular, rather stocky man in his late thirties. “I’m Brett Donnelly.” They shook hands. “This is my team. The architect was around earlier. Did you want to see him? They’re all running from one deal to the next. It’s like a property bonanza. You live out here? Know the area?” Donnelly fired off questions seemingly without wanting answers. He pointed to various areas of potholes and planks as they made their way to his trailer. He banged his boots clean at the door; de Jersey entered close behind him. The heat was overpowering. Donnelly took off his padded jacket and hard hat and picked up a coffeepot. “Cream?” he asked, fetching mugs.

“Just milk,” replied de Jersey.

Donnelly unhooked his phone, put down the coffee, then sat in his office chair, rocking back and forth.

De Jersey said coolly, “I think it all looks very impressive here.”

“Yeah, it’s been a big job. The East Hampton Village Zoning Board has been driving us crazy. We waited three months due to a variance with the land on the west side, and a further two weeks for the pool permits.”

De Jersey sipped the bitter coffee as Donnelly talked. It was fifteen minutes before the man finally fell silent, leaning back in his chair with a blue cloud of cigar smoke above his head.

“When do you fill the pool?” de Jersey asked.

“Any day now, it’s almost dug.” Donnelly gave de Jersey a quizzical look. “Are you Canadian?” he asked.

De Jersey smiled. He had never thought of the accent he was using as Canadian, but he nodded.

“How can I help you?” Donnelly asked.

De Jersey opened his wallet and proffered a card; he’d had the forethought to have it printed. “As I said, I’m Mr. Moreno’s business adviser.”

“Nothing wrong, is there?”

“We need to discuss my client’s financial situation.”

Donnelly opened a drawer. “You know we have an interim payment due?”

“Yes. It’s why I’m here.”

“That’s good. I’m just a local contractor, and I can’t afford to keep all these men on without the payments being met on schedule. I’ve got a few other projects, but this is the most substantial.”

“Mr. Moreno is broke.”

“What?” Donnelly was stunned.

“I have to tell you to halt the rebuilding until we have released certain funds. At the moment, Mr. Moreno cannot pay your last invoice.”

“What?” Donnelly repeated.

“I’ll see that it is paid, but you must stop work until further notice.”

“Jesus, God, I’ve got twenty-four men on this contract. I’ve gotta pay them a weekly wage. It’ll bankrupt me. I mean, are you saying the guy’s totally broke?”

“I am saying that there will be difficulties in meeting your last invoice. We could probably sell the property at a substantial loss, of course, but you would be paid eventually. The buyer might even retain you to complete the work.”

“Oh, my God, I don’t believe this!”

“This is an excellent piece of land in a prime position and with building permits already in place. I’m confident this is just a short-term situation, but you’ll want to get Mr. Moreno down here fast to sort it all out as quickly as possible. I’m sorry.”

Donnelly hesitated. “Am I missing something here? You say you’re Mr. Moreno’s business adviser, but you don’t sound like you’re employed by him, more like you’re…”

“Handling a tricky situation. I refer to myself as his business adviser, but it’s rather more complicated. I’m taking over his business because of his mounting debts, some of which are owed to me. I am making sure this development is completed, so I also get what is owed to me.”

“You want me to get Moreno here?”

“Correct, and I suggest you do not mention I’m here. We don’t want to make him feel like he’s being ganged up on.”

Donnelly punched the buttons on his phone and spoke briefly to Moreno, who said he would be at the site the next morning at nine. He hung up and told de Jersey what had been said.

They shook hands, and de Jersey, returning to his car, watched Donnelly instruct the workers to quit for the day.

De Jersey dined at a sushi bar in Sag Harbor. It was almost seven when he returned to his room and placed a call to the Maidstone Arms, which was virtually opposite his hotel. He was told that they were expecting Mr. Moreno to check in after ten.

At close to 11:00 P.M., de Jersey called the Maidstone Arms again; Mr. Moreno had just checked in. He identified himself as Mr. Donnelly and left a message asking to move the morning meeting up two hours, to 7:00 A.M.

De Jersey woke at five and, refreshed, checked out at six fifteen. He was on the site at six thirty and used a crowbar to open Donnelly’s Portakabin. He was confident no workers would show up now that Donnelly knew Moreno’s money had run dry. At seven on the dot the Lexus turned into the drive, and the immaculate Alex Moreno stepped out. He walked toward the cabin, stepping gingerly over the debris, afraid for his Gucci loafers. He entered, surprised to see de Jersey.

“Donnelly’s not here. Sit down, Alex, we need to talk.”

“Excuse me, do I know you?”

“No, you don’t, but I know you.”

Something about de Jersey’s manner, his strangely soft voice and steely eyes, made Moreno hesitate about leaving. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

“How many people did you take down when the company liquidated?” de Jersey asked.

Moreno shrugged. “Oh, this is about leadingleisurewear. I don’t know. Investors are investors. Sometimes they win and sometimes they lose.”

“Not everyone is a good loser, Alex,” de Jersey said quietly.

“If this is some kind of scam, then screw you! I don’t know you, and whatever you lost is not my problem.”

De Jersey reached out and gripped the collar of Moreno’s cashmere coat. “It is your problem, and I won’t go away until you solve it.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Moreno stammered.

“I work for someone who invested millions in your company, and he is not a happy man. He wants compensation.”

Moreno pushed away de Jersey’s hands. “I’m cleaned out. We went into liquidation and there’s nothing to be done.”

“Wrong. My friend wants this house, plus the lease on the Central Park apartment.”

“What?” Moreno asked.

“You heard. I have some agreements that will transfer your rights in those properties. Just sign here.”

“Fuck you,” Moreno said.

De Jersey walked to the door, blocking Moreno’s exit. “It’s you that will be fucked if you don’t agree. Sign the papers and you walk out of here intact.”

Moreno hesitated. He glanced at them. “My, my, you’ve done your homework,” he said.

De Jersey picked up a pen and handed it to Moreno. “Just sign and no one will get hurt.”

Moreno’s hand was shaking. “I don’t understand all this,” he said.

“It merely instructs funds to go into the necessary numbered accounts.”

“You work for the guy with these accounts?”

“Yeah.”

Moreno bit his lip. “Why don’t you and me do some private business? I can cut you in. When this place is finished, I’m gonna ask fifteen million. You’d get a nice bonus and walk away from”-he glanced at the document-“this guy, whoever he is. Screw him and you’ll be a rich man. You could just say you never found me.”

“Sign the papers,” de Jersey said.

“He pays you that well, huh?” Smirking, Moreno tapped the desktop with the pen.

“Sign the papers.”

Moreno took a deep breath but still toyed with the pen.

“Sign the papers,” de Jersey snapped. “Now.”

Moreno dropped the pen. “This is fraud,” he said.

“It’s called paying off your debts.”

“I don’t have to pay a fucking dime. There were a lot of investors. It was a new business. The investors knew the risks. It wasn’t my fault they plowed in more funds.”

De Jersey pushed Moreno’s face roughly into the desk. “Sign the papers!” he thundered.

“No need to get nasty. I’ll do it, okay? I’ll do it,” Moreno said. When de Jersey released his grip, Moreno put up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “You’ve won, okay? You get this place and the apartment.”

Moreno signed each document de Jersey placed in front of him, flicking glances at him. “All signed. Okay? You wanna try on my suit for size?” he asked sarcastically.

De Jersey inspected each signature calmly, then placed the documents in an envelope.

Finding his way clear to the door, Moreno crossed the room. He yanked the door open, turned, laughing. “Listen, you son of a bitch, if you think those papers would stand up in any court of law, you’re wrong. My attorney will have them laughed out of court, and I’ll have you fucked over for kidnap and extortion.”

In his eagerness to make a quick exit, he caught his sleeve on the door handle. He tripped and fell down the iron steps, cracking his head against the side of the railing. After he rolled onto the ground, his body jerked for a few seconds; then he lay ominously still.

Coming rapidly behind him, de Jersey felt for a pulse but without success. His mind raced. This wasn’t the outcome he had intended.

He dragged Moreno back into the cabin, where he unbuttoned his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He walked outside, picking up a spade on his way, and jumped into the half-finished swimming pool. He dug feverishly in the deep end until he had a hole big enough for the body. Then he returned to the Portakabin and emptied Moreno’s pockets. In one he found a wad of cash in an envelope addressed to Donnelly. De Jersey quickly counted the money and discovered that it would cover the outstanding invoice. He removed Moreno’s personal effects, dragged him from the cabin, and rolled him into the pool. Jumping down, he pushed the body into the newly dug grave and was filling it in when his watch alarm sounded. He climbed out of the pool. Next he drove Moreno’s Lexus into a nearby lane out of sight, then returned to the pool. To be extra sure no one discovered the body, he used the compressor machine to level off the ground. He finished cleaning himself up and was double-checking that the gauze of the wig was in place when Donnelly drove up.

De Jersey immediately crossed to his car, smiling. “I want to take you to breakfast,” he said. “There have been some new developments. Moreno isn’t coming. Where do you suggest?”

At Marty’s Diner, Donnelly had eggs over easy and a side of pancakes, while, opposite him, de Jersey sipped black coffee. He handed over the envelope. “That should cover your last invoice. You will see that it includes a bonus for the problems you’ve had to deal with.”

Donnelly’s face showed his relief.

“As of now,” de Jersey went on, “I am monitoring the project and controlling the payments. I have here postdated checks to cover work for the next two months, and I assure you that I have funds to cover them. You are to complete the house, and I want the gardens landscaped. You know a good company?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve worked with them before.”

“Good. So I can leave that with you to arrange?”

“Sure.”

“We want the estate finished, if possible, by early summer.”

“We were scheduled for completion by June.”

“Good. I’ll have someone, if not myself, come to the site at various times, but I’ve also hired a solicitor to take care of all payments due. It’s a local firm called Edward and Maybury. They will deal directly with you and liaise with me. I require photographs and reports of work in progress to be sent to the solicitor, who will subsequently pass them on to me.”

“So what’s happened to Moreno? Will he be coming around?”

“He’s gone to South America-keep that to yourself-and he’s turned over the day-to-day running of his finances to me. I will be handling the sale of the property. As I mentioned, Mr. Moreno owes me a substantial amount, and this way neither of us suffers an adverse loss.”

“He’s not going to live here?”

“He can’t afford it, and I will arrange a real estate agent to view the property when it is near completion.”

Donnelly drained his coffee, then put out his hand to shake de Jersey’s. “Thank God. I didn’t sleep last night with worry. I’ll get the men back working today.”

De Jersey signaled for the bill, then opened his wallet. “I saw they had begun work on the pool. When do they pour in the cement?”

“They’ll probably finish it today.”

“That’s good.” De Jersey paid for breakfast and left.

In East Hampton, he discussed property values with a real estate agent. They were eager to help: a property in such a prestigious area would sell quickly. Once development was complete, they assured him, they could start with an asking price of fifteen million. That sum, with the proceeds from the sale of Moreno’s apartment, meant that one small part of de Jersey’s, Wilcox’s, and Driscoll’s fortunes would be salvaged.

After returning his rental car, de Jersey ordered a taxi and went to pick up the Lexus, which he drove into Manhattan. With Moreno’s keys in his pocket, he was able to let himself into the apartment. Quickly, he packed most of Moreno’s clothes into suitcases and made appointments with three real estate agents to discuss selling the lease of the fully furnished apartment. He phoned the doorman to arrange transfer of the bags to the Lexus.

When the first agent arrived, de Jersey explained his asking price was way below the market value in order to ensure a fast sale. By the afternoon, thanks to the legally binding letters and the lease reversal with Moreno’s signature, a cash deal had been struck. Before he left the apartment, de Jersey unscrewed the back of Moreno’s computer and, producing an electric drill he’d found in a kitchen cabinet, drilled several holes through the hard drive. If he was unable to gain access to the files, he didn’t want anyone else to do so.

At 7:00 P.M., de Jersey parked the Lexus in the long-stay car park at JFK, leaving it unlocked with Moreno’s suitcases in full view, thus assuring their quick disappearance. At the Virgin Atlantic desk he used Philip Simmons’s passport and upgraded himself into first class. After boarding the plane, he changed into the courtesy tracksuit and slept for the entire flight. Once again, he spoke to no one. He was woken for breakfast shortly before landing.

After clearing customs at Heathrow, he returned to the men’s room, where he removed the wig and mustache, and combed his hair. He left the airport as Edward de Jersey.

He was home in time for New Year celebrations. He was confident it would be a long while before anyone started to ask questions about Moreno’s disappearance, and he was pretty sure that the body would never be found. The car would turn up, but it would be hard to prove that there had been foul play. It would be near impossible to trace de Jersey’s own movements in and out of New York. Once Moreno’s finances had been properly investigated, it would be surmised that he had done a runner.

The money from Moreno’s properties was a drop in the ocean compared to the losses the trio had suffered. But de Jersey calculated his share of the cash from the sale of the apartment alone would be enough to keep his estate running for the time being. It was almost a week since he’d left for New York, but in that time he had felt the adrenaline pumping, the old excitement at being on the wrong side of the law. It was a different enjoyment than his horses brought: more like the thrill of walking a tightrope. He was forced to use wits and cunning, and he liked that. He felt no regret for Moreno’s death. He was happy to use the accident to his advantage. The Colonel was back in business.