The Steal Read online

  The Steal

  By C. W. Gortner and M.J. Rose

  Copyright 2021 C. W. Gortner and M.J. Rose

  ISBN: 978-1-952457-53-1

  Published by Blue Box Press, an imprint of Evil Eye Concepts, Incorporated

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  Book Description

  The Steal

  By C. W. Gortner and M.J. Rose

  They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend—until they’re stolen.

  Ania Throne is devoted to her jewelry company. The daughter of one of the world’s most famous jewelers, she arrives in Cannes with a stunning new collection. But a shocking theft by the notorious thief known as the Leopard throws her into upheaval—and plunges her on an unexpected hunt that challenges everything she believes.

  Jerome Curtis thinks he’s seen it all, especially when it comes to crime. Until he’s hired to investigate the loss of Ania Thorne’s collection, his every skill put to the test as he chases after a mysterious master-mind responsible for some of the costliest heists in history—and finds himself in a tangled web with a woman he really shouldn’t fall in love with.

  From the fabled Carlton Hotel to the elegant boulevards of Paris, Ania and Jerome must race against time to catch a thief before the thief catches them. With everything on the line, can they solve the steal or will the steal take more than diamonds from them?

  Set in the late 1950s, THE STEAL is a romantic caper by bestselling authors C.W. Gortner and M.J. Rose.

  About C. W. Gortner

  C.W. GORTNER holds an MFA in Writing with an emphasis in Renaissance Studies from the New College of California, as well as an AA from the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in San Francisco.

  After an eleven year-long career in fashion, during which he worked as a vintage retail buyer, freelance publicist, and fashion show coordinator, C.W. devoted the next twelve years to the public health sector. In 2012, he became a full-time writer following the international success of his novels.

  In his extensive travels to research his books, he has danced a galliard at Hampton Court, learned about organic gardening at Chenoceaux, and spent a chilly night in a ruined Spanish castle. His books have garnered widespread acclaim and been translated into twenty-one languages to date, with over 400,000 copies sold. A sought-after public speaker. C.W. has given keynote addresses at writer conferences in the US and abroad. He is also a dedicated advocate for animal rights, in particular companion animal rescue to reduce shelter overcrowding.

  C.W. recently completed his fourth novel for Ballantine Books, about Lucrezia Borgia; the third novel in his Tudor Spymaster series for St Martin's Press; and a new novel about the dramatic, glamorous life of Coco Chanel, scheduled for lead title publication by William Morrow, Harper Collins, in the spring of 2015.

  Half-Spanish by birth and raised in southern Spain, C.W. now lives in Northern California with his partner and two very spoiled rescue cats.

  To find out more about his work, visit: http://www.cwgortner.com

  About M.J. Rose

  New York Times bestseller M.J. Rose grew up in New York City mostly in the labyrinthine galleries of the Metropolitan Museum, the dark tunnels and lush gardens of Central Park and reading her mother's favorite books before she was allowed. She believes mystery and magic are all around us but we are too often too busy to notice... books that exaggerate mystery and magic draw attention to it and remind us to look for it and revel in it.

  Please visit her blog, Museum of Mysteries at http://www.mjrose.com/blog/

  Rose’s work has appeared in many magazines including Oprah magazine and she has been featured in the New York Times, Newsweek, Wall Street Journal, Time, USA Today and on the Today Show, and NPR radio. Rose graduated from Syracuse University, spent the ‘80s in advertising, has a commercial in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and since 2005 has run the first marketing company for authors - Authorbuzz.com.

  Rose lives in Connecticut with her husband, the musician and composer Doug Scofield.

  Also from C. W. Gortner

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  The First Actress

  The Romanov Empress

  Marlene

  The Vatican Princess

  Mademoiselle Chanel

  The Queen’s Vow

  The Confessions of Catherine De Medici

  The Last Queen

  The Tudor Secret

  The Tudor Conspiracy

  The Tudor Vendetta

  C. W. Gortner and M.J. Rose

  The Steal

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  The Last Tiara

  Cartier’s Hope

  Tiffany Blues

  The Library of Light and Shadow

  The Secret Language of Stones

  The Witch of Painted Sorrows

  The Collector of Dying Breaths

  The Seduction of Victor H.

  The Book of Lost Fragrances

  The Hypnotist

  The Memoirist

  The Reincarnationist

  Lip Service

  In Fidelity

  Flesh Tones

  Sheet Music

  The Halo Effect

  The Delilah Complex

  The Venus Fix

  Lying in Bed

  M.J. Rose and Steve Berry

  The Museum of Mysteries

  The Lake of Learning

  The House of Long Ago

  The End of Forever

  M.J. Rose and C. W. Gortner

  The Steal

  M.J. Rose and Randy Susan Meyers

  The Fashion Orphans

  Table of Contents

  Book Description

  About C. W. Gortner

  About M.J. Rose

  Also from C. W. Gortner

  Also from M.J. Rose

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Bait, coming soon from C. W. Gortner and M.J. Rose

  Mademoiselle Chanel by C. W. Gortner

  The Last Tiara by M.J. Rose

  Chapter One

  Jerome

  1957

  Everyone always says Cannes is one of the most beautiful places in the world. I guess they were right. It sure is beautiful today, the bright sunlight scattered across the Mediterranean, the elegant promenade shaded by palm trees like immense umbrellas, the fancy storefronts and cafés, the stylish restaurants and grand hotels forming a gilded ring against the rugged backdrop of southern France. Yeah, gorgeous. Picture-perfect, as they say. Like a movie set. No scars from the war here. Or, at least, none anyone can see.

  And just like a movie set, it’s the ideal setting for an international movie festival. Not that I care about those things. To me, a movie is two dollars and a bucket of greasy popcorn whenever I get the free time, which is rarely. But hey, I like movies as much as the next person. Movie stars, on the other hand… Well, when you do what I do for a living, you find out most rich people aren’t very nice. Movie stars included. When someone has something of extreme value to protect, like a
reputation or a career, they’ll do almost anything. Movie stars are like anyone else, except they usually have a lot more to protect.

  Anyway, here I am in beautiful Cannes on the eve of the international film festival, and in case I sound like the former soldier I am, I’ll admit it’s impressive. I can see why so many want to be part of this make-believe world, to sunbathe on those pristine white beaches or stroll down the sidewalk, carrying monogrammed luxury bags. Or be photographed making their way to the seaside parking lot, bristling with yachts.

  It’s seductive.

  That’s the problem with wealth: It seduces you into thinking you deserve more than you should have. Fortunately, I’ve never had much to be seduced by.

  As I exit the taxicab and pay the fare in francs, I feel the heat instantly. Only late May and the heat here is never as bad as the humid mid-July swamp-fume of New York City, but it’s still intense for this time of year: very dry, like a desert wind that’s gotten lazy and decided to take a long nap over the city.

  My double-breasted gabardine suit starts itching me even as I turn to the Carlton Hotel. My employer, Lambert Securities, is one of the world’s largest insurance firms and insisted I dress the part for this case. Which means they had an expensive suit readied for me before I left London, though it feels as if it’s doubled in weight. Usually, I’d have ignored the getup. I’m not here to impress but to do a job that no one else can. But it’s a film festival, and the jeweler involved is a very important client—possibly the firm’s most important, who just got ripped off for millions of dollars in one-of-a-kind jewels.

  Not my crowd. If I can even say my job has a crowd. But, really, not my crowd at all. And the porter in his martinet uniform at the hotel door regards me as if he knows it.

  I take a moment to admire the hotel’s curvaceous façade and domed turrets. I heard the turrets were designed by an infatuated architect seeking to immortalize the unforgettable endowments of a courtesan named la Belle Otero. Who would have thought? A hotel for the rich and famous, with tits for domes. Only in France.

  Inside the lobby, which is cool and glowing with rococo gilding and too much marble, I ask for the hotel manager in my lousy French at the reception desk. I learned the language as well as I needed to do what I did after the war, but the reception staff regards me with the same dubious expression as the doorman. I must look and sound exactly like what I am: a jetlagged American in a new suit, who thinks his French is better than it is.

  I flash my license in my wallet. That always catches their attention. The reception guy points me toward a door at the far end of the lobby. As I stride toward it, I swipe my ridiculous new fedora from my head and rake my fingers through my sweat-dampened mop of hair. I should have gotten a decent haircut and shave, along with the suit.

  Before I reach the door, a prim man in what looks like a turn-of-the-century morning coat intercepts me. He has the erect posture and slick-backed pate of a long-term bureaucrat—I know the type. And that’s what he is, except his bureaucracy is the oversight of this overpriced hotel as he wastes no time in informing me.

  “I am Alain Saucey, managing director of the Carlton. Monsieur Curtis, I presume?” He clips out his speech in flawless and slightly accusatory English as if he’s aware of my deficiency in the native tongue.

  “At your service.” I almost smile, only it isn’t a smiling occasion. “Lambert Securities sent me.”

  “I am aware. I called their office in London as soon as the mishap occurred.”

  Mishap. Now, there’s a term I haven’t heard before to describe what’s happened. Guess the words heist or robbery don’t go over well in sunny Cannes.

  “Can you tell me about the…mishap?” I say while he blocks the door behind him.

  “I believe those directly involved are best equipped to deliver that information, M. Curtis. I wasn’t present. I was attending to our other guests. As you surely must be aware, the festival opens tonight, and we’re fully booked. It’s very unfortunate, but our guests cannot be unduly disturbed.” He pauses. Like most bureaucrats, he’s very conscious of his self-importance. “It happened in the back room we reserved for Thorne & Company’s exclusive use. Naturally, we’re endeavoring to contain the situation to the best of our abilities.”

  “Right,” I say. He keeps looking at me as if he expects me to whip out a notepad and record his declarations for posterity. Containing the situation translates to: I want you to be advised that the Carlton will admit no responsibility. I also have no doubt the hotel’s lawyers are busy drafting a ten-page statement to extricate the establishment from any legal culpability. Mishaps like these can be very costly, and the hotel is basically a movie star, too. It has a reputation to protect.

  Saucey steps aside to unlock the door, revealing a corridor. “I will escort you. Unless you require my presence, I cannot stay, however. You must understand we’re already receiving inquiries from the press.” He grimaces. “The vulgarity of today’s world.”

  Word must travel fast here. The mishap is not yet five hours cold, and the vultures are already circling. Which won’t make my job any easier.

  “The local gendarmes,” he goes on as he leads me down the corridor, “are currently questioning members of my staff. As I understand, those directly involved have already given their statements, and word has been dispatched to Paris. They’re sending an investigative team, but given the festival, lodgings are, of course, at a premium.”

  “Is that so?” I say.

  This just keeps getting better. An uncooperative hotel manager, already under advice from lawyers to say as little as permissible. Reporters about to swarm the scene. Local police questioning the staff, and the crime bureau in Paris on alert, readying its descent. In less than twenty-four hours, this place will be a circus. “Well, I don’t need you present right now,” I tell him as he pauses at another door. “But don’t wander too far, okay? I may have questions for you later.”

  He gives me a glance that indicates that my questions, while unwelcome, will be endured if required, and then he opens the door.

  The room is small, without windows. I notice that at once. There’s this door and another at the other end. “Where does that other door go?” I ask Saucey.

  “Into the service area of the hotel,” he replies.

  “Is that how…?”

  He nods, tight-lipped.

  I turn to the two people slumped on chairs by an empty table. A man and a woman, both looking queasy. The man holds an icepack to his face, but when he looks up at my approach, he lets out a gasp of recognition. “Curtis?”

  It takes a moment before I place him. “Darcy? What the hell…?”

  “I could say the same.” He rises unsteadily to his feet, all six foot three of him. I didn’t recognize him at first because he’s put on at least twenty pounds since I last saw him in ’48. He thrusts out his hand. “Of all the joints in France,” he quips in a faux-Bogart drawl.

  I feel how clammy his palm is. “Quite the coincidence. How’d you end up in this mess?”

  John Darcy was one of the operatives on my team after the war. While our unexpected reunion is startling, I’m glad to see him. He was always honest. Reliable. And dedicated. Whenever we got word of a potential target, he didn’t let up until we had the monster out of his bolt-hole and in a jail cell. No one will ever give him a medal for it—what we did after the war remains top-secret—but if anyone deserves one, it’s Darcy. He took down more of those mass-murdering fascists than anyone else. And if our unit hadn’t been shut down, he wouldn’t have stopped.

  “I need to pay my bills,” he says, putting the icepack back to his forehead. “You know how it goes. Thorne & Company pays me well, and ex-grunts aren’t exactly rolling in dough.” He winces. “Can you believe that sonofabitch hit me with chloroform?”

  “Chloroform? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I could smell it. Still can. Like cotton candy. Bastard.”

  “Damn,” I say.

>   He chuckles. “My head feels like I got hit by a truck. Better than a bullet, I suppose. But, yeah, damn is right. I didn’t see a thing.” He eases back down on his chair. “And you?”

  “Insurance,” I say. He meets my eyes. He gets it. This isn’t the time or place for long-winded explanations. Besides, he knows as well as I do that’s the least of what I do. Insurance is my cover. My skills go far beyond it. Like his.

  I turn my attention to the woman. “I’m from Lambert Securities, Thorne & Company’s insurance firm. Do you speak any English, Miss…?”

  She nods. “Sylvia Morton. I’m Miss Thorne’s personal assistant.”

  “Did you see the culprit, Miss Morton?”

  “Yes. He—he came in after Mr. Darcy delivered the cases. We were waiting for—”

  “Our boss,” Darcy cuts in. He swallows. “Ania Thorne. She’s the only one with the codes.”

  “Codes?” I understand what he means, but I want to hear it from him.

  “Yeah. You know. Numeric codes. Each case has one. Unique, no two alike. She always unlocks the cases herself. But before she got here, he hit me with the chloroform.”

  “And then?” I return my gaze to the woman, who casts a worried look at John. It’s obvious to me they’re involved somehow and trying to hide it. The boss’s personal assistant and the security detail making nookie… Not what you’d call professional behavior.

  “He just walked in.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “He had a gun. He pointed me into that corner and took the cases.”

  “Six minutes,” Darcy says. “The bastard did it in six goddamn minutes!”

  “Did he say anything?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head.

  “What was he wearing?”

  “All black. A mask. Like…like a ski mask. Gloves.”