Flawless(7)

“Who work with the police,” she finished. “You—”

Julie broke in. “It was my fault,” she said.

“Yes, in a way it was,” Kieran said. “And then again, no. Daniel is responsible for his own behavior. Daniel, I need you to promise me, once and for all, that you’ll never steal again.”

“Kieran...” he murmured, glancing away. “This was an exception. I did it for—”

“Daniel.”

“All right, I promise.” She could tell by the way he looked at her that he knew she doubted him. “Never again. I swear it on our parents’ grave.”

That, to her brother, was a solemn vow.

“I wonder if they’ll even miss it,” Julie said. “The diamond, I mean.”

“You wonder if they’ll miss it? A flawless stone worth a half a million or more?” Kieran asked incredulously.

“Like you said, there’s been a rash of jewelry store holdups in the city.”

“Yeah. Armed men come in and wipe out half a store. Do you think Gary’s boss and coworkers wouldn’t notice if they’d been held up by men with guns?”

She checked her watch. She had to leave now if she was going to make it before the store closed for the day.

“What do you want me to do now?” Daniel asked her.

“Cover for me at the pub.”

“I’ll help him,” Julie offered.

“No, you won’t. You’ll go home and walk your dogs. That way Daniel can say I’m dealing with something for you and it won’t be a complete lie. Declan will understand.” She stood. “And don’t you ever—ever—put me in this position again.” She stared at them hard. “I can’t believe what I’m about to do. I’m heading off to unsteal a diamond.”

She turned away. She had to hurry because time was against her now. Pretty soon the staff would be counting receipts and logging the day’s sales as well as inventorying the jewelry and stones they’d shown that day.

She prayed she could keep Daniel out of jail—and not land both of them in the arms of the law.





CHAPTER

TWO

WALLY O’NEILL, a civilian tech employed by the FBI, was working with Craig and Mike, viewing the security footage from the jewelry stores. They could have looked at the videos alone, but Craig was glad they had Wally’s help. He was a whiz when it came to cameras, computers...anything digital.

The security footage showed that all the robberies had been carried out in much the same way.

Quickly, for one.

Three men—or they looked like men, anyway—in dark jeans, hoodies and ski masks suddenly converged on the door and entered the store. They burst in with guns out. Not one of the recording devices allowed for sound, but Craig was certain that the first man to break in roared that no one had better set off the alarm or someone would die.

No alarms had been set off, but in the last two robberies, people had died anyway.

“Okay,” Mike said, “since they’re dressed alike, maybe they come from different directions or time it so each one is slightly ahead of the next guy to avoid calling attention to themselves. I mean, half the kids in America walk around wearing hoodies with their heads down and hands shoved in their pockets, but the ski masks are a real attention getter. I’m betting they don’t put those on till the last minute.”

Mike was probably right about that, Craig thought. In New York City, with crowds everywhere and people walking in every direction, their own agendas in their heads, there would be no particular reason to notice someone dressed like that. And Jersey? Pretty much the same story.

“They don’t split up when they leave, though,” Craig pointed out.

“There’s gotta be a getaway car idling somewhere nearby.”

“They committed the murders in Jersey. They’re either getting bolder—or they’re not the same crew.”

“That again,” Mike muttered.

“I might be right.”

“You might be wrong.”

“Yeah, I might be. In fact, I hope I am,” Craig said.

Wally cleared his throat. “Uh, guys? What do you want me to do now?”

“Roll the last two,” Craig told him.

Wally hit a key and brought up the crime-scene photo from the alley. He quickly apologized. “Sorry, pushed the wrong button.”

“It’s all right. We’re going to have to go over that, too,” Mike said.

They all stared grimly at the photo. The woman was dark haired and wearing a cover-up over her clothing—her way of staying clean while she swept and dusted, Craig thought.

She was lying on her side, almost as if she were sleeping. Except that a pool of blood billowed out from beneath her hair.

Mike looked at his folder. “Ana Katrina Martinez, forty-seven. Small-caliber bullet fired at point-blank range right through her forehead. Cartridge not found and the bullet is still in her brain. The ME will supply it to ballistics right after the autopsy.”

Craig felt a swell of emotion. Ana Katrina Martinez wouldn’t care what kind of bullet had killed her, and neither would her family. They would only care that her killer was caught. Even dead in a pool of blood, she had a kind face. Craig thought she had smiled frequently in life. “Why her?” he muttered angrily.