Shimmy Bang Sparkle(47)
Carefully she lined up the edge of the image so it was parallel with her knees, placing the resin North Star like a paperweight on the corner. To the right of that she put a photograph of what I recognized immediately as the Gemological Institute of America Museum in Carlsbad, California. It looked about as exciting as a strip mall Staples from the outside. She tapped the photo of the Gemological Institute and said, “He bought it in July, with the agreement that it would stay on display until November 1.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Definitely. Which I know because this guy . . .”
From the folder, she produced a photograph of a bearded dude in gold-rimmed aviators and a checkered head scarf with a black cord doubled around it. He was walking on a tarmac, talking on the phone. “. . . is who has purchased it. I made a fake email, pretending to be from Rock&Gem.” She pulled out two stapled pages. “He was more than happy to tell me way too much. Including the date he’s going to pick it up.”
On the top of the page was the email time stamp and address info, [email protected]. A fake domain, no doubt. Good odds on the Rock&Gem domain being straight-up rockandgem.com. But vanity was blinding, and this guy had fallen for it.
The from line read: Sheikh Saud ibn Nejd al-Aziz. This she traced with her finger and said aloud.
I found it weirdly hot, hearing her say his name. It was just Arabic for God’s sake, but on her lips, it sounded like some sort of spell. It was proof of what I’d known since the first time I laid eyes on her; she knew what the fuck she was doing, and there was literally nothing hotter than that.
She placed the photograph of the sheikh in the head scarf on top of the email, adding, “He’s in ceremonial dress here. Usually, he just looks like a dude. Also, he prefers to go by Chad.”
I pressed my fist to my mouth and laughed. The guy had a name out of The Arabian Nights and that was his chosen nickname? “You’re shitting me.”
Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, just you wait . . .”
Next to the sheikh, she arranged a cluster of images. They were screenshots from a Google search. According to the printout, it was the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel. At the bottom of the printout was a footer containing a URL from the Albuquerque Public Library. Smart. No cyber trace. As if she could get any hotter.
Stella explained, “The Ritz in Laguna Niguel is owned by Chad’s cousin from Riyadh. They are super close, and he always stays at the Ritz when he goes to Southern California. Doesn’t pay a penny.”
I was impressed; it was solid intel on her mark. But intel was only as good as where it came from. “What’s your source?”
She inhaled hard and smiled. She held a finger in the air. From the door pocket of the safe she produced a phone and powered it up. I knew without even having to ask that it was a dedicated burner. “You’re damned good at this.”
“Ooh, thanks!” She seemed as genuinely flattered as if I’d just complimented her cooking. “I try to think of everything. But the sheikh himself has been very helpful . . .” With a few flicks of her finger she’d unlocked the burner and opened up Instagram. She thumbed through image after image in which the sheikh looked a lot less traditional. Him drinking something out of a coconut. Him in bright-orange Umbros. Him driving a Lamborghini. Him kissing a koala. As she scrolled through, I checked the header on the Instagram page. The handle was @The_Sheikh_Dude, and his profile pic was him in a T-shirt that said @THE_SHEIKH_DUDE. “I hate him already,” I said.
She nodded at her phone as she kept scrolling. “He takes videos of himself on leg day at the gym and posts them on YouTube. I can’t even with this guy.”
Finally, she landed on the photo she was after and held out the phone for me to see. It was the sheikh, living it up poolside at what was obviously the Ritz. It had the same kidney-shaped pool as in the printout. He was with two guys who might have been poached from a remake of Animal House. Underneath was the caption Chilling in the kingdom with my Kappa Phi bros. #RitzLagunaNiguel #SheikhLife #DudeI’mSoSheikh
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered under my breath.
Stella nibbled on her lip. “The hashtags are what get me. Dude I’m so chic, pullllllease.” She scrolled to another photo and held it out to me. It was a selfie the sheikh had taken of himself standing in an enormous hotel room, with the caption My suite rulz as usual. #SheikhLife #CallingRoomService
“Half the world lives on like a cup of rice a day, and he’s dropping letters on rules.”
Stella snickered, but she was laser focused on her mark and didn’t let me distract her. She cruised past the image of the sheikh with his suite selfie and landed on one that was, of course, another selfie, but on this one Stella tapped her thumb on a guy in the background, slightly fuzzy but still visible. Cheap suit, wicked bad dark-brown hair plugs, heavy unibrow. I couldn’t place the face immediately. “How do I know that guy?”
“My guess would be from the Neanderthal display at the natural history museum.”
Holy shit. “Nailed it.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time looking at him.” She moved to another image and pointed out the same fuzzy form. Another, and another. The guy was clearly the sheikh’s bodyguard. His polyester pants bunched up in his crotch so bad it made even my balls hurt. He had a gun bulge on his ankle and a gun bulge under his shirt. I was getting pretty fucking tired of gun bulges. Most interesting of all was that in every image he carried a silver briefcase. I’d have known what it was anywhere. A Zero Halliburton, attached to his wrist with a steel cable. The nuclear codes were kept in one. James Bond used one. And apparently so did the douchebag sheikh. “That where he’ll put it?”