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DEVLIN SECURITY FORCE, Protecting Priceless Treasures
A man in the shadows… As the infamous thief known as the Jeweler lay
dying, he gave his son, Cortez Jones, a puzzle piece that will lead to a
cache of crown jewels. Recovering the loot could finally get the FBI
off Cort’s back, but the only person who can help him is a DSF
researcher who blames the Jeweler for destroying her family. Forming an
uneasy alliance with her, Cort finds her courage and tender heart make
him want more than riches or redemption.
A woman in the light… When Mara Marton’s insurance investigator
father was accused of conspiring with the Jeweler, the scandal ruined
him and led to his death. Now the jewel thief’s son wants her help.
Although sharing her research expertise and her father’s files with this
sexy ex-con could prove her father’s innocence, how can she trust that
Cort doesn’t want the treasure for himself?
Time is running out… The puzzle piece brings Cort and Mara together,
but danger and secrets threaten to tear them apart. Sparks fly as they
struggle to trust one another and recover the jewels before they are
claimed by the deadly black-market syndicate Centaur. But with their
lives—and their hearts—on the line, there’s no turning back.
Chapter 1
Infamous
jewel thief dies in prison
By Rona Laughton
WASHINGTON DAILY NEWS
An
international jewel thief who eluded law enforcement for five decades
and stole a small nation’s crown jewels from a national U.S. museum
has died. Leon Jones, known as the Jeweler, died on April 16 at the
age of 68 of complications from cancer, in the Devens, Massachusetts,
Federal Medical Center.
Jones
pulled off his last and biggest theft twelve years ago at the
Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington, D.C. He made off
with the crown jewels of the principality of Gramornia, including a
scepter, the royal crown, swords, and rings.
Mistakes
during the break-in led to the Jeweler’s arrest and conviction. His
son, Cortez Jones, was also convicted of the theft and served a short
sentence. The Gramornian crown jewels have never been recovered,
according to the FBI and Global Insurance.
For
five decades, the Jeweler’s heists from museums and mansions
confounded law enforcement agencies from the Riviera to San Francisco
and...
***
Two weeks later
Cortez Jones waited behind
a pillar where he had a clear view of the parking garage’s
level-two elevator.
The
Marton woman wouldn’t answer his phone calls, so here he was. His
father’s attorney had given him her license plate number and work
address in Crystal City, Virginia. Less intrusive and a whole lot
less threatening than approaching her at her apartment.
Cort
had made an effort to look respectable. Even wore a long-sleeved polo
to cover the prison tats. No luck. The guard at the security desk
took one look and showed him the damn door. On impulse, he ducked
into the garage as somebody drove out. Once inside, spotting her car
was a cinch. No missing that bright red Nissan Versa.
He
needed to be careful. Diplomatic, low-key, so she didn’t freak and
call security. Scaring her was the last thing he wanted.
He
needed her help.
If she
would listen to the ex-con son of the Jeweler. But if Leon’s
deathbed story panned out, he had a way to get the FBI off his back.
Once and for all.
If
Leon had conned him—wouldn’t be the first time—he’d go on
with his backwoods life. Shit. A half life. No life. Now that an
ember of hope ignited, the possibility flamed into a need that burned
in his soul. He wanted more. He wanted out from under FBI and
Gramornia pressure. He wanted to hold up his head.
He
wanted a life.
News
dating from the Gramornia crown jewels theft investigation, said that
Quincy Marton’s widow was Korean. Cort had figured spotting the
daughter would be easy.
But he
didn’t count on the building’s employees being the United
Nations. Several women about the right age with dark hair and vaguely
Asian features exited the elevator while he waited. None of them went
to the Nissan Versa.
The
elevator bell dinged and the doors opened. Another young woman
stepped out into a halo of light. About his age. Black hair to her
shoulders, high cheekbones, eyes with an exotic slant, but that could
be makeup. If she was Mara Marton, she’d inherited her father’s
height—five-eight or so. Dark pants. Bright blue sweater with
glittery stuff swirling across breasts that begged for male
attention.
Cort
shook his head, banished the inconvenient sexual awareness. Had to
keep focused on business and not on a hot female. For luck, he
fingered the ring in his pocket. Leon hadn’t lied about that much.
As for the rest, he would see.
Mouth
tight, the woman scanned the open lanes and the parked vehicles. She
clutched her bulky orange purse beneath her arm. And headed directly
for the red Versa.
Another
female, a redhead in a blue jacket and khaki pants, stepped from
behind a panel van and intercepted the brunette.
Uncertain,
he stayed put to observe.
“Ms.
Marton. Mara,” said the redhead, holding up an ID and a small
digital recorder. “Rona Laughton, Washington
Daily News. Please give me a few minutes of
your time.”
Marton
wheeled. Anger flashed in her dark eyes. “I told you on the phone I
have nothing to say to the media. No comment means no comment. Leave
me alone.”
Cort
hunched his shoulders, backed deeper into the shadows.
“Your
father, an investigator for Global Insurance,” the reporter went
on, undaunted, “was implicated in the Gramornia crown jewels theft
from the Smithsonian. My paper would like to review that case, a sort
of where-are-they-now story. What’s your reaction now that Jones is
dead? How do you feel?”
When
crimson highlighted Mara Marton’s cheeks, Cort clenched his hands
into fists. How the hell did this cold bitch think she felt? The
attacks in the news media and accusations by the FBI had broken
Quincy Marton. He died of a heart attack in the middle of the
investigation. Not unlike Leon Jones. Fitting. Ironic.
Tears
glistening, Marton headed for her car. Laughton stopped her with a
hand on her forearm. Marton was taller but the reporter had twenty
pounds on her. And more nerve than a high-wire walker.
Cort
should stay light years away from the media but he couldn’t stand
by. He slipped from behind his pillar and hustled over. Held his arms
loose at his sides, hands open so both women could see he meant no
physical threat. His height and build made him intimidating enough.
“The lady said she doesn’t want to talk.”
The
reporter stepped back, her mouth set in lines of frustration, showing
her age, on the hard side of forty. Her gaze skewered him. “Who the
hell are you?”
“Just
making sure everything’s all right.” He turned to Marton. “This
chick bothering you?”
She
stared, eyes wide and round as hubcaps, then blinked as she took in
his question. After a breath, she said, “She was just leaving.”
Cort
gave Laughton his patented hard-case look, the one prison dawgs
called the Murder-One stare.
She
fired a death stare of her own. Then, face scrunched and red at
seeing a story slip from her grasp, she stalked away. Her heels
clicked on the cement leading to the stairway exit.
Softening
his expression for the woman standing nervously before him, he
scratched his nape. “Where’s security when you need them?”
Her
shoulders relaxed but she eyed him with suspicion. Why wouldn’t
she? They were alone in that section of the cavernous garage. She
held her keys like a weapon between her knuckles. “Thank you for
your help.”
“Ms.
Marton, I’d like to talk to you too. It’s important. I’m Cortez
Jones. Leon Jo—“
“I
know. You’re the Jeweler’s son.” A frown formed a line between
her dark brows. “I’m surprised that reporter didn’t recognize
you.”
“After
she thinks about it, she will. The media haven’t tracked me down
yet. Only a couple people know where I am.” His boss and the
attorney. “The name Jones makes staying incognito easier. Thanks
for not outing me to the Daily News.”
She
flushed, apparently just realizing she could’ve escaped by siccing
the press babe on Cort. “How did you find me?”
“Leon’s
attorney said you might be able to help. I got rid of Lois Lane for
you. I figure you owe me a little time.”
Lips
pursed, she seemed to consider. Her mouth looked clean of lipstick,
soft, natural. He dragged his attention up to her eyes.
Curiosity
warred with fear in those tilted cat-eyes. She kept the keys in
defensive mode. “He did phone me, but forget it. I owe you
nothing.” Her chin
trembled. “Your father could have cleared my father. All he had to
do was speak up. But for eleven years he told nothing but lies. Dad
died trying to recover
the crown jewels. He had nothing to do with the theft or hiding the
stolen property.”
She
edged toward her car.
His
pulse raced. He had to grab her interest now. “I can help you clear
your father.”
She
stopped, a foot from her car, eyes narrowed. “For all I know you’re
as much a liar as your father.”
“I’m
sorry Leon didn’t confess. Hear me out. Please.”
She
stared at him, speculation in that exotic gaze. More people exited
the building into the garage. In the next aisle, a car door slammed.
An engine coughed to life.
“Okay,”
she said, her gaze as wary as a frightened fawn. “I’m listening.
You have five minutes.”
“Deal.”
He had to talk fast before she bolted. “Leon’s death leaves
issues about the Gramornia crown jewels case.”
“I’d
offer my sympathies on your loss, but I can’t say I’m sorry he’s
dead.”
“No
sympathy needed or wanted.” No tears from him. That man he’d seen
two weeks ago in the prison hospital was a stranger. His only reason
for regretting Leon’s death was that it came a few days too soon.
“The FBI and Global Insurance won’t talk to me, let alone help.
Your father’s working files could have key answers.”
“I
hold your father
partly responsible for the death of mine.
Why should I help you?”
“The
Feds have never been able to prove the identities of Leon’s
accomplices, including yea or nay on your father. I have information
that could ID the accomplices.” Showing too much of his hand was a
bad idea. Maybe this much would satisfy her.
Her
eyes narrowed. “You were one of the thieves. You don’t know the
others?”
“Leon
dragged me into the job at the last minute because his other guy
broke a leg in a car accident. He kept me in the dark. I knew only my
part of the job, nothing about other accomplices. I stayed on the
roof. Never saw anybody but Leon.”
“Yeah,
yeah, that’s what you said eleven years ago. This is about finding
the jewels, isn’t it?” She flung the last words like a dagger and
speared him with an accusing look for extra measure.
He
stiffened, his hands curling into fists before he forced them to
relax. Dammit, he didn’t want to scare her. “Partly. I did my
time. Paid for my mistake. The FBI came to the furniture school in
Maine where I work to grill me and threaten to keep harassing me. I
could lose my job. But the Feds won’t let me off the hook.”
She
bumped up against her car. “They think you know where he hid the
jewels?”
Shit,
he was scaring her. He
held out his hands, palms up like the damn beggar he was. “If I can
help return the loot, I can live my life without that sword hanging
over me. I need your help.”
She
looked down her slim nose at him. “Return
the jewels? Ha! I suppose you have a bridge
to sell me too.”
“I’m
not surprised you don’t believe me. But what I say is true.” As
far as I know.
She
clicked her key fob and opened the door. “I don’t believe you.
Not for a nanosecond. And I won’t help you.” Mashing her bag
against her chest, she dove inside and punched down the door lock.
Cort
grasped the door handle as she started the engine. “Don’t you
want to clear your father?” he yelled over the car engine’s
noise.
The
car accelerated backward so fast he had to scramble out of the way.
He watched, fists clenched, as the Versa sped off. Its tires squealed
as Mara Marton accelerated up the out ramp.
