“How ’bout that safe, Andie? Your rent-a-cop’s going to be back soon, and I’m not sticking around long enough for her to see me.”
Another stomach lurch. “What did you do to Julie?”
“Nothing. She got a call saying her kiddies were throwing up. She went to her day care to get them.”
“And she’s going to find out no one from the day care called her, right?”
She shrugs. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“And that means killing a nice man who . . . what did he do for you to think you needed to kill him?”
“What’s it to you? Open up the safe. Mr. Pak knew how to break safe codes, but I don’t. And I know you know the combination, so don’t try to play that game. I’m not dumb.”
But you’re not smart either. No one with an ounce of sense kills to get a bunch of rubies. “How do you know the rubies are in the vault?”
“I don’t. Not for sure. But he didn’t have them on him when I got here, and he did tell Roger he’d found them.”
“Really? How’d he find them?”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Do you?”
“Don’t get smart, Andie. I’m holding the gun.”
“You’ll be holding cell bars sooner or later,” I mutter as I head for the wooden panel. “How do you intend to find a parcel of rubies in our vault? Do you have any idea how large it is? How many thousands of parcels we store there?”
“I only got a quick look that other day before you barged in.”
“That’s right. You checked it out when you rubbed out Mr. Pak.”
Tiffany rolls her eyes. “That’s nasty, Andie. Mr. Pak was just a problem I had to deal with. Now let’s find the rubies.”
Certain I have no other alternative, at least not right now, I open the vault door. “Knock yourself out, Tiff. Tell me how one parcel looks different from another—unless you know exactly where he put them, what he put them in . . . you get my drift.”
“I know where he was when I found him.”
“Show me.”
“I plan to. You’re going to be the one doing the touching. Not me. I know about fingerprints. I watch CSI.”
But you haven’t figured out they always, one way or the other, catch the crook.
Inside the vault, I flick on the light, and gaze down the length of the vast, shelf-lined room. Multiple millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry and gemstones fill the trays on the shelves.
I gesture for her to come inside. “What do you plan to do with the rubies?”
She motions with the gun for me to go farther in, then pulls the vault door behind her. “Sell them.”
Great. She’s not dumb enough to let me get between her and freedom. I’ll have to keep her talking until I think of something else. “You have a buyer?”
“Roger does. But he chickened out, Roger did. Suddenly he doesn’t want to have anything to do with stolen stuff.”
“And Mr. Pak was bringing the stones for Roger to fence them?”
“Not hardly. There was a bunch of other people after him. Everyone wants those rubies. But he had some crazy idea that you could take them back to Myanmar. He didn’t want the government to say he’d stolen them, and then ban him from the country. His business would shrivel up if they did that.” “Me? Why me?”
Tiffany shrugs. “I guess he figured no one would ever think you’re smart enough to pull off something like this.”
And you’re a rocket scientist, right?
“How did Mr. Pak wind up with the rubies?”
“I’m not sure, but I think they went from the guy who took them, to another guy—a couple more, really—then they went to a cutter in Thailand. Somehow, Mr. Pak got hold of them, and Roger’s wanted them since Mr. Pak first told him about the stones.”
The longer I keep her babbling about how smart she is, the better my chances of Julie getting back here.
“So I was supposed to return them. Because I’m too dumb to steal them. That makes a whole lot of sense.”
Tiffany shrugs. “I never said Mr. Pak was smart. He should have sold the rubies. They’re worth a lot of money.”
“So’s Roger. Why do you want more?”
Her eyes bug out. “Are you serious? There’s lots and lots more stuff I want.”
“So it’s all about what you want.”
“Isn’t that what life’s all about?”
“No. Not really. Life’s about meaning and service and God’s plan.” Where’s my copy of The Purpose-Driven Life when I need it?
“You can do the God thing. I’ll stick to what I can touch and see. And right now, I’m not touching or seeing those rubies. Find them!”
I wave. “See all those racks? They’re full of gemstones. Why don’t you take a bunch? They’ll sell for plenty.”
That was the wrong thing to say. She jabs the gun my way. “Get going, Andie. You know what’s in the parcels. You know they won’t bring as much as the rubies. Find them. I already have that buyer.”
I act helpless—not a stretch right now. “Where do you want me to look?”
She points to a spot on a shelf right by where Mr. Pak died. “There. And don’t waste any more time.”
Things can’t get any worse, right?
Wrong.
The bathroom door opens. Clump-clump, clump-clump.
“Back,” Tiffany says, checking the door. It hasn’t clicked, but to an uninformed onlooker, like Aunt Weeby, it would looked closed.
The cast clumps closer. “You did say she came to put away the pretties she had on the show, right, Max?” Aunt Weeby yells.
Tiffany’s eyes grow wider. Her forehead begins to dew. She looks surprisingly like a caged rat. I fight the hope that springs to life in my heart. That’s my injured, elderly great-aunt out there.
“That’s what she said,” Max answers.
Tiffany presses her gun against my temple. “Not a sound.” “She’ll see the open vault door.”
Tiffany smiles. It’s not a nice one—if shaky. “This”—she jabs the gun against my head, pinning me against the shelves, her back to the door and Aunt Weeby—“is what they’ll find. They can choose. I shoot you and them. It’s a win-win situation for me.”
I doubt Max is armed, and I know Aunt Weeby isn’t. All I can pray for is the Lord to protect them from this madwoman.
“Sugarplum?” Aunt Weeby calls. “You okay to your stomach? Is it them ulcers acting up?”
When I don’t answer, she goes on, her voice closer with every word. “Are you in here? Max says you been gone forever— what’s this?”
Sure enough, she yanks open the vault door. And that’s enough for Tiffany to move the gun just a fraction away from my temple. I take my chances, and jab out with my elbow. It connects with her middle.
“Oooof!” She doubles over. The gun goes off.
“MAX!” Aunt Weeby bellows as she trips over her cast and lands on the floor.
“Max!” I echo.
Tiffany straightens up.
“Leaving?” I ask. Then I lunge. Maybe I should have listened to Max on some of that football stuff. I’m sure my technique is lacking, since I almost land on my face. It’s not exactly what I’d call a tackle, but I go with what I have. I grab Tiffany’s foot, and being a shoe girl, I give the Stella McCartney a yank. Tiffany crumbles.
The gun skitters from her hand, the momentum carrying it out into the restroom after it bounces off the vault door— thankfully without discharging again.
Aunt Weeby grabs it and squeals with glee. “Put ’em up!” I groan.
Max runs in, followed by Julie, gun at the ready. In the doorway, I see two more figures, but I’m too overwhelmed to identify anyone right off the bat. A moment later, I make out Sally and Miss Mona’s new camerawoman huddled together, their jaws agape, their eyes a-bulging.
The welcome whee-oh, whee-oh, whee-oh of police sirens draws near.