Dirty Thirty (Stephanie Plum, #30)(3)

“Bella wasn’t really all that upset about leaving in cuffs. She loves a dramatic exit,” I said to Plover.

“She scares the heck out of me. She put a curse on Stu Carp, and he got shingles.”

I nodded. “She scares the heck out of a lot of people. Connie said you mentioned a job.”

“Yes. I thought of you because you’re obviously good at finding people and surviving dangerous situations.”

“Like removing Bella from the viewing.”

“Exactly! Like removing Bella from the viewing.”

“About the job?” I asked.

“I want you to find a former employee. I’ve reported him as missing to the police, but nothing has come of it.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Three weeks. He disappeared on the same day that I was held at gunpoint and the store was robbed in broad daylight by some moron.”

“Did your employee disappear before or after the robbery?”

“After,” Plover said. “Actually, I fired him. He was supposed to provide security. I hired him so I wouldn’t get robbed, and I got robbed.”

“But now you want to find him?”

“Yes,” Plover said. “He stole a tray of diamonds valued at close to a million dollars.”

“Seriously?”

“Duncan Dugan, the moron who robbed the store that afternoon, got low-hanging fruit. He cleaned out the cases. I don’t want to trivialize that. It was terrifying. It was a smash-and-grab without the smashing. He had me dump everything into a garbage bag while he held me at gunpoint. Fortunately, all the pieces he took were insured and he left the cases intact.”

I glanced around the store. “It looks like you got everything back.”

“Unfortunately, no. The bag of stolen jewelry wasn’t in the car when the police finally arrested the driver. Everything you see here is new. My displays are a little skimpy, but at least I’m still in business.”

“How could the bag not be in the car? I thought the police were on him the second he pulled away from the curb.”

Plover shrugged. “I don’t know. It wasn’t in the car. And it gets worse. The real loss was with the unset gemstones that were stolen separately. A large part of my business is in engagement rings. Couples come in and select a setting and a stone. So, like most jewelers, I keep an inventory of gemstones. Mostly diamonds of varying sizes and quality.”

“And you think your security guy stole the unset stones.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Yes, and they said they conducted an investigation, but nothing came of it. I can’t fault the police. I have no real proof that my guard took the stones. All I can say is that the gems are definitely missing.”

“But you seem sure that the guard took them.”

“After the robbery, when I locked up for the night it was just me and one of the police officers. Andy had left a couple hours earlier.”

“Andy is the security guard.”

“Yes. He always worked from noon to eight. Six days a week. He left at eight o’clock on the day of the robbery, and he never returned.”

“And you haven’t heard from him.”

“Not a word,” Plover said. “My routine is that every night I take the jewelry out of the display cases, and I put the jewelry in the safe. When I open in the morning, I take the pieces out of the safe. The morning after the robbery I opened the safe to get the few items that were left to display, and the diamond tray was missing.”

“The diamond tray always stays in the safe?”

“Yes.”

“Did Andy know how to open the safe?”

“I never gave him the combination, but he was there when I closed every night. If he was motivated, I suspect he could have watched me punch in the numbers. The thing is there’s no other way the diamonds could have disappeared. There were no signs that anyone had tampered with the safe. Someone opened it.”

“There are people who have skills when it comes to opening safes.”

“Whoever took the stones came in through the front door without damaging the lock. He disarmed the alarm, opened the safe, and took the diamonds. I have a camera at the rear entrance but not at the front door. My security company suggested a front-door camera, but I didn’t think it was necessary. I was trying to save money.”

“Andy had a key?”

“Yes, and he knew the code to disarm the alarm.”

“Have you been in contact with his family?”

“His parents don’t seem to be very concerned. They said he’s always been a free spirit. He doesn’t have siblings, and he isn’t married.”

“And you want me to find Andy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want the diamonds if any are left. Truth is, they were underinsured. And I’m angry. I trusted Andy. I want him arrested and sent to jail. I believe you get paid when you find people. Find Andy and I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

“Does Andy have a last name?”

“Andy Manley.”

Holy bejezus. Sucker punch to the brain. I knew Andy Manley. I went to school with him. His nickname was Nutsy. He felt me up at a party when I was fourteen years old, and he told everyone I stuffed my bra with toilet paper. It was a lie, of course. I stuffed my bra with Kleenex. Fortunately, halfway through high school I managed to grow breasts that were acceptable and only required a push-up bra on special occasions.