The Florida Caper

By David Celley

A rare and valuable jewelry piece is stolen from the Palm Beach mansion of a wealthy industrialist. The piece itself, called the Eye of the Sun, includes fragments of the famous Hope Diamond, rumored to be cursed. The industrialist asks his nephew, Greg, to find the lost treasure, with the assistance of private investigators Mike and Tina.

The twisted trail of the Eye of the Sun leads up and down South Florida and over to San Juan, Puerto Rico, but finally ends at the mansion of a powerful drug dealer in the Bahamas. Greg uses his charm to befriend an attractive Cuban American named Flora, along with sly tipster Olivetti. With their help, Greg and his team steal the Eye of the Sun back.

But just when he thinks his troubles are over, Greg begins to suspect the Hope Diamond curse to be true. He and anyone who comes into contact with the Eye of the Sun are on a downward spiral toward destruction. The only way to save their lives is to discover who stole the necklace in the first placebefore its too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491769423

David Celley

David Celley attended the University of North Carolina and Cal State University, Los Angeles. He is now retired and living in Orange County, California, after a career as an IT consultant. He is the author of Woodruff’s Firebase and Galvez Stadium.

Book preview

ONE

IT GLISTENS, IT SHIMMERS, IT RADIATES THE HUE OF THE royalty that was its parent once upon a time. It always captures more than a single glance from anyone who lays eyes on it. But beware to the person who dares to possess its magnificence, for a deadly curse replaces its soul.

As he stood outside the most secluded corner of this Palm Beach mansion on a moonless night, a dark-clad figure prepared to scale the protective wall. Advancing to the top, he encountered broken glass bottles cemented into place with their jagged edges facing skyward. Using a special glass-cutting tool, he adeptly clipped several of the bottles off near their bases. He then threw a sturdy leather mat over the nubs and slid over headfirst to the other side.

Just as he reached the ground, he was accosted by a guard dog growling and barking at him. From the front pocket of his specially outfitted suit, he brandished a small aerosol can of pepper mace, which he sprayed into the dog’s face. While the poor dog writhed in pain on the ground, the man snapped open a switchblade and drove it upward into its head through its neck. Then he scurried past the dead animal and hustled over to the mansion’s service entrance. In a matter of seconds, he clipped the telephone line and short-circuited the security system.

For his next step he pulled a long nylon rope with a grappling hook attached to the end out of his backpack. He swung the rope like a lariat and threw it onto the roof, where the hook attached itself snugly near one of the chimneys. In a matter of seconds, he climbed his way up to the roof and began cutting through an attic window.

Once inside, he quietly slipped down a flight of stairs with his gear in tow until he reached the mansion’s upstairs level. Being sure of every step, he moved to the balcony that overlooked an open section of the lower level. He used a silent, battery-operated tool to install a large screw eye into a beam in the ceiling. He then ran a sturdy nylon cord through a pulley system hanging from the screw eye and anchored it securely on one end to a doorstop nearby. He ran the other end through loops in his suit and secured it. Using another battery-operated device connected wirelessly to the pulley system, he lowered himself in supine position from the upper level directly above a glass case, using a small flashlight gripped between his teeth to guide his way.

With the hands of a surgeon, he retrieved the glass-cutting instrument from his suit and carefully cut a circular hole through the top of the glass case. With a rubber suction cup, he gingerly removed the glass piece, tucking it carefully into a pouch in his suit. He lowered two fish lines, one in each hand, through the circular opening into the glass case directly down onto a jewel-studded, solid-gold pendant necklace. Tediously, he secured the hook on the end of one of the lines onto the necklace. The other line had a small fish weight attached to it. As he carefully lifted the necklace off its base, he replaced it with the weight so as not to activate the alarm system.

Just as the pendant necklace was a few inches from his grasp, a door opened upstairs, and he froze in his suspended position. He switched off the flashlight with his free hand. Dangling from the nylon cord with the necklace hanging on a fishhook, he waited in place, listening to the footsteps of someone walking along the upstairs balcony toward him. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard another door shut. Instantly, he sprang back into action, tucking the necklace into a pocket and hoisting himself back up to the balcony with the battery-operated device. As he unhooked himself from the nylon cord apparatus, he heard the toilet flush in the bathroom just a few feet away. He then ducked into an alcove just as the bathroom door opened up, leaving the cord and all the other apparatus in place.

A man in his midthirties emerged from the bathroom and walked back down the hall past the balcony until he nearly tripped over the discarded nylon cord harness. He switched the hall light on and immediately recognized that a burglary had taken place. The dark-clad figure was now trapped in the alcove away from the attic stairs.

The man from the bathroom hurried downstairs and turned on the lights to the jewel and art collection. He reached into the glass case through the hole and knocked the weight off the pedestal. An alarm sounded, waking up the other inhabitants of the mansion. He then ran into the nearby study and picked up the telephone, only to discover the phone lines had been cut. In a flash, he saw the dark-clad figure race past the open study door toward the front door. He reached into the desk and drew a pistol, clicking the action to chamber a round. Then he gave chase, but as he rounded the corner of the house, he could see the dark-clad figure dive over the wall in the corner of the yard and disappear.

What’s going on? Who’s there? came an older man’s voice from the balcony, over the noise and confusion of the burglar alarm.

It’s me, Uncle Charles, Greg said as he walked back inside the mansion and closed the front door.

Gregory, what’s happened here? What’s all this rope doing lying around?

You know that gold pendant necklace you bought for Aunt Pat, the one with the deep-blue diamond in the setting of an eye?

Yes, yes, that’s the Eye of the Sun.

It’s gone.

Gone! Oh no! Oh Lord, no, please tell me that didn’t happen!

Somebody got in here over the wall and used that rope you see up there to lower himself down to the case. Whoever it was then cut his way through and lifted the necklace off its base, replacing it with a fish weight.

One of the household servants appeared on the balcony.

Stevenson, the older man said softly.

Yes, Mr. Stanford.

Stevenson, please get me my medicine. I’m feeling faint.

When the sun finally rose the following morning, Greg Stanford took a walk around his uncle’s mansion to see what other damage might have occurred. He located the cut through the attic window, the severed phone lines, and the compromised burglar alarm system. After he removed and boxed up the burglar’s paraphernalia, he took a walk along the estate’s perimeter to see if it was still intact. There he discovered the cut-down pieces of broken glass that provided the burglar his avenue of entry. A few feet away, he found Bob, the guard dog.

By this time his uncle, Charles Stanford, was up and having breakfast. Greg sat down to join him.

In addition to what you know from last night, Bob was killed, Greg said.

Poor Bob, the elder Stanford said. I’ll miss him. But nothing’s more important to me than getting back that piece. It’s the last earthly attachment I have with my wife. She loved that necklace so much. Now they’re both gone.

Stevenson brought Greg a cup of coffee.

It’ll take me some time today to get everything fixed back up, Greg said. Whoever it was knew exactly what he was doing. He was very efficient down to the smallest detail. If I hadn’t gotten up to take a leak, he could’ve been in and out of here without leaving a trace.

It’s too bad you didn’t get up a few minutes earlier. You could’ve shot him.

I had to go to the bathroom, Uncle Charles. I wasn’t expecting a burglary to be in progress. There wasn’t much I could do at the time.

Charles Stanford was a wealthy, retired industrialist from Chicago. His wife of forty-two years had passed away just two years earlier, and he had suffered from depression ever since. The concept of just keeping the thought of his wife alive often possessed his mind.

Stevenson brought Greg Stanford’s breakfast.

How much was the Eye of the Sun worth? Greg asked.

It was priceless! his uncle said.

Well, I mean, we’ll have to attach some value to it for insurance purposes.

Damn the insurance! I want it back. I don’t give a damn about collecting any insurance for it. All they’ll do is turn around and bill the same amount back to me in the form of increased premiums. I hate damn insurance companies. He let out a sigh and took another bite of toast.

Besides its importance as a gift to Aunt Pat, there are some other intrinsic values that come into play, Greg said. Do you remember how much you paid for it?

Charles Stanford thought for a moment. Oh, I guess it was a couple of million. I don’t remember exactly.

That was maybe fifteen years ago, as I recall. It could be worth several times that much today.

I don’t care how much it’s worth. I’ve got to get it back. Charles stopped talking momentarily to cough hard—a gift of over forty years of cigarette smoking.

I just wonder if whoever stole it knows the potential value of it. It could make a difference where he tries to sell it, Greg said.

Charles Stanford finished eating. Stevenson poured him some more coffee and then removed the dishes. He sat for a moment coddling his coffee cup while his nephew continued to eat. Then he said, How’d you like to go find it for me?

You mean you want me to go find the Eye of the Sun, wherever it might be, and bring it back to you?

That’s what I said. The elder Stanford struck a pose of sincerity and resolve that Greg had seen time and time again.

Aw, Uncle Charles, now just a minute. I’m no detective. I don’t know much about locating lost art objects, and I certainly don’t know a thing about what a thief would do with it here in South Florida.

You can learn as you go. What do you say?

But I’m a college professor. In a few weeks, I’ll have to get back to work. I have classes to teach, articles to write, research to do …

Oh, I’m sure something can be arranged for that. Lindenwood University won’t close up without you there to teach history.

But the Hope Diamond is supposed to have a curse. I don’t believe in curses, generally speaking, but I don’t want to be involved with anything forbidden like that.

I’ve heard all those curse stories before. They’re all just a bunch of hooey.

Just think of it this way. A large, deep-blue diamond is stolen from a statue in India several hundred years ago, and the monks levy a curse on whoever possesses it. Some tragic event befalls a long list of owners until it winds up in the Smithsonian Institution, where it is today. Along the way, it’s cut in size, and a piece of the cuttings is recut and used as the center of a flashy gold necklace that looks like an eye.

You see—you do know a lot about it, Charles said while Greg stopped talking long enough for a sip of coffee.

Greg continued, And then—

All you have to do is locate it. I’ll take it from there.

Uncle Charles, I’m sure there are hundreds of private investigators that can help.

Then find me one. I need someone to act as a go-between—someone I can completely trust. If the person who has it finds out how much I might pay for it, they’ll really take me to the cleaners.

What about the police?

Leave them out of it too. The less publicity there is with this, the easier it’ll be to find it.

Greg finished eating. He appeared to have run out of objections toward his involvement in this adventure. Finally, he said, Well, I’m really tired from last night, and I’ll need at least a few days to think about it.

I’ll make it worth your while. Don’t worry.

What Greg really needed was more time to come up with valid reasons to gracefully get out of this spot. He really didn’t have a clue as to what steps to take to locate the missing jewelry. He didn’t want to upset his uncle even further since the elder Stanford was childless and he was the closest living relative of the younger generation to him.

A few days went by, and Greg received a call from Dr. Gordon McPherson, the president of Lindenwood University.

Hello, Gordon, and how are you doing? Greg asked.

I’m fine, thank you, McPherson replied. Well, it looks as though your Florida vacation is going to be extended.

Well, that’s news to me. What makes you say that? Have I been fired?

Not hardly. Your leave of absence has been approved.

Leave of absence? I didn’t ask for any leave of absence.

Apparently, you have a task to finish for your uncle, Charles Stanford. It’s something involving an historical artifact that disappeared and requires your research to recover it.

Uh-huh, I see, Greg said as his voice tapered off.

We’ll gladly arrange to have your teaching duties managed here for you for one year, provided you agree to publish your findings through us.

Well, this really isn’t the type of research that you have been led to believe. You see—

Oh, don’t worry about a thing. Your uncle has been a major benefactor of ours for many years now. Since he’s supporting this research, neither you nor I should have a thing to be concerned about. And naturally, I want to wish you personally the best of luck.

Yes, well, ah, thank you, Gordon.

Greg hung up the phone. With the air of resignation, he said, Okay, Uncle Charles, you win, although his uncle was nowhere around at the moment.

TWO

TO BEGIN HIS QUEST FOR THE EYE OF THE SUN, GREG moved into an apartment in a section of Palm Beach near Worth Avenue. This would provide some distance from his uncle’s mansion—both to insulate his uncle from any unsavory characters he might come into contact with and to keep his uncle off his back. Needing help with his task at hand, he started looking for a private investigator—a dynamic one who would know how to deal with the criminal element. Money would be no object since his uncle would be picking up the tab.

His first stop was the shiny, pristine offices of the West Palm Detective Agency. After filling out a number of forms and having the comprehensive fee schedule explained to him, he came face-to-face with an overweight, balding, slow-speaking, stuttering agent. Greg explained what he wanted, and the agent told him that after a deposit of $50,000 was made, he would put some men on it. Greg asked what type of men would be working on this case, and he was told, They are top men in their field. Greg thanked the man and left.

His next stop took him to a smaller agency that appeared to have more promise until he was told that they only handled divorce cases. Three agencies later, he was feeling frustrated until an idea struck him as he drove past the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. He went up to the burglary division and talked to a real detective. His aim, of course, was not to pursue any official investigation but to see if any officer might be willing to moonlight. Instead of finding someone to moonlight, he received a referral to an agency made up of detectives who formerly were sheriff’s department investigators. It was late in the afternoon, but he still had enough time to visit the offices of Burleson & Cheatham.

Hmm, a really small office. It doesn’t look like they manage off a big budget, he thought as he pulled into their parking lot in Lake Worth. He walked inside and was greeted by an enormously large, heavyset woman dressed in a gray outfit resembling military fatigues, sitting behind a large wooden desk.

Come on in. I’m pleased to meet you, she said in a drawl as she rose from behind the desk and extended her hand for a handshake. I’m Tina Burleson. Why don’t you have yourself a seat and tell me what’s on your mind?

Greg took a brief look around him as he slid into a chair at the end of the desk. The front office was quite stark, just the desk and chairs, a coat tree, and a potted plant in the corner opposite the door. There was a door to another office in back that was closed. On the other corner of the desk, he saw a computer, a telephone, and a myriad of electrical equipment, including a CB radio. He gazed at the only picture on the wall, the 1990 Notre Dame University football team autographed by the coach, Lou Holtz.

You a football fan? Tina said, observing Greg’s scrutiny of the picture.

No, not really. I’m a college professor. You’re a Notre Dame fan, I take it.

All my life. They’re getting ready to start up again in just a couple of weeks.

Still wondering if this agency would be the one to help him, he said, Well, I guess you’d like to know why I came over here to see you.

I knew you’d get around to that some time. What can I do for you?

Have you ever worked burglary cases before? Greg said.

When I was with the sheriff’s department, I worked probably twenty or thirty burglary cases in twelve years. Since I’ve been a PI, we’ve had only three or four.

What was the single most valuable stolen item in the cases you worked?

In one case, we were looking for a diamond pin and earrings set worth about $75,000. Another person had a set of authentic pearl earrings and a pearl necklace stolen worth probably $200,000 or more. We had at least five jewelry store robberies with merchandise taken in the $100,000 range.

Anything like a million dollars or more?

Well, one case involved a man who had a solid-gold mantel clock that had diamonds on the face of it for the numbers. I reckon that thing had to be worth a million, I don’t know.

What happened in some of these cases?

We never got the clock or the pearls back, but we did find the diamond earrings and pin. In one of the jewelry store cases, we caught the robbers red-handed. The other times, we managed to pick up the trail of the stolen merchandise from busting fencing operations.

What do you suppose happened to the clock and the pearls?

Because of the high value and the uniqueness of the clock, we thought it was probably taken out of South Florida. The sheriff’s department notified both the FBI and Interpol in case the item turned up anywhere else.

Greg pondered for a moment and then said, Well, as I said, I’m a college professor by trade, but I’m in a difficult position that I need some help with. He handed her a photograph of the Eye of the Sun. This item was stolen from my uncle’s art and jewelry collection. It has certain intrinsic values owing to its origin, but what’s most important is the value it has to him personally. It was a gift to his late wife, and it remains a source of his attachment to her after her death.

It’s real pretty, Tina said as a first reaction. Looks like it’s made out of pure gold. Is the eye a sapphire?

Actually, it’s a rare diamond.

I see. No wonder it’s valuable. What do you think it’s worth?

I don’t know for sure. As I mentioned, its value is mostly sentimental, but if the thief intends to fence it, I would suppose he might get more than a hundred thousand for it. Heeding what his uncle told him, Greg decided against divulging its true value at this point.

Whew! That’s a lot of dough. Looks like more diamonds around the edge forming some kind of incrustation. It’s probably one of a kind with the blue eye like that.

Think of it as a museum piece.

Tina admired the picture for another few minutes before putting it down on the desk. I take it you want us to get this thing back for you.

That’s right. All you really have to do is locate it. I’ll step in and buy it back.

Are you the one who’ll be paying the fee?

I’m just the go-between. Your real client is my uncle. I want everything to funnel through me on this case since my uncle is in poor health and doesn’t want a trail leading back to him.

I suppose I shouldn’t ask you for his name, then, Tina said as she turned toward the computer.

Just my name for now.

You’ll have to talk to my partner about this as well. But don’t worry—he’ll take the case. He needs the money.

I appreciate it. Do you need some money up front?

No. We send bills out monthly like most other businesses, but I will need some other information.

Greg filled her in on all his billing information, and she loaded it directly into the computer. When they finished, she asked him to wait a few minutes while she made a phone call.

When the other party answered, she said, Hey, Mac, it’s Tina. How’re you doing?

Just fine, the other party said.

Say, is my partner there?

Right on the same spot he usually sits.

I got somebody coming down there to talk to him. Keep him there.

Oh, he ain’t going nowhere. Don’t worry.

Tina explained to Greg how to get to Donovan’s. They shook hands once more, and he was on his way. She sat back down at her desk after he closed the door behind him and switched off a tape recorder in one of the drawers. She rewound the tape and played it back, going over in her mind everything that was said in the conversation. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed a number.

Do you know anything about a burglary in one of those mansions in Palm Beach recently where a gold pendant necklace with diamonds on it was stolen? she asked. I got a client that wants us to find a fancy gold item that was stolen from up there somewhere.

Greg found his way over to Donovan’s and went up to the bartender, who pointed out Mike Cheatham for him. Donovan’s was fairly crowded during this Thursday happy hour, and Mike was at the other end of the bar talking to a woman in her early thirties. Greg decided not to press his way through the crowd, opting instead to wait for a suitable opportunity to introduce himself. He sat down and ordered a drink. As space permitted, he worked his way closer to the other end until finally he took the seat next to Cheatham.

Eavesdropping only as one would in a crowded bar scene, he overheard Cheatham making overtures to the woman in an effort to take her out somewhere. He was afraid to interrupt the process for fear of getting off on the wrong foot. He took the time to size Cheatham up as a tall, well-built man of distinguished good looks in his thirties with a quick wit and a Cracker accent. He had neatly trimmed dark hair parted in the middle and a slender mustache. This would be in stark contrast to the bespectacled Greg, who was anything but athletic looking.

Cheatham’s conversation with the woman hit a momentary lull, and he turned around toward Greg to reach for his drink.

You must be Mike Cheatham, Greg said.

Sure am! Cheatham replied. How’d you know?

I just had a talk with your partner, Tina Burleson. She sent me over here to see you.

So Tiny sent you, huh? It must be business, then.

Actually, it is business. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.

Cheatham turned back around to say something to his lady friend only to find her talking to another guy. He turned back around and said, Well, business always comes first anyway.

Greg hadn’t been to a crowded bar in many years and wasn’t accustomed to the process of boy picking up girl. He felt a little uneasy as if he were intruding until he noticed that Cheatham had a firm grasp on the woman’s forearm.

I need your help in finding this, he said as he handed Cheatham a picture of the Eye of the Sun.

Wow, look at that, Cheatham said as he released his grip on his lady friend’s arm to grasp the picture. I’ve never seen anything like that before.

It was stolen from my uncle’s home. It’s solid gold and has a rare diamond in it.

Was it reported stolen?

No. My uncle doesn’t want anything to do with the police. He just wants the item back.

I wonder how much something like that’s worth, he said as he handed the picture back to Greg.

Its real value is intrinsic. But on the black market, I guess it might fetch more than a hundred thousand.

Whew! That ain’t cheap. What do you want from me?

I want you to help me find it.

How long ago was it stolen?

A few days ago.

Something like that might be long gone by now. Listen, I’m gonna be busy here for a while. Why don’t you bring that picture over to the office tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk more about it then. Then he turned around to his lady friend only to find that the other guy had stepped in between him and the girl.

Would you move your buttocks out of the way, please, he said to the other guy.

Excuse me? the guy said, turning to face him.

I said slide your ass over one step for a moment.

Greg shrank back in his seat, fearing a fight was about to break out and that his effort to talk to Cheatham would be the reason for it.

Then the woman said, I want to sit at a table. Just as Mike got up from his bar stool to usher her away, the other guy was a step closer and beat him to her. Without looking back, the other guy draped his arm around her and led her away to a table where his friends were sitting.

Cheatham sat back down on his bar stool. Greg leaned over and said, Looks like I messed you up.

Naw, forget it. If that rugged son of a bitch gets up to take a piss, I’ll squire her right out of here. She’s known as the Hot Rocket around town, and she’s a sure score for whoever gets her out of a place like this. By the way, what’d you say your name was?

Greg Stanford. He reached over to shake hands as he answered.

I’m looking forward to working on your project. You a football fan?

Well, actually, no. Are you a Notre Dame fan also?

Hell, no, my team’s Alabama. You’re talking about Tiny again when you mention Notre Dame.

Tiny—you mean Tina?

No, I mean Tiny. I haven’t called her Tina since high school.

Greg caught Cheatham’s wit but wanted a clarification