Royal Heist by Lynda La Plante Page A

hotel. Shortly afterward he entered the Jockey restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton. Most of the diners were young and rowdy, dressed in an odd assortment of designer clothes—the hotel was a known haunt of rock stars and their managers. So it was relatively easy to find the only short, balding man in the room. Donny Baron provided security for a mediocre band that was usually the support act for bigger names. As de Jersey approached he tried to stand, wipe his mouth, and hail the waiter at the same time, but de Jersey gestured for him to remain seated. “I’ve had breakfast, but please, carry on eating.”
    “Mr. Simmons” had spoken to Baron numerous times after seeing the advertisement the detective had placed in
The New York Times
upon leaving the NYPD. Private investigation work did not yet provide a steady income, so he had recently taken on the job with the rock group.
    De Jersey placed an envelope on the table. “You track him?”
    “I’ve got a few pals still in the game, you know, guys I was in uniform with. These days, with computers, tracing’s a hell of a lot simpler.”
    De Jersey glanced around covertly. Then he patted the envelope, impatient to get his five hundred dollars’ worth.
    “He’s here in New York,” Baron said, chewing a mouthful of omelet. He took a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his crumpled, navy blue suit. “Phone number . . . An address not far from here. Doorman. Prewar building facing the park. Second floor. Pretty impressive. Must have cost a couple. He’s got a place in the Hamptons under renovation: new pool, guesthouse. He goes out there most weekends to walk around the site, check it out. Frequent resident of the Maidstone Arms hotel.” Baron handed de Jersey the slip of paper. “These are my extras: gas receipts, phone, and a couple a meal tabs, and here’s a recent photo—our man’s a sharp dresser.”
    De Jersey glanced at the photograph and slipped the paper into his wallet.
    “I think you’ll find that’ll cover anything extra.” He smiled and pushed the envelope across to Baron. “I’m glad you were available.”
    “Yeah, well, the band I take care of has been doing a recording here before we go on a twenty-city tour.” He smiled ruefully.
    “Nice to meet you, Donny. Thanks.” And with that, de Jersey left him.
    He walked to Moreno’s apartment building, then stood in the shadows cast by the trees in Central Park, watching the comings and goings. A uniformed doorman stood outside the entrance, leaping to the curb when any of the residents or their guests drew up.
    Then suddenly he was tipping his cap and holding open the glass-fronted door. De Jersey’s eyes narrowed when Alex Moreno walked out. He was smaller than he’d expected, about five eight, and wore a full-length navy overcoat with a yellow scarf loose around his neck. He smiled at the doorman, who accompanied him to a gleaming black Lexus sedan and opened the door. Moreno tipped him and drove off. De Jersey checked his watch: ten fifteen. At ten thirty a white stretch limo pulled up. The doorman was kept busy carrying parcels and luggage back and forth as two women and a small child entered the complex. De Jersey moved fast; he crossed the road behind the doorman, entered the complex unseen, and headed upstairs.
    He rang the bell of Moreno’s apartment and waited in case a housekeeper or someone else was at home, but no one answered.
    At the end of the corridor, a large window with heavy curtains opened onto a ledge, less than a foot and a half wide. The window looked down on a small, square garden; de Jersey noticed that, further along the ledge, which ran the length of the building, there was an open window in Moreno’s apartment. He climbed out and moved sideways along the ledge until he reached the window.
    He slipped through it, turning to face the reception room. It was a high-tech space with high ceilings and a minimalist feel: stripped pine floors, brown leather furniture,