Royal Heist by Lynda La Plante Page B

leather-and-chrome reclining chairs around a large plate-glass table, and a wide-screen TV. On the table was a heavy glass ashtray filled with cigarette stubs, the open window no doubt an attempt to air the smoky room.
    The Bang & Olufsen stereo units had chrome cases holding hundreds of CDs, but they were dwarfed by a couple of huge oil paintings, both depicting a full-frontal nude man. The fireplace had been sandblasted and treated to resemble rough red stone; fake logs were stacked in the grate. De Jersey took it all in. Moreno was a man of undeniable wealth but questionable taste. In the hallway more paintings and large photographs of handsome men adorned the walls. Beyond, he located a shining state-of-the-art kitchen with a black-and-white checkered marble floor, a large island, and a restaurant-sized sink unit and fridge-freezer. It all looked as if it had never been used.
    De Jersey moved into the office, where a bank of computers lined one wall and massive television screens hung from the ceiling. The leather swivel chair was well worn, the waste bins overflowed, and a large shredder basket was full. The desk, running the length of the room, was stacked with documents, loose papers, notebooks, more dirty ashtrays, and used coffee cups.
    De Jersey examined everything, then went through the filing cabinets, gathering as much information as possible. He failed to open the computer files, which were protected by a personal password. His wristwatch alarm went off at twelve, as he had set it, and by one fifteen de Jersey was back in his suite at the Carlyle.
    He sat down at the small antique desk and read the hurried notes he had made. When he felt that he had a pretty good assessment of Alex Moreno’s personal life, he went to shower. On his return he began to familiarize himself with Moreno’s business activities. His bank statements made obvious the soaring costs of developing the Hamptons property but not where the money was coming from to pay for it.
    At 11:00 A.M. Edward Cummings checked out of the hotel by phone. At eleven ten he left and, as Philip Simmons, caught the twelve o’clock jitney bus to the Hamptons, sitting in the back, where he read
The New York Times
and spoke to no one. At two thirty he arrived in East Hampton. He hired a car from Pam’s Autos and booked into The Huntting Inn, a B and B. From his room he made an appointment to see Moreno’s contractor at the site at 5:00 P.M. As “business adviser” to Moreno, he had spoken of the need to oversee the progress on the renovations. He learned that Moreno had an outstanding invoice for $155,000.
    Moreno’s property stood on a plot of land off the Montauk highway toward the luxurious and most sought-after district of Georgica. As he drove, he looked for Hedges Lane, finally locating it off Baiting Hollow Road.
    De Jersey drove past the guesthouse, nearly complete. The main house was partially built. Massive plumbing pipes and air-conditioning vents were stacked beside it. Nearby stood a line of trucks, and on the far side of the skeleton building, he noticed a digger removing earth for the pool. It was freezing cold; the rain puddles were covered with ice, and the winter sun didn’t even begin to warm the air.
    No one paid much attention as De Jersey parked the car. His anger grew. The pool alone was costing a hundred thousand dollars and the guesthouse $2 million. The final budget had to be around $7 or $8 million. By the time he returned to London, the property would belong to him.
    “Mr. Simmons?”
    De Jersey was confronted by a muscular, rather stocky man in his late thirties. “I’m Brett Donnelly.” They shook hands. “This is my team. The architect was around earlier. Did you want to see him? They’re all running from one deal to the next. It’s like a property bonanza. You live out here? Know the area?” Donnelly fired off questions seemingly without wanting answers. He pointed to various areas of potholes and planks as they made