Chapter 6 - The Pawnshop and the Stolen Diamonds
At two o’clock on Friday afternoon, the winter sky over Commerce City was the color of a bruised plum, spitting icy flakes of sleet against the rusted corrugated steel of the industrial strip malls along 56th Avenue.
Inside Mile High Estate Liquidation & Fine Jewelry, the air smelled of stale cigarette smoke, industrial metal polish, and cheap air freshener.
Brooke Vance stood at the reinforced glass counter, wearing an oversized faux-fur coat, dark designer sunglasses pushed onto her bleached-blonde hair, her foot tapping an impatient, erratic rhythm against the linoleum floor.
Beside her, Diane Vance clutched a worn leather handbag against her stomach, her eyes darting nervously toward the front security bars every time a heavy semi-truck rumbled past on the highway.
“Brooke, this is a mistake,” Diane whispered, her voice trembling with that frantic, reedy panic that had consumed her for three days. “We should have gone to the pawnshop in Aurora. What if Ryan’s bail gets revoked? What if Claire’s lawyers find out?”
“Shut up, Mom!” Brooke hissed under her breath, glaring at her mother through the corner of her eye. “Ryan is in a federal holding tank! The bail bondsman wants fifty thousand dollars in cash by four o’clock, or they transfer him to the federal detention facility in Englewood! Do you want your son sleeping in a federal prison?”
“No, but—"
“And my Range Rover payment is three days past due!” Brooke snapped, her knuckles whitening as she tapped the glass counter. “Claire canceled all the corporate credit cards on Wednesday morning. My card got declined at the grocery store! At the grocery store, Mom! I had to leave two hundred dollars of organic food on the conveyor belt while the cashier stared at me!”
The beaded curtain behind the counter parted.
The proprietor, an older man named Sal with thick bifocals, a gray beard, and a jeweler’s loupe tucked into his vest pocket, walked out carrying a black velvet appraisal tray.
He set the tray on the glass.
Resting on the velvet was a magnificent, five-carat pear-cut diamond pendant necklace suspended from a platinum chain, alongside a vintage 1968 men’s Rolex Submariner with an immaculate black dial and a faded gold bezel.
Brooke leaned forward, a greedy, triumphant smile pulling at her lips. “Well? How much? I told you they were genuine. The diamond is flawless.”
Sal adjusted his glasses, looking at Brooke over the thick rims.
“The diamond is an original Harry Winston cut, young lady,” Sal said, his gravelly voice flat and slow. “VVS1 clarity, E color. In an estate auction, it’s worth about eighty-five thousand dollars. And the Rolex is an authentic Ref 5513 ‘MilSub’—one of only a few hundred issued to maritime divers. Easily worth forty thousand to a serious collector.”
Brooke let out a sharp, breathless laugh, nudging her mother with her elbow. “See? I told you! We take fifty grand in cash right now, and you can keep the rest as your commission.”
“There’s just one small issue,” Sal said, resting his thick forearms on the counter.
Brooke’s smile faltered. “What issue?”
“When high-end timepieces and certified estate stones come across this counter,” Sal explained, pointing a stubby finger toward the computer terminal beside the register, “the state municipal pawn registry requires us to run the serial numbers through the National Crime Information Center and the Art Loss Register.”
He turned the monitor slightly toward her.
A bright red banner was flashing across the screen:
NCIC ALERT: STOLEN PROPERTY – REPORT NO. 26-DEN-004412OWNER: CLAIRE ELIZABETH BENNETTINSURANCE POLICY: LLOYD’S OF LONDON #8819-BSTATUS: GRAND LARCENY UNDER ACTIVE INVESTIGATION
Brooke’s face went bone-white. The color drained from her cheeks so fast she looked like a plaster mannequin.
“Wait... that’s... that’s an administrative error!” Brooke stammered, her voice pitching up into that shrill, defensive squeak. “Those belonged to my brother! Claire gave them to me as a New Year's gift!”
“Claire Bennett didn't give you a damn thing, Brooke,” a voice called out from the doorway.
Brooke and Diane spun around in unison.
Standing in the entryway, framed by the falling sleet outside, was Detective Marcus Hayes.
Behind him stood two uniformed Commerce City police officers, their hands resting on their duty belts, blocking the only exit from the store.
Diane let out a strangled shriek, dropping her purse onto the floor. Silverware and three bottles of prescription pills spilled across the dirty linoleum.
Brooke lunged across the counter, her hands clawing for the velvet tray, screaming at Sal: “Give them back! Give them to me! Those are mine!”
Sal smoothly pulled the velvet tray beneath the reinforced wooden ledge, sliding a steel security shutter into place with a heavy clack.
“Hands behind your back, Miss Vance,” Detective Hayes commanded, stepping across the linoleum with measured, predatory strides.
“You don't understand!” Brooke screamed, thrashing wildly as the female officer grabbed her by the wrists, twisting her arms behind her faux-fur coat. “My father is Grant Vance! He owns Apex Foundry! We were just borrowing them to pay my brother’s legal fees!”
“Your father is currently being processed at the Van Cise-Simonet Detention Center on two counts of Attempted Murder of an Unborn Child, Miss Vance,” Detective Hayes said, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt. “And you just committed First-Degree Grand Larceny and Trafficking in Stolen Property Exceeding One Hundred Thousand Dollars.”
The steel cuffs ratcheted shut around Brooke’s wrists with a sharp, unforgiving click.
Diane fell to her knees on the floor, clutching the officer’s boots, weeping hysterically: “It was Brooke! It wasn't me! She took them from Claire’s dressing room while Claire was packing her suitcase! I told her not to touch the jewelry! I told her Claire would notice! Don't arrest me! I’m an old woman!”
“Mom!” Brooke shrieked, looking down at her mother with pure, venomous shock. “You helped me pry the jewelry box open with a nail file!”
“Shut up, you ungrateful little brat!” Diane wailed into the floorboards. “You ruined everything! You and your father ruined this family!”
Detective Hayes looked down at the two women with unmitigated, visceral disgust.
“Book them both,” Hayes told his officers. “Transport them to Denver County. Put them in separate holding cells.”
As the officers hauled Brooke out through the security door—her designer sunglasses falling onto the wet pavement, crushed beneath the patrol officer’s combat boot—Sal looked across the counter at Detective Hayes with a faint, knowing grin.
“Nice catch, Detective,” Sal said, sliding the velvet tray back into view. “Who does the Rolex go back to?”
May you like
Hayes looked at the vintage black dial, seeing the reflection of his own badge in the crystal.
“It belonged to Claire’s father,” Hayes said softly. “The man who built the company they tried to steal. It goes home where it belongs.”
