Christmas Male

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It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.

The lilting music of the carol had D.C. narrowing his eyes. Who said he had to wait until midnight for a little clarity. There was no time like the present. When January 15th rolled around, instead of signing up for another five years in the army, he could always resign. So what if he didn’t know exactly what he’d do next?

His older brother who owned a security firm in Manhattan had offered him a job. But in the last year, Jase had taken on a new partner and more recently a wife. No matter. D.C. would figure out something. He always did. The corners of his mouth lifted in a grin. And he did like surprises. Wasn’t it the predictability of his daily routine at Fort McNair driving him nuts?

Having made the decision, something eased inside of him.
Finally.

This time as his mother and sister rounded the curve, he smiled as he waved at them. It was his day off, and he’d invited them to join him at the National Mall for some museum touring followed by skating at the sculpture garden. The visit to the National Gallery had been designed to tempt his mother into town. For the last twenty years, ever since Nancy Campbell had stepped into the job of single parent, he’d never known her to take much time off for herself.

So when she’d mentioned she’d love to see the special Rubinov Diamond exhibit at the National Gallery, D.C. had lost no time planning the day. According to the press releases, the Rubinov boasted a checkered history. In the romance department, it had the Cupid-like reputation of bringing those who came in contact with it together. But it was nearly equally famous for the fact that it had frequently dropped out of sight for long periods of time and it was never quite possible to trace the relationship between an old owner and the new one.

It didn’t require highly trained investigatory skills to figure the disappearances might be connected to some skullduggery on the owners’ or wannabe owners’ parts. D.C. suspected the diamond had at various times gone underground into someone’s private collection. He’d learned a lot about private collectors when he’d been investigating an art theft case in Iraq that had involved some enlisted men. And who knew how long the Rubinov had been in the possession of its current owner, Gregory Shalnokov? The reclusive billionaire had admitted to owning it for the last ten years, but just how he’d come into possession of it was shrouded in mystery. And D.C. knew that provenances could be forged.

But he figured he owed Shalnokov one when he’d seen the look on his mother’s and sister’s faces as they’d gazed at the diamond. D.C. shook his head. There was something about women and diamonds.

As far as he was concerned the blue stone was just another rock, albeit one that supposedly had extraordinary powers. Truth told, he’d been more intrigued by the security on both the exhibition room and the display case than he’d been by the diamond. With a little prompting, one of the guards, a man named Bobby, had told him that the lock on the case was voice activated and only Shalnokov’s could open it.

Interesting.

Over the years, the legendary diamond had attracted as many thieves as lovers. The article in the Washington Post had even mentioned the name of master thief Arthur Franks as having once had possession of the stone. While the female members of his family had oohed and aahed over the diamond, he’d been wondering how a good thief might work a successful heist. And the fact that his mind had wandered down that path was pathetic proof of the level of his boredom.

Then he’d glanced up and looked into his mystery woman’s eyes. For those next few seconds, he’d been unaware of anything but her. He couldn’t recall ever being that intensely aware of anyone before.

When his cell phone rang, D.C. glanced at the ID and grinned. Jase had been checking in with him once a week since he’d been assigned to Fort McNair. A classic case of big-brotheritis.
“Don’t you have something better to do?” D.C. asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. But Maddie wanted me to call and remind you that you’re joining us for Christmas in the Big Apple.”
“And you don’t think I’m getting daily reminders of that from Mom?”
Jase laughed. “Okay. I’ll have to think up better excuses for calling.

How are you?”

“I’m fine,” D.C said. “Really.” And he realized it was the truth. He was okay with the fact that his life after January 15th was a clean slate—something he had plenty of time to write on. It would be an adventure—and wasn’t that what he was craving?

“You’ll figure something out.”

“I will,” D.C. said. He would.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas...

The song poured out of the speakers as D.C. pocketed his cell phone. His smile widened. The music seemed louder, the lights brighter, the evening merrier. He was still grinning and watching the skaters when he caught a movement in his peripheral vision. Turning, he spotted a figure at the far end of the garden just inside one of the entrances gates. The lights were focused on the ice rink, but he could still make out the white fur trim on the Santa hat as the person dodged behind one of the trees.

Earlier, when they’d arrived at the National Gallery, there’d been a couple of young people wearing red scarves and Santa hats in the museum. ‘Twas the season, D.C. supposed.

He kept his eyes on the Santa hatted figure as he darted to the next tree. Intrigued by the furtiveness of the movement, D.C. stepped onto the grass using trees and sculptures for cover as he zigged and zagged away from the ice rink toward the figure.

Suddenly, the person ducked down along one side of the largest sculpture—the four-sided pyramid. Hiding, D.C. decided. But from what? The question had barely formed in his mind when a second figure suddenly appeared on another side of the sculpture and moved stealthily toward the first. Both figures were dressed in dark clothing, but the second one was also wearing a Santa hat and a scarf.

In spite of the dim lighting, D.C. caught the glint of light on metal and watched. The second one raised his arm and springing forward, brought a gun down hard on the other one’s head.

D.C. pulled out his revolver as he broke into a run. “Stop. Police.”

The person holding the gun whirled and raised his weapon just as uneven ground made D.C. stumble and fall. He landed hard on his bad leg. Dispassionately, he heard a whiny thud and watched a chunk of bark hit the grass inches in front of him. Close, D.C. thought as he rolled to the other side of a tree. Very close.
Still on the ground, he ignored the pain in his thigh and took aim with his own weapon. But the figure was already racing away. The sidewalks on either side of the garden were still filled with tourists, and firing a shot would be too risky.

Hauling himself to his feet, D.C. dialed 911 and relayed his situation as he ran haltingly in the direction the armed man had taken. He exited the gate in time to see a figure wearing a Santa hat disappear into the back seat of an unmarked van. The Mall was lit brightly enough for him to see that there were two other people in the van, one behind the wheel and another in the passenger seat.
The engine roared and tires squealed as the vehicle raced away toward 4th Street and peeled around the corner. Useless to give chase. Even if his leg had been at one hundred percent, he wouldn’t be able to catch up. He rubbed his thigh. Now that the adrenalin was fading, the sharpness of the pain was coming through. Loud and clear.

He turned back, and as he limped across the ground toward the fallen figure, he caught a few glimpses of the ice rink. Thanks to the volume of the music and the fact that the person with the gun had used a silencer, the skaters seemed blissfully unaware of the little shoot-out. When he reached it, he leaned down to retrieve his cane and then made his way to the figure on the ground.

He was lying on his side, one arm flung out and a red scarf obscured his features. D.C knelt down beside the body. It was the hand that caught his attention first. The fingers were long, slender, and delicate looking. He checked for a pulse, found it steady. Carefully drawing the scarf aside, he confirmed his suspicion—this was a woman.

And he knew her.

She was Private Amanda Hemmings, and she worked at Fort McNair as General Eddinger’s administrative assistant. Small world, D.C. thought.

Examining the fallen woman more closely, he noted the gash on the back of her head oozing blood. It looked as though she’d hit her forehead when she fell. He took her hand and patted it. “Private Hemmings?”

No response.

“Amanda?”

Silence again. She’d been hit hard. Above the music from the rink, D.C. caught the faint sound of a siren.

What was Private Amanda Hemmings doing here wearing a Santa hat and red scarf? And why had another person followed her into the sculpture garden and knocked her out?

It was a puzzle—and D.C. loved them. He was taking out his notebook and pen when he saw it—just two or three links of gold sticking out of one of the pockets in her jacket. But he’d seen those chain links before. Very carefully, he drew them out.

Excitement surged through him. There hanging at the end of the necklace was the Rubinov diamond.

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