Skilled housebreaker Ray Stokes can afford to enjoy a wasteful playboy existence thanks to the generous support of grotesquely wealthy Walter Cartwell, a Chicago crime lord. Handsomely paid for the past five years, Ray has become one of Walter's most trusted employees, depended on to steal coveted treasures from the homes of private collectors.
Ray's captivating looks and distinction as a ladies' man persuade Walter to assign him the unusual task of getting romantically close to Merriam Woolcroft, a pretty church secretary. Apparently, Merriam is the mistress of Reverend Arnold Sinclair, a shady South Boston clergyman whose community activities have identified him as a powerful trafficker of stolen antiques.
Although mildly curious if Sinclair's vestry is stocked with priceless art, one solitary object occupies Walter's interest: a famed emerald-studded 22-karat gold necklace purloined from a museum thirty years earlier. Convinced that the reverend has this long-lost relic, Walter maintains that Ray should focus on stealing Merriam's heart to locate the necklace, unaware that manipulating a woman is far more complex and dangerous than manipulating locks.
Escalating tension and unexpected twists turn the stealthy treasure hunt into a ruthless fight for survival.
Skilled housebreaker Ray Stokes can afford to enjoy a wasteful playboy existence thanks to the generous support of grotesquely wealthy Walter Cartwell, a Chicago crime lord. Handsomely paid for the past five years, Ray has become one of Walter's most trusted employees, depended on to steal coveted treasures from the homes of private collectors.
Ray's captivating looks and distinction as a ladies' man persuade Walter to assign him the unusual task of getting romantically close to Merriam Woolcroft, a pretty church secretary. Apparently, Merriam is the mistress of Reverend Arnold Sinclair, a shady South Boston clergyman whose community activities have identified him as a powerful trafficker of stolen antiques.
Although mildly curious if Sinclair's vestry is stocked with priceless art, one solitary object occupies Walter's interest: a famed emerald-studded 22-karat gold necklace purloined from a museum thirty years earlier. Convinced that the reverend has this long-lost relic, Walter maintains that Ray should focus on stealing Merriam's heart to locate the necklace, unaware that manipulating a woman is far more complex and dangerous than manipulating locks.
Escalating tension and unexpected twists turn the stealthy treasure hunt into a ruthless fight for survival.
RAY STOKES peeled off his sweat-soaked banana-colored shirt, pulled it over his head without removing the buttons, and tossed it onto the back of the drab accent chair beside the writing bureau. There was a roguish look in his russet brown eyes, a twinkle of mischief in his bearing that hinted he would be an inconsiderate nuisance. There was sweetness and passion in him, but his brazen impudence usually got in the way of any virtuous qualities.
âDoes this whet your appetite?â he asked the woman sprawled across the kitschy floral comforter on his king-size mattress whose lovely cobalt blue eyes bore into him, greedily probing every inch of his sinewy, tan body.
His smooth, masculine voice flaunted confidence and charm, and the way he stuck out his chest, practically demanding her to express words of glowing admiration for what lurked beneath the garments, was slightly irritating. The woman said nothing, and her thin, unsmiling lips divulged little, but her fixated stare laid bare what was on her mind. To a gourmand, he was as tantalizing as a superior Baked Alaska exhibiting a sublime igloo of browned meringue, and the way she surveyed him intimated she was positively ravenous.
He moved toward her, relishing the indecent glint in her sultry eyes. The unmistakable concentration on her face made his ego bloat. It was not an uncommon sightâthe famine. That pained craving engraved in a womanâs expression during foreplay; the need to touch his firm, bronzed skin, imbibe the taste of his manly sweat. His aphrodisiacal scent was often too much to bear for those of a voracious disposition, and he could tell without needing to inquire that the very nearness of him made this woman moist with desire.
As he climbed onto the bed, the beleaguered huddle of neglected fleshiness murmured with patent exhilaration. They were garbled noises posing as words, sentiments that were as devoid of value as charred old meat. Rayâs fingers enveloped her enormous bosoms, which were arguably her best features. She was soft and chubby and twitching with anticipation; there was a tiny bead of sweat on her temple, betraying the sweltering fervor she felt for him. Her frantic mood signaled she wouldnât be able to hold out much longer, and he was seized by a sudden mischievous desire to prolong her agony.
She gave him an incredulous look as he broke away from her and reached for the bottle of liquor on the bedside table. It was a Glenfiddich Special single malt whisky in a curvaceous container, the red lettering on the label emphasizing the word special. Heck, it certainly was singularly good, he thought, admiring the shapely bottle. He took a long, greedy swig and then sighed contentedly. The citrus and oaky sugars and baked fruit flavors came in waves, making his throat tingle blissfully. It was the best beverage he had quaffed in hours, days, perhaps weeks. The gulp he had taken was divine, delivering a sensation that loitered in his mouth. The taste persuaded him that the thirst-quencher was maybe better than Glenlivet, a joyful concoction of silky, vanilla sweetness, or Macallan, or Jack Danielâs Tennessee Whiskey. Ray handled the bottle affectionately, wishing it wasnât his only one. Like the best things in life, his firewater brought him elation and disruptiveness and then evaporated from his life, leaving disappointment and suffering.
âIâm not enough for you?â she griped. âYou need Dutch courage to take me on?â
He grinned crookedly. âThat what you think, darling? Give over. Youâre more than enough. More than any man might want. My throat was parched, thatâs all.â
âIâm what?â she said, glowering. âIâm more than you want. Is that what youâre saying? What is that? Code for too fat? Iâm excessive, overmuch? What dâyou mean exactly?â
He chose not to allay her qualms and, instead, gave a contrite shrug of his broad shoulders, muttering inarticulately, adhering to the guiding principle that it was always best to leave a woman insecure and eager to please and gratify the whims of her man. Then he took another gluttonous slug of the whisky, leaving only meager dregs in the bottle. He wanted to drain it completely, but he also couldnât bear the idea that there wouldnât be a single drop of alcohol left in his home. There was sadness in an empty container, a pleasure removed, its value expunged.
He set the container back on the table with a resounding thump, unconcerned about leaving a disfiguring mark on the surface. It was an elegant Italian mid-century bedside table, a beautiful piece of Mahogany furniture, perhaps the highlight of the room. Ray didnât much care for it despite its apparent splendor. He didnât care much for any of his possessions, even though he had paid a decent amount of cash to lavishly furnish his home. Though he loved money, he was still figuring out the most rewarding way to spend it.
The woman scowled at him but quickly forgot the affront when he returned his lips to her neck. They were thin, stingy lips and rather inadequate compared to the rest of him, and yet they clamped down on her like suction cups, and for the next hour, he savored her voluptuous body and devoted himself to satisfying her insatiable lust.
It was a torturous night where he thought his heart might give out on him. Despite being in his twentiesâfor one more year, at any rateâhis nightly routine impacted his stamina. Excessive liquor consumption and a disinclination to allow a day of rest into his hectic social calendar did him no favors. Still, he rejected the idea of taking a night off. He had earned the nickname âThe Reveler,â and he was proud of the moniker and keen to maintain the party-hard profile in the community. His typical schedule after sundown was something to marvel at: Dinner at Trousseauâs, cocktails at the Truman Club, dancing at LaSalleâs, followed by more drinks and a flutter at some of the shady betting stalls in the newest pop-up gin bars, and then, time and again, a senseless brawl in one of the dark alleyways near The Crooked Copper. Sometimes, he liked to cap the evening off with a few bawdy songs and a hookah pipe at Madam Carousel. Often, his nights went on and on with no end in sight, and they were consumed with revelry. Occasionally, work got in the way. Otherwise, he poured his heart and soul into having a good time. Try as he might, he couldnât remember the last time he had settled for a quiet night with a book.
Tonight, he had brought the merrymaking out of the clubs and to his home, and though he was well aware of what sort of lady he had lured back to his bedroom, he had misjudged her. She was an untamed tigress, full of desire and devilry. Initially, he was thrilled with her and enthusiastic to bestow complimentsâŠfor the first couple of hours. There was a moment when his eyes explored with great affection the contours of her face, glossing over the manifest creases and pockmarks and stray hairs and finding something to cherish about her large, full lips, flourishing eyebrows, and even her prominent nose. Her adorably feverish demeanor and the ugly, garroted sounds that emanated from her told him she was having a thoroughly wonderful time and probably deemed him an estimable lover.
Unsurprisingly, his ardor dissipated, inch by inch, as the evening wore on. All the same, his verdict was that it had been an evening well spent and a night to remember. At least, he hoped he would remember it. Eventually, the allure would drain out of her, and by sunrise, she would have overstayed her welcome. Ray had no time for clingy women. For him, intimacy was confined to the bedroom, and the mornings tended to be sobering affairs. He knew very little about his latest conquest and intended to keep it that way.
Fortunately for him, the woman had a similar mindset, and he was simply a means to an end. Regrettably, she wasnât as tolerant and easily placated as Ray had hoped. Several times, he bit down hard on the feather pillow, his teeth almost tearing through the pillowcase. The excellent booze did nothing to suppress the pain she was causing him. She was a vile, feral beast, undeserving of his divine, sculpted body, and he buried his face in the pillow, trying not to swear out loud, resisting the urge to beg for mercy. The way she dug her sharp nails into his back, drawing blood, and beat her fists on his backside, imploring him to work harder, was almost too much to handle. He whimpered and grappled with her squirming bulk, anxious to be free. The way her thighs trapped him made escape impossible, and he found himself muttering, âGod help me! Youâre killing me!â
Though he began to despise her and yearned to be elsewhere, his longing for a reprieve didnât last long. Pleasure eventually overcame pain, as it always did. Truth be told, her horridly rough behavior added interesting savagery to the nightâs excitement.
Disconcertingly, as the overlong evening jollity wore on, his surroundings became a blur, and a chill permeated the room. The hammering in his chest became almost too much to endure, and his rhythmic gyrations came to a clumsy halt. He clutched the top rail of the metal bedpost tightly, unable to draw another breath. It was as if someone had shut off his oxygen supply, and he was now mutely pleading for air and fearful of the strain on his heart. It was a tense, frightening moment. Again, he had disregarded the warnings and found himself beyond safe margins.
Then his ears suddenly poppedâthe silence broken by delirious moans and the headboard banging against the wall. With frantic relief, he caught his breath, the tightness in his chest rapidly subsiding. Immediately, he rolled over and lay on his back, panting, grateful that the excruciating mĂȘlĂ©e was over. Although sore and worried about his health, he was proud of his accomplishments and buoyed by a sense of fulfillment.
Swiftly, his eyelids became heavy, and he lost the battle to stay awake. Alas, he was denied a peaceful entrance to the land of nod. Minutes into his well-earned rest, he was jolted back to consciousness by his new loverâs tremendous fidgeting. The bedspring squawked, and she refused to keep still.
âPull yourself together, mister,â she growled, throwing herself on top of him with undue roughness. âThe night isnât over yet. I came here for action.â
The warning brought a taut, panicky stirring in his chest, and he found himself short of breath once more and suffering a fiery pain in his loins.
âI came home with you expecting something more. There was the look of a bullfighter about youâa dynamism that vowed to tease and exhaust and ultimately conquer whatever you came up against. I thought youâd be a man experienced in seduction techniques, a man who could make a woman giddy with desire.â She waggled her index finger at him in a threatening manner and hissed, âDonât you dare disappoint me. I wonât abide a milksop between the sheets.â
Ray winced perceptibly, wishing for an immediate escape. Their bodies were entwined to the point that he felt acutely trapped. The usually passionate man gazed deeply into her willful eyes, wondering why they held no appeal. A sumptuous, picture-perfect creature was urging him to greater sensual heights, yet he was utterly bereft of carnal yearning. He tried to purge all evidence of revulsion from his contorted face. It was no easy feat. The more he gazed at her, the more he felt his mouth prickling with aversion. She looked hideously mean and selfish and full of gluttony. He used the strength he had left in him to shove her off his fatigued body.
She squealed with shock. The boorish way he pushed her away sealed his fate.
âSelfish rake,â she raged. âYou sad excuse for a lover. A howler monkey has more going on between his thighs. How dare you ruin this for me!â
The violence in her tone was otherworldly, and it was grim work listening to her venomous coil of resentment.
âYouâre nothing but a damn eunuch. The hell was I thinking coming back here with you?â Her pointed, horny nails seemed to expand, the malevolent digits looking like claws. âWhatâs the value in having male anatomy if you donât know how to use it?â
He felt an urgency to get back into his clothes, alarmed at the way her horrid-looking fingernails clawed at the sheets. They were nails ready to do damage, prepared to vandalize what didnât belong to her.
He felt an awkward jolt in his groin as his testicles retracted into his body. The woman had managed to drive all semblance of lust out of him, and the scratching sound of those frightening nails tearing up the bedsheets warned him that right now, he was easy prey.
Iâve got to go, he tried to say, but the words didnât want to be heard. Her umbrage told him to say littleâbetter yet, say nothing at all. With luck, he could make it out of the bed and into his clothes before she realized his intentions.
âWhat do you have to say for yourself?â she continued. âWhatâs your excuse for that crummy performance?â
He couldnât offer a coherent reply. Actually, right then, he found it difficult to think rationally without his underwear, so he sprang out of bed and gathered his things from the floor with the keenness of a man who had just heard the barman cry, âLast call!â
âThat gorgeous body is pointless titillation. Youâre just a coward and a bore,â she ranted while he pulled up his briefs.
His baggy, gabardine slacks caused him some bother, and he stumbled as he got his left foot through the wide pant leg.
The fresh creak of the bedsprings told him she had also gotten out of the bed, but he didnât dare turn to look at her, sensing an irrevocable hatred toward him. He decided to keep his cruel mouth shut and focus on getting his pants buttoned, pulling on his clothes faster than at any other time. He intended to kick her out of his home once he had laced his shoes. Yet, there was some gallantry left in himâhe would give her some money and guide her toward the nearest phone booth so she could call a cab.
As he grabbed his shirt from the chair and ineptly tried to get one arm into the sleeve, he sensed she was standing directly behind him. There was an icy chill in the air, and at once, he was filled with dread. He whirled around in time to meet the full force of the bottle of Scotch in her hand as it struck him solidly across the side of his face.
As the remaining dregs of liquid in the bottle flew across the room, Ray dropped gracelessly to the floor without uttering a sound, and to the girlâs satisfaction, he sank into immediate unconsciousness.
The obstinate chime of the telephone forced Ray out of his bedroom and into the hallway of his tastefully designed yet diminutive home. His limbs were heavy and the three-pound organ taking up precious space in his cranium was not functioning as it should. Twice, he bumped into things that were not in his direct path. The 19th-century English clock, which he banged into with his hip, hurt the most. It was a tall case clock with decorative brass ball finials and a carved split-pediment top. It had detailed vine and leaf carvings and a colorful painted surround that illustrated a tavern scene from Tam oâ Shanter, the wonderful narrative poem written by the Scottish poet Robert Burns in 1790. Rayâs boss, Walter Cartwell, had recommended it to him, having seen it advertised by a local dealer he was familiar with, and he practically insisted Ray buy it. Lovely though it was, that type of luxurious room-filler was hardly Rayâs style. He preferred modern things, and this was excessive and unnecessary. The large, heavy object represented big money he could have frittered away at the racetrack or spent at one of his many drinking holes.
As Ray neared the telephone, its shrill tone sent agonizing jolts to his brain. He broke into a pathetic jog, hurrying to reach the receiver and end its reign of terror.
âRay, I need you over here now.â
It was Walter, and he sounded more desperate than usual.
Ray curled his lip, wishing it had been somebody else. Work was the last thing he wanted to contemplate right then.
âIâm not feeling so well,â confided Ray. âIâm as weak as a kitten. I think I need a day to rest and recuperate.â
âThereâs no time for that. I need you here now.â
Ray tapped the receiver against his chin, taking a moment to think up a sound excuse. Nothing suitable swooped through his thoughts. âIâm having car trouble,â he lamely said. âCan it wait until later in the day?â
âIâll send a car over to pick you up.â
âNo, thereâs no need for that.â
âBe ready in ten minutes,â Walter advised.
âWait. Hold on a minute.â
He was feeling faint. Ten minutes wasnât nearly enough time to get himself together. He could scarcely see straight, and quite what Walter would make of him when he staggered into the old manâs home didnât bear thinking about.
âI need to dress and shave and grab some coffee. I canât leave here just yet. Will one oâclock be okay?â
âOne oâclock will not be okay.â
The anger in the manâs voice was unsettling. It was never wise to say or do something that would upset Walter Cartwell. He was a man who made excessive demands, and he expected a great deal from people, especially those who served him. Let Walter down at your peril; he wasnât the forgiving type.
âThat job you did for me in San Fran last April. You remember the cufflinks?â
âCool blue fireworks bursting in the night sky.â
âI like your description. They had those striking blue guilloche enamels set in gold. The engraving beneath the enamels gave the appearance of blue fireworks.â
âThey were exquisite. Worth the time and sweat it took to get them.â
âYou think?â
âWell, werenât they?â said Ray, slightly confused.
âI never told you the entire story, did I? My bad.â
Ray leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes. He wanted to hear the story, but he wanted to go back to bed more.
âKent Malone attempted to get the cufflinks about six months before you did. He broke into Cristiano PuiggarĂâs home thinking he hadnât been detected, but he must have set off a silent alarm. Cristianoâs watchman cornered him in one of the upstairs bedrooms and beat him to a pulp. The police were never called, and Kent was never seen again.â
âDid somebody talk? How did you hear what happened to him?â
âHis left hand was delivered to my home. A 14-karat yellow gold ring was still attached to the middle finger. It was an Egyptian Pharoah signet ring. Looked rather splendid.â
âJesus!â
âThe ring was worth quite a bit of money, but they left it on his finger so I could identify the victim. They knew he worked for me. Poor Kent.â
Ray was sickened by the news. He hadnât known Kent Malone well, and he had only met him on a couple of occasions, but the revelation made his stomach turn.
âWhy didnât you tell me this six months ago?â
âWhy do you think? I figured you probably wouldnât take the job if you learned what happened to Kent.â
There was no âprobablyâ about it. Ray absolutely would not have taken the job.
âYou let me break into Cristiano PuiggarĂâs home only six months after heâd caught a thief in one of his bedrooms?â
âThatâs right. I knew I could count on you. I highly doubt thereâs anybody better in the whole darn country.â
The praise failed to gratify him. âAnd now you want me to do another job? Something perilous and fraught with difficulty, no doubt?â
âThatâs right.â
He felt the urge to put the telephone receiver back in the cradle. âIâd like to take some time off,â he flatly told his employer. âI want to travel a little. Take in a few counties, see some sights. I think a three-month tour of Europe might do me the world of good.â
âIn my opinion, I donât think it would. I need you on this next job, Ray. Youâve not disappointed me yet, and I donât believe you will this time, either.â
âListen, WalterâŠâ
The old man wouldnât let him finish. âItâs double pay.â
An excited chill went through Ray. âDouble, you say?â
âYes, double. Now, get over here as fast as you can. I need you here within the hour.â
Walter rang off. He had said all he needed to say.
I had high hopes for Hessman's Necklace from the outset and I wasn't disappointed. It was fast-paced, descriptive, with a tight plot and convincingly drawn characters throughout. It was, it was fair to say, a good read.
We first meet Ray engaging in one of his favourite pastimes: a casual romp in the bedroom with someone of the opposite sex. Litchfield's style of writing at this stage is light, full of humour and whilst Ray's attitude to his date may not present either of them in the best light, it is an entertaining way to meet Ray and gain an idea of his motivations and the type of character he is. He's not unlikeable but he is a bit of a rogue.
So when his boss, Walter, has a job for him which is ostensibly to steal a necklace but to do it through the seduction of a woman, it seems that Ray may have a good chance of success - but has Walter underestimated the Reverend, the preacher who has the necklace and his mistress, Merriam who wears it, and has Ray actually been commissioned to perform a robbery which is far more complex and dangerous than first presented?
Well, you will have to read this to find out, of course and it's definitely worth the effort. Ray is no hero; he is very much flawed but he is also very much aware of it. He doesn't lie to himself and is a simple being who enjoys sensual pleasure and the idea of the finer things in life but suffers as a result of his own largesse and lack of discipline. He's a chancer but he's harmless and as a reader, you want him to be successful in his heist and certainly don't want any harm to befall him.
The tone of the book does steadily change as the action progresses and the stakes get higher for our man. The beginning of the book and the way we meet him is comic and there is a wryness of humour throughout which permeates the text; however, as Ray gets deeper into his mission, it is clear that this is no simple task and that he is going to have to have his wits about him and Litchfield infuses the book with more tension and less humour, leading convincingly to a surprising climax.
I would recommend - good story, well delivered.