Deadly Diamonds (27 page)

Actually, I had no clear idea of what I meant by it, but apparently he did. Seamus had left him in a frame of mind where he was quick to nod.

“Let's go back to that night when you were sent to do a job on Salvatore Barone.”

I could see a spark of fear in his eyes. We were talking about a confession to murder, and apparently this kid had not become quite as hardened to the core as some in his adopted profession. That could be counterproductive. Tension was not what I wanted. I needed him loose and talkative.

“Listen to me, Tommy. You've got nothing to fear from me as far as the law's concerned. That's between you and your conscience, if you still have one. I only want one thing: information. Then, you and
I walk out of this place and never see each other again. I give you that on a stack of Bibles. You understand?”

He gave a tentative nod of the head. It was enough to press on.

“Go back to that night. You told Pesta about Barone's being a traitor, setting up a deal to sell diamonds to the Irish gang. Right so far?”

He was stuck on dead center. “Listen, Tommy. That much I know. Suppose you answer the question anyway. Just to show good faith, so we don't have to disturb that big gentleman over there again. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

This time his head moved readily side to side.

“Then let's move on. Am I right so far?”

He slowly gave me a nod.

“Let's make it verbal, Tommy. Am I right so far?”

“Yeah.”

“And you got your orders from Pesta about Barone, right?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Your turn. What happened that night?”

He looked over at Seamus who was leaning on the bar looking on at our progress. “He sent me to do a job.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I told him what Barone said. He was meeting O'Byrne that night. Mr. Pesta told me to follow Barone. I followed him to Carson Beach in Southie. Barone parked his car. O'Byrne hadn't got there yet.”

“And?”

“I did what Mr. Pesta told me to do.”

“What?”

“You know.”

“You killed him the way you were told. Like a traitor.”

“Yeah.”

Seamus waved a .38 handgun in front of him. “With this.”

“Yeah.”

Seamus had apparently taken it from him in the scuffle. He
tossed it back to him. I could bet my life that Seamus had removed the bullets.

“Then what?”

“I put him in the trunk of his car. I drove the car back to Collini's like Mr. Pesta told me. You know, to show him I did it.”

“And that's when the car was stolen, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Now listen to this, Tommy. Get this one right or you're in more trouble than you could imagine. Did you take anything off Barone's body or out of his car?”

“No. Nothing. Nobody told me to do that. Like what?”

“Like anything.”

“No.”

I leaned back out of his face.
I believe you didn't, Tommy
. I'd have bet my life on it.

I walked back through that bar that looked like it had been bombed by the IRA. Seamus fell in beside me. We walked to my car.

“Where are your two Irish sidekicks, Seamus?”

“I told them to take a cab. They're probably having an interesting conversation with your Frank O'Byrne about now. I think you should stay away from him for a while.”

“It's my most fervent wish.”

We reached my Corvette. I got in and lowered the window. “That was quite a performance you put on back there.”

He looked at me with a smile. “It's good to keep in practice. What do you think about young Tommy?”

“He didn't take the diamonds. He had limited orders. Maybe Pesta was going to search Barone's body when Tommy brought him back to Collini's. He never got the chance, thanks to our juvenile delinquent, Kevin.”

“That eliminates another one.”

“And then there was one. I think we can be sure that Kevin has those damn diamonds. Kevin and Papa Frank.”

We were both thinking about where that left us. One thing
seemed clear. At least for the time being, we were still on the same side.

The dawn brought a new day to face old problems. At least the issue was narrowed down to what might have been an oversimplification. Find Kevin, and you find the diamonds. Find the diamonds, and somehow the rest of the fine mess will resolve itself. And everyone will live happily ever after. An unlikely hope, but it helped put one foot and then the other over the side of the bed.

I started the morning at one of my most productive thinking places—the Dunkin' Donuts on Beacon Street. It had never failed me yet, and it was not about to start now. When I eliminated Frank O'Byrne as a possible source of information for the obvious reason, I could count the leads to finding the elusive Kevin on one finger. That finger stood for Chuck Dixon. He had been with Kevin the night Kevin most probably lifted the diamonds from the cold body of Sally Barone. The problem was locating Chuck Dixon.

When I placed my usual order for one old-fashioned, one jelly, and coffee, the waitress, who has known me as a regular for at least five years, responded, “
Gracias. Buenos días
, Michael.”

When I responded, as I usually did, “
De nada. Buenos días, Emilita,”
I was hit with an idea. I got everything to go, and sprinted out the door. I was into my faithful Corvette and wheeling toward the Northeastern University student affairs office in less than a minute.

I knew I'd be pushing it, but I had to draw from that well just one more time. I found Luisa, my previous Puerto Rican contact, working at her desk. There was again enough of a hum of human voices in the room to speak in confidence—in Spanish.

I explained that irregular as this would sound, lives literally hung on her slightly breaching the privacy rules for the last time. Any understandable incredulity seemed to be overcome by the affinity between two very minority Puerto Ricans—even though it was only half on my side.

Without tipping too much, I explained that Chuck Dixon, the same junior-year student I asked about before, was at the center of
a murder investigation. Unless it were handled discreetly—my every intention—it could seriously reflect on the good name of Northeastern University.

That was enough to bring a most welcome, “What do you need?”

I told her that Chuck had gone missing two days before. That meant he wasn't in class, nor likely to be in class in the near future. The chances were excellent that he was covering his academic posterior by contacting the university with some kind of excuse. Could she see if that had happened?

Her fingers played a rapid rhythm on her computer keyboard for an interminable minute. It was worth the wait. She said it quietly and in Spanish. He had sent an e-mail to the college registrar, explaining his absence on the basis of family illness. He requested a leave of absence for the term.

That was interesting. I interpreted it to mean he was neck deep in whatever Kevin was doing with the diamonds and would be tied up in it for an unpredictable spell. It also convinced me that he was either with Kevin or at least in contact with him.

Now to the tricky part. The e-mail address from which he sent the message, and at which he expected a reply from the registrar—was it the same as his usual e-mail address on record with the university?

More clicking on the keyboard, and Luisa shook her head, no. That's what I was hoping. That meant he had set up a separate e-mail address for communication while he was into his new adventure. He must have been confident enough in the privacy-protecting protocol of the university to use his new e-mail address. Thank God.

I gave Luisa my most pleading-puppy look. She jotted some letters down on a Post-it note and slipped it under her desk blotter. She left her desk to walk to the coffee machine without actually giving me any compromising information. By the time she returned, neither I nor the Post-it note were in the building.

This had to be done as carefully as each step of a tightrope walker. I figured Chuck had entrusted the new e-mail address only to the university
registrar and those few in Kevin's inner circle. That would give any message to that address a presumption of inner-circle confidentiality—if I didn't blow it with the message.

I set up a separate e-mail account for this message, only with no reference that would suggest my name. Then I agonized over every word before I typed the message. I read, reread, and re-reread it before I hit the send button.

“Plans gone haywire. Too much interference by you-know-who. Lost contact with K. Need phone number immediately.”

My fervent wish was that Chuck would assume that the e-mail was from Papa Frank O'Byrne, and that “you-know-who” referred to the only fly in their ointment—me.

I barely made it back to my office when a check of the return email on my new account produced gold. The answer was no more than a series of digits, but I thanked God that they were more than likely Kevin's phone number.

I asked Tom Burns to tap into his private sources to check the number. It confirmed the intuitive feeling I'd had for days that a flight to Ireland was in my immediate future. Tom got back to me in minutes to report that the number was the direct line to a room in the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin.

With that, I figured I'd just be spinning my wheels on this side of the Atlantic. I was so sure of the answer I'd get when I briefed Seamus and asked if he was aboard, that I had already asked Julie to get two tickets on the next flight to the fair city of Dublin.

Her antenna for worries went up when I asked her to make them one-way. The fact was, I had as little idea of what I was about get involved in as I did about when—or whether—I'd be coming back.

PART FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sierra Leone, Africa. The present.

When the plane touched down at Lungi International Airport outside of Freetown, Sierra Leone, Bantu felt a slight sense of comfort in slipping out of the name he had assumed in Ireland, Johnny Walker, and back into the name of his birth. From the airport, he called the cell phone of the single person he trusted in Freeport, his Mandingo friend, Jimbo. He caught him in the middle of an afternoon tankard of rum in Alex's Beach Bar.

“Bantu! You son of a gun. Howdabody?”

“I'm good. You?”

“Like always. Where you?”

“I'm back. I need to see you.”

There was a pause. “I gotta see you too. When?”

“Right now. Can you meet me at Bunce's office?”

“Why not? Half hour.”

Bantu waited for Jimbo to arrive at the building under the sign, “Morty Bunce. Diamonds Bought and Sold.” They climbed the stairs together. This time Bantu was greeted with open arms by Bunce.

“You did me proud, Bantu. I couldn't have done better with those rascals in Ireland. I shouldn't tell you, but you made me a good profit. Can you do it again?”

Bantu half smiled and just shook his head at the thought. He had reported the good news of the result of his dealing with Declan O'Connor without going into detail about the gamut he had run.

“I mean it, Bantu. I got another shipment for you. You say when.”

Jimbo went to Bunce's liquor shelf and poured three shots of rum. He handed them around while he waded in on Bantu's behalf.

“Let the boy rest, Morty. He just made you rich. He need time in his home. Right, Bantu?”

Bantu took the rum and spoke quietly. “I have no home here, Jimbo. I barely got out with my life last time. You should remember. You pulled me out.”

Jimbo lifted his glass for a three-way toast. “I know. So what'll we drink to?”

Morty chimed in with “To good times for us all.”

The glasses clinked. Bantu noticed that Jimbo was the last to drink the toast.

“What's the matter, Jimbo? You said you had to see me.”

“Sit down, Bantu.”

Jimbo pulled his chair up to face Bantu.

“I had to go out there two days ago. You know that little town where you found your brother?”