The Case of the Yellow Diamond (10 page)

 

Chapter 17

A
t our apartment in Kenwood I heard a message from my honey telling me she'd only be a little late and to please thaw a steak from the freezer. “My carnivorous genes are raging, and I desire some beef and baked potato,” she said in my ear.

So I found a nice thick T-bone that would do for both of us and selected the big spuds I would set to baking before Catherine arrived. She hadn't mentioned a salad but I knew her insistence on a frequency of greens was not disappearing. So I poked around our restaurant-sized refrigerator and located several kinds of lettuce, a reasonable-looking cucumber and a couple of 'shrooms.

I carefully thawed the steak in a plastic bag in a bowl of warm water to bring it to room temperature quickly. Then I built myself a lovely drink of thirty-year-old whiskey with a little ice and just a splash of water. I put the heavy cut-glass tumbler on the side table and flopped onto the couch. Staring at the ceiling, I took several healthy swigs and thought about my life. That meant I had to think about Catherine and our relationship, a pleasant enough task.

A few minutes later, I heard soft sounds in the kitchen and rolled over. I stumbled getting off the couch and when I came around the wall, there was Catherine in her sweats. She'd obviously been home for a while because an elaborate-looking salad was in a bowl on the counter and I could hear the snap and sizzle of beef searing in the broiler. I looked at my watch. Nearly an hour and a half had gone out of my life.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “You were seriously out when I got home so I let you sleep. Rough day?”

“Not really, although my interview with Pres Pederson was odd.”

“Tell me about it over steak. I'm focused on dinner right now and it's almost ready.”

Catherine seemed at times to move faster than the speed of sound, multi-tasking, I think that's the word, with a vengeance. It was great. The steak was perfect, my spuds slathered in butter and sour cream, and Catherine's salad was the perfect side dish. With our inner needs satisfied we settled on the couch and I brought her up to speed on the case of Yap Island.

“I kind of thought at the beginning that it could be the father, that Pederson was trying to protect his daughter from the danger of a bad operation. But then that guy, Lewis, died. Murdered.”

“Are you sure of that?” Catherine looked at me. “I know you told me the police in Winona are suspicious, but, as you sometimes say, where's the proof?”

I squinted up at her unlined face. “Yes, I do, sweet thing, and I also tell you, on occasion, that I sometimes go on instinct. On my gut.”

“Not very elegant, but what does your gut tell you?”

“You really want to know? About my gut?”

“Well, actually, about your theory of the case.”

“My gut tells me Mr. Lewis from St. Louis was murdered because he was bringing important information from his files to the Bartelmes. My gut says the efforts by Josie and her husband to locate the wreck of that bomber that killed her granduncle triggered some kind of ripples, like they tossed a stone into a pond. The ripples spread and people began to notice. I bet we'll find that Tod and Josie were being observed or tracked in some way from their first trip to the South Pacific. Then when they didn't find the wreck, I assume somebody figured that was it and they could relax. But Josie didn't let go of it.”

“So somebody tried to discourage them with vandalism and theft.”

“Yeah. Then enter an intrepid detective, yours truly. At about the same time, Tod found other veterans groups, started a website, and Stan Lewis got in touch with them.”

“You think the plans for the trip this coming August was a trigger?”

“That and Stan Lewis deciding to take a train to Saint Paul.”

“Why?”

“Ah, the big question, my love. Why? Why does anybody care if these folks find the wreck of an old bomber that went down back in 1944? I can understand why this has turned into a near obsession for Josie. It's family. A connection to her past. It's part of the same thing that brings folks to cemeteries on certain dates.” I paused a moment. “There's only one reason that makes any sense to me.”

I smiled at Catherine and took her hand. With her strong grip she helped me roll from flat on the carpet to a sitting, then standing position. She didn't relinquish my hand. Drawing it back against the rich curve of her hip, she pulled me closer. She pinched her eyes together and stared down at my face.

“And that is?”

“Something to do with the airplane Amundson was riding in.”

“Will you go to the South Pacific?”

“Not hardly.”

“Because?” She was still holding me close and fiddling with my ears.

“Because the case has come ashore here in landlocked Minnesota.” I turned my head and stuck my tongue into her palm, tickling her.

Catherine's left hand dropped from my head and skated slowly down over my shoulder to my chest. She inserted two fingers between the buttons on my shirt and gently scratched.

“If you keep that up, I won't be able to remember everything.”

“'S okay,” she murmured, blowing in my ear. “Why do you think the answers are now here?”

We were sidling toward the bedroom, difficult to do when entwined as we were. “First, burglaries and theft of the Bartelmes' diving gear. Ouch. Then Stan Lewis. Then the shot at young Cal.” By now her cotton sweatpants, loose around her waist to begin with, were sagging so I got a foot on them and held one leg to the floor. When she leaned away, they slipped almost to her knees, trapping her.

“Hey, no fair. You brought in reinforcements.”

“I thought it was a clever ploy, myself.” I shifted inside her arms and planted my lips on her now exposed breastbone. The move overbalanced us and we fell, chortling, onto the bed.

“That's it?”

“My reasons? Yep.”

“What next, Sherlock?”

“Flush out the bad guy or guys.”

“Not too original.” We'd managed to extinguish some lights, lost most of our clothes and crawled fully into the massive bed.

“Wait 'til you hear my plan.”

 

Chapter 18

I
got to my office on Central late the next morning, still a little sore from the previous night's exercise. We'd talked about installing a small hot tub in the spare bedroom, but our research hadn't turned up anything that I thought wouldn't make the floor sag. So I'd detoured to my Roseville ranch and spent an hour soaking in the big redwood tank at the back of my house.

Now it was time to buckle down, so to speak. There were a dozen messages on my answering device. The last four, beginning at ten, were from Gareth Anderson, Attorney at Law. No message except to call him. Urgently requested.

Well, sure. I still hadn't told him I'd take him up on his offer to butt out of the Bartelmes' lives. When I had a client I just never reacted favorably to anyone except the client telling me to get lost. And even then, sometimes, I hung around. In this case I wasn't going to disappear, of course, especially now that some moke had taken a shot at my favorite teenager, Cal Pederson. How was he doing, I wondered? I called the Bartelme house. Maxine answered.

“Well, hi there, Boy Scout,” she purred. “What can I do you for?”

“I was just calling to inquire about Cal. How's he doing?”

I repeated my request. Since I was unresponsive to her suggestive comment, she tried a different tack. “He's fine, will fully recover, I guess, and is back home in Chicago. His mom decided Josie wasn't taking good enough care of her kid.”

I rang off, as they used to put it in those old English novels, and left the office after disposing of an accumulation of unwanted mail. I headed to the White Bear PD to talk with the investigator who had been assigned to the Cal Pederson shooting case. After I had located the likely place the shooter had stood and turned it over to the locals, the investigator in charge assured me they'd keep me up to speed on their progress. I went out of my way to try to stay on their good side. As with other aspects of this case, I hadn't heard anything about their progress, so off I went.

The captain of the homicide unit in White Bear Lake was cordial when I made it to his corner office. It was a nice if plainly furnished office with painted beige walls. The desk was large and piled with files. Unfortunately, Captain Nelson had little to tell me. “I understand your concern over the lack of much progress, Mr. Sean. But you know as well as I that this is a difficult case with almost no physical evidence.”

“So what you're telling me is there's been no progress.”

“Pretty much, except we've managed to eliminate almost everybody associated with the family as persons of interest.”

“Almost.”

“Yes. Alvin Pederson and his wife are out of the picture. So is the lawyer and both Bartelmes.” Nelson shuffled papers in the file in front of him. “Pederson was at a construction site he's investing in. Let's see. We still have to verify Hillier's whereabouts and that of the other women buddies of Mrs. Bartelme. I think that's it.” He closed the file, looked up and smiled. “No more brass in the grove of bushes you located for us, and no weapon. Any word from the Maplewood people about the break-in at the storage facility?”

I shook my head and got out of the chair. “I haven't talked to Tod today, but I've heard nothing. Thanks, Captain.”

“Stay in touch.”

I nodded and left the building. My plan was to head over to the Bartelmes and have another chat with Josie. I didn't get out of the PD parking lot. My rear tires were flat. Both of them. Unfortunately I didn't notice it until I nosed into the aisle so the Taurus was blocking part of the lot. I switched off, got out and trudged back to the reception desk

The woman handling receptionist duties looked a question at me.

“I need to call a tow truck. My car's in your lot with two flat tires,” I said to her. “Is there a pay phone here?”

“No cell?” she inquired. I shook my head and she pointed to a phone on a nearby desk. “Dial eight to get an outside line.”

I looked up a local garage and the fellow who answered my call said he'd be there in a few. I turned around and encountered a large man standing at the desk.

“Some dork parked in the aisle, blocking it,” he said.

“I'm the dork,” I said. “Flat tires. Tow truck is on its way. If you absolutely can't wait, I'll move it, but I hate to bust up my flats.”

He looked down at me with what I took to be his long-suffering, disgusted look and turned away without a word. I went out to the lot again and waited in the sun for the tow truck to arrive. The driver was a young man who obviously knew his business. He maneuvered the truck until he could winch the Taurus onto the inclined flat bed and then drove us the four blocks to the garage.

Both lifts were full so I went across the street to a nearby bar and had a cup of coffee and a bad sandwich. When I wandered back to the service station, my automobile was on the rack with both wheels off and the owner waiting to give me an owl-eyed look.

“You got some enemies?” he inquired.

“Why?”

“Both tires got the same sickness. Look here.” He showed me my wheels and pointed out a small, clean-edged tear in the tire right at the outside of the rim.”One tire, maybe. If you hit something, a broken bottle, just right. But—”

“Aw, c'mon, Ron, you know that ain't it.” The voice came from an old guy with a big belly sitting on a high stool in the office, clutching a can of soda. “That there is a knife cut, just like the other one.”

Ron shrugged and said, “Yeah, that's probably right. Especially in two tires at the same time.” He shifted and pointed at an almost identical cut in the other rear tire.

“Yeah,” opined the old guy in the office. “Long time ago I wuz a ­dep'ty shrrif. Pine County.” He interrupted himself to lift his close-cropped white head to take a swig of soda. His undersized shirt gapped between the buttons and he belched quietly when he lowered the can. “I still know a thing or two when I see it. Them two tires was slashed.” Now he looked at me shrewdly. “You in some kinda trouble?”

I nodded and said, “Some kind, I guess. Put two new steel-belts on the wheels. Can you do that right away?”

Ron the service guy nodded and went to work. I whiled away the half-hour it took to replace my tires chatting with the ex-deputy. He had a few stories about a high-speed chase or two down the backroads of Pine County and seemed glad for the company. Just before Ron finished with my tires, the old man pulled a big railroad-type pocket watch out of his jeans and peered at it. Then he nodded as if satisfied with what he saw on the watch face. He rose, nodded to me and waved at Ron. Then without a word, he left the station and went slowly down the street.

The service guy manipulated the controls on the lift and dropped my Taurus back to the ground. Then I realized he hadn't used a pneumatic wrench to attach the wheels, but an old-fashioned tire wrench. I paid the bill with my plastic and thanked him for his prompt service. As I idled at the driveway onto Highway 61, watching for a break in traffic and waiting for the air conditioner to lower the temperature in the car, I thought about my two slashed tires. About the implications.

It was highly unlikely that targeting my tires had been a random act of vandalism. The car was in the police department parking lot, for God's sake. It wasn't a case of mistaken identity, either. Somebody was sending me a message. I wheeled onto the highway and headed toward my original destination, the Bartelmes' place on the lake. I only had the one case working at the moment, although I figured there was a remote possibility that a former thug I'd encountered was after me. I made a mental note to find out if anybody I'd helped put away was recently released from custody. Didn't seem a fruitful path of inquiry. Nope. This tire slashing was definitely tied to Yap.