The Case of the Yellow Diamond (13 page)

 

Chapter 24

T
he farther I got into the case, the more convinced I was that somebody in Josie's family or somebody closely allied with a family member was involved. Either that or something about the quest for Uncle Richard had opened a dank vault somewhere, and the zombie that crawled out was following a smudged trail of footprints in the wet sand.

First, it was fairly obvious the shooting of Cal was either a mistake, as in an unfortunate case of wrong place and wrong time, or the shooter was really, really good. Killing the boy, I reasoned, would bring down a flood of law, not just the lonely PI presently engaged. So if I could leave that alone, hoping the forensics would turn over the right rock, I had the family of both Josie and Tod, none of whom seemed likely to have the contacts or the resources to want to discourage the quest. With two exceptions I knew of.

One was Josie's dad, ol' Pres Pederson hisself. The other was Hillier. Although he worked for Pederson, he could have his own separate agenda. I would check him out further.

My first
mano a mano
encounter with Mr. R.P. Hillier hadn't gone particularly well, although I'd learned a few things about his present situation. He was probably a partner or a heavy investor in Pederson Enterprises. His role was what was politely called a facilitator in some circles. In these circles, if there was some small bloodletting or doors to be kicked in, intimidation and threat making, he was the man to call. I presumed he had a small stable of thugs he could call on, maybe even at one or two removes.

My first efforts were remote. I did a wide area Internet search for my target, Mr. Hillier. While the bits and bytes were trembling and assembling, I used the old-fashioned telephone to make a call. With a code word that changed frequently, I was able to obtain a different telephone number. I had to do that three times before I got a street address. To that address I mailed a short query, the name, Social Security number, current address, employment, and a couple other pertinent details. I did not sign the paper. Nor did I put a return address on the envelope.

Unless the paper was found and examined by some forensic genius, and why would it be, there was almost no way to trace it. I could have worn latex gloves, but that was going a bit far. I knew the letter would be burned after the information was digested. It was an interesting sidelight, I think, to know in this high-tech surveillance era, one way to avoid detection was to use low-tech, old-fashioned means of communication, like the U.S. mail and landline telephones. Not fast, mind you, but almost undetectable.

I mentioned the advantages of low-tech communication to somebody in a bar once. We were having a drink and talking politics, I think. My companion said, “What about phone taps? And you know the feds sometimes open your mail, right? And they can get a cover to record incoming and outgoing mail addresses, right?”

“Look,” I said. “Why would they tap your phone? And you can go find a public phone somewhere, like in a library, or a filling station.”

“I suppose.”

“And if you don't want your letter intercepted, go mail it across town, or across the river and use a phony return address. There are still intercepts at NSA from World War Two that haven't been translated. I think surveillance people in the FBI and other agencies are drowning in information.”

I was reading an old manual about old weapons when the door hinges whined. They were an early warning signal if someone tried to ease my office door open and surprise me. The door was never locked when I was in residence. Why bother? Most people knocked and I hollered “come in” and they did. If the door was locked I had to get up, cross the office and open it, and that put me face to face with whomever. I'd rather be at my desk across the space, ready to dive for cover. Or a weapon.

Anyway, I looked up and She entered. She was put together the way I would have done it, before CM. She paused in the doorway to give me time for a good gander. I looked in her eyes, then dropped my gaze to the floor. I scanned slowly upward from her feet, propped up by lethal-looking four-inch heels, trim ankles, nicely swelling calves and hips, right on up past an impressive bosom—and I've seen some—to broad, capable-looking shoulders. My analysis hesitated at her mane of gloriously blonde hair that hung about her face like a crowd of jealous suitors. Whatever she was wearing—I didn't know what to call it—hung on her awesome body like a seamless piece of plastic cling wrap. No cleavage, a high neckline on the pale blue wrap that matched the color of her eyes. She was taller than I was. But then, most people were.

This vision of feminine beauty paused, slightly hip-shot in my doorway. I judged her a Four B: Big, Beautiful, Blonde and Blatant. “Good morning,” I said, pleasantly. “How may I help you?”

Her smile seemed to add light to the room—bright, straight white teeth framed by luscious-looking red lips. She straightened and followed her breasts into my office. “Have a chair,” I gallantly indicated my favorite and most comfortable side chair. For just a moment I regretted it was bolted to the floor.

She nodded. In a plain-vanilla no-nonsense tone of voice she said, “Good morning, Mr. Sean. My business with you is confidential, sensitive, and worrisome to my family and my associates. So if you don't mind, I have a few questions before we get into intimate detail.”

I didn't mind. Of course I didn't mind. I wasn't so taken with her beauty I failed to assess the possible firepower secreted in her small handbag she held in her lap. She crossed her knees and decorously tugged the tight skirt down a little.

“My name is Lorelei Jones.” She stopped as if to give me a chance to respond. I remained politely silent and attentive. Lorelei Jones inhaled with a rustle of fabric and went on. “We've—I've investigated you, and I'm satisfied you're discreet and can handle my case.”

I nodded and with my right hand moused to the X in the right-hand corner. My computer screen went blank. “Were you recommended to me? Or did you find me in the Yellow Pages?”

She smiled a slow smile, full of obscure possibilities. “You aren't in the Yellow Pages, Mr. Sean, at least not the ones I consulted.”

Points for her.

“Here's my problem, Mr. Sean. My mother is deceased, and my father is living alone after almost forty years of being married. He's a retired surgeon and he's bored, I think. He lives very comfortably in Wayzata. He seems to have taken up with a woman. A much younger woman.”

“This younger woman is likely to be less comfortable financially than your father. Am I correct?” I smiled. Lorelei inhaled. It was distracting, but not blatantly so. Warning bells sounding in my head upon her appearance were tolling more faintly. Maybe this was legit. Lorelei Jones couldn't help being a sexpot, could she?

“Yes. I can't say for sure she's a gold digger. You understand. But my father does have a lot of money, and I just want to be sure she isn't taking advantage of him.” Lorelei pouted prettily. “I don't need his money. It isn't that. I just . . .” she gestured vaguely as her voice trailed off.

“All right. I can look into this.” I quoted my rates and the necessity of an advance.

Lorelei wrote out a check and recited some particulars I noted on a pad on my desk. We stood up to take leave of each other. At least, I stood up. Lorelei rose from her chair in a kind of undulating motion that reminded me a little of a stripper I once knew, or maybe Venus in a clam shell. We touched fingers, and she smiled, again lighting up the room and my life. Because her dress was so thin and so tight, the lower part had ridden up, requiring her to make some adjustments as she went out. She didn't tug so much as she seemed to caress the fabric down over her hips and over her fanny.

I was entranced.

I sank back into my chair. My hand automatically went to a lower drawer where my digital Nikon with the long zoom lens nestled. There were two vantage points, one window at the rear overlooking the parking lot, the other the street in front. Lorelei Jones didn't seem to me to be a parking lot kind of woman. I went down the hall and readied the camera. Moments later my new client appeared on the sidewalk, and I was able to snap several pictures of her swaying to a late model BMW parked at the curb. I was rarely wrong about such quick judgments of people.

Just like in the movies. People like that woman always seemed to find the most convenient parking places. Although the angle was high, I knew the close-ups when she opened the driver's side door would give me an identification, should I need one from another source. Like the cops.

 

Chapter 25

I
repaired to my office again after checking to be sure the photographs were adequate for the job. Then I booted up the old computer to see what bits and bytes had accumulated since my oh-so-pleasant interruption by Ms. Lorelei Jones. She wore no wedding ring, and I thought she either had a dynamite hairdresser or her shining blonde locks were natural.

There wasn't a lot of new information to be had about Mr. R.P. Hillier. Even less lent itself to my investigation. He had no police record, a clean service record, and an honorable discharge. Unmarried, he'd apparently lived in the Twin Cities for a good number of years. He was employed by Pederson and had been for a long time.

I had managed to fiddle out some financial information which only confirmed something I suspected in the first place. Pederson Associates was a private financial service and investment house, so it didn't file public stockholder reports. It did, however, have to meet certain governmental requirements. If you knew where and how to enquire, and I did, you could winkle out bits and pieces. One of those bits was that Hillier was on the board of directors of Pederson and Associates, as was that attorney, Gary Anderson.

The telephone rang. Madeline Pryor. She wanted to talk to me in person. Could I come right over? I could and would. Hillier would have to wait. I was sure he wouldn't mind.

When I arrived forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Pryor her very own self opened the door. Her welcoming smile was somewhat less than enthusiastic.

We went through the house to a sunroom at the back. The room had a fine view of well-cared-for lawn. No lake. After a few stiff pleasantries and a cup of strong, nicely brewed coffee, we got down to business.

Pause. Gentle sigh. A turn of her head and a level gaze into my eyes. “You have the gift of patience, haven't you?”

“Thank you. I find that waiting quietly usually results in a more forthcoming result.”

“I've asked you here, Mr. Sean, for a couple of reasons. I—my husband has made inquiries and believe you to be honorable and discreet.” She smiled a little and nodded. “Such old-fashioned words, but important concepts in a polite society. I think we've lost a good deal of that through the years of technological advancement. Don't you agree?”

I didn't say anything. I recognized that Mrs. Pryor was gearing up for some revelatory conversation. I didn't want to interrupt her concentration.

“My husband doesn't entirely agree with my telling you some things, but that's his training. Lawyers and accountants seem to be programmed to reveal as little as possible about everything. Hmmm. I asked you here to talk about diamonds. More specifically, about my diamond necklace, the one you admired the other night at the club.”

Mrs. Pryor leaned to her left and slid open the drawer of a small table beside her. She took out a flat leather box with a padded cover. It was a jewelry case, black, soft, and expensive looking. The box probably cost as much as the diamond earrings I'd given Catherine last Christmas. She set the box on the table between us and opened the top. There it was, her diamond-and-ruby necklace in all its magnificence. And it was all of that. I leaned over and admired it. Then I looked at her. She watched me with an intense gaze.

“I wouldn't know if this was the same stone you were wearing the other night. I also wouldn't have the foggiest if this is a fake of some kind.”

Mrs. Pryor nodded as if I'd reacted correctly or passed some kind of secret test. She smiled. “It is, and it isn't paste. There were others.”

“Others?”

“Yes, a—um—a relative brought them to me. Well, to my father, actually. He was in the Pacific Theater during World War Two. I think he was a spy, but I'm not really sure.”

She smiled again. I thought she was beginning to enjoy herself. “The family story goes like this. Before and during the war, our government was anxious to place a number of covert agents in key positions in the Far East. I had several relatives who had spent extensive time around the end of the nineteenth century in China and in the Far East pursuing business interests. They made themselves available to our government. When the war ended, some of them stayed in the Far East. They continued to take advantage of business opportunities and contacts they had developed. The government was anxious to get the service boys home as soon as possible, and they weren't too worried about security. Apparently there was a fair amount of smuggling.” She smiled.

“For that matter, there was a good deal of smuggling
during
the war,” I said softly.

We both looked up as a young woman, possibly a maid, entered with a coffee service. Apparently she thought Mrs. Pryor and I were sucking down a lot of coffee. “Although it may surprise you to know it, I have some awareness of the ways of the wealthy in some of these matters,” I said.

The young woman was casually dressed and properly deferential. She set down the coffee pot and picked up the one we had been using. Mrs. Pryor poured me another cup of hot, strong coffee and then continued her story.

“It was apparent to many of these servicemen, and a few women, I believe, who were given the opportunity, that bringing home uncut jewels was easier and safer than carrying drugs or actual cash.”

I nodded and sipped. Or sipped and nodded. “So what you're suggesting is that the history, or shall we say, the provenance of this necklace is unknown.”

“Correct, Mr. Sean. We know from whom the necklace came, and when, but its history prior to 1946 is a mystery. My husband and I have become aware over the years that a number of our friends and family members have acquired and sold such gems and jewelry.”

“Do I surmise that you're wondering if that may be the source of the current difficulties our friends the Bartelmes are having?”

“Suppose their uncle, Mr. Amundson, was carrying gems the day the aircraft was shot down? Either for himself or as a courier for others. And suppose those others now don't wish that fact to be revealed.”

I sipped again and smiled at her. Since she was thinking along lines similar to my own, I decided to confide a bit. “All right. Let's just suppose, although we have absolutely no proof of this, that this fellow Amundson, either on his own or working with others, was carrying a valuable stash of jewels. Let's further assume he may have acquired these jewels through, shall we say, extra-legal means. Let's also assume he didn't plan to pay duty or declare the gems when he entered these United States. And let's suppose he was carrying some kind of records to indicate who paid, or who was to be paid. That is, to whom the jewels were to be distributed. The details of the transactions don't matter much at this point, just that there was a record. Not that there's much of a chance that the record might surface, but somebody here's worried. Worried enough to try to sabotage Tod and Josie's expedition. Worried enough to kill poor Stan Lewis.”

Mrs. Pryor sipped, but she didn't nod. “My thinking also,” she said. “I cannot believe Tod or Josie had anything to do with that man's murder, but if her father did, he must be exposed.”

I finished my coffee. “I'm still not clear why we're having this conversation,” I said. That wasn't true, but I wanted her to say it out loud. Implied intents were all right in romance novels, but in my world, we needed plain talk.

“I asked you here, frankly, to make my own judgment of your character.” She looked me in the eyes. A forthright woman, Mrs. Pryor. Being mostly forthright myself, I stared right back. “I suspect the Bartelmes may need some financial help and you may also need additional resources. I'll require an accounting, but you may come to me for additional funds if that is necessary. Please understand, whatever the outcome, my involvement should remain private. But I assure you, Mr. Sean, whatever additional resources you need to put this matter to rest so Tod and Josie may complete their research will be available.”

She gazed at me, having completed her pronouncement. I had the feeling this was a speech she had been preparing, but wasn't quite ready to deliver when I showed up on her front door. I didn't believe for an instant tat she or her husband were in any way involved in the present crimes I was investigating. Other than paying for my investigation indirectly through her support of Josie and Tod's quest. But there were surely lingering questions that might, one day, rise again.

We were both standing now and moving toward the door. Mrs. Pryor rested one hand on my forearm as if to maintain an important connection. She had told me what I expected to hear, but she hadn't gone the whole way. Making the saboteur go away was one thing. Nailing the killer of Stan Lewis and Preston Pederson might be quite another.