The Case of the Yellow Diamond (17 page)

 

Chapter 32

M
y plan for Des Moines was to scratch around in the Pellegrino Construction Company and see what might reveal itself. If this Anderson, head of Pellegrino, was related to the lawyer Gareth, it might be easier, but that was an unknown. Neither my nor the Revulons research had revealed a family connection, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. I hoped I wouldn't have to spend another whole day in Des Moines. Maybe the two construction fellows would provide some substantive information, so I sat in the seedy bar and sipped a glass of beer the obliging black-haired waitress brought me. After what I considered an appropriate wait, I stood and sauntered to the bar where my two targets were seated side by side, engaged in earnest conversation.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “might I buy you another round and in return have a little conversation?”

The men glanced at each othe. The blond said, “Sure you can, but I've seen that movie.”

“Which movie would that be?” I riposted.

“The one where whatsisname,” he rapped his knuckles on the bar, “yeah, Humphrey Bogart talks to some guy.”

“
The Maltese Falcon
?” I wondered, gesturing to the bartender. The blond shrugged.

I suggested we move to a booth, but neither man was willing so I stood behind and a bit between them. Not ideal for a detective like me who put a good deal of weight in the interpretation of body language, facial expressions, clues like those, but I could be flexible. I make do with what's available. The workers' names were Bill and Bob. Bill talked some and Bob grunted. After we established some sort of basic rapport, I learned almost nothing until I whipped out two pictures I was carrying, one of Gareth Anderson, the other of Hillier. Both pictures elicited a positive response. Yes, both men had been seen occasionally around Pellegrino sites or in the construction office. No, not recently. No, they didn't know the name of either. Finally, after a couple more rounds, Bill volunteered the information I should talk to a former employee of the company, a woman named Mary Astor.

“Seriously?” I said.

Bill looked at Bob, then at me. He squinted. “You think I'm lyin'?”

“No, no,” I said. “I'm just surprise at her name. It's the same as a famous actress.”

“Yeah?” Bill breathed. He hadn't made the connection, maybe never would. Mary Astor played a principal role in
The Maltese Falcon
, the movie based on the famous Dashiell Hammett book by the very same name. The two men looked at me and nodded wisely when I imparted this information. I paused and sipped my beer.

Bill told me, in response to other questions, that Mary Astor lived in a retirement home in the northern section of the city and had been a longtime office manager for Pellegrino. I should talk to her. Bob grunted his agreement. A lead. I bought my construction pals one more round and departed. It took me no time at all to locate the address of the Peaceful Retirement Home.

I was soon wending my way through traffic toward the establishment, which turned out to be a sizeable multistory building wrapped around a large, flourishing garden, which had been built on the roof of the parking garage which served the retirement home and nearby businesses. A call brought quick acquiescence from Ms. Astor to see me in the garden, where she habitually sat in the late-day sun for a half-hour or so when the weather was nice.

I went in through a lackadaisical security routine and entered the garden. There she was. Mary Astor was a short, spry woman of uncertain decades and a no-nonsense attitude. Since she was long gone from the company, she had no particular hesitation at identifying the two men from the pictures I presented. Yes, she'd seen both of them periodically in the offices, usually meeting with the top dog. That was her label for him. They were obviously not construction workers. She opined they might have been lawyers or politicians. They came and went together the half-dozen times she'd encountered them. Carrying briefcases, yes. Their attitudes and demeanors had been neutral, as if what they were doing was routine. The only reason, Ms. Astor told me, she remembered them at all was that they were among the few men who came to the offices who had no apparent connection to the firm.

I knew in my bones I was following the right trail. Anderson and Hillier were the couriers who carried illegal gems from a secret stash in Iowa to buyers in Europe. I was digging into something serious here, and it was making me just a bit nervous. Since it was now late afternoon, I decided to return to the motel for the night. When I entered the room, my perimeter meter flashed, the one in my head that said something was not right. I spent several minutes looking and couldn't find anything out of place or any traps like a listening device. Still, I might have missed something. I packed and settled my bill and departed Mr. Carlson's fine establishment.

Some hours later I checked in at a downscale motel in a small town in northern Iowa, just south of the border with Minnesota. I had been at pains to be sure I wasn't followed, jumping red lights, abruptly exiting the freeway, reversing my direction, putting on a long-billed ballcap, all the little tricks I'd learned to confound pursuers. I never saw any, and it may all have been a waste of time, but I felt better. I was alone and had lost any possible hounds sniffing along on my trail.

Mid-afternoon the following day I arrived home to the waiting arms of Catherine Mckerney. As I explained to her while settling on the couch holding a glass of very good scotch, Mary Astor had confirmed one other useful piece of information for me. The Anderson now running Pellegrino Construction was the nephew of the deceased attorney, Gareth Anderson.

 

Chapter 33

T
he next morning I called Tod and reported I had new information and would have a report for him soon. I wasn't in the habit of making progress reports to clients, but somehow in his case, I'd fallen into that routine. “Have you settled on a new lawyer?”

A long sigh. “We've talked about it. Josie is very upset over Mr. Anderson's death, almost as much as about her dad.”

“I'm assuming you're both still interested in getting to the bottom of the sabotage, yes?”

“Absolutely. I guess we may have to postpone a trip to Yap until next year. Sorting out the estate and the wills is going to take some time.”

“You did say wills? As in more than one?”

“At least two, maybe three. There's Josie's dad's will, of course, and it turns out Gareth Anderson's will mentions Josie's dad and Josie, as well as his wife. Then there's his—Anderson's—wife, and I have no information about that.”

“Do you have any information on who handles Gareth Anderson's estate?” His lawyer, if he had one, might have useful information. Tod didn't know.

After I hung up, I thought about these new complications.
Wheels within wheels. You smuggle a few pebbles into and out of the country and things get dicey.
I decided to call Mrs. Pryor. She was interested in what I had to say, but had no helpful information or ideas except the obvious: lay hands on Richard Hillier. So I went looking.

Naturally, Mr. Hillier was not to be found at his apartment in North Saint Paul, at his office inside Pederson Investments, nor working out at his athletic club, or anywhere else I tried. He was probably lying low. I thought him a likely suspect for the bombing of Anderson's Caddy, and the more I thought about it, in spite of his long association with Preston Pederson, if he could kill his school buddy, Anderson, it wouldn't be a stretch to find him guilty of offing Josie's dad as well. He would be severing any links in the smuggling chain that wandered from Southeast Asia to construction operations in Des Moines, Omaha, and Saint Paul. I wondered if there remained a supply of uncut stones stashed in some bank vault that Hillier could go for. I didn't see any way to acquire that knowledge short of torturing him, even if I had someplace to put him. Hillier didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd surrender or give up any information, even if captured and sequestered. And that assumed I could get my hands on him in the first place.

* * * *

In the morning we caught a break. Or a break-in. From my contacts in the Minneapolis PD, I learned that somebody had tried to enter the home of the sadly deceased attorney, Mr. Gareth Anderson. Whoever had tried the surreptitious entry had seriously bad timing. While he crawled through a window on the west side of the house, a meandering cop drove by and saw the action. When he turned on his lights and fishtailed his vehicle to light up the side of the house, whoever was partway through the window abruptly gave it up and hauled ass out the back way. It was dark in Anderson's neighborhood, and though the cop gave chase, he never again laid eyes, or hands, on the would-be burglar.

The cops in Minnetonka put it down to attempted burglary, probably by somebody who read about the deaths of both former occupants of the residence. They assumed it had been an interrupted crime of opportunity. Maybe, but I wasn't so sure. If, as I still assumed, some diamonds still lay around, somebody from Pellegrino might be anxious to lay hands on said stones before a wandering estate attorney traced a bank account back to the wrong people. An account with a deposit box containing smuggled gemstones would be a distinct embarrasment. That evening I laid out my reasoning for Catherine.

“You're assuming there's still some smuggled loot, correct?” Catherine giggled at the old-fashioned gangland slang. Her occasional use of such street language did not fall as pearls from her lips. Still, I thought it was cute.

“Correct. But we better start with the presumption my idea's way off base.”

“It's pretty bizarre. Hillier and Anderson have for years been funneling cash from stolen jewels into the business.”

“Yeah,” I said sourly. “If it's true, it shows a lot of patience and discipline. That's pretty unusual behavior. Though nothing about this case has turned out usual, so far.”

“What you need is to track the handling of the Andersons' estates and how it connects to Josie and Tod, right?”

As usual, Catherine was putting her finger squarely on the essential piece.

“And the other avenue you might explore is that attorney's partners.”

“Hillier.” I ingested a healthy slug of scotch. “Hillier has to know something about all this. I'm still betting he went with Anderson to retrieve and sell the smuggled jewels. The problem is I have no way of coercing the information out of him, even if I can put my hands on him.”

“Seems to me that's becoming more and more remote, yes?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“If you're right and Hillier is really just hired muscle, he's lost two of his patrons, in Josie's dad and Anderson. I'd not be surprised to learn that he doesn't have access to the stash of jewelry that you assume is out there somewhere. I'll bet somebody like that is probably going to run short of cash before too long.”

“You are right, as usual,” I said. “That's why I won't be surprised to learn he was the interrupted burglar. Somewhere, somehow, I have to acquire more information about Hillier's odd absences. Or about the good lawyer's. Where did they go when they went? Whom did they contact? How did they travel?”

“If they expected to get the maximum benefit from the jewels, they'd want things to appear legit, right?” Catherine frowned at her tablet. She'd recently bought another electronic toy. Meanwhile, I was still struggling to remember to recharge my new cell phone.

“Sure, but what's your point?”

“If they were taking jewels out of the country, to Europe, say, wouldn't they have to declare them? And didn't they fly?”

I could see where she was going with this line of reasoning. “Sure, and there must be some records somewhere. Probably in plain sight,” I said. “Since it wasn't a big deal on the surface, there would be no reason to hide those trips.”

“Hunting trips.” Catherine smiled down at me. I was sprawled on the carpet at her feet where she lay on the sofa. Across the room, on the TV the evening news had ended and some guy with his arm around a black lab was going on about the upcoming hunting season.

“Fishing trips,” I said. “Even today, crossing into Canada through the Boundary Waters or along the Montana border wouldn't be particularly difficult if you knew what you were doing.”

“If the attorney—Anderson? Is that his name? If he did something like that, there's probably a record in his office.”

I nodded and finished my scotch. “Correcto. There won't be a calendar entry that says ‘diamond smuggling trip to Montreal.' But there will be something. And since the good lawyer is now, sadly, deceased, those records are likely to be somewhat more accessible.” This might just be the wedge, the notch, the loose panel I needed.

 

Chapter 34

R
icardo, my friend.”

“Your timing's bad,” growled my favorite investigator in the Minneapolis PD.

“My timing's off? For what, pray tell?”

“We're in the midst of a little kerfuffle here. Not your concern, but I can't talk with you right now unless you're confessing to one of our unsolved murders, or something equally world-shaking.”

“Gotcha. Call me when you can.”

Later that day we connected. By then the air conditioning in the building had completely malfunctioned. Those of us on the upper floors were in considerable discomfort. Outside, a relentless August sun beat down on the sidewalks and roads, and the fresh morning breeze had long since blown off down the avenue. It was hot in the city and tempers were undoubtedly nearing lift-off.

“I have a few minutes. What do you need?” Ricardo didn't sound amused.

I shifted in my chair, peeling damp slacks away from my inner thighs. “I assume you have in evidence various materials from the office of the deceased lawyer, Gareth Anderson, as your investigation into his death continues.”

“I believe that to be the case.” His voice had become flat, neutral.

“I detect a certain caution or hesitancy in your normally vibrant tones.” I grinned at the telephone for no discernible reason. My feet, inside my red Converse Keds tennis shoes, were sweating.

“That would be affirmative,” Ricardo said.

“Is that because you're being observed or overheard, or is there another reason?”

“Let the record show that the subject declined to answer.”

“Now we're sounding like a TV show. A bad TV show.”

After a moment of silence, Ricardo murmured, “We do have a quantity of stuff forensics are sifting through. Why?”

“If you have an opportunity, a quick look through Mr. Anderson's day planner would be mighty helpful, both to me and your investigation, as well.”

“It's not my investigation, but I'll see what I can do. Can you be more specific?”

“Yep. Last year. Gap of a week or ten days in which he appears to be absent from the office. Probably with no explanation.”

Ricardo grunted and ended the connection.

Days later, I visited Gareth Anderson's law firm.

A different woman sat at the front desk when I breezed in from the dusty parking lot. “Hi there,” I said with a big smile. “My name's Sean. What's yours?”

“Eloise,” she responded. That often happens if you catch basically good people unawares. “How may I help you?” She seemed nervous. One hand was out of sight in her lap. I wondered if there was an alarm button close by her fingers.

“I'd like a few minutes with Mr. Larson, if he's available.” I smiled. Sweetly, I thought.

“Do you have an appointment?”

I thought I likely would've mentioned that if I had, but never mind. “No, I just popped in with some urgent business regarding your late partner.” She looked blank. Maybe she didn't know about Gareth Anderson's recent death.

Down the short corridor a door opened, and I heard hard heels striking the tiled floor. They came our way. The woman who appeared, holding a yellow file folder, was the woman who had been sitting at the desk the last time I was in that office. She stopped short when she saw me.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Mr. Sean, wasn't it?”

“Yes, and it still is. I wonder if I could have a brief word with Mr. Larson.”

“I'm afraid he's tied up at the moment. Perhaps I can help. Won't you come this way?” She turned—Ruth, that was her name, I remembered. I followed her nicely shaped form down the hall to the same office from which she had just come. Inside I recognized a scene of disorderly reorganization. Lawyers' boxes, the kind they trundled to and from courtrooms, were stacked against one wall. Two metal file cabinets, one with two of its beige drawers half open, stood against another wall. The small window in the corner had a piece of ill-fitting plywood wedged into the frame. The large wooden desk was littered with file folders and papers.

“Excuse the mess. We had a break-in last night or early this morning.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“Of course. They've been and gone.” I realized Ruthie was watching me closely, gauging my reactions.

“Anything taken?”

“We don't yet have an answer to that question. Perhaps you can tell me why.”

“Why?”

“Uh huh. Why the break-in, and why are you here again?” She smiled, sort of. Her smile put me in mind of a barracuda.

“I'm trying to trace Mr. Anderson's movements. See if there's a discernible pattern. Do you have his day planner or whatever he used to keep track of his schedule?”

“No, but we have a master schedule on the computer that keeps track of time blocks. Not individual appointments or court appearances. You understand?”

I did. “Maybe we could take a look at it?” She frowned and switched on the computer squatting on a rolling stand beside the desk. “Did the burglar get away with much?” I asked again, mostly to keep the conversation going. Sometimes I would get a different answer to the same question.

Ruthie glanced up at me and sank into the desk chair. Her fingers skipped over the keyboard, and the machine made a faint groaning sound.

“I, well, I guess it doesn't matter, he being dead and all. We can't tell if anything was stolen. We still haven't been able to sort out all Mr. Anderson's—Gareth's—work product.”

“Things in kind of a state? I can understand that. A real tragedy, his death like that. Would you find August of 1995?”

“That far back? I don't know if—oh, here we are.”

I slid around behind her chair and peered at the screen. August 1995 was blank.

“Okay, now try April 1999.” I kept my voice low and confidential. I was playing on Ruth's unsettled situation. I hoped I'd get what I needed before she remembered attorney privilege and client privacy and stuff like that.

Ruth's flying fingers brought up another blank page labeled April 1999.

“All right. Can we look at one more?” She nodded. “October 2007.” We drew another blank. Abruptly, the woman tapped a key that brought up a generic system screen. She swiveled toward me. Our faces were close.

“What's going on, here, Mr. Sean? Why are you looking at those dates? Why was this office targeted soon after Mr. Anderson was killed?”

“Very good questions, Miss . . .” I'd noted she wasn't wearing a wedding ring but I didn't know her last name.

“Watson. Ruth Watson. I ask you again, Mr. Sean. What's going on?”

I straightened and stepped back from her chair. “Here's what I know and what I just confirmed. Over a period of years, your Mr. Anderson and a Richard Hillier seemed to disappear for a few weeks every so often. Those dates are the same months and years for both gentlemen.”

“Which means what?”

“I think it means Anderson and Hillier were together each of those times, and it wasn't to play games. I think they were carrying out a special service for some clients, a service that may have been dangerous and just a little bit illegal.”

I stopped and Ruth Watson stared at me, waiting for me to go on. In the silence we both heard the telephone ring in the outer office. “Is that it? Is that all you're prepared to tell me?”

I didn't tell her that was pretty much all I had. “Do you have any information on Mr. Richard Hillier?” I could see Ruth was recovering her office skills and sloughing off her recent vulnerability.

“We might. I'd require a quid pro quo.”

I nodded. “I think I can assist you with the police investigation here.”

“Since we have no evidence of theft of value, I'm pretty sure the local police will consign the event to a low priority list.” Her lips twisted. “Assuming they even have such a list.”

“I think you should suggest to your boss he contact the locals and ask them to talk to an investigator for the Minneapolis Department. The one you want is the lead investigator on the death of one Preston Pederson.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You think the break-in is connected to Mr. Anderson's client?”

“I'd bet money on it.” It was worth noting she instantly knew Preston was Anderson's client.

Watson frowned and nodded. “Okay then.” She picked up the phone and punched in 9-1-1.

While she talked first to the call center operator and then to the local cop house, I surveyed the office. Looking down at Anderson's desk, I saw the lap drawer was open, a several-inch gap. I shifted slightly to put more of my body between Watson's shoulder and the desk. With a pen from my shirt pocket, I slid wider the drawer of Anderson's desk. For a long moment I studied the contents. There weren't many items in the drawer: a couple of distorted paper clips, two roller-ball pens, an unsealed tin of Altoids, in the corners some lint and there in one of the small built-in receptacles, two dark-colored, misshapen pebbles. I didn't touch them. I just stared at them from eighteen inches away. They looked to be about half a carat each.

Ruth Watson replaced the receiver in its cradle. I said, “There are two pebbles here in the drawer. I'm pretty sure they're connected to Anderson's death. I also think they could be uncut diamonds. Don't throw them out.”

Watson jerked around and leaned over the drawer until our heads were almost touching. “I'll be damned,” she murmured.