The Case of the Yellow Diamond (7 page)

 

Chapter 12

I
lept into my Taurus and went looking for Richard Hillier. Preston Pederson's secretary told me he wasn't expected to be available for the rest of the day. Pederson's office suite was situated in a newish office park off the north side of Maplewood, another of the ubiquitous suburban cities that litter the landscape around our Twin Cities. There were a lot of shiny late-model Caddies and a sprinkling of exotic foreign jobs in the parking lot that extended on three sides of the glassy building.

Pederson's firm, a small brokerage with, apparently, a polished, high-buck clientele, was a player in the local and regional markets, but had remained a fairly small presence. Powerful, wealthy, but not interested in aggressive expansion. An interesting philosophy. The massive floor-to-ceiling solid dark wood door swung open easily to my pressure. The reception room was not large, nor was it opulent. The woman at the desk was about what you'd expect. She was slender, middle-aged and conservatively dressed. She had a nice smile.

I explained my business, and she offered coffee. I declined. She went away and returned in a minute to take me back to Hillier's office. It was the second one down the single hall. There were windows on the outside wall which gave one a nice view of brush, a few mature trees and in the middle distance, a small pond complete with motionless ducks. I wondered if the ducks were real and if they were captive. I hoped not, if they were real.

Hillier's office was small and plain. It wasn't a closet, but it could have been. Most offices gave you some insight into the interests or personality of the occupant. Not this one. If Hillier left, in twenty-four hours one wouldn't know who had occupied the space. There wasn't even a name on the door.

The man didn't get up from his large, black, well-padded chair behind a medium-sized double pedestal desk. He looked at me and pointed at one of two side chairs against the opposite wall. Then he waved the woman off, muttering, “Close the door. Please.”

The please came as an afterthought. I wondered if he'd been told to be more polite to the office help.

She departed without a backward glance, doing as ordered. When the door snicked shut, Hillier looked at me, devoid of any expression on his tanned face. If I didn't know better, I'd have put him down as an avid golfer with plenty of wherewithal and interest in the game, a man who closed deals between chip shots and wiped out the competition after long drives into the fading sun with a heavy club.

“Mr. Sean, I have no idea how I can help you. What is it you want to know, exactly?” His voice was low and flat.

“I'm not sure. What, exactly do you do around here?” It was not a polite question.

Hillier didn't react except to lean back in his chair and nod once, as if I'd just confirmed something he'd expected. I was sure my impertinence would not go unreported, which I expected. Others down the line might prepare for what never came their way, which just might give me a little edge. So I was pushy with this man. Not expecting an answer, I moved on.

“Tod and Josie have provided me with an overall view of their financial arrangements for these trips to Yap Island, but I need to confirm a few details.”

“I don't see how that can help you. What does that have to do with whoever is trying to disrupt their trips?”

“Trust me, right now no detail is too small to be overlooked.”

“Yeah, right.”

“So, how much have you invested in this enterprise”

“That is none of your damn business.”

“Of course not.” I smiled at him. “But it will help me to know.”

“I can hardly care less what will or won't help you,
Mister
Sean. So just forget it.”

“I gather your employer's worried about his daughter in this regard. Doesn't it bother you at least a little that your lack of cooperation could jeopardize my investigation?”

Hillier's response was a snort and a slight shake of the head. He sat there in front of me at his bare-topped desk, in smug self-righteousness. He was almost daring me to get some useful information out of him.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Pederson?”

“I don't work for Mr. Pederson.”

“No?”

“No. I'm employed by Pederson Investments.”

I raised one eyebrow. The left one. I couldn't seem to get the same response out of the other one.

“But Mr. Pederson is the sole owner of PI, correct?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't know.”

“So, what is it you do around here?” I glanced around with an elaborate smile on my face. As if to point out there was nothing in the office, or on his desk, that would suggest any kind of task of any sort. “What's your title?” Because Pederson Investments was a private investment company, the only information I'd located was a brief puff piece designed to lead people with wads of idle cash to trust the firm to invest it wisely in high-yield properties and building projects. Who was employed at the firm and for what purpose was hidden from casual view. There were rumors, however.

“My sources say you're the muscle.” I smiled and spread my hands. I hoped the effect was ingenuous. “If tenants need to be brought into line, to sign the quit claim deed or just vacate the premises when needed, I hear you can be very persuasive.”

Hillier didn't smile back, but he didn't frown or swear at me, either. “Sometimes, in this business, we have to do things that are uncomfortable. A tenant refuses to leave, even after legit termination of the lease. Or we sometimes get freeloaders moving in and giving us hassle. That's where those lies come from, Mr. Sean. Our company is very careful of our well-deserved clean reputation. Don't believe everything you hear.” He glanced at his watch. “And I'm sorry to say, I have an appointment on the other side of town. So you'll have to excuse me.”

Hillier rose and extended a big paw across the desk. Slick. I wasn't going to just sit there in his empty office and pout, was I?

I shook his hand and left, knowing I hadn't laid a glove on the man. Not a ripple, not a rise. I would have to pursue other lines of inquiry until I had something substantial to club him with.

 

Chapter 13

A
lthough you might not realize it from reading a lot of detective fiction these days, most private investigators had more than one client on the hook at one time. Since most of us got paid after the case closed, and retainers, as we like to call 'em, never quite cover ongoing expenses anyway, we needed more than a single case going at once.

This was particularly true for single practitioners like my humble self. Most big law firms, where a large number of referrals originated, were careful with their cash and didn't like to pay for idle hands. Not every case required a crackerjack investigator, so even my most regular client, Harcourt, Saint Martin, Saint Martin, Jove, et cetera, et cetera, was willing to put up with the small inconvenience of not having me at their beck and call.

So, while I was immersing myself in the intricacies of Bartelme-Pederson, I had other irons in the fire, so to speak. Tonight I was dealing with one of those irons. It required me to dress up. No red Converse this evening. No, tonight was shiny patent-leather shoes and a lightweight suit, a black-tie affair, which gave me a small problem.

I was glad I wasn't doing security at a full formal event, the kind where the men wear white bow ties and tails. And white gloves. Being a short fellow, white tie and tails makes me dangerously penguin-esque. That makes me cranky. Some Emperor penguins, I'd been advised, reached six feet in height, whereas I was five-two on a good day.

So, anyway, tonight I was being a security guard for a gala affair at a posh country club in one of the Westside golf club bunkhouses. I didn't actually know this particular mansion-like club house had bedrooms, but some do and the size of this place, with its large and small meeting rooms, a good-sized ballroom and three bars associated with two dining rooms, well, you get the picture. Why not have a few private suites for the wheels who wanted to be away from home for a time?

It appeared that just having a gathering of one's two or three hundred closest friends for an evening of fun and frivolity wasn't enough attraction in the modern era, so themes or special considerations entered the picture. In this case, a local jeweler was displaying a traveling exhibition of fine and expensive designer jewelry. One of the top local bands had been engaged to provide dancing music in the big ballroom, a string trio would offer quieter music for listening in a different room and so on. I understood the attendees were even being encouraged to open their vaults and strongboxes to allow proper adornment of the attending ladies in their personal jewelry.

So bling bling. In great and expensive quantities. For that, you needed security. The folks who staged these charity affairs didn't want goons in monkey suits standing around looking uncomfortable. They wanted to feel secure, but they weren't partial to uniforms. They did want security personnel reasonably well turned out, who could put words together in complete sentences, and who were competent in event of crisis. For example, if a female guest tripped and fell, they would assist her back to her feet without any unnecessary pawing of her body.

Enter Sean Sean and four others, circumspect and discreet gentlemen all. In most cases, the guests with whom we might interact would not realize they were socializing with men packing heat. Yes, we went armed. Which was a problem for me. My handgun of choice was an older model Colt .45-caliber semiautomatic—sizeable and it weighed a lot. When on the rare occasion I had to drag it out, it got immediate respect.

“Not carrying your cannon tonight, I see,” commented Catherine, watching me dress. She knew this because the special rig I had for the Colt was nowhere to be seem.

“Nope. This suit isn't tailored for it. I'll carry the little .38 liteweight.”

“The ankle holster,” she said. Catherine went to the closet and opened her built-in safe. As our time together lengthened, she'd become, if not entirely comfortable, at least resigned to the presence of my weapons in our apartment. Not the shotguns. She drew the line at “those ugly things,” as she put it.

Now she took out the soft black calfskin ankle holster and the box with the tiny short-barreled Smith and Wesson five-shot revolver the holster was designed to hold. I didn't like wearing the thing but tonight it was my only option. “You sure I don't walk funny with this thing?” I said, hiking up my pant leg. I'd had the pant leg slightly enlarged to accommodate the holster and make it easier to get at the weapon.

“No funnier than usual.” She grinned down at me.

* * * *

The club had been built on the side of a hill between the front nine and the back nine, so there wasn't a real front-back orientation. At the upper, smaller, parking area where I parked, one could unload golf clubs from the trunk and in a few steps place the bag in the carrier of the golf cart you'd already reserved, waiting at the edge of the pavement. You could even book a driver for the cart. To my left was a single-story stone-faced utility building covered with some sort of vine. Behind that a fenced enclosure held two clay tennis courts. I had no doubt the top of the nets at the center of the span was precisely thirty-six inches, tournament height, from the ground. A breezeway led to the main structure. Here one entered at the third floor and then went by elevator or stairs to upper floors, straight through to the main ballroom, or downstairs to one of the bars or restaurants, the small gymnasium and workout center, the locker rooms and the parking area for other golf carts.

I was arriving almost ninety minutes early, and the sun was still sending heat onto the broad fairways and greens that surrounded the club. The fairways were green, indicating the use of a fair amount of water. My feet got warm just strolling across the asphalt parking lot. It was my habit to arrive early in order to check out the layout and refresh my memory of hallways, stairs and doors. I liked to become aware of any alterations since I last trod those thick, dark green carpets.

I went in and introduced myself to the head honcho, a tall (to me) well set-up fellow with clean, properly trimmed fingernails, short hair, and shiny black shoes. He checked me off on a typed roster of names and offered to accompany me on a tour of the clubhouse. I declined with thanks.

After I wandered around the halls and poked into a few nooks and blind cul-de-sacs, I went to the big ballroom where the main action would happen this night. The first thing that attracted my eyes was the view. The tall windows on the east wall looked out on the golf course and a pretty special sight it was, lit by the lowering golden evening sun. The angle of view was such that the city skyline was invisible. We could have been on Mars. Well, probably not. Voices attracted me so I sauntered over to one corner where the traveling exhibition was being arranged in several long glass cases set on wooden trestles. The trestle sawhorses were concealed under long folds of heavy white and pale rose-colored velvet drops. The cases were glass on three sides to allow maximum viewing. I looked closely and discovered that the tops could be opened, but they had small, well-concealed locks in the corners to reduce any chance of pilfering. Three young women in white shirts with short black skirts, black hose, and black high heels busily touched up the display. Small pin spots had been artfully arranged to send strong glints zinging off the polished jewels.

I introduced myself to the man obviously in charge. He in turn introduced me to his security chief, a large black dude with a brilliant smile of shiny white teeth. He smiled a lot and shook my hand without a macho display of finger strength, which I appreciated.

The sun went down, and the attendees began to arrive. Some of them came in rented limos, some in their personal, highly polished Caddies, BMWs
,
Benzes, and Lincolns. It truly was a gala affair, as the society lady from the
StarTribune
would later dub it in her column. She was elegantly turned out, I thought, clutching the arm of a handsome fellow I didn't recognize.

My job, unless a problem arose, was actually quite easy. Security was expected, and single men standing around ogling guests was fine. There was plenty to ogle. Most of the women were seriously decked out. Long dresses predominated although some of the younger women with good legs wore short, tight skirts. Décolletage was on display. Ample bosoms adorned with jewelry passed my gaze in serried review. The dances were mostly waltzes and fox trots, as befitted the age and comportment of the guests. Although the bar was well attended through the entire evening and did a persistent business, I detected no social lapses. Then a woman I hadn't seen before walked by in a theatrical costume of yards of deep burgundy velvet. The dress, which trailed behind her on the floor, had a wide neckline and sleeves that just rested on the ends of her shoulders—not quite a strapless gown. She must have entered by a different door. Her brilliant white hair framed her face with soft ringlets. Although she was clearly into her sixth decade, she wore her years well, and I could see she was someone used to the power and prestige her wealth afforded her. As she passed, our eyes caught and she smiled. I nodded, reflecting that her smile had seemed genuine, not that of a superior being. But she radiated position and power. I was reminded of the wife of Ephraim Harcourt, a woman I had sent to jail a few years earlier. She had generated a similar kind of power when she cared to.

I knew I had not seen this woman before. I suspected she'd be interesting to talk to. My snap judgment was based on far too little evidence, but there you are. There was more. Resting on her chest just above the beginning of her cleavage was a large and elaborate necklace. Several oval red stones I took to be rubies rested in complicated settings that might have been platinum or white gold, all linked together around the center stone. This rock, perhaps five or six carats, was intense yellow, and it sparkled and almost sang aloud in the muted hubbub of the room.

I'd recently read a bit about yellow diamonds. They were among the rarest and most expensive, especially when bearing few flaws and cut to perfect dimensions. I was willing in that moment to bet that rock was almost flawless. I wished Catherine was there to see it.

The woman passed on by and I went back to my job, circulating slowly, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd, wishing I could get rid of my ankle holster because the skin under the strap was starting to itch. I turned around to go the other way, and there she was again, one hand extended as if she'd been about to pluck at my sleeve. Turned out, she had.

“Mr. Sean,” she said. Her voice was mid-range, her diction precise, and she showed no hesitation in dealing with my name. Cool.

“Yes, ma'am,” I responded. “You have the advantage of me.”

“Yes, I do. I would like to speak to you privately for a few minutes.”

“I'm afraid I can't leave the ballroom right now. Perhaps—”

“No, that's all right. If you'd bring me a martini to that table over there?” She handed me her empty glass and indicated a small, empty table for two beside one wall. “Shaken, not stirred, if you please.” She smiled and turned away.

I got rid of her glass and found one of my security fellows. “I'm going to take a quick break, but I'll be right there,” I said, pointing at the table. He nodded. I acquired the requested martini—shaken, not stirred—and took it to her along with a glass of ginger ale for me.

The woman smiled her thanks, gave me her fingers, and said, “Thank you. I'm Madeline Pryor.”

I knew that name, but from what?

“Josie Bartelme is an associate at my husband's law firm. She's told me about their Pacific quest and the current troubles they're having. It was my husband who recommended you.”

“I see. Thank your husband for that.”

“It's an intriguing situation, isn't it?”

“Yes, and I'm sure you know I can't discuss it with you.”

Madeline Pryor nodded and said, “Of course not. But when I realized who you were, I wanted to meet you. Then I saw you admiring my diamond.” She touched it with a single finger.

“So it isn't paste, is it.”

She chuckled. “I've heard you sometimes have a sharp tongue. The diamond is quite real.”

“It's truly magnificent,” I acknowledged.

“Yes, it is. My family's owned it for many years. The stone's been slightly altered since my family acquired it. Recut, you see.”

I didn't, but it was apparent she had a point to make.

“Yes, it is now a near replica of the Moon of Baroda. Of course that yellow is larger, almost twenty-four carats, I believe.”

“Truly.”

She nodded, a tiny smile playing about her mouth. “Marilyn Monroe wore the Moon to the premiere of
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
.”

“Interesting. That would have been back in the 1950s somewhere.”

“1953, to be precise,” Mrs. Pryor went on. She sipped her martini and nodded approvingly.

“Do you know where your diamond came from?” I asked.

“Yes, a relation found the necklace in a shop in Singapore right at the end of the war. It was damaged and not as complete as this.” She raised her hand and touched the diamond. “We've been given to understand this diamond was found in Borneo or perhaps in India, sometime in the late nineteenth century. There are many legends attached to precious stones. But I'm sure you're aware of that. After a few years my relative was able to have the necklace restored.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “I have to get back to work.”

“I hope you will be able to help Josie and Tod. To that end, if there is anything you find you need . . .” she gestured.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pryor, I'll remember your generous offer.” I rose from my chair, and then leaned over and said, “May I assume you have already helped Mrs. Bartelme in her efforts to find her granduncle?”

“You may.”

“Have a pleasant evening, Mrs. Pryor.” I smiled and returned to my tasks.
Well, now. Another source of money shows up
. I wondered why neither Josie nor Tod happened to mention the Pryor connection. Wheels within wheels. More questions. Marilyn Monroe. My, my.