by Toby Neal
Raveaux, conscious of an overhead camera on them as they rose toward the third floor, shook his head. He needed to focus. It didn’t matter what Sophie was doing; he had a challenging situation right here, right now, to handle.
The office door they stopped in front of, with its discreet gold plaque marked Acquisitions, looked like every other door leading away into the distance down a luxurious hallway.
Raveaux tugged his jacket down and straightened his tie as Hoo rang the doorbell. He’d survived hundreds of these kinds of meetings. There was no reason to be nervous—but as he glanced around, something just didn’t feel right about the heavy silence of the hallway, the oppressive sense of emptiness of the entire floor.
The hair rose on the back of his neck.
That feeling was confirmed when the door swung open, framing a huge, muscular man the color of black licorice, dressed in a tank top and fatigues. The soldier cradled an AK-47 and was draped in bandoliers of ammo. A second mercenary loomed behind him, even taller than the first, and just as strapped.
Congolese.
He’d recognize the look of those bandits anywhere—he’d dealt with them in France. What were they doing in San Francisco?
Dealing in stolen diamonds, obviously.
“Excusez-moi. I do not need your diamonds that much.” Staying in character, his French accent heavy, Raveaux stepped back from the doorway with his hands up.
Hoo shouted past the guards. “Kramer! Is this how you greet your guests?”
The guards stepped back, parting on either side of the door. A man who must be Kramer, six foot six in height and built narrow, dressed in shiny, embroidered robes, gestured from within. Overhead light gleamed on the blue-black skin of a shiny shaved head; he looked like a djinn out of a fable. Lucie would have loved the sight of him. “You Americans. So sensitive.”
“I am not American,” Raveaux snarled. “And neither are you, Monsieur.”
Hoo made a settling gesture with his hands. “Well, I am American, and I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. Kramer, if you need to pat us down, do what you gotta do, but we’re not armed and don’t appreciate the firepower. I for one am here to do business. I was actually hoping for some of that really strong coffee you like to serve.”
Kramer gestured with his head. The guards, working in tandem, stepped forward and frisked Hoo and Raveaux efficiently. Raveaux was now glad he had left his weapon at the hotel.
Kramer visibly relaxed once the guards had verified the two men were neither carrying, nor wearing wires. “Can never be too careful. This city is a den of iniquity.” He clapped his hands and called out over his shoulder. “Coffee! And something to eat.” He waved to a seating area of luxe black leather couches. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Raveaux approached the seating area, assessing. It was never good to sink too deep into a couch in a potentially dangerous situation, and he wanted to keep an eye on as much of the room as he could. He chose an armchair at the far end of the large coffee table, leaving the other chair for the diamond dealer, and the couch to Hoo. He perched on the chair’s edge, holding the briefcase on his knees. “I don’t need coffee. I just want to see the diamonds.”
Kramer chuckled, a surprisingly fat, rich sound coming from such a tall, thin man. “There is a protocol. This kind of business takes place only between friends, and friends break bread together.”
Hoo sat down on the couch, and as Raveaux had feared he would, sank deep into it with a grunt. “We’re all friends here, Kramer. You know that.”
Yet another musclebound guard came out of the kitchen, but along with his bandoliers, this one carried a tray loaded with a small Turkish coffee pot, three espresso cups on saucers, and a plate of biscuits. The guard poured thick black coffee into each of their cups and set a fancy biscuit on one side of each saucer.
Kramer gestured to the array of chocolate-coated tinned cookies on a plate accompanying the coffee. “I have these specially sent to me wherever I am in the world. Enjoy.”
Raveaux picked up his cup. The last thing he wanted to do was partake of this man’s food and drink, but there was no choice.
Hoo leaned forward and shoveled several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and stirred it with a loud tinkling sound. “My favorite thing about visiting you, Kramer. This stuff is rocket fuel.”
“I hope our business makes it pleasant, as well.” Kramer chuckled that fat laugh.
Raveaux waited until both Kramer and Hoo had taken sips of coffee to sample his. The taste was smoky and dark, almost oily on his tongue. He took a bite of a chocolate biscuit as well. “Delicious.” The niceties observed, he set down his cup and saucer. “Please. I am a busy man. May I see the merchandise?”
Kramer caught the eye of the guard who had brought in the coffee tray, and gave a nod. The soldier disappeared into a back room, and returned with a large black metal case. He set the case on the table and cleared away the tray of refreshments.
Kramer reached into an interior pocket in his golden robe, and removed a key. He unlocked the case.
Diamonds sparkled inside stacked trays that telescoped out as Kramer opened the lid. Sorted by size and shape, they glittered cold fire from velvet-lined niches. The expanding tiered construction allowed Kramer to lift the top tray, revealing four more trays nested below it, each tray holding diamonds in singles and clusters. Colored diamonds rested on white velvet, clear ones on black.
Raveaux scanned the trays. “As I told you, I am in the market for blue diamonds. I have a buyer who appreciates the rare. I don’t see any here.”
“I have just the thing.” Kramer lifted out the bottom tray to reveal a series of small, color-coded velvet pouches filling the bottom of the box. Kramer removed a royal blue pouch and emptied its contents onto a white velvet tray. Several dazzling, dark blue gems rolled out of the pouch and winked up at Raveaux from their snowy resting place.
Raveaux mentally reconstructed the Finewell’s necklace in his mind.
The color of these stones was right: a captivating blue somewhere between navy and sky. The shapes were right: a series of graduated teardrops. Not the most common cut, and a rare color: these were some of the missing Finewell’s stones.
Kramer handed Raveaux a loupe. Raveaux picked up the largest diamond, likely the centerpiece of the necklace he remembered seeing. He held the gem up and looked at it through the magnifying viewer.
The stone was flawless. Looking into the blue of the stone felt like gazing into infinity. He couldn’t see anything. And then, in the upper left quadrant, the ghost of an inclusion, a shape like a tiny feather.
Raveaux hadn’t just memorized what the diamonds looked like. He had memorized an interior map of each stone, and he immediately recognized this one.
Confirmation. This stone was definitely part of the set that had been stolen from Finewell’s.
Raveaux set the diamond back on the white velvet tray. “I like this one.”
He removed his phone and thumbed to the photo app—but before he could take the picture, he felt the cold steel of a gun muzzle, resting in the notch at the back of his head.
“No photos. Put that phone away,” Kramer growled, no hint of the jovial host in his voice.
“I always take a reference photo of the goods I buy,” Raveaux said. “I was not aware that was against your policy.” The hand holding the phone, still pointed at the diamond, trembled realistically. Raveaux didn’t have to try hard to fake that.
Hoo heaved forward, trying to dig himself out of the couch. “Hey! My bad. I should have told my colleague that no one gets to use their phones in here. Sorry, I forgot to give him the memo.”
“May I put my phone away?” Raveaux asked. If only someone, anyone, knew where he was . . . The round bore of the weapon pressed harder into the back of his head, forcing him to bend over, his chest touching his knees.
“I don’t like the smell of you. I don’t think I’ll sell you my diamonds after all,” Kramer growled.
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“I meant no offense.” Raveaux moved his hand down, very slowly, sliding his phone into his pocket and raising both hands. “But I don’t think I want to buy your diamonds, after all, either.”
The gun was abruptly removed from his head. The man standing behind him yanked upward on the back of Raveaux’s jacket, tugging him upright. The rending of the fine fabric as it ripped under one of his arms sounded almost obscene—until the boom of a door cannon obliterated every other sound.
The portal flew open so hard it smashed into the wall, and a familiar voice shouted: “San Francisco Police!”
Detective Pellman had tracked him, and was walking into a nest of vipers.
“Gun!” Raveaux screamed in warning, and dove for the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sophie: Day Six, Afternoon
Sophie shut her laptop with a click. She’d just finished digging further into Elisa Bell’s background.
The woman had been adopted, but she’d had an uneventful childhood and both of her parents were middle class professionals. She met her parents at holidays, according to her scanty social media posts, and they seemed to be on cordial terms. Bell had been a good student, according to records, and was a talented artist, a standout star at Pearson School of Design during her college years. Her career appeared to be successful; her website featured many product marketing designs, from labels to ads, and she had a nice portfolio of original wall art, too.
Why hadn’t the woman married? Why hadn’t she had children? There was no sign of any romantic involvements with either a male or a female partner, either. Bell was attractive, with a well-shaped figure and riveting blue eyes—and yet she did not seem to have had any major relationships with anyone. Friends were also absent from any postings, which struck Sophie as odd.
Bell had her own business, and her tax returns showed a solid upper-middle-class income. She owned her apartment; she carried a small balance on one credit card which she used to accumulate travel miles. She was in good health, and owned a decent life insurance policy whose main function was to guarantee she had income if she was ever disabled.
In short, Sophie wasn’t able to find any critical need or motivator that would tie her to Samson, or anything to do with their case.
Why was Bell spying on Samson with the keylogger program?
Sophie got up, did a quick set of yoga stretches to limber up her body, and buckled on a fanny pack. She strapped on her shoulder holster next, and shrugged her light jacket on over it, wishing she had brought a sensible coat like Raveaux’s. She left the hotel room, calling for a rideshare on her phone as she rode down to the lobby in the elevator.
Where was Raveaux, and what was he doing?
Whatever his activity this afternoon was, he hadn’t volunteered it. She remembered the closed expression on his face as he lifted his hand in a brief goodbye to her at the door of the hotel . . . maybe he was running through the city for exercise, or reading his book while sampling some gourmet afternoon snack. Wistfulness to join him for either of those activities was an unfamiliar curl of feeling in her chest.
Likeliest of all, Raveaux was meeting some of his old contacts for the case, and didn’t want to tell her what he was up to. That was fine. She hadn’t wanted him to get in her way, either, because she was on her way to do a little breaking and entering.
Now that her bona fides have been established by Pellman, the building super buzzed Sophie into the Lambert Building without question. She took the stairs once more, and at Bell’s apartment, knocked on the door.
Sophie had been away from the location no more than a couple of hours, so she wasn’t surprised when no one answered.
She knocked again, for form’s sake.
No answer.
Sophie unzipped her waist pack and removed a pair of latex gloves, glancing down the empty hall. She’d already verified that there were no visible video surveillance nodes. She snapped on the gloves and took out her lockpicks, zipping the pack shut.
Two minutes later, she turned the knob and pushed the door gently inward.
The apartment was dimly lit: the blinds were down and closed, but a graceful reading lamp on a brass arm, shone onto the corner of a sensuously shaped, ruby velvet couch. A drift of prints of designs covered the surface of the coffee table in front of the couch.
Sophie started at a twitch of movement in the doorway leading out of the living area, her hand coming up automatically to land on her weapon.
A large Persian, the fluffy gray of a San Francisco dawn, stood in the doorway. The cat blinked huge green eyes. “Meerow.”
“Well hello, kitty.” The cat trotted toward Sophie, huge soft tail quirking from one side to the other like a feather boa in motion. Sophie squatted and stroked the cat’s head. “Aren’t you a pretty thing.”
“Don’t move a muscle.” A woman’s voice, hoarse with strain, came from the doorway across the room.
Sophie looked up to meet Elisa Bell’s intense blue gaze. The woman held a police issue Taser, the type that shot prongs, aimed at Sophie.
Sophie lifted her hands slowly away from the cat, holding them up in a surrender gesture, but she was in a deep squat with little ability to move. She’d been tased by one of these weapons before, and it had been extremely unpleasant. The weapon would put her out of commission for at least fifteen minutes, probably longer. “I mean you no harm.”
“Who are you? And what are you doing, breaking into my place?” Bell came forward a step. The cat wound around Sophie’s legs, purring.
“I apologize. I’m a private investigator, working on a case. Truly, I mean you no harm. I came by earlier today, with the police . . .”
“That doesn’t answer why you broke into my place!” Bell gestured with the weapon. “Stand up.”
Sophie stood, slowly, her hands still high. “Can I get my ID out?”
“Show me.”
Sophie slid a hand into her pocket and pulled out the laminated, clip-on Fidelity Mutual insurance ID. “Can I toss this to you?”
Bell nodded. Sophie tossed the ID to Bell’s feet, and the woman squatted to pick it up, her eyes and weapon never leaving Sophie. “Okay. You’re with an insurance company. That doesn’t answer why you’re here.”
“The truth?”
“Of course, I want the truth.” Bell’s voice rose. The cat sensed trouble and bolted for the bedroom.
“We came by today to give you some news. You have an inheritance,” Sophie said.
“If I had a nickel . . . and why would you break in to tell me that?”
“This is real.” Sophie gestured with her head toward the couch. “Can we sit down? Keep the Taser on me if you need to. I promise I just want to talk.” She infused her voice with sincerity.
“Keep your hands up where I can see them.” Bell gestured with the Taser. “No funny business.” The line sounded like something out of an old movie, and Sophie almost smiled as she turned, making her way around the coffee table and sitting down carefully on the red couch, her knees together and hands up.
“You still haven’t told me why you broke into my place.” Bell sat in a high-backed armchair and faced Sophie across the coffee table.
“Like I said, you have an inheritance. My partner and I, along with an SFPD detective, came to give you the news earlier.”
Bell’s eyes were remarkable, large and long lashed, aqua flecked with green and navy. She made a “go on” gesture with the weapon, and Sophie sighed. “I’m investigating the death of the woman who left you that inheritance. I have no good explanation for why I broke in, except that I was curious about you.” Sophie held the woman’s gaze. “I wanted to find out more about you. I was curious what your connection to her might be.”
Of course, the truth was, Sophie had wanted to see if there was something on Bell’s computer that gave an answer to the keylogger question. She carried a write blocker mechanism that could make a complete, mirror copy of Bell’s hard drive in her waist pack. “Are you going
to call the police? Because if so, ask for Detective Pellman. He can back up my story.”
“He’ll back you up on breaking in here?” Bell shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“That was all my idea. I apologize.”
“I admit, you’ve piqued my interest in spite of myself. Who is this person I have an inheritance from?”
“I would be much more comfortable telling you those answers if you would put the weapon down,” Sophie said.
“I bet you would.” The Taser still pointed at Sophie’s midsection.
“Do you know a woman named Mel Samson?”
“No idea who that is.” A flicker of Bell’s eyes, the slightest glance to the left. Bell was lying.
“Well. Mel Samson knows you. And she died last week under suspicious circumstances.”
“I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“I don’t either, quite frankly. I’ve been searching for a link between the two of you, and I haven’t been able to come up with one. But clearly, there’s something there if Samson left you all her worldly possessions, including a considerable life insurance policy.”
Bell lowered the Taser. Following her lead, Sophie dropped her hands, resting them, palms down, on her thighs.
“I should call the police,” Bell said.
“You probably should. Please do, in fact. Ask for Detective Pellman.” Sophie kept a calm mask in place.
“Why is an insurance investigator involved with my inheritance, and what does that have to do with me?”
“Once again, I apologize, but I’m not authorized to discuss the case with you, Ms. Bell. Would you be willing to come with me to the SFPD station and talk to Detective Pellman? Or would you just like to tell me what your relationship is to Mel Samson?”
They locked eyes for a long moment; Bell had a good poker face, but she sighed suddenly, setting the Taser on the coffee table. “Mel Samson is my mother. She gave me up for adoption at birth.”