Chase Baker and the Dutch Diamonds: A Chase Baker Thriller Book 10

by Vincent Zandri

  But from what I’d been told thus far about the old bones of Wiley Winston, they had been packed inside a small wood box and reburied in a cemetery in North Albany. I wouldn’t have to worry about lifting a concrete lid weighing half a ton since the bones didn’t require the watertight sealing properties of a concrete and steel-lined vault. Also, it only made sense that the box of bones would be buried at a far shallower depth since there was no flesh and tissue left over to decompose.

  All this in mind, I lead Sarah not to the area of the store where heavy-duty digging tools are housed, but instead to the more genteel gardening equipment. Stuff even an old lady could use without much trouble. I grab two spades, hand one to Sarah.

  “That’s it?” she says, staring at the shiny new shovel. “Shouldn’t we also buy a pickaxe? What if we run into roots or rock or something?”

  “The bones were only reburied a few days ago. I’m guessing the ground is still soft. We could probably get away with using a little kid’s sandbox tools.”

  She nods. “Okay then,” she says. “What else? Flowery garden gloves?”

  “Ha ha,” I fake laugh. “Come on. I’ll show you, wise-ass.”

  She turns quick, gives me a wink. “You can’t take your eyes off my ass, Baker,” she says.

  Chase the snagged.

  We head to an aisle that has flashlights and portable lamps. I grab a six-watt portable battery powered LED lamp and accompanying battery pack.

  “We’ll need some light to dig by,” I say. “And it’s only thirty bucks. I’m sure Edge won’t mind the investment since he’s liable to multiply it by one million in the very near future. That is, we get lucky.”

  Chase the hopeful.

  “We done here?” Sarah says.

  “Yup,” I say, “we’re done.”

  We bring the stuff up to the counter, pay for it with cash. The kid behind the register looks up at us, smiles.

  “You guys digging a tunnel?” he says. “I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to dig your way into a bank vault or something like that.”

  “Actually, a bank vault wouldn’t make sense,” I say, “since there’d be a concrete floor and an alarm system.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, his young face taking on a perplexed expression. “Never thought of that. Course, you could do it using explosives.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip. “Very true,” I say. “But what we’re actually up to is robbing a grave.”

  Sarah looks at me alarmed and wide-eyed.

  The kid pauses for a second, then grins and laughs.

  “You’re just pulling my leg,” he says.

  Sarah laughs along with him. “Of course we are,” she says. “My husband is quite the jokester, aren’t you, honey?” She pinches my left forearm with the fingers of her right hand. I pull my arm away, rub the wound without looking too obvious.

  “Ouch,” I whisper under my breath.

  The kid rings us out, and we take our stuff with us out the door.

  “Really,” Sarah says, as we make our way back out to the parking lot. “We’re going to rob a grave? What kind of idiot admits to pulling a stunt like that?”

  “We do,” I point out. “That kid isn’t about to believe us. We’re two responsible-looking adults. I was just having a little fun with him.”

  She shakes her head. “Hope you’re right. I don’t feel very good about this.”

  Over my left shoulder, I see the Jeep pulling up. Edge is sitting in the back, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette. Rob is behind the wheel. He’s got a bag of cool ranch Doritos open, and he’s methodically eating them one by one. He’s got the munchies no doubt.

  “You got the shovels,” Edge barks. “Let’s go rob us a grave and get rich.”

  I glance at Sarah.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Maybe we both should be a little nervous about this operation.”

  14

  We drive to the Extend Stay America that’s within view of the Albany International Airport. While Edge and Rob wait in the Jeep, Sarah and I proceed to rent a room. When the suited man behind the counter asks for a credit card, Sarah gives him a sob story about mistakenly leaving our ID in our bags on the flight up from Florida.

  “Stupid silly mistake,” I add, my lips pursed, head shaking. “Totally my fault.”

  “You don’t have ID of any kind?” the dark haired young man pleads.

  I pat my bush jacket pockets, shake my head, assume an expression of total dejectedness. A total loser. That is, until I dig into my left jeans pocket, come back out with what’s left of Edge’s greenback’s roll, shave off a fifty, release it, and allow it float down gently onto the counter like a fallen November oak leaf. Chase the overly dramatic.

  Looking over one shoulder, then the other. “Some people tell me I look a lot like General Grant,” I whisper, eyes wide.

  As if mimicking me, the man slowly gazes over both shoulders. He lays his hand out flat onto the bill, slides it towards himself, then quickly buries it in his pocket.

  “You’re much younger looking these days, General,” he says. “How long did you say your stay will be again?”

  “One night,” Sarah responds.

  “No reason to sign in then,” he says, reaching under the counter for a credit card-like key, handing it to me. “Room three twenty-two. I assume that will be, ummm, a cash payment in full for the room?”

  I ask him how much. He tells me one fifty, which in my mind is a price that’s more padded than a double mattress. In any case, that leaves me with about fifty bucks for the rest of the night. Oh well, pretty soon I might be rich beyond my wildest dreams. Chase the visionary.

  “Please, feel free to take the elevator up to your room,” the desk manager pleasantly encourages.

  “No thanks,” I say. “We’ll take the stairs. Elevators have cameras.” I finish with a wink.

  “That they do,” he says, returning my wink.

  Sarah and I turn, head for the stairs, just like a pair of happy honeymooners living life on the cheap.

  15

  Edge texts me. What the fuck?

  Which is code for, When the hell can we come up to the hotel room so I can have another beer and pass out for a while?

  I give him the room number, tell him not to catch the attention of the attendant behind the desk in the lobby and remind him not to take the elevator.

  Be right up, Edge texts.

  I turn to Sarah, who is just emerging from the bathroom having taken a minute to wash up and refresh herself. She’s patting her face dry with the towel when she smiles at me. Her eyes drift to the closest of the two beds housed inside the small, square room.

  I can’t help but smile.

  “I would love to,” I say. “I think you know how much I’d love to. But . . .”

  “But . . .” she says, her intentions hanging on the dangling conjunction.

  “But, our dear friend, Leslie Edgerton is on his way up.”

  She does this thing with her eyes where her lids go up and down, while her face assumes the grin of the mischievous Cheshire cat. The face says it all. No words need be spoken.

  “Don’t even think about it, woman,” I say. “Besides, Edge’s heart can’t handle it at his age.”

  She giggles. “Lighten up, Chase,” she says, “I was only kidding. I am a Catholic, after all.”

  She escapes back into the bathroom while I hear something like a door slamming shut outside the thin walls and windows of this cheap hotel.

  “Good to know,” I mutter to myself as I shuffle past the bed to the picture window, pull back the cloth drape. “I’ll make sure you say your prayers.”

  Down in the sparsely filled parking lot, I spot Mohawk Rob’s Jeep. I also spot something else. A blue and white cop cruiser. The words “Colonie Police” are emblazoned on the side panels. There’s a chubby uniformed cop standing just outside the open driver’s side door, and a tall, well-built man standing outside the also open passenger side doo
r. Well Built Cop has his arms crossed over his chest so that I can’t help but notice the semi-automatic attached to his utility belt.

  Edge is speaking something to the cop from the back seat of the car, while Rob is still seated in the Jeep, both his hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s been ordered to position them like that. Well Built Cop unfolds his arms, points an extended index finger at Edge. Edge, in turn, appears to gaze at the can of Budweiser in his hand. He smirks guiltily, and says something that must go something like this: “Oh, is it illegal to drink a beer in the back seat of a motor vehicle? Gee, I had no idea, officer.”

  He then dumps what’s left of the beer out the side of the Jeep, some of it splattering onto Well Built Cop’s pant legs, so that the big plain clothes cop has no choice but to quickly step back. Edge then crushes the can in his hand and tosses it over his shoulder like there’s also no laws regarding blatant littering in New York State.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mumble.

  “What is it?” Sarah says returning from the bathroom. “What’s wrong?”

  She joins me at the window.

  “Looks like our boys have gotten themselves into a bit of trouble,” I explain.

  “Oh no,” she says, her voice suddenly terse and tense. “Jesus, Chase, this thing might be over before it gets started.”

  I hold up my hand as if to tell her to calm down.

  “Relax,” I say. “Could be the kid ran a stop sign or something.”

  “That man talking to Edge looks an awful lot like a detective to me.” She pokes my arm with her bare knuckle. “Since when do they send out detectives on traffic violations?”

  Sarah’s got a point.

  “Well, you’re the true crime and punishment expert,” I exclaim. “So what, in your humble opinion, is going on?”

  She steals a weighted moment to think it over. Until she says, “Let’s see if the cops order them to get out of the Jeep. If they do that, then we’re as good as toast. Because it might very well mean they want to interview our boys back at the precinct. Or . . .”

  “That’s a dangling Or,” I point out.

  “Or,” she goes on, “if the cops just turn tail and leave, then we can chalk up their little visit as a warning of sorts.”

  “Warning,” I say. “Warning for what?”

  Just like Sarah predicted, Well Built Cop and his uniformed partner get back in their cruiser and take off, not without burning a little rubber on the asphalt, just for effect.

  Soon as they’re out of sight, Edge pulls another beer out of the cooler, pulls back the tab, steals a deep drink. He also lights up a smoke and hops out of the Jeep. Rob exits the Jeep and runs his hands through his Mohawk like it helps him get his shit together. The two work together to lift the cooler out of the Jeep and begin making their way across the lot to the hotel’s back door.

  “Looks like we’re about to find out,” Sarah says. “Here come the adult juvenile delinquents right now.”

  16

  Within a minute, I can hear Edge’s mouth as he and Rob make their way down the long hall to the room. A knock on the faux wood door. Rather, not a knock but a fist pounding.

  Sarah shifts toward the door, but I grab hold of her arm, pull her back.

  “Allow me,” I insist.

  I go to the door, open it.

  “Get inside,” I order.

  Edge and Rob enter, carrying the cooler behind them.

  “Where do you want the supplies, Chief?” Edge says.

  I point to the foldable luggage stand. Then, “What did those cops want?”

  Edge is still smoking. I quickly reach out, snatch the cigarette from his lips, toss it through the open bathroom door and into the toilet.

  “Jesus,” Edge says. “Butts are expensive, asshole.”

  “Just tell me what the cops wanted,” I demand.

  Rob sits himself down on the edge of the bed, hard. “You really wanna know the truth, dude?”

  “You know I do. The no bullshit assessment.”

  He says, “I think they’re onto us. I think they know all about our little mission to find the Dutch Diamonds.”

  I feel a punch to the gut.

  . . . If we want the treasure, we need to locate it today . . . now . . .

  “How in God’s name could they have found out?” I say, my eyes not on Rob, but on Sarah. “Nobody knows.”

  Sarah crosses her arms over her chest, purses her lips.

  “Only one who knows about it is my Uncle Pat,” she says. “But he would never say anything to anyone. It’s not at all like him.”

  Edge drinks some of the beer he was working on when he came into the room.

  “What about that guy at the front desk of The Harmony Hotel?” he says. “He was a sneaky little bastard even if he does like my books. What’s his name, Sam?”

  I recall the diminutive, late middle-aged man in the cardigan sweater. The gentle man who doted over Sarah. I’m no detective or cop, former or otherwise, but from where I was standing inside the hotel vestibule, he looked like one of the kindest souls on earth. Wouldn’t hurt a fly much less sell out the most intimate secrets of Sarah Winston and her Uncle Pat.

  Sarah’s face goes tout. “Sam would never do something like that. I’ve known him since I was girl. He’s always been very good to me and my uncle.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t listening to our conversation?” Rob chimes in.

  “Yeah,” Edge says, downing what’s left of his beer, tossing the empty can into the plastic waste basket under the desk. “Two points,” he whispers when it lands inside the basket. Then, his eyes back on Sarah. “How do you know he doesn’t have The Harmony Hotel for Old Men wired for sound?”

  “He doesn’t exactly fit the bill as a con man, Edge,” I say, not without a chuckle.

  Edge scrunches his forehead, bites down on his bottom lip. “You ever been in the joint, Baker?” he poses.

  Not that I have to think about it at all, but I find myself pausing. “Does being locked up in a concrete room in the middle of the jungle in India count?” I say. “What about gagged and hogtied in Egypt during the revolution while trying to locate the mortal remains of Jesus Christ?”

  He’s shaking his head hard. “That shit’s child’s play,” he says, brushing me off. “The stuff for the kind of stories you write. I’m talking real hardcore prison.” His face lights up. “You know, like don’t drop the soap or else.”

  Rob laughs. He gets up from the bed, and instead of asking Edge if he can bum a cigarette, he simply snatches the pack from the bestseller’s shirt pocket. Patting one out, he pops it between his lips.

  “Fire me up, Edge,” he says.

  Without hesitating, Edge draws his red Bic lighter, thumbs a flame, touches the business end of the smoke.

  “Okay, Edge,” I say. “No, I haven’t been to prison. What’s your point?”

  “My point, my adventurous friend, is that the joint isn’t filled entirely with big hairy beasts who, given a chance, will eat you alive. There’s quite a few cons in there who are so slight of build, so genteel in matter, so soft spoken and outwardly kind, they make Mr. Rogers look like a pedophile.”

  Sarah purses her lips. “Edge speaks the truth,” she says. “I’ve been to dozens of maximum-security joints in my time on research for my books, and I’ve seen plenty of “nice guys” who are doing life for some pretty nasty things.”

  “So, we’re in agreement. The old man at the hotel reception desk sold us out somehow?” Rob says, blowing a hit of smoke toward the ceiling.

  Looking up, I see the smoke alarm and the big sign posted to the back of the door that reads. THIS IS A NON-SMOKING ROOM in big block letters.

  Reaching out, I snatch the cigarette from his mouth, go to the window, slide the glass open, toss the lit cigarette out.

  “What the hell you doing, Mr. Baker?” Rob grouses. “I just started in that bone, dude.”

  “That alarm goes off, we’ll be asked to leave pronto.
No more safe house. Get it? Not to mention the fact that they’ll slap a fine on us that no one can afford right now. So, can we please agree not to smoke in here?”

  “But our financial futures will change tonight,” Edge says, getting up and going to the cooler, grabbing another cold beer. He pops the top. “Tomorrow we can buy this fleabag if we want.”

  Meanwhile, something happening outside the window grabs my attention. The cop cruiser is back. Only, rather than park in the middle of the lot, the vehicle has pulled up behind a big blue dumpster that’s set on a concrete pad at the far end of the parking lot. Well Built Cop is standing side by side with Stocky Uniformed Cop. He’s got binoculars pressed against his eyeballs. The binoculars are aimed directly at our room.

  Quickly, I back away from the window, press my back against the wall.

  “What’s with you?” Edge says.

  “The cops,” I say. “They’re . . . back.” I say it like that little blonde girl from the Poltergeist movie from a hundred years ago.

  “What cops?” he says, already knowing the answer.

  “The ones who stopped you a few minutes ago. What are you, high?” Then, “Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “Detective Mendel and Sgt. Dernitz,” Rob says. “Sgt. Dernitz who, by the looks of him, eats too much wiener schnitzel. Get it?” he chuckles.

  “Back up a little,” I say. “I get it that the cops might be on to our little treasure hunt. But what did they originally stop you for? They had to have a reason.”

  “They were threatening Rob with a DWI,” Edge informs, pronouncing DWI like deewee. “And they were telling me that they could get me for breaking the open container laws.”

  Sarah brushes back her hair, takes a step forward. “They happen to say anything about the Dutch Schultz treasure directly?” she questions, tone agitated and tense.