Who Killed Tiffany Jones?

by Mavis Kaye

player. “I can’t help it. Every time they tell me some dude is British, I expect to see a little fem white guy, and then we roll up on a big black nigga like you with a British accent.”

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  “I love the way you talk,” Lil’ Luv said, grinning to show off her gold-capped tooth, which matched her gold nose ring and gold tongue ring.

  Ruff Daddy sat silently in the third row of seats. He listened to the conversation, but his mind was elsewhere. What had really happened to Tiffany, and where the hell was Klaus? Was the forced landing in Baltimore of his lease jet just an accident? Who was John Williams?

  Were the guys in North Carolina really cops? His mind was racing with unanswered questions.

  Ruff Daddy stared out of the window trying to come up with answers when suddenly the deafening sound of real gunfire and shat-tered glass and metal exploded in his ears. Candido ducked and swerved the Lincoln across on-coming traffic to escape the Jeep that had pulled alongside them. Before Ruff ducked he saw what looked like a Mac-10 submachine gun and an AK-47 assault rifle belching fire from the window of the Jeep.

  Both Freddy Carmichael and Mo Hump drew their guns, but by the time the Lincoln came to a halt the Jeep had sped away. Candido had sideswiped two vehicles before he pulled the SUV to the curb on the other side of Piedmont Avenue. Lil’ Luv started screaming when she saw that Mo Hump was bleeding from an arm wound and Brixton’s head had nearly been severed from his body.

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  FOUR

  Dallas—Wednesday, July 18

  K . J . H u n t e r insisted that he had been involved with only one foreigner—Brigette Nguyen. Of course being from South Texas that did not include “Wets,” or “Wetbacks,” as Mexicans were called by the locals. They were called Wets because, according to the widely held view, most of them had, or their parents had, waded across the Rio Grande to get into the United States. Still, they were not considered foreigners; there were too many of them and, by now, more than a few had genuine Texan blood. The way K. J. saw it, Brigette was his first foreigner, even though he’d slept with plenty of Wets since his high- school days.

  On the morning of the Lone Star Jewelry Show and Diamond Expo International, K. J. was busily working the phone as he waited for Brigette. He called her the “little Korean,” even though she was from Vietnam and really wasn’t that small. Subtle distinctions didn’t mean 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 40

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  much to him. To him she was just a hot little yellowish-brown woman whose country the U.S. of A. had once been at war with back before he was born. When he met her four months ago, he had only been interested in sleeping with her. But once he discovered she knew more about diamonds than he did, he brought her into the business. It was a perfect arrangement; her work was more than satisfactory on every level.

  K. J. was only twenty-seven but he was a self-made millionaire, with, of course, the help that his family’s oil industry millions gave him. But it had been almost two years since he dipped into the family vault. He had his own fortune now, and it was growing every day. The 2001 drop in the market had barely fazed him since he never had any faith in trendy high-tech stocks and had sold the few he owned before the crash on the advice of his brother, Bryan, a lawyer with deep Wall Street connections. He had learned to stick to the basics with stock investments, which for a Texan meant oil and cattle. But he also had the instincts and unblinking gall of a crafty, frontier-town saloon gambler. And of late it was his proprietorship in the gemstone business and major holding in a national mortuary company with funeral homes in thirty-two states, a doubly profitable enterprise, that were the sources of his quickly accrued capital. In addition, he owned a booming Dallas-based luxury used-car dealership that was a consistent money-maker.

  He was thinking about Brigette as he sat on the side of his bed at the Fairmont, a four-star, European-style, twenty-five-story hotel located in the Dallas Arts District. The Fairmont was the best that a cowboy town like Dallas could come to mustering a London/Paris flavor.

  The district surrounding the Fairmont was touted as the largest urban cultural district in the nation. It was dotted with galleries, theaters, performing and visual arts schools, art museums, and the Meyer-son Symphony Center, where cowboys, trying to acquire a taste for Bach and Beethoven, often fell asleep listening to the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. On a few occasions, K. J. himself had been coerced 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 41

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  into showing up at Symphony Center and listening to what he scorn-fully called “operatic music.”

  He joked that they called it operatic music because it was the kind of music they played in a hospital operating room when you were brought in to be patched up after a gunshot wound or a snakebite.

  Dressed only in silk boxer shorts, a Stetson hat, and $600 Lucchese calfskin cowboy boots, K. J. Hunter picked up the phone and gazed out at the impressive skyline of downtown Dallas. Forbes magazine had cited it as one of the “Best Cities for Business” in the United States, and K. J. had taken full advantage of the city and his substantial connections. In Dallas, K. J. ruled.

  Smiling, he dialed up his old friend Billy Ray Farley. His secretary said, “Hold on a minute, Mr. Hunter, he’ll be right with you.” Three minutes passed. K. J. thought Billy Ray was keeping him waiting intentionally. Bastard!

  Suddenly Bill Ray’s voice boomed through the phone “K. J., how are you?”

  “Never mind how I am. What the hell took you so long and do we have a deal or not?”

  “Sorry ’bout that, K. J., I was on the line to New York.” Billy Ray was speaking from his office atop the Bank of America Tower in downtown Dallas. “Yeah, of course the deal is on!”

  “Then where the hell is the delivery?”

  “It’s on the way, K. J.”

  “If I don’t see the goodies soon I want my damn money back.” K. J.

  used the term “goodies” in telephone conversations to refer to anything that was being delivered to him. It was a well-ingrained precaution. He didn’t want the Feds snooping into the affairs of an enterprising businessman like himself. Not that he was dealing with illegal goods.

  While he seldom turned down a lucrative deal and occasionally slipped over the line, he usually traded in perfectly legal commodities—spot oil, Arabian and thoroughbred horses, precious metals, gem-16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 42

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  stones, art objects, antique cars, cash. It was the source of origin and his

  “alternative” means of distribution that were sometimes questionable.

  “K. J., I told you I already advanced the cash. I can’t give you your money back.”

  “Take it out of your pocket or I’ll take it out of your hide, but I want my damn money back if I don’t see all the goodies by next week Friday.”

  “K. J., I told you, the deal’s in the works. We’ve got to wait for someone to die.”

  “Goddamn it, Billy Ray, people die every day.”

  “Were waiting for someone to die in Europe.”

  “People are dying in Europe every day, Billy Ray, don’t trifle with me. I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

  “Did the Vietnamese dame get there?”

  “Oh, is that what she is? I thought she was Korean.”

  “Damn, K. J., you’re screwin’ her, you should at least know what country she comes from.”

  “Why?” K. J. laughed for the first time.

  “One of these days your sex life is going to get you killed,” Billy Ray said. “You always was a crude bastard. That’s what’s wrong with you.”

  “Listen, Billy Ray, ain’
t a goddamn thing wrong with me except I want the goodies. I want ’em PDQ, you understand!”

  “Next week.”

  “Next week! I ought a come over there and pistol whip your butt all up and down the expressway, boy. Goddamn, you piss me off Billy Ray.”

  Billy Ray didn’t react to the mock threat since he and K. J. had been friends since high school. They had played football at A&M together, and besides, in Texas Billy Ray was nearly as powerful as K.J.

  “How ’bout the colored boy?” Billy Ray asked. “Where is he?”

  “Ruff Daddy? I like that boy. He may be the only straight shooter in the goddamn bunch. Yo! Old buddy, there’s someone at the door.

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  Probably the Korean. Friday week? Goddamn, boy. Okay, Friday week, that’s when you get your ass kicked if I don’t have my goodies.”

  He hung up. Just as K. J. headed for the door the phone in his hand rang. “K. J. Hunter here,” he said.

  “Yo! K. J., this is Ruff Daddy.”

  “Yo! Ruff Daddy, old buddy. How’s the hop-hip business? I thought you was gonna send me some of those hip-hop CDs. Oh, man, man! I heard about that thing in Atlanta. You all right?” K. J. swung open the door, reached out, picked Brigette up in his arms, and carried her into the room as if she were a nine- or ten-year-old child.

  “Yeah, I’m cool. I’ve taken necessary precautions,” he said, before pausing. “What the fuck is going on there? You got someone with you?”

  “Yeah,” he laughed, kissing Brigette as he carried her toward the bed. “She’s one of my finest associates.”

  “Shit, man, you know I don’t discuss no business when a third party’s present.”

  “Hold on, old buddy, this ain’t no third party. She’s part of the deal—in more ways than one.” Brigette nibbled at K. J.’s ear as he listened to Ruff Daddy.

  “Yeah, if you say so, but get the bitch away from the phone. I ain’t broadcasting my conversation—not after the call from New York and the Atlanta deal. I don’t know who’s watching or listening. I don’t trust nobody.”

  Hunter sat Brigette down on the bed.

  “What about you,” Ruff Daddy said, “you noticed anybody on your tail?”

  “No way, not a soul,” K. J. laughed. “Ain’t nobody gonna fuck with me in Texas. They don’t wanna mess with a good ole boy—not down here.”

  “Don’t let ya head get too big for that ten-gallon hat. Something’s up, you better watch your ass.”

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  “Yo, where are you?”

  “Never mind that. I’m calling to let you know the deal is on. I’ll call Billy Ray when we’re through.”

  “Great, great, he’s waiting for the word.”

  “You got enough merchandise for the show right now?”

  “Sure, but I need more for the Houston show. I like to have it in hand in advance. I don’t like foul-ups. It takes a lot of money to put these shows together.”

  “The material is moving.”

  “Great. You just saved Billy Ray an ass kicking, for real,” K. J.

  laughed. “Say, what really happened in Atlanta? The only word I got was what I read in the papers. You gotta fill me in—wait, there’s another call coming in. How can I get back to you?”

  “I’ll call you,” Ruff Daddy said before hanging up.

  “Yeah, it’s me!” K. J. yelled into the phone, then immediately changed his tone. It was his wife, calling from Fort Worth. “Hey, sweetheart. I was just thinking about you.”

  “I bet you were, K. J. I just bet you were just thinking about me so much that you didn’t call home this morning like you said you would.”

  K. J.’s wife, a former high-school cheerleader, was not unaware of his philandering.

  Brigette stood up. Holding his hand over the receiver, K. J. told her he would meet her in the ballroom at the exhibition. He patted her bottom as she left.

  “Yup, well, I can explain that, darling,” he said to his wife. “I know, I know.”

  When K. J. finally arrived at the Lone Star Jewelry Show, he was doubly agitated. Not only was Ruff Daddy acting a little strange, but his true-blue, American-as-apple-pie wife was getting frisky and had threatened to leave him and go home to her daddy.

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  K. J. stood in the center of the ballroom under a huge neon sign blinking DIAMONDS FOREVER and looked out over the vast array of booths. Buyers packed the huge trade-show floor, flitting from booth to booth to peruse the glistening showcases where diamonds, gemstones, and designer jewelry of every sort were on display. He knew he could patch things up with his wife—a little trinket, some piece of jewelry would do that. But the other thing, the shooting in Atlanta. What was that about? Did Ruff Daddy know more than he was saying? As soon as the show closed he’d have to look into it. For now it had to be strictly business.

  Hundreds of diamond wholesalers and exhibitors had turned out for the show. They had come from nearly every corner of the globe—

  Belgium, China, France, Germany, Great Britain, Greece, Hong Kong, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Japan, Singapore, Spain, Sri Lanka, Switzerland, South Africa, Tahiti, Thailand, and more—to display their wares. Three of the booths were selling gems that belonged to him and his associates—rough diamonds that would net nearly $6 million. That thought set his heart pumping nearly as fast as watching a corral full of fine thoroughbred stallions. But it was not, as some suspected, the money that excited him. He already had plenty of that. No, it was the wrangling, the careful planning, the shrewd manipulations, and the precise execution that went into the deal. The danger! For K. J.

  there was nothing like it; except maybe riding and breaking one of his high-spirited stallions.

  Trying to relax, K. J. wandered through the maze of exhibits until he found Brigette. “Sorry ’bout the interruption, but we’ll have plenty of time later,” he said.

  She smiled and surreptitiously touched his hand. “Everything all right?”

  “Nothing a Texan can’t handle,” he said. “Let’s go over and see how the goods are moving.”

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  They pushed their way through the crowd as the sensuous Texas drawl of the show’s pitchwoman oozed from loudspeakers, describing current trends and luring buyers with special offers.

  “Designers are making a big to-do over burnt oranges and yellows, or earthy browns and lush greens as design elements in apparel and accessory fashion trends. Jewelers are responding by making state-ments with pink stones ranging from intense, magenta rhodolite gar-nets and rubellite tourmalines through a wide palette of lighter tourmalines and pale pink sapphires—beautiful! So beautiful! Watch out for . . .”

  “K. J.! K. J.! You old horse thief,” someone shouted.

  K. J. turned to see a small man with wrinkled, weather-beaten skin advancing toward him. “Clyde! Hey, keep that horse thief stuff quiet, partner,” K. J. said, smiling broadly. “People might take you serious.”

  He grabbed the man’s hand and shook it vigorously. “What are you doing here?”

  Clyde T. Hammond, despite his harmless avuncular look, was an oil pipeline manufacturer and old friend of K. J.’s father who had connections that stretched from the White House to the Middle East and, rumor had it, to the inner circles of America’s underworld Eastern mob. He laughed now and, stepping back, squared off in a boxer’s stance and threw a few blows into K. J.’s midsection.

  “Still tight as a drum,” K. J. said as he permitted the old man to hit him hard in the abdomen.

  “Just out for a breath of fresh air,” Clyde said.

  “More perfume in the air in h
ere than stinky stuff at a skunk’s picnic.”

  “Hey, come on, take a walk with me back toward the antique and estate jewelry pavilion.”

  “Ah . . . look Brigette, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, we have some unfinished business.”

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  “One of your wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” she said as the two men left.

  “What’s a matter. You fall on hard times, Winston? Got to sell the family heirlooms?”

  “No. Actually, son, I came down here to talk to you. I knew I’d find you here. Your mother’s worried and so is your dad.”

  “About what, Clyde?” K. J. paused to survey the old man’s face.

  “About what?”

  “Let’s step over here,” Clyde said, pointing to a quiet area near a bank of telephones. “Conflict diamonds. They think you’re trading in diamonds that come from one of them African countries where they’re having civil wars.”

  “What in the world are you talking about, Clyde?”

  “Blood diamonds, boy, that’s what they call ’em. That whole business stinks to high heaven.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Terrible things are going on, K. J., folks cutting off the hands of children in Sierra Leone and Angola. You must know the rebels are using money from illegal diamonds to buy weapons.”

  “Tell me, Winston, what is an illegal diamond? Diamonds are perfectly legal. And since when did you start caring—”

  “You know damn well what I mean. They’re trying to pass a bill in Congress banning the import of them diamonds, right now.”

  “Yeah, well, until the bill passes, the diamonds aren’t banned, am I right? And since when did Daddy start caring about Africa and the Third World? I really don’t need a lecture about clean diamonds from him or you. You and I both know there’s plenty of dirt in every business—even the oil business, the one you and Daddy are in.”

  “Your mother and—”

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