Diamonds Aren't Forever

by Betty Sullivan La Pierre

  Hawkman shut down the computer and had his hand on the door knob when the phone rang. He let the answering machine pick up until he heard Curly's familiar voice, then he hurried back to the desk and punched the speaker phone. “Curly, you son-of-a-gun. You caught me in the nick of time. I had my foot out the door."

  "Hey, am I keeping you from a big business deal?"

  He laughed. “Nope, just getting bored and thought I'd go buy a donut."

  "That's an important mission, so I'll only keep you a minute. Had an interesting visitor at the bar last night and didn't think a whole lot about it at the time. But it's nagged me all day, so thought I'd give you a call."

  "Go on, I'm listening."

  "This longhaired, bearded guy came in. Don't get me wrong, I get lots of these types, but his questions threw me."

  "Yeah."

  "He asked when I'd last seen Jamey Schyler. Then he wanted to know if I knew where she'd gone."

  Hawkman sat down and picked up a pencil. “So what'd you tell him?"

  "That I hadn't seen her in over a year. And had no idea where she went. I thought it odd that some guy out of the blue asked about her. Is there something going on I should know?"

  "You remember when Jamey worked for you and one night a guy came into the bar asking questions? She hid in the kitchen and another waitress pretended to be her?"

  "How could I forget that ordeal. You were sitting right there on one of the stools. And the man got so mad I thought I'd have to call the cops. Don't tell me it's the same guy?"

  "Yep. That's him. He also paid me a visit."

  "I'll be damned. Where's he been for the past year?"

  "Jail."

  "Uh, oh. Doesn't sound good."

  "Well, Jamey's not around, so he shouldn't cause any problems. Let's hope he gets out of town and forgets about her. Thanks for letting me know. If he shows up again, give me a call."

  "Will do."

  When Hawkman left the office, his gaze traveled across the parking lot searching for the gray Toyota. He climbed into the 4X4 and headed for the police station, keeping a watchful eye on the rearview mirror.

  Hunched over his desk, Detective Williams had the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he signed papers. When he plopped a stack into the basket, he glanced up at Hawkman standing in the doorway and motioned for him to take the chair in front of the desk. A few minutes later, a young woman in her mid-thirties dashed into the room, grabbed the outgoing bunch of papers and placed more documents in front of him.

  William finally hung up the phone and raked his fingernails over the day old stubble on his chin. “Man, we've had a busy morning."

  "What's been happening?"

  "Kids are runnin’ amuck. We don't have enough jobs in the city to keep them busy."

  Hawkman frowned. “That's odd, I see ‘help wanted’ signs all over these fast food places."

  "The wages aren't high enough. They want a salary to match their dads'. Craziest thing I've ever heard. Kids don't seem to realize that one works up the ladder, life doesn't start at the top.” The detective sighed, then glanced at him with a puzzled look. “You look different. You get a haircut?"

  Hawkman chuckled, thinking of his new mustache. “Nope. I've lost weight."

  Williams nodded. “What can I do for you?"

  "Just wanted to give you a heads up warning."

  The detective frowned. “Yeah?"

  "Remember Carl Hopkins?"

  "The diamond heist guy?"

  "That's him. He paid me a visit this morning."

  "Boy, time passes fast. Guess he's been released. What the hell he want?"

  "To find Jamey Schyler."

  Williams’ expression turned solemn. “I don't like the implications of that request."

  "Neither do I, especially since the girl might be coming into the area."

  The detective's head jerked up. “What! How do you know this?"

  Hawkman told him the events of the past two weeks. “I'm pretty sure this Shirley Ann Noland who met Charley for lunch was Jamey Schyler in disguise."

  The detective slapped a hand on the stack of papers. “Seems wherever that female shows up, there's trouble."

  "I agree. I figure if she comes into town, she'll only be here a day or two to clear up the title. And I'm praying Carl Hopkins never spots her."

  "Do you have any idea when she'll arrive?"

  "None. And I doubt Charley will be informed. But we might be able to get the information from the title company."

  Williams leaned back in his chair. “I'll go over there on police business. And make sure they inform me if and when she's coming in."

  Hawkman raised his brows and grinned. “That's a great idea."

  "It's a hell of a lot better than having a murder on my hands. Maybe we could supply some sort of protection."

  "If you find out her arrival time, let me know and I'll tail her."

  "Sounds good. Did you by any chance get a description of Hopkins’ vehicle?"

  "Sure did. And checked it out. Appears he bought it locally.” Hawkman removed the paper from his pocket and handed it to the detective. “It's a real junker. He definitely won't be outrunning any cop cars."

  Williams studied the report then glanced at Hawkman. “Wonder if he has a gun?"

  Hawkman cocked his head and rubbed his jaw. “Good question."

  Williams picked up a pen and signed his name to the next form. “Sure would be useful to know,” he mumbled.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Detective Williams checked a ledger on his desk. “In fact, why don't we run over to the American Title company right now. I've got a couple of free hours."

  Hawkman liked that idea. “Sure, let's go. We can take my 4X4."

  Williams nodded. “I think the police force will approve."

  The two men left the station and drove to the title company. When they entered the office, a young receptionist at the front desk, a handsfree microphone clamped over her head, glanced up and smiled. “May I help you gentlemen."

  Williams flashed his badge. “I'd like to talk to the person handling the Rachel Smith property."

  Her smile never faded as she spoke softly into the mouth piece and then typed on the computer. Within seconds, she pointed toward some cubicles that lined the far wall. “If you'll have a seat in the second unit, Marge Randolph will be right with you."

  This information pleased Hawkman, as the woman in charge of the title transfer appeared to be Jennifer's friend. They went into the small office where the detective took the chair in front of the desk and Hawkman took one against the wall.

  A slim woman, dressed in a gray tailored pants suit, her dark brown hair styled in a neat ‘bob’ coiffure, entered the office. Her blue eyes twinkled as she smiled at Hawkman. “Good to see you. How's Jennifer? I can hardly wait to read her new mystery series."

  Hawkman stood. “She's working hard on them.” He then introduced Detective Williams.

  Marge shook his hand. “I've seen you here on several occasions, but don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting you. Our receptionist says you're interested in the Rachel Smith property.” She walked around the desk and sat down.

  The detective also sat, then leaned forward. “Yes. I'm here on police business and very interested to know if Jamey Schyler will have to come in person to do any of the transactions on this property."

  She frowned. “Is this woman in trouble with the law? I can't help but wonder with your interest in this transaction."

  "No. But due to the nature of the case, I can't disclose why I need to know. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her you've talked to us."

  "This certainly sounds intriguing,” Marge said, opening a file on her desk. “Normally, everything could be done by mail. But we have a slight problem with the names on the deed and Jamey's signature. She'll have to come in person and prove her identity."

  "Do you know when she'll be back?"

  "Not yet. We've sent notification,
but haven't heard from her. I'm assuming she'll set up an appointment since she has to fly in from South America."

  "I'd like to be notified the minute you get confirmation of the time and date she'll be here?"

  "Certainly. That's no problem.” Marge immediately red flagged the file. “This will remind me to give you a call. Could I have your phone number."

  Williams wrote it on the back of a business card and handed it to her. “I can always be reached on my cell phone."

  "Very good,” she said, stapling the card to the file. “I'll contact you as soon as we know."

  "Appreciate it."

  The two men left and were driving back to the police station when Williams let out a laugh. “I don't get it. You seem to never meet a stranger. I've lived here longer and I'd swear you know more people than I do."

  Hawkman chuckled. “Well, one reason might be because I'm married and you're single. So I know twice as many. Marge is a friend of Jennifer's. Also you don't have much of a chance to meet the good people, only the bad."

  "Yep, that explains it,” Williams smirked. “This old bachelor just don't get out like he used to."

  "You've had lots of chances to tie the knot. But you chose to remain single."

  "Aw, no woman deserves to be married to a cop and put up with the long hours. Plus never knowing whether he'd return at the end of the day dead or alive."

  "I hear ya.” Suddenly, Hawkman swiveled his head and pointed at a gray Toyota. “There he is!"

  "Who?” Williams straightened in the seat and looked out the front windshield.

  "Carl Hopkins.” Hawkman turned at the next corner and circled the block. “Let's see where he's headed."

  While stopped at the light, they watched Hopkins’ old car slowly make its way across the intersection. Hawkman made sure several cars drifted between him and the clunker before he followed the man to a seedy hotel on the outskirts of the older part of town.

  Williams pointed at a parking lot across the street. “Pull in there, and let's see what he does."

  When Carl climbed out of the car and strolled toward the front door of the building, Williams let out a gasp. “Good Lord, that can't be the same man we arrested. He's aged a hundred years."

  "Don't let all the hair fool you. It's the same man,” Hawkman said.

  Carl Hopkins disappeared into the building and didn't exit.

  After several minutes, the detective said, “No sense in sitting here any longer. At least we know where he's staying. If need be, I can obtain a warrant to check his room. Of course, right now we have nothing on him to justify a legal search."

  Hawkman smiled at the word ‘legal’ and drove out of the lot. “Wonder where he's working? He has to be getting money from somewhere to pay for the rent and buy that car. I know the rooms are cheap, but he still has to pay the bill."

  Williams waved a hand in the air. “There are plenty of jobs around, if a guy doesn't mind getting dirty.” Then he glanced at Hawkman and winked. “Why don't you follow him and find out. Still like to know if he has a gun."

  A smile curled the corners of Hawkman's lips. “I just might do that."

  Hawkman dropped Williams at the police station, then drove back to the hotel. The Toyota hadn't moved from the parking spot. Hawkman figured if Hopkins had a job, it must be at night. It might take a little doing, but he could search the local bars and look for that car. It certainly stood out. He decided to return to the office and finish some work while waiting for the sunset.

  When he'd settled at his desk, he noticed the message light blinking, but called Jennifer first to let her know he'd be late and not to wait up. Then he punched on the answering machine.

  "Hawkman, Curly here. Call me as soon as you can."

  He flipped his Rolodex open to Curly's Bar and punched in the number.

  "Hey, Curly. Hawkman here. What's with the urgent call?"

  "Hold on a second. Let me go to my office."

  Within a few moments, Curly came on the line. “Needed a little privacy."

  "So what's the problem?"

  "You know that guy, Carl Hopkins."

  "Yeah?"

  "He came by the bar again, but this time he wanted a job."

  "I'm listening."

  "I decided to hire him. You know why?"

  "I haven't the vaguest idea."

  "Help you keep track of him."

  Hawkman chuckled. “Curly, you're a genius. So what have you got in mind for the vagrant?"

  "He'll do cleanup work in the evening, and in the meantime I'll train him to help wait tables. He's got a mean look. Don't think anyone will mess with him."

  "Sounds good. When does he start?"

  "Tonight at six, so I can show him the ropes. If he turns out reliable, I'll train him for other positions real soon."

  "Thanks for letting me know."

  "Thought you might be interested."

  After hanging up, Hawkman checked the time. Hopkins should be leaving for his new job in another thirty minutes. Little did Curly realize how much he'd helped.

  Reaching into the desk drawer, Hawkman slipped the lock picks into his pocket.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hawkman chewed on a toothpick as he stared out the window, and drummed his fingers on the sill. He wanted to give Hopkins plenty of time to leave before he approached the hotel. Time moved slowly when you were in a hurry. After a few minutes, he crossed to the desk, closed the file he'd been working on and slid it into a side drawer, then shut the window and locked the door.

  When he arrived at the old inn, he circled the parking area. He didn't see Hopkin's car, so figured he'd left. Hawkman pulled across the street into the lot where he and Williams had parked earlier.

  He ambled up the chipped concrete steps leading to the entrance of the hotel and glanced around for mailboxes outside. Not seeing any, he grasped the tarnished brass handle and yanked open the heavy wooden door. He stepped into the foyer onto a worn dirty carpet which appeared as ancient as the structure. The stairwell stood directly in front of the door and an adjacent hallway led back to the first floor units. He entered the large room to the right which appeared to have been a magnificent lobby at one time. At the far end stood a large counter with a small ante room behind it.

  Hawkman approached the large bar like construction and read a hand-scribbled ‘NO VACANCIES’ sign perched on the top, plus a placard listing the prices for extra services. A person could get a weekly room cleaning for twenty-five dollars a month. Dry cleaning and laundromat services were available. No loud music, drugs or wild parties permitted in the rooms.

  Behind the structure on each side of the doorway hung cabinets with cubby holes. He assumed they served for mail or messages. Each opening had a room number and a name sticker attached. Hawkman quickly canvassed the cluster and found Carl Hopkins in room twenty-three.

  He heard the muted sound of a television or radio coming from the rear and turned to leave, hoping not to be discovered. But then a loud voice rumbled through the room, “Can I help ya?"

  Hawkman stopped and faced a man not more than five feet tall, his head and shoulders barely visible over the tall counter. Bushy gray hair stuck out in all directions and his thick eyebrows bobbed up and down. His left arm appeared to be missing and the long shirt sleeve clung to his side where he'd tucked the cuff into his belt.

  "No, thanks,” Hawkman said. “I see you don't have any vacancies."

  "Nope, nothin’ available. Sorry.” He gave a wave, and headed back into the area that Hawkman assumed to be the man's own quarters.

  Waiting until he disappeared, Hawkman slipped around the corner and silently stole up the stairs. The second floor hall extended the length of the building. Most of the apartment numbers hung askew on the doors. The second room on his left, number twenty-three, had the number two hanging upside down, held only by one small nail. He knocked softly. When he received no answer, he removed the lock pick from his pocket. He gave a quick glance up and down the hallwa
y, then worked the pick into the old lock, and had it open in a matter of seconds.

  When he stepped inside, a small feather floated down in front of his face. Hopkins had obviously rigged up a trap so he'd know if anyone had entered the room. He'd make sure to return the piece of fluff when he left.

  The light from the hotel sign hanging directly over the window lit up the room enough so a flashlight wouldn't be necessary. The dingy curtains fluttered as a faint breeze came through the partially opened window.

  An unmade bed took up most of the room and a small desk occupied the space next to the headboard. In the far corner, a lamp with a dirty, tattered shade rested on a round table flanked by a chair on each side. On the opposite wall as you headed toward the bathroom, a scuffed four drawer wooden dresser leaned cockeyed as if one leg was shorter than the others. Hawkman noticed a phone sitting on its top. Odd, he thought, why is that there and not on the bedside table?

  He walked over, picked it up and discovered the cord missing. Crossing over to the head of the bed, he moved the desk slightly away from the wall. He found the small square outlet for a phone connection above the baseboard. with the telephone cord still plugged in. He followed the wire with his hand to the point where it disappeared into the bed. Lifting up the corner of the mattress he found a laptop computer tucked underneath. He understood why Hopkins hid this piece of expensive equipment, but it also indicated in Hawkman's mind that Carl hadn't lost his hacking skills. He decided not to investigate the machine at this time, not knowing exactly how long Hopkins might stay at Curly's tonight. He'd wait until he had a good couple of hours before searching its contents. Removing the miniature camera from his pocket, he snapped a picture of the machine and took several shots of the room.

  He rummaged through the wastebasket, and found a receipt that indicated a cash purchase for the computer a couple of days ago. Hawkman let out a low whistle. “Where the hell did he get money for that toy?” he mumbled aloud, sticking the paper into his pocket.