Diamonds and Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery

by Micheal Maxwell

  From the very beginning, Cole had spoken to Whisper from a position of authority. Not like cops or the guards in the juvenile detention center that Whisper so often frequented as a teen, but as someone who knew who he was and what he wanted. Whisper admired this authority. It was born of knowledge, like the sign he had read in the library in junior high: “Knowledge is Power.” Whisper had gone to the library out of boredom that day for something to do, maybe to tag the inside of magazines or draw pictures in the books, like he and his friends always did. But that sign, shiny Mylar letters on a black banner, had spoken to him like no teacher or counselor ever had. “Knowledge is Power”—that was what Whisper had wanted more than anything: power.

  Now, so many years and books later, he knew that real power was not what he had. People feared him and maybe even respected his organization, if you could call it that. But the power that mattered, the power on the sign, was not what he had. This must change. Whisper wanted a change. Maybe this sad man from Chicago could show him how to get his kind of power. Whisper looked down at his hands as they scratched at the top of the table. He realized he had been staring at nothing. How long had he been doing this, seconds, minutes? He looked back up at Cole.

  “You hungry? Javie’s made some chili verde today that will knock you over. Want some?”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Javie, traigame un cierto chile verde! And a diet Pepsi.” Whisper took a sip of the beer in front of him.

  Cole took his cell phone from his belt clip and a small notepad from his shirt pocket.

  “I’ll have the amount I need in just a moment,” he said dialing the cell phone. “This is Mr. Sage. I need the total amount to bring Mrs. Christopher’s bill current.” After several moments, the billing department of Eastwood Manor came back on the line. “I understand the prepayment, yes. That’s everything, no hidden cost, no funny business? I’m sure you don’t. Fine, I’ll have the money to you in—” He looked up at Whisper.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow. Thank you, see you then.” Cole clicked the phone closed, then wrote a number on the pad.

  “So, where is this place?” Whisper asked, turning the pad around.

  “Off Santa Rita on Calder. Eastwood Manor, not the greatest but not the worst, either. I hate her being in a place like that, but I don’t know where else she could go.”

  “I’ll send someone over with a cashier’s check. That okay?”

  “How will you—”

  “My old man has an account for his rentals. He’s always moving money in and out, buying and selling houses. They won’t ask, I won’t tell. Kind of like the Army.” Whisper laughed hoarsely. “Then I give it to him in cash later. Little by little, he puts it back in.”

  “Here you go.” Javie the barman set a bowl down in front of Cole containing large chunks of pork in a thick green sauce. “Tortillas coming up.”

  “Gracias, me gusta chile verde mucho.” Cole smiled as he stumbled through his gringo Spanish. “You’re not eating?”

  “I ate a little while ago. So, what you think, good, huh?” Whisper said, like a proud father.

  “Mmm, wonderful.”

  “Enjoy.”

  After a second bowl, a discussion of world and domestic affairs, and the promise of a subscription to The Sentinel, Cole was about to take leave of his new friend when Whisper stopped him.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “You think a guy like me could ever go to college?”

  Without missing a beat, Cole said, “Of course. You’re smart, smarter than a lot of the people your age working at the paper. I think you would do very well.”

  “You’re telling me the truth?”

  “I would never lie to you.”

  “I believe that,” Whisper said softly.

  “So, you want to? The community college here is very good. What do you want to study? History, politics?”

  “Could I be a writer? Like you?”

  “I would hope you would aim higher.” Cole smiled sensing the compliment. “Yes, America needs a voice like yours.” Cole’s smile had gone and he looked the young man straight in the eyes.

  “I don’t want to go to school around here. Too many people know me. How ‘bout Chicago, do they have a good community college there?”

  “Last time I checked, there were about 120 colleges in and around Chicago.”

  “How do I start?”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cole was amazed by this turn in the conversation. Whisper had called him “sir.” He fought back a smile, then decided to let it go.

  “I tell you what. How ‘bout I help you? I mean, I can do some research, find out which ones are best. Which ones have good journalism departments.”

  “I want something else, too. Sort of your permission.” Whisper looked down at the table. Like a shy little kid asking a favor from a big brother, he continued. “I don’t know a lot about colleges and stuff, but they have what you call ‘scholarships’?”

  “Sure, we can apply for financial aid, no problem.”

  “No, no nothing like that. I got money. This is something special. I seen them in stuff I read. They have the names of companies and people, like on PBS, you know? So, I was thinking the extra money from the diamonds. What if we called it a scholarship? And named it after your lady Ellie? Could we do that?”

  Cole couldn’t breathe. He just stared at Whisper, Anthony Perez was reborn . Then, he felt tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. He felt a pride and honor like he had never known. This street hustler who wanted out and to become a writer, wanted to pay tribute to Ellie. It was the best gift he had ever been given. She will be so proud. No, she can’t know. How would he ever explain where the money came from?

  “I think,” Cole began, “there could be no finer honor in this life than if that happened.” He reached up and brushed the tears from his eyes. “Everything you do, everything you achieve, everything you accomplish in life will be Ellie living on in some way. It is a beautiful thing, my friend. A beautiful thing.”

  Whisper reached across the table and shook hands with Cole. Then he put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Not a word of this to anyone. When I leave, it will be to escape some heat or the cops or something. I will make up a good story and then disappear. No strings, no one will follow, no one will know where I went or what I’m doing. A clean break, cold turkey. Will it work?”

  “We will make it work.”

  “It’s a deal then.”

  Cole stood at the end of the booth. “I am very proud of you. If you were my own son, I couldn’t be prouder.” Then he turned and walked toward the door.

  “Hey, watch your back. Word on the street is you pissed off Tree Top big time. Be careful, amigo, we’ve got work to do.”

  Cole looked in his rear-view mirror more than usual on the way back to the motel. Everything seemed normal. All the same, he wished Whisper hadn’t warned him. Cole tended to worry. Now he would hear every footstep, tick, creak, and bump in the night—and a motel makes lots of those. As he drove, he thought of Ellie. He hadn’t seen her in a day and a half. He needed to get to Eastwood, but things were finally coming together. Maybe later, after he made some calls. A light gray pickup cut in front of him, and he had to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting it. The violent jerk of the car shattered his thoughts and put his focus back on the road.

  * * *

  When Cole got to his room there was a note on the door. “Brennan. Please call.”

  Great, he thought. “When are you coming back? I got a paper to run here. How much longer you gonna be?” Cole could hear it now. He stuck the note in his pocket and unlocked the door.

  As he entered the room, he caught an ever so slight whiff of an unfamiliar smell. Was it cologne, air freshener? Whatever it was, he hadn’t smelled it before. Cole took the phone book from the drawer in the d
esk and opened to United States Government. It was then that something caught his eye.

  Cole had a habit of keeping his clothes pushed to the left side of the closet. A jacket, three shirts, and a pair of slacks were all pushed slightly to the center. Someone had moved them. The bed was still unmade. He stood and walked to his suitcase that was sitting on a folding rack near the closet. The suitcase was closed. He knew he had left it open because he had accidentally grabbed an extra sock. He had tossed the sock back into the suitcase as he had gone to brush his teeth.

  He returned to the phone and rang the front desk. “This is Mr. Sage in 218.”

  “I’m so sorry your room has not been made up, sir. Our maid had to go home sick. You see, her daughter is a maid, too, and had to drive her. It should be done this afternoon. I am very, very sorry.” The soft Indian accent of the manager only added to Cole’s concern.

  “Has anyone been in my room?”

  “Oh no, sir. I am the only one here and I have been in the office, except of course to bring you your message. Did you find it?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “The maid should be back by four o’clock. Again, my apologies.”

  “No problem.” Cole hung up.

  He turned again to the phone book. After identifying himself to three different people and partially telling his story three times, he was transferred one last time.

  “Fergusson.”

  “Can you take a report?”

  “Depends.”

  “Look, you’re the third person I’ve talked to. You people make it hard to turn in the bad guys. My name is Sage. I’m with The Chicago Sentinel. If you want to check me out, call Tom Harris, Precinct 51, Chicago. I’ve uncovered some things I thought you guys might be interested in. I was diggin’ around for a friend of mine and uncovered a scheme that involved interstate mail fraud, bribery of an elected official with stolen property, and probably a bunch of other things you’ll find if you start poking’ around.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’re we talkin’ about here?”

  “Allen Christopher. He’s a realtor. It seems he defrauded a wholesale diamond broker in Washington. He ordered several hundred thousand dollars worth of stones and doesn’t have two nickels to pay the bill. Then there’s Sven Elias, the County Zoning Commissioner here. Christopher offered him diamonds in exchange for Elias’ changing the zoning for a project Christopher was trying to put together with an outfit back east called Malcor Manufacturing.”

  “Bingo!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bingo, Eureka, whatever. The duck just came down. You said the secret word.”

  “I don’t follow.” Cole was a bit surprised by Fergusson’s excitement.

  “Malcor. It’s a front for the mob. Castigleone Family from Detriot. This guy, Christopher, you think he knows they’re organized crime?”

  Cole couldn’t help grinning. “Well, you’d know better about the mob than I would, but from the way he’s connected with the small time hoods around here, I wouldn’t doubt it.” Cole covered his mouth for fear he would laugh, then coughed. “Sorry, think I’m catching a cold. This whole diamond thing seems too well conceived for some small town realtor—who, by the way, sells very little real estate. He’s got street punks buying cars with the diamonds, then turning them for cash. Pretty smart, huh?”

  “Evidently not smart enough. Let me get some people on this. Is Elias willing to help us?”

  “Yep, a real Boy Scout,” Cole replied. “He’s been contacted twice by Christopher, and the last time, he got real pushy.”

  “Got any other names?”

  “A local smalltime hustler who was swapping the diamonds for cars, goes by Tree Top, last name Jefferson. When I talked to him, he tried to give me the name of an ex-con named Anderson as the top dog. I think this is a cover that Jefferson and Christopher cooked up. Probably not much to it. Anderson is small potatoes and doesn’t have the brains or money for a scheme like this. Jefferson’s real jumpy and will probably turn on Christopher with a little coaxing. Oh yeah, and a guy named Brazil, John Brazil. He is Christopher’s broker at the real estate office. Christopher got money from him and didn’t pay it back. He’ll be happy to talk. That’s kind of how I got involved in all this. An old friend of mine is Christopher’s wife. “

  “Aha.”

  “Not what you think. She’s dying, called me for help. Christopher was trying to cheat her daughter, his stepdaughter, out of an inheritance. I was trying to see what I could do. Just so you know where I fit in.”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Sounds like you’ve been a busy boy. We’re really low on manpower right now. Man, if I could tie this Christopher guy to the Castigleones— Okay, where can I reach you?”

  “Palmwood Motel, Room 218. My cell is 773-677-8120.”

  “I’ll be in touch. And Sage, don’t get too nosy. The Castigleones have a nasty habit of finding construction projects to bury people in, get me? And, for God sakes, don’t print anything about these Detroit guys for a while. Please, we need to nail this guy. You go to print and they’ll scatter like roaches in the light.”

  “I hear you. I’m about done here, so I won’t be in town much longer.”

  Cole hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. As he raised the toilet seat, he saw the words “Leave or Die” written on the mirror in something white. He looked around the tiny bathroom and saw his deodorant in the sink with the cap off. He knew it couldn’t be the mob guys, at least not yet. Christopher would never think of something like this. It had to be Tree Top’s muscle.

  Cole had been threatened before. He didn’t like it, but it came with the job sometimes. Over the years, people angry about something he’d written would call the paper or send unsigned hate mail. Once, he’d gotten a dead rat with a little sign around its neck with his name on it. Tom Harris told him long ago that people who send or call in threats are not likely to follow through. He said the time to start worrying is when they send a letter to the paper after you’re dead, claiming responsibility. Harris had a strange sense of humor. All the same, the message on the mirror gave Cole a knot in his stomach that he never got used to.

  The next call was a courtesy. It was a kind of journalistic tradition to tip off the local paper to a story you uncover in their town. That is, if it isn’t a scoop you intend to use yourself. He punched in the number for The Daily Record and asked for the editor. The editor was out at a luncheon and wouldn’t be back until about three. The city editor would have to do.

  “Hi, my name is Cole Sage. I’m with The Chicago Sentinel.”

  It didn’t take much to get the city editor excited. It took even less for Cole to accept a free lunch. Cole never understood the meaning of “no such thing as a free lunch.” He had eaten plenty of them. He always knew going in that it was quid pro quo. The thing that made the meal free was Cole’s willingness to give away whatever he had. He didn’t see it as giving anything away because if it were truly of value, he would keep it and buy his own lunch. Most of the time it was a way to have a nice meal, meet somebody new, and have an interesting chat. Even if the chat was boring, two out of three wasn’t bad.

  As far as the meal was concerned, he had an uncle that shared a philosophy which he had never forgotten. Cole’s Uncle George was a multimillionaire. He had started out as a door-to-door salesman, an education he said that was far more valuable than any he’d learned in school. “People,” he would say, “are all the same, only different.” Uncle George had received a PhD in Education from the University of Oklahoma. He later became the head of Ford Motors in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, a dean at O.S.U., and Secretary of Education for the State of Oklahoma. This provided him the greatest opportunity to play golf with a Who’s Who list of state and federal movers and shakers.

  While playing golf with the Secretary of Health Education and Welfare, the Secretary bemoaned the fact that Congress was about to pass a bill requiring asbestos to be removed from all public buildi
ngs because of its link to cancer. The fact that the cancer developed after a lifetime of working, mining and processing the stuff had little bearing on Congress’s decision. It was all going to have to be removed.

  Bright and early the next morning, George contacted the Yellow Pages sales offices for every county in five states, placing an advertisement for All State Asbestos Removal. It was like a broken record. “I’ve never heard of that before. What do you do?” George gave a simple, nondescript answer. When January 1 of the next year rolled around, All State Asbestos Removal was flooded with calls. It was bumpy at first, but he sold the company—orders and all—in June of that year for a cool $16 million.

  George devoted the rest of his life, which sadly was only another six months, to fine food and golf. He died of a heart attack on the golf course one day shortly after lunch. George told Cole when he was a boy that “we eat three meals a day, 365 days a year, so make each meal an adventure.” On the rare occasion that Cole had a meal with his favorite uncle that wasn’t good, George would stand up from the table, pat his rather large stomach and say, “Well, that was an adventure!” Cole had used his uncle’s expression ever since.

  Lunch with the city editor of the The Daily Record was at one o’clock downtown at the Thailand Caf￩. Cole arrived a few minutes early and had a cup of tea while he weighed just how much to tell the local paper. He sat in a booth tucked back in a corner facing the door. The Caf￩ was bright and cheerful. Everywhere he looked, there were splashes of red and gold. Above the front door was a portrait of the King of Thailand in full military uniform with a very dignified scowl on his face. The waitress was a teenager who probably should have been at school. Nearly every table was full of people who looked like they worked at City Hall. Cole realized, as he watched a man about his age loosen his tie, that it had been nearly a week since he had worn one. He also realized that he had forgotten to call Brennan.