by John Farrow
“Why the Berman topaz?” Carpel asks, as though someone else posed the question first and might be willing to hazard a guess. “From Brazil. Aesthetically, ask yourself, does it complement the piece? In terms of its meaning, nothing stands out as signifiers. The Berman encourages this and that, fortifies the body against disease, the mind against greed, but none of that reflects well with the companion stones. Who would put these together? No jeweler.” He does a mock shiver, and concludes, “Crude.”
“Such as?” Cinq-Mars asks.
“Excuse me?”
“What companion stones?”
“The kunzite. These particular stones are from California. That’s a guess. A good one, probably. They are the light purple gems, set off center on four sides. Significant to the piece. Kunzite opens the heart to all forms of love.”
Caroline relates, “CC told Trooper Hammond exactly that, and Trooper Hammond said—”
“You don’t say,” Carpel interrupts, meaning to quote Hammond.
“What you believe, if you will forgive me, isn’t relevant,” Cinq-Mars points out. “What matters is what the client who had the necklace made believes. That’s what counts.”
“Exactly,” Carpel concurs. “Take a look. True carnelian sardonyx. Brazil–Uruguay border. Can be either country. Usually it’s heat-treated to bring out the color, but the beautiful color in this talisman is natural. Natural and exceptional. Therefore, of value.”
“All these stones, placed together, do you think it’s a code?” Émile asks him.
“I think it’s a map,” Carpel stipulates.
“A map.”
“Places have importance. Impact.”
“They do. Yes. What other places are involved?”
“Hammond didn’t care to know.”
“I do. That’s why I’m asking the question.”
“But you’re retired, she said. She didn’t tell me that before. It’s significant.”
“Retirement is a state of mind, that’s my thought. I don’t seem to be in that state yet. What other countries, CC?”
“Russia.”
“Which stone?”
“Stones on the outer rim. Travel off the centerpiece, partway up the chain. Patterned agates. Could be from anywhere but I’m betting on Wyoming or Montana. American is a good guess. Because we’re in America. Why import what you already have? Understand? But really, it’s the stones. Can’t explain that to you. Not what my mother says. Intuition. The best word I can say is experience.”
“I believe in experience. Intuition, too. What do we have?” Émile tries to summarize. “California. Wyoming or Montana. Brazil. What’s Russian, CC?”
“Don’t forget the lapis lazuli. How can I be content with the aesthetic? I am not gobsmacked. From Afghanistan, that’s a hunch. Touching the lapis, we have amethyst. Go figure. Those two together. Not a jeweler’s hand. Unless he’s a lousy jeweler but I don’t think that. The client. The client made him do it.”
“What’s the problem with those stones touching?”
“Amethyst protects against being killed, essentially. The lapis protects the dead. It’s like they’re at war, one with the other one. Do you see?”
“A contradiction. One for the dead. One to keep from dying.”
“Yes!”
“And the Russian stone?” Émile presses him once more.
“The charoite. From the Charo River in Eastern Siberia. Only place on earth you can find it. High spiritual energy and union with love on earth. A talisman about letting go. Giving it up. Moving on. In Russian, chary means magic. A stimulant, this stone. Promotes dreams. Inner vision. True, in combination with amethyst it helps the sleepless get through the night. Maybe that’s how the amethyst was supposed to behave.”
“How?”
“To help a murdered girl enter her deepest sleep.”
That mention casts the three of them into a somber aspect, and they each inhabit their private thoughts a while. Caroline gives her bare arms a rub. Sifting through what he’s learned, Cinq-Mars ponders, “Is that the theme then? Jewelry to assist the victim to cross over into death?”
For once, Carpel is less emphatic in his response. “Close enough,” he says. “A bit muddied, the waters, but close enough as a theme. I think it’s a map. A guide to death. A bit of a mixed bag between love and death.”
“Bearing in mind that we are dealing, most likely, with a radically sick individual, love and death may well be intertwined in this case, no?”
Carpel considers that as well. He nods his agreement.
Cinq-Mars isn’t convinced that he’s an inch further ahead with his investigation, except that he knows a tidbit that he didn’t before. Sometimes usefulness lags discovery. On the off chance that something has been missed, he asks another question.
“CC, is there anything that you didn’t tell Trooper Hammond, largely because you weren’t getting along with him, that you might have told him otherwise? That you haven’t noted yet? It doesn’t matter how insignificant the point may appear on the surface. You never know when a notion might count.”
Carpel knows exactly what he wants to say. “Hammond cut me off. Done with me at one point. Tick tock. Whish! Whoosh! Wants to go! Ho-ho! Off with my head! He’s one of those. I wanted to say a curious note. He was too impatient to hear it.”
“What was that? What was the curious note you wanted to pass along?”
“Russian stone. Charoite. Color a deep, very deep, purple. Beautiful, lovely. Intensity very strong. Unusual. Special. Easy to think it’s a synthetic. That intense. I can give it a study with my eye to make sure it’s not a synthetic, but I have another method. One I use. Quick. Foolproof.”
“What’s that?”
“Scan it.”
“Scan it?”
“For radioactivity.”
Émile is promptly alert and keen. “Radioactivity. How can a gemstone be radioactive? Wouldn’t that be, you know, dangerous?”
“Often stones are radioactive. Emit a trace, we live with that. One way to know they are not synthetic. The readings can be high. Too high. It depends.”
“I see. And this sample?”
“A few years ago. I need to Google it. Two thousand seven, or eight, around then, a train is traveling into Russia. From Siberia. It got checked for radioactivity. Ask me why, I can’t tell you. Russia is Russia. Have their reasons. Worried about plutonium on the run, maybe. Anyway, I’m glad they do that.”
“As am I. What happened?”
“One boxcar ticked high. Highly radioactive. They looked inside and found a load of charoite. Way more radioactive than usual. Way more than what is legal or safe.”
“What happened to that shipment?”
“The Russians, bless them, God bless them! They separated the car from the train, sent the train on its way. The charoite was banished. Who knows where? But.”
“But?”
“This is Mother Russia, hey? Charoite stones aren’t diamonds here, but they can be there. Know what I mean? Depends whose hands. They’re not sapphires even. But a boxcar load? Good charoite, with only a trace of radioactivity, is worth twenty to thirty-five thousand dollars, wholesale on the cheap. Maybe forty.”
“Highly radioactive it’s worth nothing.”
“Except!” Carpel states.
“Except on the black market.”
“Where nobody cares, nobody checks. Smuggle the charoite into the U.S.A., the gemstones get distributed, nobody the wiser. Who checks stones with a Geiger counter? Some do. Most don’t. Not a ton of money, but in poor countries, it’s a fortune. Like they’re diamonds. A semiprecious stone to a poor man is not semiprecious. It’s like gold. Like a diamond.”
“You’ve been more helpful than you know,” Cinq-Mars says, and he means it, too. Carpel shrugs, happy to say what he wanted to say. He stands in a manner that suggests he’s leaving.
“Can I fix you a drink?” Émile, the tardy host, inquires. He doesn’t want to appear impatient to this ma
n.
“Back to work. Do that sober. My breath can’t smell like mint. People think I’m crazy. Okay. Don’t want them to think I’m drunk, too. When I’m not. Not good for business. My mother says. Gobsmacked! Don’t drink!”
They are moving toward the front door and their good-byes—Carpel drove his own car with Caroline the passenger, so she’ll be staying behind—when the young woman speaks up.
“Uncle Émile?”
Both men give her their attention.
“Look. It’s my friends, coming up the driveway.”
“Good.”
“Not good. A state trooper’s behind them with his lights flashing.”
EIGHTEEN
Whoever’s behind the wheel of the lead vehicle is ignoring the flashing lights of a patrol car in the rearview mirror. Both vehicles splash through deep puddles on the long and narrow road. Upon entering the wide area by the stables, the lead car stops in the middle of one big enough to fish in. Whether she’s done this purposely is a matter of conjecture but the driver is fanning the ire of her pursuer. The squad car pulls up and Trooper Hammond plunks on his Smoky the Bear hat as he climbs out. His companion officer emerges as well and hangs back, his hands under his biceps, his butt resting against the car door. Maybe he wants his feet to stay dry. Both men wear reflective sunglasses and it’s the friend whose name is Anastasia who winds her window down and waits for the senior cop to wade up to her.
He gazes in. A snarly look.
As Émile and Caroline walk up at a good pace they see Hammond gesture for Anastasia to move the car onto higher ground. She demonstrates that her nerves are frayed by causing the car to lurch forward, then stall. She starts again and lurches forward a second time, as if she’s learning to drive a standard shift.
To Émile’s surprise, Hammond has only a quick word with her before he opens the rear door. That’s curious enough: When a tall young man steps out, he’s taken aback. He’s seen him before. The security guard confronted the student on campus when he was loitering near Toomey’s office. He had denied that he knew the murdered professor except in passing, which has since proven to be a lie. He also knows Professor Shedden, who was on speaking terms with the other victim, Malory Earle.
“Who’s he?” Émile asks Caroline. The Dowbiggin security guard was supposed to scour pages of student portraits to find his name, so far to no avail. Émile is already guessing that he’s heard it mentioned before.
“Vernon,” she confirms for him. She quickens her pace alongside him to keep up with his naturally long strides. “Addie’s boyfriend. Ex, I mean. Her previous boyfriend. One of. Vernon Colchester.”
“The one who’d rather not be an ex,” he recalls.
“We all like him. Vernon’s a good guy.”
“Maybe he is,” Cinq-Mars says, although he sounds skeptical. He’s now loosely connected the boy to all three murder victims.
By the time they reach the car, Hammond has the young man’s biceps in the firm grip of his left hand and is guiding him around the pool of water toward the squad car. The patrol officer intercepts them halfway, takes over, holding the boy’s opposite arm, which frees Hammond to spin on his heels to block Émile’s progress.
“Police business,” Hammond states, to put him in his place. He stands with his thumbs tucked into his gun belt. Cinq-Mars is tempted to laugh.
“You’re on private property. My property. Only natural that I take an interest. You can’t fault me for that.” The girlfriends are climbing out of the car, realizing that they can, that they are neither under police edict nor in a pool of water. They’re upset that Vernon is being led away.
“Your property?” Hammond mocks him.
“The farm belongs in my family. My wife is about to inherit. Half of it anyway. Moving here is a consideration. Do you live in the area, Trooper Hammond? We might be neighbors one day. In any case, I’m representing the family with respect to the property. I’m asking about a warrant and wondering what’s going on.”
“Not your concern.”
“I agree with you. To a point. You can appreciate that arresting people on my property who are connected to my family—that’s getting awfully close to being my concern. Don’t you agree? Especially when I still haven’t seen a warrant.”
“Don’t get wise with me. I followed him here because the driver didn’t stop. Or do you want me to arrest her, too?” Hammond looks back at the patrol car, to check how his officer is getting on. He continues, “Anyway, I’m not arresting the boy. No warrant necessary. He’s being picked up for further questioning.”
Émile smiles. That’s all he wanted to find out. Vernon Colchester is being handcuffed and the back of his head receives a downward shove as he crawls into the patrol car’s rear seat. To the lad, this will feel like an arrest. All the trappings.
“Glad to hear it. I’m curious, though. How’d you know he was in the car?” The trooper is under no obligation to answer him, so he tries to keep the talk easygoing.
“We had him under surveillance. New information came in. I decided to reinterview. We were keeping tabs on his whereabouts.”
“Right. He knew the victim. Makes sense to keep an eye on him.”
“Then you know what that means.”
Cinq-Mars sees himself reflected in the officer’s glasses. “Not particularly. What?”
“Think about it.”
He knows what he wants him to say. Cinq-Mars won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, he shrugs.
“If we had an eye on him, who else do you think we’ve seen strolling around the Dowbiggin campus?” Hammond raises his right index finger, holds it aloft for dramatic effect, then stabs Cinq-Mars lightly in the center of his chest.
He should take offense. Since there’s nothing Hammond would enjoy more, Émile adopts a different tack. “Whoever your track dog is, keep him. He’s good.”
“I’ll let him know you approve. He might say whoopee.”
Hammond is spoiling for a fight. Not finding one he’s set to proceed to a reprimand, except that his gaze appears to hover over Émile’s left shoulder. He might be looking at Caroline. As the gaze is prolonged, Émile suspects that he’s found someone else to stare down behind him.
“What’s he doing here?” Hammond inquires.
Cinq-Mars grasps the locus of his interest. The gemologist. Charles Carpel is ambling their way, although he exhibits no discernible sense of direction or interest in anyone’s conversation. He appears to be sleepwalking on a sunny day.
“Ah!” Cinq-Mars exclaims. “An old, dear friend of the family. Right, Caro?” She backs up his lie with an enthusiastic nod. “He happened to drop by. Don’t worry, I wasn’t—what did you call it?—muddling. He did mention that the two of you spoke, yes? And he said something quite interesting. But I’m sure you caught all that in your interview.”
“Caught what?” Hammond wants to know, rising to the bait.
“Oh, you know,” Cinq-Mars says. He’s quite sure that Hammond has no clue. “The radioactive thing.”
The trooper rocks his chin back as if expressing comprehension. “The radioactive thing,” he mutters. “Yeah, that.”
Carpel, having identified that it’s Hammond on the premises, chooses not to join them, wandering over for a chat with a spotted white and brown mare leaning her head over a rail fence.
“Yeah,” Cinq-Mars quips, “that. It’s amazing how things can come together. I’m sure you found this out on your own, but if I hadn’t been over—muddling—on the other side of the river, I might never have heard back about the Vermont ME’s report. I mean, the coincidence! Then Charles drives over and talks about seeing you and brings up the necklaces and the radioactivity—”
“Coincidence?” Hammond ponders.
“I don’t know when you figured it out, probably when you talked to Charles. Given that the necklace is radioactive, and Malory Earle’s neck showed unusual traces of radioactivity—”
“Oh yeah,” Hammond says. “Oh yeah.”
“Which links the three murders together through the three necklaces—”
“Ah, three?” Hammond interrupts.
“I’m counting the radioactive necklace around Miss Earle’s neck, if you follow my drift. Obviously, one of those necklaces, or one similar to them—similar in radioactivity, anyway—was around her neck recently, which links all three murders. You’re probably way ahead of me on that.”
Behind his sunglasses, Hammond is hard to read, although his silences are telling. “What—” he starts to say, then stops, then tries again. “I meant to ask him. What’s the level—? I mean, how dangerous is the level of radioactivity, do you think?”
“Charles!” Cinq-Mars suddenly barks out and he can feel Hammond jump an inch. “The radioactivity! How dangerous?”
Carpel puts one foot up on a crossing brace as if he’s a cowboy. In that suit and in that pose he looks ridiculous. “Won’t kill a man in one day,” he hollers back. “Prolonged exposure, different story. Skin damage. After that? Who knows?”
“Have you run that test yet?” Cinq-Mars asks the trooper.
Carpel isn’t done, and barks out to Émile, “Not a story where you want to find out the ending!”
“What test?” Hammond asks.
“To see if both necklaces are radioactive.”
Carpel shouts out, “Two years might kill you! Meantime, keep your testicles away!”
“Ah, yeah, the results aren’t back yet,” Hammond says, faking comprehension to the bitter end. “Or I don’t think so anyway. Been on the road.”
“Right. Right. Of course.”
“Not my area of expertise!” the gemologist lets it be known.
“Thank you, Charles!” Émile shouts back, hoping he’ll be quiet now. To Hammond he says, “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Hammond asks.
“I’ve been muddling. Meddling, anyway. Can’t seem to help myself. You’re right, you’re right. I’m old, I’m retired, it’s your case, go for it and good luck.”
“Yeah,” Hammond says. “Right. Thanks.”
“Is that boy a person of interest?”