The Case of the Yellow Diamond

by Carl Brookins

“Not hardly.”

  “Because?” She was still holding me close and fiddling with my ears.

  “Because the case has come ashore here in landlocked Minnesota.” I turned my head and stuck my tongue into her palm, tickling her.

  Catherine’s left hand dropped from my head and skated slowly down over my shoulder to my chest. She inserted two fingers between the buttons on my shirt and gently scratched.

  “If you keep that up, I won’t be able to remember everything.”

  “’S okay,” she murmured, blowing in my ear. “Why do you think the answers are now here?”

  We were sidling toward the bedroom, difficult to do when entwined as we were. “First, burglaries and theft of the Bartelmes’ diving gear. Ouch. Then Stan Lewis. Then the shot at young Cal.” By now her cotton sweatpants, loose around her waist to begin with, were sagging so I got a foot on them and held one leg to the floor. When she leaned away, they slipped almost to her knees, trapping her.

  “Hey, no fair. You brought in reinforcements.”

  “I thought it was a clever ploy, myself.” I shifted inside her arms and planted my lips on her now exposed breastbone. The move overbalanced us and we fell, chortling, onto the bed.

  “That’s it?”

  “My reasons? Yep.”

  “What next, Sherlock?”

  “Flush out the bad guy or guys.”

  “Not too original.” We’d managed to extinguish some lights, lost most of our clothes and crawled fully into the massive bed.

  “Wait ’til you hear my plan.”

  Chapter 18

  I got to my office on Central late the next morning, still a little sore from the previous night’s exercise. We’d talked about installing a small hot tub in the spare bedroom, but our research hadn’t turned up anything that I thought wouldn’t make the floor sag. So I’d detoured to my Roseville ranch and spent an hour soaking in the big redwood tank at the back of my house.

  Now it was time to buckle down, so to speak. There were a dozen messages on my answering device. The last four, beginning at ten, were from Gareth Anderson, Attorney at Law. No message except to call him. Urgently requested.

  Well, sure. I still hadn’t told him I’d take him up on his offer to butt out of the Bartelmes’ lives. When I had a client I just never reacted favorably to anyone except the client telling me to get lost. And even then, sometimes, I hung around. In this case I wasn’t going to disappear, of course, especially now that some moke had taken a shot at my favorite teenager, Cal Pederson. How was he doing, I wondered? I called the Bartelme house. Maxine answered.

  “Well, hi there, Boy Scout,” she purred. “What can I do you for?”

  “I was just calling to inquire about Cal. How’s he doing?”

  I repeated my request. Since I was unresponsive to her suggestive comment, she tried a different tack. “He’s fine, will fully recover, I guess, and is back home in Chicago. His mom decided Josie wasn’t taking good enough care of her kid.”

  I rang off, as they used to put it in those old English novels, and left the office after disposing of an accumulation of unwanted mail. I headed to the White Bear PD to talk with the investigator who had been assigned to the Cal Pederson shooting case. After I had located the likely place the shooter had stood and turned it over to the locals, the investigator in charge assured me they’d keep me up to speed on their progress. I went out of my way to try to stay on their good side. As with other aspects of this case, I hadn’t heard anything about their progress, so off I went.

  The captain of the homicide unit in White Bear Lake was cordial when I made it to his corner office. It was a nice if plainly furnished office with painted beige walls. The desk was large and piled with files. Unfortunately, Captain Nelson had little to tell me. “I understand your concern over the lack of much progress, Mr. Sean. But you know as well as I that this is a difficult case with almost no physical evidence.”

  “So what you’re telling me is there’s been no progress.”

  “Pretty much, except we’ve managed to eliminate almost everybody associated with the family as persons of interest.”

  “Almost.”

  “Yes. Alvin Pederson and his wife are out of the picture. So is the lawyer and both Bartelmes.” Nelson shuffled papers in the file in front of him. “Pederson was at a construction site he’s investing in. Let’s see. We still have to verify Hillier’s whereabouts and that of the other women buddies of Mrs. Bartelme. I think that’s it.” He closed the file, looked up and smiled. “No more brass in the grove of bushes you located for us, and no weapon. Any word from the Maplewood people about the break-in at the storage facility?”

  I shook my head and got out of the chair. “I haven’t talked to Tod today, but I’ve heard nothing. Thanks, Captain.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  I nodded and left the building. My plan was to head over to the Bartelmes and have another chat with Josie. I didn’t get out of the PD parking lot. My rear tires were flat. Both of them. Unfortunately I didn’t notice it until I nosed into the aisle so the Taurus was blocking part of the lot. I switched off, got out and trudged back to the reception desk

  The woman handling receptionist duties looked a question at me.

  “I need to call a tow truck. My car’s in your lot with two flat tires,” I said to her. “Is there a pay phone here?”

  “No cell?” she inquired. I shook my head and she pointed to a phone on a nearby desk. “Dial eight to get an outside line.”

  I looked up a local garage and the fellow who answered my call said he’d be there in a few. I turned around and encountered a large man standing at the desk.

  “Some dork parked in the aisle, blocking it,” he said.

  “I’m the dork,” I said. “Flat tires. Tow truck is on its way. If you absolutely can’t wait, I’ll move it, but I hate to bust up my flats.”

  He looked down at me with what I took to be his long-suffering, disgusted look and turned away without a word. I went out to the lot again and waited in the sun for the tow truck to arrive. The driver was a young man who obviously knew his business. He maneuvered the truck until he could winch the Taurus onto the inclined flat bed and then drove us the four blocks to the garage.

  Both lifts were full so I went across the street to a nearby bar and had a cup of coffee and a bad sandwich. When I wandered back to the service station, my automobile was on the rack with both wheels off and the owner waiting to give me an owl-eyed look.

  “You got some enemies?” he inquired.

  “Why?”

  “Both tires got the same sickness. Look here.” He showed me my wheels and pointed out a small, clean-edged tear in the tire right at the outside of the rim.”One tire, maybe. If you hit something, a broken bottle, just right. But—”

  “Aw, c’mon, Ron, you know that ain’t it.” The voice came from an old guy with a big belly sitting on a high stool in the office, clutching a can of soda. “That there is a knife cut, just like the other one.”

  Ron shrugged and said, “Yeah, that’s probably right. Especially in two tires at the same time.” He shifted and pointed at an almost identical cut in the other rear tire.

  “Yeah,” opined the old guy in the office. “Long time ago I wuz a ­dep’ty shrrif. Pine County.” He interrupted himself to lift his close-cropped white head to take a swig of soda. His undersized shirt gapped between the buttons and he belched quietly when he lowered the can. “I still know a thing or two when I see it. Them two tires was slashed.” Now he looked at me shrewdly. “You in some kinda trouble?”

  I nodded and said, “Some kind, I guess. Put two new steel-belts on the wheels. Can you do that right away?”

  Ron the service guy nodded and went to work. I whiled away the half-hour it took to replace my tires chatting with the ex-deputy. He had a few stories a
bout a high-speed chase or two down the backroads of Pine County and seemed glad for the company. Just before Ron finished with my tires, the old man pulled a big railroad-type pocket watch out of his jeans and peered at it. Then he nodded as if satisfied with what he saw on the watch face. He rose, nodded to me and waved at Ron. Then without a word, he left the station and went slowly down the street.

  The service guy manipulated the controls on the lift and dropped my Taurus back to the ground. Then I realized he hadn’t used a pneumatic wrench to attach the wheels, but an old-fashioned tire wrench. I paid the bill with my plastic and thanked him for his prompt service. As I idled at the driveway onto Highway 61, watching for a break in traffic and waiting for the air conditioner to lower the temperature in the car, I thought about my two slashed tires. About the implications.

  It was highly unlikely that targeting my tires had been a random act of vandalism. The car was in the police department parking lot, for God’s sake. It wasn’t a case of mistaken identity, either. Somebody was sending me a message. I wheeled onto the highway and headed toward my original destination, the Bartelmes’ place on the lake. I only had the one case working at the moment, although I figured there was a remote possibility that a former thug I’d encountered was after me. I made a mental note to find out if anybody I’d helped put away was recently released from custody. Didn’t seem a fruitful path of inquiry. Nope. This tire slashing was definitely tied to Yap.

  Chapter 19

  Josie met me at the door. It was immediately apparent she had been crying. Either that or she’d developed a sudden allergic reaction, and it ­wasn’t ragweed season yet. I didn’t comment other than to raise one eyebrow. “I need to talk with both of you. Is Tod here?”

  I was pretty sure he was. I’d seen his car parked carelessly in the driveway. She nodded and waved me into the living room. The heat and humidity had become oppressive so the house had been closed up and the air conditioning cranked. Tod was sitting on the big couch in front of the dead fireplace, head in hands.

  “There’s been a development,” I said without preamble. Ever the taciturn detective, that’s me.

  “I’ll say,” mumbled Tod. “I think we’re screwed.”

  That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected so I stopped where I was and looked first at Tod, then Josie. She walked around the couch and sank down beside her husband, taking one of his hands in her own.

  “Maybe you better explain,” I said, moving to a chair where I could see both Bartelmes and the entrance to the living room.

  Tod heaved a mighty sigh and looked at me. “We just had a letter from our charter guy overseas. The first time we went to Yap, we went as tourists. While there we met some people who told us about this charter company in Singapore. They were able to get us a small salvage boat and industrial supplies we’d need to mount a serious search for the plane the second time we went over. So the first thing I did after we decided to make a trip this August was contact the company and reserve the boat and equipment we might need.”

  “We even put a deposit down,” Josie said.

  “And now?” I questioned.

  “And now,” she went on, “we get this letter saying they’re sorry but there’s been a misunderstanding and the boat isn’t available.”

  “Not even if we change our dates,” Tod said.

  “Did you have a contract?” I asked.

  “Sure, and we paid them a thousand bucks. They said they were sorry and the refund would arrive from their London bank in a few days. This really screws up our whole summer schedule.”

  “There’s no chance of finding another boat to charter?”

  Josie shook her head. “At short notice we might be able to get something else, but it’d cost a lot more. Money we don’t have.”

  Tod lunged up off the couch. “We can sue for breach of contract, I suppose, damages or something like that,” Josie said, watching her husband start to stalk around the room. “But that’ll take ages and won’t get us closer to the plane. Even if we win.”

  “Hang on a minute,” I said. They both looked at me. “Can I see the letter?”

  Josie went to fetch it. Tod eyed me and said, “What are you thinking?”

  “Timing. Timing might be important. Don’t they use email?”

  “They do sort of,” Josie said, “but for contractual things it’s always been by regular mail.” Josie handed me the letter, written on creamy heavy paper with an embossed crest of the commercial salvage company.

  Taking the letter in hand, I said, “I came over here to tell you about an incident of my own. This morning I was at the White Bear Lake station house to find out if there’s been any new developments about Cal’s shooting.”

  “Have there?” Josie interrupted.

  “No, but while I was in the building, somebody slashed the rear tires on my car. I take it as a warning that my involvement in this affair is creating some problems for somebody. Or potential problems,” I amended.

  “That’s awful. We’ll pay for the new tires, of course,” Josie said.

  “That’s kind of you to offer, but that isn’t the point and I won’t bill you for them, anyway. In fact,” now I was ad libbing, just making it up as I went along. I didn’t want to use them like this but my sudden brainstorm would work better if I didn’t have to rely on Josie and Tod’s acting abilities. “In fact, you aren’t going to get anymore bills from me at all, plus the original retainer, less a dollar for the old legal niceties, will be returned as soon as I can get back to the office and cut you a check.”

  Tod looked bewildered. Josie shook her head. I couldn’t blame them for that. I was springing new deals on them as fast as I could make them up.

  “I don’t get it,” Tod said. “You better explain.”

  “Try this. I’ve been contacted by parties who wish to remain anonymous but who are interested in your efforts to find your lost relative. The interests of this party are their own, and I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew what they were. But I’ll be able to bring you substantial financial help in a few days. Your trip to Yap may be delayed for a while, but not until next year, and not forever.

  “Now, here’s what you should do. Call a meeting, for, how about tomorrow evening or late in the afternoon? Invite everybody involved to come here. Tell your group you have an important announcement. When they get here you explain about this contract breach. Then you explain you’ve been working to locate a different charter company for a slightly later trip.”

  “But— Tod started to protest.

  I cut him off. “Do that. Take the afternoon and make some calls. Negotiate another contract with the salvage people, if you can. Or at least, begin the process. And don’t be quiet about it. We want the word to get around that you’re going ahead in spite of this temporary setback. Call my office and leave a message as to the time for the meeting. I’ll show up about fifteen minutes later. Then we’ll explain.”

  “I don’t get it,” Tod said, “but I’ll do it.” His grin came and went.

  “For one thing, you’re going to upset somebody’s applecart,” I explained. “This letter is dated almost a week ago. My tires were slashed today. It tells me that if this foul-up is not legitimate, more than one person is trying to mess you up, and they aren’t coordinating things. I gotta go. Trust me, we’ll sort this all out fairly soon.”

  I left a quiet Bartelme living room and headed toward Minneapolis and the home of Madeline Pryor. I hoped she’d been sincere at the dance when she’d told me she was prepared to help in any substantial way she could. I was about to find out.

  Chapter 20

  The Pryors lived in an upscale part of Deephaven, a community on the southern shore of Lake Minnetonka, just west of Minneapolis. It took me twenty minutes to drive to the town and another ten on the winding lanes and multifarious cul-de-sacs and alleys to locate the add
ress. I didn’t call ahead. For all I knew, Mrs. Henry Pryor, Madeline, was at Cape Antibes or on the Cote d’Azure enjoying a holiday. But I didn’t think so. The way she had talked to me at the country club dance led me to believe she was keeping close tabs on the state of the Bartelmes’ south seas project.

  I was keeping close tabs on my rearview mirror as I wandered about Deephaven. The efficiency with which my rear tires had been dispatched to the recycle bin during my short time in the PD building suggested I was being followed. I didn’t see any obvious tail on the freeway to this western enclave, but there was enough traffic to make detection difficult, especially since I tend to watch where I’m going more than where I’ve been. Keeps me out of the wrecker’s clutches.

  Finally I found the right address and had myself buzzed through the gate. It, the gate, closed after me, which pleased me, since I doubted the tire slasher was on the premises. Mrs. Pryor, looking considerably less elegant than when I had last seen her, met me on the front steps.

  “You’re fortunate to find me at home. Do you always drop in without calling first? Let’s go around to the patio. It’s cooler.”

  “Thanks. I do usually call ahead. In this case, I just took a chance. Even if you hadn’t been able to talk to me, it’s a nice drive.”

  “I assume your presence here has something to do with the Bartelmes and their search for the missing plane?”

  “That’s right. I’m here today because I hope you were serious when you told me the other night that you willing to help Josie and Tod, should they need it.”

  “Oh, I was and still am absolutely serious. We like the Bartelmes. I admire her efforts to locate that plane wreck. My family has a military background, and the idea of not being able to locate the bodies of our deceased fighters is distressing. I have been a supporter of efforts to locate MIAs for years.”

  I explained to Madeline the foul-up over the Bartelmes’ charter and the financial bind they now faced. I was beginning to suspect it was more of somebody’s effort to scuttle the search. I still had to find out why in order to nab the skell messing things up.