The Case of the Yellow Diamond

by Carl Brookins

  Maxine shrugged and accepted another highball from a woman I hadn’t met. “Well, this is another incident in all this stuff that’s been happening since Josie and Tod decided to try to find Uncle Richard’s plane. How can it not be connected? I don’t mean to make light of his murder, but we have to realize we’re all involved, everybody in this room,” she waved the hand not holding her glass. “What if some lunatic is after all of us? I sure as hell want him locked up before somebody else gets hurt.” Her voice became shrill and she took a healthy slug of her drink. I noticed her hand shook, just a little.

  “I do see some links,” I interposed. “All of the trouble, including the wounding of Cal, the break-ins, and the murders of Stan Lewis and your father, Josie, are linked. It must somehow be connected to your efforts to locate the B-24 bomber that took your granduncle to his death.”

  “I think you’re reaching for feathers,” growled Anderson. “You just want keep the fees coming. Meanwhile, you can’t seem to point to any progress in solving the break-ins. I think you ought to be terminated.” There was a tiny pause, as if everybody recognized his unfortunate choice of words.

  “Stop this,” said Tod. “This is our decision. Josie and I will deal with all this after the—after the funeral.” Josie rose abruptly from the sofa and left the room with her head bowed. She didn’t make eye contact and kept a white handkerchief pressed against her mouth. The door closed softly behind her.

  “As your attorney,” Anderson went on, “I think I’m in a position to give you some important advice.” His voice had sharpened. Why was he pressing so?

  “Mr. Anderson,” Tod said,” You are—were Mr. Pederson’s attorney, not mine. We may want to retain your services, but please don’t make assumptions. We’re grateful for your support up to now. All of you. But we are not going to decide much of anything today except funeral arrangements. Mr. Sean, can you give us any idea when the body will be released?”

  I watched Anderson decide to subside for the time being. He sat beside the newcomer, his wife, I assumed. She took his elbow in a familiar way.

  As I left the Bartelmes’ home and the grieving family enmeshed in shock and wonderment at the brutal and sudden ending of the life of their patriarch, the threats had become more real and closer. The thickening night air warned of rain. I had become more than a little intrigued by Lawyer Anderson’s attitude. He was clearly anxious to have me removed from the scene as soon as possible. As I reached my car it became one of those Minnesota nights. Soft rain fell, the streetlights making orange glows above the wet, glistening streets. It was the kind of rain, with temperature in the low eighties, that makes you want to take off all your clothes and stand naked, face uplifted to the dark sky, until all your sins and missteps are washed away. When the chill sets in, you go inside to a hot bath and somebody’s loving arms. I intended to drive home to Roseville, but just outside the Bartelmes’ driveway, I decided to do something else, and, to this day, I can’t say what impelled me to stop, pull off on the verge and adjust my rearview mirrors so I had a clear view of the driveway forty feet behind me. Fifteen minutes of waiting and I watched Lawyer Anderson and his wife get in their car and exit the parking area. I made a discreet U-turn and followed.

  We wandered at a sedate pace down through town until we hit Interstate 94. Anderson turned west, and I followed. I assumed he was finally heading home. I stayed two or three cars behind the black Caddy the whole way through Saint Paul. Occasionally I could see Anderson and his wife, or at least their profiles, as we swished through the night. Then he began to pick up the pace to match traffic.

  I was in a tight snake of vehicles, tracking through the night, following the flickering red taillights ahead. Two vehicles behind me gave it a closed-in feeling. Anderson’s was the third car ahead. We were roaring down the freeway, sliding across lanes and zipping right down a narrow ribbon of macadam onto another freeway, this one northbound. The rise and fall of the road and the snake we were in, the rhythm of almost synchronized swaying and adjusting speed, the flashing of brake lights, reminded me of watching conga lines of drafting long-distance skaters. We were cocooned in our steel-and-aluminum rockets. Radios and engines isolated each driver, if they were anything like me.

  I topped the hill and we dipped down the narrow access to junction with 280, the highway that headed north toward my house. I caught a small flash of light under the rear of the third car ahead. It was just a momentary flash and not very bright. It was about the size of a small backfire from a muscle car shifting down, or a low-rider bottoming out briefly on the pavement. But then everything went to hell.

  At first it was like a movie. In slow motion. For a few long seconds, our line continued down the grade, but as we cleared the abutment on the right, the car I was tailing, the black Caddy, drifted right and began to fishtail. It suddenly wrenched out of line, crossed two lanes and rammed head-on into the bridge support. It hadn’t slowed at all. Our conga line scattered like a flock of birds, fishtailing and skidding over the entire junction. We were fortunate there was no other traffic that rainy night. I headed up the shoulder, hugging the left side, almost scraping the barrier fence, and stopped thirty yards on. In my rearview mirror a large bloom of red and yellow light from the Caddy filled the space under the bridge. There was no way anyone could have survived.

  I wasn’t sure what to do at that moment. If I stayed, my investigation might be irretrievably compromised. The asshole in the car, the guy I was following, might have led me to whoever was pulling strings. Flashing blue and red lights were blossoming all around me. I put the Taurus into gear and slowly drove up the glistening highway while the windshield washers cleared away the gentle summer rain.

  The next day I called the Minnesota Highway Patrol.

  Chapter 27

  My interview with the patrol reps was neither pleasant nor nasty. I resisted the sergeant’s attempts to weasel out of me my connection with the dead attorney and/or his wife. If I had thought it would make a difference to their investigation of the fatal crash, I would have gladly owned up to it.

  “But you were acquainted with the deceased, correct?”

  “Yes, as I told you, Mr. Anderson is an attorney. He represents Preston Pederson and some or all of his various enterprises. That’s how I knew him. We had no direct business dealings.”

  “And this Preston Pederson is now deceased, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Pederson was found dead of a gunshot in your office, correct?”

  I sighed. “Look, I get you want a clear record in this interview, but I’ve already told you all that. I have no idea why Pederson was in my office when I wasn’t there. Did he break in? I don’t leave my door open when I’m out. You need to check with the Minneapolis PD for their progress on that case.”

  “Rest assured, Mr. Sean, we will.”

  “Can I leave now?” Since I wasn’t under arrest, and in fact, had readily agreed to this interview at patrol headquarters in Saint Paul, I knew I could just walk out, but I didn’t want to unnecessarily antagonize anybody. “Or, can I ask a question? I saw the accident. Is there something unusual about it? Anything?”

  The patrol officer smiled slightly. “Mr. Sean. I checked you out and you come with good credentials. So I’m going to level with you.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. He leaned forward slightly.

  “This wasn’t an accident. There’s evidence that an explosion resulted in Mr. Anderson losing control of his vehicle.” The sergeant continued to stare into my eyes. I met him, blink for blink.

  “Really. So the flash of light I told you about was some sort of explosion? Do you have any ideas about who would have wanted to murder Mr. Anderson?”

  The man across the table flinched ever so slightly. I’d just preempted his next question. We stared at each other for a moment in silence. Then he relaxed and said, “We’re only
in the preliminary phases of this investigation. I’d appreciate it greatly if you’d keep us informed of any new information that might bear on our work. Thank you for coming in.”

  He stood up. So did I and we left the room without shaking hands. I departed the building and went to my car. The meter had expired and there was a parking ticket on the windshield. I shoved the ticket into the glove box—if they still call ’em that—and drove to my office.

  The door was open and three uniformed crime scene techs and a detective investigator were there. The investigator, whom I didn’t recognize, checked my ID and told me pleasantly they’d be out of my way and out of my office in just another hour, so why didn’t I go get lunch and a cuppa joe. I talked the guy into letting me listen to my telephone messages, which didn’t provide me with anything useful. The building manager had left two requests that I stop in at my earliest convenience.

  I went downstairs and talked to George. He didn’t much care what I was involved in, he was just filling in the blanks on the company forms. We had a casual chat, and I went up the street for a ham sandwich and a small dish of slaw. When I got back to the building the door was shut but not latched and the police were gone, leaving a surprisingly unrumpled office. The biggest problem was the left-behind fingerprint powder residue. It made me sneeze.

  I pulled my paper file on the diamond business and reviewed the list of players. It was shorter now with the death of Lawyer Anderson. I decided I’d better have some background beyond what I already knew about him. I ambled down the hall to my favorite duo, Betsy and Belinda Revulon. With their hacking skills, I knew they’d plow the ground about Anderson and reveal to me any dirt to be had.

  “I assume this is more trackless effort, yes?” asked Betsy when we’d dispensed with welcoming hugs. After all, we hadn’t seen each other in all of two days.

  “Correct.” Since the two murders closely connected with the Bartelmes’ efforts to locate Josie’s granduncle, I was becoming wary. More than usual. I hadn’t begun to flinch or dive for cover at unexpected noises but there was something going on that I wasn’t seeing. “I think I better take you two to dinner soon, or pay you a fee.”

  Both women smiled down at me and waved me out the door. It occurred to me that escorting these two blonde Valkyries to dinner at a nice downtown restaurant some crowded evening would enhance my standing around town, if not my stature. Something to think about.

  Late in the afternoon, Betsy Revulon showed up empty-handed.

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “Not nothing, but nothing substantive. Actually, what isn’t there is the most intriguing part of the picture.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Betsy slid into my guest chair and frowned when she couldn’t move it. “Mr. Gary Anderson has a clean bill from the day he entered law school. William Mitchell, to be precise. A slow, unspectacular rise to associate in that big law firm in Saint Paul. Then in 2001, he joined four other lawyers here in Minneapolis to form a firm of their own. They do a variety of labor, family, small business and corporate law. The partners have supported various political candidates, generally to the right of center.”

  “I’m not hearing any eyebrow-raising facts.”

  “Every so often, six times over the past thirty years, to be precise, Mr. Anderson’s work load at his law firm has dipped. It’s like he just disappeared for a period of time.”

  “Poof,” I said.

  “Poof,” Betsy agreed. “My first thought was he went off on a pilgrimage or some volunteer experience for a church or nongovernmental organization. You know, like the groups working in Haiti or Africa. Can’t find anything. He’s off the radar. Sometimes for weeks, once for six months.”

  “Rehab of some kind?”

  She nodded. “That’s one possibility, but we can’t say for sure one way or the other.” She rose from the chair and sauntered to the door. “Do you want us to make further inquiries?”

  I shook my head. “You covered thirty-plus years. I guess that’s enough. Wait. When was the first time?”

  Betsy glanced at a scrap of paper in her hand and said, “Summer before he started law school, 1983.” She went out with a little flip of her fingers.

  “Wait,” I called.

  Betsy’s blonde head reappeared. “You summoned?”

  “I have another thought. Here’s another player to check out.” I scribbled Richard Hillier’s name on a yellow pad and handed the torn out sheet to her.

  Betsy took the paper, kissed the air over my head and disappeared.

  Chapter 28

  I was in early the next morning organizing my notes and discovered that nobody had called my answering machine overnight. I was questioning motives, everybody’s. For some time I’d been leaning toward Preston Pederson as the killer. His abrupt death by gunshot was a certain clue there were other yet undiscovered dimensions. And I still had no idea why Pederson’s corpse had been so oddly dressed. According to the family, the last time anyone had seen him alive was early the morning he was shot, and he’d been dressed in a swimsuit, raggedy old t-shirt, sandals, and carrying a beach towel. According to Maxine, who supplied the description, he’d been walking across the deck, heading in the direction of the beach. Since that had been just after dawn, and I found the corpse at about nine, there was only a three-hour gap. Who filled it with animosity and death?

  What about Tod or Josie? Since they had instigated my involvement and appeared to be intent on pursuing their search for Amundson’s bomber in the sea off Yap Island, I had to assume they were innocent. I could conceive of no rational reason why they would persistently try to sabotage their own expeditions.

  Jennifer and Julie, Josie’s girl buddies, had no reason I could discover to be involved in any of this. Nor did I seriously consider the other Pederson family members—Alvin, Maxine, or the boy, Calvin. It wasn’t just the fact that Calvin had been wounded on the beach. What sixteen-year-old boy would have a deadly stake in seventy-year-old events on the other side of the world?

  Stan Lewis, the murdered World War Two vet from St. Louis, was out of the picture. His connection was much closer, even than any of the local family. And then there were the others, Lawyer Gary Anderson, Richard Hillier, Lorelei Jones, even Josie Preston’s dead father.

  In my mind there was a conspiracy here. It had begun during the waning months of World War Two, in the Pacific Theater, and I thought it somehow had to do with thefts, smuggling, and the acquisition of wealth and influence through illegal means.

  A soft rap on my doorframe brought me back to the present. Belinda Revulon’s shining face and luxuriant head of honey-colored hair captured my view and my attention.

  “You have something for me?”

  “I do, honey. I do,” she husked.

  “Come. Sit. Tell.” So she did.

  “Here is a timeline on your target, Mr. Richard Hillier. Thirty years ago, give or take, the boy was living in Gary, Indiana. His family was unremarkable, upper blue-collar. Later, he attended a college in northern Illinois, went to work in Des Moines and then to Omaha to a construction company and in 1995, moved to our fair cities, where he hooked up with Pederson Construction and Development.”

  “Any signs of malfeasance?”

  Belinda smiled. “Wait. Let me call your attention to a timeline we produced earlier. Like yesterday.”

  “What? Who? Oh, sure.”

  She laid a piece of paper in front of me. Both Revulons had a taste for the dramatic. I recognized the name at the top and smiled at her.

  “Just so. Mr. Hillier’s timeline triggered our memories, so we did some crosschecking with your earlier target, Gary Anderson.”

  I could tell she had something juicy. “So, tell.” I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

  “It seems Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hillier are long-time buddies. They went t
o the same high school in Gary, Indiana. Anderson was a year behind Hillier in school but they played on the same football teams.

  “Later, they attended the same college. Then Mr. Anderson went to law school and Mr. Hillier went to work. For a construction company in Des Moines, as I said earlier.” She smiled again. “That’s in Iowa.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “The Des Moines company is owned by the same people who own the Omaha company that later employed Mr. Anderson.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  “It is, and what is also interesting is that both have family connections to an investment company in Chicago.”

  “My, how the web entangles.”

  “Oh, there’s more,” Belinda said. “On two occasions, almost identical dates, mind you, both Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hillier went off the grid for short periods of time, like a week. We can find no evidence of resignations or of either being temporarily laid off or any reason for their disappearances. But it’s clear in our minds, Betsy’s and mine, that those two have long been on closely joined paths and they went somewhere together for something.”

  “But we have little or no concrete evidence of that.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true. However, neither Betsy nor I have the slightest doubt you will take these facts and our conclusions and make something wonderful out of it all.”

  “Wonderful, I doubt,” I said. “I’m more inclined to see collusion and crime here. Thank you, so much. I am, as always, in your debt.”

  Belinda departed and I contemplated my next move, based on this new information. My first assumption was that Anderson and Hillier were up to something. Something that was illegal and of long standing. It did occur to me that maybe they were off on a fishing trip somewhere. I had to check it out. Fishing? Possibly, but I’d bet it was something tied to the construction trades in three states but now centered in the money game here in Minnesota. I needed more information so I sauntered down the hall and lodged yet another request.