The Case of the Yellow Diamond

by Carl Brookins

  “There are three companies in the construction business linked to all this,” I said to Belinda after thanking her again for their efforts on my behalf. “I believe I need additional background on each of them. History, ownership, like that. And, if you please, I want to know about their support of the war effort.”

  “Specifically, I bet you mean the Second World War.”

  “Yes. Further, it would be interesting to discover if anybody tied to the companies during those years was in military service and—”

  “And did any of them serve in the Pacific Theater, yes?” Belinda had a sometimes annoying habit of finishing my sentences. Sometimes.

  “Exactly.”

  She nodded enthusiastically, understanding just where we might be going. I left the Revulons to their tasks.

  I wondered if we’d discover the Pryor name in our searches. I hoped not. I liked Mrs. Pryor, and she’d helped, both with financial support for Tod and Josie and by raising the specter of the jewel smuggling activity.

  I made a series of summary notes in my computer and logged off. It was time to head home to Kenwood. More and more, I realized, I was thinking of Catherine’s apartment as home. That was a good thing.

  Chapter 29

  Sounds as if your case is becoming more instead of less complicated.” Catherine’s voice floated from the kitchen to the living room, where I was relaxing on our couch with a little Scotch and the early evening news on TV. I hit the mute button. The news wasn’t that interesting, anyway. Riley Sparz was talking about dogs in hot cars or something.

  “You’d think it would begin to sort itself out, people being murdered and all.”

  Catherine had become sort of used to my mordant humor, but I was careful not to disparage those on the wrong side of the law, even the dead ones. She continued to believe there was some good in all of us, even those ripping off NGOs trying to help the less fortunate among the world’s populations. “I had the sense you were leaning toward Josie’s father as the head saboteur.”

  “Right you are. Even though that was disturbing, he just seemed to be right for it. And he has, or had, these questionable associations.”

  “Dinner is served in our elegant kitchen. Bring your drink. What associations?”

  So I enumerated Pederson’s associations. While I did so, it occurred to me, not for the first time, that a good deal of his clout in the local construction business had come about because of his father’s connections, particularly the political ones. I made a mental note to pursue the politics further.

  “What is it about the death of the lawyer, Anderson, that bothers you so much?”

  “Apart from the fact that he was murdered by a bomb in his car and that his wife, who was probably innocent of any involvement, died with him?”

  “Apart from that.”

  “These au gratin potatoes are spectacular,” I said.

  “Thank you. How do you like the pork tenderloin?”

  “Also spectacular.”

  “Do you know why Anderson’s death bothers you so much?” Catherine asked again, eying me over the thin rim of her wine glass.

  “I don’t think I am muchly bothered. At least, not any more muchly than usual.”

  “Yes, you are. And it’s because you were there. What? Four or five car lengths behind him? And you saw the flash from the bomb. And you saw the crash.”

  “Honey, I’ve been closely involved in killings before, some by my own hand.”

  “I know that. And in the past, as now, each of them has disturbed you. In this instance, I think you’re wondering if your presence might have triggered the event. I think you’re wondering if somebody who was also observing Mr. Anderson may have seen you trailing the Andersons, and that made whoever it is decide they couldn’t wait. He had to be killed to keep you from finding out something important.”

  I stared at the ceramic tile under my plate and traced the lines of the joints. I didn’t go in much for second guessing or introspection. Most PIs didn’t, I suspected. We did what we did and moved on. Our efforts at mental gymnastics were mostly reserved for trying to outguess the adversary or determine our next moves. Catherine’s insights were a little disturbing. I could already tell she was right on the money. I’d have to be a little more careful about unburdening myself in the future.

  Catherine put her hand over my restless finger. “I think you’re feeling a little direct responsibility. If your following Mr. Anderson hadn’t happened, maybe his wife would still be alive.”

  I looked up into her concerned face. I could understand she was at least partially right. “Yeah, if that’s why he was killed, my presence may have been the motivator.”

  The next morning Catherine whisked off to her massage school while I cleaned up the kitchen and the rest of the place. Then it was time to spend some serious effort fleshing out Anderson’s background and his connection with Richard Hillier.

  Anderson’s law firm was located in a small, obscure strip mall on the border between Edina and Minneapolis. I parked in one of their client/visitor spots and confronted the receptionist. “I’m sorry to bother you today. I know it must be hard, having just lost one of the partners, but if I’m to prevent any more damage to your employers, I need to see a senior partner right away.” It was mostly bullshit, of course, but I was counting on the turmoil surrounding the murder and my ominous statement to break through their normal shields.

  The woman opened her mouth to say something negative, I had no doubt, when a big burly man dressed in a very expensive dark suit crashed out of an inner office and came striding down the short hallway, bellowing, “God damn it! Somebody has got to have the key to that asshole’s desk.” He caught sight of me and without the slightest hitch in his stride, transferred his frustration to my small self. “And just who the hell are you?”

  Now, I could have been a prospective client, about to bring his firm a million dollars worth of business, and at that minute, he could not have been less interested. He stormed up to the edge of the reception desk and stuck his face down to mine.

  “Well?”

  “Mr. Larson, my name is Sean. I must speak with you about your recently murdered partner, Gareth Anderson.”

  “Gary? What’s your connection with this mess?” He drew a quick breath and swung his large head toward the woman, now standing at her desk. “Ruthie? Go through that box of stuff again. Anderson’s keys must be in there. Now, you. What did you say your name was?”

  “Sean Sean. I’m a private investigator.”

  The man had his mouth open, no doubt to send me out the door. I could almost see my name register in his consciousness. There’s a certain level of satisfaction when that happens to a short guy.

  “Sean Sean. Oh. Yeah. I found your name in Gary’s stuff. Just now. In his date book.”

  “He didn’t have a smartphone or whatever?”

  Larson started to turn away, then glanced back. “Backup,” he said tersely, not explaining. “You’d better come with me.”

  I followed lawyer Larson to a corner office, past a couple of closed doors with no nameplates. His office wasn’t very large, with a single tall, narrow window that looked out on a sun-washed parking lot. Apart from a single framed diploma, the light yellow walls were empty of any decoration. Larson’s desktop, a big wooden one, was cluttered with files.

  “Sit,” he said. He didn’t have to tell me which chair, as there was only one besides his desk chair. He was a big man and his throne reflected that.

  After I alit, he contemplated me for a long moment. Finally he exhaled and said, “Gary’s death has been a huge blow. He was handling a bunch of cases, several of which are coming to resolution soon. It’s gonna be a bitch to get up to speed, and I hate continuances.”

  “I’m really only interested in one client,” I said. That was a lie, of co
urse. Had Anderson not been murdered, I probably wouldn’t have cared about his other clients, but, as they say, that was then, this is now. “Mr. Anderson was the attorney for Preston Pederson. I’d appreciate anything you can give me.”

  “Well, there’s still client-attorney privilege attached, you know. He handled Preston’s business for many years, did most of the family’s wills, some labor contracts, an occasional vendor dispute, all the usual for the kind of business Pederson was in.”

  I nodded and started to ask the same question in a different way when Larson interrupted.

  “I have two entries in Gary’s appointment book with your name attached. That’s why I recognized you. We’re trying to reach out to all Gary’s contacts and clients. If you can tell me why you consulted him, I’m sure we can help.” This guy was bulling ahead, attorney reticence be damned. I needed to play for a little more time.

  “What were those dates again?” I asked. He gave me the dates, both being in the immediate past when we’d been at the Bartelmes. Then he stared at me, fingers squeezing the edges of the date book. “Nothing earlier?” Sidney Larson shook his head. So I had been right. He hadn’t wanted his partners to know about our lunch meeting, the one where Anderson had tried to get me to back off and abandon Tod and Josie. In another office, a clock chimed.

  “What about taxes, corporate or personal? Did Anderson involve himself there?”

  “No.” Larson shook his head. “We have a tax firm that takes care of this partnership and several of our clients. Anderson had no involvement with IRS law, far as I know, and I knew Gary pretty well.”

  “Besides the construction business, I understood he was getting pretty active recently in the markets. Was that part of Anderson’s portfolio?”

  “I can’t say for sure.” Larson spread his big hands over the desktop. “I presume it was although we haven’t researched all the files yet. You understand.”

  I nodded, but did I? “Socialize much? You know, parties with families, the occasional lunch or dinner with clients?”

  “Some. Oh, sure, we all know each other’s families to a degree, but mostly that was separate. Anderson didn’t have any children, thank God, and he seemed to prefer the company of Preston Pederson and some of his financial cronies.”

  “Was Richard Hillier one of those cronies?”

  “They went to school together, you know. So, maybe if you tell me what you’re looking for, I could help more.” Larson leaned forward and shuffled some of the papers under his fingertips.

  “Contacts, Mr. Larson.Associations, networks. Background work is what I do. Putting meat on the bare bones.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. And what happens to the meat you dig up?”

  The images were getting a little gritty. I shrugged.

  Larson shifted in his chair. “Well, it was a tragic accident. I can’t understand how it happened.” He scratched his nose. “Look, I’m very interested in what’s going on, so I’ll put together a list after we get into Gary’s desk. I’ll shoot you a copy of whatever I think’s relevant. You can take it from there. Depending on, there might be a small retainer attached.”

  As I stood to leave, I spread my hands in the universal sign of ignorance. We shook and I left, smiling to the receptionist. I might need to see her again. Accident, Larson had said. Didn’t he know Anderson and his wife had been murdered? Or was he trying to probe my knowledge? I wasn’t happy with Larson’s control of the information he was going to release, but I sensed if I pushed, he’d get his back up and I’d get even less. Sometimes you just go with the flow, but I had to wonder if Larson was being as open and straight with me as he appeared. Maybe that was his technique: appear easy, even eager, while in reality just letting out the bare minimum. Well, we would see.

  Chapter 30

  The purpose of this inquiry is to determine whether there is sufficient cause to hold defendant over for trial,” the judge said. “I would remind everyone to avoid wasting the court’s time with rambling and irrelevant commentary. Let’s, in the vernacular of the times, cut to the chase.”

  The judge sat back and rapped his gavel. I didn’t know what the case was, nor did I care. I had tracked Investigator Ricardo Simon to this courtroom to suggest we meet for lunch as soon as he was released.

  I slid out of the pew and out the door to pace restlessly in the corridor. It wasn’t that I was under any real time or other pressure. I just wanted to get on with things. In due course, the attorneys, prosecutorial and defender “cut to the judge’s chase” and the doors opened to expel the people from the courtroom, my detective friend among them.

  “Let’s go over to the French Café,” Ricardo said as he took my arm. “I’m in the mood for some French onion soup.”

  He was always in the mood for their onion soup. “How’s tricks?” he said once we were seated at a small table in the corner.

  “Tricks are sort of normal. My trick today has to do with the death of that attorney, Gareth Anderson and his wife.”

  “Oh, yeah, I heard something about that just this morning. There’s some jurisdictional dustup. It’s not my case.”

  Our soup arrived and he dug through the thick cheese covering, letting a burst of fragrant steam emerge. “That’s what I want to ask about. I was interviewed by the state guys yesterday, but it seemed to be a pretty light-fingered approach, when I thought about it.”

  “It happened in Ramsey County, you know, so we’re not involved.”

  “I know it did. I was there when it happened.”

  Ricardo raised his eyebrows and took a slurp of hot soup. “I didn’t know that.”

  Since it appeared I was privy to more current intel than he was, I explained that Anderson and his wife had been murdered by means of an explosive device planted somewhere on his car.

  Ricardo squinted at me through the steam from his soup. “An explosive device in a vehicle suggests planning. Interesting. Was this lawyer a fed? I don’t know him.”

  “He was a corporate lawyer, partner in a firm with ties to the people I’m working for on the Yap Island thing.”

  “The yellow diamond hustle,” Ricardo said.

  I nodded. “He was the attorney for Preston Pederson’s company and he was involved in the Yap business because, without telling his partners, he tried very hard to get me to back off from helping Tod and Josie. Remember I mentioned that when I first got involved?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. When he and I met, it was for lunch in a small downtown restaurant. The contact numbers he gave me did not include his office number. I have since learned that our meeting was not on his office calendar and his partner in the firm is not aware of that meeting. So my question is, was Anderson working off the law firm’s books or was something else going on?”

  “These aren’t questions you expect me to answer, right?” Ricardo said, chewing now on a chunk of the cafe’s tasty French bread.

  “No, of course not. This is just context. So in that context, why was Anderson’s car blown up? Where were he and his wife going? He lives out Minnetonka way. And my real question to you, given the circumstances of Anderson’s death, is this: will there be a federal investigation? Are we possibly talking about a terrorist operation here?”

  “Gotcha. Here’s what I think, based on a couple of cases I know about and what little scuttlebutt I’ve heard. The state guys will routinely talk to the FBI and maybe the local CIA folks. Feds will probably determine it isn’t a plot of international dimensions, unless they have something on Anderson or his associations. Then the state and Ramsey County or Saint Paul PD will treat it like any other homegrown murder, except for the explosive dimension, which puts it into a rarer category. They’ll sort out jurisdictional stuff, maybe do a cooperative investigation. It’ll all take time, and if it was my case, I’d hope the media attention would die down until there w
as some progress on the case. Like an arrest.”

  “All right, that’s what I wanted to know. Thanks.”

  After lunch I called Mrs. Pryor to update her again. She made the appropriate appreciative noises, and I started staring at the wall. Pederson’s funeral was the next day, and I hadn’t decided whether I’d attend. Law enforcement logic and experience said perpetrators of heinous crimes often attended the funerals of their victims, but my sense in this case was that the murder was a professional job and, therefore, the shooter would be long gone and not interested in who showed up to mourn Pederson’s passing.

  The door to the Revulons’ suite was closed and I saw no lights behind the rippled glass window, so I called instead of sauntering down the hall. Belinda picked up after three rings.

  “I know I’m pressing,” I said, “but I just wondered if you have anything for me.”

  “We’re nowhere near done, Sean, but I can tell you there is an interesting thread that connects crime, construction, Chicago, Omaha, and Des Moines.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Yes, I thought so, too. We think we can show you a pattern of unindicted corruption in the construction projects these people were actively engaged in. There are political ramifications, of course.”

  “Do you have any idea when it started?” A little bell was chiming faintly in the back of my brain.

  “Roughly seventy years ago is our educated guess. That’s around the time two construction firms, one in Des Moines the other in Omaha, got started. That’s also around the time a Pederson appears on the board of directors of the Omaha firm.”

  “That wouldn’t happen to be Preston’s father, would it?”

  “You get the prize. There’s more to do so hang up now, Sean.”

  I did. The sound of the little bell had become a loud clangor.

  Chapter 31

  I was ready to draw a preliminary diagram of the case. It was something I started doing a few months ago on earlier cases. A diagram of connections between the preliminary suspects in the case sometimes suggested unanswered questions or questionable connections. Now, with the help of the Revulon cousins, I could see I needed to devote some attention to the Hillier-Anderson-Iowa-Nebraska axis. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go there. I didn’t like being out of town. I never took out-of-town cases. Well, almost never. Just like I didn’t do divorce or tangle with the mob or international thugs. Ever. Well, almost ever.