The Case of the Yellow Diamond

by Carl Brookins

  But I had to figure out exactly how two Des Moines and Omaha construction companies actually got involved with the Twin Cities, so I had to do some research. I didn’t have any serious contacts in the trades nor in the construction business so I thought about the possibility of documents, law enforcement contacts, or maybe friends who might know anybody or have any cases that involved the kind of malfeasance I was working with here. Then I had an idea. I called my friend Hector Eduardo Martine. Martine was a former construction boss with one of the largest developers and construction companies in Minnesota. Naturally, he wasn’t in. I left a message and went back to my diagram.

  My diagram expanded over several sheets of paper and I figured out, after inserting a few dates from my notes of earlier interviews, that the Pederson construction company had its genesis between 1945 and 1950. That would’ve been about the time Josie’s father returned from military service. I needed to find out if he had been in the Pacific Theater. It might also help to know what branch of the service he was in. I decided I could do a little Internet research on my own. It took a while but I found a site that could give me some information about military units and their assigned service activity, if not about individuals.

  My notes from interviews early on with Josie and Tod gave me his branch of the service and his unit assignment. There was some vague recollection in my fevered brain that he’d served in the Seabees and had been mustered out sometime in 1946. My recollection was correct and with those bits of information I did a few productive searches on the aforesaid Internet. I discovered his unit had indeed been in the South Pacific and, furthermore, he would have been released from active duty early in 1946.

  The strands of the web were growing thicker and more securely attached. While I stared at my papers, I could begin to see a conspiracy that began with the discovery of precious stone smuggling to the U.S. from the Pacific Theater, the creation of a pool of cash used to establish a construction company in each of the cities to the south of me, and the periodic need for more cash. How to get that?

  Ah, my imagination suggested, suppose there existed somewhere a stash, not of cash, but of gemstones? And suppose during early struggles of the construction companies, when an occasional infusion of money was required to stay afloat, two trusted employees are dispatched to the stash. They discreetly convert the gems to cash, which could then carefully be inserted into the businesses? That could explain certain undocumented absences by Messers Anderson and Hillier. Who better than a trusted though corrupt lawyer and his bosom school buddy as a guard to carry out such a task? I assumed the two had probably moved the jewels to Europe—Antwerp, perhaps, because I had read somewhere that there was a lot of diamond business in Antwerp. There’s a lot of diamond traffic in New York City, too, but Antwerp was farther away.

  And who better to help load up the supply chain with additional rocks than an officer of easy morals named Captain Richard Amundson, who just happened to be related to the founder of Pederson Construction? Once Tod and Josie began to do the research to find their long-lost granduncle, some people got nervous and decided to erase some links in the chain. Links named Stan Lewis, and Gareth Anderson and Preston Pederson. Never mind the collateral damage. Reluctantly, I decided I had to go to Des Moines. With luck, I wouldn’t have to extend my travel to Omaha.

  * * * *

  I didn’t have any current contacts in Des Moines. There was no one I could call to do needed legwork and an interview or two. So in spite of my aversion to highway driving, and no backup other than my trusty .45-caliber in the special harness under the dashboard, I made the four-hour drive to the capital of that grand state, Iowa. No jokes.

  I booked a room at Mr. Carlson’s Country Estates. Sounded impressive, but it was just a nice motel, located a couple blocks off Highway 35 in West Des Moines I wanted to eyeball the situation firsthand. Mr. Carlson’s hotel was actually in Clive, a suburb of the city, just a mile or so from the location of the construction company offices that was my target. I was well-positioned to move on to Omaha, should that be necessary.

  I had dinner, checked in with Catherine, and had a restful night. I ate breakfast in the morning and sortied off to Pellegrino Development and Construction. I had no expectation of finding anyone in the office who could help me. Indeed, when I’d called the morning before I drove down, the man on the telephone, with the vocal mannerisms of a relatively undereducated fellow, suggested I call the home office in Chicago. He further intimated I wouldn’t be especially welcomed at the construction office.

  He was right.

  When I walked through the door marked Pellegrino Construction, I entered a bright, cheerfully painted office of yellows and whites, a desk with the usual office equipment, and a pleasant looking young lady who smiled up at me and said, “Good morning. You must be Mr. Sean?”

  Now, I had no particular basis on which to judge whether the woman seated there was a lady or not. Nor had I any particular basis for her instant identification of myself. That was mildly concerning. I raised an eyebrow and said, “And good morning to you. How is it you’re able to so readily identify me?”

  “You look a lot like your picture?”

  Her smile disappeared, and she flipped over a sheet of paper which turned out to be a picture of me attached to my name and essential facts. I recognized the picture as one that must have been taken during one of my visits to the White Bear Lake home of Josie and Tod Bartelme.

  “I wonder if Mr. Anderson is available? I would have called to make an appointment, but my time is short, and I just have one or two questions.” I figured this Anderson might or might not be related to the deceased lawyer, Gareth.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson is on a construction site downtown? I don’t expect him until late this afternoon—if at all today?”

  “I see. Then how about Mr. Hillier?”

  The woman frowned. “I don’t believe I recognize that name. Mr. Hillier?” She slid open her lap drawer and ran a well-manicured finger down a list of names in a small three-ring binder.

  “I don’t think that person is employed here, Mr. Sean?”

  She was being so polite and deliberate, my teeth were starting to hurt. A good job of pretend cooperation. I wondered if she’d practiced saying my name out loud. Her habit of making almost every sentence a question was also getting on my nerves.

  “Might I ask, is your Mr. Anderson related to the Anderson in Minneapolis? The one recently murdered?”

  She blinked twice and said, “Oh . . . well . . . I really don’t know. Murdered, you say? Oh, dear.”

  A few more minutes while she parried my probing questions with negative responses. Seeing no hope of a negotiated breakthrough, I thanked the woman and left the office.

  In the car I contemplated my dusty red tennis shoes for a few minutes. Then I went back into the company office, moving as rapidly as possible without actually running. As I cracked the inner vestibule door, I could hear the woman on the telephone.

  “Yes, sir. He was just here and I told him you were on a site in town.”

  A pause while she listened. I listened, too.

  “No, sir, I said exactly what you wanted me to tell him. Oh, and he asked if you are related to an Anderson recently killed in Minneapolis?” There was a response and then she hung up the phone. I pushed the door wide and grinned at her consternation.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said and wheeled around and trotted out of the office. I leaped into my trusty Ford and wasted no time roaring out toward downtown Des Moines.

  I reached the Pellegrino construction site. It was relatively easy to find, since my list of Pellegrino jobs had only a single Des Moines address. A large sign announced a high-rise retirement home under construction. I circled the block until I spied the wide gate in the wire fence that wound completely around the block. Parking inconspicuously down the street, I waited. In abou
t five minutes, a dusty, black Lexus SUV with illegally tinted windows rolled out of the gate and turned east. I took a picture of the rear license plate as the vehicle disappeared down the street and then slid down in my seat to wait, propping my red Keds on the passenger seat.

  Several hours and a bad taco takeout later, the site began to shut down for the night. I slid out of my vehicle and stretched. Two construction workers ambled by me heading for a local bar, if their conversation was to be believed. I saw no reason not to believe them. So I ambled along about half a block behind until I saw them enter a corner bar. I’d give them time to slake their thirst before making an approach.

  I went into the bar, identified the two men and slid into an empty booth across the room.

  Chapter 32

  My plan for Des Moines was to scratch around in the Pellegrino Construction Company and see what might reveal itself. If this Anderson, head of Pellegrino, was related to the lawyer Gareth, it might be easier, but that was an unknown. Neither my nor the Revulons research had revealed a family connection, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. I hoped I wouldn’t have to spend another whole day in Des Moines. Maybe the two construction fellows would provide some substantive information, so I sat in the seedy bar and sipped a glass of beer the obliging black-haired waitress brought me. After what I considered an appropriate wait, I stood and sauntered to the bar where my two targets were seated side by side, engaged in earnest conversation.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “might I buy you another round and in return have a little conversation?”

  The men glanced at each othe. The blond said, “Sure you can, but I’ve seen that movie.”

  “Which movie would that be?” I riposted.

  “The one where whatsisname,” he rapped his knuckles on the bar, “yeah, Humphrey Bogart talks to some guy.”

  “The Maltese Falcon?” I wondered, gesturing to the bartender. The blond shrugged.

  I suggested we move to a booth, but neither man was willing so I stood behind and a bit between them. Not ideal for a detective like me who put a good deal of weight in the interpretation of body language, facial expressions, clues like those, but I could be flexible. I make do with what’s available. The workers’ names were Bill and Bob. Bill talked some and Bob grunted. After we established some sort of basic rapport, I learned almost nothing until I whipped out two pictures I was carrying, one of Gareth Anderson, the other of Hillier. Both pictures elicited a positive response. Yes, both men had been seen occasionally around Pellegrino sites or in the construction office. No, not recently. No, they didn’t know the name of either. Finally, after a couple more rounds, Bill volunteered the information I should talk to a former employee of the company, a woman named Mary Astor.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  Bill looked at Bob, then at me. He squinted. “You think I’m lyin’?”

  “No, no,” I said. “I’m just surprise at her name. It’s the same as a famous actress.”

  “Yeah?” Bill breathed. He hadn’t made the connection, maybe never would. Mary Astor played a principal role in The Maltese Falcon, the movie based on the famous Dashiell Hammett book by the very same name. The two men looked at me and nodded wisely when I imparted this information. I paused and sipped my beer.

  Bill told me, in response to other questions, that Mary Astor lived in a retirement home in the northern section of the city and had been a longtime office manager for Pellegrino. I should talk to her. Bob grunted his agreement. A lead. I bought my construction pals one more round and departed. It took me no time at all to locate the address of the Peaceful Retirement Home.

  I was soon wending my way through traffic toward the establishment, which turned out to be a sizeable multistory building wrapped around a large, flourishing garden, which had been built on the roof of the parking garage which served the retirement home and nearby businesses. A call brought quick acquiescence from Ms. Astor to see me in the garden, where she habitually sat in the late-day sun for a half-hour or so when the weather was nice.

  I went in through a lackadaisical security routine and entered the garden. There she was. Mary Astor was a short, spry woman of uncertain decades and a no-nonsense attitude. Since she was long gone from the company, she had no particular hesitation at identifying the two men from the pictures I presented. Yes, she’d seen both of them periodically in the offices, usually meeting with the top dog. That was her label for him. They were obviously not construction workers. She opined they might have been lawyers or politicians. They came and went together the half-dozen times she’d encountered them. Carrying briefcases, yes. Their attitudes and demeanors had been neutral, as if what they were doing was routine. The only reason, Ms. Astor told me, she remembered them at all was that they were among the few men who came to the offices who had no apparent connection to the firm.

  I knew in my bones I was following the right trail. Anderson and Hillier were the couriers who carried illegal gems from a secret stash in Iowa to buyers in Europe. I was digging into something serious here, and it was making me just a bit nervous. Since it was now late afternoon, I decided to return to the motel for the night. When I entered the room, my perimeter meter flashed, the one in my head that said something was not right. I spent several minutes looking and couldn’t find anything out of place or any traps like a listening device. Still, I might have missed something. I packed and settled my bill and departed Mr. Carlson’s fine establishment.

  Some hours later I checked in at a downscale motel in a small town in northern Iowa, just south of the border with Minnesota. I had been at pains to be sure I wasn’t followed, jumping red lights, abruptly exiting the freeway, reversing my direction, putting on a long-billed ballcap, all the little tricks I’d learned to confound pursuers. I never saw any, and it may all have been a waste of time, but I felt better. I was alone and had lost any possible hounds sniffing along on my trail.

  Mid-afternoon the following day I arrived home to the waiting arms of Catherine Mckerney. As I explained to her while settling on the couch holding a glass of very good scotch, Mary Astor had confirmed one other useful piece of information for me. The Anderson now running Pellegrino Construction was the nephew of the deceased attorney, Gareth Anderson.

  Chapter 33

  The next morning I called Tod and reported I had new information and would have a report for him soon. I wasn’t in the habit of making progress reports to clients, but somehow in his case, I’d fallen into that routine. “Have you settled on a new lawyer?”

  A long sigh. “We’ve talked about it. Josie is very upset over Mr. Anderson’s death, almost as much as about her dad.”

  “I’m assuming you’re both still interested in getting to the bottom of the sabotage, yes?”

  “Absolutely. I guess we may have to postpone a trip to Yap until next year. Sorting out the estate and the wills is going to take some time.”

  “You did say wills? As in more than one?”

  “At least two, maybe three. There’s Josie’s dad’s will, of course, and it turns out Gareth Anderson’s will mentions Josie’s dad and Josie, as well as his wife. Then there’s his—Anderson’s—wife, and I have no information about that.”

  “Do you have any information on who handles Gareth Anderson’s estate?” His lawyer, if he had one, might have useful information. Tod didn’t know.

  After I hung up, I thought about these new complications. Wheels within wheels. You smuggle a few pebbles into and out of the country and things get dicey. I decided to call Mrs. Pryor. She was interested in what I had to say, but had no helpful information or ideas except the obvious: lay hands on Richard Hillier. So I went looking.

  Naturally, Mr. Hillier was not to be found at his apartment in North Saint Paul, at his office inside Pederson Investments, nor working out at his athletic club, or anywhere else I tried. He was probably lying low. I thought him a likely suspect f
or the bombing of Anderson’s Caddy, and the more I thought about it, in spite of his long association with Preston Pederson, if he could kill his school buddy, Anderson, it wouldn’t be a stretch to find him guilty of offing Josie’s dad as well. He would be severing any links in the smuggling chain that wandered from Southeast Asia to construction operations in Des Moines, Omaha, and Saint Paul. I wondered if there remained a supply of uncut stones stashed in some bank vault that Hillier could go for. I didn’t see any way to acquire that knowledge short of torturing him, even if I had someplace to put him. Hillier didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d surrender or give up any information, even if captured and sequestered. And that assumed I could get my hands on him in the first place.

  * * * *

  In the morning we caught a break. Or a break-in. From my contacts in the Minneapolis PD, I learned that somebody had tried to enter the home of the sadly deceased attorney, Mr. Gareth Anderson. Whoever had tried the surreptitious entry had seriously bad timing. While he crawled through a window on the west side of the house, a meandering cop drove by and saw the action. When he turned on his lights and fishtailed his vehicle to light up the side of the house, whoever was partway through the window abruptly gave it up and hauled ass out the back way. It was dark in Anderson’s neighborhood, and though the cop gave chase, he never again laid eyes, or hands, on the would-be burglar.

  The cops in Minnetonka put it down to attempted burglary, probably by somebody who read about the deaths of both former occupants of the residence. They assumed it had been an interrupted crime of opportunity. Maybe, but I wasn’t so sure. If, as I still assumed, some diamonds still lay around, somebody from Pellegrino might be anxious to lay hands on said stones before a wandering estate attorney traced a bank account back to the wrong people. An account with a deposit box containing smuggled gemstones would be a distinct embarrasment. That evening I laid out my reasoning for Catherine.