“You’re assuming there’s still some smuggled loot, correct?” Catherine giggled at the old-fashioned gangland slang. Her occasional use of such street language did not fall as pearls from her lips. Still, I thought it was cute.
“Correct. But we better start with the presumption my idea’s way off base.”
“It’s pretty bizarre. Hillier and Anderson have for years been funneling cash from stolen jewels into the business.”
“Yeah,” I said sourly. “If it’s true, it shows a lot of patience and discipline. That’s pretty unusual behavior. Though nothing about this case has turned out usual, so far.”
“What you need is to track the handling of the Andersons’ estates and how it connects to Josie and Tod, right?”
As usual, Catherine was putting her finger squarely on the essential piece.
“And the other avenue you might explore is that attorney’s partners.”
“Hillier.” I ingested a healthy slug of scotch. “Hillier has to know something about all this. I’m still betting he went with Anderson to retrieve and sell the smuggled jewels. The problem is I have no way of coercing the information out of him, even if I can put my hands on him.”
“Seems to me that’s becoming more and more remote, yes?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“If you’re right and Hillier is really just hired muscle, he’s lost two of his patrons, in Josie’s dad and Anderson. I’d not be surprised to learn that he doesn’t have access to the stash of jewelry that you assume is out there somewhere. I’ll bet somebody like that is probably going to run short of cash before too long.”
“You are right, as usual,” I said. “That’s why I won’t be surprised to learn he was the interrupted burglar. Somewhere, somehow, I have to acquire more information about Hillier’s odd absences. Or about the good lawyer’s. Where did they go when they went? Whom did they contact? How did they travel?”
“If they expected to get the maximum benefit from the jewels, they’d want things to appear legit, right?” Catherine frowned at her tablet. She’d recently bought another electronic toy. Meanwhile, I was still struggling to remember to recharge my new cell phone.
“Sure, but what’s your point?”
“If they were taking jewels out of the country, to Europe, say, wouldn’t they have to declare them? And didn’t they fly?”
I could see where she was going with this line of reasoning. “Sure, and there must be some records somewhere. Probably in plain sight,” I said. “Since it wasn’t a big deal on the surface, there would be no reason to hide those trips.”
“Hunting trips.” Catherine smiled down at me. I was sprawled on the carpet at her feet where she lay on the sofa. Across the room, on the TV the evening news had ended and some guy with his arm around a black lab was going on about the upcoming hunting season.
“Fishing trips,” I said. “Even today, crossing into Canada through the Boundary Waters or along the Montana border wouldn’t be particularly difficult if you knew what you were doing.”
“If the attorney—Anderson? Is that his name? If he did something like that, there’s probably a record in his office.”
I nodded and finished my scotch. “Correcto. There won’t be a calendar entry that says ‘diamond smuggling trip to Montreal.’ But there will be something. And since the good lawyer is now, sadly, deceased, those records are likely to be somewhat more accessible.” This might just be the wedge, the notch, the loose panel I needed.
Chapter 34
Ricardo, my friend.”
“Your timing’s bad,” growled my favorite investigator in the Minneapolis PD.
“My timing’s off? For what, pray tell?”
“We’re in the midst of a little kerfuffle here. Not your concern, but I can’t talk with you right now unless you’re confessing to one of our unsolved murders, or something equally world-shaking.”
“Gotcha. Call me when you can.”
Later that day we connected. By then the air conditioning in the building had completely malfunctioned. Those of us on the upper floors were in considerable discomfort. Outside, a relentless August sun beat down on the sidewalks and roads, and the fresh morning breeze had long since blown off down the avenue. It was hot in the city and tempers were undoubtedly nearing lift-off.
“I have a few minutes. What do you need?” Ricardo didn’t sound amused.
I shifted in my chair, peeling damp slacks away from my inner thighs. “I assume you have in evidence various materials from the office of the deceased lawyer, Gareth Anderson, as your investigation into his death continues.”
“I believe that to be the case.” His voice had become flat, neutral.
“I detect a certain caution or hesitancy in your normally vibrant tones.” I grinned at the telephone for no discernible reason. My feet, inside my red Converse Keds tennis shoes, were sweating.
“That would be affirmative,” Ricardo said.
“Is that because you’re being observed or overheard, or is there another reason?”
“Let the record show that the subject declined to answer.”
“Now we’re sounding like a TV show. A bad TV show.”
After a moment of silence, Ricardo murmured, “We do have a quantity of stuff forensics are sifting through. Why?”
“If you have an opportunity, a quick look through Mr. Anderson’s day planner would be mighty helpful, both to me and your investigation, as well.”
“It’s not my investigation, but I’ll see what I can do. Can you be more specific?”
“Yep. Last year. Gap of a week or ten days in which he appears to be absent from the office. Probably with no explanation.”
Ricardo grunted and ended the connection.
Days later, I visited Gareth Anderson’s law firm.
A different woman sat at the front desk when I breezed in from the dusty parking lot. “Hi there,” I said with a big smile. “My name’s Sean. What’s yours?”
“Eloise,” she responded. That often happens if you catch basically good people unawares. “How may I help you?” She seemed nervous. One hand was out of sight in her lap. I wondered if there was an alarm button close by her fingers.
“I’d like a few minutes with Mr. Larson, if he’s available.” I smiled. Sweetly, I thought.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I thought I likely would’ve mentioned that if I had, but never mind. “No, I just popped in with some urgent business regarding your late partner.” She looked blank. Maybe she didn’t know about Gareth Anderson’s recent death.
Down the short corridor a door opened, and I heard hard heels striking the tiled floor. They came our way. The woman who appeared, holding a yellow file folder, was the woman who had been sitting at the desk the last time I was in that office. She stopped short when she saw me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Mr. Sean, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and it still is. I wonder if I could have a brief word with Mr. Larson.”
“I’m afraid he’s tied up at the moment. Perhaps I can help. Won’t you come this way?” She turned—Ruth, that was her name, I remembered. I followed her nicely shaped form down the hall to the same office from which she had just come. Inside I recognized a scene of disorderly reorganization. Lawyers’ boxes, the kind they trundled to and from courtrooms, were stacked against one wall. Two metal file cabinets, one with two of its beige drawers half open, stood against another wall. The small window in the corner had a piece of ill-fitting plywood wedged into the frame. The large wooden desk was littered with file folders and papers.
“Excuse the mess. We had a break-in last night or early this morning.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“Of course. They’ve been and gone.” I realized Ruthie was watching me closely, gauging my reactions.
“Anything taken?”
“We don’t yet have an answer to that question. Perhaps you can tell me why.”
“Why?”
“Uh huh. Why the break-in, and why are you here again?” She smiled, sort of. Her smile put me in mind of a barracuda.
“I’m trying to trace Mr. Anderson’s movements. See if there’s a discernible pattern. Do you have his day planner or whatever he used to keep track of his schedule?”
“No, but we have a master schedule on the computer that keeps track of time blocks. Not individual appointments or court appearances. You understand?”
I did. “Maybe we could take a look at it?” She frowned and switched on the computer squatting on a rolling stand beside the desk. “Did the burglar get away with much?” I asked again, mostly to keep the conversation going. Sometimes I would get a different answer to the same question.
Ruthie glanced up at me and sank into the desk chair. Her fingers skipped over the keyboard, and the machine made a faint groaning sound.
“I, well, I guess it doesn’t matter, he being dead and all. We can’t tell if anything was stolen. We still haven’t been able to sort out all Mr. Anderson’s—Gareth’s—work product.”
“Things in kind of a state? I can understand that. A real tragedy, his death like that. Would you find August of 1995?”
“That far back? I don’t know if—oh, here we are.”
I slid around behind her chair and peered at the screen. August 1995 was blank.
“Okay, now try April 1999.” I kept my voice low and confidential. I was playing on Ruth’s unsettled situation. I hoped I’d get what I needed before she remembered attorney privilege and client privacy and stuff like that.
Ruth’s flying fingers brought up another blank page labeled April 1999.
“All right. Can we look at one more?” She nodded. “October 2007.” We drew another blank. Abruptly, the woman tapped a key that brought up a generic system screen. She swiveled toward me. Our faces were close.
“What’s going on, here, Mr. Sean? Why are you looking at those dates? Why was this office targeted soon after Mr. Anderson was killed?”
“Very good questions, Miss . . .” I’d noted she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring but I didn’t know her last name.
“Watson. Ruth Watson. I ask you again, Mr. Sean. What’s going on?”
I straightened and stepped back from her chair. “Here’s what I know and what I just confirmed. Over a period of years, your Mr. Anderson and a Richard Hillier seemed to disappear for a few weeks every so often. Those dates are the same months and years for both gentlemen.”
“Which means what?”
“I think it means Anderson and Hillier were together each of those times, and it wasn’t to play games. I think they were carrying out a special service for some clients, a service that may have been dangerous and just a little bit illegal.”
I stopped and Ruth Watson stared at me, waiting for me to go on. In the silence we both heard the telephone ring in the outer office. “Is that it? Is that all you’re prepared to tell me?”
I didn’t tell her that was pretty much all I had. “Do you have any information on Mr. Richard Hillier?” I could see Ruth was recovering her office skills and sloughing off her recent vulnerability.
“We might. I’d require a quid pro quo.”
I nodded. “I think I can assist you with the police investigation here.”
“Since we have no evidence of theft of value, I’m pretty sure the local police will consign the event to a low priority list.” Her lips twisted. “Assuming they even have such a list.”
“I think you should suggest to your boss he contact the locals and ask them to talk to an investigator for the Minneapolis Department. The one you want is the lead investigator on the death of one Preston Pederson.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You think the break-in is connected to Mr. Anderson’s client?”
“I’d bet money on it.” It was worth noting she instantly knew Preston was Anderson’s client.
Watson frowned and nodded. “Okay then.” She picked up the phone and punched in 9-1-1.
While she talked first to the call center operator and then to the local cop house, I surveyed the office. Looking down at Anderson’s desk, I saw the lap drawer was open, a several-inch gap. I shifted slightly to put more of my body between Watson’s shoulder and the desk. With a pen from my shirt pocket, I slid wider the drawer of Anderson’s desk. For a long moment I studied the contents. There weren’t many items in the drawer: a couple of distorted paper clips, two roller-ball pens, an unsealed tin of Altoids, in the corners some lint and there in one of the small built-in receptacles, two dark-colored, misshapen pebbles. I didn’t touch them. I just stared at them from eighteen inches away. They looked to be about half a carat each.
Ruth Watson replaced the receiver in its cradle. I said, “There are two pebbles here in the drawer. I’m pretty sure they’re connected to Anderson’s death. I also think they could be uncut diamonds. Don’t throw them out.”
Watson jerked around and leaned over the drawer until our heads were almost touching. “I’ll be damned,” she murmured.
Chapter 35
The air was still hot and oppressive when I punched the doorbell. I was back in Deephaven, standing before the large front door to the Pryor residence. Mrs. Pryor was expecting me, and once again she opened the door.
“Good afternoon,” I said. When I stepped into the front room, a wave of conditioned air greeted me. “It’s a fine day, isn’t it?”
“Come in, Mr. Sean. I’m glad to see you.”
She led the way into a second room with large windows that faced a sunny lawn, backstopped by what appeared to be a thick growth of bushes and trees about a hundred feet distant. She gestured me to a comfortable chair, and I sat. Mrs. Pryor refreshed her mug of coffee after offering me one, which I declined, and settled into a matching chair.
“You said something about a final report, I believe.”
“Yes, ma’am. Since you financed a good portion of my investigation, I owe you an explanation of the investigation itself and my results.”
She nodded, and I launched into a recital of recent events, starting with my trip to Des Moines and the Pellegrino Construction Company. I detailed my conversation with Mary Astor without mentioning her name, or the names of the two workers I met in that Des Moines bar. Mrs. Pryor was interested. I could tell. There was a gleam in her eyes.
Then I moved on to explain that Gareth Anderson had been doing a number of things off the books, as it were, and behind the backs of his two partners in the law firm. His will had been probated and a bank account and safe deposit box opened.
“Anderson and his wife had no children, and the people at his firm can’t find any living relatives so it looks like this is the end for this branch of the family tree.”
“I assume Mr. Anderson had an attorney. Most good attorneys do, you know,” Mrs. Pryor said.
“Yes, the senior partner at his firm handled Anderson’s will. His assets went to his wife and hers to charity and her church. All pretty ordinary and mundane.”
“Except?” she said softly, never taking her eyes from my face.
“Except for a few pebbles in a brown manila envelope in the deposit box. There was a slip of paper in the envelope. No note, just the letters M. P.”
“Ah,” she said. I had a feeling then that she withdrew emotionally. The feeling only lasted a few seconds, but it uncharacteristically alarmed me in a subtle way. I was tempted to stand up, but I resisted and kept my gaze fixed on Madeline Pryor’s face. Whereas before I had seen what I thought were welcoming smiles in the small creases at the edges of her mouth, there now seemed to be a sterner look to her. Yet her expression appeared not to have changed.
“Have yo
u reached any conclusion about that? Those initials, I mean?” She might have been asking if I wanted a refill to a cup of coffee.
“No, ma’am. They could mean almost anything. They could be a person’s initials.”
“Such as mine.”
“Correct.”
Madeline Pryor looked down for a second and seemed again to withdraw. Then she looked back into my face and smiled. “Well, I have a confession. A small confession. I don’t know if those initials have anything to do with me. They could also refer to my husband, Max. Or to someone or something else.”
“Obviously, but you have to admit it’s a bit of a coincidence.”
“I never met Mr. Hillier, but my husband’s firm did have business with Mr. Anderson. In the early years, immediately after World War II, two members of my family returned from duty in the services. One, a distant uncle, was in the army, stationed in the South Pacific. I don’t believe he ever saw combat but in some of his letters, he refers to having met an officer named Terry Amundson. In one letter, which I still have, he called him R. Terry. I didn’t really know my uncle, and he’s long since died. However, after the war Max told me he occasionally would get to telling war stories, and one of the men he mentioned was this Amundson who, I gather, was sort of sketchy. He was never court martialled, but he was reprimanded a time or two. Conduct unbecoming an officer, for example. Reporting late, things like that.
“When Tod and Josie told us they had been to Yap and were planning to organize a serious search for the aircraft Amundson had been on when it was shot down, we were of course interested. Max told me before he died that he thought Josie’s father, whom he never got on with, was a reluctant backer of the project. Mr. Pederson put up some money, but he kept telling Josie and Tod to be careful. He seemed overly worried about their safety. We all put it down to a father’s natural instincts, but it’s now clear he didn’t want the body or the plane to be located. We couldn’t figure out why.”
The Case of the Yellow Diamond Page 18