"Yes, certainly. He's rather a small man. Perhaps five feet six inches tall, ah... I'd estimate about one hundred and forty pounds. He's in the neighborhood of sixty years of age, with gray hair. I believe his eyes are brown." He scrunched up his own. "I believe. Is that helpful?"
"Would this be your Mr. Peterson?" Vince offered him a copy of the photo he'd pulled from the police files.
Jack pursed his lips. "Yes. He's considerably younger here, of course, but yes, this is Jasper Peterson. I'm afraid I don't understand."
"The man you identified as Jasper Peterson was involved in an accident a few days ago."
"Oh dear. Oh dear, I was afraid it was something of the kind." In a nervous gesture, Jack removed the glasses, polished the lenses briskly on a stiff white handkerchief. "He was injured then? He's in the hospital?"
Vince waited until he'd perched the glasses back on his nose. "He's dead."
"Dead? Dead?" It was a fist slammed into the belly, hearing it again, just that way. And the genuine jolt had his voice squeaking. "Oh, this is dreadful. I can't... I never imagined. How did it happen?"
"He was hit by a car. He died almost instantly."
"This is such a shock."
Willy. God, Willy. He knew he'd gone pale. He could feel the chill under his skin where the blood had drained. His hands trembled. He wanted to weep, even to wail, but he held back. Peter Pinkerton would never commit such a public display of emotion.
"I don't know precisely what to do next. All the time I was waiting for him to meet me, growing impatient, even annoyed, he was... Terrible. I'll have to call my employer, tell him... Oh dear, this is just dreadful."
"Did you know any of Mr. Peterson's other associates? Family?"
"No." He fiddled with his tie, fussily, though he wanted to yank at it as his throat swelled. I'm all he had, Jack thought. I'm the only family he had. And I got him killed. But Peter Pinkerton continued in his snooty Harvard drawl. "We rarely talked of anything other than books. Could you possibly tell me what arrangements have been made? I'm sure Mr. Mantz would want to send flowers, or make a donation to a charity in lieu."
"Nothing's set, as yet."
"Oh. Well." Jack got to his feet, then sat again. "Could you tell me, possibly, if Mr. Peterson was in possession of the book when he... I apologize for sounding ghoulish, but Mr. Mantz will ask. The Faulkner?"
Vince tipped back in his chair, swiveled gently side to side with his cop's eyes trained on Jack's face. "He had a couple paperback novels."
"Are you certain? I'm sorry for the trouble, but is there any way to check, a list of some sort? Mr. Mantz has his sights set on that edition. You see, it's a rare find with the dust jacket. A first edition in, we were assured, mint condition-and he'll, Mr. Mantz, he'll be very... oh dear, insistent about my following through."
Obligingly Vince opened a drawer, took out a file. "Nothing like that here. Clothes, toiletries, keys, a watch, cell phone and recharger, wallet and contents. That's it. Guy was traveling light."
"I see. Perhaps he put it in a safe-deposit box for safekeeping until we met. Of course, he wouldn't have been able to retrieve it before... I've taken enough of your time."
"Where are you staying, Mr. Pinkerton?"
"Staying?"
"Tonight. Where are you staying, in case I have something further on those arrangements."
"Ah. I'm at the Wayfarer tonight. I suppose I'll fly out as scheduled tomorrow. Oh dear, oh dear, I don't know what I'm going to say to Mr. Mantz."
"And if I need to reach you, in Boston?"
Jack produced a card. "Either of those numbers will do. Please do contact me, Chief Burger, if you have any word." He offered his hand.
"I'll be in touch."
Vince walked him out, stood watching as he walked away.
It wouldn't take long to check the details of the story, and to run the names Pinkerton and Mantz. But since he'd looked through those cheap lenses into Laine's blue eyes, he figured he'd find they were bogus.
"Russ, call over to the Wayfarer, see if they've got this Pinkerton registered."
He'd confirm that little detail, haul one of his men out of bed to keep tabs on the man for the night.
He'd have another look at the effects, see what O'Hara-if that was O'Hara-had been interested in finding. Since he was damn sure he didn't have a few million in diamonds sitting back in the property room, he'd just have to see if he had something that pointed to them.
***
Where the hell was it? Jack walked briskly for two blocks before he began to breathe easily again. Cop houses, cop smells, cop eyes tended to constrict his lungs. There was no ceramic dog on the list of effects. Surely even a suspicious cop-and that was a redundant phrase-would have listed something like that. So there went his tidy little plan to break into the property room and take it. Couldn't steal what wasn't there to be stolen.
The dog had been in Willy's possession when they'd split up, in the hopes that Crew would track Jack himself to give Willy time to slip away, get to Laine and give her the figurine for safekeeping.
But the vicious, double-crossing Crew had tracked Willy instead. Nervous old Willy, who'd wanted nothing more than to retire to some pretty beach somewhere and live out the rest of his days painting bad watercolors and watching birds.
Should never have left him, should never have sent him out on his own. And now his oldest friend in the world was dead. There was no one he could talk with about the old days now, no one who understood what he was thinking before the words were out of his mouth. No one who got the jokes.
He'd lost his wife and his daughter. That was the way the ball bounced and the cookie crumbled. He couldn't blame Marilyn for pulling stakes and taking little Lainie with her. She'd asked him, God knew, a thousand times to give the straight life a decent try. And he'd promised her that many times in return he would. Broken every one of those thousand promises.
You just can't fight nature, was Jack's opinion. It was his nature to play the game. As long as there were marks, well, what the hell could he do? If God hadn't intended for him to play those marks, He wouldn't have made so damn many of them.
He knew it was weak, but that was the way God had made him, so how could he argue the point? People who argued with God were prime suckers. And Kate O'Hara's boy, Jack, was no sucker.
He'd loved three people in his life: Marilyn, his Lainie and Willy Young. He'd let two of them go because you can't keep what didn't want to be yours. But Willy had stuck.
As long as he'd had Willy, he'd had family.
There was no bringing him back. But one day, when all was well again, he'd stand on some pretty beach and lift a glass to the best friend a man ever had.
But meanwhile, there was work to be done, thoughts to be thought and a backstabbing killer to outwit.
Willy had gotten to Laine, and surely he'd had the dog in his possession when he had or why make contact? He could've hidden it, of course. A sensible man would've locked it away until he was sure of his ground.
But that wasn't Willy's style. If Jack knew Willy-and who better?-he'd make book he had that statue with the diamonds in its belly when he'd walked into Laine's little store.
And he hadn't had it when he walked out again.
That left two possibilities: Willy had stashed it in the shop without Laine knowing. Or Daddy's little girl was telling fibs.
Either way, he had to find out.
His first stop would be a quiet little search of his darling daughter's commercial enterprise.
***
Max found Laine in her home office working some sort of design onto graph paper. She had several tiny cutouts lined up on her desk. After a minute's study he recognized them as paper furniture.
"Is this like an adult version of a doll house?"
"In a way. It's my house, room by room." She tapped a stack of graph paper. "I'm going to have to replace some of my pieces, so I've made scale models of some of the things I have in stock that might work. Now I'm seeing if th
ey do, and how I might arrange them if I bring them home."
He stared another moment. "I'm wondering how anyone that careful about picking out a sofa ended up engaged to me."
"Who says I didn't make a scale model of you, then try it out in different scenarios?"
"Huh."
"Besides, I don't love a sofa. I like and admire it, and am always willing to part with it for the right price. I'm keeping you."
"Took you a minute to think that one out, but I like it." He leaned on the corner of the desk. "Looks like I've located Crew's ex-wife and kid. Got a line on them in Ohio, a suburb of Columbus."
"You think she knows something?"
"I have to speculate Crew would have some interest in his son. Wouldn't a man like that see an offspring, particularly a male offspring, as a kind of possession? The wife's different, she's just a woman, and easily replaced."
"Really?"
"From Crew's point of view. From mine, when you're lucky enough to find the right woman, she's irreplaceable."
"Took you a minute, but I like it."
"The other thing is, in my line when you pick loose any thread, you keep tugging until it leads to something or falls out of the whole. I need to check this out. So, change of plans. I'll be heading to New York first thing in the morning, with the diamonds we have. I'll deliver them personally, then bounce over to Ohio and see if I can finesse anything from the former Mrs. Crew or Junior."
"How old is Junior?"
"About seven."
"Oh, Max, he's just a child."
"You know the whole thing about little pitchers, big ears? Jesus, Laine," he added when he saw her face. "I'm not going to tune him up. I'm just going to talk to them."
"If they're divorced, it could be she doesn't want any part of Crew, and doesn't want her son to know what his father is."
"Doesn't mean the kid doesn't know or that Daddy doesn't drop in now and then. It needs to be checked, Laine. I'll be leaving first thing. If you want to come with me, I'll make the arrangements for both of us."
She turned back to her graph paper, used the eraser end of a pencil to poke the cutout sofa to a different angle. "You'd move quicker without me."
"Probably, but not as cheerfully."
She glanced up. "A quick trip to New York, a flip over to Ohio. Seems like old times, and it's appealing. But I can't. There's work, there's Henry, there's putting this house back together. And I have to practice calling your mother." She turned the pencil around to poke him when he laughed. "No comments on the last one, friend, it's how I do things."
He didn't want to leave her, not even for a day. Part of that, he knew, was the obsessive insanity of new love, but part was worry. "If you came with me, you could call her from wherever, you could leave Henry with the Burgers, close the shop for the day and deal with the house when we get back. You can take your graph paper."
"You're worried about leaving me while you go do your job. You shouldn't. In fact, you can't. I've been taking care of myself for a very long time, Max. I'm going to keep on taking care of myself after we're married."
"You won't have a homicidal jewel thief looking in your direction after we're married."
"You can guarantee that? Go," she said without waiting for his answer. "Do what you do. I'll do what I do. And when you get back..." She ran her hand along his thigh. "We'll do something together."
"You're trying to distract me. No, wait, you did distract me." He leaned down, kissed her. "How about this? I go do what I do, you stay and do what you do. I'll be back tomorrow night, earlier if I can manage it. Until I'm back, you'll go over and hang with the cop and his wife. You and Henry. You're not staying here alone until this is wrapped. Now, we can fight about that or we can take the compromise."
She continued to walk her fingers along his thigh. "I like to fight."
"Okay." He pushed to his feet as if preparing for the round.
"But not when I agree with the other person's point of view. It's an unnecessary risk for me to stay out here alone. So I'll impose on Jenny and Vince."
"Good. Well... good. Want to fight about something else?"
"Maybe later?"
"Sure. I'm going to go nail down my flights. Oh, any chance that sofa can be long enough for a guy to take a Sunday afternoon nap on?"
"That's a distinct possibility."
"I'm going to like being married to you."
"Yes, you are."
***
It was after one by the time Jack finished searching Laine's shop. Torn in two directions, he locked up after himself. He was bitterly disappointed not to have found the diamonds. Life would be so much simpler if he had the little dog tucked under his arm. He could be on his way out of town, leaving enough bread crumbs for Crew to follow that would lead him and any trouble away from Laine.
Then he'd vanish down the rabbit hole. Fourteen million in diamonds-even figuring on half of that due to a quick turnover-would provide a very plush rabbit hole.
At the same time he was struck with a kind of stupefied pride. Just look what his little girl had done, and in the straight world. How the hell had she learned to buy all those things? The furniture, the fancy pieces, the little fussy table sitters. It was a pretty place. His little girl had herself a very pretty business. And since he'd been curious enough to take the time to hack into her computer and check, it appeared she had herself a reasonably profitable one.
She'd made a good life. Not what he'd wanted for her, certainly, but if it was what she wanted, he'd accept that. He didn't understand it, and never would, but he'd accept.
She was never going to come back with him on the road. That fantasy had finally been put to rest after a good look at her house, her shop, her life.
A waste of considerable talent, to his way of thinking, but he understood a father couldn't push an offspring into a mold. Hadn't he rebelled against his own? It was natural enough for Laine to rebel and to seek her own path.
But it wasn't natural for her to try to scam her own blood. She had the diamonds. Had to have them. If she had some sort of twisted idea that she needed to hold out on him to protect him, he'd have to set her straight.
Time for a father-daughter chat, Jack decided.
It meant he'd have to boost a car. He really hated to steal cars, it was so common, but a man needed transportation when his daughter decided to live in the boondocks.
He'd drive out to see her, have that chat, get the diamonds and be gone by morning.
***
He settled on a Chevy Cavalier-a nice, steady ride-and took the precaution of switching its plates with a Ford Taurus a few miles away. All things being equal, the Chevy should get him through Virginia and into North Carolina, where he had an associate who could turn it for him. With the cash, he could spring for a new ride.
He'd leave enough footprints for Crew to follow, just enough of a scent to draw the man away from Maryland and Laine.
Then Jack had an appointment in southern California, where he'd turn those sparkly stones into hard green cash.
After that, the world was his fricking oyster.
He was humming along to the classic rock station he'd found, his mood lifted by The Beatles' cheerful claim of getting by with a little help from friends.
Jack knew all about getting by.
As a precaution, he stopped the car halfway up the lane. The dog was the friendly sort when it wasn't wetting itself in fear, he recalled, but dogs barked. No point in setting it off until he scoped things out.
With his penlight, he started the hike. The dark was pitch, making him wonder again what had possessed Laine to choose such a place. The only sound he heard other than his own feet crunching on gravel was an owl, and the occasional rustle in the brush.
Why anyone would want brush anything could rustle in was beyond him.
Then he caught the scent of lilacs and smiled. That was a nice sort of thing, he thought. To walk along in the quiet dark and smell flowers. Nice, he added, for the occasional cha
nge of pace. Maybe he'd pick a few of the blooms, take them with him to the door. A kind of peace offering.
He started to follow his nose when his light hit chrome.
And scanning the beam over the car, Jack felt his mood plummet.
The insurance cop's car was at the end of the drive with Laine's.
Eyes narrowed, he studied the house. No lights glowed in the windows. It was near two in the morning. A man's car was parked in front of his daughter's house.
His little girl was... he searched for a word his father's mind could handle without imploding. Dallying. His little girl was dallying with a cop. To Jack's mind a private investigator was just a cop with a higher annual income than the ones who carried badges.
J D Robb - Dallas 18 - Remember When Page 20