McClellan,
Thanks for the party.
124 S. 31st St. Tell J.D. to keep an eye on it and to be careful.
DO NOT mention my name to him or anyone!
D. xoxo
P.S. Better luck next time?
Dakota the mystery girl just grew more mysterious.
CHAPTER 14
After I’d choked down a couple of pieces of dry toast with my coffee I fired up the Silverado and headed for Highway 98. South 31st Street was beachside and not far from the city pier if my memory was still intact after all the booze I’d soaked my brain cells with last night. There was little traffic at six-thirty as I headed east on 98, checking street signs as I cruised along. I passed the pier and three blocks later turned left onto 31st.
Along the upper part of the street the houses were mostly concrete block with low roofs and faded paint, older residences of St. George from the 1950s and ’60s whose owners had so far resisted selling out to developers lusting after their properties to turn them into modern condos or duplexes. The closer to the beach, the more updated the houses became.
The target address was the last house on the right, one of the nicer beachside homes in the neighborhood. It was a two-story structure with lobster-pink siding, built on stout ten-foot pilings. There was no realtor’s sign that I could see. A couple of late-model cars were parked side by side on the concrete slab underneath a large wooden deck that ran the width of the house, the entryway to the main floor of the structure. A smaller deck on the second floor was accessed by a sliding door that probably led to the master bedroom.
I slowed to a crawl and gave the cars a closer look. A Chipola Indians decal was pasted on the back window of a sporty black BMW. Chipola College; the backup ID Dakota had shown me during her first social call to my trailer. College kids driving a Beamer and living in a beachfront house? Somebody in the house either came from rich stock or was somehow making damn good money while attending school.
The pavement ended just beyond the house on a small cul-de-sac where sea oats swayed over small dunes. Beyond the dunes the gulf murmured as low waves of the outgoing tide rolled up the sand and retreated back into the foamy surf. A path led to the beach, where a wire and wooden picket fence on either side cordoned off the dunes from foot traffic. I circled and parked on the far side of the street.
I got out and eased the door shut. This early on a Sunday morning I doubted if anybody in the house would be stirring, but I didn’t want to be anyone’s alarm clock. With a few exceptions the aqua-colored house next door was the spitting image of 124. It was a rental and appeared to be unoccupied, a perfect cover for my snooping around should anyone ask what the hell I was doing there.
Acting as a potential renter, I pulled a pen and small notebook from my shorts pocket and jotted down the realtor’s name and number. I eased my way between the houses pretending to take notes, but I kept sneaking glimpses at 124. Beer cans, wine bottles, plastic cups, and cigarette butts were scattered among lawn chairs between the cars and the front of a storage room and outdoor shower stall. Draped haphazardly over the back of one chair was a white T-shirt. I could make out the letters “ino & Re” in red lettering shadowed with gold. An uncovered barbeque grill had been turned into a big ashtray and trash pit. Slobs. Well-to-do slobs.
Retracing my steps, I turned a couple of pages in the notebook and jotted down the license numbers of the BMW and the other car, a metallic-blue Avalon. The BMW had Georgia plates; the Avalon was local. I’d ask J.D. to run the numbers when I told him about the “anonymous” source who tipped me about this place.
Being as discreet as possible, I worked my way between and down the length of the houses. A flight of stairs led to a small deck off the back of 124’s first floor. A couple of lounge chairs and a weathered picnic table dominated the small backyard. True to form, empty wine bottles and beer cans were scattered across the table.
I circled on around my potential rental house and climbed the stairs that led to its matching back deck, hoping I might be able to see something worthwhile from there. Lights were on in one of 124’s back rooms, and through a window I noticed a side-by-side refrigerator. On the roof above an adjacent room a power vent was running at high speed; odd for such a cool morning, I thought.
I spent a few more minutes looking through the windows of the unoccupied house just in case someone next door might be checking me out. After jotting down more imaginary notes I headed down the stairs to my pickup.
I was having lunch at Carl’s Sandwich Shop across from Gillman’s Marina around one o’clock when my phone rang. I recognized Frank’s number. “This is Mac, go.”
“I showed my former FBI buddy the diamonds and paperwork Katie found. He says we’re dealing with conflict diamonds here, Mac, no doubt about it.”
“I hate to show my ignorance, but what the hell is a conflict diamond?”
“Ever hear of blood diamonds?”
“Like in the movie? Yeah.”
“Right. It’s more prevalent in African countries like Angola and the Congo. Basically, the natives mine and sell the diamonds on the black market to finance rebel groups involved in armed conflicts or civil wars. In South America it’s mostly a matter of human rights abuse, usually slave labor and fraud instead of war. And guess which country is one of the worst of the bunch for looking the other way?”
“Venezuela?”
“Right again. The border area where Venezuela meets Guyana and Brazil is a hotspot for conflict diamonds.”
“Almost the exact area where Rachel Todd flew for Sacred Word Missions.”
“And again.”
“I’m a little confused here, Frank. Why would Venezuela be involved in that crap? Last I heard Chávez had a pretty firm grip on things down there.”
“Here’s a nutshell of what my friend told me without getting too technical. There’s this international organization called the Kimberley Process. Their goal is to see that all diamond-producing countries use legitimate labor sources, oversee production, and certify as legit any and all diamonds being exported for sale. You with me so far, Mac?”
“Yeah.”
“Venezuela is one of three South American countries signed on with the Kimberley Process, along with Guyana and Brazil. But Venezuela has developed a nasty habit of being noncompliant with the organization. In fact, for the past two years they’ve reported a grand total of zero diamond production to the Kimberley Process. That’s despite an estimated annual production of somewhere between fifteen to thirty million dollars.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, and it just so happens that during the same period Guyana’s output increased by almost the same estimated dollar amount.”
“Double wow.”
“Right. Venezuelan diamonds are being mined and smuggled into Guyana and Brazil using what basically amounts to slave labor—workers from isolated villages in the jungles working for peanuts. So, Venezuela mines the diamonds for practically nothing and fences them to certain crooked authorities in Guyana and Brazil. Then the stones are laundered as legitimate KP diamonds with the proper legal governmental paperwork to satisfy the requirements of the Kimberley organization. Guyana and Brazil then sell the diamonds to the legitimate market and pay Venezuela a hefty kickback that amounts to more money than Venezuela would’ve made had they used legitimate companies to mine the rough diamonds. It throws a monkey wrench in the entire KP system, and all it takes is altering the paperwork to make it look legit.”
“Okay, but how does that fit in with what Kate found in Harrison’s filing cabinet?”
“My friend thinks Rachel was in contact with some black marketers, probably in one or more of the remote villages she flew supplies to. She bought the rough stones at cutthroat prices and brought them back into the States. Her being a missionary was a perfect cover, especially before 9/11 when things tightened up.”
“And Wes Harrison had the conflict stones cut and then replaced them with some of the legitimate diamond
s he was buying for Ramey in the States.”
“You’re catching on quick, Mac. With Harrison’s background in gemology it was an easy matter for him for him to size and match the conflicts for the legit stones once the conflicts were cut and polished.”
“And then Harrison or Hurt would sell the legitimate stones for a nifty profit. They must’ve made quite a bundle. What’s the value of the stones Kate found?”
“A few million, according to my friend. That’s retail, of course, assuming the rough ones would’ve been brought up to snuff.”
I let out a low whistle. “This is all fine and dandy, Frank, but what exactly does it prove?”
“Here’s the clincher: Robert Ramey had been in touch with the FBI office in Atlanta just a couple of months before he disappeared in the gulf. He suspected somebody in his employ was playing hanky-panky with the loose stones coming into his stores.”
“Damn, and Wes Harrison was his buyer.”
“Not his only buyer, but he was the latest hire in that position. Maybe Harrison and Hurt were starting to get greedy or careless.”
“Double damn. So if Harrison and Hurt suspected Ramey was on to them, there’s the motive for Ramey to wind up as crab bait.”
“Right on the money. Things are heating up, Mac.”
“What’s next?”
“Find Wes Harrison.”
First thing Monday morning I called J.D. He agreed to meet me at Shannon’s Café for a coffee break at nine. I got there early and ordered a BLT with an extra side of bacon that I added to the sandwich. I’d just finished eating and was on my third cup of coffee when he walked in. As he sat down I poured him a cup from the decanter the waitress left on the table.
“Morning, Mac. What’s up?” he said as he added a packet of sugar to his mug.
I fished a slip of paper from my shirt pocket and handed it across the table. Earlier I’d copied the address Dakota had jotted down, plus the tag numbers of the two vehicles I’d seen parked there.
“Anonymous tip for you. The person said you should keep an eye on this place, and to be careful. The tag numbers were on the two cars parked there when I drove by. I thought you might want to run the plates and see if anything interesting turns up.”
The young sergeant took a sip of coffee and stared at me over the top of his mug. “Who’s the source, and just what am I supposed to be watching the house for?”
J.D. was carrying a newfound air of professionalism along with the increased responsibilities and stripes he’d earned last summer. Can’t say I wasn’t impressed with the kid, but was I detecting just a hint of cockiness?
“I can’t reveal contacts or my word won’t be worth dirt around here. What’s written on the note is all I know, except that it looks like college kids are living in the place. If I knew what you were supposed to be looking for, I’d sure as hell tell you, you know that.”
J.D. glanced at the note as he took another sip of coffee. “Thanks,” he said as he scooted back the chair and stood. “I got to get back on the job. There’s a trainee waiting in the cruiser I’m showing the ropes to.”
“What about the plates?”
He shrugged. “I’ll let you know.” He took a couple of steps and turned. “Hey, Mac, don’t let this PI stuff go to your head.”
My coffee suddenly tasted bitter as I watched J.D. walk out the door. What the hell was going on here? First Kate turns on me for telling her the truth about Harrison and Kohler, and now J.D. puffs up when I pass along information I figured he’d be glad to get. I’d taken a shower just that morning, and I brush my teeth on a regular basis. For whatever reason, I was becoming a social pariah.
I could count my current friends in St. George on one hand, with a thumb and pinkie to spare: Jerry and Donna Meadows, my seventies-plus landlords, and Dakota Blaire Owens, twenty-one-year-old vixen/seductress/siren who I still was nowhere close to figuring out. Maybe it was time to apply for membership in the St. George Country and Yacht Club, not that they would have me. I didn’t play golf, and I still did my boating and fishing in a rented 18-foot runabout.
I wondered if Hannibal Lecter was busy.
CHAPTER 15
I spent the next couple of days concentrating on my PI studies. J.D.’s little snub, or what I took as such, lit a fire under me, and I was determined to keep at it until I had my license framed and hanging on my camper wall. I kept hoping Kate would call, but no such luck. At least my studies kept my mind semi-occupied.
By Friday I was burned out on bookwork, so that morning around ten-thirty I decided to drive out to the local shooting range and hone up my aim with the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum I’d bought for myself as a Christmas present.
Last summer while working on the Maddie Harper case I’d had a close call with a couple of thugs from up north. They were determined to see that I kept my nose out of the drug-smuggling operation whose tentacles reached way beyond St. George. Luckily, the shotgun I’d bought a few weeks earlier proved to be the winning trump card in that little incident. I decided then that carrying a scattergun around was a bit too obvious, so I did some research. I decided on the S & W, which packed more than enough punch to handle most any situation unless I got the urge to go rhino or elephant hunting. I hadn’t bothered yet to get a concealed-weapon permit; figured I’d talk that over with Frank once I had my PI license in hand.
The range was located north of town a couple of miles past the Harper estate, which would now belong to Maddie had she not met an untimely death. I turned left onto the dirt road that led to the range. After maneuvering the half-mile twisting road through a forest of slash pines I pulled to a stop beneath a large patch of shade. I had the place all to myself except for a flock of crows raising hell over something at the edge of the woods downrange on the right. I chose station 7, where a fairly intact body target stood about twenty feet away.
I loaded the S & W and prepared to fire, and then remembered the earplugs in my jeans pocket. I inserted the plugs, took aim, and started firing slow, controlled shots. I emptied the cylinder twice, putting most of the rounds within an eight-inch pattern. Not bad. I was reloading a third time and mentally patting myself on the back for my improved aim when a gunshot split the air to my left. I flinched and nearly hit the deck. It had been several years since Fallujah, but my combat instincts were still kicking in.
I recovered and glanced over to see a tall woman standing at station 2. She was dressed in a tight-fitting black shirt and pants and wore safety goggles and full shooting ear protectors over a black ball cap. She continued to aim a flat-black semiautomatic pistol at her target, popping off shot after shot in quick succession. When the slide locked back after the final round left the chamber, the lady in black turned toward me and pulled off the goggles and ear protectors. My jaw dropped open.
“Hey, McClellan!”
“Dakota? What the hell are you doing here?”
She shrugged. “Same as you. A little target practice to keep the rust off.” She glanced in the general direction of the Smith & Wesson that I held around mid-thigh and grinned. “That’s a nice piece you’re packing.”
This was getting a little past weird. I held up the revolver. “Smith & Wesson, .357 Magnum.”
Dakota nodded. “Fine cannon. You planning a bear hunt?”
“Only if one comes at me. What’re you shooting?”
She lifted her weapon and held it profile with her fingertips. “Glock 19 Gen4; 9 millimeter. Puts multiple rounds downrange with minimum recoil or muzzle flip. A girl has to know how to defend herself these days, you know.”
I didn’t know what Dakota’s game was, but she damn sure seemed to know her firearms. I was familiar enough with Glocks to know they’re a reliable top-of-the-line weapon and don’t come cheap. How the hell did a student who drives a beat-up early-’90s Corolla find the money to buy a new Glock?
“No school today?” I said as I thumbed open the cylinder of the Smith & Wesson, dumped the live rounds into my palm, and dropped them
into my pocket.
“Been there and back.”
“Are you stalking me, young lady?”
Dakota laughed. “Jeez, last I heard this is a public range.”
I was getting agitated. “Yeah, and you just happened to show up and find me here, right?”
Dakota ejected the magazine and checked the chamber. It was clear she wasn’t a newbie when it came to handling firearms, and somehow that grabbed my interest. She slipped the magazine and pistol into her purse that was sitting on the bench at her station. “It must be kismet, McClellan,” she said, flashing her Elvis smirk.
“What’s with the ninja warrior getup?”
Dakota placed both hands on her hips and struck a model’s pose. “You like?”
I had to admit she looked damned enticing in that skintight black outfit, but I didn’t want to overdo the compliments and give her any wrong ideas. I nodded. “Very nice.”
Dakota smiled and shifted her pose. I zipped the revolver inside its carrying case. “See you around,” I said, and headed for my truck.
“McClellan, wait!”
I turned to find that Dakota had taken several quick steps in my direction. The smile was gone, replaced by a look of disappointment. Somehow it didn’t strike me as phony. “I thought maybe we could talk some.”
For whatever reason, I felt a tug in my gut. Maybe it was because I hadn’t exactly been cordial to her lately, or maybe my fatherly instincts were kicking in. I wasn’t sure. But Dakota no longer looked like the sultry vamp who’d tried to bed me a few nights before. What I saw, at least in her eyes, was a lonely girl who yearned to fill some void deep inside.
Suddenly an idea hit me as I remembered Frank Hightower’s parting words the last time we’d talked: Find Wes Harrison. “Tell you what,” I said, “how would you like to go to dinner and a movie at O’Malley’s with me tonight?”
Dakota cocked her head and grinned. “A date? Maybe. What’s playing?”
“I Married a Witch, Fredric March and Veronica Lake, 1942.”
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