by Ginny Aiken
At least he reached the same conclusion on his own. He can’t accuse me of leading him there. “That might be the link.”
But then he hits the same snag I do. “Who’s the contact?” “What? Do I have to figure it all out by myself?”
“No, but you at least have to try to stay on the side of logic. As a start, let’s figure out where the Russells live. That might help.”
“How do we do that?”
He chuckles. “Are you trying to tell me this is your first time at this?” His voice has a hint of taunt to it. “Don’t you remember last year? The FBI and Interpol came to call when you were involved—”
“Hey! You weren’t exactly a distant bystander, either.”
A shrug. “Fine. We were involved in another international gem heist. Don’t you think Chief Clark’s already called in the big guns?”
I have a lightbulb moment. “Oh! I don’t think I ever told the chief about the Russells.”
“No time like the present.”
When I get through, the chief confirms Max’s thought. “I been on the horn with the Bureau, Miss Andie. You’ll be hearing from ’em and maybe others,” he says. “The agent I spoke to seemed to know about them Russells but didn’t give ’em much importance. They’re from Oregon somewhere. Not likely they’ll be heading this way to pick up the loot, ya know?”
Figures. The West Coast’s notorious for woo-woo faith, and the Russell women fit the bill. But they are too far, as the chief says, to pick up the loot. “They might have a local contact . . . Oh, well. I’ll wait for the call.”
Max walks to his window, stares out, humming a toneless drone of sound.
“Okay,” I say minutes later when it gets on my nerves. “Spit out whatever you’re stewing in that head of yours.”
He turns, and I immediately read the excitement in his gaze. “Something occurred to me when you said you’d be waiting for a call. I suppose the chief meant from the FBI or some other government group, but it made me think of another phone call. One I don’t know if you remember.”
“The car bomb didn’t give me amnesia.”
“Never said it did, but you did get hit pretty hard by the fire and the bomb. You also had a good brew of meds in you, and I wouldn’t be surprised if your memory’s not at its best.”
I think back through the events of the past few days. The fire . . . the burglaries . . . the bomb . . . the hospital— “Roger!”
“You got it.”
My mind goes into overdrive. “He did everything but tweeze out of me what I knew about smuggled Kashmir sapphires.”
He raises his brows but only says, “That’s what I got from your end of the call.”
“Do you think that idiot’s still trying to wheel and deal from behind bars?”
Max shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time it happens. Mafia types do it all the time.”
I snort. “Don’t go giving Roger more credit than he’s worth.”
“He might not be the mastermind, and he didn’t steal anything himself, but he’s crooked enough and connected enough that he might be involved. Maybe he was the message go-between for the mastermind and the boots-on-the-ground thief.”
Anger simmers in my gut. “This is personal now. First, he takes advantage of me for years, then he and his bimbo wife set me up to take the fall for stolen rubies and a murder, now I’m sure he set this sapphire gig up too.”
“So call the feds. They need to know.”
“Forget the feds. I’m going to New York.”
“You’re going to New York? But he’s not work—”
“No, Max. You don’t get it, do you? I need to look him in the eye. I’m going to visit Roger in jail.”
“You’re not going alone.”
“Fine.” I sit at his desk, boot up his PC. “Do you want a window or an aisle?”
By ten o’clock the next morning, we’re pulling into the parking lot of the correction facility where my former boss has lived since he was picked up for grand theft not quite a year ago.
Max and I go through embarrassing pat-downs; we answer six million questions about our reason for visiting—I ask a few of my own, but get nowhere—and eventually, when all the powers-that-be decide neither Max nor I are going to slip Roger a file or anything, they let us through to a visiting room.
The twenty minutes that follow are nothing if not the definition of surreal. The visiting room is outfitted with the glass window panel of movie fame. Roger shuffles in, led by a guard and dressed in the ubiquitous prison-orange jumpsuit. He sits in the metal chair on his side, and I wait for the canned music to swell in the background. It doesn’t.
“I’m surprised to see you,” Roger says.
“Don’t think this is a social visit. I have questions for you.” I lean forward, prop my elbows on the counter. “What’s the deal with the sapphires?”
“What deal?” His voice strikes me as a bit tight and too innocent. “What sapphires?”
“Come on, Roger. I’m no fool. You might think I am, since I trusted you for years, but I don’t anymore. They didn’t stick you in here for being a Boy Scout.” I draw a deep breath. “Who’s supposed to pick up the smuggled sapphires? And why have they been terrorizing my family and me?”
He blinks, and if I weren’t watching him so closely, I might have missed the slight tremor that shakes his hands. “I’m supposed to know this? I’m in jail, Andie. I don’t have the kind of contacts I once had—”
“Stop!” My yell yanks the guard to his feet. He gives me a look full of menace. Oooops! “Sorry, sir.”
I turn back to Roger. “I haven’t forgotten your call to the hospital. You wanted to know all about a pair of spectacular sapphires—smuggled goods. Well, they’ve been found, and they’re in the hands of the authorities. So go ahead and tell me you don’t have contacts.”
Roger does the backpedal better than most. But I no longer buy the act.
“Well,” he says, his voice booming and—too—jovial, “I do have friends, but I don’t know anything about any smuggled sapphires, not beyond what I said. I heard there were stones making the rounds of the underground gemstone market.” His chair squeaks as he leans back. “So you ‘found’ them. How can you try and say I had anything to do with them when you’re the one who knows all about them?”
I glare. “The ring-around-the-rosy of the underground gemstone market, huh? Is that how come they arrowed straight from Srinagar to the U.S. without any detours?”
This kind of thing goes on for the rest of our time with Roger. Even Max can’t get a thing out of the liar.
Finally, frustrated beyond belief, and well aware of the time of our return flight, I stand. “I know you’re not so disposed, but I hope you decide to tell the truth pretty soon. A spotlight will hit this theft any day now, and I don’t think you’ll look too good when it catches you in the thick of things. I doubt you want anyone adding more time to your sentence.”
He blinks, and that’s when I know he knows. But that’s when I also know I won’t get another thing out of him. “Have a great life, Roger. Enjoy the luxury. It is your choice.”
Max and I head back outside, and the sunlight nearly blinds us. He turns to me. “You were right. The light will shine on this mess. If I were Roger, I wouldn’t want it on me and my sins.”
I sigh. “There’s nothing more for us here. Ready?”
“Sure. But I don’t know what for.”
“For whatever comes next. Any ideas?”
1700
Hours later, once we’ve landed in Louisville and are in Max’s SUV on the way to Miss Mona’s house, I turn in my seat. “There must be something in the film.”
“It doesn’t matter, now, does it?” He clicks on his right turn signal. “It’s gone.”
The master of the obvious. But I don’t say a thing—there’s that dare I lost . . . and the memory of Max doing his chicken dare. Instead, I stick to the sapphires. “Do you think Glory might remember something . . . oh, I do
n’t know, odd in those clips?”
He lets out a bark of a laugh. “Tell me what about that trip wasn’t ‘odd’?”
I chuckle too. “Okay. You’re right, but I think it can’t hurt to talk to Glory. Maybe if we all put our heads together, we can figure this out.”
“Go ahead. You have a phone. Ask her to meet us at Miss Mona’s house.”
Glory agrees to join us in a half hour, certain she doesn’t remember anything more than barren landscape and rocks.
Then my dentist’s drill of a mind goes back to my unanswered questions. “Shouldn’t we make sure the Russells aren’t anywhere around here? Just because they’re from Oregon doesn’t mean one of them isn’t waiting here for the stones. They were hanging out with that nutcase swami and his friendly goons. I can see them all in the thick of the sapphire smuggling scheme.”
“And just how do we go about checking them out?”
“Bingo! I hate not having the right to ask for answers I want!”
He howls. “This is one of your most honest moments ever, Andi-ana Jones. But I think you can start by siccing the chief on that. I’m sure he’ll be happy to connect you to potential perps.”
“That’s what I mean. I’m not official or anything like that.”
“Go ahead. Call him. Remind him of the family connection. Get your answer, or else you’ll keep us going in circles until our boogeyman leaps up from the shadows and really takes you out.”
I snort and dial. “Wouldn’t you just love that? You’d be done with my smart mouth.”
Chief Clark takes my question and suggestion to track down the swami-silly Russells as he does anything I say: first with skeptical silence, then reluctant acceptance.
“Fine, Miss Andie. I’ll have them feds check out the flights from JFK to Portland and Louisville too. But if they ain’t there, they ain’t there. And if they’re in Portland, they’re there. Ya hear?”
“I hear.”
After I hang up, the silence in the car thickens, grows heavy, uncomfortable. Max turns a corner six blocks from Miss Mona’s, and then shoots me a serious look. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, Andie. Not even when you’re being your brattiest-pest self.”
His voice rings with sincerity, even the swipe. I look at him, and the glowing light of the sunset outlines his profile. His good looks take my breath away, but what really hits me hard is his rich voice, what he says.
He glances my way and catches me staring. “I know you put up this tough-cookie smart-mouth front whenever you’re scared or when things come too close to make a difference, but I’ve also seen beyond that. I’ve seen your love for Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona, the kids in Kashmir, and you do love the Lord. There’s more to you than the mouth and attitude, and I want to get to know it better. I mean it, Andie. I’d do anything to keep you safe.”
“Th–thanks.” No smart-mouth answers this time, and I still can’t look away. He, however, does, and fixes his gaze on the road.
“You do know we have to talk,” he adds. “For real. After all this craziness is over.”
“Mm-hmm . . .” Yep. He got it right back in his office; I’m chicken. I don’t dare say more, but I know I’ll have to. I owe him that much. But he’s also right; this isn’t the time. We have a puzzle to solve. And I can’t handle the intensity of the moment under these circumstances.
What to do? What to say? Oh. Well, sure! There’s this minor matter . . .
“Hey, Max. I just remembered I left my rental at the S.T.U.D. parking lot. I have to get it, or I won’t have wheels for tomorrow.”
“It’s seven o’clock. I don’t think anyone’s there.”
I’d lost track of time. By now, not only had Tanya’s show finished, but the studio had also started up the prerecorded programs with the auto-order phone system. “I don’t need anyone to be at the studio. I just want to pick up my car from the parking lot.”
“Oh, all right.” Talk about dragging your feet! “We’ll detour. Go ahead and call Miss Mona. I don’t want her and your aunt to worry when we’re later than they expect.”
He does have all those redeeming moments, you know.
I call, and then, as a courtesy, give Glory a heads-up too. Plus, because it makes sense, I give Allison a ring. I tell her about the Kashmir trip postmortem we’re having and ask her to join us. “Who knows who’ll remember what when we all get together? But give Max and me about twenty minutes to get to Miss Mona’s. He’s taking me to pick up my car at the S.T.U.D. first.”
When I click my phone shut, an awkward silence fills the car. Once he pulls into the parking lot, I jump out. “See ya at Miss Mona’s.”
“Drive carefully. No one’s going to care if you’re a minute or two late.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
I hop into my little rented Saturn, turn the key, and flick on the AC. It’s hot in Louisville in late August, folks.
Max honks and waves as he turns out of the parking lot. I pull up to the stop sign right behind him, then wait for a plumbing rooter van that zips past me and pulls up behind Max. I follow, but get caught by the first red light.
A couple of blocks later, as I turn onto the semi-rural road that leads out to Miss Mona’s new subdevelopment, I glance in my rearview mirror. The black Hummer framed by my back window first showed up at that initial red light. Ten minutes later, it’s still with me. Unease makes the little hairs on the back of my neck pop right up.
I hit the gas.
The Hummer does the same.
I slow down, edge over to the right to give the guy a chance to pass, but to my horror, he speeds up.
“NO!” I hit the gas again, but it’s too late.
He rams the rear of my rental with his huge fender. My little car bounces on the shoulder. The rumble strips rattle my teeth.
I fumble for my phone, but my bag’s on the floor, and I don’t get a good grip before the Hummer hits me again. This time I smack my head against the steering wheel. The momentary daze rattles me good.
I need help.
But there’s nothing on this stretch of road.
My only hope is in the rented Saturn’s maneuverability versus the Hummer’s deadly mass. So I accelerate, but this time I swerve the wheel from side to side, zigging each time the Hummer zags.
Then he beats me at my game. I zag, he zigs, then rams his mountainlike front into the rear of my rental. The Saturn goes airborne into the weeds, shrubs, and young trees on the side of the road.
“Lord Jesus, I love you! Take care of Aunt Wee—”
CRASH!
What seems like a lifetime later, my door opens, and a voice calls my name. “Let’s go,” she says. “Out of the car.”
I shake my head. Blink a couple of times. I think all my pieces and parts are still connected, but a few of the critical ones aren’t in full working order yet. Like my legs.
“Now!” she demands.
“Okay, okay.” Give me a break, lady. I just killed another car. “I’m not so sure my legs want to hold me up.”
“They better.”
Something cold touches my temple. This is no rescue.
I turn, and the barrel of the pistol winds up against the bridge of my nose. “Hey! What’s the deal? You hit me.”
“You really are stupid,” Glory says. “Get out of the car. We’re going to get the sapphires. Now.”
Glory? Glory? My camerawoman? “Huh?”
“You heard me. We’re going to find your stupid cop friend, you’re going to come up with some stupid excuse to take the stones with you—you can tell him you want to clean them, study them—I don’t care. Just get the stones.”
A series of images click, click, click into place in my head. I remember her schmoozing Max during the trip. Her support of his sports breaks had made me crazy, but I’d seen it as a way to gain his attention. The jealousy must have blinded me to any weird signals she might have given off.
It must’ve been a cinch for her to slip him the doc
tored ball.
The missing film? I’m sure it shows something interesting, if not incriminating. And finally, her vanishing act the minute she got home was no fluke. I’ll bet she had planned to fade into the sunset—with the sapphires—the minute she and Max hit U.S. soil. But somewhere along the line, things didn’t go Miss Glory’s way.
I take a deep breath. “Tell me. What went wrong?”
“Don’t yap. That mouth of yours is going to get you killed.”
No. You’re the one who’s going to kill me. “So what if I do talk? Your gun tells me I’m not making it out of your escapade alive.”
“True, but you don’t need to drive me nuts these last few minutes, either.”
What I need is my phone. “Okay. You have the gun. What do you want me to do?”
“You might be dumb, but not that dumb. Get out of the car.”
I reach down for my purse. “Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t!” The gun presses deeper. “Drop that thing back where it was. You’re not giving me a faceful of mace or pepper spray.”
My grubby paws hang on tighter. “Wow! That would have been a great idea. Too bad I don’t have any of either.”
“Drop it, Andie. Don’t mess with me. I have the gun.”
“Whoop-dee-doo, Glory. The chief has the sapphires. You snuff me out for the sapphires, and you have nothing left. What are you going to tell your ‘friends’ then?”
That’s when I realize she’s desperate. Desperate people rarely think clearly. I should know. I’ve been desperate a time or two.
But Glory isn’t there yet. She leaves no space between her gun and my skin. “Not so cute,” she says. “Let’s go. And I’ll take your purse, since you want it so much.”
As we do the handover, I snag the snap on the outside flap of the bag with my pinky, and my slender phone slides onto my lap. I sigh with more oomph than necessary, cross my right leg over my left, hide the phone between my thighs, and pretend to try to slide out of the mangled car.
“Ouch!” I cry, without any need of pretense. I do hurt.
“You’re going to ‘ouch’ a lot more if you don’t hurry up.” “Okay, okay. I don’t know why you’re in such a rush. The chief’s not going to give me the stones. He probably doesn’t even have them anymore. The feds are involved, and probably a bunch of international agencies too.”