“She really is a therapist,” Burton said.
“Okay, so you’re a real shrink,” he said. “Sorry if I misunderstood, but with looks like yours and—”
“Let’s leave it at that,” I said.
He gave another shrug. “Lauber told you it was extremely important, or so you said?”
“That’s correct. He said it was extremely important.”
“In what way?” Ollie asked. “What made it important? Was it also urgent?”
I smiled softly to deflect my response. “As I’ve already said, I’m his therapist. That’s privileged and confidential information.” I knew I could tell him what he wanted to know, but I’ve heard that line in so many movies, I wanted to use it. It felt good to say those words.
“But he’s dead now. So you can tell me, right?”
“It was confidential. He bared his soul to me because he trusted me.”
“What do I care about his bared soul? You want to help us catch the murderer,” Ollie said, “so come on, open up.”
I didn’t want to tell him anything except to say firmly, “Get out of here and leave us so I can talk to Burton.” But there was something else. I couldn’t understand why I hesitated. Ollie was a detective, and I couldn’t think of a single reason not to tell him everything, but that intuitive nudge held me back.
Something about that detective bothered me, and I no longer blamed it on myself. This man’s hat wasn’t worn right, as my dad used to say. I stared at his ash-blond hair, his green eyes. I estimated him at about six three or perhaps even an inch taller. Broad-shouldered, he had probably played football in college. I suppose it was his attitude that put me off. Maybe he was used to pushing people around. When he talked, it was almost as if he expected people to give him whatever he wanted—as if it were his right. Maybe that’s why Burton had yielded to him in college. Ollie must have always been heavy-handed and demanding like that.
“I thought you detectives always came in pairs,” I said in what I hoped was my innocent voice. “You know, so that one keeps the other honest.”
“Yeah, usually. Two police officers investigated last night—”
“And you can handle everything by yourself?” (I knew he wouldn’t catch the sarcasm.)
“Yeah, sure, but that’s not the reason. In follow-up work like this, they usually send only one detective.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a thorough job,” Burton said.
“Could we get out of here?” I asked as a ploy so I could do some quick thinking. “This is rather public, and you’re asking about a man’s inner life.” Instead of waiting for him to take charge, I started to walk toward the front door and smiled to myself. It felt good to take control of the situation, even if it would last only another twenty seconds.
I turned and he followed us. I motioned for Burton to join us, and to my delight he raised his right eyebrow as if to ask, “Me?” I nodded and said, “Sure. Come and join us.” I turned forward and moved on. I heard Burton’s footsteps behind me. From the front door, I spotted a sign with arrows that read Nature Walk. Apparently I could have turned either way. I read once that most people automatically turn right, so I turned left.
Although I had never been to the Cartledge Inn before, people who live in metro Atlanta know the grounds are lovely, featuring large sections of native Georgia plants. According to a small sign at the far end, we could walk among forty buddleia bushes of five different colors. Buddleia was one of the few names I knew, although most people just call them butterfly bushes. I love the fragrance the plant sends out and the constant attraction of butterflies and bumblebees.
Because I wore my heels, I used that as an excuse to walk slower. I didn’t know how much to tell Burton’s buddy, and the walk gave me almost a full minute to think. A slight breeze caused the rosemary plants’ evergreen needle-like leaves to hang heavily in the air.
About thirty feet ahead, I saw two comfortable-looking benches that faced each other. They had been placed between Southern magnolia trees. It was early June, and several of their creamy white flowers already filled the branches. I think the magnolia is not only the most fragrantly beautiful tree, but the flower itself has such a fragile look. I have rarely seen anything nicer than the white blossoms, although I hate the long, hard leaves that take four or five years to become mulch. Still, the flowers are worth the nuisance of the leaves.
I sat on one bench. Ollie and Burton took the other. I knew Burton well enough to know that he wanted to be alone for his private retreat, but he was also curious enough that he didn’t want to leave and miss out on the conversation. I smiled to myself, because I was quite sure I was reading his struggle accurately.
Somewhere behind me the overpowering fragrance of honeysuckle wafted through the air. I don’t mind honeysuckle, but it causes some people to sneeze or develop sinus headaches. I didn’t like it today because the cloying fragrance overwhelmed the magnolia.
“So what can you tell me?” Ollie asked, leaning toward me.
“Aren’t you supposed to take out a pen and a little notebook?” I asked. “They always do that on Law and Order.”
“This is just plain law. Georgia law and my order,” Ollie said, impatience apparent in his voice.
“That’s a good line,” I said. “Do you use it often?”
“Nah. Just popped out.” He smiled, oblivious to my sarcasm.
Most women would have called him a hunk, and I suppose he was. Underneath the gray shell blazer, I sensed he had taut, well-toned muscles.
“What do you want to know?” I decided not to make it easy for him.
Burton leaned forward. “Julie, please don’t. Be nice to the man. Okay?”
“You know me too well,” I said to Burton. “Okay, here goes. First, did you know Stefan Lauber had been in prison?”
“Tell me about that,” Ollie said. He took out the obligatory notebook and pen. This time he played the role of a cool cop. He wanted information, but he wasn’t going to tell me anything he knew.
“Suppose you tell me about his prison term, and then I’ll tell you why he came to see me.” I stared into his eyes, daring him to intimidate me.
“How well do you know this dame?” he asked Burton.
“Dame?” I said and laughed. “That sounds like something Humphrey Bogart would have said in a 1941 movie. In fact, he did say that in the Maltese Falcon, didn’t he?”
“We just bumped into each other a few minutes ago,” Burton said, “but Julie and I were involved in solving the murder of Roger Harden, the multimillionaire. Do you know about that case?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I saw it reported on TV, but I had forgotten. Great amateur work, but this is a professional investigation and—”
“Very good,” I said. “And since we’re all professionals, let’s share.” This time I not only told him I was a therapist but added that I held a PhD (and that did impress him). “And Burton—”
“Yeah, he’s got a doctorate as well. I’m lucky to have finished college and received an undergrad degree. So we’re all professionals, but different kinds of professionals.” He stared back as if daring me to argue.
“You share. I share,” I said. “If you don’t want to share, you’ll have to get a legal order for me to talk to you.” I didn’t know if that was true, but the police shows use that kind of insipid dialogue and it felt good to repeat the words.
“Hey, Burton. It’s easy to see why you like this broad. She’s a real hottie and she’s—”
“A broad? A hottie?” I stood up. “Obviously, this is not a meeting of professionals.” I wasn’t really offended. I liked the crude flattery, but I wouldn’t let him know that.
“Ma’am, I apologize,” he said with exaggerated emphasis. He spoke the words, but his eyes told me his apology was insincere.
“So you start.” I gave him what I call my alluring smile, the kind that’s supposed to make others think I’m enchanted with everything that pours from their lips. “You already
knew he was in prison, right?” I decided to throw that in so he could see that I used my professional intuition. Actually it was only a guess, but his face told me I was correct.
“Very good. I’m impressed.” Ollie rewarded me with a full grin. “Yes, I knew he was in prison. He received a three-year sentence for receiving stolen goods. Which was all they could convict him of. That is, they found the stolen money but not the diamonds—”
“I think I remember that case,” Burton said. “It was a jewel robbery of a courier from Antwerp.”
“Amsterdam,” Ollie corrected. “The courier carried about one hundred million dollars worth of polished diamonds and half a mil in cash.”
Ollie told us the background. A known criminal, Willie Petersen, and a woman later identified as Cynthia Salzmann ambushed the man in the long-term parking lot of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. Apparently the man struggled, and in the altercation, Petersen shot him. The couple fled with the pouch of diamonds and money. Forensics was able to lift Petersen’s fingerprints from the door of the courier’s car, and the police tracked him down. When accused, he implicated Lauber.
“I wasn’t involved in that case,” Ollie said, “but I’ve read the report. They found the cash, which Lauber said Petersen had brought to him and asked him to invest. According to Lauber, who was a legitimate investment broker, Petersen said he had never trusted banks and had been saving the money in his home, or some incredibly dumb story like that. “But Petersen said Lauber had planned the heist. Wasn’t that the story?” Burton asked.
“Exactly. Lauber was a stockbroker. In the previous few months, the SEC and the police suspected—” He held up his hand and said, “Only suspected, but were unable to prove, that he was involved in several shady dealings. When it finally came to trial, it was his word against Petersen’s.”
“That hardly seems like enough to convict anyone,” I said.
“Petersen had brought the money into Lauber’s office in cash. All in hundred-dollar bills, all still banded with the name of an Amsterdam bank. The information was in the media. Now how many people would have blithely accepted that much cash without some questions?”
“Good point,” I said.
“So the jury convicted him. If Lauber had reported the money, nothing would have happened. But the dumb jerk stuck the money in an office closet, and get this—” Ollie raised his voice as he added, “Not only was the money there intact, but it was still in the attaché case that Petersen had stolen. The name of the diamond-polishing firm was on the case—Coster—one of the best-known firms in Europe. Petersen insisted Lauber was the brains behind the robbery.”
“Didn’t they connect Lauber with the diamonds?” I asked.
“They tried, but they had no case,” the detective said. “They didn’t find the diamonds in his office or anyplace else they searched.”
“A jury did convict Lauber, but only of receiving stolen property is what I remember,” Burton said.
“And what about the diamonds?” I asked. “What happened to them?”
“They never turned up. Dead end no matter where the investigation went. I’ve always believed Lauber hid them and had them ready for a nice retirement plan when he was paroled about five months ago.”
“So you think Lauber was murdered for the diamonds?” I asked.
“Reasonable guess, wouldn’t you say?” Ollie said. “But we have absolutely nothing to link him to the diamonds. The missing diamonds aren’t within my purview—”
“Purview? Nice word,” I said.
Burton frowned at me.
“Makes good sense,” I said.
“I wish I knew a little more about Stefan Lauber,” Ollie said and leaned back. “Now why don’t you talk to me? So far I’m the only one giving information. Now it’s your turn.”
“I also can speak to the answer of that question,” a man’s voice said. “Did I not know him? Was I not his friend?”
All of us looked up and stared at a man with the smoothest ebony complexion I’d ever seen.
Three
“Yes, for a long time I have known Mr. Stefan Lauber,” the man said as he walked from behind one of the magnolia trees. I hadn’t seen him approach, and his presence took us by surprise. I wondered if he had been hiding.
Not only his syntax but his accent made it clear that he was an African. All the black men I had ever seen were one shade of brown or another, but this man was truly black. His head was shaved, although he had roots for a full head of hair. I assumed he was in his early thirties or maybe late twenties. He was about my height, when I don’t wear my heels. He looked healthy enough, but he also was like a man whose skin was stretched over a live skeleton. I didn’t know how he could be so thin and yet not look emaciated. Maybe it was his grin and the beautiful white teeth that made me know he was strong, wiry, and healthy.
“And who are you?” Ollie asked.
“Was I not listening to what you say here?”
“I suppose you were,” I said. “And you knew Stefan Lauber. How? What was your connection?”
“May I sit with you?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he came around and sat on the bench next to me. He wore a plain white T-shirt and sharply pressed shorts, bright red and made of coarse cotton, like muslin.
“My name is Jason Omore,” he said, “and I am from Kenya, and I am the grandson and the son of a chief of the Luo tribe from Suna Location.” He held out both hands to me and asked my name. After I told him, he turned to Burton and then to Ollie.
“What do you have to tell us?” Ollie asked instead of giving his name.
“Please indulge my cultural background,” Jason said. “In my country it is not polite to discuss anything if we are not introduced.”
Ollie must have realized the sensible thing to do was to introduce himself, so as to not antagonize the man. He gave his name and said he was a DeKalb County homicide detective. “And now, tell us something besides your name.”
“I am here to study as a foreign student, and I am enrolled at Emory University where I am writing my dissertation.”
“A dissertation? That means a doctoral degree.” I looked at Jason, but I said that for Ollie’s benefit. I’m sure he knew, but I wanted to antagonize him a little more.
“In what field?” Burton said a little too quickly. He must have sensed my attitude and tried to intervene.
“In the field of behavioral psychology. Has not my government sent me here to earn my doctoral degree so that I may return and teach behavioral psychology?” He smiled, and his face seemed to glow. “I did my intern work at the Floyd County Prison in Rome.” He meant Rome, Georgia, which is about an hour north of us under good driving conditions. “Mr. Lauber was an inmate, was he not? I was able to have many interviews with him. As a matter of great fact, I did a case study of six different inmates. He was the most fascinating, was he not?”
“Do you always give information by asking a question?” Ollie asked.
“Do I?” He laughed. “It is a habit. You Americans seem to like that style, so I have cultivated it. And now I use it often, do I not?”
Burton burst out laughing, and so did I.
“I don’t like it,” Ollie said.
“Should I then choose not to use it?”
“That’s enough,” Ollie said. He had obviously figured out that he had become the butt of the joke. “Tell me what you know about Lauber.”
Jason Omore was sharp. He was my kind of man.
“He was a criminal and convicted of a lesser crime for which he had committed a greater crime,” the African said. “He is—he was—a most complex man and one that many thought had no conscience. Even I did not think so during the first two interviews I had with him.”
“But you changed your mind about him?” I asked before Ollie could stop me.
“Yes, that is so. I changed my mind because he changed his way.”
“He changed? He reformed? Is that what you mean?” Burton asked. “Or did he just hold ba
ck at first?”
“Is that not a good question you have asked about Lauber?” Jason gazed into space as if to measure his words. “I shall have to consider that.”
Jason’s gaze shifted among our faces. In the distance someone started a lawn mower. The constant rustle of leaves and the gentle breeze against my bare arms felt good. I love Atlanta weather, although the humidity is sometimes a little much for tourists. A male and female cardinal flew into the closer magnolia tree and flitted around for several seconds. I assumed it was some kind of mating dance.
As we waited for Jason to continue, Ollie tapped his foot. His eyes hardened. His chin jutted out. He had all the signs of a man of intense anger. I wondered if he’d explode at me. Maybe I could help him a little and see how long it took.
“I shall tell you, but sometimes you Americans do not seem to understand.” He took a deep breath. “Mr. Lauber underwent a conversion experience less than two weeks before his release.”
“A conversion? You mean like being born again?” Burton asked.
“Yes, is that not so? Is that not exactly what I mean?” Jason smiled at him. “So you do know the meaning of such language?”
“I’m a pastor. I’ve also undergone a conversion experience, have I not?”
I couldn’t help myself. I roared at Burton’s response because I knew he felt as I did about Jason.
Ollie only tapped his foot faster.
“Ah, then you do understand. That is most good.”
“Just get on with it,” Ollie said. “We’re all Christians, okay? We understand the lingo.”
I didn’t know whether to object to the label that included me, but it didn’t seem appropriate to correct Ollie, so I kept still. Besides, I wanted to hear the story.
Jason told us that Lauber made drastic changes in his behavior. “Because you understand the language, I can say it to you in the language of Christians, may I not?” Before Ollie could interrupt, he said, “My friend—that, Mr. Lauber, who became my friend—truly repented of his sinful ways and chose to follow the Lord Jesus Christ and was baptized while he was an inmate in prison. Is that not the way it is done here in America as well?”
Everybody Wanted Room 623 Page 3