by Alex Ames
“It has nothing whatever to do with the murder at the gallery. The murder is all I care about, nice theory and all,” Ron poked his fork at me. “You may stick to your jewelry and all. But murder is my business!” Delivered Chandler-eske.
I didn’t give up. “OK, this is where storyline number two, the Mundy variation, comes up. Altward has ‘The Max’ ready for sale. Father and Daughter Eastman break-in and steal ‘The Max’. Wally Eastman gets caught either by Altward or by his companion and is killed in a struggle. Phoebe gets away with the jewelry.” Pause for a sip of Coke and some quick thinking. “Phoebe is Altward’s girl, so she may know who the bidders are for the Max. She may even know that ‘The Japanese’ is the auction winner. She contacts Nakamoto; he comes flying into L.A. and waits for her to sell him the Maximilian Jewels. For Phoebe, it is a low-risk business transaction because she doesn’t need any fence and she can immediately resell the stuff for an obscene amount of money.”
“I like that one better—it has a killer.” Without success, Ron used his fork to chase a single olive around his plate, finally conceded, and picked it up with his fingers.
“Which bring us to the question: Why didn’t she already? What takes her so long?” Maybe I could motivate Ron to start looking for Phoebe a little bit harder.
Ron shook his head.
“Still don’t like it?” I asked, crossing my arms, sulking.
“Again, who killed Wally Eastman?” Ron looked around for the waitress to order refills.
“You are no fun,” I said.
Ron’s phone rang; he pulled it out of his jacket and listened for some moments. “Where?” he asked, listened and snapped the phone shut.
“Have to go!”
“What is it about?”
“I have a nice explanation why Nakamoto will shrivel and shrink to the size of a Japanese compact car in his pool, waiting for his jewels,” Ron said.
“Will he tell me?”
“The police have found the body of Phoebe Eastman. Last night she drifted ashore, north of Huntington Beach.”
Chapter 29
“I FEEL LIKE your dog,” Mundy stated after he picked me up on PCH at the Santa Monica pier. “You whistle and I come running.”
“Stop it; your ears are still flapping.”
“And my tongue hangs from the corner of my mouth!” Mundy made a grimace. “So they found poor Phoebe at last. Not in Altward’s apartment but on the beach.”
“Someone disposed of her after stashing her in the bathroom of Altward’s pied-a-terre.”
“I bet she died because whoever stole the Maximilian Jewels wanted the missing piece.”
“I thought we had her pegged as one of the lead suspects.”
“OK, your story comes next. But first me, Phoebe was together with Altward. Maybe she sometimes borrowed some of the antique jewelry from Altward’s inventory so she could strut around with it on. Or perhaps he sometimes gave her stuff on a temporary basis. She stumbles upon ‘The Max’ Collection, wears a piece now and then. By coincidence, she has the Maximilian necklace around her neck when the gallery is robbed and Wally Eastman dies. The thief finds one piece missing, goes looking for Phoebe, kills her and retrieves the missing piece. Now the thief has the complete set in his possession and can sell it to ‘The Jacuzzi Japanese.’”
“Flaw, counselor,” I interrupted. “How does the robber slash killer know about Phoebe’s neck?”
“Don’t bore me with details. Maybe the murderer visited her the same day that Ron and you did. I don’t know. Now your turn,” Mundy gave up.
“The Altward theory. She knows about ‘The Max’ or maybe even about the murder in the gallery. Maybe even too much. She threatens to spill the beans to the police because of the murder of her father. So Altward kills her. Or maybe one of Altward’s associates kills her. Still looks best to me,” I said, yawning.
Mundy drove on.
And after five minutes, he muttered under his breath, “We make shitty detectives!”
Phoebe made a small item on page five of the L.A. Times. The police learned that she was dead prior to being thrown into the water and her father had died a few days earlier in a robbery. No connection between the two crimes, at least not seen today. Investigation pending. The San Diego Tribune had a larger item, Altward connection and all. But it was neither comprehensive nor enlightening.
Chapter 30
WEDNESDAY EVENING RON called.
“Mind joining us for a little trip south?”
“San Diego is a nice town this time of year, but two times in a month is too much,” I replied.
“I don’t mean San Diego, I mean Mexico City.”
“You have a lead there?” I asked.
“The thing is, I don’t have enough leads. We have had search orders for Altward’s Newport apartment, the gallery and Altward’s San Diego home. Found nil regarding the case.” He sighed heavily over the phone. “And now Altward’s lawyer, the judge and the district attorney are raising issues as to whether there was actually enough probable cause to justify the search orders. My options are running out.”
“Anything about the Maximilian Jewels?”
“Just some general stuff, the same that you got. The thesis of that UCLA guy, some newspaper articles. Nothing of substance pointing to the value, the private auction or anything else.”
I thought about the valuations and expertise I had seen in the office at Altward’s Newport apartment. I couldn’t tell Ron about those.
“So why Mexico?” I inquired.
“The Maximilian connection seems to be the best lead. I agree with your theory that the Maximilian Jewels and their value have something to do with both murders. It’s exactly why people kill each other, loads of money or the possibility of money.”
“And you hope to find answers about ‘The Max’ in Mexico City?”
“Everything so far has been hearsay and some articles. I want facts. Authenticity. So we start at the beginning. The National History Museum in Mexico City. Plus, so far, you are the only one who has spotted a single piece of the set. Maybe the rest is still lying in the vaults of the Mexican museum?”
A good point I hadn’t yet considered.
Ron already had an appointment with the head of the museum for tomorrow, early afternoon. We discussed our travel arrangements.
“A thought occurred to me over the weekend, has nothing to do with the murder, however,” I delivered in an attempt at tactical influence on the investigation.
“Tell it to me anyway,” Ron humored me.
“Collectors like Nakamoto don’t buy jewels just by the looks. Especially when such an amount of money is involved. Altward would need to produce expertise to prove the authenticity.”
“But we didn’t find anything in Altward’s possession. No receipts, no valuations, and no official looking papers bearing any relation to ‘The Max,’” Ron said.
“Maybe he is good in hiding. I bet he is pissed off about the police ransacking his homes so shortly after the burglary,” I said. “Anyway, don’t look near Altward but ask the source.”
“What source?”
“The experts who wrote the valuations. There are not too many jewelry experts around, and I bet Altward hired the best.”
The long silence at the other end of the line told me that this was a good idea.
“I will mail you some good contacts to start asking. The insurance detective Fowler Wynn can give you additional names. Gives you guys something to do.”
I managed to buy a ticket for tomorrow morning, a United flight leaving LAX around six a.m. would bring me into Mexico City around noon. I was also able to reserve a room in the same hotel where Ron was staying, the Galleria Plaza Hotel.
A quick call to Mrs. Otis arranged my absence for the next two days. She would manage the place and try not to forget to lock either the shop or the safe in the evenings. Then I made another quick call to Mundy to make sure that every evening he checked the locks and the safe at the shop and got a quick u
pdate.
“Can you give me one good reason why you should be with Officer McCloseky in Mexico City? He can ask questions alone, can’t he?”
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” I asked annoyed, instantly regretting it as Mundy hung up with a bang.
The trip was uneventful. I hated getting up early but flying business class made it bearable. I managed to persuade the steward not to wake me whenever he was running around with food or drinks, which was all the time. That settled, I slept like a log through the whole flight. I was shielded by the pack of common travelers by class distinction but the second I left the business class finger that led to the terminal, the anthill hit me like a hammer. LAX had the feeling of a solid big city airport for a multimillion citizens but Mexico City Airport felt like a vibrating high pressure cooker on an overheated plate. After immigration and luggage retrieval, I caught a taxi and made my way to the hotel.
Ron and I had agreed to meet in the hotel lobby around two, enough time to freshen myself up and dress for the museum meeting. The moment I stepped out of the elevator I knew why Ron had said “… join us… ” the day before.
Chapter 31
FOWLER WYNN AND I stared eye-to-eye until Ron dared to step in.
“Could you two each take one step backwards and let me explain?”
He got no answer from either of us. Fowler eyed me with open hostility and I looked back just as hard.
Ron pushed us gently apart. Fowler looked at Ron irritated. He was probably as surprised as I was. “What is this… person doing here in Mexico?”
“Fowler, I am following my brilliant detective nose here because I am a little bit short on clues as to the murder of Wally Eastman and the burglary at the gallery.” Ron pointed in my direction. “Calendar has found this new angle to the case; it was her discovery of the Maximilian Jewels connection.”
“Well, it was probably her stealing it in the first place,” Fowler sniffled.
I rolled my eyes and went over to the lobby bar to order a tea. Luckily, the word works in most nations.
Ron and Fowler followed shortly afterwards. Before I could ask my question, Ron had already answered it for me. “By a sheer coincidence, Fowler’s company is also the general insurer of the collection of the Museum of Mexican National History.”
I looked at Fowler. “So the ‘The Max’ is really worth the high sum the Japanese collector was talking about.”
“In the range of about eight million dollars,” Fowler nodded.
“With the addresses you gave me, it was a matter of three phone calls to find the institutes that had expertise on ‘The Max,’” Ron explained.
“That was quick work.”
“By the time we arrived here at the hotel, we had received e-mails from two independent experts, one from Chicago and one from Philadelphia,” Fowler threw in.
“Please show her,” Ron said.
Fowler looked at me reluctantly but finally opened his briefcase and took out a stack of sheets. I quickly skimmed them, I had seen the originals in the Newport apartment but I had to cheer up Fowler and Ron. I carefully studied the drawings again, whistled appropriately at the final valuation.
“Whew, 8.5 million dollars.”
“They are top of the crop, my colleagues at the jewelry art department in London told me just a minute ago,” Fowler said.
“Isn’t it amazing that these treasures were hidden away in a museum cellar for so long?” I wondered. Then I tapped the drawing that showed the necklace. “This is the piece I saw on Phoebe Eastman. Look at the design. It is so classy and timeless, already has very straight lines that Europe would discover about 80 years later.” I pointed at the golden tiara. “But at the same time, full of Latin American identity. I wonder if the artist is known to us from history?”
“That’s why we are here, ladies and gentlemen,” Ron clapped his hands, he was probably glad that Fowler and I were on speaking terms. We wrapped up our things and stepped outside the hotel lobby into the winter afternoon heat.
We hailed a taxi and rode, all three of us side-by-side in the back of the cab, Ron between the cat and the dog. The Museum of National History was located in Chapultapec Park, Mexico City’s equivalent of Manhattan’s Central Park.
“Did you know that Chapultapec Park was actually the castle grounds? Emperor Maximilian lived there.” I said to break the silence. Fowler grunted and Ron gave a chuckle.
Ron asked Fowler, “Do you think the experts had a closer look at ‘The Max’ before writing their opinion? And were able to make photographs?”
Fowler suppressed the growl and sounded civil. “Oh, they had the originals on their desk, for sure. That is an absolute must for them to do a proper valuation.”
I nodded in agreement. It was impossible to judge the quality of gems just by a photo.
Fowler continued, “But, my colleagues told me, the courier who delivered the jewelry into their lab had given specific instructions not to film or photograph the set. He was present the whole time when the valuators were doing their job. And I tell you, it took two days for each of the experts.”
The Museum of Mexican History loomed before us, Ron paid the driver, and we stepped up the stairs and entered the lobby. Ron flashed his SDPD badge at the information desk in the museum lobby to impress whomever with whatever. The lady picked up the phone and spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. We waited for a minute and then a man in a dark suit, a nicely trimmed mustache and a big-toothed smile approached us.
“Pedro Vasolar, I am pleeesed to meeting you.” He spoke a polished, slightly accented English, shook my hand first. After I told him my name, he fixated on me as if I appeared in a different light, suddenly. “Moonstone. Didn’t you win the Royal Dutch commission some years ago?”
“Oh, you must be the one person who still remembers. Doesn’t happen often,” I said.
Pedro smiled broadly. “Theee art community of Mexico City remembers. You dared to beat our local contender; I think both of you made it on the shortlist.”
“Ignacio Hermosa. Of course, I remember his work. Later, I heard I won by a nose length.”
“And by a very beautiful nose length, if you allow me to remark. The right person won. Your work is superb, Calendar, you will allow me to call you Calendar, will you?” All that was missing was a hand kiss.
Ron rescued me from more Hispanic schmoozing; I secretly hoped that he was at least a little jealous.
“Ron Closeky, San Diego Police. Thank you for seeing us on such a short notice.”
Pedro turned to Ron, they shook hands and then Pedro said, “Good to see you again, Mr. Wynn.”
Fowler gave his best fake curt British nod. Pedro and Fowler were both unsure who was in the more favorable position. The museum that had paid the insurance fees or the insurance company that had to pay for the stolen national jewels.
“Lady, gentlemeeen, follow me please.” Taking my arm gallantly, he led us into the splendid museum. We walked a few yards ahead of Ron and Fowler.
“Did you submit any new art-jewelry lately?” Pedro asked.
“No, I concentrate on my retail collection and my shop. It is too bad about Ignacio Hermosa, I read about his death in the papers a few months back.”
Pedro made a face. “A very sad story. One of those crazy muggings; Mexico City can be a violent place. The Mexico City art scene was in shock. Such talent wasted. Step inside, please.” He led us into his light spacious office, overlooking the museum plaza.
After seating, refreshments and olives, Pedro looked at us expectantly. “Please, start with your very interesting story.”
Ron told him of our interest in the Maximilian Jewels, spoke about the ‘sightings’ and offerings of ‘The Max’ in California and that they seemed to have vanished. “About three months ago, some jewelry that we believe to be the Maximilian Jewels was handed over to two well respected valuators in Chicago and Philadelphia. They both wrote detailed evaluations. So we know that the pieces are really in the United States.
But we were wondering, how did they get from your museum into the hands of another art dealer without you noticing?”
Pedro took a small sip of his lemonade. “Please, whatever I tell you now, keep in mind that this museum has about twenty thousand items on display at any time.”
Ron said, “But you should be able to keep track. I mean, every professional store is able to.”
Pedro gave a small sad shrug. “In addition to that, we have about three million items that are properly stored, lost or hidden away in the endless miles of our cellars, storage facilities and vaults.”
“Three million items?” Ron confirmed.
“That is right. And I think we count the Maximilian Set as one item.” Pedro picked up an index card from his desk and handed it to us. “When you called me a few days ago, I was intrigued because I pride myself in knowing the important pieces of our museum. I asked my staff to check out the ‘famous’ Maximilian Jewels.” Pedro indicated quote marks with his fingers around the word ‘famous.’ “None of my curators had ever heard of them either and we started a search. Unfortunately, we are not computerized in all areas, budgets, you know.” Another sad shrug. “Anyway, after a few hours search and research we came up with this.”
He placed the index card on the table and the three of us took a closer look. There was an index number in the corner, neat old handwriting, another number typed with an ancient typewriter and several short form descriptions of the Maximilian Set. Ten lines in Spanish, I recognized ‘oro’ and ‘diamante,’ some measurements in millimeters. Probably enough to differentiate it from the rest of the 2.9ish million items.
I asked Pedro, “How do you know that these items are the Maximilian Jewels. It doesn’t say anywhere.”
Pedro simply flipped over the card and gave us a translation of the few paragraphs on the backside. “Gift from… ” what followed were some unpronounceable Indian names, probably of Aztec origin, “… to the honor of the emperor and empress of Mexico. Introduced into collection on February 12, 1911. Previous owner: Royal Collection.” He pointed to the top of the card. “What you see here is a reference number to our filing system. Any items related to the documents are recorded and identified by a filing number.”