“You’re a World War II buff?” I asked, looking at him quizzically.
“History was my minor in college. I’m not as up on it as T.J., but I remember doing a paper on the European diamond trade pre- and post-World War II. This book was a really good read and I ended up keeping it. Here it is,” he said as he found what he was looking for. Reading from the book he said, “ ‘The diamond trade pre-World War II was primarily populated by Jewish merchants, dealers and craftsmen who lined the route between the Netherlands where diamonds were imported almost exclusively at the time, down through Europe reaching all industrialized sectors. As Hitler’s power within Germany grew, and hatred for Jews reached fever pitch, many prominent Jewish families who had dealt in diamonds and precious gemstones for generations found themselves in a rather precarious and dangerous situation. Some bought their way out of occupied zones, some were captured and their inventory seized as they were summarily sent off to death camps. Others hid their most precious gemstones within the lining of their clothing, waiting for the day they could escape or be released from the Third Reich’s iron fist.’ ”
“These were diamond merchants,” I said as I pawed through the receipts, another piece of the puzzle slipping into place.
“T.J. said that there was quite a population of Jews making their way to Lyon.”
Dutch nodded agreeably. “Now we know how he got his inventory and how a café owner from France became a jeweler in the U.S.”
“So, he traded their freedom for gems.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Just then the phone rang and Dutch picked it up to inspect the caller ID. Noting the number he placed the phone back on the coffee table and hit a button. “Hey, T.J. I’ve got you on speaker so Abby can listen.”
“Hi guys,” T.J. sang through the phone. “Listen, I got your message and I canceled my last class because I found something that you two may really be interested in. You know how you asked me about what kind of treasure the adjunct to the pope might bestow on an Austrian nobleman? Well, as it turns out, a pretty significant one. Pope Gregory VIII bestowed a small collection of priceless gemstones upon Helmut von Halpstadt in 1584. His gift was a collection of three brilliant perfect white diamonds of nearly thirty carats each!”
“Whoa,” Dutch said as my eyes widened.
“The diamonds, known as the Schwalbe Eier Diamanten or Swallow’s Eggs Diamonds were named for their odd shape, size and color. Even back then they were worth a fortune.”
I caught my breath as T.J. spoke. Even I was surprised by the coincidence of the swallow in all of my recent visions.
“In fact, the crest of the von Halpstadts changed after this priceless gift to reflect the pope’s generosity. Before, the eagle in the crest held only the rose. The nest and the three eggs representing the family’s great fortune were added shortly after the pope showed them favor.”
“Where are the diamonds today?” I asked, the hairs on my arm standing up.
“No one knows. They were last documented on an insurance form filed by Helmut IX in 1926 when he’d had them set into a necklace and gave them to his new bride, Frieda, on their wedding day. The diamonds’ whereabouts remain one of Europe’s great mysteries.”
“T.J.,” I said into the phone, “do you have the notebook there with you?”
“Yes, it’s here.”
“I need you to check it for something,” I said, mounting excitement coursing through my veins.
“What?”
“Look through the book for the name Itzak Kleinberg and see if there’s a notation there.”
“Okay, hold on,” T.J. said as Dutch and I listened to paper rustling. After a few minutes T.J. said, “Yes, here it is. Itzak Kleinberg, and there’s a long list of diamonds and other gemstones of various carat weights here.”
I grabbed up all seven of the sales receipts with Itzak’s name on them. “Can you read a few of them off for me?” I asked as I arranged them in a row on the table.
As T.J. went down the list I picked up the corresponding sales receipt to the gemstone he called off. When he was done, I’d checked off twenty diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires listed both in the notebook and on the receipts.
“That confirms it,” Dutch said as he took the receipts from me. “Jean-Paul got his inventory from fleeing Jews during the war.”
“And may be why he left in such a hurry after the war . . .” I added.
“Uh, hang on a second,” we heard through the speakerphone.
“What’s up?” Dutch asked, turning his attention back to T.J.
“There’s a name in here that I recognize.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. What were the odds?
“Ira Jacobson . . .” T.J. said softly. “I wonder . . .” he added and we heard more shuffling. “Hold on a minute, guys,” he said and we listened as he put the phone down and seemed to walk away.
I looked at Dutch, and he looked at me and we both shrugged our shoulders. While we waited for T.J., Dutch got up to check on dinner, and my stomach growled as the house filled with the smell of delicious food. Dutch came back after a minute and said, “We can eat as soon as T.J.’s done.”
I gave him the thumbs up just as T.J. came back to the phone. “Sorry about that,” he said, “but I had to look for the book written by a man of the same name. Ira Jacobson was a Dutch Jew who fled with his family to Lyon, France in 1939. His father, whose name was also Ira, was a wealthy diamond merchant who had arranged for safekeeping through a local Frenchman. One night, when Ira’s father went to meet the Frenchman, he disappeared, along with most of the family’s precious inventory.
“Ira’s mother learned later that her husband had been turned over to the Gestapo, and was executed as an enemy of the state within hours of his disappearance. The rest of the family barely escaped with their lives as Ira’s mother was luckily quick enough on her feet to use what little money she had left and move the family deeper into the south of France. Later, when Ira grew up, he became a pretty famous professor at the University of Toulouse, where I studied for a year. I never had him as a professor, but I heard about him and bought his book.”
“You think the Frenchman mentioned in Ira’s book was Jean-Paul?” Dutch asked T.J.
“Yes,” I answered before anyone else could, feeling my right side take on a light and airy feeling. “And that’s what happened to Liza’s family too,” I added definitively. “Hey T.J.?”
“Yes, Abby?”
“Can you go back to the notebook and see if there’s a notation for the von Halpstadts?”
“I’m looking,” T.J. said as we heard pages flipping. Then, finally he said, “Nope, there’s no mention of the von Halpstadts. And no other notation to indicate the Schwalbe Eier diamonds either.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said into the silence that followed.
“Hey, hold on a minute,” T.J. said as we heard pages turning.
“What?” Dutch and I asked together.
“There’s a page missing from the back of the book. I can see a little bit of it in the seam here.”
“That must be the page Jean-Paul recorded the Swallow’s Eggs diamonds on,” I said my right side feeling very light. “He took them, and he turned the family over to the Germans. I just know it.”
“There may be a way to find out for sure,” T.J. said.
“How so?” Dutch asked, sounding a little surprised.
“Remember I told you that I was digging into Frieda’s family tree? I got a hit on a connection. Turns out Frieda’s sister went with the family to Lausanne when they fled Austria. The sister met and married a Swiss man about a year later and they had a daughter in 1945 who as it happens moved to Canada.”
“Where in Canada?” I asked, my spidey-sense buzzing.
“Windsor,” T.J. said triumphantly.
“Damn!” Dutch exclaimed. “That’s right next door!”
“Thought you’d like that one. I’ll e-mail you her name and address so yo
u can look her up.”
“T.J., I owe you big-time for this. Thanks for all your help,” Dutch said.
“Happy to do it, my friend,” T.J. said.
Dutch clicked off the phone and got up from the couch while I sat and pondered things a while. He came back a little later with two plates of chicken, artichoke hearts and pasta, setting one down in front of me and the other down in front of himself. “So, what’cha thinking?”
I reached for the fork and knife and said, “That’s what Jean-Luke is after.”
“What do you mean?”
“The diamonds. He thinks we have the diamonds.”
“So, if we don’t have them, and assuming Jean-Paul never sold them, where are they?” Dutch asked me.
“That’s the sixty-five-million-dollar question, my friend,” I said as my intuition buzzed. In my mind’s eye I saw the swallow again, and I now understood the bird’s connection to the treasure once held by the puzzle box.
“You think Jean-Luke killed Willy?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yes,” I said, my shoulders slumping. I’d almost forgotten about the poor old accountant.
“Abby,” Dutch said soothingly, “it’s not your fault.”
“I should have seen it coming,” I said, swirling my noodles as my appetite disappeared.
“Oh, now you’re omnipotent?”
I scowled at him. “No, but I should be able to pick up the kind of violence that took place in that office.”
“How much time did you spend pointing your radar at the guy yesterday?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know, a few seconds or so.”
“Ah, well, I’m amazed you didn’t pick it up then,” Dutch said sarcastically. “Listen, he’s not your client, you weren’t sitting down together in your regular space doing your regular thing. You weren’t looking for it because you had no reason to and that’s why you missed it. Does that make sense?”
“A little,” I agreed, trying to follow his logic.
“The point is, it’s okay to be human,” Dutch said. “Now eat your food before I get a complex.”
I smiled at him and took a few bites. “So, are we going to Windsor tomorrow?”
Dutch nodded, chewing his food a bit before answering me. “Yep. But this time I get to drive.”
“The doctor gave you the okay?” I asked.
“Just as soon as I have my last therapy session tomorrow. Do you mind taking me?”
“What time’s your appointment?”
“Nine thirty.”
“Doable.”
“And, while we’re in Canada, why don’t we take a little detour and head straight up to Toronto while we’re at it?” Dutch asked, his eyebrows bouncing.
“You mean tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s Friday, and we can make a long weekend out of it. It’d be good to get out of Dodge for a few days, especially since that maniac’s running loose. What do you say?”
“I’m in,” I grinned and nudged him with my knee. “I’ll have to take Eggy to the vet in the morning to board him.”
“Great. Why don’t you get packing and I’ll do the dishes,” Dutch offered.
I smiled at him and my heart softened a bit. I really had landed a good guy after all. “Don’t have to ask me twice,” I said as I bounded up the stairs.
I packed my suitcase with just about everything I’d brought with me to Dutch’s, which was enough for a significantly longer stay than just two days. It’s hard to pack for such an impromptu event as the spontaneous romantic weekend. What does one bring? Lots of clothes or just a few? I opted for the lots, making sure to pack my Victoria’s Secret teddy right on top—ready to grab at a moment’s notice.
Dutch came up much later after working to wrap up his Bureau file and tiredly he pulled out his duffle bag, throwing in two pairs of jeans, two sweaters and a couple of changes of underwear. I scowled at how simple he kept it.
He crawled into bed next to me and pulled me close. “You feel nice,” he said nibbling at my neck.
I giggled and said, “Save your strength for the weekend, Cowboy. You’re gonna need it.”
Dutch made some sort of sound, half purr, half growl and a few minutes later I felt the soft, gentle breeze of his even breathing on the back of my neck. Wrapped in his arms with that for a lullaby was a really nice way to fall asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning Dutch and I were up early doing last minute chores and tidying up the house before our long weekend. I packed a bag for Eggy, who seemed to know we were leaving and thus moped in the corner of the kitchen giving me a pathetic look every chance he got. Dutch hurried to lay out extra food for Virgil, who seemed to have the decidedly opposite feeling of Eggy, and was happily purring a figure eight through Dutch’s legs, encouraging him to leave town faster.
At eight twenty we piled into the car and stopped off at the vet, where I delivered a sulky dog to a friendly receptionist, my heart dropping a little as I waved good-bye. I got back in the car and we took off toward the PT’s office.
“Is she gonna make you go back in the pool today?”
“Yeah,” Dutch groaned. “It might be kind of a long wait. Will you be okay in the lobby until I’m through?”
“I have to wait there? I thought I’d run a few errands and meet you after you’re done.”
“Tell me you’re kidding,” Dutch said seriously.
“What?” I asked, looking at him like he’d just grown another head.
“Did you learn nothing at Willy’s office?” he asked me stiffly. “Abby, there’s a maniac on the loose looking for priceless diamonds he thinks we have. Don’t you think that’s enough of a reason for you to stick close until he’s captured?”
I pondered that for a moment, then shrugged my shoulders. “Fine.”
“You’ll wait in the lobby then?” Dutch said, more statement than question.
“Yes, I’ll wait in the lobby,” I answered, my voice only slightly sneering.
“You’re gonna drive me to drink, you know that?” Dutch said, letting out an exasperated sigh.
“I do what I can,” I said with a grin.
We arrived at the PT’s office a short time later, and I waved to Dutch as he headed through a door on his way to the pool. Looking around the lobby I found a quiet spot in the corner, and sat down wondering how I was going to fill an hour and a half. I reclined in the seat and closed my eyes, thinking maybe I could catch a catnap. As I got comfortable, my intuition began to buzz, and reflexively I tuned in to the message coming into my head.
In my mind’s eye I saw the same swallow that had been fluttering through my visions since the start of this whole ordeal, and I smiled as I watched it fly about, thinking about how interesting it was that this same little bird had led me all along to discovering the clues to Liza’s mystery. I focused with rapt attention as the swallow fluttered about a blank room, then came to rest on a little nest. Inside the nest were three eggs that sparkled and caught the light.
Schwalbe Eier, I said in my head, and the little bird nodded. An instant later my eyes flew open and I jumped out of the seat. “Ohmigod!” I said. “I know where they are!”
“Are you okay?” an elder gentleman asked me.
“Uh . . .” I stammered, looking around at the other people in the lobby who were all staring at me. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said, grabbing my coat and walking quickly to the receptionist.
The woman behind the counter eyed me quizzically and asked, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I said, anxious to check out my theory before Jean-Luke beat me to it. “If Agent Rivers gets done with his therapy before I get back, please tell him to wait right here, and I’ll call him as soon as I’m done.” And with that I ran out the door.
I dashed to my car with my heart racing. Why hadn’t I put the clues together before now? It was so obvious where Liza had hidden the jewels, and such a simple solution to hide them in plain sight. Before
I called in the cavalry, though, I had to be sure. After all, I didn’t want to make a fool out of myself.
I got to the house on Fern about ten minutes later, and I knew I was right on the money the moment I parked my car. I had a good view into the backyard from the driveway, and there it was, just what I was looking for.
I sat still for a beat, my intuition on hyperdrive, and a small smile playing across my face as I dug out my cell phone from my purse.
“Yello!” came a familiar voice.
“Hey, Dave, it’s me, Abby.”
“Hey there girl, what’s happenin’?”
“I need a ladder.”
“I got one I can spare.”
“I need you to bring it to me as fast as you can.”
“Sure. You at Dutch’s?”
“No. I’m at Fern Street.”
“Oh, come on, Abby! You know I hate that place! And I just threw out the holy water!”
“This is nonnegotiable, David,” I said sternly, the grip on my cell phone becoming tighter.
“ ‘David’?” he mimed. “Sounds serious.”
“Just get your ass over here!” I yelled and hung up the phone. True, I was being overly harsh but I needed a ladder and I didn’t have time to deal with Dave’s squeamishness.
I sat in the car for about twenty minutes, my eye constantly going to the dashboard clock until finally I growled under my breath and reached for my phone again. I must have been a little too over the top for Dave so I dialed his number intent on sweet-talking an apology, but his line went directly into voice mail indicating he’d most likely turned off his cell. As I scowled down the street it was pretty clear he wasn’t coming. “Damn!” I swore as I tossed the phone on the passenger seat and got out to stand next to the car. I stood there for a beat or two thinking about what to do next.
Spotting the garage at the end of the long driveway I walked the cracked pavement to it, pausing before the big rusty aluminum door when my eye fell on what appeared to be a shiny brand-new padlock. “Hmmm,” I mused as I lifted up the lock. Why would James padlock the garage?
A Vision of Murder: Page 24