by Susan Laine
“You had the stone?”
Cain looked at Riley’s astonished face and grinned bashfully. “Yeah. Guess it was my turn to have a secret.”
At first Riley smiled. Then he grew serious. “How could you just give it to her like that?”
“Like I said before, Riley, it’s not worth our lives. The cops will catch up to her.” Already in the distance they could hear sirens blaring, growing louder as they listened. When Cain saw Riley was ready to argue more, he stopped the guy quick. “No, baby. I promise you, Camille got nothing of any real value.” He bussed a kiss over Riley’s dry, trembling lips. “Not like I did.”
Riley giggled. “You’re mad.”
Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he sank into the seat and promptly passed out. This coincided with the arrival of two cop cars and an ambulance entering the driveway.
Cain was finally able to draw a breath of freedom and relief.
THE plastic seats at the hospital were uncomfortable. Cain shifted several times, adjusting his position without much success. He kept sliding down regardless of how straight he tried to sit.
The white walls mocked Cain, hinting at cool serenity. But Cain knew better. He’d hated hospitals his whole life. Every time he got hurt on the job, some kid patched him up without any real care for his well-being. Not that Cain would have enjoyed either heart-to-hearts or stern lectures.
Then there was the smell. Disinfectants, vomit, people. Too much of everything.
“Noble. How are you holding up?” Paul Hall sat heavily on the chair next to his.
Cain blew out a breath and wiped a hand across his face. “As well as one might expect.”
It had been hard to let Camille go. It’d been harder to see Iris’s body carried out in a black body bag, carried away on a gurney. The third in the span of a few days.
“How’s your special guy doing?” Hall’s gaze landed on the nurses’ station, occupied even at this late hour. Or was it early? Cain had a hard time telling the time.
“He’s in surgery.” Cain leaned forward, elbows over his knees. “No news yet.”
“Did you get in touch with his parents?”
“Yeah. Called his dad, Ian Dunn. He’s driving over from Fort Bragg and should be here by tomorrow. Riley’s friend, Honoré, gave me his number. He’s coming too.”
“Looks like Riley has more friends than he knows,” Paul commented with a hint of a smile, which was a lot of emotional display for him.
Cain nodded. He’d not known Riley’s real surname was Dunn. Lavender had to be a stage name. Everyone in Los Angeles seemed to have one. Cain’s was his own, so he was in the minority. Besides, it had been a stroke of luck, being called noble right off the bat.
“Oh Lord, how’s he?” Honoré hollered as he ran along the corridor toward them, nothing but a blur of rushed movement dressed in red leather.
Both Cain and Paul jumped to their feet, startled. Cain appeased him by getting in his way and raising his hands in a surrendering manner. “He’s in surgery. The odds are in his favor.”
Honoré glared at him, hands fisted at his sides. “Chief, how could you let him—”
“I’m sorry, but you have met Riley Lavender, haven’t you?”
Cain’s sarcasm did the trick. Honoré cracked a grin. “True. That boy’s got trouble written all over him. He never takes advice, no matter how sound.” He cast a concerned glance toward the nurses’ station. “They’ll tell us soon, though, won’t they?” They sat back down. Honoré grimaced. “Hate these damn plastic horrors.”
“Hey. I’m Paul Hall.” Paul introduced himself to Honoré with an extended hand, a leaning in, and an interested look. “I’m the lead detective in the case.”
Honoré’s brown eyes fired up and a smooth smile spread on his lips. “Well, hello, darling. Aren’t you just a tall drink of cool and gorgeous?” They shook hands, their touch lasting a bit too long for casual.
Cain wished he hadn’t sat between the two men. He slid down on his seat, slumping in defeat, and crossed his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes, shutting out the droning, and prayed for patience and divine intervention. Quite a feat for an atheist and doubter like him. Then again, he didn’t address any specific deity, so he figured that was a loophole in ye olde rulebook. Not that he expected answers.
“Detective Hall?”
A lanky, tired-looking man wearing dark blue surgical scrubs approached them, pulling a cap from his head and messing up his short fair hair.
Paul stood. “That’s me. This about Mr. Lavender?”
Cain stood too on shaky legs. His brain was frozen. He could barely hear over the beating of his heart. He swallowed, but his mouth remained dry.
The doctor nodded. “He’s out of surgery. Everything went without a hitch. There should be no permanent damage or injuries. He’ll be okay. We’ll know more tomorrow.” A ghost of a smile flickered over his lips. Then he turned around and ambled away.
Cain plopped down on the seat, crashing both physically and emotionally. He shuddered, seriously considering throwing up from nerves. He blinked back hot tears that itched the corners of his eyes, the pressure behind them increasing. The knot in his stomach unwound so abruptly that his belly churned. The stress of the past couple of days eased with an extreme reaction, threatening to make him collapse then and there.
Thankfully, if he did, he was already in the hospital.
A comforting hand landed on his shoulder. “You should go home, Noble. Sleep, eat, wash up. Come back later. Riley won’t be awake for hours. And you look and smell like week-old vomit. Go, man.”
Cain didn’t feel like arguing with Hall. His shirt reeked of dried blood and felt sticky and cold over his chest. Practically dead on his feet, his brain like that of a zombie, he got up and headed out. His last peek showed Paul and Honoré sitting close to each other and flirting with words, expressions, and gestures. Cain suspected they’d end up in bed—or the closest bathroom stall—before sunrise.
Cain himself managed to stumble to the parking lot before he dropped off inside the cabin of his truck. Bath and breakfast could wait.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“IS that sunrise or sunset?” Riley squinted in the light beaming through the blinds.
He shared his hospital room with Sheridan—someone must have arranged that since they normally didn’t put men and women in the same room—but that didn’t change the fact that he was stuck in a hospital. He hated being there, even with a friend. The mattress was too thin, the pillow lumpy, and the bed too narrow. All the time he felt like he was tipping over the edge. The air was too cool and smelled of industrial-strength cleaners and odd medicines. The sheets were clean, but they left him cold.
“Sunset.” Ian’s familiar voice sounded amused and concerned at once. Riley hated that he was the cause. He didn’t like making his dad worry. “You’ve slept through the day.”
“Sorry.” Riley’s muscles trembled to get a move on. His dad’s reproach, even mild, made him want to get out of bed to prove he was a good son and a man despite his feminine proclivities.
Ian pushed him gently back down on the bed. “I wasn’t scolding you, boy. You were shot, so you’re not going anywhere.”
Riley sighed. It had to be hard for his active and masculine father to see his son weak and hurt. Not that this condition was Riley’s fault. But still.
He chanced a glance at his dad. Ian Dunn was a tall, muscular man who always seemed to stand at attention, back ramrod straight. His black hair was buzz cut, his brown eyes were slanted like Riley’s, and he had a beard so trimmed it resembled stubble. Ian’s father, Naoki Kuroki, had been Japanese, but his mother, Lydia Dunn, had been a Canadian. As a result, Ian had black hair and white skin, same as Riley.
“Listen to your father.”
Cain stepped out from behind Ian’s shadow, a quirky, lopsided grin on his lips. Riley was instantly rock-hard, which was unfortunate on account of his parental unit standing in the roo
m. But seeing Cain there made Riley’s heart skip a beat in happiness.
And damn, but the private dick looked hot enough to melt metal.
“Hi, Cain,” Riley murmured, adjusting on the bed to get up to a sitting position.
Cain helped him prop a pillow behind his back. “Hi. How’re you feeling?”
Riley gave him the stink eye. “How do you think?”
“Ooh, sassy.” Cain ruffled Riley’s hair. “Nice to see you getting better.”
Riley blushed. “I’d get better sooner at home—with some hot and heavy bed care.” When Ian chuckled and coughed, Riley remembered he wasn’t alone with Cain. “Sorry.”
Ian stepped to the other side of the bed and rested his hands on the metal railings. “No need. Cain and Sheridan and I have talked about things—the case, you, everything—at length.”
“Without me?” Riley was pissed and hurt and disappointed.
Cain raised an eyebrow in a challenging way. “Mostly about you, so it was better you were out of it.”
“Don’t worry, darling. No one’s said anything bad about you.”
Sheridan lay on the other hospital cot on her side, leaning her cheek on the pillow, a soft smile on her weary face. Her eyes were slitted, and she looked sleepy. Her voice was raspy and low, as one might expect from someone recovering from surgery and doped up on the good stuff, same as Riley.
“Thanks, sweetie.” Riley returned Sherry’s smile. Then, as much as Riley longed to know where he and Cain stood now that the case was closed—at least when it came to the two of them—he was bubbling with other questions. “Camille has the stone.”
Cain chuckled. “Yes, she does. Well, sort of.”
Riley frowned with a mix of curiosity and aggravation. “What does that mean?”
Cain exchanged amused glances with Ian and Sheridan, so apparently they had the whole story already. “When I grabbed the gem, I got a good look at it. I’ve come across jewels before in my line of work. A jeweler friend of mine gave me a crash course ages ago, and it turns out I have a discerning eye.”
“So?” Riley hurried him along, growing impatient.
“The Hope Diamond, the rumored sister piece of the Despair Diamond, is currently valued at around two hundred and fifty million dollars.” Cain’s grin widened. “But the Despair Diamond isn’t a diamond. Nor is it a ruby, as the color seemed to suggest…. It’s a spinel.”
Riley stared, dumbfounded. Then he blinked. The news didn’t sink in. He had no idea what was going on. “What the heck is that?”
“A spinel is an extremely hard mineral often found in mines. It can be transparent, opaque, or colored. The blue ones are the rarest. Red ones are a little more common and can resemble rubies. The Despair Diamond, a red jewel, was probably thought to be a ruby, serving as a contrast to the blue Hope Diamond.”
Riley scratched his head, a twinge under his clavicle suddenly reminding him he’d been hit by a bullet. He cringed but pretended not to feel as bad as he did. Instead he deflected by asking, “I hate to repeat myself but… so?”
“Throughout history, spinels have often been mistaken for rubies or other precious gems,” Cain explained with a grin that said he knew a lot more than he was telling. “Every time a treasured gem was discovered to actually be a spinel, its reputation suffered—and its value plummeted.”
Riley gasped in shock. “So that means….”
“The most famous spinels in the world typically belong to crown jewels,” Cain added with a glance at Ian, who was listening intently. “The Samarian Spinel, the largest spinel in the world at five hundred carats, is part of the Iranian crown jewels. The second largest at nearly four hundred carats sits on the Imperial Russian crown, while the third, the Timur Ruby mounted into a necklace of the British crown jewels, is over three hundred and fifty carats.”
Riley wondered why he was getting a history lecture on jewelry. Yet he couldn’t deny his rising curiosity and wouldn’t have dreamed of interrupting. Sheridan seemed equally fascinated by all the information. No one dared to breathe a word.
“Spinels can be produced synthetically,” Cain continued. “And they’re inexpensive. Even natural spinels therefore don’t cost more than about six grand per carat. Uncut spinels sell at about 50 percent less than rubies and cut spinels 25 percent. For example, the Black Prince’s Ruby was long mistaken for a ruby. At a hundred and seventy carats, set in the Imperial State Crown of England, it is valued at around eight hundred thousand dollars in total. Not much more than that. Even with rising global interest in spinels in jewelry circles, the world record for a spinel sold at auction, the Hope Spinel, was less than a million pounds.”
Ian thumbed in Cain’s direction. “I like this guy. He’s a keeper.”
Riley’s heart warmed with his father’s praise, and he couldn’t help smiling. “I know.” He locked gazes with Cain, whose eyes blazed. “So what you’re saying is that Camille has in her hands a worthless gem she can’t fence or sell even at a fraction of the cost, which is way less than what she thinks?”
Cain shrugged. “It’s not worthless. But it’s not worth a lot either. Certainly not hundreds of millions like the Hope Diamond.”
Riley laughed but stopped instantly as his shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. “The Despair Diamond indeed. Never has there been a more aptly named gemstone.”
“Bad luck seems to follow both famous and infamous gems,” Cain agreed pensively and shared a look with Sheridan. “Especially ones stolen from innocent Jews by Nazi fuckers.”
Sheridan sniffled, wiping her tearing eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes, absolutely. Bad people deserve bad luck.” Her voice got hoarser, and she visibly shook. “Cain told me about the true origins of the Rodin statuettes and this Despair Diamond. I hadn’t known any of that. Horrible. I want nothing to do with the damn thing. I’ve also put out feelers about the original owners of those Rodin statuettes, in case they too turn out to be stolen. Wouldn’t surprise me at this point….”
“If they’ve been stolen too, what will you do?” Riley asked, even though he had a feeling he knew the answer already.
“I’ll return them to the rightful owners, of course.” Sheridan released a sigh that turned into a yawn. “If they’re not missing or stolen, I’m still not going to keep them. I’ll put them up for auction as soon as possible. Hopefully someone else will appreciate them. I can no longer do that in good conscience.”
“None of this is your fault, Sherry,” Riley reassured his friend. “You’re not to blame for the acts of insane Nazis or their greedy offspring.”
Sheridan shuddered. “I consider the statuettes spoils of war. It’s not right to keep them. If no one claims them… I might donate them to a museum or exhibition instead of selling them. Who knows?”
A knock came from the door.
Paul Hall peeked inside and smiled when he saw everyone up and awake.
“Evening, everyone.” He walked in and gave Cain a friendly chin-lift that made Riley a bit jealous. Paul looked at Riley with sincere concern. “How are you, Mr. Lavender?”
Riley forced a polite smile on his lips. “Getting there. Do you have news about Camille?”
Paul chuckled. “Actually, I do.” He fished out a notebook from his inside breast pocket and flipped it open. “Camille Astor was arrested this afternoon at an illegal gem auction that was raided by a joint operation between LAPD and the FBI. They investigate art- and jewel-related smuggling, theft, and so on, since those are federal crimes.”
Cain harrumphed. “You think there’s a chance that Camille will get deported to Germany? I mean, if she has dual citizenship in the US and Germany. This string of crimes, conspiracy and theft alike, began there but concluded here.”
Paul shrugged. “The war crimes tribunal has a lot on its plate, and technically Camille isn’t a war criminal, even if she profited from a war crime. It’s… murky. We’ll see. So far, though, she’s in FBI custody, awaiting a hearing. There’s no way she’ll get bai
l. I suppose the FBI hopes Camille might have information on domestic white-supremacist-terrorist groups.”
Cain cringed. “Is that likely? She’s a homegrown nut, it’s true, brainwashed by her grandmother. But her lunacy and greed stayed close to home. Iris would have been a bigger contender in that regard.”
Paul pursed his lips. “The FBI is allowed to explore any avenues of investigation they see fit. Terrorism remains the word du jour, unchanged since the towers fell and even with idiots in office at the White House.”
Cain rolled his eyes. “Personally, I don’t see them having much success in interrogating Camille about white supremacists or tying her to their networks. I don’t think she knows any.”
“What about Renner?” Riley asked, exchanging a caring glance with Sheridan.
“Dirk Renner’s already cut a deal with the ADA. He’ll serve twenty-to-life in a maximum security facility. He confessed to shooting Sheridan Astor and planning to murder Mirabel Martinez and William Woolrich. But, as you know, Iris Lehmann got there first.”
Cain nodded. “Unlike Camille, Iris had internalized the part about not leaving witnesses. Mirabel was a disgrace as a family secret and Woolrich was a coconspirator who had to be silenced before he talked to the authorities. It must have amused Iris to murder the two of them together in a gruesome manner, like the Black Dahlia, as evidence to suggest that Riley had something to do with it. Three birds with one stone.”
Paul shook his head in awe. “Damn coldblooded if you ask me. Hard to believe that old woman capable of such horrific acts….”
Riley huffed with indignation. “Iris got the sweet end of the deal. She escaped punishment. She should have spent the rest of her life in a rat-infested hellhole. Instead she’s dead, and we can’t see her stand trial and go to jail. She should have been publicly condemned. Instead, it’s like her slate was wiped clean.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sheridan murmured contemplatively. “Considering Iris was killed by her own grandchild, I’d say she paid for her hate and greed. After all, she would have done the same to Camille if she’d gotten the chance. You reap what you sow, I’d say.”