The pawnbroker handed over his cordless phone. “Number five on speed dial.”
“Thanks.”
I wandered around the pawn shop. I'd never been in one before and wasn't sure what to expect—probably something dark, slightly dank, and seedy. I didn't expect something crowded with goods but bright, sunny, and scrubbed clean. Every countertop was polished.
“Easier to isolate fingerprints if I get robbed.” The owner tracked my every movement. I looked over my shoulder at the owner. I couldn't imagine anyone messing with anyone who looked like a weightlifter. Would have to be a nut case.
I thought about the watch's recent history. Next in line was Emilie, but her mother wouldn't be the one to give it to her. I'd have to. That wasn't supposed to be my job. Damn Hunter! He took so much from my family.
“Real sorry about your daughter, ma'am. Don't deal in stolen goods. If I'd known this was hot, I'd have kicked the guy's ass—sorry, butt—out the door.”
I believed him. I reached into my bag and pulled out Hunter's picture.
“Is this the man who pawned it?”
The pawnbroker ran his hand across his shaved scalp and barely glanced at the print. “Nah.”
“Will you take another look?” Johnny asked.
“Don't have to. Guy was black. Darker than me.”
“Crap.” Johnny swore as he hung up the phone.
“Yeah, didn't fit my normal clientele. Why I remembered him. Stood out, know what I mean?”
“No, I don't.” Johnny picked up Hunter's photo.
“Well dressed. Slacks, polished shoes, dress shirt. Most of my guys wear oversized jeans, sneakers, and stadium coats. Guy didn't fit. Coulda been one of the doctors at Chaminade. Get ‘em in here all the time. ‘Specially just before payday.”
This well-dressed black man's identity was another question for the fridge list.
“Seen this guy, though.” The pawnbroker tapped his finger on the print. “Came in a few weeks back looking for a gun.”
“A gun?” Johnny stopped lounging against the counter, ears pricked up, every sense on red alert.
“Yeah. Filled out the paperwork but never came back after the waiting period. Musta got someone else to sell him a piece.”
“Was it a twenty-two?”
“Nah. Wanted a Walther. Wondered if he had some kind of James Bond fantasy going.” He nodded at the locked gun safe. “Didn't have one, so he filled out paperwork for that Glock.”
“You still have the application?” Johnny asked.
“Sure. Seemed strange, though. Wasn't a Glock kinda guy.”
“There's a Glock type?” Could the pawnbroker take a look at someone and tell what kind of gun he or she was likely to own?
“Sure. Target shooters mostly. Gang members, but they don't buy. They steal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Cops too. Fairly standard piece, only cops don't buy from a pawn shop. Get ‘em issued.”
While the pawnbroker shuffled through his file, I asked, “What kind of gun would I want?”
He didn't raise his head. “A twenty-two or thirty-eight.”
“Why?”
“Hand's too small for most three-fifty-sevens or nine-millimeters. You'd use either a twenty-two or a thirty-eight. Maybe a thirty-two. Probably a revolver. Nothing big or heavy. Here it is.”
My hand shook as I took the crumpled form. I looked first at the name to see if Hunter had used his own name or an alias. Randall A. Hunter. Yes, a known alter ego.
I was surprised he used his “real” name, until I saw the driver's license information. Of course, he'd have to produce identification. No occupation was given. We already knew his home address and now we added a date of birth and Social Security number. I wrote the new information in my notebook.
Wonder if either's real. Alex'll find out.
“Was this approved?” Johnny peered over my shoulder.
“Sure. No problem. Just the guy never came back.”
Guess the date of birth and Social Security number are real.
“Look at the date.” I pointed to it and showed Johnny.
“Three weeks before Merry's murder,” Johnny said. “Looks like he was getting ready.”
“Looks like he was getting ready for something.” I was troubled about Hunter wanting another gun.
“Yes, but why use a twenty-two then?”
“If you ask me, a twenty-two'd make more sense. Like I said, not a Glock guy. Hands are too delicate. If he don't know how to use the thing, he'd shoot out the damned ceiling.”
Johnny and I had learned all we could from the pawnbroker when I thought of two more questions.
“The guy who brought in the watch. Other than being black and well dressed, do you remember anything else about him?”
“Six feet, skinny, short hair slicked back, glasses, foreign accent. Didn't recognize it. Oh yeah, he had a triangular scar on his left cheek. That help?”
“It does. Any chance you still have the tapes from the two visits?” Johnny nodded up at the security camera.
“Nah. System wipes the disk at the end of the week.”
“One more question, if you don't mind. Mr.…”
“Smith. John Smith.” The pawnbroker pointed to his business permit. “Mother didn't have much imagination.”
The police arrived. I filed a report and watched them seal the watch in an envelope. The senior officer gave me instructions on how to reclaim my property.
“Mr. Smith, if I wanted to sell a large diamond ring and some diamond earrings, where would I go?”
“Broad Street or West Cary. Lots of jewelry and antique shops over there buy estate jewelry.”
“Mr. Smith, I can't tell you how helpful you've been. Thank you.” I reached out the hand too small for a three-fifty-seven.
“Hope you find the guy who killed your daughter, ma'am. No one should have to go through that.” The pawnbroker gripped my hand.
I left the shop with Johnny, gratified by kindness from a stranger. Mr. Smith didn't have to help or offer me sympathy. I swallowed a lump in my throat.
“Pretty lady, I gotta get back to work. Drop you at your car?”
“Fine. I want to change and do some shopping.”
“You look great to me.” Johnny draped his arm across my shoulders.
“Yes, but I'm shopping for some expensive jewelry. I want to look the part.”
“You always look like a million bucks.”
I couldn't believe Johnny said that. I glanced over to see if he was joking. He never looked more serious. “You're too sweet. At least we have one answer for the fridge list.”
“Plus several more questions. Would you like to go to dinner and catch a movie Saturday?”
“I'd love it. I'll need a break from playing sleuth by then.” If the circumstances had been different, I could get used to being an amateur detective. I was almost having fun.
“Just what kind of sleuthing do you have in mind?”
“First, see if Hunter sold the rest of the jewelry. Then figure out how to find the black doctor. I bet he works at the hospital.”
“I don't like this. He could be Hunter's partner.” Johnny paused to look at me.
I shook my head. “Hunter's a loner.”
“And if you find this doctor?”
“I'll try and get the hours he works. Then you can talk to him.”
“Oh, I get it. You do the easy work. Then, send in the muscle to rough him up.” Johnny grinned and flexed his free bicep.
“Not at all. He might be more willing to talk to you than me. You can be most persuasive.” That earned a squeeze of my shoulder.
“Find him first, and we'll flip to see who interrogates him. How're you going to get the hospital to give out personal information?”
“I can't decide between ditzy blonde or dotty old lady. Depends on my mood when I call.”
Johnny's laugh boomed across the busy intersection. It startled a family in front of us. A little girl glanced
over her shoulder. I smiled, waggled my fingers, and watched her duck behind her daddy's leg.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
My feet hurt all the way to my butt!
I'd hiked up and down Broad Street, in and out of antique and jewelry shops all afternoon. In high heels, no less. Of all the stupid pet tricks.
I was in my best Lauren Bacall form. She was my image of what a lady of means should look like—tall, slender, elegantly dressed. I couldn't do tall at just under five foot four, but nothing else was wrong with my Bacall impersonation. Hiding behind her was a harmless enough affectation. Besides, I loved her style. I just couldn't complete the image. I was allergic to cigarette smoke.
Since I was asking about multi-carat diamond rings and earrings, I wanted to look like I could write a check for thirty thousand dollars without blinking. In reality, I was a woman of means in any attire. I could write a check for more than thirty thousand any day of the week.
I didn't look like anyone else in the upscale shops, however. None “looked the part,” yet many tried on rings and necklaces pricey enough to keep a junkie in crack for a year.
In Barney's, a permanent fixture on Cary Street for over a century and the finest jeweler in the city, I waited for the senior clerk. I looked around the shop at the lighted counters glittering with precious stones, gold, and silver. The rosewood and glass displays were far removed from John Smith's pawn shop but were every bit as polished.
I was perturbed when the clerk I wanted to speak with pulled necklace after necklace out of a case for a jeans-wearing, booted and belted urban cowboy leaning on the glass counter. I struggled to keep a straight face when he decided on a two thousand dollar diamond and pearl drop and pulled out a wad of cash. He took his gift away in a pretty brown box tied with a yellow ribbon, as much of a local trademark as Tiffany's pale blue box and white ribbon were in New York.
So much for “looking the part.” I could have dispensed with my men's cut silk trousers, my fedora, my cashmere sweater, and my three-inch pumps and not had sore feet, but I wouldn't have felt right. Lesson learned.
The senior clerk smiled her welcome and moved to the counter where I stood.
“I understand you've been waiting for me. How may I help you?”
“Well, you can start by reminding me not to judge people by looks alone.”
The clerk chuckled. “We get all kinds. Until Tex pulled out his money, I had no idea he could afford anything. He fooled me too.”
“At least it wasn't a waste of your time.”
“Now, let's not waste any more of yours. You're looking for something special?”
“I'm Mrs. Davies.” I held out my hand.
“I'm Mrs. Evans.”
For some reason, I felt it proper to introduce myself, even though I held no fantasy anyone would connect me with my departed husband. Mrs. Evans shook my hand. Without further preamble, I pulled a glossy color photo from my tote and laid it on the counter. “I'm looking for this ring.”
“Yes, Mrs. Davies, it's one of ours.”
“One of yours? You mean you have it here?” I felt my heart give a little hip hop. Would I soon hold the ring Whip gave Merry for their tenth anniversary?
“I mean, it's our design. We made six before we retired it.” Mrs. Evans waved her hand toward a display of rings. “We sell only our own designs in this case. The other cases hold commercially manufactured, albeit high-end, pieces.”
“Why would you stop making such a stunning ring?”
“At the time, we were in a dreadful recession and the demand for stones as large and perfect as this was not high on most people's priority lists.”
“I see.”
“Our master designer wouldn't modify the setting for a smaller stone, so we retired it.”
“Have you seen one like this recently?”
“It's funny you should ask. Mr. Barney said a gentleman tried to sell one to us a few weeks ago.”
My heart was on a racetrack. My pulse pounded in my throat.
“But Mr. Barney didn't buy the ring?”
“No. He keeps records of who buys the originals. The man presenting it for sale wasn't one of them.”
“Do you know if he called the police?”
“You'd have to ask him. Generally, he reports such incidents.”
“If you wouldn't buy the ring, where might the man go?”
“I'd try Heirlooms over on Broad. George buys jewelry and doesn't ask as many questions as we do.”
I nodded and put the photo back in my purse.
“One more question. Were you here when the gentleman came in with the ring?”
“No. I'd just returned from lunch and wasn't behind the counter.”
My face registered my disappointment. Crap!
“I did get a good look at him, though. Will that help?”
I held up the grainy photo of Hunter.
“No, the gentleman was black.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” I took Mrs. Evans's hand in both of mine.
I left and walked four blocks to Heirlooms. The shop wasn't as upscale as Barney's, but its display cabinets contained many expensive pieces. I went to the back of the empty shop where a white-haired jeweler kept watch from a high stool. It didn't take long to spot the ring and earrings, since both were in a locked wall case behind the counter. I could see them from where I stood.
Being tired, footsore, and cranky, I dispensed with all but the basic formalities. I laid my photos on the counter and told the jeweler I reported the items stolen to both the police and my insurance company. I implied with no guilty conscience they were stolen as part of a brutal crime.
The last point got the jeweler's attention. He stammered and bumbled and dithered, before admitting he didn't ask for proof of ownership. He bought them for thirty-five percent of their value.
“Let me guess. The seller was a well-dressed black man with excellent manners and a triangular scar on his cheek.” I was confident, if not cocky.
“No. He was white.”
“Is this him?” I held up the same photo I'd shown at every other shop.
Squinting at the grainy photo, the jeweler turned it toward the sunlight streaming through the front window. “Could be. He spun a tale about his wife having cancer and needing the money for her treatment. I didn't believe it for a second.”
“Why?”
“Ma'am, I've heard every tale of woe in my forty years in business. I don't care why someone wants to sell jewelry, but I've developed strong radar for lies. Like Pinocchio, he could have grown a very long nose.”
This fit what we were putting together about Hunter's lying psychopathy. I wanted to kill him, but that would lower me to his level. I'd be happy to trap him and let justice prevail.
I lay in my chaise. Fading daylight danced across the pool. A light breeze rippled the surface and lifted the barest hint of chlorine into the air. I reached for my glass of Pinot Grigio.
I was alone. Alex was at a pizza and computer game party at a neighbor's house with five other boys. He wouldn't be back until ten-ish. Emilie went to a movie with friends; she, too, was due back around ten. Curfew time. Whip was still in jail. Merry was still dead.
I was too tired to think about the black doctor. I needed to find him, but he could wait. My brain was as dull as the pain in my feet was sharp. We'd made significant progress, though. I wanted to write up my notes and give them to Vince for his records. I didn't care if the attorney pooh-poohed our amateur efforts; he was going to get everything we learned as fast as we learned it.
I stared at the pool as it darkened with evening. What was I doing back in Riverbend? I left the South two husbands ago for a life of glamour and excitement. When Merry was hurt, I came back to take care of her until she was on her feet. Months later I was still here, raising two children and trying to get my son-in-law out of jail.
I'd practically lived in Europe with my second husband, Frank, in and out of museums, historical sites, and antique shop
s. Reggie, my last husband, was unconventional. We went on safari in Tanzania, watched sunsets over Cape Elizabeth, relaxed on our sailboat off Key West, snorkeled on the Great Barrier Reef, and sipped Singapore Slings on the veranda of the Raffles Hotel. We indulged in global adventures all the time.
Now I was once more in the South, too far from an ocean or a mountain or a savannah for comfort. A soccer mom. Or, rather, soccer grandmom. Too far in spirit from adventure.
If the district attorney convicted Whip, I'd be raising kids for another decade alone. Even when we got Whip out of jail, free of all charges, I'd more than likely still be raising kids. I could no more abandon them than I could fly. Nope, I was in for the count.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“Can't tell you how fuckin’ bored I am. Every day's the same—dull, mind-numbing, no stimulation. Feeling more and more helpless. More and more like a caged animal. Less and less hopeful. Plus I'm pissed. So little I can do to help myself.”
This was the longest speech Whip had made in weeks, a sure sign of his state of mind. He rattled on about the dirty walls, the tasteless food, and the lack of good conversation. Except for what he had with Vince and me, he had no one else to talk to. On the positive side, his body was rock hard. He couldn't do much in a standard-sized cell, but hundreds of push-ups, crunches, and other exercises kept him toned.
“I'd give my left nut to get out of here. Back out in the open.”
I couldn't imagine what it was like for a man who came alive in the dust from a construction site, who hoisted heavy rolls of cables onto trucks and slept in a trailer or tent on a job site, to be locked in a claustrophobic cell.
“I'm so homesick to get outside. Get some fresh air. I can almost smell the dust and hot diesel fumes of earthmoving equipment.”
“Are you as homesick to get home? To be with your children?”
“What do you think?”
“I don't know.”
The job came first; the family second. Months ago, I accepted Whip's priorities. It was a mountain I wasn't willing to die on, as the Marines said. Whip was what he was. Only he could change himself. I couldn't.
As had become a habit, I waited in the interview room with Whip for Vince who was two hours overdue. Whip had run out of things to complain about and lapsed into despair-tinged silence. When the door opened, I thought we'd both pounce on Vince. Or rip into him for causing even more anxiety.
Mad Max: Unintended Consequences Page 19