Chapter Seven
I pulled into the Calvary Mail parking lot and found an empty space near the entrance to Crown Jewels. Normally, even on a weekday, it would be impossible to park anywhere near the door at four-thirty in the afternoon. But the media coverage had been extensive, with each reporter expressing his or her own opinion as to when or if Crown Jewels would reopen. Those few individuals with such crippling fears of technology that they hadn't seen a television newscast, listened to a radio or read a newspaper, and had no friends to report the news to them, got the idea that the store was closed with they saw the iron gates closed and locked over the doors.
On the sidewalk, I paused for a moment, looking at the storefront with a lump in my throat. Crown Jewels looked so quiet. It looked dead.
"Ms. Brock?"
Charlie Howard, one of the security guards, pulled the gate open to let me in. "You okay," he asked.
"Fine, Charlie," I lied. I waited as he pulled the gate closed and locked it. He then turned to unlock the door.
"Terrible tragedy," he said. "I can't help thinking, you know, if I'd been more alert when I left, maybe I'd have seen something. Maybe I could have prevented it."
"Its not your fault," I said. "You didn't see anything? Nothing at all?"
He shook his head. "Wish I had. I guess I had my mind on other things. But everything seemed quiet as could be. Only other car in the lot was Harvey's. I didn't see anything or anyone." He opened the door for me.
"Don't blame yourself, Charlie," I said and went in.
Inside, the store was busting with activity, despite the fact that there were only about a dozen people there. Many were on the phone, making arrangements to replace the stolen merchandise or dealing with various questions from customers or the press. The others were running back and forth between counters, comparing notes and consulting inventory printouts.
My destination was at the back of the sales floor, and that meant passing almost all of them. Everyone would want a piece of my time.
"Hi, Pagan. Would you okay this purchase order?"
"Pagan! Good! I need you to take a look at this report."
"Hey, Pagan, I got the mayor on the phone. Wants to know if the stuff his wife brought in for appraisals was taken."
"Yo, Brock, USA Today wants to know if you'd like to make a comment."
I took care - of these things as quickly as possible. Sign this, initial that, assure the mayor that the workrooms were not touched, and a quick "I have no comment at this time," to the press.
When I finally got to the watch counter, I sat down on one of the leather covered stools kept there for the customers, leaned my elbow on the counter, and waited. Schuyler was on the phone and having a difficult time getting a word in.
"But... I know, but... If you'd just... Hold on." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Its Tony Andrews from Montgomery Distribution. He says he can't get a shipment to us for six to eight weeks."
I held out my hand for the phone. "Tony! Its Pagan." I sounded more upbeat than I had felt in a long time. "Is what Mr. van Dorn telling me true?"
"You know how it is. First come, first served," he said, exaggerating his thick Brooklyn accent in the mistaken idea that it made him sound intimidating. "I'm doing the best that I can."
"And here I'd always thought that you were a miracle worker. I would consider it a personal favor if you could expedite things."
There was a pause while he considered this. "I might be able to get you a partial shipment in three weeks."
I sighed. "That won't even get you onto my Christmas card list. I want the whole shipment here by the first of next week."
"That's just not possible," he insisted.
"Tony, I'd hate to have to tell your wife what you said to me the last time you were in town. I don't think she'd be very happy."
"Next Thursday is the best I can do," he said quickly.
"Thanks," I said and handed the phone back to Schuyler. He hung it up. "Thursday."
Schuyler looked at me slyly. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing," I said, "but it'll give him something to think about for a while, won't it?"
I caught a flirtatious smile in time to turn it into a slightly nervous laugh, but not before Schuyler saw it. He leaned on the counter, a little too close for comfort. I backed off a few inches.
"I need to talk to you," I said, sounding as business-like as I could.
"Okay."
"Not here. Are you free after work?"
Schuyler nodded. "Why so mysterious?"
"Meet me at the T'aipei at six."
"Sure."
Chapter Eight
I unlocked the door to my office and dropped my briefcase on the desk. I opened the top drawer of my desk and found the papers I needed.
I had come to a decision. It was clear that the police were so busy trying to prove that I was guilty on the flimsy evidence of my ring, they couldn't be looking for the real criminals. I could go on waiting for Shapiro to see the light and hoping that everything worked out for the best.
Or I could do something about it.
I took the papers down the hall to the copy room and made three photocopies of each of the pages. This information had no business leaving the premises, except to go to the police and the insurance company, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I returned to my office, placed the originals back in the filing cabinet and put the copies in my briefcase. I took my address book from one of the smaller desk drawers and put it in with the copies.
I checked the clock. Five forty. It was too late to make the phone calls I had planned on, but on second thought, maybe it would be best to show up in person rather than calling ahead.
Chapter Nine
The T'aipei Cafe was a trendy little Chinese restaurant and bar in a strip mall about five minutes from the Calvary Mall. For many years, it had been the site of the International Ale House, a bar that prided itself on offering hundreds of varieties of beer from all over the world. The T'aipei Cafe's bar continued this tradition, adding a small dining room with about a dozen tables.
The entrance was through the bar, which had never been remodeled. One wall was exposed concrete brick, the others a dark oak paneling. On the floor was a dingy blue carpeting stained with beer and burned in several places where dedicated beer connoisseurs had dropped cigarettes after embarking on a world ale tour. The ventilation system, or so it was called, was such that even on the coldest winter night, the place was stifling hot by eight o'clock, and the air was always a little stale.
The crowd in the bar was not at its peak, but already dozens of men and women in business suits had gathered on tattered bar stools and ancient looking booths to sample the latest find, an obscure brew with a name I could not pronounce from a country I had never heard of.
The restaurant portion of the Cafe, on the other hand, tended toward elegant. There was an archway on the east wall, and once you passed through it, you left the noise and crowd of the bar behind, and stepped into a different world. The first thing you saw upon entering was a giant mirror with a dragon in raised relief opposite the archway. The dragon's golden body was accented with red Austrian crystal eyes and imitation jade scales. His head was turned to glare menacingly at the entrance, and one paw, with long, sharp claws, was raised to strike. Extending from either side of the mirror was a panel about two feet high made up of tiny mirrored ties that ran along all four walls, broken only by the window on the front wall and the kitchen door on the back. The walls were light peach trimmed in a pale shade of turquoise that matched perfectly the background of the figured carpeting. The tables in the center of the room had peach tablecloths with turquoise cloth napkins, folded and placed in the water glasses so that they resembled a lotus blossom. Along the two side walls were booths of peach colored vinyl a shade darker than the walls. At these tables, the colors of the cloth and napkins were reversed.
A tiny sign in the archway said "Please seat yourself." There were only a few tables already taken. I chose a booth in the back corner, farthest from the bar and its noise, but where I could watch the front door for Schuyler's arrival.
The waitress, a young Chinese girl in a crisp white blouse, black slacks and black bow tie, brought me a menu, filled the water glass, and asked in broken, garbled English if I wanted a drink. When I ordered a Diet Coke, she looked at me and shook her head in total incomprehension. I found it on the menu and pointed to it. This she understood.
She made a small and rushed off to fill the order.
At exactly six o'clock, Schuyler walked in. He stood near the door until his eyes had a chance to adapt to the dimness of the bar. When he finally spotted me, he waved and pushed his way through the growing crowd into the relatively empty dining room. He slid into the booth across from me. The waitress was there almost before he had sat down. She seemed to understand perfectly when he ordered a Coors, bowed once again, and rushed off.
"So," he said, "are you going to tell me what this is about or not?"
"All in good time," I said.
We only had one menu, so I positioned it on the table so we could both read it. After a lengthy discussion of the options, we decided on the combination dinner for two, which included Mongolian Beef, Almond Chicken, fried rice, egg rolls and won ton soup.
When the waitress finally returned with our drinks, we placed our order. Considering how long it had taken thus far, I wasn't confident of actually seeing the food until it was time for breakfast.
We sat for a while in an uneasy silence. He, no doubt, wondering why I had asked him here, and I wondering how to approach the subject.
"I have a favor to ask of you," I said at last, then had to repeat it because I had mumbled.
"Name it," was his reply. I wondered if he would be so willing when I told him what I warded.
"First, I need to explain the situation." I told him about my first conversation with Shapiro, about my visit from Jonas this morning, and finally about the search of my house.
By the time I finished the story, our food had come. I pretended to concentrate on picking the bamboo shoots and shitaki mushrooms out of the soup, but I kept glancing up at Schuyler. There was genuine concern in his eyes. Maybe I had chosen the right person to confide in after all.
Schuyler called the waitress back. He ordered another Coors and a rum and Coke, then glanced at me. I nodded. "Thank you."
"It sounds to me," he began, then paused before continuing, "like they really don't have any evidence."
"How could they."
"All they have is the ring?"
"That's the only solid evidence. The rest is speculation."
When the second round of drinks arrived, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely pick up the glass. I managed it, though, and the burning of the liquor in my throat felt wonderful. It was a reminder that, come what may, I was still alive. An instant later I could feel the alcohol doing its work. If I knew myself at all, the first drink would only make me aware of the aching tension in my muscles. And right on cue, I felt the tightness spread through my neck and shoulders. It would take the second drink to begin to ease that away.
Schuyler fixed a plate with a sampling of each of the dishes and a generous helping of rice and put it in front of me, then fixed one for himself. We ate our dinner in silence. This time there was no discomfort in the quietness.
"So," Schuyler said after the plates had been cleared, "what can I do to help?'
"Someone has to know something. Someone who had the combination. Or at least part of it."
"Which means one of the department heads. That narrows the list of suspects."
"I need you to keep your ears open. Maybe ask a few subtle questions. The police aren't going to do anything about this, Sky. They think they have the right person."
"You're going to look into this on your own, aren't you?"
I nodded.
"Why don't you... hire someone? A professional?"
"No," I said. "I've gotten by doing for myself for a long time. There's no point in changing now."
"It could be dangerous." His concern had deepened, and he was frowning now. It accented the deep laugh lines around his eyes.
"Yes," I admitted, "but I don't see any other way." I realized that he had placed his hand over my own, which was resting on the table. It seemed so natural, that I hadn't noticed at first, and I wondered how long we had been sitting like that.
I pulled my hand away. Schuyler looked apologetic, but as soon as I relaxed enough to put my hand back on the table, he took it and held it in a tight enough grip that this time, I couldn't pull loose.
"It sounds like someone in the police department has it in for you," he said.
I closed my eyes. I had thought of that, too, and I had an explanation. I just hadn't wanted to admit it.
"Have you met my father?"
"He was in the store once. A couple of years ago."
"That was probably right before my parents moved to Arizona," I said. "He's been ill for a couple of years. Parkinson's. He was on the city council for years, right up to the time when he just couldn't work anymore. I won't lie to you. I grew up in a big house, always had the best of everything."
"He was wealthy. Nothing wrong with that."
I shrugged. "Maybe. Everyone just assumed, because he didn't have a regular job, that he'd inherited the money."
"But he didn't."
I shook my head.
"Then how did he get it?"
"By being a listener," I said. "I learned most of my tricks from him. He listened, observed, and when he found something he could use, he didn't hesitate to use it. For example, he would hear through one of his contacts that a certain construction company was cutting corners. Then when a big civic project would come up, he would see to it that that company got the contract and he got a share of the profit. At one point, he owned half the police force and the other half just looked the other way out of fear."
'What happened?"
"He got in over his head. He spent most of his life swimming with sharks. You can only do that for so long before you get bitten."
It was my turn to order more drinks. Schuyler waited patiently for me to continue, but I was beginning to lose my courage. The subject was a difficult one. The things I was telling I hadn't learned until after my parents had moved away. Truthfully, I hadn't yet been able to deal with it.
The man I had known as Daddy wasn't a crook. He was a strong, handsome man who had carried me on his shoulders when I was too tired to walk. He was the man who tucked me in every night, and read the same story over and over. He was the man who had been in the front row at every school play and dance recital. He was the man who had cried when I came down the stairs on the night of my junior prom. He wasn't a criminal. In my eyes, he had been a saint.
It was January and bitter cold when his health began to fail. They had picked up immediately and moved to a warmer climate, hoping that would do the trick. They had asked me to close up the house and take care of the paper work on the sale of it, and to send along anything they might have left behind.
I had been doing just that when curiosity took over, and I started reading his private papers as I packed them away. I would have been perfectly happy living with my illusions.
A few months later, I asked my mother about it. She denied everything at first. But eventually, as his condition deteriorated, she began to fill in some of the missing pieces. In the beginning, I don't think she knew. But, I suspect, as he got weaker, and came to realize that his time was limited, he wanted to come clean, and confessed to her. And she passed the information on to me.
I started on my second rum and Coke. The tension in my neck began to ease.
"It started... Well, I guess it was when I was nine or ten. One of the people he had done business with in the past came to him and wanted a favor, and my father wasn't in a position to refuse. One of this guys competitors was giving him trouble, and he wanted my father to arrange to have the problem taken care of. He hadn't done anything like that before, but he found someone who was willing to do the job and a couple weeks later, the guy turned up missing. Never was found. Word began to spread among the criminal element that Zachary Brock could get things done. It didn't take too long before he was in a new business. Of course, some of the cops who didn't mind looking the other way while a councilman was taking kickbacks felt differently when it came to hard core crime."
Schuyler leaned against the wall and put his feet up on the seat. "Whoa."
"He was smart, though. He always kept himself far enough away from the action that no one could trace anything back to him. They tried, though."
"You think maybe they're trying to get to him through you?"
"Could be. As I said, he was in business up until a few years ago. Still might be. He's weak, but his mind is still sharp. But whether or not all of this has anything to do with my situation, I have to prove that I'm innocent."
"But its an explanation, and that's as good a place as any to start," he said.
"It doesn't bother you," I asked.
"What?''
"About my father."
"Why should it? You're not him. You are the person I consider a friend. Not him. And whatever he's done, it doesn't change who you are."
"So I can count on your help?"
"Whatever I hear, you hear."
The waitress brought the bill, which Schuyler grabbed before I could voice an objection, and two fortune cookies. Schuyler handed the waitress a credit card, and while we waited for her to return, he broke one of the cookies open, read the little piece of paper inside and tossed it Into the ashtray. Curiosity made me pick it up. "Good things are coming to you in due course of time," it said.
He picked up the other cookie and handed it to me.
"These things are silly," I said, but took it anyway.
"A little silliness wont kill you," he said.
I broke it open, read the fortune, and tried to stuff it into my purse. Schuyler got it from me before I could.
"You got to read mine," he said. "Fair is fair." He straightened out the paper, which I had already crushed into a little ball, and read it aloud. "Trust in someone you love will prove well-founded."
Chapter Ten
We stayed at The T'aipei Cafe for a while longer, talking about nothing in particular. As we walked to the parking lot, Schuyler asked if I was able to drive, and I assured him that I was. He insisted that I call him when I got home, so that he wouldn't have to worry about me all night. I promised that I would and got into my car.
I couldn't face the idea of going directly home. The note Jack had left this morning was just one of the many things that were tumbling through my mind, and an argument with him was more than I was prepared to deal with.
I decided to take the long route home; west on Cavalry Road to Old North Highway, which meandered around the edge of the city and came out near 108th and Pine Streets, about half a mile from home. The drive would take about forty minutes. I should get home a little after ten thirty, and by then, Jack would probably be asleep.
I switched on the headlights and pulled out of the parking space. As I drove toward the exit, I saw a gold colored Buick sedan parallel parked at the edge of the lot. It looked like one I had seen earlier when I pulled out of the lot at Crown Jewels.
I turned right onto Calvary, and checked the rearview mirror. The gold sedan had turned right behind me. Coincidence, I assured myself.
I rolled down the windows and turned on the radio. I searched through the stations until I found something that fit my mood, an oldies station doing a Led Zeppelin retrospective. I let myself retreat into the music, and before long, I had forgotten some of my problems and was singing along to When The Levee Breaks, meeting Robert Plant note for note, word for word. I hadn't heard the song in a long time, and was amazed at how much of it I remembered.
I stopped for a red light where 219th crosses Calvary and the gold sedan was still back of me. I struggled to make out something of the driver through the glare of headlights, and for a moment, I thought I say the beak-like nose of Lt. Shapiro, but decided that my imagination was working overtime.
There was a large subdivision coming up about a mile ahead. The gold sedan was just some executive who had stopped off at The T'aipei for a few drinks after work, and now he was heading home. He just happened to live in the same direction that I was going.
The last strains of When The Levee Breaks began to fade and blended with the opening notes of Kashmir. I turned the radio up a little more and adjusted the bass and treble to get the full effect.
A couple of minutes later, I passed BrynMawr Estates and the gold sedan stayed with me. Okay, it wasn't an executive on his way home. But there was a logical explanation.
The big test was coming up. I pulled into the turning lane and made a right onto Old North Highway. If the gold sedan made the turn, I would know that it was following me. A person could drive back and forth along this stretch of road for hours and never see another car.
The sedan made the turn. Still, I resisted the idea. The speed limit was fifty-five. I set the cruise control at forty-five and pulled over slightly to the right, a clear indication that I wanted the car to pass me. It slowed to meet my speed. I sped up to seventy-five. It stayed with me.
Finally, I settled into a leisurely fifty miles per hour and decided to ignore the car. I tried not to look at the mirrors, bur found myself constantly checking to see if it was still there. Once, I thought it must have turned off, but just as I was lecturing myself about being paranoid, the sedan reappeared over a rise.
At some point, I noticed that the song on the radio had changed once again. I tried to concentrate on that, but failed miserably, and finally turned the radio off.
I checked to make sure that my doors were locked. I was about to play a dangerous game and I didn't want to take any unnecessary chances.
I slowed the car, pulled it off a little to the side and turned on the emergency flashers. The gold sedan stopped about a hundred yards back. I watched the mirror. After a few minutes, the sedan crept forward a little bit, then a little more. It finally rolled to a stop about fifty feet back and sat.
I checked the clock. Ten minutes had passed.
At last, the driver's door of the sedan opened. I slipped the Mercedes into neutral and positioned my foot over the accelerator. Shapiro got out of the sedan, stood for a moment, shielded by the door, then began to cautiously approach my car.
I waited until he was standing even with my rear bumper, then hit the gas and shifted into drive simultaneously.
There was a five mile stretch of road just ahead that wound through a hilly wooded area. I watched in the mirror as Shapiro ran back to his car. By the time he had it in gear and moving, I had rounded a turn into this spot.
My headlights caught a driveway off to the left I made the turn, pulled in behind a stand of pine trees and killed the headlights. A moment later, the gold sedan sped by, not even slowing as it passed the drive.
Chapter Eleven
Vince Scarpelli's office was in a run down building on Clairmore Boulevard, which ran along the river front in the southern end of town. I pulled into the parking space marked 'Scarpelli Enterprises - Customer Parking Only.'
It was Thursday afternoon. The sun was shining and the smell of ripe garbage permeated the air. I double checked the lock on the door and headed for the entrance.
The building, which had once been the headquarters for a feed company that had long ago left town, was a crime free mecca in the midst of a territory ruled by warring street gangs. The safety of this unlikely building was due in large part to Vince's presence here.
The Scarpelli brothers were all successful in their own, diversified business ventures, some legal, some not. The name was known by almost everyone in town, and here, it was all but impossible to get ahead in any business if you could not claim at least one of them as a friend.
I claimed Vince, although I would not exactly call what we had friendship. More, it was mutual fear and respect, earned over time. It was an extremely delicate balance that could well be upset today if I did not handle this meeting exactly night.
I had met Vince on my first day as manager of Crown Jewels. He had walked into my office without knocking, sat down, making himself night at home, and lit a cigar. He took a few puffs before he introduced himself as a diamond broker, a claim which I had no reason to disbelieve. At first.
He put his briefcase on my desk. "I recently came across some very interesting pieces that I think you just might be interested in," he had said, and opened the case.
Inside was a small assortment of rings, bracelets and brooches, and one necklace that I did find quite interesting. I picked it up, got my jewelers loupe out of the desk drawer and proceeded to examine it
"That's a fine choice," Vince said. "One of the finest I've seen in some time."
"Yes, it is."
It was an 18 karat gold collar style choker, set with five blue and four golden Ceylon cut sapphires, each of the perfectly matched stones weighing about four carats. These were framed by diamonds, in various cuts, formed into gently arched ribbons that criss-crossed the length of the necklace with a heart-shaped diamond on either side of the center sapphire. In all, there were two hundred diamonds, each one internally flawless, weighing a total of forty carats. I didn't count them. I didn't weigh them. I didn't need to.
This was a one of a kind piece made for Jarvis Shannen by the jewelers in our own shop just four years earlier. It had been a gift to his wife on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It had taken several months and endless phone calls to miring companies in Thailand and Sri Lanka and to gem brokers throughout the world to find the nine perfectly matched sapphires. Jarvis had taken great joy in selecting each of the stones, down to the smallest diamond chips, himself. I had spent hours with him in the viewing room, examining and grading each stone. He wanted only the best. In the end, we had taken apart several other pieces of jewelry because, of all the loose stones I had already shown him, many of the diamonds he wanted were already set.
Just a few months before Vince had walked into my office, Jarvis had called me. His voice was strained and he was almost in tears. His house had been robbed and the necklace stolen. He had been too upset to deal with the insurance company, so I had done it for him. The final settlement, although quite generous, barely begun to cover the true value of the piece.
"I'm definitely interested in this piece," I had told Vince. "But tell me first, just how hot is this."
"Cool as ice," he said.
"Is it really?" I told him what I knew.
By the time he left my office, he had given me the necklace at no charge and we had reached an agreement. I wouldn't tell the police that he dealt in stolen gems and he wouldn't try to sell me anything that was stolen.
I kept my part of the deal, but I also kept every bit of documentation on him that I came across. This information was in a file folder in my briefcase. I hoped that I wouldn't need it.
As I walked into the building, the gold sedan rolled to a stop in the no parking zone across the street. Shapiro glared out at me with those little bird eyes.
I waved to him and went into the building.
Chapter Twelve
The office was on the second floor. As I climbed the old wooden staircase, I could already smell the sweet aroma of Vince's cigar. There was no name on the door, just numbers printed in gold on the frosted glass panel. I knocked and went in.
Vince was sitting with his feet up on the corner of his desk smoking a cigar. He leapt to his feet when I walked in.
"Pagan, baby, how are you?" His voice was as rough as a gravel road. He came around the desk and hugged me.
Vince was a big man, about six four and fast approaching three hundred fifty pounds. That was a conservative estimate. He had a pock marked complexion and a large, bulbous nose. Above his bushy eyebrows, his hair was gray and thinning, one side of which was combed over his bald crown in a wide sweep and cemented in place with more hair spray that I used in a year.
He wore a blue three piece suit that was a little too bright to be called navy. His belly bulged out between the top of his pants and the bottom of his vest. The jacket pitied to tightly across his shoulders and the seams were beginning to show the signs of the stress. There were gaps between the buttons of his pink oxford shirt, which he wore open at the neck to reveal a thick panther link gold chain that was much too feminine for him. He wore rings on all four fingers of his left hand and on the ring and middle fingers of his right. All of them were large and very obviously expensive.
"Sit down, Sweetheart," he said, almost pushing me into a chair. He went back to his chair and hoisted his feet back on to the edge of his desk. "I heard about the robbery," he said, shaking his head. "Damned shame. That why you're here?"
"In part," I said. "The cops have this idea that I did it."
"And you want me to fence the loot," he said and laughed. "Nice of you to think of me."
I smiled. "You know me too well, Vince. Actually, I do need a favor." I was getting used to saying that.
"Hey, you and me, we go way back, Sweetie. Ask me anything, I'll see what I can do." He took a puff on his cigar. "This thing ain't bothering you, is it?"
I shook my head.
"Nasty habit I know. Doc says I gotta quit. Keep putting it off, though. A man's gotta have a few vices, huh?"
"You cant quit, Vince. I wouldn't know it was you if I didn't see a cigar in your hand."
"That's what I keep telling him. Can't get him to listen. Hey, you hear anything about old Hiram Burgess?"
"He died last year. Heart attack on the tennis court."
"Too bad. That man made my business."
Hiram Burgess had been the last manager of Crown Jewels before I took over. He had left under cloud of controversy. He had had a lucrative business on the side, lining up wealthy clients with whatever special piece of jewelry they might want at a significant savings. Vince had been his exclusive supplier.
"And you made him a rich man. Last I heard, his widow is living on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean."
"That so," he asked. "Next time I get back to Sicily, I'll have to look her up. So what's on your mind?"
I told him some of what was going on. Just the bare essentials. "Most of the stuff could be hocked at any pawn shop in the city," I told him. "But there are some special pieces that would require the kind of services you offer."
"Uh huh," he said. "What kind of pieces are we talking about?"
I opened my briefcase, took out some papers, and laid them on the desk. Vince picked them up and looked them over.
"Should I have this?"
"No," I said. "But I won't tell anyone if you don't."
He took his glasses from his vest pocket. He put them on and scanned the pages. "Uh huh. This here aquamarine. I don't see stones that size too often. I could get rid of that in no time. A guy out in California picks up just about every piece of that I can find for his wife. Yeah. There's some fine things here. Alexandrite ring, uh huh. A client in Philadelphia collects fancy colored diamonds. He'd have a shit fit if I showed up with this lavender."
He was dropping hints, and not being subtle about it, either. He was simply stating his fee for any help he might be able to offer. Vince was the third fence I had talked to, and so far, his fee was the lowest.
"You help me recover the jewels and catch the thief, they're yours."
"Hmm," he said, peering over the paper, you know, I'm also in the market for an emerald..."
"Don't press your luck," I said. "I don't need that big a favor."
"Just what is it you do need?"
"Simple. Someone shows up with any of these pieces, your little security camera over there records his face. Then you call, and I come down and took at the tape."
"And my name stays out of it?"
"Vince who," I asked. "Never heard of him."
Vince nodded. "I'll do it." I started to speak. "Don't thank me 'til I got something for you."
I stood. "Can I say that I appreciate your help?"
"You can say that." He got up, took my hand, and kissed it. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Pagan. How's you and Jack doing?"
I smiled a little ruefully. "My best to Vera and the kids," I said, and left the office.
Chapter Thirteen
When I opened the door and stepped out onto the street, I saw that two police cruisers had joined Shapiro's gold Buick sedan in the no parking zone. This seemed rather strange , but I didn't have to wonder about it for very long.
Before the door had swung shut behind me, Shapiro and two officers stepped around the corner and blocked my path. I recognized one of the officers. It was Hilliard, better known as Quasimodo.
"Miss Brock," Shapiro said, with a big grin on his face, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station with us and answer a few questions." He wasn't afraid at all. He was actually very pleased with himself.
One of the officers grabbed my wrist. "Hey, Lieutenant, you think I should I cuff her?"
Shapiro looked deeply into my eyes in a way that made me feel as though I'd been violated. "I don't think that will be necessary," he said with mock kindness in his voice. "Do you, Pagan?"
I opened my mouth and found that I could not say anything. I was too stunned to do anything but go along quietly.
Chapter Fourteen
The room was small, about ten feet by twelve feet. The walls were painted with a glossy enamel paint in an ugly off-white shade. The floor was concrete. In the center of the room was a rectangular wooden conference table around which four chairs were positioned, two on each of the longer sides. On the wall opposite the heavy, gray metal door through which I had entered, there was a large mirror that ran from corner to corner, starting at about knee level and extending up to the ceiling, and which, despite the illusion held by the police, I could see through if I looked at it from the right angle. Overhead, a single light bulb hung from the ceiling on dangerously frayed wires.
I was sitting in a chair, facing a blank wall. I had been In this room for a long time. No one had come in. I hadn't even heard voices from outside. To combat the silence, I had started humming The Star Spangled Banner. I soon found that I was too edgy to stay on key, and only ended up annoying myself further.
I shifted a bit in my chair so that I could see the mirror, or more accurately, see through it. The room on the other side was smaller still, running the length of this room, but only about half as wide. There were three folding chairs along the wall, and a door on the east end. There was no one in the room.
I thought about a game I had played as a child on long car trips and rainy days when there was nothing to do. I would think of a topic, such as food or breeds of dogs, and then I would go through the alphabet trying to come up with a words for each letter to fit the category. It seemed as good a way as any to pass the time.
Foods. Avocado, banana, catfish, donut, eggplant… That was no good. It only made me realize that I had once again skipped lunch and I was hungry.
Dog breeds. Akita, beagle, coonhound, Doberman, English sheepdog, French poodle, German police. Always a reminder.
Gemstones. Amethyst, Bloodstone, Chalcedony, Diopside, Emerald, Fire Agate, Garnet, Hiddenite, Imperial Jade, Jasper.
The door opened and Shapiro walked in with a superior grin on his face. He eased into the chair across from me and folded his hands dramatically on the table.
"That wasn't a very nice trick you pulled on me last night," he said pleasantly. He leaned back and crossed his legs. The lines in his face had deepened. He had probably been awake all night wondering where the hell I had disappeared to.
"How long did it take you to figure out that I'd turned off the highway," I asked, meeting his conversational tone and comfortable demeanor.
"Longer than you might think. It wasn't until I reached the flat stretch of road that runs by the old stadium that I realized you'd fooled me. I have to give you credit for one thing," he said, tapping his manicured nails on the edge of the table. "It was the first time I've ever lost anyone."
"That's very hard to believe," I said, "considering how easy it was."
His face hardened into an expression of pure hatred, but only for an instant. Then it was back to the smile that he probably thought looked warm and pleasant.
You can trust me, little girl, the smile seemed to be saying. Are you lost, little girl? Look at my badge. You see. I'm a police officer. Get in the car with me and I'll take you home.
If you trust a smile like that, you wind up dead in the middle of a corn field. Or worse.
"Well, you're a very smart lady," he said. "But are you smart enough?"
"For what," I asked, trying to look angelic.
"To get away with it."
"Its finally time to get down to business, is it? Am I going to be charged with anything?"
"Are you going to tell me who your accomplice is?" He raised one eyebrow in that peculiar expression of amusement. He was enjoying this.
"Because whether or not you are going to charge me with a crime," I said, ignoring his question, I have the right to make a phone call."
"After you tell me who your accomplice is."
"This amounts to unlawful imprisonment"
"I would tend to disagree."
"But the courts would probably be on my side, don't you think?"
"I have a spotless record, Miss Brock. And I don't see a tape recorder running in here, do you? Anything you accuse me of is your word against mine. Now, really, who do you think a judge would be more likely to believe?" He laughed at my ignorance. It was a flat, joyless laugh that sent chills down my spine.
I hoped that I didn't look as effected as I felt. I started to cross my arms over my chest but I had read somewhere that doing so is taken as a defensive gesture. Exactly what it would have been. I settled on crossing one arm and rubbing my neck thoughtfully with the other hand. "And what if I told you that I had a tape recorder running in my purse?"
"I would have to confiscate it. Do you have one?"
"No," I said. "I was just wondering how badly my civil rights are going to be violated."
"Fine. If you won't tell me about your accomplice, at least explain to me how your wedding ring got into the vault with the guard's body."
"I won't tell you the time of day until you let me make a phone call."
"You're not cooperating."
"Well, when you put it that way. Okay, I'll cooperate," I said. "I'll tell you anything and everything I possibly can."
"That's better."
"After I call my lawyer."
His jaw was set in stubborn determination.
"Look," I said, "we can go on like this all day. I had a good night's sleep last night. Slept like a baby. You obviously didn't. I can outlast you. Take me to a phone now, and you can keep your spotless record. Otherwise, when I get out of here, I'll sue you, and the department, and city. I'll talk to any reporter who's inclined to listen and tell them what you did. I may even make up a few things, just to make it worse for you. No one in their right mind would believe a sexual assault charge, but I'll think of something. You see, I've got nothing to loose, Lieutenant. But you do. So, what's it going to be?"
I leaned back in the chair, crossed my legs and folded my hands in my lap. I had him in a corner, and he knew it. Still it took a full minute before he finally stood and opened the door.
There was an officer standing outside with his back to the door, feet apart, arms folded across his chest. He turned around when the door opened.
"Polaski, take this lady down to the pay phone."
I stood and went to the door. I bowed my head slightly to Shapiro. "Thank you."
Chapter Fifteen
The officer led me to a phone booth at the end of the hall. He didn't say a word to me as we walked. He opened the door for me and I stopped inside.
I found some change at the bottom of my purse and inserted it in the slot. I dialed the number from memory. As I waited for the phone to be answered, I turned to Polaski. "Hey," I said, "I thought you guys were supposed to provide the quarter."
Polaski almost smiled. One comer of his mouth turned up before he went back to his stony stare. "That's only in the movies, Ma'am," he said, and let the smile cross his lips in spite of himself.
I was relieved. I was beginning to think that the cops in this town were carefully screened and those with a sense of humor were blacklisted.
On the phone, a pleasant female voice said, "Good afternoon, Baron, Sayers and Nelson. How may I help you?"
"I need to speak to Jack Ramsey," I said.
"He's in a meeting just now. Could I take a message or have him call you back?"
"Yeah," I said. "I know all about his meetings. That means he's either in the bathroom or out to lunch. This is his wife, and I need to speak to him now."
"Just a moment, please,' she said, still sweet as could be.
In a moment, Jack's voice came on the line. He spoke in a hushed and hurried tone. "What do you want, Pagan. I'm busy. And, for your information, I really am in a meeting."
"So am I," I said. "Down town. At the police station."
"What? Hold on." The line was silent while he put me on hold. He came back a minute later, obviously from a more private location. "What the hell are you doing at the police station?"
"It's a long story and I really don't want to go into it on the phone."
"Dammit. First, I had to hear from the neighbors that my house had been searched by the police. Everyone's talking about it. That damned Levin woman can't keep her mouth shut for five minutes at a time. And now, my wife calls from the... Ah, hell. I hope you didn't tell the receptionist where you were calling from. Tell me you didn't."
"No, I didn't," I said. I was starting to get exasperated. "She told you everything else I said, I think she would have told you that, too."
"Good. That's all I need, for this bullshit to start going around the office. I'm having enough problems here without that."
"Jack, can we save the argument until later." I tried to speak as calmly and quietly as I could, not for Jack's sake, but because Polaski was listening.
"No. If you ever come home anymore, then maybe we could. As it stands, I've got you on the phone, and we'll talk about it now."
"Fine. But in the mean time, do you think you could arrange for yourself or someone else to come down here and help me out?"
"No. Absolutely not. Give me one good reason why I should do anything for you."
"I'm not going to beg, if that's what you're waiting for," I said. "But I need your help."
"I don't give a frog's fat ass what you need. Whatever's going on, its your problem. Not mine. So, you can just take care of it yourself." There was a click and the line went dead. So much for finishing the argument.
"Thanks a lot," I said to no one.
I put another coin in the slot and started to dial.
"One phone call," Polaski said.
"Look," I said, sounding more menacing than I had intended, "you can wrestle this phone out of my hand, and I'll start screaming police brutality, or you can be a nice guy and lot me make this call."
He took a step back.
I took a deep breath to calm myself. "I'm sorry," I said. "Do you mind?"
He nodded for me to proceed, and I finished dialing the number.
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