Diamond White

by Stephanie Andrews

  “This is Georgette Wrigley,” he said to the table, “an associate of mine, and a civil rights lawyer.”

  Captain Earl, sitting across from me next to Nick, gave me a quizzical look—he clearly recognized me from the other night—but said nothing about my name change from McKay to Wrigley.

  “This,” Elgort continued, indicating the middle-aged man, “is Al Hanson. He’s with the Fourth District. He’s heading up an anti-gun task force called GRAD—Gun Recovery and Disposal.” Al gave me a curt nod.

  “And this,” said Elgort, with a gesture toward the younger man, “is Jorge Alvarez. He is one of the leaders of Latin Pride.”

  “Gay rights?” I asked. Alvarez immediately scowled at me.

  “They’re a street gang,” growled Hanson, with obvious disdain. This attracted the attention of Alvarez, who swiveled his scowl toward the cop.

  “A leader,” Elgort pushed on, “who, like so many of us, has seen enough gun deaths in Chicago and wants to do something about it.”

  “Strange bedfellows,” said Earl in his deep bass voice, directing his comment at Hanson. The cop leaned back, clearly cowed by the reputation of the great Captain Earl. “We’re all here because we’ve agreed to explore unorthodox measures.”

  “And I’ll remind you,” said Don, speaking for the first time. “That we are all here under the expectation of complete confidentiality. This is strictly need-to-know.”

  The small woman from earlier came out of the kitchen, laden with steaming plates. Eggs, sausages, and some kind of blackberry porridge that looked fantastic. I removed my gloves and put them in my satchel, keeping my left hand under the table as I served myself some eggs and porridge.

  Nick held out his plate, and I handed him the serving spoon. As the only woman at the table, I was not going to set the precedent of serving food. No way.

  Don was going through what we knew about Jared Dexter and Antonio Negron.

  “Negron is a bit of a cipher,” he was saying, “but we are in the process of gathering information on him that we hope we will be able to put to use.”

  “What’s the plan for Dexter?” asked Hanson. Alvarez kept quiet, but I noticed him keenly watching the others, especially the cops. He was at the table, but he was clearly reserving trust.

  “Right. Dexter,” said Uncle Elgort, and took a sip of coffee. Mmm, coffee. No sooner did I look around for the small woman then she was at my elbow, pouring fabulous smelling coffee from a small pot. The woman was a certified ninja. Polish Restaurant Ninja.

  “The four of you,” began Don, indicating Hanson, Earl, Alvarez, and myself, “have a 9 a.m. meeting tomorrow morning with Dexter to discuss the GRAD program. We booked it about four weeks ago. We also launched a website, and got a nice mention in the Tribune about a fundraiser we held in July.”

  Eldon Shelby, it seemed, loved the long con. You could see his eyes twinkling as he talked.

  “Georgette volunteers her time pro bono to the organization. She going to explain the program to him, in which Alvarez uses his influence with south side gangs to agree to an arms buyback. The police department, represented by Alden and Al, will explain that the Chicago PD will fund the buyback and dispose of the firearms. We want Dexter to help us with the PR, and to arrange some press opportunities with the mayor.”

  “I don’t see what that gets us,” said Alvarez bluntly.

  “Just a lot of guns off the street,” countered Hanson.

  “But if he is who you say he is, he’ll just sell more guns to the bangers.”

  “That,” said Don with a grin, “is certainly what we hope he will do.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Hanson.

  Earl laughed his deep, resonant laugh.

  “What?” said Hanson, reddening.

  “It’s Uncle Elgort, Al,” said Earl. “You’re too young to remember those days. But trust me, with Uncle Elgort, there was always a play behind the play.”

  Uncle Elgort wasn’t the blushing type, but he did nod his head lightly toward Earl in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  “So what’s the play?” asked Jorge Alvarez, looking at the old mob boss.

  Uncle Elgort nodded toward Don.

  Don leaned forward, elbows on the table, his fingers stitched together.

  “Listen...”

  Eighteen

  “What do you think, Miss Wrigley?” asked Jared Dexter.

  “What? Oh, yes, absolutely,” I agreed. I had been distracted, staring at Nick’s Degas sculpture, still sitting on the cadenza. Dexter had found the bug, but evidently hadn’t realized that the statue itself had been swapped. Nice job, Nicky.

  “Well, then,” he said, rising. “I think we’re done here. I look forward to working with you all on this very rewarding project.” He came around his desk and shook hands with Hansen and Earl and myself. He hesitated a split second, then also shook hands with Alvarez.

  Dexter was a short, slightly stocky man with boyish blond hair and a trim brown beard. He dressed very well in a black suit with nice wingtip shoes. I again looked around his office; I’d been a little preoccupied the last time I was here. Pictures with governors, senators, even a president. Plaques from neighborhood societies and state-wide charities. A set of golf clubs in one corner, looking mostly ceremonial. A bookshelf full of titles pertaining to politics and the law.

  We had made our pitch for GRAD and now it was time for Act II. I opened the door with my right hand, keeping my left in my coat pocket.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Dexter,” I said.

  “It was my pleasure, Ms. Wrigley” he answered, his eyes inadvertently sweeping down my suit. “Let me know if there is anything at all I can do for you.”

  Earl put his hand on my shoulder to steady himself, and we walked slowly out into the cubicle area. Over my shoulder I heard Al Hansen, still in Dexter’s office, say, “Actually, Mr. Dexter—Jared—there’s one more thing Jorge and I would like to discuss with you.”

  We left them behind, making our way to the elevator and down to the lobby, where we had to pass through the security checkpoint to leave the building. No sooner had we stepped onto the sidewalk then Don rolled up smoothly in the limousine. Captain Earl never had to wait for a ride, it seemed.

  We climbed into the back, where Nick was already seated.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Pfft,” I said, dismissively. “That was the easy part. It’s up to Jorge and Al now.”

  “Quite the combo.”

  “Yes, I think they’ll be taking their act on the road when all this is over. You should hear Al sing.”

  Earl gave his deep laugh.

  “I don’t think Al Hansen has ever sung, or even smiled, in his entire life. But,” he sighed, “he’s a good cop.”

  The second part of the meeting, the part without Earl and I, was where the trap would be laid. Jorge would lightly mention that he had a friend, Antonio Negron, who had mentioned to him that Dexter might be the kind of person willing to co-operate for mutual benefit. Since no one in the states supposedly knew much, if anything, of Negron, this would give Alvarez insider status. It’s possible that Dexter would mention Alvarez to Negron, but that was a risk we had to take. I was hoping that Dexter would want to present the idea to Negron as his own.

  Hansen would then explain that it would be his job to collect and destroy all the guns they bought from the citizenry of south Chicago. He had an idea, however, that perhaps instead of destroying the guns, Dexter might find a market for them in another part of the city. In a few months, when GRAD moved on to focus on other gangs, Alvarez would broker the repurchase of guns for Latin Pride, with a commission for himself.

  The idea was Eldon’s, based on what happened with bikes on campus. At Northwestern, locks were snipped with bolt cutters, bicycles were stolen, thrown into big trucks, and carted over to the University of Chicago. Sold cheap. While the trucks were there, locks were snipped, bicycles stolen, carted back to Northwestern, bought
by kids who needed to replace their stolen bikes. Wait a week, and you could likely buy your original bike back on its return trip. And so the cycle went, for ever and ever, amen.

  The whole scam with Dexter depended on Hansen being able to sell himself as a disgruntled cop, forced into this ridiculous charity as part of community service for some bad arrests. If a grouchy and mean-spirited demeanor were what it took to sell the act, then Hansen was home free. And then, hopefully, Dexter would give us information on Negron.

  Alden and Elgort would arrange for Dexter to get caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and he would be arrested and publicly discredited. His days as an incognito arms dealer would be over. If Dexter named Hanson as an accomplice, Al would receive a slap on the wrist and an early retirement.

  We dropped Earl off at his house. I helped him out of the car and walked him up to his front door.

  “Thank you, Miss Wrigley,” he smiled, “but I must say, I like you better as a redhead.”

  “But I’m smarter as a brunette,” I told him.

  “Hmm. Well, I’m sure there’s quite a story there somewhere, but old Elgort’s been keeping mum about you.”

  “Well, Uncle Elgort’s a very smart man. Smart enough to make a deal with you. Can’t have been easy.”

  Alden laughed. “Too true. But if it works? It’s worth it. People change.”

  “I know I do.”

  “Yes, that’s obvious. Goodbye, my dear, and be careful.”

  I skipped back down the stairs, and climbed in the back seat next to Nick, who looked out the window as Captain Earl entered his house and closed the door.

  “Well,” he said, “he likes you.”

  “I know, did you see us making out?”

  “No, I must have missed that bit.”

  “Turns out he has a thing for redheads and for brunettes,” I said, pulling off my black wig and ruffling my short hair with my hand.

  “And why not,” said Nick as the car pulled away. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out two small felt pouches, one black and one blue.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I asked, my eyes widening.

  “Kay...” Nick said in a stern voice.

  “Nick...” I said back, fake serious.

  “I need you to concentrate.”

  “But you’re so cute, and my little girl brain just gets all confused when you’re around.”

  Don snorted in the front seat. At least someone thought I was funny.

  “Blue bag,” Nick went on, ignoring me, “real diamonds.”

  “Blue, real. Worth how much, you think?”

  “All together? Somewhere between $800,000 and a million and a half. It would depend on where and when you tried to sell them.”

  I gave a low whistle.

  “Yes,” he placed the bag in my good hand and curled my fingers shut over it. “Try not to lose it.” Then he opened the black bag and poured the diamonds out into his hand.

  “Black bag,” he said, “fakes.”

  “Holy crap, Nicky,” I gasped. “These are incredibly...incredible. What are they made of?”

  The fakes shone dazzlingly bright in the late morning sun.

  “Silicon carbide,” he said. “Moissanite. It’ll fool Salerno, and maybe Dexter, for a while. If this Negron is the big bad he’s supposed to be, he’ll probably have experts on hand who will know they’re fake just by looking at the light refraction, but by that time it hopefully won’t matter.”

  He put the diamonds back in the bag.

  “You don’t think she’ll bring a diamond expert to your rendezvous, do you?”

  “Rendezvous,” I said, rolling the word around my tongue. “You make it sound so sexy.” I took the black pouch from his hand and put it in my pocket. I moved a bit closer to him and put my good hand on his chest.

  “It’s not meant to be sexy,” he said, exasperated.

  “You only say that because you haven’t met her,” I purred in his ear.

  “And I hope not to, after everything I’ve heard about her.” He put his hand over mine and squeezed. “Be careful.”

  Nineteen

  I struggled to get the baby jogger over the curb and into Millennium Park. New respect for moms, that’s for sure. I looked around carefully. It was late afternoon, and the sun was sinking toward the Cultural Center. There were throngs of tourists. If we’d had our little motorcycle escapade on a day like this, we’d have probably killed some people.

  I passed the big LED fountain, where kids were stomping through the water, even though it was a little chilly today, and headed over to the great lawn as people were gathering for the music festival. Way in the back I found a good bench and parked the jogger next to it, sitting down slowly and moving the long blond hair out of my face. I was wearing red plastic-rimmed glasses, a white tank top with a grey cardigan, and a flowery skirt that reached to my ankles.

  I leaned into the stroller and carefully removed my bundle of joy. Well, bundle of blankets. I held it to my chest and slipped my left hand in among the bunched-up swaddling. This hid my missing fingers, but also gave me quick access to the container of mace hidden within.

  Then I waited, and watched. And waited. After about fifteen minutes, a little girl marched up to me. She was probably seven, but was dressed like a hooker. A sparkly tank top, and shorts that said “Juicy” across the butt. I don’t want to sound l like my mother, but if she were my kid...

  “Can I pet your baby?” she asked.

  “No, sweetie. You can’t, she’s sleeping.”

  The girl rocked back and forth on her heels.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Esmerelda, what’s yours?”

  “Kayleigh,” she said. “With a Y and a GH.”

  I was trying to work out how that went together when her mother called her from the grass across the walkway. Kayleigh shrugged and turned away, almost run over by a herd of eight or ten young women jogging past in a group. Maybe a University team. One of them suddenly plopped down on the bench, panting.

  “There you are,” she said. “Do you have any water?”

  Holy crap, it was Salerno, wearing a tight black tank top and black spandex running shorts, her long brown hair in a ponytail. She wore a brace on her left wrist.

  “Damn, you’re good,” I said, reaching into the stroller with my free hand and handing her a bottle of water. “How’d you know it was me?”

  She took a long drink of water, then shrugged. “I’m a professional, you know? It’s what I do. Why’d you even bother with the disguise? The police think you are dead now, no?”

  “I wanted to see you coming before you saw me coming, just to be safe.”

  Selena leaned back, her elbows on the back of the bench, the water bottle still in her left hand. Sweat glistened on her neck and chest. “I see your little chihuahua made a full recovery,” she said, nodding across the field to where Ellery Park stood next to a lamp pole, watching us intently while pretending to be reading a Stella Wilkinson book. She was wearing a golf visor down low over her brow, a pink Izod shirt, yellow capris, and Birkenstocks.

  “Great,” I deadpanned, “you made my sidekick already. You nearly killed her, you know.”

  “Only nearly. You nearly broke my wrist, but only nearly.” She took another drink, and then handed the bottle back to me. “And the loco Ukranian?”

  “Czech.”

  “Whatever. I told you to come alone. Is she lurking around here, too?”

  “Well, we’ll just have to wait and find out.” I tightened my grip on the mace. “Do you have something to trade with me?”

  “In the office building, the other night, how did she make that explosion?”

  I laughed and took a swig from the bottle.

  “She put the cartridge from her pistol in the toaster and started it up. It took a minute to get up to temperature.”

  Selena chuckled that low, sexy laugh of hers and shook her head.

  “Es loco, si?”

  “O
h, she’s crazy all right,” I laughed along with her for a few seconds, then let it fade. “Now, to business. I don’t like sitting out here with a million dollars in diamonds. Do you have the information?”

  “That reminds me,” said the young woman. “I forgot to bring your phone. Do you want it back?”

  “No, you keep it. I may need to get in touch with you again.”

  “That Words with Friends game, on your phone. Do they make it en Español?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “It’s addicting.”

  She reached behind her back and pulled a tiny thumb drive from her waistband. I reached my right hand into the swaddle of blankets and pulled out the pouch of diamonds, offered them in my outstretched palm. She picked up the pouch and dropped the thumb drive into my hand. She opened the pouch a tiny bit, just enough to let some light in, and then she pulled the drawstring shut again. She bowed her head for a moment and sighed a long sigh, said something under her breath in Spanish.

  “Gracias, Red Riley,” she said, standing up and tucking the pouch into the back of her shorts. “Yo siento.”

  I stood up, too.

  “You’re sorry?” I looked her in the eye. “There’s nothing on this drive, is there?”

  “Trust me, Riley, you do not want to go looking for trouble with Negron. He terrifies me. Me! He’d rip you into little pieces, just for fun. I wouldn’t screw you over like this if my life weren’t on the line.”

  “You talk like you’re doing me a favor,” I said in a steely voice. “But we aren’t friends.”

  I whipped my left hand out to the side, sending the baby blanket flying. She followed it with her eyes, almost caught off guard as I swung the can of mace back in her direction and sprayed it.

  Almost. She turned her head to the side, the spray hitting the back of her head, while grabbing my wrist expertly with her left hand. She yanked hard as she turned, pulling me with her and chopping the mace out of my hand with a strong blow from her free hand. The can hit the cement walkway and rolled under the bench.