BURY THE WITCH: Book 10 (Detective Marcella Witch's Series)

by Dana E. Donovan

  In the four days since my return, I struggled with reason, confident that I could carve out a niche for Jerome in my world, despite what Lilith thought. Sitting in the cruiser, my head back, my eyes closed, I began to realize the truth. Lilith was right. There was only one place for Jerome, only one world where he belonged. And if he couldn’t live with me in my world, then what else could I do but live with him in his?

  “We’re here.” Carlos pulled the car to the curb, dropped it into park and shut the engine off. “You need some time to be alone?”

  I opened my eyes and shook my head. “No. I’m ready.” I pushed the car door open. “Let’s go.”

  Lloyd Bishop Stephens greeted us warmly and invited us into his office for a seat. I was surprised to see that he worked out of such a small place, though I supposed that in his line of work, he could just as easily and more economically work out of his home.

  Carlos and I took the chairs he offered across from his desk. Both were comfortably cushioned, leather-bound and large enough for an adult and a half, which had me thinking of Jerome again.

  Lloyd Stephens’ chair, like his desk, seemed less formal and more conventional, the kind a schoolteacher might use. In one corner of the desktop, opposite his writing hand, I noticed scores of cigarette burns, testimony to the age of the desk when smoking in the office was as common as carbon paper and rotary phones.

  A small bookcase under the window shelved various reference books on precious gems and geological sciences. On the wall behind Mister Stephens, hung assorted diplomas, certificates, an occupational license and an award from the American Gem Society attesting to his membership in good standings as an Independent Certified Gem Appraiser.

  What I didn’t notice, and felt it seemed odd for a smart-looking man in his thirties, was that Stephens displayed no personal photos: no wife, kids, family pictures of any kind, no military snapshots, no dog, cat, goldfish or whatever. The man seemed completely self-absorbed in his work. I remember thinking that wasn’t such a bad thing. After all, I’d gone my entire career as a single man, even retired single. Just the same, my desk had pictures.

  “So, Detectives,” said Stephens, rocking back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’d like to ask you about some gems you appraised for Marx Jewelers.”

  “Yes, I understand that. A detective from your department called to give me a heads up that you were coming, but I’m not certain what help I can be to your investigation. Royal Hall Insurance and Marx Jewelers both have copies of my appraisals. They’re certified, notarized and registered in IGI’s data bank.”

  “So the diamonds were certified?”

  “Oh, no, not the diamonds, the appraisal. No, I’m afraid the diamonds themselves were unmarked and uncertified.”

  “Doesn’t that hurt their value?”

  “It does some, but the diamonds you’re inquiring about were all primo gems of impeccable color and clarity. One in particular, as I recall, an ideal cut fancy pink, tipped the scale at over sixteen carats. It doesn’t matter where that diamond came from. I appraised it at two point two million. In the right setting, however, it could fetch considerably more.”

  “Wow!” said Carlos, and I could see him calculating how big a dent that would put in his bank account. “Just for a chunk of rock, eh?”

  Stephens nodded. “Just for a chunk of rock.”

  I broke out my small black notepad and jotted that information down. Then I asked Stephens, “Sir, do you recall exactly how many diamonds you appraised for Marx Jewelers over the last few years?”

  He looked away with a distant stare. “Oh, I don’t know, Detective. Hundreds I suppose.”

  “I see. So it was common for the jewelry store to have such a large cache of gems on the premises, what with their owning a Chubb Sovereign and all.”

  He shook his head at that. “Common? No. Over the years, I might have appraised hundreds of gems for the store, but few were more than two or three carats, and virtually none were of the caliber as that hodgepodge batch they asked me to appraise over the last eight months.”

  “Is that so?”

  I looked at Carlos, who was already looking at me. He didn’t have to say it, but he did. “Why all of a sudden?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why…I mean, how do you suppose they came into possession of such large, exquisite diamonds in so short a time?”

  Lloyd Stephens shook his head dully. “How should I know?”

  “Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  “Detective, my job isn’t to question where diamonds come from. My job is to value their worth.”

  I butted in. “Excuse me, Mister Stephens, I understand where you’re coming from, but if you’ll indulge us a moment. We’re obviously novices at this, but we’d like you to help us to understand. When Detective Spinelli asked one of the owners where they got the gems, he told him they acquired them as trade-ins. He said that customers, feeling the burden of owning expensive pieces of jewelry, often trade in real diamonds for fakes so that they can enjoy wearing them without fear of getting robbed, mugged or worse. Does that make sense?”

  For that, Lloyd Stephens appeared to grant his acceptance with a grain of salt. “Who’s to say, Detective?”

  “Well, I’m asking you. Is that common practice?”

  “It is,” he said, giving in to hesitation, “but your partner here raises a good question. How likely is it that so many people with so many top quality diamonds, came in to Marx Jewelers to trade in that jewelry in such a short period of time?”

  Carlos smacked his hands together with a single thunderous clap. “That’s what I’m talking about. See Tony, there’s something not right about this.”

  “Carlos, please. Mister Stephens, do you think it’s possible those diamonds were acquired illegally?”

  By then, Lloyd Stephens had returned his chair forward. He leaned his elbows on the desk, hands clasped neatly together. I thought he would answer my question in the affirmative, especially since I used the word, possible. Instead, he shook his head and released his breath with a sigh.

  “Detective Marcella, I’m not in the business of speculating. That’s you’re department. I’ve merely thrown out a hypothetical question. It’s your business if you want to answer it.”

  I smiled tightly, granting Lloyd Stephens the respect he deserved. “You’re absolutely right, sir. Well, you’ve answered our questions.” I stood and offered my hand. “We certainly appreciate your time.”

  Carlos stood, and then Stephens, who shook both our hands before showing us the door. Just before stepping out onto the sidewalk, I turned to him and said, “Mister Stephens, one more question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of, course.”

  “I’m curious who in this town could move twenty million dollars worth of ideal cut, unmarked diamonds.”

  He smiled and hooked his brow as though he thought I already knew the answer. “I don’t know, Detective, a jewelry store, perhaps?”

  Back in the car, Carlos was busy formulating his assessment of the case so far. “Seems clear to me,” he said. “I don’t believe there was a burglary.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s an insurance scam. I think if we go back to the jewelry store and tear that place upside down, we’ll find those diamonds.”

  “Think so?”

  “Damn straight. It’s just too bad we don’t have diamond-sniffing dogs that we could send in there.”

  “You know, Carlos, I hate to say this, but you may be right.”

  “You hate to think I’m right?”

  “No, not so much that, but it’s possible we screwed up badly yesterday.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, in our determination to unveil the tiniest clues tied to this case, we might have overlooked the most obvious.”

  “Which is?”

  “You mentioned there were two safes in the jewelry store’s offi
ce, the Chubb and a second, smaller, safe build into the wall.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You said Oscar Shaul opened the second safe to check on its contents.”

  “Yeah, and he confirmed that all the showroom jewelry was there. Nothing had been taken.”

  “Did he open it in front of any witnesses?”

  “Yeah, he opened it for me and Dominic after you left. The diamonds weren’t in there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh.” I nodded approvingly. “That’s what I was thinking. Nice job, then.”

  “Thank you.” He bobbed his head proudly and continued driving.

  We traveled another block and a half before I turned to him and asked, “Was it Dominic’s idea?”

  He nodded, but kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Yup.”

  Moments later, my phone rang. I expected it was Lilith calling to tell me she found Jerome. It wasn’t. It was Dominic, although it was about Jerome.

  “Hello Dominic.”

  “Tony, it’s Dom…. Oh. Hey, I’m calling to let you know that I talked to Lilith.”

  “And.”

  “She said she doesn’t appreciate you having your little pet boy forwarding your messages to her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I wasn’t your pet boy.”

  “That’s telling her. Did she get back to you with any news since?”

  “No, but there is some news coming out of Minor’s Pointe, just south of the train yard.”

  “What sort of news?”

  “Emergency responders are on their way to a train derailment. Early calls report a mudslide knocking a freight train off its tracks.”

  “Mudslide? That’s strange. There no hills south of Minor’s Pointe.”

  “Yeah, well that’s why I’m calling. Apparently there are some hills there now.”

  “Jerome,” I said.

  “Yup, `fraid so.”

  “Would you mind calling Lilith again for me?”

  “Can’t I text her instead?”

  “You can send up smoke signals if you want. I don’t care. Just tell her the news. Will you?”

  “Fine, I’ll tell her.”

  “Thank you. Keep us posted.”

  I tucked my phone back into my pocket. Turning to Carlos, I said, “It’s Jerome. He derailed a freight train.”

  “I heard you say mudslide. Is that how he did it?”

  “Yes, but he had to build his own hill first.”

  “Ah, so he’s in to real estate now, is he?”

  “Funny.”

  “I wonder if he can give my house an ocean view.”

  “Seriously, Carlos?” I wagged my finger and grinned. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Chapter 17

  The Hartman, Pierce & Petruzelli building never ceases to impress me. At fifteen stories plus a penthouse loft, the glittering glass and marble structure dwarfs every other building in New Castle. That it sits on the town’s high ground only contributes to the magnificent view it offers from the building’s upper floors. I remembered that from the last time Carlos and I were there, back when we interviewed the now deceased, thanks to Dominic, Ricardo Rivera.

  Allen Brinkman’s office sat one floor above Ricardo Rivera’s old office. I don’t know why that surprised me. I suppose because I assumed he took Rivera’s place, he’d have Rivera’s old office. Instead, perhaps due to his pending promotion, the partners gave him Bridget Dean’s old office. That one was even nicer, spacious, high ceilings, mahogany paneled walls, Asian wool carpeting and a corner window view that, on a clear day, allowed you to see all the way to Boston.

  “Sweet,” was the word out of Carlos’ mouth the moment we stepped off the private elevator leading directly into Brinkman’s office.

  Allen was standing there when the doors opened, his stance spread in military at eased fashion, his hands overlapped his beltline and his ceramic smile tweaked to just the right degree, not too much pearly white, not too little.

  “Gentlemen.” He extended his hand, and the ricochet of light from his diamond ring, gold cufflinks and Rolex watch caused me to blink involuntarily. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Allen Brinkman.”

  “Mister Brinkman.” I shook his hand. “I’m Detective Anthony Marcella. This is Detective Rodriquez. Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Of course.” He turned and waved us in over his shoulder. Come in, please. May I offer you a drink?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “A mimosa then?”

  Carlos started, “I’ll have—”

  I finished, “Pass. Thank you.”

  Brinkman circled behind his desk and presented the two wingback chairs in front of it with a graceful wave. “Sit. Please.” Not a stitch in his Armani dared wrinkle when he moved.

  Carlos and I sat. Brinkman waited until we were comfortable before doing the same. He then picked up the receiver on his desk phone, punched three numbers and instructed his secretary to hold all calls. I noticed a cigarette butt in his ashtray, the same brand Rachel Marx smoked. I waited until he hung up and returned his full attention to us before commenting on it.

  “You smoke in your office?” I nodded toward the ashtray. He regarded it with genuine embarrassment.

  “No, I don’t smoke,” he said, and quickly emptied it into the trashcan under his desk. “I do, however, let my most important clients smoke.”

  I noticed he did not return the ashtray to the desk in case either Carlos or I wished to partake in the habit.

  “Now then, Detectives, what can I do for you?”

  “We’re investigating a burglary,” I said. “One of your clients.”

  “My client. Would he or she be the burglar or the victim?”

  Carlos said, “That’s what we’d like to know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I replied, “This client would be the victim.”

  “I see. You’re referring to Marx Jewelers then.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, I read about it in the paper, the burglary that is. You understand, of course, there’s little I can tell you concerning them. Attorney-client privilege and all.”

  “We understand. We’re not asking you to incriminate anyone. We simply need to verify a few previously established facts.”

  “Such as?”

  “Let’s first confirm that you do represent the company known as Marx Jewelers, whose retail business operates downtown at seventeen eleven—”

  “Excuse me, Detective. You don’t have to be so formal. This isn’t a deposition. Hartman Pierce and Petruzelli represents Marx Jewelers. That’s established. Go on, please.”

  I looked over at Carlos, who seemed content, if not amused, in watching me squirm with the slippery eel I found on the end of my hook. I cleared my throat and continued. “How long has HP&P represented the jewelry store?”

  “That’s irrelevant. Next question.”

  “Why is that irrelevant?”

  “Because, Detective, it’s an open-ended question. You said you were here to confirm pre-established facts. Now, had you asked me if it’s true that HP&P has represented Marx, Feldon, Cohen and Shaul since 1986, I’d have told you it was. See how this works?”

  Carlos snickered at that. I shot him a glare and he quickly reeled it back in. Addressing Brinkman, I said, “You’re right, sir. Forgive me. I did say we were confirming established facts. Now then, I know you know Ms. Lesley Swan, an insurance representative with the Royal Hall Insurance Group of Warwick, Rhode Island.”

  “We’ve met, yes.”

  “That would be when she was doing her homework prior to underwriting an insurance policy for Marx Jewelers.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “She told me that the late Sheldon Marx, upon purchasing a Chubb Sovereign safe model 6428, on behalf of the jewelry store, then entrusted HP&P with the key and combination to that safe.”

  “He did. Yes.”

  “Do you still h
ave the key and combination?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “I mean, you do still have the key and combination, don’t you?”

  He gestured toward a cabinet across the room with a subtle nod. “They’re in an envelope initially entrusted to Mister Petruzelli, one of the founding partners here at HP&P. He assigned it to a former associate lawyer named Rivera, now deceased.”

  “Yeah, we know,” said Carlos. “One of our guys shot him.”

  Brinkman furrowed his brows in silent disapproval before continuing. “After Mister Petruzelli recruited me from a Boston firm two years ago, I inherited the account and the aforementioned folder, which, as I’ve indicated, now resides in the filing cabinet across the room.”

  “You keep it locked.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes, I keep it locked, but only at night. During business hours, the cabinet remains unlocked, as I refer to the files in it quite often.”

  “Can we see it?”

  “The envelope?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  I pointed to the corner of his desk where the ashtray had been when we arrived. “That ashtray you emptied.”

  “What about it?”

  “It contained a cigarette butt, a Melrose Light.”

  “That’s very observant of you.”

  “Mrs. Marx was here this morning.”

  “That’s not been established.”

  “She came here to return the safe key before we had a chance to talk to you.”

  “Again, not established, plus it falls under attorney-client privilege.”

  I pressed my back into the leather folds of the wingback and steadied my breath. My next question, in the form of a statement, was a long shot, but worth a try. “Mrs. Marx, at some point since her husband passed away, came here and retrieved a copy of the safe combination and the key.”

  “Speculation, not established, and it falls—”

  “I know, under attorney-client privilege.”

  “Detective, let me save you some time. I think you’ve learned about all you’re going to learn without a subpoena. Even then, you probably won’t learn more. Now, as you might imagine, I’m very busy.” Brinkman stood and presented a path to the door via a wave of his hand. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t see you to the elevator.”