Diamonds and Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery

by Micheal Maxwell

  “I’ll find her.”

  “And bring her back?”

  “I’ll do my best. But she’s a grown woman, El. I can’t force her.”

  “You have to tell her I’m sorry, she has to forgive me, Cole. I was wrong, so wrong and it has driven us apart. It was all my fault. You have to make her see how much I love her, how much I miss her. You are my only hope to get her back.”

  “I will do everything in my power.” Cole knew it was foolish to tell her not to worry, but he could see her strength slipping away as she spoke.

  “I know you will. I have missed you so.” She smiled, but it was colored with sadness.

  “I’ve missed you too, more than you’ll ever know. Are you getting tired? I don’t want to wear you out. We will have time to visit later if you need me to go.” Cole was becoming concerned with her obvious weakening.

  “I don’t have a whole lot of ‘later,’ so you better not leave or I’ll chase you down with my wheelchair!” Her smile beamed and the color was returning to her cheeks.

  “In that case, I better stick around.”

  “Can you help me into bed?”

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had in years!”

  “Aren’t you the saucy one?”

  Cole folded back the covers. He put his hands under Ellie’s arms and lifted her from the chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck. For a moment, they were face-to-face and only inches apart. Their eyes met and neither could look away. Cole slipped his arms around her and they embraced. Her cheek against his and his heart against hers they stood, neither wanting to let go. She was so thin, but it was Ellie in his arms again, if only for a moment. He ached to kiss her, but, instead, swept his arm behind her knees and lifted her onto the bed.

  “What service! I love to be tucked in.”

  “Sorry, I forgot the mint on the pillow.”

  Cole pulled the chair across the room. He sat with his feet propped on the bed rail. Ellie looked much more relaxed, and her voice had smoothed and seemed not nearly as shaky as before. For nearly two hours, they laughed and talked, reminiscing about their youth. She remembered places and people he had long forgotten. He spoke of places and things they had done, some she could not recall. With all the memories and years apart, they still shared the fondness for their lives together. Little was said of their relationship, parting or love. For now, they were just two old friends, together and bathing in the warmth of what had been.

  Cole recounted the story of a trip to the coast of Northern California when they became hopelessly lost outside of Petaluma in the winding roads of the coastal mountains. He had been looking out the window as he talked. When he looked back at Ellie, her eyes were closed. He continued to tell the story until he saw that her breathing had become deep and slow.

  “And then he told the beautiful girl at his side how much he loved her and always would,” Cole said softly. He smiled and rose to his feet. Ellie had drifted to sleep. He kissed her gently on the forehead and slipped out of the room.

  FIVE

  Cole checked into the Palmwood Motel on McAllister Boulevard. It was one of the older motels but still in pretty good shape. He stopped at a hamburger stand called Lucy’s that he was surprised to find still in business. It had been hours since he had eaten, and he couldn’t believe how hungry he was. He nearly inhaled the double cheeseburger, fries, and chocolate shake before he was back in the car and headed for downtown.

  He was pleased to see The Daily Record had expanded, was remodeled and updated from the small-town newspaper he remembered. He made his way through the thick green, tinted glass doors and into the spacious tile atrium. The ceiling was a glass and steel dome from which hung huge baskets of flowers. The late afternoon sun filtered through the green glass of the dome, lighting the floor and giving everything an emerald tint. The receptionist sat behind a curved wall of glass brick about three feet high.

  “Welcome to The Record, may I help you?”

  Cole smiled and, presenting his press credentials, said, “Good afternoon, I’m Cole Sage with The Chicago Sentinel. I’d like to speak with your resident research genius, if I could.”

  “That would be Randy Callen. Let me see if he’s in yet.” The receptionist spoke into the thin clear tube that curved out from her headset, “A Mr. Cole to see you. He’s from The Chicago Sentinel.” She paused. “Okay, I’ll tell him.”

  “He’ll be right out, Mr. Cage.”

  Cole smiled broadly and took her card from the small holder on the counter.

  “Wenda Brilliams,” Cole said.

  “Brenda Williams,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Got it.”

  An elevator door opened, and a young man in his early twenties approached Cole.

  “Mr. Cole?”

  “Sage, Cole Sage, Chicago Sentinel.”

  “Brenda has trouble with names sometimes.”

  “Noticed.”

  “I’m Randy Callen. How can I help?”

  “I need to get some background on a local real estate guy. Thought maybe you could give me a hand.”

  “It would be my pleasure. Let’s go down to my office.”

  As they entered the elevator, Cole noticed Randy’s right hand was badly withered. The fingers were webbed together and came almost to a point at the middle. Randy pushed the B button with his left hand and they began to descend.

  “I’m in the dungeon.”

  “Been there long?” Cole asked good-naturedly.

  “I graduated last year from Humboldt State. Saw this gig in The Journalist and applied. Seems I was the only one, so here I am. It’s cool. Nobody bugs me, and I have the dungeon all to myself. Most of it is the archives. Nobody visits there much since almost everything is on the computers now. So, all in all, it’s pretty cool.”

  As the elevator doors opened, Cole could hear music coming from the right. The “dungeon” was well lit and even a bit on the bright side. As they made their way through a series of gray cloth-covered cubicles, however, Cole noticed the lighting seemed less effective. Then he saw that every other tube was out in the fluorescent lights. As they reached the wall, there were none on at all. In the corner of the room was a long L-shaped table. Six large widescreen monitors faced a tall-backed brown leather executive chair. Three keyboards were waiting between pairs of monitors. Next to each keyboard was a small black disc drive. All the wires were neatly hidden. Curiously absent was any sign of a computer tower.

  “Welcome to my little corner of the world.” Randy beamed and waved his hand, palm up, like Vanna White revealing a completed phrase.

  “Beautiful.”

  “When I got here, there was only an old IBM 386. Nobody had spent any of the budget for computers down here during the furnishing of the new building. My boss was smart enough to know he didn’t have a clue what to order. So he let me do my thing.”

  “Looks really expensive,” Cole offered.

  “See, that’s where I scored brownie points! Instead of buying a bunch of towers and processors and hard drives and stuff that would crash, wear out or get outdated, I had all this wired into the mainframe upstairs with fiber optic cables. They constantly tweak and upgrade, so I don’t have to worry about my stuff having to be replaced. Saved a bundle. What I spent of my budget was on monitors and cool toys. Nobody noticed, they were so pleased that I only spent half of it. Cool, huh?”

  “Very cool.” Cole loved the young man’s enthusiasm.

  “So, what are you looking for?”

  “What have you got on a realtor named Allen Christopher?”

  “Christopher, huh?” Randy said as he started pecking at the keyboard. “You’re the second person in the last couple of weeks to ask about him. What’s the deal? He running for something?”

  “Not that I know of. Who else was looking?”

  “One of the feature writers. She was doing a piece on a survey done of good and bad realtors. Seems his name kept coming up on the bad guy list. That can’t be good for
business.”

  “What? He a crook or something?” Cole was surprised by this revelation. From what Ellie had said, Christopher sounded successful.

  “Seems so...” The computer distracted Randy. “Here you go. Allen Christopher. Sit down; I’ll put it on two.”

  The second monitor stopped swirling small red-white-and-blue peace signs to open on a screen of text.

  “Well, well,” Cole said as he pulled up a chair in front of the monitor.

  “Here,” Randy tossed Cole a mouse. “Cordless and laser.”

  “Thanks. Looks like Mr. Christopher is a busy boy.”

  “That’s what Carrie said. Tell you what, give me a second, and I’ll pull the piece she’s been working on. Can’t tell her, though; I’ll get in hella trouble.”

  The files on Christopher were in three categories: Articles, Unused, and Research. Under Articles, there was a piece from 1992 when he had received a Board of Realtors award. In 1998. his name was mentioned in an investigation of funding for a city program for remodeling homes for the elderly. For August 2000 there was a piece entitled “Realtor Warned about Padding Escrow” and a follow-up stating no formal action had been taken. Nothing after that in the file.

  Research had many filings: fictitious name statements for a couple of businesses, birth announcements, his first wife’s obituary, and his license to wed Ellie. Pretty dull stuff, all in all...except for the obituary of the first wife.

  “His first wife is dead?”

  “O-bit-u-ary. It’s newspaper for dead.” Randy chuckled at his own joke.

  “Slow down, hot rod. What’d she die of?” Cole leaned toward the monitor.

  “Mmmm...looks like a car wreck about—what is that?—13, 14 years ago.” Randy pointed to a line on the screen.

  “Okay, what else you got?”

  The Unused file was mostly drafts of articles about the opening of three real estate offices. A copy for an ad announcing “Welcome of Allen Christopher to our office of highly effective agents” was stamped CANCELLED in red. Cole was growing bored with the press releases, most of which were from Christopher about Christopher. Until the last one caught his eye.

  ﾠ

  “Allen Christopher is proud to announce his association with Malcor Corporation of Fort Lee, New Jersey. Malcor is exploring the relocation to the southeast section of the city. This multi-million dollar project will bring jobs, a new vitality to the area, and will provide a much-needed anchor for further industrial growth in the area.”

  ﾠ

  Cole scanned the rest of the badly written puff piece until he read the last sentence: “Mr. Christopher is actively involved in rezoning the potential factory site.” Why would it need rezoning? Cole thought.

  “Hey, Randy, can you tell what the date is on this last file in Unused?”

  “Looks like it’s about six months old. Need an exact date? I can dig deeper.”

  “No, that’s close enough. Have you got anything on a Malcor Corporation?” As Cole spoke, a file folder appeared and blinked in the middle of the screen. “What’s this?”

  “Carrie’s draft of the real estate story. Please delete it after you read it. I’m checking Malcor—”

  Cole felt like he was reading somebody else’s mail as he skimmed through the article. It was obvious that the writer wasn’t anywhere near finished. She had brackets around sentences and phrases, triple spaced sections, paragraphs in red, and spell check hadn’t been run in a long time, if ever. She was trying to seem edgy without saying anything the paper could get sued over. Christopher was mentioned twice as the Realtor with the Most Negative Responses.

  Cole had seen all he needed.

  “Here you go. It’s not ours. I linked to a news browser that’s like an electronic clipping service. Quite a file.”

  Another folder popped up on Cole’s monitor. The first file was all he needed: “Malcor Mob Ties Once Again Investigated.” Too much money, too few liabilities, and too few projects in the works had the Feds interested. The article painted a picture of a not-too-cleverly concealed attempt by the mob to filter moneys into a legitimate business. They had purchased Malcor seven years before, then sat on it...until that last couple of years, when it suddenly was turning big profits for no apparent reason.

  It’s hard to think legitimate when you are used to breaking the law, so why not move west, find some fresh faces, start some new ventures, and hire some clean managers and a board of directors with no ties to the mob? Smart on the surface, but they never think about the origins of the start-up capital. Gets them every time.

  “Think I got what I need. You’ve got a great resource here. I hope they appreciate your talents.”

  “This is but a stop on the road to riches and fame, Mr. Sage, a stop on the road.” Randy did what he considered a good imitation of a wise old philosopher.

  “So what’s the coolest thing all this stuff can do?”

  “Stand back about six or eight feet and watch!”

  Cole did as instructed. All six of the 26” monitors went black. Like a bolt of hallucinogenic lightning, the screens exploded with color. The music of a soaring rock band backed by a symphony orchestra thundered from in front and behind in response to the visuals; A panorama of ocean waves, birds in flight, aerial views of the Grand Canyon, sailing on San Francisco Bay under the Golden Gate, skydiving toward earth and then zooming out to a shot of Earth from space. The pictures jumped from screen to screen and did synchronized patterns like the water fountain at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. It was astounding!

  Then the monitors all went black again. The silence was almost as deafening as the sound had been.

  “That was amazing!” Cole shouted.

  “Thought you’d like it.” Randy beamed like a kid showing off his new toy—and that’s exactly what he was.

  “Randy, you are a wonder. It has been a real kick meeting you. If you are ever in Chicago, come by The Sentinel and I’ll introduce you to some people. I’m not kidding, we’ve got to get you out of this dungeon.” Cole offered his hand to the young man, remembered Randy’s misshapen one and quickly offered his left. Randy nodded a look of appreciation and shook Cole’s hand firmly.

  “You just might see me someday.”

  “I’ll take that as a promise.” Cole patted Randy’s shoulder. “I’ll let know if I dig up anything of interest.”

  Cole returned to the Palmwood and looked up Allen Christopher in the phone book he found in the desk drawer, scribbling the number and address on a notepad. Tomorrow, he would make a call on Mr. Christopher. As he lay back across the bed, Cole replayed the day’s events in his head. He had covered a lot of ground since he left Chicago, and he was starting to feel the effects. His sadness about Ellie had been masked by their talk and laughter for a while. The best thing to do was get busy finding Erin. He wouldn’t let himself dwell on Ellie’s condition. She was just sick, he told himself, but he knew it was more than that. He had a chance to do something for her, something her husband wouldn’t. He would not let her down.

  SIX

  Cole woke late. Dressed in jeans, a Chicago Blues Festival T-shirt and a Cubs baseball cap, he made his way to the street and walked to the McDonalds on the corner. Two Egg McMuffins later, coffee in hand, he walked back to his car in the Palmwood lot. Cole pulled the address for Allen Christopher from his pocket. To his embarrassment, he realized he had no clue where the location was. He went to the motel office and got a city map from the desk clerk. He followed the map toward 1438 Peppertree Lane.

  As he drove north, he was amazed at the landscape. Where peach trees and grapevines had once lined the road, now were rows and rows of houses. New building was apparent all over the city, but nowhere as dramatic as in the north end. In the few short miles he had driven, the houses he saw had taken over a dozen family-owned farms. He thought of the kids he had known and rode the school bus with, farm kids who always got on the bus wearing the newest styles. They always had the coolest bikes and wore the coolest shoes.
In high school, they proudly wore the royal blue corduroy FFA jackets and took Ag classes. It was assumed they would inherit the farms, grow the peaches, and tend the vineyards. Now the farms were gone. Cole wondered what kind of family history the owners of the earth-toned two-story Tudors and fake ‘40s retro homes presented to the world.

  He stopped at the corner of Tulare and Emmett Roads and marveled at the small shopping center that filled the northeast corner. A small market, video store, take-and-bake pizza, dry cleaner, and a Mexican restaurant sat on the land where his friend Steve had once lived with his aunt and uncle. Old Leo would be spinning in his grave to see what became of his prized orchard of Rio Oso Gem peaches.

  Cole thought back to summers in high school and evenings spent with the Padullas. Uncle Leo would bring fresh peaches from the orchard. He grew an experimental variety that were developed at the University of California at Davis. Designed to be frozen, they were sweet, fleshy fruit with, as Cole remembered, an exaggerated peach taste. The thing he would never forget, though, was the size. Aunt Rosa once ran to the copper-toned refrigerator, took out a cantaloupe, and laid it on the table next to a peach. They were the same size. Every night during peach season, the family would gather after dinner and cut a giant peach in half, peel it, and put a single scoop of vanilla ice cream in the cavernous hole left by the pit. Cole’s mouth actually watered at the memory.

  He also recalled how Rosa was always reading a book when he’d come in. Cole’s strongest image of Rosa was the day they came in as she was reading The Godfather. He could see the slightly bent Italian lady, arms waving, dentures slipping, spit flying, telling how the Mafia in Sicily had threatened her father’s brother and somebody-or-other, and that’s why they had come to America. “La Cosa Nostra, La Cosa Nostra,” she repeated over and over throughout the story. She was absolutely convinced that the story of the Corleone family was a thinly disguised account of a real Mafia family in New York that was still looking for her descendants who had escaped Sicily by the grace of Saint Teresa.