“Excellent,” said Ricardo. “I’ll pass this along to Winona and wait for your call.”
We hung up and I went home to bed.
* * * *
First thing in the morning, I called Bartelmes. There was no answer. On a hunch I looked up Pres Pederson in the phone book. There still are such things, although the proliferation of telephone services makes any one of the several available books no longer complete. Then you have all these cell phones with no book at all. But Pederson had a business and an office and a listing. He was in.
“Mr. Pederson, this is Sean Sean, the detective.”
“Yes. How can I help you?” He sounded a lot more polite in his business persona.
“I’m trying to reach either your son-in-law or daughter. It’s a matter of some urgency. They didn’t answer at home.”
“I think they’ve both gone to the storage facility in Maplewood. Something about a possible break-in last night.”
“Damn! Do you have that address?” He did and read it to me. I dropped the phone and left the office, headed for Maplewood.
Half an hour later I stood amongst cops and storage company workers in front of a large compartment in one of those ubiquitous facilities you see from almost every highway. We seem to be accumulating more and more stuff we won’t discard, and sharp entrepreneurs have appeared to provide storage for our belongings. Personally, if there’s no room for it in my house, there’s no room for it in my life. So I have traded, sold or given away a lot of things for which I have had no further use. So far, no regrets, either.
Josie and Tod were there. I had talked my way through the tall chain link and barbed wire security fence by verbally dancing with the guy in the office, and found them looking with joint consternation into the large compartment. It was filled almost to overflowing. There was a lot of furniture, some of it overturned, an old-fashioned bureau, its drawers pulled out and two upturned on the floor. A cracked mirror lay on its side. Bent picture frames in an untidy stack spilled onto the floor beside the overhead door.
“What do we have?” I asked.
“It looks like theft and vandalism,” said Josie, a tremor in her voice.
“What’s missing?”
“We haven’t checked thoroughly ’cause we’re waiting for more police. Detectives, I guess. But I can see all our diving gear is gone. It’s all replaceable, of course, but it represents a lot of money.” Tod sighed and scratched his arm. Then he looked down. “I’ve got to get this rash cleared up or I won’t be able to dive even if we get to the island this fall.”
“Any other units broken into?”
Josie looked at me and shook her head. “No. So this is probably another incident designed to keep us from going back to the South Pacific.”
“Both a warning and a delay.”
Tod grimaced. “Somebody doesn’t want us to go back to Yap.”
“I think that’s it exactly,” I said. “The question is why. If we knew that, we’d probably know who. Do you know when this break-in happened?”
“The storage people called us early this morning. I guess somebody drives around the place every so often. Daily. They noticed the lock on the overhead door was damaged.”
“When was the last time you were here?”
Josie wrinkled her brow and said, “A week ago, I think. There’s no reason to come until we need the diving gear.”
“Could the person who did this have been looking for records? Where do you keep the research you’ve been doing? All the stuff people are sending you?”
Tod started to tell me when the Maplewood squad car showed up behind us, and the Bartelmes had to go through an extensive interview.
Half an hour later the cops departed with all their forms properly filled in. Tod watched them go. “They don’t seem hopeful.”
“Non-violent burglaries are not a high priority. I’m surprised they didn’t let the uniforms handle it. Let’s go back to the questions I asked when the cops showed up.”
“We keep all the records in a climate-controlled room here. It’s a separate building.” He waved toward a squat concrete block building at the end of the aisle. “The room we have there hasn’t been touched. Do you think they were looking for the files?”
In answer, I said, “I called around to find out why the train was delayed in Winona. There was a death. An old man was found beside the platform after the train pulled out, so the train was stopped.” I positioned myself so I could watch their faces. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure yet that my clients were clean in this affair.
“That’s terrible,” said Josie.
Tod stared at me. “You said an old man. Could that have been . . . ?” His voice trailed off.
I nodded. “The man was the right age but he didn’t have any identification on him. And there’s one other thing.” There was no easy way to say this. “He was murdered.” Josie’s face went white, and her mouth opened and closed. Tod swayed and reached out to clutch his wife’s arm.
“My God,” he whispered. “It must be Mr. Lewis. Is that possible?”
“I think it’s likely. Anything else would be too coincidental. I gave the police that lead and they’ll run it down. If you have an address or a telephone number for Lewis, we should get it to the Winona Police right away.
“There’s another thing,” I continued. “If this is the right person, he was traveling very light. According to my source, they haven’t found a wallet, an overnight bag or a suitcase, and there are no papers.”
Tod stared at me. “So?”
“If it is your Stan Lewis, and he was bringing you some old World War Two records, they’re gone.”
Josie looked at Tod and her face crumpled. I could see Tod slumping slightly. This information was a real blow to them. I concluded my clients were not perpetrators of these crimes. I handed Tod a piece of paper with the number for the Winona police department. “You need to call them with anything you can tell them about Lewis. I’ve asked a friend to let me know as soon as the identification is made.” I was satisfied. If Tod or Josie had prior knowledge of the murder of the man in Winona, their acting was remarkable.
Chapter 6
Before I left the Bartelmes, I learned they weren’t sure how much information Stan Lewis from St. Louis had been bringing to Minnesota. He’d remained suspicious enough I thought it worth a shot to get in touch with the St. Louis police to suggest they check out the old man’s residence.
I did this through Ricardo. I knew a call from some unknown PI in Minnesota wouldn’t get much attention, especially since the murder of the as-yet-unidentified old man off the train had happened a long way from their jurisdiction.
Only an hour later, around noon, Ricardo called back to tell me he talked to a detective in St. Louis, who did a search of 911 calls and learned there had been an apparent burglary at an apartment in the city. The address was listed to a Stanley Lewis. When the cops broke down the door, his place had been thoroughly trashed. It appeared, Ricardo related, that the break-in had happened about the time Stan was arriving in Chicago. The St. Louis cops had put the burglary down to somebody looking for drugs or fenceable items. It was impossible to tell, without the owner’s help, whether anything was missing.
I called the Bartelmes with the news. “Here’s what I think,” I said to Tod. “Since there was no wallet and no papers found with the body, you need to reach out right away to your contacts in the vets group to find out anything you can about Stan and what documents he may have had. Maybe it’s already too late and the papers are gone from his apartment, but everything you’ve told me about him so far suggests he may have had a more secure storage place, like a safe deposit box in a bank. That poses problems in itself, but not insurmountable ones. Meanwhile, you may be able to locate a source of copies of whatever Mr. Lewis was bringing you.”
“Got it. I’ll get on our email list right away and see what I can learn.”
“Try to be discreet. The rest of your group doesn’t need to know Lewis was murdered. At least, not just yet. And one other thing, Tod.”
“What’s that?”
“You need to consider that you and Josie are now targets.”
“What?”
“If Stan Lewis was murdered for the papers he was carrying, whoever did this may figure you and your wife also have information dangerous to them. You and Josie ought to review everything you can think of that relates to your contacts with Mr. Lewis. Try to recall what he knew about you two and what you’ve told others. And try not to go anywhere alone. I don’t want to frighten you—”
“You’re certainly starting to,” Tod said.
“Well, I’m sorry, but just be careful and keep track of any odd or unusual contacts. Something’s going on here, and it’s going to take me some time to figure it out.”
I hung up the phone. I didn’t tell Tod to stay out of dark alleys. I figured that wasn’t anywhere in his experience or future. I went to my file of out-of-town investigators. Many private operators developed professional contacts across the country. I used mine, sometimes paying a fee, other times returning local service where called for. My rolodex revealed I had a years-old contact with a St. Louis area code. I called the number, but it was not in service. I tried Ricardo Simon to see if he knew anybody there. He wasn’t in. So then I dialed a local investigator to whom I usually referred divorce cases.
The guy I wanted was in and he had an active contact in St. Louis. With that reference, I called Carl Wisnewsky. He was also in and knew my original contact who, he informed me, had died in bed of nothing more suspicious than natural causes. He agreed for a reasonable fee to look into the Stan Lewis burglary case. I added Carl to my rolodex.
I explained that by now the cops in St. Louis would have heard from Winona and elevated the case to something more than simple burglary. There was no heavy lifting here. I only wanted whatever the cops would let go. He rang off, and I went to my computer to make notes on what I had so far.
Even with my rudimentary understanding of computer systems and the Internet, I was slowly becoming more dependent on the machine for keeping track of case notes and my business. Two things worried me: loss of notes in the mysterious ether of cyberspace, through my ineptitude or a breakdown of the silicon inside the machine, or loss by some thug stealing the machine or its memory. I protected myself against theft by making copies of my notes on those plastic discs called CDs. I taught myself how to use that recording program. Those copies I kept in various secret places, just as I had with paper records. I couldn’t do anything about machine problems and I still flinched every time the lights in my office building flickered due to some sudden surge or drain on the electrical system.
Now, as I organized my memories of the people and events of this case of Yap, questions came flooding in. This was a not-uncommon circumstance early on. I didn’t yet know all the players well enough to decide whether they were Godless or on the side of the angels.
The telephone rang. Enter Gary Anderson. He was calling, he said, from his office in downtown Minneapolis. It was, I knew, on the umpty-umpth floor of one of the newer towers growing up like spring weeds around the metropolitan core. I could remember as a child in Minnesota, the tallest building in the city was the Foshay Tower, and in St. Paul, the First National Bank building. Now there were towers taller and more spectacular all over the place, although St. Paul seemed determined to avoid overshadowing the big red number one on top of the bank building.
“We were unable to talk privately at the Bartelmes the other day,” he said. “A good deal’s happened since and I wonder if I might impose on you to meet me today.”
“Sure,” I said. “I could come to your office in about an hour or so.”
“Hmm. I wonder if we could meet for lunch? There’s a nice quiet little place near here. Say, eleven-thirty?” He mentioned a name.
“That’s fine. I know the place.”
Interesting, I thought as I replaced the hand set in its cradle. He wants to meet but maybe he doesn’t want to be seen with me at his office. Lawyer Anderson was known for his discretion. He was also known in some legal gossip circles as someone who skated close to the edge of the ethical cliff from time to time. His primary focus was manipulation of financial assets for the benefit of his well-off clients and for himself, naturally.
The restaurant, on a short side street in the middle of downtown, had no connection to the skyway system. It was not a place where the up-and-coming young hustlers in the financial or other commercial trades in the city went to see and be seen. This was a small, quiet restaurant with an excellent chef and a highly discreet waitstaff. An awning over the sidewalk sheltered the single street door, but the awning was plain and there was no elaborate lettering on the front window. No lettering on the window at all. The lettering on the door simply gave the street number, which was repeated on the matte black letter-box slot in the wall beside the door.
Inside, the hostess, a well-set-up woman of middling years with a calm demeanor, eyed me as I stepped through the door.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said. Then she waited, looking down at me.
She didn’t ask if she could help or be of service. These were not on her agenda.
“I’m meeting Mr. Gary Anderson,” I said. “Perhaps he called?”
“Right this way, sir.”
She wheeled smartly about, her shoulder-length, straight, ash-blonde hair swinging aside, and led me around the panel that blocked my view of the interior. I had to stretch to keep pace, my legs being shorter than hers. I didn’t want to trot, did I?
We passed eight tables, four on the left and four on the right. The blonde hostess stopped at a ninth at the very back, not too far from a door that led, I presumed, to the kitchen and probably certain sanitary facilities as well. Each table, I noted in passing, was laid with a white cloth, cloth napkins, silverware, and wine and water glasses.
I took the chair she pulled for me, so I sat with my back to the room. She left my side and a waiter materialized with a pitcher of water, which he generously shared with me. He also inquired if I wanted a drink. I declined, refraining from requesting a bottle of Bud, just to see what his reaction would be.
The tall, stork-like Gary Anderson, his eyes alight with mischief and with his large hand already extended, walked around the table, waving me down and sank into the chair opposite.
“No trouble finding it, I see,” he said. The waiter repeated his routine, and Anderson ordered a dry martini with a twist. “Not drinking this noon?”
“I usually wait until later in the day unless the job calls for it,” I said. “And my recollection is that the drinks here are substantial.”
Anderson raised his eyebrows. I imagine he was wondering if I was a regular or how frequently I had been here. He had no way of knowing, of course, except that he’d never seen me here. I was not going to enlighten him. I assumed we were engaged in some sort of game to either impress me or frighten me into getting lost, or perhaps into proving my mettle.
I knew a good deal about Mr. Gary Anderson, attorney at law. I had clients, regular clients, who could buy and sell him several times over. That I preferred to hang about with middle- and other-class folks didn’t mean I couldn’t and didn’t make my occasional way in more rarefied circles. I even knew how to find Deephaven, should I ever need to do so.
“I appreciate the lunch invitation, Mr. Anderson. How may I be of service?” Unlike the hostess, whom I could hear behind me seating other guests, I was anxious to get down to the meat of the matter. I figured if I kept a light pressure on, Mr. Attorney Anderson might not only reveal his agenda, but a few other choice tidbits as well. I’m always willing to receive choice tidbits.
H
e smiled, nodded at someone I couldn’t see, and said, “Let’s order, shall we? I understand the broiled salmon is quite good today.” Then he proceeded to do exactly that, having downed half his martini. For both of us. He didn’t order the broiled salmon. Instead we had cold smoked salmon steaks with a small boiled potato and a crisp arugula salad combined with a light balsamic and oil dressing and half a thinly sliced tomato. It was a dynamite lunch and I said so. He airily waved the compliment away. I got the impression he might not have known the difference if the salad was limp iceberg and the salmon was hard and dry, which it certainly wasn’t.
He had another dry martini, and I had another glass of water. He took a sip and got down to business, speaking just loudly enough so I could hear him over the other conversations in the room.
Chapter 7
As I’m sure you are aware, Mr. . . . Sean, I have had the privilege of serving the Pederson financial interests for some time, and more recently those of Tod and Josie Bartelme,” Gary began. “Even though neither of the Bartelmes has the kind of investment resources our firm normally deals with, we are happy to be assisting Mr. Pederson’s daughter to realize a comfortable retirement.”
“I assume there’s some depletion of those resources going on at the moment.”
“Indeed, you assume correctly. This near obsession of Josie’s to locate her clearly deceased granduncle Amundson is not only taking up a considerable amount of time, it’s now eating into the family retirement resources.”
“You needn’t go into the details, but I am curious as to why you are telling me this,” I said, taking another sip of water.
“I decided it would be wise for you to be in the picture, so to speak, in order for you to better understand current family dynamics. Ordinarily an outsider like yourself wouldn’t have this kind of access. I’m aware that Tod and Josie have already talked rather freely, which is their right, of course.”
The Case of the Yellow Diamond Page 4
