Yeah, their right, and Anderson didn’t approve. I could tell.
“Mr. Pederson, out of his not inconsiderable resources, largely financed the first two expeditions to the South Pacific,” he continued. “After Tod established the website and they made contact with veterans groups around the nation, and word of their quest got out, some contributions came in. They got a lot more requests for information than they did money, unfortunately. A few people even asked if they could hitchhike along. It is hard to imagine why there seems to be so much interest in this project. There are others, of course. Relatives and historical groups are always looking for missing pieces and as I’m sure you’re aware, there are still a considerable number of unrecovered remains from that war.”
I agreed he was correct and had some more water. Anderson’s empty martini glass had been replaced with a full one. The alcohol he was imbibing had no discernable effect on his speech, and he still leaned confidentially over the table at me. His hands and arms made no histrionic gestures. All in all, it was a pretty good performance.
“Well, as you can understand, after the first two trips, which inevitably cost more than budgeted and resulted in little significant additional information, some of those investing time and money assumed that would be the end of it.” He grimaced. “We misjudged the depth of Josie’s interest and her husband’s support. They both became a bit obsessive. When her father expressed reluctance to finance further trips, they directed me to begin to sell off their investments in order to pay for the trip this fall. Neither her father nor their advisors were pleased with the idea. Nor was the rest of the family, most of whom take a certain proprietary interest in the family fortunes.
“The situation’s getting out of hand. Frankly, Mr. . . . Sean, you’re an added expense no one expected. Now we have an apparent murder.” He spread his hands.
“I take it you’d like me to butt out,” I said coarsely. I wondered what his source for the death of Stan Lewis was, but I didn’t ask.
“Correct. It appears to us the law enforcement people are capable of handling these recent and most distressing developments. I’m prepared to pay you for your time and expenses up to now, plus a generous bonus. All you have to do is reject Tod’s request.”
“What do you suggest I tell him?”
Anderson shrugged. “I don’t care. Tell him you have a conflict. Tell him your workload is too heavy. Suggest he wants help you don’t know how to provide. It really doesn’t matter.”
Actually, it would matter, if I cared about my business. So, after a nice lunch and some sweet water, I was being offered my walking papers. I told Mr. Anderson I’d think about his suggestion, and I wouldn’t charge anything for the time I spent thinking, nor for the time we spent at lunch. I also mentioned he could expect to hear from me by the end of the day, barring unforeseen circumstances.
“Thank you, Mr. . . . Sean. I was sure you’d be reasonable in this matter. Please call me at this number with your decision.” He slid a business card across the white tablecloth to me. It had a number printed on it by hand. I saw right away it was not his office number. So, I thought. He wants to keep things as far away from his regular business as possible. Perhaps he doesn’t want his partners and associates to know about this at all. Now why would that be?
DeLoite, Anderson, Martin, and Norton was a well-known and respected firm. No serious scandal had ever attached itself to them, although they had a reputation for aggressive courtroom tactics and preferred financial clients who lined up on the riskier side of the investment equation. So what was this attempt to separate me from the Bartelme affair all about?
That was a question for another time. I took the card, rose from my chair and nodded to Mr. Anderson. He didn’t respond as I turned and walked back toward the front of the restaurant. It was noteworthy that, like my previous visits, no one at the other tables even glanced my way. I knew telephones and small office cabals would remark that day that lawyer Gary Anderson had been seen at lunch with a small man almost no one could identify by name. I was sure most of those who did know me by name would not be eager to reveal it.
As a private investigator, private was my stock in trade. It was what I emphasized. I avoided getting my name in the papers. Building a reputation as discreet and anonymous was important to what I did. And I was good at what I did. When I cracked a case, even a big case, sometimes involving prominent people, they often got their names in the news. Not me. So I would remain a mystery to most of those whom I passed in that restaurant. Good deal.
* * * *
I’d told Anderson I’d think about his offer. His slimy offer. I wasn’t going to accept it, but I sat at my desk and considered it, because there might be clues there to what was going on in this case. I still couldn’t figure out why anyone would care about an obscure attempt by ordinary Minnesotans to locate the grave of a relative killed in the Pacific Ocean. Now I had a lawyer, part of the family support system, presumably, trying to buy me off. One of the other pins on which a PI rested his professional life was his perceived integrity. I liked mine, and I was going to keep it.
The murder of veteran Stan Lewis while he was presumably bringing information to the Bartelmes was more than a little worrisome as well. These two recent events combined with the sabotage that was on the rise said somebody was upset about Tod and Josie’s search efforts. I was going to have to talk with them again about abandoning their quest altogether or at least persuade them to employ a little personal security. It would not be a fun talk and I knew it had to be face to face.
I called the Bartelme residence and learned they’d both be available that evening. I’d barely hung up the phone when my man in Saint Louis was on the horn.
“It’s definite a search of Lewis’s apartment was made about the time he was on the train to Saint Paul ,” my contact told me. “The police are also sure the place was ripped up to conceal a thorough search for something.”
“How thorough was the search?”
“Interesting you should ask that. Very. For example, grates on the heating ducts were pulled off. The searchers replaced the duct covers, but it was obvious they’d all been removed. Tracks in the dust confirmed it. The other thing is that usually you can tell when a search stops. The searchers just quit, and there are signs where they stopped. Not in this case.”
“Which means we can be confident they didn’t find what they were looking for or they wanted to conceal that the break-in was for a purpose other than finding saleable stuff.”
“Exactly. These were not your ordinary street-level, smash-and-grab boys. They were smart, thorough and careful. I don’t know what you have going up there in Minnesota, and I’m not sure I want to know.”
“I get your point,” I said. “We seem to be bumping up against a fairly sophisticated operation. Thanks for your help. Send me a bill.”
We concluded our connection and I went home, thinking hard. There appeared to be considerably more layers to this case.
Chapter 8
That evening I decided I needed to know a good deal more about Yap Island and its place in the grand scheme of things back in the forties. So I went to the library and then I went to the Internet to do some research.
The next morning I called my good friend and main squeeze, Catherine Mckerney.
“Say, fella,” she said, “I’m missing you a good deal here. What’s going on?”
“A case, of course. One filled with murky details, sexy broads, pricey jewels, gold bars, murder, mayhem, and the usual list of questions with few or misleading answers. I spent last evening at the library and I think I may be more confused than when I started.”
“Sounds to me like we should have an evening in and discuss things,” she said, putting into words what I realized I was subconsciously hoping to hear. I sometimes discussed elements of my cases, when Catherine was willing. Gave me a different per
spective, and sometimes good answers.
“That’d be fabulous,” I purred. “I’ll arrive in time to mix a pitcher of Sangria. Or maybe some exotic kind of hot-climate libation.”
She chuckled in my ear. “I love it when you talk dirty to me. See you later, lover.”
But it was not to be. Not that evening. There was a shooting that afternoon. I got the call from a frantic Tod Bartelme.
“Can you come right away? Calvin’s in the hospital. He’s been shot.” Tod let out a single large sob and struggled to go on. “We’re at St. John’s East. Know where that is?”
Regrettably, I did. I had made it my business to know the best routes to every hospital in the area. I got in my car and tore east, bypassing a couple of lakes in my way, and made it to the hospital in record time. No police squads hampered my run. In the Intensive Care section of the relatively new facility, I found both Josie and Tod in a state of shock, restlessly waiting for news from the doctors who were somewhere behind the swinging doors to the operating suites. They paced across the small waiting alcove.
Josie looked terrible. Her eyes were puffy, and tears left silvery tracks on her pale cheeks. She was casually dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans. She wore her brown topsiders without socks. Her hands trembled, and the wad of tissue she held was quickly succumbing to the picking of her restless fingers.
Tod had obviously rushed to the hospital from work. His conservative suit was rumpled, and he’d yanked his tie down and opened the collar of his shirt. He kept running his fingers through his already messy brown hair.
“Tell me what happened,” I demanded. “Everything you can remember. Have the cops been notified?”
Josie gulped, wiped her nose and took a deep breath to try to calm herself. We stared at each other. “I was home. Calvin and some of the neighborhood kids were swimming and fooling around on the beach. Our beach.”
“We collaborated with the neighbors on either side to make kind of a swimming area with a small diving platform,” Tod muttered.
“It’s a float. We anchor it about twenty feet off the beach so the water’s deep enough for diving. The diving board’s only six feet off the water,” Josie said. She waved one hand and dropped a tissue. “Anyway, they were taking turns cannonballing off the board, you know?”
I nodded. I knew what that was. Cannonballing, a common lake activity, especially for young and vital teens, had you run off the board, tuck knees and arms and make a great splash, usually near some friends. If you did it right, the wave was big, and the water stung your back just a little when you hit it. Whooping and hollering were usually part of the act.
“So when Calvin went up and jumped off, he hit the water sort of funny, more stretched out,” Josie said. “That’s what Jeff told us. Jeff Brooks. He’s the next-door neighbor. Nice kid. Anyway, Jeff said Calvin surfaced but he didn’t roll over or swim or anything. First they thought he was faking it. Calvin was drowning.” She swallowed some air and Tod put his arm around her again, turning her face into his shoulder. Josie let him hold her for a moment then she pushed away. “One of the boys grabbed Calvin and rolled him over. He wasn’t breathing.” Josie began to sob then, leaning over at the waist. Her knees bent as if she couldn’t stand any longer.
Tod put his hands on her shoulders again and eased her back onto the sofa. He sank down beside her and ran one arm across her shoulders, squeezing gently. He took a deep breath and continued the story, “We don’t know how close to death he came. Too damn close, anyway. When they pulled him ashore and started CPR, one of the boys noticed blood on his shoulder, and there was a hole in the skin.” He shook his head. “Apparently nobody heard a shot. What kind of fool shoots off a gun in a place like that? It’s insane.”
None of us noticed the silent approach of a doctor in rumpled pale blue surgicals with yellow booties until she was right next to us. I didn’t see any blood on her scrubs. She pulled her mask down and said. “You’re the Bartelmes?”
Tod acknowledged they were. There was a minute pause as if we were all afraid to continue. Finally, Tod stood and said. “How’s Calvin? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine, and he should fully recover, physically.” The doctor nodded. “A small-caliber bullet penetrated his shoulder and exited just above the scapula, the big bone that makes the wing on the back. He’s very lucky. The bullet missed major arteries and did very little damage to the muscles in his shoulder and back. With proper therapy, he’ll be fine. There’s no bone damage at all.”
I looked at the doctor. She glanced at me and then in a lower voice said, “I recommend Calvin have some counseling after he recovers some. Being shot, even with minimal damage, can be very traumatic.”
“You’ve notified the police, I assume,” I said.
“Of course. They’ll be here any time now for your statement. It’s required with all gunshot wounds, even accidental ones.” The physician looked at Josie and then back at me. I could see she was wondering about my role in this.
“Can we see him?” asked Josie.
“Of course. He’s not yet out of the anesthetic, but he’ll wake up in a little while. You can sit with him.” The doctor turned to lead the Bartelmes to recovery.
I took Tod’s arm, and we lagged a step behind. “You aren’t sure this was an accident, are you,” I murmured.
He turned his head and said in a low voice, “That’s why I called you. With everything that’s happened, I just want the rest of us to be safe.”
I nodded. “I’ll check it out. But I better not stay. Is the house open?”
“Yes. Somebody is there pretty much all the time.” He turned to go and I heard an undertone in his voice that suggested he wasn’t entirely happy with some of his guests.
I slowed and let them get a step or two ahead. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Bartelme.” The doctor’s head came up. She was going to mention me to the cops. Josie didn’t look back. The trio disappeared down the wide hall and through a door to the recovery wing. Across the room an elevator dinged and two uniformed officers appeared. I nodded at them and headed for the stairs. In the ground floor lobby I found two quarters in my pocket and went to the bank of phones hanging on one wall. It was a small bank. The proliferation of cell phones has reduced the need for public pay phones in hospitals and other buildings by quite a bit.
I left a quick message for Catherine that I was delayed and not to wait dinner. I also mentioned I was looking forward to some pillow talk a little later. Then I beat it out of there. I needed to get to Bartelmes’ without delay. In the car I made a couple of quick notes on my conversation with Tod and Josie and drove to their home. When I pulled up and parked, the neighborhood seemed unnaturally quiet. The air was still and hot. The last time I was in that driveway I recalled I’d been able to hear the sounds of suburbia: a distant mower, kids, birds, and dogs. Now it seemed as if there was a collective pause, a silence while the neighborhood waited to learn Calvin’s fate. Maybe it was just me.
“He’s going to be fine,” I said. Then I said it a little louder, maybe to persuade myself, maybe I was trying to reassure the fence, or the garage, or the birds in the bushes. I wasn’t sure, but I said it again, firmly, out loud. A tiny breeze stirred the lilac bush beside the fence where Calvin had met me. I pushed through the gate and walked around the house to find three people on the deck clutching tall drinks. They looked like rum. The drinks did.
Alvin Pederson was closest, standing beside a small mobile bar loaded with the makings of various cocktails. He was about to add ice to a depleted drink when I appeared.
Farther along, sprawled primly in a chaise was his wife, Maxine. Her glass was empty except for what appeared to be a dark straw. She smiled and did one of those things with her shoulders that women know how to do. It made her thin blue blouse gap wider in front. She didn’t appear to be wearing a bra. When she smiled up at me as I advanced
up the steps, I deduced that she’d been drinking. Her look had that almost-focused gaze of too much booze too fast or on an empty stomach.
The third porch squatter was a man I had barely met at the last rendezvous, Richard Hillier. Although we weren’t personally acquainted, I knew a few things about him. He had been associated with Preston Pederson for many years. From what I’d gathered so far, he was an untitled bag man, an associate unafraid to get his hands dirty should that be necessary. He was big, maybe two hundred fifty pounds on a wide, heavy-boned frame. In his day, he would have been a fearsome adversary. But his day was gone on the wings of time, too much drink, rich fatty foods, and not enough exercise. Even so, he could probably wipe the floor with me. If he could catch me.
He turned his face toward me silently and then, with a certain deliberation, raised his glass to his lips. He wore a pair of dark aviator-style sunglasses that effectively concealed his eyes. Cool, very cool.
“Tod and Josie aren’t here,” Pederson said, adding an ice cube to his glass. He didn’t bother to use tongs.
“I know,” I said. “I just came from the hospital.”
Chapter 9
Hillier raised one eyebrow and looked at me. “So you know about Calvin being shot.”
“I’m here to check out the circumstances.” I paused by Mrs. Pederson’s chaise and ogled her bosom for a second.
“What’s the point of that?” whined her husband. “What can you do about some neighbor nutcase firing off a gun?”
I didn’t make the obvious response that there were some unanswered questions, such as where, who, and why. More than just some, actually. “Detecting is what I do,” I said. I thought I was being satisfactorily obscure. I allowed my mouth to curve slightly in a somewhat enigmatic smile. I thought it was, anyway.
“If you need a guide around the place, I’ll be happy to oblige,” said Maxine. She put out her hand for help rising from the couch. Since I was closest, it seemed only polite I offer her my hand.
The Case of the Yellow Diamond Page 5
