The bartender, a tall chick with red-and-blue streaked hair, a nice figure and a pleasant smile, was right there to take my order for three drafts. We all chose Miller.
“Sure would be good to taste a Hamm’s again,” I said, nodding at a faded Hamm’s Beer sign above the back bar. I was shameless when necessary. I’d never in my life seen a Hamm’s Beer, much less tasted one.
Abe smirked and took a long swallow that disposed of most of the contents of his glass in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Tommy shook his head, saluted me with his glass and poured a goodly portion down his gullet. He smiled with satisfaction.
“So, what can we do for ya, young fella?” he asked quietly.
“I’m a private detective. I’m doing a little research on Pres Pederson’s old man, Derek, and his construction company. I turned up your names on a short list of employees back in the fifties and sixties.”
“Yep. And if I ask you what this is all about, you’re gonna say its confidential and you can’t talk about it, right?” He took another drink from his glass and shifted on the stool. Abe was grinning at me over Tommy’s big shoulder. “An’ then you’re gonna say it’s nothing special and not to worry, nobody’s going to get messed up or nothing, right?”
I stared at Tommy.
Abe punched Tommy on the shoulder and chortled. “You been readin’ those detective novels again, aintcha, Tommy?”
“You don’t say,” I said, sipping my own beer. “Who do you read? I’m sort of partial to Shel Scott, myself.”
“I like this guy in Florida, Hiaasen? And there’s this Crider fellow down in Texas. He tells a pretty good western sort of story.”
So we spent a few minutes comparing notes on the detective stories we’d read. He didn’t know about James Burke, so I wrote down the name for him. Then we got around to something real. To Preston Pederson.
The boys told me a lot of tales that might or might not have been true, or partly true. Or partly legend. Both men had a good time reliving a stronger, more pleasant past that might have lost or gained something over the passage of time.
“So did anything ever happen that seemed odd or different, back then?”
Tommy shrugged and gestured for another beer. But Abe looked thoughtful and then he nudged his buddy. “You remember when Pres cleaned out the office that time?”
Tommy grinned and said, “Oh, yeah. He’d been on us about not keeping the site clean. I don’t remember exactly when it was. But Pres, he got kinda ticked at the old man, so late one day he grabs a broom and starts tearing around and cleaning up the trailer we had on the site. It was somewhere over by Phalen, I think.
“Anyways we kinda got in the spirit of things and helped him. We threw out a bunch of stuff and swept the floors and sh—stuff like that.”
Abe nodded and picked up the thread. He got a big smile on his face. “The old man showed up the next morning, and it was pretty good until he found that old cruddy box in the corner was gone. Well, we couldn’t remember if it had been thrown out with the rest of the trash. There was never nothin’ in it, I ’member, except mebby some coarse gravel or pebbles in the corners. Some other trash. You know.”
“Gravel,” I said.
“Yeah, the old man grabbed Pres, and they went out to where we had dumped the trash. He wouldn’t let us help, but he was swearing a blue streak. They went through that big pile of stuff for a long time and got kinda dirty in the bargain.”
Tommy burped softly and said, “I never found out what they were looking for. Maybe nothing? Anyway, after that we never cleaned up the trailer, ever again.”
After that, the conversation wound down. Tommy and Abe weren’t up to a long night of beer drinking and tale telling anymore, although it was clear they still had memories and faint hopes. I hung in until they both called it a night. Then I put the boys in a cab and sent them two blocks to their retirement home.
Gravel. Pebbles in St. Louis and gravel in Saint Paul. We were still a long way from Yap.
Chapter 16
Preston Pederson didn’t fit my new image of him. Of course, we’d already met at his daughter’s house in our initial confrontation. I know, we didn’t have hard words or anything, but it had felt like a certain contest of wills started there. Then there was that image called up by Tommy and Abe of Pres Pederson as a youngster with ready fists and a hardscrabble background in his dad’s hardhat construction operation. I’d had a pretty good look at Tommy’s hands during our barroom conversation. Along with the inroads of age and arthritis, Tommy’s left was missing the tip of the little finger, and he had favored the left when he hoisted his beer glass. The light glistened off the slick scar tissue on the back of his hand, a hand that had seen hard use.
Now, I eased into a comfortable side chair across from Pederson in his well-appointed inner sanctum. It had taken quite an effort to get in here. And I had an appointment. I arrived at the appropriate time to find I had to work my way through three layers of attendants. Harder even than reaching the inner workings of my favorite firm of legal eagles, Harcourt, Bryce, St. Martin, St. Martin, et cetera.
I wasn’t clear what, exactly, those attendants did here at Pederson Construction and Investments, Incorporated. But they were nice eye candy. So was the place. Long hallways with rich wooden paneling, plush carpet, subdued activity, everything one would expect in a nice, successful Midwestern firm. So why did the faint odor of decay or something like it reach my bullshit detector?
Preston Pederson’s corner office in a Saint Paul office building that overlooked Mears Park was as comfortable and tasteful as the maze of offices and hallways I’d just been conducted through. “Good to see you again, Sean,” Pederson hazarded. “I hope your investigation is proceeding well?” We’d shaken hands briefly. His was still hard, a reminder of his construction background.
“Well enough, I’d say.” I adjusted the creases in my pants so the knees wouldn’t bag. Then I crossed my legs and grinned at him. “Nice digs you have here. I expect your dad would be quite proud, considering the construction trailer he usually worked out of.”
“I understand. You’ve been checking me out. All of us, I suppose. Nobody can be completely anonymous anymore, what with the Internet and ever-more-sophisticated means of examining the private lives and backgrounds of just about anyone. Right? Even you, Mr. Sean.”
I nodded. “Even me. I’d give you the standard rundown, but I bet I wouldn’t be telling you things you don’t know.”
“Fascinating woman, Catherine Mckerney. It happens there may have been a connection there.” He waved one hand, palm out in a casual fashion, barely lifting his wrist from the desk. “Oh, nothing sinister, I assure you. Investments, you know.” His smile was a trifle wolfish, I thought.
“I’m talking to just about everyone with any connection to the case, however remote,” I said. “Things are a little more complicated, though, with the murder of that gentleman from St. Louis.”
“Murder.” Pederson’s eyebrows flew up, practically all the way to his hairline. “I hadn’t heard. Can you tell me anything about it?”
So I told him about the murder of man on the train from St. Louis, a veteran of the Second World War who was on his way to see Tod and Josie about their search for Richard Amundson.
Pederson didn’t waste any sympathy on the dead vet. “Did this Lewis fellow know Amundson?”
“Don’t have an answer to that. Did you?”
“What?”
“Know your uncle?” I hadn’t worked out the relative ages. Pederson was certainly alive during the war.
“Er, no, I don’t think I did. His family lived in Wisconsin. Near Madison, if I recall. But this Lewis, what do we know about him?”
I related what I knew, at least, everything I thought would interest Pederson. I somehow neglected to mention the res
ults of my active inquiries in St. Louis. He would likely be very interested in those facts, but I wasn’t ready to lay out all my cards to the man. By now I was forming a little theory of this case, and it tentatively pointed to Pederson as the possible thorn in the ointment. Or the burr under Tod’s saddle. Why that would be was another question. Because I figured if Pederson just withdrew his financial support, some others would follow. That would most likely end his daughter’s quest. Maybe Pederson was afraid of alienating his daughter so he was using this underhanded method of torpedoing the quest. Family dynamics were always convoluted and frequently hard to sort out, which was one reason I didn’t do divorces. Give me a nice clean street robbery or random serial killer any time.
Anyway, he seemed to maintain an active interest in my tales. “I take it this detective in Winona hasn’t any real leads.”
“That’s true, but they’ll continue to investigate. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
“In fact, they don’t have any information to connect this man to either Josie or my son-in-law. Correct?”
“Right, although the cops know he was on his way to see Tod and Josie. He hadn’t traveled anywhere outside St. Louis in the past dozen years—he was old—so there’s certainly a connection there,” I said. “But I don’t expect they’ll be getting up your nose. Although I do think Tod and Josie will get a call or a visit, if the detective is thorough. Or if they turn up something that leads them up the tracks to White Bear.”
He glanced at me. I don’t think he cared for my image of a Winona detective sauntering up the railroad tracks. Pederson showed me some impatience then. He glanced at the clock in a silver case that stood on a low nearby shelf. It didn’t have numbers, just small silver bars arrayed in a classic circle outside a pair of black hands, forefingers extended.
He shifted in his chair and said, “I’ve been meaning to ask, do you think I need to hire protection for Josie and her family?”
I noticed he often avoided directly naming Tod, almost as if he wanted to deny the man’s connection to the Pederson clan. That was maybe too harsh a judgment. I’d have to seek advice from my friend, Catherine. “Probably not, in answer to your question. So let me ask you the same thing I’m asking everybody,” I said. “Can you think of anyone in your organization, or with whom you associate, who would want Tod and Josie to stop looking for the crash site of your relative’s aircraft out there in the Pacific Ocean?”
Pederson didn’t hesitate. “No, I can’t. And I’ve thought about it, ever since these incidents began to happen.”
“It must have occurred to you that, if you withdrew your financial support, it’s probable their project would collapse, and that would mean the burglaries and other incidents would stop. Why don’t you just stop?”
Pederson looked out the window a moment and then said, “You don’t have children, do you.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“If you did, you might not ask that question. I love my daughter. Even if she makes bad decisions occasionally, I can’t deny her. Matter of fact, in some ways I hope she succeeds. Although she’s never given me a full answer, I think this search has turned into an obsession for her. If she finally gets over it by finding the damn crash site, maybe some of the bad feelings in the family will be settled.”
I raised an eyebrow. This was news to me. Sure, every family had issues of one sort or another, but he was alluding to something heavier and more persistent. Maybe. And maybe I’d have to follow up on that, too.
Pederson glanced at the clock again. “Mr. . . . Sean. I have a pressing appointment in a few minutes so . . .” He looked at me with a flat, non-judgmental expression.
I got his meaning. Instantly. “Thanks for your time. I’ll get back to you when I have more questions,” I said.
“I’m sure you will,” he muttered under his breath as I stood and turned toward the door. It opened just as I reached it. I recognized the man who stood there. He was a lawyer with a prominent Minneapolis criminal defense firm. We nodded without speaking. He stepped aside as I exited and then went in and closed the door while I passed down the long well-carpeted hallway leading, I hoped, to the out of doors.
* * * *
Gary Anderson, whom I was led to believe was the principal personal attorney of Mr. Preston Pederson, was not a criminal defense lawyer, but a business law lawyer. So it wouldn’t be unusual for Pederson to seek advice on criminal matters from a different attorney. That is, if he felt he needed such expertise. Did he? Maybe he’d assaulted someone. Pederson’s nice tailored suits and quiet manners didn’t fool me. The hand I’d shook that day in White Bear was hard and calloused and there was latent power in his arm. The other thing I mulled to no resolution while hieing myself to Minneapolis was that Pederson had seemed to be actively engaged in his daughter’s search. I had thought Anderson’s efforts to get me off the case had come at Pederson’s direction. But now that I reexamined our conversation, I recalled that Anderson had never confirmed or denied that he was acting on behalf of Preston Pederson. But if not, who was he acting for?
An air horn suddenly blatting in my ear woke me to the fact that I was seriously tardy leaving a busy intersection when the light turned green.
Chapter 17
At our apartment in Kenwood I heard a message from my honey telling me she’d only be a little late and to please thaw a steak from the freezer. “My carnivorous genes are raging, and I desire some beef and baked potato,” she said in my ear.
So I found a nice thick T-bone that would do for both of us and selected the big spuds I would set to baking before Catherine arrived. She hadn’t mentioned a salad but I knew her insistence on a frequency of greens was not disappearing. So I poked around our restaurant-sized refrigerator and located several kinds of lettuce, a reasonable-looking cucumber and a couple of ’shrooms.
I carefully thawed the steak in a plastic bag in a bowl of warm water to bring it to room temperature quickly. Then I built myself a lovely drink of thirty-year-old whiskey with a little ice and just a splash of water. I put the heavy cut-glass tumbler on the side table and flopped onto the couch. Staring at the ceiling, I took several healthy swigs and thought about my life. That meant I had to think about Catherine and our relationship, a pleasant enough task.
A few minutes later, I heard soft sounds in the kitchen and rolled over. I stumbled getting off the couch and when I came around the wall, there was Catherine in her sweats. She’d obviously been home for a while because an elaborate-looking salad was in a bowl on the counter and I could hear the snap and sizzle of beef searing in the broiler. I looked at my watch. Nearly an hour and a half had gone out of my life.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “You were seriously out when I got home so I let you sleep. Rough day?”
“Not really, although my interview with Pres Pederson was odd.”
“Tell me about it over steak. I’m focused on dinner right now and it’s almost ready.”
Catherine seemed at times to move faster than the speed of sound, multi-tasking, I think that’s the word, with a vengeance. It was great. The steak was perfect, my spuds slathered in butter and sour cream, and Catherine’s salad was the perfect side dish. With our inner needs satisfied we settled on the couch and I brought her up to speed on the case of Yap Island.
“I kind of thought at the beginning that it could be the father, that Pederson was trying to protect his daughter from the danger of a bad operation. But then that guy, Lewis, died. Murdered.”
“Are you sure of that?” Catherine looked at me. “I know you told me the police in Winona are suspicious, but, as you sometimes say, where’s the proof?”
I squinted up at her unlined face. “Yes, I do, sweet thing, and I also tell you, on occasion, that I sometimes go on instinct. On my gut.”
“Not very elegant, but what does your gut tell you?”
“You really want to know? About my gut?”
“Well, actually, about your theory of the case.”
“My gut tells me Mr. Lewis from St. Louis was murdered because he was bringing important information from his files to the Bartelmes. My gut says the efforts by Josie and her husband to locate the wreck of that bomber that killed her granduncle triggered some kind of ripples, like they tossed a stone into a pond. The ripples spread and people began to notice. I bet we’ll find that Tod and Josie were being observed or tracked in some way from their first trip to the South Pacific. Then when they didn’t find the wreck, I assume somebody figured that was it and they could relax. But Josie didn’t let go of it.”
“So somebody tried to discourage them with vandalism and theft.”
“Yeah. Then enter an intrepid detective, yours truly. At about the same time, Tod found other veterans groups, started a website, and Stan Lewis got in touch with them.”
“You think the plans for the trip this coming August was a trigger?”
“That and Stan Lewis deciding to take a train to Saint Paul.”
“Why?”
“Ah, the big question, my love. Why? Why does anybody care if these folks find the wreck of an old bomber that went down back in 1944? I can understand why this has turned into a near obsession for Josie. It’s family. A connection to her past. It’s part of the same thing that brings folks to cemeteries on certain dates.” I paused a moment. “There’s only one reason that makes any sense to me.”
I smiled at Catherine and took her hand. With her strong grip she helped me roll from flat on the carpet to a sitting, then standing position. She didn’t relinquish my hand. Drawing it back against the rich curve of her hip, she pulled me closer. She pinched her eyes together and stared down at my face.
“And that is?”
“Something to do with the airplane Amundson was riding in.”
“Will you go to the South Pacific?”
The Case of the Yellow Diamond Page 10
