After my explanation, we arrived at a sum that would cover my expenses and the inflated costs of finding a new charter salvage crew. Then we figured out how to conceal the source of the new funds.
“It would complicate the relationship between Josie and her employment if it becomes known I’m bankrolling her search. Do you see?”
“I do. We’ll find an intermediary.”
“I have a suggestion,” she said. “I know of your friend, Catherine Mckerney, and her profession. She comes highly recommended. And I suspect the cash flow from her investments and her massage therapy school and contracts will make it possible to launder a contribution. Is that the right word for what we’re doing?” She smiled.
I was getting the impression she was enjoying herself. “Yes, that would work. You can make out the check to her, and I’ll deliver it. Then she’ll write a check for the identical amount to the Bartelmes.”
We finished our iced teas and I left with a check for $26,000 in my hand. Nice doing business with you, Mrs. Pryor. I wondered if she was even going to tell her husband about our transaction. Well, that was her business. Mine was to help salvage the Bartelmes’ search and trap the scoundrel who was killing people and dropping mines in their path. I did register the fact that Mrs. Pryor had some prior knowledge of the kind of under-the-table financial dealing we had engaged. Yes, I now believed there was some kind of conspiracy at work, a conspiracy dedicated to keeping the Bartelmes away from their granduncle’s downed bomber.
Back in my slightly overheated office, I examined my mail and decided to catch up on some other business.
I went to my file of due and overdue bills and to my checkbook. Paperwork was not my favorite part of the business, but vital. I tended to require cash or check payments up front to cover daily expenses. I learned early on that even apparently upright citizens could renege on agreed payments to the detective after the fact.
Not long ago I’d had a fairly tense conversation with a client. I’d been hired to locate the possible hiding place of a series of packages. It seemed a small manufacturing firm was experiencing a surprisingly high number of delivery losses. Their plant would manufacture the gizmos, in this case some sort of complicated electrical switch, and then package the order. The order would be inventoried and go to the truck for delivery. Delivery truck guys would load a hundred packages of switches. A day later the gizmo purchaser would report the delivery short by five or ten items. Apologies and adjustments would follow.
There were always such occasional adjustments, my client had said. But he was noticing a disturbing increase in the frequency of such claims, and, therefore, some loss in profits. He hired me to do some surveillance and to try to locate a thief, if indeed there was one.
I did and there was. Now the client was balking at the final payment. I knew there was something odd about the set-up when I showed the client the digital tape of the culprit. I’d recently converted from a still camera to a small hand-held digital video camera for jobs like this one. But I didn’t carry a laptop. I brought a disk.
“So this is a copy of the original?” he asked, all the while staring intently at the screen.
“Yep. The original is in my safe.” I didn’t explain that my safe wasn’t much, but I used phrases like that to calm concerned clients who might be afraid of revealing something unintended. Or embarrassing.
“Do you recognize the guy?” I pointed at the screen where the culprit was off-loading some cartons of the missing gizmos. Culprit was male. I knew from the way he moved but I was too far away to ID the guy and why would I risk it? I wouldn’t know him, right?
“Okay,” the client sighed. “I’ve seen enough.”
“Here’s the address of that storage unit,” I said, “and my final bill.”
That was more than a month ago and I still hadn’t received a check. Usually I tried to get final payment at the time I deliver the final report. I don’t remember exactly why I hadn’t in this case.
Today I knew why. When I checked back to the storage unit location, I discovered—and videotaped—just what I’d expected. Client and culprit were there together, piling the gizmos into a panel truck from the storage unit. I recorded more video.
When I later showed the video to Catherine and we studied the movements of the two men, it was obvious they knew each other and that the client was pissed at the culprit.
“I bet the smaller one is a relative. You think?”
“Exactly my thought,” I smiled. “Let’s send a letter—no, better, let’s email my client that I’ll be forced to take my evidence and my case to his company board if I don’t get a payment ASAP.” So we did that.
Chapter 21
I went to my office, parking around the corner instead of in the lot where I regularly put the car. I figured whoever the dork was who’d cut my tires, he knew my vehicle and he’d find it all right, but if I parked on the busy street instead of in the quiet lot, he was less likely to take a chance and tamper with it.
Because it took a few minutes longer to reach my office, I wasn’t there to get the phone call from Josie. One might think that was a significant event, my missing that call, because, if I had, I would have realized . . . and so on. I find phrases like that in what I call my training manuals, that is, my detective novels. Wilkie Collins did that sometimes. Pregnant phrases or pauses. Sorry, it wasn’t like that. This time I’d remembered to leave my answering machine on so I could listen to the message.
There were four messages. Two were from a lawyer in Eden Prairie who wanted me to find a former client, somebody named Darrel who had taken it on the lam and left a large bill for services rendered. Another call was from my honey, who was packing to drive to Rochester for some business meetings. She’d be gone overnight. Wow. I was footloose and so forth tonight. The last message was from Josie, telling me the family and some of the investors were gathering for a war council to make decisions after this latest disruption.
I dialed home. It was important I talk to Catherine before she left town. She didn’t yet know I was about to use her as a laundry service to protect the identity of a new investor. Fortunately, she was still home.
“Hey, Sean, glad you caught me. I’m within inches of trotting out the door.”
“Me, too, and I know you’re in a rush to get going, but I have a big favor to ask. If you weren’t about to leave, I’d beat it home to talk with you, because this is something I’d prefer to do face to face.”
“Whoa. Sounds ominous. It is legal?”
“Yes, but it involves a lot of money. Your money.” I went on to explain my plan and the circumstances that led up to it. “So I really need a check to take with me tonight.”
“You want it on my personal or my business account?”
“Personal, I think. That way if there’s a hassle, the school and your contracts won’t be involved.”
“Good thinking. How much did you say? $26,000? I can handle that, but I’ll have to make a transfer while I’m in Rochester. So the Bartelmes shouldn’t rush off and cash it tonight.”
I knew that wouldn’t be a problem. They didn’t need cash right now, and I planned to lay the check on them well after the banks closed this evening.
“Okay.” She came back to the phone. “I’ve left the check on the table by the phone. See you don’t spend it all at once. Oh, and here’s an idea. Get a promissory note. The lawyer will be there, right? Anderson? He can write it with you as my agent. Some kind of easy terms. You know, like low or no interest for some long term. That’ll make the whole thing appear more legit.”
“Good idea. And I’ll make this check from Mrs. Pryor over to you and deposit it in your bank when I come pick up your check. Have a good trip. I’ll figure out a way to thank you later.”
We made kissy sounds at the telephone, and I sat back to plot out my next few hours. This was goi
ng to be an interesting meeting this evening. I hoped all the principals would be there.
* * * *
I rolled into the driveway and parked beside a dark-green Lincoln I recognized as Preston Pederson’s ride. I briefly considered where I might put the Taurus midst several highly polished newer vehicles. But hiding it was not an option. Its faded, unwashed blue exterior stood out like a used digit.
I pressed the doorbell and unlatched the gate. Tod met me at the door to the house, and we went on through to the veranda where this whole business had started. The entire cast was present, plus the other two Js, Jennifer and Julie. I got a few sketchy waves but no smiles. Apparently they’d already had some of the bad news.
“Sorry to be late,” I murmured, sitting in a chair on Tod’s left so I could see the faces of the people there.
Josie nodded at me and continued. “Anyway, the killing of Mr. Lewis—” I thought her voice wobbled a bit there “—and the loss of whatever information he might have been bringing us, and all these other things that have happened, have put a real crimp in our plans for the trip to Yap this summer. I’m just not sure what we can do except delay the search until we can save some more money. Tod and I have talked about it, and we don’t feel right asking you to put up more money for this obsession of mine. You’ve already been so generous and understanding.”
I glanced around at the faces. They all looked pretty solemn.
“One of the things we can do to economize is terminate Mr. Sean, here,” Preston said. “I was never in favor of hiring him in the first place.”
I stood up. Looked around. Smiled. “That’s your choice, of course, but I don’t think you’re going to be ready to dismiss me after you hear what I have to say.”
Making speeches wasn’t one of my strengths, but over the years I’d learned a thing or two about the dramatic moment, the build-up and then the fist in the gut, so to speak. “It’s true I can’t pin down the party responsible for these problems you’ve been having. Yet. I’m sure I’m getting closer to answers.”
“How do you know that?” said Hillier.
“Somebody slashed two of my tires. Whoever it was took a big chance and did it while I was at the police department in White Bear.” There were murmurs. “I think I’m being warned off because I’m getting too close to answers.
“We now know Stan Lewis was not only murdered but was robbed. It’s very likely he was bringing some files of papers here, records and other materials he’d developed over the years having to do with the activities of men in the bomber wing. You see, Lewis apparently thought some of the boys in the group were doing a little business on the side. You’ve probably all heard about the drug running that happened during Vietnam, right?”
Gary Anderson stood up and stretched. “Excuse me.” He smiled around the group. “This is beginning to sound like a long session. I wonder if I could have some more iced tea?”
“I can get you something stronger,” Tod said.
“Iced tea’s fine.”
After everybody settled again, I went on. “The smuggling business didn’t originate with World War Two. The government conducted a fairly extensive investigation after the war. They were looking into charges and evidence of smuggling drugs, money, and jewelry aboard military transportation.”
“I don’t think I ever heard anything about that,” Pederson said.
“You were probably too young, and the government didn’t do any publicity on it. There were very few prosecutions. But then came Stan Lewis. Apparently he decided he should have been cut in to whatever deals were happening out in the South Pacific, or maybe he thought they shouldn’t have happened at all. We’ll probably never know. What I do know, and so do the cops in Winona and St. Louis, is that Stan Lewis was murdered and the briefcase he was carrying was lifted. What’s more, several files pertaining to the men and missions of the bomber group he was assigned to on Los Negros that Stan developed are now also missing.”
Was I stretching things a little? You could say that. More like stretching close to the breaking point. That’s okay. Cops lie, so why can’t a PI have a little flexibility?
“But, that’s not what I came here to say.” Always leave ’em wanting a little more, right?
“An individual with whom I’m closely acquainted has stepped forward and expressed interest in this project. I have here a check.”
Tod leaned toward me and plucked the paper from my finger. He whistled.
“Wow! Twenty-six thousand. This will give us enough to replace the lost gear and hire a new charter boat.”
Josie and some others began to make appropriate noises, and Maxine grinned and applauded quietly. Jennifer stood up and did a little victory dance and whistled through the attractive gap in her front teeth. I watched all of them, trying not to be too obvious about it. After a little hesitation Josie’s dad stood up and ceremoniously shook my hand. He didn’t look what I’d call enthused. Neither did Anderson or Hillier.
After the celebration died down, Preston said quietly, “I suppose this means we’re going to have to put up with your investigation a while longer.”
“I suppose so,” I responded. “I sort of feel obligated to keep an eye on my lady’s investment.”
“You must have had a time convincing this Catherine Mckerney to put up twenny-six g’s,” smirked Alvin.
“Not really,” I said.”She trusts my judgment on many things.”
“Mckerney, Mckerney,” Gary Anderson said.”Why is that name familiar?” He took the check and peered at Catherine’s signature.
“Maybe because she’s a board member of a small bank your firm represents,” I said. “First Meridian in Robbinsdale?”
Anderson looked blank for a moment and then shrugged. “I take it this is why you haven’t returned my calls.”
I nodded. “That’s a logical conclusion.”
Josie looked at us. It was apparent she was picking up some undercurrents between Anderson and myself. That was all right. Without revealing the questions I had about Anderson’s agenda in this congregation, I wanted Josie and Tod to be more cautious around all these people because somebody here, I was convinced, was responsible for their troubles. I still didn’t know why, or who, but I would find out. Oh, yes. And if there was to be blood in the street, I was going to make sure it wasn’t mine or my clients. About the others, I wasn’t so certain.
Chapter 22
It was getting late and even though there was still sunlight in the western sky, traffic was light, so I had time to think. I had the windows open because it was a nice evening. Interesting how the odors change as one drives through a city. Apart from the stink of diesel and gasoline exhausts, I felt and noticed the smell of the river as I crossed the Mississippi. The damp gave way to curry and then barbeque with a whiff of mesquite. The corner that held an Arby’s gave me a shot of hot frying oil. Trees and green and damp arrived as I rolled into Kenwood and slid the car into my spot in the underground parking garage.
Upstairs, the apartment felt empty. It was. Catherine had left for her business trip. The fact I knew she was out of town somehow made the empty apartment feel different than if she was just out somewhere in the city. I should have stayed at home in Roseville. But I built a drink of scotch and a little ice, then settled down for more noodling about my clients and their troubles.
Josie’s college buddies had joined the effort to find the downed plane wherever it lay under the Pacific Ocean. I didn’t quite get it. Family support I could understand. The loss of a brother or uncle in a war with the resulting empty grave made for unhappiness. Families often wanted their military dead in a military cemetery, like the local one at Fort Snelling, so their support was logical. But why these two women, neither of whom seemed to have a lot of money to throw around, contributed several times to Josie’s campaign wasn’t so clear. Maybe it was just the ro
mance of the idea. Maybe there was something else there, something under the surface. Maybe I’d better find out.
I went to the third and smallest bedroom, where Catherine had her office and the computer setup. Not long after we’d become a couple, after it had become clear we were going to be involved with each other, maybe for life, Catherine had set up her computer so I had access to most programs. I didn’t use modern technology much, prefering an eyeball-to-eyeball, hands on approach. Blackberries were for eating, preferably with thick cream and sugar. Dessert. Cell phones were mostly, in my view, a way to avoid human interaction. Nobody I had ever encountered in this life needed to be connected twenty-four seven. Gives one an inflated and erroneous sense of self.
But there were times when the Internet could be helpful. For most stuff, I had my connection with the Revulons. Here in Kenwood, Catherine occasionally helped or, as now, I helped myself. I held subscriptions to a couple of professional data search operations.
I booted up, logged on and found my notepad and pen. First up, Julie Alcott. A stay-at-home mom, she’d told me. Two youngsters, one of each, in the local public schools. Married, Julie’s husband worked in Stillwater for a realtor. Not a licensed salesman or broker, he was in the back office. More treading tappity-tap over the keyboard. Waiting. Ah, here we are. The screen filled. The Alcotts owned their own home and had for several years, had registered a boat, and appeared to have never been in trouble with the law. There was a reference to some sort of college dustup in the nineties. But they had no outstanding warrants in the state of Minnesota, no court judgments, no recorded driving violations.
For an additional fee, a deeper search. No thanks. I entered Jennifer Martin’s name. Her husband, Terrance, I learned earlier, was the owner of a chain of dry cleaning stores in the northern and western suburbs of Minneapolis. The Better Business Bureau informed me there had been the occasional complaints, all handled with dispatch. Their rating was satisfactory, and they were regular contributors to a variety of civic and other causes, including the Republican party of Minnesota. Then I found a birth certificate for an Enid Marie Martin. The record indicated the girl was born to Jennifer and Terrance at the address in White Bear.
The Case of the Yellow Diamond Page 12
