I leaned forward in my chair, my scalp tingling in anticipation. My burgeoning detective's intuition had paid off. The secretary knew something.
The pause grew still longer, and putting one hand over the mouthpiece, McDonald looked up. "She says he used his cell phone to make a call from her office."
My spirits rose, my curiosity soaring like a child's runaway balloon. "May I speak to her?"
McDonald handed over the phone, and I introduced myself. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but we need to know who Mr. Hammond talked to. I know you didn't eavesdrop," I added hastily, "but did you by any chance hear the name of the person or his firm? This is literally a matter of life and death."
I saw Brad tilt his face toward the ceiling with a good-grief look. "Because Mr. Hammond was murdered the next day."
The young woman spoke in a serious voice. "As you say, I didn't intentionally listen in, but I did hear him mention a hotel. The Ventura."
I sighed. Hundreds of people stayed in a hotel on any given day. "Did he dial the hotel? Did you hear him ask for anyone by name?"
"I wanted to give him some privacy, so I took some papers over to the filing cabinet."
Just our luck, the woman had ethics. "Did Mr. Hammond write down anything while he spoke on the telephone? Did he ask for a piece of paper or use one of his own?"
"Like I said, I didn't watch him."
Frustration nagged at me, so I was reduced to grasping at straws. "Could he have written something anywhere?" Brad's desk calendar lay in my line of sight. "On your calendar?"
"Oh, I don't think so." Silence while she apparently flipped the pages of her own desk calendar. "You're right. He did scribble on it. The writing looks like, er, 'Epstein.' And an address."
"That's fantastic. May I have it, please?" I grabbed one of Brad's pencils and copied it onto the edge of his yellow pad. "You're sure it's Epstein?"
McDonald echoed me. "Epstein? Do you mean the New York Epstein?" He reached for the receiver, which I handed over, and repeated the question to his secretary. "Anything else? Thanks, you've been very helpful. I'll be back in the office Monday morning."
When he hung up the phone, he had a puzzled look on his face. "Epstein is my diamond dealer in New York. I saw him just the day before. He told me he was visiting all his West Coast clients."
Brad spoke up. "Both you and Hammond own jewelry companies. Apparently Hammond got his diamonds from the same dealer. But how did Epstein know Hammond was in Los Angeles? Why not visit him in San Francisco?"
"I think that's my doing. He told me he'd be flying up here, and I said Hammond had come to L.A., in case that might save him a trip."
Brad frowned. I could imagine he wondered why McDonald hadn't told us this before, but he didn't voice it.
McDonald apparently caught on to it anyway. "I'm sorry I didn't mention that earlier. I forgot. Actually, it still doesn't seem very important, only a routine visit to valued customers. Unless—"
"Unless what?" I prompted.
McDonald looked at me again. "Unless he had a problem." He rubbed his chin, pursed his lips, looked back at Brad, and then continued. "You see, Epstein didn't come to see me just to say thanks for the business. He wanted to discuss my appointing someone else to purchase diamonds."
"Why? Who's been doing that?" Brad asked.
"James Powell. Epstein said he found him to be, uh, difficult to deal with, that he argued about prices, wanted extra discounts."
I met Powell only once, but I could imagine him to be the kind of person who demanded special privileges. In addition, something in his disposition made me think he might be nasty if he didn't get them.
"Did you agree to appoint someone else?" Brad asked.
"Yes."
"Have you spoken to Powell about this yet?"
"No. One of the reasons I'm here in San Francisco is to talk to him. I told him I'd be here, but he didn't show up for our meeting." He rubbed his chin again. "But I suppose Epstein might have wanted to see Hammond for the same reason."
"You mean a diamond buyer he didn't like?" I asked.
"Yes."
I turned to Brad. "Do we know who bought Hammond's diamonds?"
He shook his head. "The subject hasn't come up." He didn't say it out loud, but I figured both of us thought the same thing. Amanda.
He pushed the yellow pad toward McDonald. "Would you mind giving me the name and address of Epstein's company in New York?"
"Not at all." He picked up the pencil and wrote on the pad.
Brad rose from his chair. "Thanks again for coming in. And, in the meantime, if you think of anything else that we should know about, please call." He handed him a business card.
McDonald stood up to leave. "As I told Mrs. Grant here, I hope my relationship with Debra Hammond will be kept confidential."
"Of course." The men shook hands again, and I followed McDonald to the outer office, where we shook hands too, and he left.
Then I sprinted back into Brad's office and plopped into the chair again. "What do you think?"
Brad turned off the recorder and handed it to me. "I think we're getting answers at last. I think Epstein came to California, not just to glad hand customers but to solve some problems. McDonald for one, Hammond for another."
"James Powell certainly didn't buy diamonds for Harry's company too. We don't know for sure, but if I had to guess at someone, it would be Amanda."
"I imagine you're right, but who would object to her?"
I spoke under my breath. "Probably no man who still has a pulse." Louder, I said, "We can ask Amanda if she bought them, but how do we find out if Epstein had a problem with that?"
"Unfortunately, we can't call him now. It's well past business hours in New York."
I pointed the pencil at what I'd written down. "We have an address in Los Angeles where Harry supposedly met him. Maybe it's another jewelry store or even a private residence. Or maybe he's still at the hotel."
"We can find out if he's still registered, but if not, it means waiting until Monday morning."
"Or I could fly back to Los Angeles, go to this address, and see if he's there. Or if whoever is there knows anything."
"That's such a long shot," Brad said. "Epstein saw Hammond an entire week ago. Why would he hang around?"
"Perhaps he has lots of customers in southern California. It might take a week to visit all of them, even to say 'hello.'" I couldn't resist adding, "Or else he's going to Disneyland."
Brad gave me the frown I expected, then relaxed. "Okay, go ahead. Actually, I'd fly down myself, but I've got another job, a new client."
"You have?" A new client was good news. More bills would get paid. Besides, private investigators always liked having more than one case to work on at a time. Brad often said it was more efficient. If you had to wait for a day or so to question people, the time got filled in with the second case.
Then I remembered that I hadn't seen any notes about another client. "How come you didn't tell me before? Did one of the secretaries you had for five minutes lately make a file for you?" And probably misplaced it.
"All I have are names and numbers. A missing child case. The father called me Wednesday, and I want to get on it quickly, before the mother takes the kid out of the state."
"What about Rose Hammond?"
"I won't neglect her. She hasn't been arrested yet, so she's in no danger. And if you don't come up with anything in L.A. tomorrow, we can't find out what Hammond and Epstein talked about until Monday morning anyway."
"What about Amanda? You haven't told me what the two of you talked about over your three-hour lunch. Are you supposed to be out looking for the missing videotape?"
Brad looked puzzled again. "No. She's taking our word that we put it back in the briefcase before giving it to Novotny. It's him she doesn't trust."
I frowned. "I thought she just appointed him her executive assistant. Why would she do that if she doesn't trust him?"
"Amanda didn't say she doesn't t
rust Novotny. I figured that out myself. Something strange is going on there. The more I talk to Amanda, the more I'm sure of it."
I waited for him to continue, but he only swiveled around in his chair, staring out the window and biting his thumbnail. I shrugged and went back into the other office where I called the Ventura Hotel and learned Epstein had checked out.
I wanted to go to L.A. anyway. My intuition, which had been right earlier, kept telling me I'd discover something, and that night I'd see what more I could learn from Carl Novotny.
Brad came into my office. "Are you ready to leave? It's almost seven. I'll escort you to your car."
Almost seven? Carl would be picking me up any moment, and I didn't want Brad to see him. "No, I've got to enter some more of these notes. With both of us working on it, this case is generating more paperwork than the Congressional Record. You go on ahead. I'll be okay."
My fib almost worked. Brad reached the door, hand on the knob, when it suddenly opened, and Carl stood there.
Brad quickly hid his surprise. "Mr. Novotny. I'm glad to see you're recovered from the attack you suffered the other night. Is there something you wanted to see me about?"
Carl looked over at me. I glanced up from my task of shoving papers off my desk to smile back at him. "Actually, I'm here to see Mrs. Grant. I've invited her to dinner, and she accepted."
Brad looked as if someone told him I'd signed up for skydiving lessons. After a longish pause, he said, "Oh, that's nice." He turned his face away from Novotny long enough to give me an eyebrows-up look, but I didn't react to it.
"I'll call you in the morning." I snatched my jacket off the rack. "Don't forget to lock the door."
Carl said good night, and we went out, leaving Brad looking frustrated. I knew I'd be subjected to the third degree soon. Meanwhile, however, Brad hadn't denied me permission to try to learn more in L.A.
CHAPTER TWENTY
As soon as we went through the front door of the building, Carl took my arm and led me to where his car—a convertible with its top up—waited. Then, he suddenly put his arms around me and kissed me.
Surprised would be an understatement. I couldn't move or speak for some seconds. My face felt hot, and my mouth got dry. The kiss was firm, not tentative, but not a lingering one. Bang, he'd kissed me, as if he'd made a decision that didn't involve input on my part. Then he opened the car door.
"Wait a minute," I said. "What's that all about?"
"I just wanted to kiss you. You look very nice tonight."
"I've been working all day, and I probably look tired, and my hair needs combing."
"Perhaps nice is the wrong word. How about fabulous?"
I laughed, relaxed, and got into the car. He went around to the driver's side.
He drove out of the parking lot. "This place is a lot like TGI Fridays—incredibly loud, but the food is good, and they have a diverse menu. Some other time I'll take you to Ernie's or the Sheraton Palace, but as long as I'm paying for two places to live, I'm doing a little economizing."
"Whatever you choose is fine. I'm not dressed for Ernie's or the Palace anyway." Actually, I didn't know if any place respected dress codes anymore. I'd seen people attend the opera wearing jeans. Yet, I had dressed hurriedly that morning. Men may be occasionally obtuse, but they're smart about their clothes. They all wear the same stuff. Including not having any shirts that button up the back.
He took one hand off the wheel to touch mine in what I took to be a kind of thanks-for-understanding gesture.
The restaurant, a one-story wooden structure with mullioned windows, boasted antique signs, memorabilia from the ancient eighties (1980s) on the walls, and loops of colorful cloth draping the ceiling. A waiter led us to a table near the bar, but Carl declined to be seated there.
"Too noisy," he told the young man. "We want to sit in the other room."
"I don't have a spare table."
"Yes, you do. I can see one from here." He smiled and walked toward the opening to the adjoining room, and the waiter had no choice but to accompany us.
"It's not clear," he whined.
"That's okay. Have someone clear it."
We reached the table Carl wanted, in a booth against the windows, and sat in front of empty coffee cups and plates of unappetizing leftovers. Within a few seconds, a busboy appeared and swept it all away. Then the waiter dropped menus the size of picket signs in front of us.
When we were alone again, Carl grinned. "That's better."
He impressed me with his assertive attitude. First the kiss, then no-nonsense about the table of his choice. I shrugged out of my suede jacket, straightened my blue, V-neck cashmere sweater that I'd bought in Canada at a time when our dollar enjoyed a favorable exchange rate, and devoted myself to scanning the nine pages of dinner choices and enjoying the food odors. I decided on minestrone and quiche lorraine. Carl ordered the same, plus wine, which didn't hurt my growing approval of him.
Nevertheless, duty called. "I have three questions for you," I said as soon as the waiter took our orders and disappeared.
"Not more questions," Carl said. "Why don't I just confess to the murder, and then you can close your investigation and stop pestering people." He smiled while he said it.
I gave him my disgusted, come on, you don't expect me to buy that look. He'd have to provide a lot of wrong answers before I'd presume guilt. "First of all, I understand burglars made a stop at your house. I think 'tossed' is the word for it."
He took a long drink of water first and swallowed. "Roger."
"When did it happen?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe the same night they carted me off to the hospital but more likely Wednesday. I discovered it Thursday morning and called the police. That's when I found out some neighbors had already called them."
"Did the burglars take anything?"
"Nothing that I'm aware of, but between my soon-to-be ex-wife and my insurance company, I had to make a police report. They just messed up the place a lot."
"You have a very nice house, filled—I have no doubt—with things burglars normally take like televisions, stereos, maybe a computer in an upstairs office. Even if your wife took all her jewelry, furs, and the family silver when she left, there must have been something of value they went to all that trouble to try to steal. Or were they looking for something specific?"
He leaned across the table toward me. "I know it sounds bizarre, but I think it was just a coincidence and has nothing whatever to do with Hammond's murder."
I gave him a skeptical look.
"Coincidence does happen, you know." He paused. "Some months ago, I heard rumors that a drug dealer lived on our block. With Doris gone, I haven't been supplied with updates lately, but it makes sense to me that some crackhead—or another dealer—wanted to get his hands on junk or the cash that stuff produces and mistook my house for the dealer's."
I didn't comment, so he went on. "Personally, I lean toward the crackhead theory. Those people get desperate and take enormous risks to satisfy their habits. But, since I didn't have crack or money in the house, they came up empty."
"Surely they could have taken your electronics and sold them for cash."
"Maybe, like the time before, they were disturbed by something in the middle of the robbery and ran off before they could do that."
Our soup arrived, which gave me time to think about what he'd just said. He could be right. That explained the amateur nature of the break-in. However, it took a rather large leap of faith to believe him.
"Question number two," I said.
He interrupted. "Wait a minute. You don't get to ask all the questions. Now it's my turn. I think you and Featherstone are concentrating too much on me. Just because I found Hammond's body doesn't make me guilty. You're trying to get information."
"But, don't forget," I protested. "I didn't ask you to dinner. You asked me. Both times."
"But did you agree to come for that reason or because I'm incredibly handsome and debonair?"
I laughed, as he expected me to. "You got it. I confess."
He grinned. "Okay, so, since I'm not a suspect, who else are you investigating: the wife, the daughter, John Ziegler?"
"We're working for Mrs. Hammond, so we don't suspect her."
He consumed some of his soup before responding. "I suppose it doesn't make sense that she'd hire you if she were guilty. Although it's still not beyond the range of probability. What about the others?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss our investigation."
"Oh, you can ask me questions, but you won't answer mine."
"Ask something else," I offered.
"Okay. Could you be interested in a man you haven't known very long and is a possible suspect in a murder?"
For the second time that night and for the same reason, I flushed.
He didn't wait for my answer. "Of course, as I explained to you before, I'm not guilty of Harry Hammond's murder, so you can forget about that."
"My turn again." I was desperate to change the subject. "Getting back to the break-in. On the assumption there's no crack dealer on your block whose customers get the houses confused, it still sounds to me like your choosy burglar has something to do with the murder. Could he have been looking for a videotape? Amanda says when you returned the briefcase to her, the tape had disappeared. Brad's trying to find it."
"She asked me about it, but the tape was in the case when I returned it."
"She told Brad you denied ever seeing one."
He looked thoughtful, frowning. "I can't imagine why she'd say that. I never denied I saw the tape, and I put it back."
The waiter appeared, bringing our quiche, but I didn't begin to eat. I waited for a more convincing explanation.
"Actually, I never returned the briefcase directly to Amanda. I left it in her office. Perhaps someone else opened it and took out the tape."
"Why would they do that?"
"How should I know? Did she say what was on the tape?"
"When Brad first telephoned and questioned her about it, she said it showed jewelry of various kinds."
"So somebody needed it for some reason. I don't see what she's all excited about. It was an old VHS tape anyway." He ate some quiche, and we were both silent for a while.
Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
