Mr. Rogers coughed again. His laugh, if indeed it was laughter, was echoed by the more musical trill of a woman in a group of three well-dressed couples as they emerged from the Granville Island Hotel. I didn’t feel quite so alone.
“I do not think Mr. Rogers believes you,” Mr. Evans said.
“It’s a free country,” I said with far more nonchalance than I felt. “Mr. Rogers can believe what he likes. It doesn’t change anything.”
“Mr. McCall,” Mr. Evans said patiently. “Our employers are not unreasonable people. They are prepared to reward anyone who renders assistance in the recovery of their property. Handsomely, I might add.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” I said. Mr. Evans smiled, exposing long yellow teeth. “I really do wish I could help you; I could use a handsome reward.” His smile faded, replaced by a frown of disappointment. “Sorry,” I said.
“You will be,” Mr. Rogers growled, speaking for the first time. Mr. Evans put his hand on Mr. Rogers’ arm.
“Look,” I said. “I’d help you if I could, if for no other reason than to get my life back to some semblance of normalcy. But I never laid eyes on your Mr. Eberhardt before I found him on my deck, and I don’t know anything about whatever it is all you people think he had with him when he died.”
“‘All you people’?” Mr. Evans repeated. He and Mr. Rogers exchanged looks. Mr. Rogers shrugged inside his tight suit. “Am I to understand,” Mr. Evans said, “that you have been approached by other parties regarding Mr. Eberhardt?”
“You are,” I said. “And I told the other parties the same thing I just told you: as far as I know, Mr. Eberhardt, or whatever the hell his name was, didn’t have anything with him when he died, not even identification.”
“And we should believe you why?” Mr. Rogers growled.
“Have I ever lied to you before?” I said.
Mr. Rogers scowled darkly.
“It is possible that Mr. McCall is telling the truth,” Mr. Evans said. Mr. Rogers looked skeptical. “Nevertheless, sir,” Mr. Evans said to me, “you may be able to assist us in the recovery of our employer’s property.”
“I don’t see how,” I said. “I don’t even know what it is Mr. Eberhardt was supposed to have had with him.”
Mr. Evans looked at Mr. Rogers, who lifted his massive shoulders in a small shrug that said, “It’s your call.”
Mr. Evans looked at me again. “A month ago Mr. Eberhardt smuggled slightly more than two thousand carats of uncut diamonds into your country.”
“Diamonds?” I said, mouth suddenly dry.
Mr. Evans bobbed his head. “They were stolen while in transit from Sierra Leone to Antwerp. Canada’s diamond industry is relatively new and it is possible that Mr. Eberhardt and his associates may have believed that the stolen diamonds could be passed off as Canadian domestic product. They are wrong. Needless to say, the rightful owners, our employers, are quite anxious to get them back.”
“How much is two thousand carats?” I asked.
“In weight, four hundred grams,” Mr. Evans said. “Slightly less than a pound in the American system of measurement. In volume, somewhat more than enough to fill a coffee cup, perhaps. That is in the uncut state, of course. After polishing, the weight and volume are reduced by roughly half, but the value is more than doubled.”
“How much are the uncut diamonds worth?”
A growl from Mr. Rogers. “A lot.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Evans said, smiling his yellow smile. “Depending on size, clarity, colour, and other qualities, rough — that is, uncut diamonds — can be worth anywhere from twenty to more than five hundred dollars per carat on the legitimate market. Specials — larger diamonds — can sell for as much as ten thousand dollars or more per carat. While the shipment with which Mr. Eberhardt absconded had yet to be properly evaluated — that would have been done in Antwerp — Sierra Leone rough, which is generally considered among the best quality in the world, sells for between four hundred and five hundred dollars per carat. Canadian rough sells for less, but only slightly. I would approximate the value of the shipment at between eight hundred thousand and one million dollars.”
I swallowed dryly. “How much did you say the reward was?”
“That got his attention,” Mr. Rogers remarked gruffly.
Mr. Evans said, “A finder’s fee of five percent is not uncommon. Between thirty-five and fifty thousand dollars. American dollars,” he added. “Payable to anyone who assists us in retrieving them.”
“I really wish I could help you.”
“We have reason to believe that Mr. Eberhardt was to meet one or more of his associates somewhere in this city the night he died. Naturally, because he died in — or rather on — your house, we thought that you were one of them.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just an innocent bystander, in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Yes, that certainly seems to be the case,” Mr. Evans agreed. Mr. Rogers did not look so certain. “However, you may nevertheless be able to render some assistance,” Mr. Evans said. “Tell me about the other parties that approached you regarding Mr. Eberhardt.”
An impatient chittering emanated from the cage full of ferrets at my feet. Beatrix and Harry had had a long journey and were probably hungry and thirsty. “I’d be happy to,” I said. “But it’s late and I’m tired. So are my little pals here.”
Mr. Rogers squatted by the carrier and peered inside. “What you got in here, some kinda cats?” He poked a stubby finger through the grille.
“Weasels,” I said. He quickly withdrew his finger and straightened.
“Please,” Mr. Evans said. “Just a few more minutes of your time, Mr. McCall. It could be worth a lot of money to you.”
“Well, since you insist,” I said, and I told them about Chris Hastings, who’d known Conrad Eberhardt as Tobias Zim.
“Yes,” Mr. Evans said as Mr. Rogers scowled blackly. “We are acquainted, in a manner of speaking, with Mr. Hastings.”
I then told them about the woman who’d called herself Monica Hollander, whom Hastings had called Nicky, and who’d claimed that the dead man had been her father, Jacob.
“Oh, dear,” Mr. Evans said when I’d finished. Mr. Rogers’ scowl darkened and he flexed his powerful hands, his knuckles cracking loudly. Mr. Evans said, “If you would be so kind, please describe Ms. Hollander.”
I did.
“Oh, dear,” Mr. Evans said again. Mr. Rogers’ expression darkened even more and his knuckles popped. “Mr. Eberhardt does in fact have a daughter from whom he has been estranged for many years. She lives in this city, which perhaps explains why Mr. Eberhardt came here to dispose of the diamonds. Her name is not Monica, however, nor Nicky. It’s Frederica. I believe she is called Freddy.”
“Like father, like daughter,” I said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Never mind. It isn’t important.” The carrier shuddered slightly and Beatrix or Harry squeaked. The ferrets were restless. “I think I’ll say good night, gentlemen.” I picked up the carrier. Then a question occurred to me. “Was it you two who searched my house?”
“Beg pardon?” Mr. Evans said again. His expression was troubled.
“My house was broken into and searched.”
Mr. Evans’ expression grew more troubled. Mr. Rogers’ scowl, however, had disappeared. His square face was devoid of any expression at all, except for a little tightening around his eyes.
“This changes things considerably,” Mr. Evans said. “It is obvious whoever searched your house was looking for the rough.”
“They were wasting their time,” I said. “The police didn’t find anything when they searched the house looking for John Doe’s wallet or identification.”
“I see,” Mr. Evans said, sounding and looking as though I’d just told him his mother had died. “The police, however, did not know what they were looking for,” he said, brightening a little. “Nor would they necessarily conduct their search on the
hypothesis that the object of their search had been purposely hidden. So if the police found nothing, perhaps the other searchers also found nothing. How thoroughly did they search?” he asked me. “Did they search the entire house? Was there evidence of their search throughout the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then it seems unlikely that they found the diamonds.”
“How do you — ?” I saw what he was getting at. “They’d have stopped searching as soon as they found the diamonds.”
“Precisely. The probability that they found them in the last place they looked is extremely low.” Mr. Evans was positively beaming now. Mr. Rogers’ expression remained grim.
“Makes sense,” I said. “Because there wasn’t anything to find. For all I know, Eberhardt threw the package overboard and the diamonds are now resting in the mud at the bottom of False Creek.” Dreams of my find-er’s fee evaporated in a little puff of smoke. I wondered if I still had Hilly’s snorkelling gear.
“You’re not bein’ very smart,” Mr. Rogers growled.
“You’re not the first one to point that out,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t be more help. But I don’t know you two. For all I know, you’re diamond smugglers yourselves.”
“We are private security operatives,” Mr. Evans said.
“Working for whom?” I said. Neither seemed inclined to answer. “Never mind. If you are legitimate investigators, you’ll be working with the Mounties or Canada Customs and Revenue. Come back with some proof you are who you say you are and we’ll chat some more. Good night, gentlemen. Pleasant dreams.”
I walked away from them toward the ramp. It was all I could do to keep from looking back over my shoulder to see if they were following me or breaking into a full-tilt run. I think the only reason they didn’t push it was that there were just too many people around, even at that time of night. I felt a rare sense of gratitude that Granville Island was such a popular tourist attraction.
As I unlocked the front door, Reeny’s voice called down to me from the roof.
“Tom? Is that you?”
“Yes,” I called back.
Inside, I put Beatrix and Harry’s carrier on the dining room table. They peered out at me through the grille in the door, noses twitching, sampling the scents of their new surroundings. I wondered if I was going to have any trouble transferring them from the carrier to the big cage. I heard footfalls on the stairs. Reeny came into the living room.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi, yourself,” I replied. Her hair was loose and a bit flyaway, recently blown dry, and she smelled fresh out of the shower. She was wearing faded jeans and a snug T-shirt. I was glad to see her but my pulse remained steady. That was a good sign, I thought.
“Where’s your daughter?” she asked. In case she got back before I did, I’d left a note on the kitchen table explaining that I was meeting Hilly at the airport.
“She’s at the hotel with her mother,” I said.
Reeny bent and peered into the carrier. “Hello there,” she said. Beatrix and Harry returned her scrutiny.
“Meet Beatrix and Harry,” I said. “Hilly’s pet ferrets.”
“They’re adorable.”
“Wait till you have to fish them out of your underwear drawer.”
Straightening, Reeny said, “Speaking of my underwear drawer, I found your note on the dresser. What’s this about your house being searched?”
“On Thursday,” I said. “While I was at work someone got in and searched the place from top to bottom, including your room. I straightened up as best I could.”
“Was it Chris?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Who then? The woman you were telling me about?”
“That’s who I’d put my money on,” I said. “There are other candidates, though.”
“The men you were talking to in the parking lot?” I lifted my eyebrows. “I saw you from the roof deck,” she explained. “Who were they?”
“They claimed to be private security cops, but they didn’t show me any identification or tell me who they are working for.” I recounted the highlights of my conversation with Mr. Evans and Mr. Rogers.
“Diamonds,” Reeny said in a hushed voice when I had finished.
“Unpolished diamonds,” I said. “They called it ‘rough.’ Hence, I suppose, the expression ‘a diamond in the rough.’”
“God, they’re not still here, are they?”
“I hope not.”
“The finder’s fee would be nice, though.”
“It would indeed,” I agreed. “I do have some good news.” I told her about Beverley Wong at Rainy Day Toys. “They still want us to do the product photography, as well as some shots of you and Ricky Rice on location.”
“I’m happy things worked out after all,” Reeny said. She seemed suddenly subdued. “Which reminds me, I found another little present waiting for me when I got back. It’s in the kitchen.”
I followed her into the kitchen. On the counter lay a Virgin action figure. Reeny picked it up and handed it to me. The doll was dressed in the slinky silvery spacesuit outfit with the little bubble helmet and air-pack, but the suit was scorched and melted, as though someone had taken a blowtorch to it, and beneath the burst helmet, the plastic flesh of the doll’s face was blackened and blistered.
“I think it’s time you stopped avoiding Sergeant Matthias,” I said.
“Me too,” she replied.
chapter sixteen
I was sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of Raisin Bran and listening to the seven o’clock national news on CBC Radio One when Reeny returned from her morning run. I caught an exhilarating whiff of her even before she stuck her head through the kitchen door and said, “I’m going to grab a shower before someone calls the hazmat squad.” She bounded up the stairs two steps at a time, leaving a trail of pheromones in her wake. She came back down ten minutes later.
“Are you going to call Sergeant Matthias today?” I asked as she poured a cup of coffee. The scorched action figure was on the counter next to the microwave.
“Yes. This is too creepy, even for me.” She sat down across from me. “I’m also going to check into the Holiday Inn,” she said. “Hilly can have her room back.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. “I don’t want her staying here if there’s a possibility she’d be exposed to any danger.”
“Oh,” Reeny said. “But it’s all right for me to be exposed to danger?”
“Danger is your business,” I replied.
“Humph. And who do I look like, Philip Marlowe?”
“Not in the least. But it was Cool McCool who said, ‘Danger is my business,’ not Philip Marlowe. I think Marlowe said, ‘Trouble is my business.’”
“And who, pray tell, is Cool McCool?”
“A Saturday morning cartoon character from the sixties.”
Reeny got a container of yogurt from the fridge, spooned some into a bowl, and sliced a banana into it. Over the banana, she sprinkled half a cup of muesli that looked like sawdust with bits of twigs and leaves and dead bugs in it. “It’s weird,” she said as she sat down again.
“Not so weird,” I said. “People eat stranger things. Fried grasshoppers. Chocolate-covered ants. Eggplant.”
“What are you talking about?” I gestured with my spoon toward her cereal bowl. “Oh,” she said with a grimace. “Hah. No, I mean it’s weird I keep finding myself thinking about where the diamonds could be hidden.”
“Assuming there are any diamonds,” I said. “Personally, I don’t believe there are. I’m almost afraid to go to work, though, in case someone breaks in and searches the place again. I’m tired of tidying up.”
“I’ll be here most of the day,” Reeny said. “And there’ll be plenty of people around. They’re setting up for the shoot today. A scene on the roof deck of Mr. Oliphant’s house tonight and some exteriors on and around the docks tomorrow.”
“With that many people around, who’d notice a
few extras, as it were.”
“Security won’t let anyone who doesn’t belong onto the docks. And there’s always a pretty strong police presence around a location shoot. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Famous last words, I thought, as I put my dirty breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and went upstairs to brush my teeth and get ready for work.
“Tom!” Reeny called up a minute later, voice strident with urgency. “There’s something on the radio you should hear.”
I pressed the “on” button on the clock radio. It was also tuned to CBC Radio One.
“…the bomb squad has cordoned off the streets around the building and warns motorists and anyone who works in the area to stay away until the situation is resolved. To repeat, just minutes ago the Vancouver Police Department bomb squad ordered the evacuation of a number of commercial buildings on Davie between Seymour and Granville after receiving an anonymous call that there was a bomb in the building at…”
Thrusting my keys and wallet into my pockets, I ran downstairs.
“The police have cordoned off the area until the situation is resolved,” calmly intoned the voice of the announcer on the kitchen radio.
“Let’s hope it’s a hoax,” Reeny said as I grabbed my jacket out of the hall closet. “Be careful, though,” she added as I bolted out of the house. “And call me later,” she shouted after me.
I ran down the dock and banged through the gate. As I started up the ramp I saw Heidi, the Aquabus driver, hosing salt off one of the ferries. I reversed direction and ran over to her.
“Heidi, I need to get to the other side in a hurry. There’s been a bomb threat in the building my studio’s in.”
She stared at me for a half a beat, then said, “Let’s take the runabout. It’ll be faster.”
She sprang into a sleek twenty-foot Bayliner run-about and fired up the engine, while I cast off the lines. As soon as I was aboard and hanging on to something solid, she gunned the boat away from the dock, ignoring the no-wake five-knot speed limit. A minute later I leapt out at the foot of Hornby Street, called, “Thanks,” and ran toward the taxi stand, hoping no one reported her to the water cops.
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