by Mike Resnick
“And half the Reds and Bengals live just across the Ohio River in Kentucky because it’s convenient for them to get to the stadiums, so there’s got to be some expensive real estate there,” I continued.
“Yeah, I suppose there is.”
“So does he have any offices there?”
“There?” repeated Calhoun. “You mean in Kentucky?”
I nodded. “Right.”
“So what if he does?”
“So what I’m looking for may not be in Ohio,” I answered.
“You know, you could just look in a Northern Kentucky yellow pages,” he said.
“If that was all I needed, I’d look,” I said. “Now, are you going to help a tax-paying citizen or not?”
“When did you ever make enough to pay taxes?” he shot back, but he began typing and studying his screen.
“Yeah, he’s got an office in Covington, on Third Street. Looks like a big one.”
“How can you tell it’s a big one?” I asked.
He smiled. “Three phone numbers.”
“Any other offices across the river?”
He typed again. “No. He had one two years ago, but he closed it about twenty months ago.”
“Okay,” I said. “Now I need you to do something that won’t show up in your system.”
He stared at me, frowning. “Eli, everything I do from this office shows up somewhere in the system sooner or later.”
“Damn!” I muttered.
“What was it?” he asked. “Maybe there’s a work-around.”
“I need to know if he’s got a bank account, either personal or business, in Kentucky.”
“I can check on the bank account, but I can’t keep it secret.”
“How about a safety deposit box?”
He shook his head. “I can call the bank, identify myself, and ask, but there’s no way I can do it with my computer, and they’ll probably tell him about the call five minutes later.”
“Oh, well,” I said unhappily. “If push comes to shove, I’ll get my friend from Chicago to find out.”
“The guy who showed up the night we brought in the first Bolivian? I heard he was connected to you somehow. Can he really do that?”
“He can’t,” I replied. “But his people can.”
“I believe it.” Calhoun leaned back. “Anything else I can do for our favorite public-minded citizen?”
“Anything else your machine can tell me about Delahunt?”
“Probably not, but I’ll look,” said Calhoun, starting to type again. “Why are you so interested in him?”
“The truth?” I said. “He may have killed Malcolm Pepperidge.”
He turned to me. “That’s a hell of an accusation. Have you told Jim?”
“Jim doesn’t care about ‘may haves.’ He wants proof. I’m trying to get it.”
“Have you got any yet?”
“Not a shred,” I said. “That’s what you’re helping me to find.”
“From what I hear, Pepperidge wasn’t interested in real estate.”
“Pepperidge wasn’t even Pepperidge,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard that too.”
“So can you give me anything else on Delahunt?”
“Go outside and have a cigarette—don’t deny it; everyone knows you smoke—and give me five or ten minutes to work without having to talk to you.”
I walked out to the parking area, lit up a cigarette, took a deep drag, closed my eyes, and leaned against a brick wall, trying to relax, then took another puff. I smoked it halfway down, tossed it on the ground and stepped on it, lit another, and repeated the process. When I felt I’d frozen my ass off for ten minutes, I went back to Calhoun’s desk.
“Well?” I asked.
“Not much,” he said.
“What?”
“Just one thing,” he said. “That diminishing real estate empire of his was incorporated in Kentucky.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Better tax structure. It does seem to be the one office that was never late on its rent.”
“How many employees?”
“In Kentucky?” He shrugged. “No way to tell.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Bill.”
“I don’t know quite what I’ve found,” said Calhoun, “but I hope it helps.”
“You and me both,” I said, heading out of the building. I got into the car, started it up, and headed for home.
Marlowe was snoring so loud I could hear him through the door as I inserted my key and entered the apartment.
He gave me a hurt, angry look that said, You went out for dinner and then you went out drinking, and you didn’t bring me any food or any booze. Before I could mollify him he was asleep again.
I set the alarm for eight o’clock, then decided I wasn’t as sleepy as I’d thought. I walked to the living room, fought Marlowe for a little space on the couch, and turned on Turner Classic Movies just in time to see Orson Welles say “Rosebud!” I decided I’d rather watch some sports and got a sixty-year-old kinescope of a welterweight match between Kid Gavilán and Chuck Davey, a college student who had no business being in the ring with the likes of the Kid except that he was white, personable, and lacked a sense of self-preservation.
When that was over they began showing a kinescope of Rocky Marciano dismantling Ezzard Charles. I fell asleep in the third round and woke up when Marlowe began barking an inch from my right ear, just in case I didn’t hear the alarm ringing.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, shaved, brushed my teeth, considered changing shirts and decided against it, then wandered into the kitchen. I opened a can of hash for Marlowe, grabbed a stale donut and a cup of coffee for myself, then decided I’d better walk him since he hadn’t been out for a dozen hours or so. He was in full agreement, finished before we got halfway to Mrs. Garabaldi’s, and we made it back into the apartment before my landlady-turned-literary-critic could assail me with more observations about the mail.
I got in the car and drove to the Ohio River, then crossed over it on the Clay Wade Bailey Bridge, which is just half a mile past the I-71/I-75 bridge and a hell of a lot less crowded. When you’re halfway across either bridge you’re suddenly in Kentucky, but the river towns of Covington and Newport are really just extensions of Cincinnati’s downtown, with some excellent advantages. Kentucky’s where I always went to buy my liquor and cigarettes, and gas was usually a few cents cheaper too.
I got off the bridge, turned onto Third Street, and made my way to Delahunt’s office. It was a self-contained building that could have used a little cleaning and updating, but that made it fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. I parked on the street about a block from the office, put a quarter in the meter—Jim Simmons couldn’t fix my tickets on this side of the river—walked past a long row of parked cars, came to the office, and entered.
A middle-aged receptionist greeted me without getting up from her desk.
“Good morning, sir, and welcome to Delahunt Realty. How may we help you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Delahunt,” I said.
“I’m afraid he’s not here,” she replied. “Perhaps our Mr. Benson can help you?”
Before I could stop her she’d pushed a button on her desk, and a moment later Mr. Benson, a blond six-footer, appeared in the doorway behind her.
“May I help you, Mr. . . . ?” he said pleasantly.
“I don’t want to cause any bother,” I said. “I was here the other day.” I turned to the receptionist. “You were at lunch, or at least out of the office.”
“And who did you see, sir?” asked Benson.
“Mr. Delahunt,” I said, and they exchanged looks. “I’m afraid I left my pen in his office. It’s not worth much, but it was my father’s and it has a sentimental value to me. I wonder if I might look for it? I’ll just be a minute.”
“All right, whoever the hell you are!” snapped Benson. “What the hell do you want?”
“I just told you,” I said.
“All right, all right,” I said. “You saw through me. But you tell that bastard I’ll be seeing him in court!”
I turned and left before they could say anything else.
Well, I thought as I walked down the street to my car, maybe he had a gun hidden in his office and maybe he didn’t. Probably Sorrentino and I would have to do a little reconnoitering at two or three in the morning, and if we saw it, leave it where it was and have Simmons tell the Covington cops to look for it.
As I was walking back to the car a jewelry store on the other side of the street caught my eye. Well, actually what caught it was the very tasteful display in the window. I knew just enough about jewelry stores to know that when you had the goods, you didn’t need garish displays. So I crossed the street and stared into the window. Diamonds, rubies, pearls, rings, and necklaces, all sedately displayed. The sign said “Mela Jewelers—Orestes Mela, Proprietor.” I entered and saw a balding man in a vest waiting on a couple. I browsed for about five minutes until they’d made their purchase and left.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I certainly hope so,” I said. “I’m looking for some diamonds.”
“Some?” he asked.
I nodded. “About a million dollars’ worth,” I answered. “They were attached to a cat’s collar. You know anything about them?”
He looked like I’d just shot his best friend.
“I knew someone would come looking for them sooner or later.” He sighed deeply. What took you so long?”
23.
“Lock up the store,” I said. “We need to talk.”
He walked out from behind the counter, crossed over to the door, hung up an “Out to Lunch” sign, and locked the door.
“Are you Covington or Newport police?” he asked.
“Other side of the river,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, he lives there, doesn’t he?”
“For the moment,” I said. “I think the police will supply him with somewhat less luxurious living quarters.”
He frowned. “You say that as if you’re not one of them.”
I pulled out my license. “I’m working for the owner of the diamonds.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding again.
“You want to tell me about it?”
“Yes, I suppose I’d better,” said Mela.
“Yes, I suppose you had.”
“I’ve known Mr. Delahunt for a few years. He bought his wife a lovely bracelet from me about, oh, three years ago. And twice since then he’s bought other unique items, but I don’t think they were for Mrs. Delahunt.”
“Probably not,” I agreed.
“Then last week he brought me the oddest thing,” said Mela.
“A cat’s collar?”
He nodded. “Studded with diamonds. Not rhinestones, not cheap imitations, but the real thing.”
“How many?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“Ten,” he replied. “He asked me to take them off, so I did. He also asked me to use one in a ring.” He paused and lowered his voice, though we were the only two people in the store. “I think it was for his latest girlfriend.”
“It was,” I said. “I’ve seen it. Very nice work.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Mela,” I said. “Did he show you proof of ownership, anything to suggest the diamonds were his?”
He suddenly looked very nervous. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I suspect that’s why you’re here.” He looked intently at me. “How much trouble is Mr. Delahunt in?” And then, “How much trouble am I in?”
“You’re not in any trouble at all if you cooperate,” I said and hoped I was telling the truth.
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped some sweat from his face. “That’s a relief. I have certainly never knowingly broken any laws.”
“I realize your answer will just be an estimate,” I continued, “but based on your experience and expertise, how much would you say the diamonds were worth?”
He considered it for a moment. “Perhaps eighty-five to ninety thousand apiece. In a bull market, which we haven’t had since before Bush’s last year, perhaps a hundred thousand.”
“There’s no way they could possibly be worth more?”
“How much more?”
“A million apiece?”
He chuckled dryly. “Is that what Abner Delahunt told you?”
“I’ve never met the man,” I answered. “That’s what the original owner said they were worth.”
“He was lying or deluded,” said Mela.
“You’ve worked on a lot of million-dollar diamonds?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. Hell, I’d be afraid to work on them, as you say. But I’ve seen some and have actually appraised a pair for a family in Indian Hill.”
“They came all the way to Covington for an appraisal?”
He drew himself up to his full height. “I am Orestes Mela,” he said with all the dignity he could muster, which was considerable.
“No insult intended,” I assured him.
“None taken,” he lied graciously.
“So you took all ten diamonds off the collar,” I said. “One you made into a ring.”
“That’s not quite accurate. I had the ring in stock. I took out a faux stone the size of the diamond and replaced it.”
“Okay,” I said. “That accounts for one of the diamonds. What about the other nine?”
“Mr. Delahunt went out for lunch while I put the diamond in the ring and removed the rest. When he came back he asked me if I wanted to buy any of them. I said I couldn’t begin to pay market value and make a profit, but that I would take three of them for fifty thousand apiece, and he agreed on the spot. The other six I gave to him when he left with the ring.”
“And you still have the three you bought?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m afraid the police are going to confiscate them,” I said.
“I know,” he replied unhappily.
“And I very much doubt that Delahunt will be able to return your hundred and fifty thousand.”
“I gave him thirty thousand down and was to pay him thirty a month for the next four months.”
“So you’re not as bad off as you might be.”
“I made the transaction without proof of ownership. He swore he’d bring it in the next time he was at his office across the street. I’ve been there twice since then, but he hasn’t returned.” He looked at me, and I could see that he was actually shaking. “I don’t want to go to jail, Mr. Paxton. Believe me, I acted in good faith.”
“That’s not up to me to decide,” I said. “Hell, I don’t even know what the law is. But I’ll be happy to testify that you were open and aboveboard, that you hid nothing, and that you acted in good faith. I think going to his office will speak to your integrity, and the fact that you can turn over the three diamonds will certainly be in your favor.”
“Thank goodness!” he said, going a little weak in the knees and supporting himself on the counter. “You can’t know how worried I’ve been the past few days when he didn’t show up and I was unable to contact him. If I went to the police and he was either ill or legitimately detained . . .” He shook his head. “And if he truly didn’t have the papers, am I an accomplice?”
I laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Mr. Mela,” I said. Suddenly I smiled. “And I thought all jewelers had to worry about was getting robbed.”
He chuckled at that. “You wouldn’t believe all the things we worry about.”
“I’m starting to get an idea,” I said.
There was a brief silence.
“What now?” he asked.
“May I see the diamonds? I’d just like to see what thr
ee hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds looks like.”
“Closer to a quarter million,” he said. “Come with me.”
We went into a back room, a very tidy office, where he kept a state-of-the-art safe. I looked away while he opened it and pulled out a little black velvet tray with three diamonds that looked just like the one Mitzi Cramer had on her finger.
“Impressive,” I said.
“And they were all on a cat’s collar,” he said, shaking his head in wonderment. “What if the cat had run off?”
“I gather she was never outside,” I answered. Until the night of the murder.
He reached into the safe and pulled something else out.
“Here,” he said. “You might as well have this. Or throw it out if you prefer.”
“What is it?” I asked as he held up a little leather strap.
“The collar,” he said. He indicated a shiny little tag. “It’s still got the license on.”
He handed it to me, I glanced at it briefly and stuck it in a pocket, he put the diamonds back in the safe and locked it.
“Now what?” he asked as we left the office and returned to the shop.
“Now I tell the cops I’m working with,” I said. “They’re on the Cincinnati side of the river, and the diamonds were stolen from a Cincinnati house. They’ll have to work it out with the Covington police to see who has jurisdiction over this part of the case.”
“This part of the case?” he repeated.
“It’s about more than the diamonds,” I said, and told him about the murder. He looked even more nervous, if possible. “Anyway, somebody will be by in the next day or two to take your statement and pick up the goods.”
“The goods?” he repeated with a grimace. “That makes them sound so common. Maybe they’re not worth a million apiece, or even quite a hundred thousand, but they are damned fine stones.”
“Please tell the diamonds that I meant no insult,” I said.
He laughed at that, then shook my hand. “You’ve taken a huge load off my mind, Mr. Paxton.”
“That’s what us Humphrey Bogart types do,” I replied with a smile.
And we also, I decided, put in for the finder’s fee before our less fussy partner can walk in, shoot the place up, and run off with the diamonds and anything else that catches his eye.
