Diamonds and Cole: Cole Sage Mystery #1

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Good morning, Mr. Sage. How are we feeling?”

  Cole winced as he tried to open his eyes. His right eye felt swollen. A small, bright-eyed Asian woman was standing at the foot of the bed.

  “The doctor removed a pretty nasty clot in your eye, and you have a few stitches on your eyelid. Let’s see, what else, one broken and one cracked rib, a badly bruised sternum, a concussion, and six stitches in the back of your head.” She smiled at Cole and said, “You feel like visitors? There is a policeman who has been waiting for you to wake up. Another guy, too. You say no, I get rid of them.” There was no doubt from her tone that this little woman could get rid of whomever she wished.

  “No, it’s okay. I have a feeling I’m going to feel bad for awhile.”

  “You sure will, but as soon as the doctor sees you, you gotta go. We need the bed. Good news is, you won’t die.”

  “You are a real ray of sunshine.”

  “That’s me!” she said flicking her nametag with her index finger. “Sunny!”

  “Bring on the cops, Sunny,” Cole said raising his head. “Ouch,” he groaned.

  Cole tried to shift his weight in the bed. A sharp pain shot through his side, and he felt a heavy bandage wrapped around his midsection. The pain pills he had been given gently fogged his thoughts. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick. His speech sounded slurred. Cole reached for the cup of water on the bed stand. He took a sip, shut his eyes and held the cool, moist cup against his swollen eye.

  “Mr. Sage?”

  Cole opened his eye to see a tall thin man in a blue uniform standing where Sunny had been moments before. “Yes.” Cole’s voice seemed to echo in his head.

  “I’m Officer Winton. I need to ask you a few questions about last night.”

  “I fell down the stairs.”

  “Well, that doesn’t account for all the blood on the sidewalk,” Winton said flatly. “I have reports from several witnesses that you were attacked and a fight ensued.”

  “The windows at the Palmwood are awful dirty, Officer.”

  The officer decided to change tactics. “Do you know a Tommy Thorson?”

  “Nope.”

  “He is the registered owner of a black Acura that was seen leaving the Palmwood Motel at a high rate of speed. He is identified by witnesses as one of two men seen attacking you. What do you say about that?”

  “I dropped a piece of candy and when I bent over to pick it up, I lost my balance and fell down the stairs.”

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “Coffee,” Cole replied. “Hershey’s Kiss.”

  “What?”

  “Thought you were going to ask me what kind of candy.”

  “Sir, we’re trying to catch the people who did this to you.”

  “At Hershey’s?”

  “Here’s my card. If you should decide to be more forthcoming, give me a call.”

  “I’ll do that.” Cole closed his eyes.

  “Stairs, my ass.” A wide-faced man with bushy graying eyebrows and black horn-rimmed glasses had taken the chart off the end of the bed and was reading it. He pulled on his nose like he was trying to make it longer, and then shook it. He put the chart back on the hook.

  “Finding anything interesting?” Cole asked.

  “Says here you have a bad case of lying to the police.”

  “That so. Is it curable?”

  “At your age, probably not. I’m Fergusson.” He casually flipped open his ID wallet and stuck it back in his inside breast pocket.

  “What brings you here?”

  “I called your motel, and they said you had moved here.”

  “Bed’s not as soft, but I think it might be cleaner.”

  “I called your buddy, Harris, in Chicago. Good guy. I told him I’d keep an eye on you. But I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “Me either.” Cole smiled.

  “So, who used you for the punching bag?”

  “Tree Top Jefferson’s guys. You call him?” Cole asked.

  “Not yet. Got a warrant for his residence. The Treasury folks and IRS are looking at his taxes. Department of Motor Vehicles has been tipped off to his car dealings, but that’s a state problem.”

  “Somebody called him. That’s what they were upset about.”

  “You want to tell me how all that blood got splattered about?”

  “You really need to know?”

  “No, not really, but from the looks of you and seeing how there were two of them, I don’t think it had anything to do with the punishment you inflicted on them. That one guy was sliced like an apple.”

  “You see him?”

  “When I was looking for you, I talked to the doctor in ER that stitched him up. Refused to be admitted. Left as soon as the doctor finished. Couple hundred stitches.

  “Here’s something for ya: The doctor said the cuts across his scalp severed several sets of nerves. He was sliced down into the bone and then some. Unless he has surgery to repair the damage, and real soon, he’ll be left with one side of his head and face numb and the other with a permanent tingle. Get this: The numb side might lose him the ability to grow hair. Weird, huh?”

  “Can he still wiggle his ears?”

  “Funny.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  “When I leave here, I’m going to have a chat with your friend Mr. Christopher. Done some checking on him. He’s been investigated twice by the Real Estate Licensing Board. He’s received two letters of sanction in his file and a formal warning that the next time his name comes up, his license will be revoked.

  “It was alleged that Mr. Christopher was putting a $5,000 personal representation fee in all his transactions with non-English speaking clients. Since it was added at escrow, his brokers never saw it, and the buyers thought it was part of the closing costs. Usually, it was first-time Spanish speakers who were excited to be buying a house. Their translator, if they had one, either wasn’t able to translate Christopher’s doubletalk or didn’t want to look stupid, so they went along with it. What got him off the hook was that the translators either couldn’t be found or claimed they’d explained it to the buyers.”

  “Un vato malo.”

  “Meaning—?”

  “A bad man.”

  “Ah. Harris says to give him a call when you’re able. I really appreciate your help on this. You didn’t have to do it. Most people wouldn’t want to get involved.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, Harris said you’re a real do gooder. Anyway, thanks. If I can ever return the favor—”

  “You can do me one favor. If the name Whisper, Whisper Perez, comes up, he’s clean. Well, not clean-clean, but he doesn’t have anything to do with all this. He’s kind of a pet project of mine. He’s trying to straighten up, and I don’t want anything to distract his efforts, you know?”

  “Fair trade.”

  “No, I mean it. He’s not involved in this. He just helped me turn over a few rocks. That’s how you’re going to get Christopher. So—”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, you take care. When they say you can leave?”

  “Soon as the doctor checks me out.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you in Chicago sometime.” With that, Fergusson was out the door.

  When Fergusson knocked on the door jamb of Allen Christopher’s office, Christopher was going through his desk drawers. Papers were stacked in disheveled piles on the floor. He was obviously intent on finding something and didn’t look up until Fergusson spoke.

  “Allen Christopher?”

  “Yeah,” Christopher said, sounding annoyed with the interruption.

  “I’m Special Agent James Fergusson, FBI.”

  Christopher sat straight up in his chair. He fumbled with some papers on his desk like he wanted them to disappear somehow. As he straightened the stack, Fergusson noticed a strange long dent in the top of the desk.

  “What can I do for you?” Christopher s
aid, trying to sound casual.

  “You’ve made quite a mess here. Looking for something special?”

  “What? Oh, this? Just sorting through things,” he said nervously.

  “Do you know a man named Jefferson, goes by Tree Top?”

  “No, who’s he?” Christopher spoke a little too quickly.

  Fergusson took a pile of papers off the chair facing Christopher’s desk and sat down. “How about the Malcor Corporation?”

  “No. Well, not exactly. I have heard of them.”

  “This can be a lot easier if you just tell the truth.” Removing a micro recorder from his jacket pocket, Fergusson said, “Mind if I tape this? I want to make sure I get everything right.”

  “Yes. Record it. I want this very clear.”

  “This is Special Agent James Fergusson interviewing Allen— I’m sorry, what’s your middle name?”

  “James. Allen James Christopher.”

  “Now, I ask you some questions, and you tell me the answers. Real easy, so enough with the lies. You’re not very good at it. Now, tell me about Tree Top Jefferson.”

  “He is, well, I, there is an associate of mine named Richard Anderson. He and Tree Top were doing business together.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Oh, I don’t, I’m not, they—” Christopher began shuffling papers again.

  “He said you bought diamonds, and he bought cars with them. Your boss, a Mr.—” Fergusson flipped through a notebook, “—Brazil, he’s told me that you had the stones shipped here. Now, cut the crap.”

  “It was that bastard, Sage, wasn’t it? He’s the one! He told you everything didn’t he?” Christopher was now standing and yelling at Fergusson.

  “Mr. Christopher, this won’t help you at all.”

  Fergusson closed his notebook and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “When I come back, it will be with a federal warrant to arrest you. Now, you can make it difficult or you can come clean.”

  “It was Anderson. He’s the one. He introduced me to Tree Top. He ordered the diamonds. I just did him a favor by signing for the packages. He, he—” Christopher stuttered.

  “We checked out Richard Anderson. He’s a small-time conman who served a total of 18 years at various facilities. The people at Zeff Wholesale Jewelry said they once had a customer named Anderson, but he always paid cash and bought silver that he sold in carts at various malls around the state, not diamonds. On the other hand, Mr. Christopher, they have your signature on numerous invoices and cashier’s checks drawn on your bank. More importantly, there’s an outstanding invoice for $380,000 dollars that’s 90 days old. They’re not very happy about that. Do you have $380,000 to pay that invoice, Mr. Christopher?”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “But you had enough to buy a new car. Euro Motors says you paid cash. Where does a realtor get cash like that?”

  “You got this all wrong.” Christopher’s face was a deep red.

  “Here’s what I know. You are in tight with Malcor.”

  “Finally, some facts.” Christopher seemed to relax.

  “Again, Mr. Christopher, are you familiar with Malcor Corporation?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what way?”

  “They’re my clients. I’m helping them put together an industrial project on the southeast part of town.”

  “Would you say your relations with them are friendly?”

  “Friendly? Yes, I would say so. I hope to be part of Malcor soon.”

  “Do you know Sven Elias?”

  Christopher stood up. “Get out!”

  “Now, Mr. Christopher,” Fergusson said patronizingly, “you don’t want me to leave,

  do you?”

  “Get out!”

  Fergusson stood and walked to the door. “Agent Wallace, will you please come in?”

  A handsome black man with dark glasses appeared in the doorway.

  “Christopher Allen, you have the right to remain silent.” Fergusson began.

  “What! You can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything!”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “I don’t need any lawyer! You got nothing. Hearsay and circumstantial evidence.”

  “You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand?” Fergusson pressed on, ignoring Christopher.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll talk!”

  “If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t want to go to jail!” Christopher pleaded.

  “Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?” The mini recorder still sat on the desk.

  “Yes, yes. What is it you think I’ve done?”

  “You will be charged with mail fraud, conspiracy to commit grand theft, and the attempted bribery of an elected official on behalf of the Castigleone crime family. It’s over, Christopher. Now if you are willing to work with us, we might be able help you.”

  Christopher sat down. Everything Cole Sage said would happen, had happened. He was guilty. He knew it, they knew it. Richard Anderson had set him up. The money had blinded him to it. The noose around his neck was real. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He was going to prison. All of his posturing was for nothing. He knew it, they knew it.

  “Okay, look, I don’t want to go to prison.”

  “That’s up to a jury.”

  “I thought you said we could make a deal?”

  “No, I said I might be able to help. What is it you want to tell me?”

  “I did it.”

  “You did what?”

  “I worked with Tree to buy and sell cars with diamonds.”

  “That’s not a crime and not what I’m here for.”

  “I was going to pay for the stones with the proceeds. It just didn’t work out.”

  “Do you have any stones left?” Fergusson asked.

  “I did, but Sage stole them from me.”

  “Look, Christopher. There’s a warrant for two of Jefferson’s guys for attempted murder and another for Jefferson for ordering the attack. Cole Sage is an award-winning newspaperman, highly regarded by the Chicago police. Now, whatever you have against him doesn’t matter beans to me, but save the ‘Cole Sage did this, that and the other thing,’ ‘cause nobody’s buying it.”

  “What attack?”

  “On Cole Sage. He’s in the hospital right now, beat to hell.”

  “I had nothing to do with that!”

  “You said Jefferson was your man. I have a feeling Jefferson’s orders came from you.”

  “I know nothing about beating up Sage. My only connection to Jefferson had to do with the cars, nothing else. He’s on his own otherwise, I swear.”

  “So you burned Zeff for the diamonds, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You mean yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you offer Sven Elias diamonds to change the zoning on the property you were trying to buy for Malcor?”

  Christopher looked down at his feet. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Wallace, will you please prepare Mr. Christopher for transport?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Christopher, please stand and put your hands behind your head.”

  Without a word, Christopher stood and did as the man said. Wallace turned him around and quickly patted him down. He removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and restrained Christopher. Fergusson knew his federal case was not very strong. A good defense attorney could probably whittle down some of the charges, but with
the confession, Christopher would do time. More important was his link to the mob. Putting them on the West Coast, involved with criminal activities, would give him some leverage, and that’s what really mattered.

  The raid on Tree Top Jefferson’s crib was far more productive than Fergusson had imagined. Although there were no federal violations per se, the local police had a field day. Built into the house were several false walls and safe rooms. It took two police cargo vans to haul away the loot they found stashed behind the walls: Neatly shelved, tagged, and complete with inventory sheets on clipboards hanging from the walls, was a fortune in stolen goods.

  Along with the dozens of DVD players, car stereos, laptop computers, and a myriad of other electronic devices, there were several hundred cell phones. Many new in boxes, others in plastic Ziploc bags. In each of the bags was a photocopy of instructions on how to reprogram the phone and the name of several people who could, for a price, hook up the purchaser with an untraceable account to activate the phone.

  The real score was in Tree’s bedroom. The top of the dressers was a veritable contraband pharmacy. Bowls of crack and powder cocaine, apothecary jars of marijuana, and a crystal candy dish of Ecstasy. In one of the drawers was a large Ziploc bag later identified as methamphetamine.

  In his closet, along with enough shoes to make Imelda Marcos blush, were four assault rifles and three sawed-off shotguns. On one shelf at the end of the closet were stacked several heavy-duty aluminum travel cases. Each case was full of handguns. Glocks in various calibers, nickel-plated Colt 45 automatics, 9mm Smith & Wesson automatics, a variety of fancy engraved ivory-and-pearl-handled pistols, and enough ammunition to launch a small war. On the floor behind a rack of shoes was an Army green wooden box about six feet long. Inside the box were two surface-to-air missiles and a grenade launcher—a federal arms felony violation.

  During the search of the bedroom, the phone next to the bed rang.

  “Jefferson residence, Special Agent Fergusson speaking.”

  “Yeah, yo’ funny. Where’s Tree?”

  “Haven’t seen him. But if you get a hold of him, will you let him know I’d like to speak with him?”

  “Who is this, again?”

  “Fergusson, FBI,” he said, but all the Special Agent heard was laughter and a dial tone.

  Fergusson sat down on the side of the bed and made a couple of notes. As he pressed down on the mattress to stand to his feet, a small ebony box slid out from under the green velvet brocade pillow on the bed and hit his hand. Inside the box was a piece of red velvet folded over and tucked in at the sides. Fergusson turned back the cloth to find several hundred diamonds. Jefferson had been skimming off the supply. This tied him directly to Christopher. Even without the diamonds, there were enough felonies represented in this raid to send him away for a long, long time. He would let the local cops take care of the dirty work. The federal violations were minimal. Fergusson chuckled to himself. The guy from Chicago had certainly made a lot of cops look good around here.

  This would be the end of Tree Top Jefferson’s career as the city’s flashiest street hustler. By the time he’d get out of jail, the streets would be filled with hydrogen-burning hovercraft.