He wiped his eyes and lay down on his cot, stared at the ceiling, and waited for the lights to dim. At least he was lucky in one respect. He didn’t have a cellmate to bother him when he just wanted to be left alone. The lights went out and Dariel dozed off, jarred awake a couple of times when one inmate or another cried out or sobbed loudly. Finally, quiet settled in and he fell into a deep sleep.
Suddenly his head was twisted sideways and his eyes opened wide with alarm. His shoulders were pinned to the cot, and a foul-smelling cloth was shoved down his throat until he nearly gagged. His reflexes took over. He fought back, arms flailing in an attempt to throw punches, legs kicking into the darkness. None of it mattered. There were two attackers and they were much stronger than him. One man grabbed his arms, another took hold of his legs and they whisked him out of his cell, carrying him down the cell block to the muffled sound of his screams. No one heard him, or if they did, they kept quiet. Snitches usually died a violent death, and inmates learned rather quickly to turn a blind eye to violent acts committed within their sight. See nothing and hear nothing was the rule if you wanted to stay alive.
After they stopped at last, the two men tossed him on the floor. His head bounced on the cold, wet tile floor, and he cried out in pain. In the dim light of a nearby bulb, he realized they were in the showers. Both men stood over him now, glaring at him hatefully. Dariel recognized one of them, a trustee who worked in admission when he was being processed. He believed his name was Fattah. As his terrified eyes darted from one man to the other, his heart took a leap at the sight of the shiv in Fattah’s hand.
“Any sound out of you and you’re dead, understand?” the trustee warned as he yanked the cloth from his mouth.
Dariel nodded. He shivered, paralyzed with fear. Something was very wrong. “What did I do?” he whimpered.
The men exchanged looks and smirked. “You tangled with the wrong people, Thomas, don’t you know that yet?” Fattah sneered.
Dariel sensed there would be no compassion from him. He turned toward the other prisoner. “Tell me what you want. Whatever it is, if I have it, I’ll give it to you.”
The man ignored his plea and Fattah leaned down close enough for his foul breath to assault Dariel’s nostrils. Nausea nearly overwhelmed him.
“I thought you might say that. Where is the briefcase?”
“What briefcase?” Dariel asked.
The shiv came down, fast and furious, slashing his arms, his face, his legs. Dariel threw up his hands in a vain attempt to block the assault.
“No, stop, please, please stop,” he begged.
Panting from his efforts, Fattah stepped back to wipe his brow. Curled up, with every part of him on fire, Dariel kept his eyes tightly shut and prayed the attack was over at last. His respite was short lived. Screeching with laughter, Fattah’s accomplice landed vicious kicks on every part of his body. The young man made a frantic effort to crawl away, slipping and falling in the puddles of his own blood. His screams bounced off the walls.
“Please stop! I’ll tell you where it is,” he pleaded, his voice quivering.
Fattah waved the other man away. “So far we’ve treated you gently, Thomas. Any more nonsense out of your mouth, and you’ll find out what real pain is. And then you’ll die.”
Dariel nodded. He ran his trembling fingers over his face and realized his lips and nose were numb.
Fattah nudged him with his foot. “Where is the briefcase?”
“In my house, behind the living room couch. You just move it out, it’s right there.”
The trustee glared at him. “If you’re lying, you’re a dead man,” he threatened.
Dariel was beyond caring now. Somehow his mind, mired in a thick fog, had detached itself from his body and a cold numbness overtook the pain.
The two men exchanged a quick glance, then the trustee stepped away and pulled out a cell phone. His conversation was brief, just a few words in Arabic and he was done. A short moment later, the convicts turned back to him. Through his blurry eyes Dariel saw his death written on their faces.
“It’s time to say goodnight,” the trustee said as they closed in on him once more. Punches rained down, crushing every bone in his body, until, growing impatient, Yasuf Fattah thrust the shiv deep into Dariel’s chest, twisting it several times for good measure. For one last lucid moment, Dariel’s mind drifted to Lilly’s delightful laughter, the sweet scent of her hair, her unequivocal love, and a faint smile spread over what remained of his face before his world dissipated into darkness.
****
It was time to quit. For well over an hour now, they had been working in the dark, with a couple of small flash lights, with no luck in finding the diamonds. Earlier that night, armed with the Imam’s information, they went to the Thomas house. Hakim remembered it as a quiet working-class neighborhood with small houses and small yards. With only a sliver of moon hidden behind clusters of clouds, the neighborhood sat in darkness.
Hakim drove to the end of the street before making a U-turn, driving nice and slow, then parked in front of a vacant lot, just south of their target. The dim light of a solitary street lamp, some distance away, was shrouded in haze.
This time they approached the house from a different angle, and Hakim noticed a chain link fence and a side door they’d missed the other night. Entry from that direction would have enabled them to get in the house. Lie in wait for the Thomas woman. Too late now.
A simple latch held the gate shut. There was no one around. They stopped for a moment to put on gloves, then quickly stepped into the back yard and followed a narrow gravel path bordered by high weeds and grass.
Suddenly the furious bark of a dog shattered the silence, and they froze. It stopped as quickly as it started, no lights came on in any of the surrounding houses, and soon, it was quiet again. A few seconds later, Abdul was jimmying the lock on the side door and next they were standing in a cramped kitchen. It was barely big enough to hold a small table and a couple of chairs. Dishes with half eaten food still sat on the table, revealing a hurried departure. A narrow hallway led into the living room.
With his flashlight, Hakim made a quick sweep over the meager furnishings, a worn leather recliner, and an aging television sitting on top of a small stand. The light landed on a faded brown couch, and he stopped, let it linger there for a moment, then he told Abdul to grab one side as he took hold of the other. Together, they pulled it away from its resting spot against the wall. The motion caused a few dust bunnies to float into space before settling back on the bare wooden floor.
Abdul frowned. “I thought it was supposed to be behind the couch?”
Hakim was quietly eyeing the couch. “Let’s turn it over,” he ordered.
They flipped it over, and stood looking at a dark woven liner attached to the wood frame with a mixture of nails and staples. Hakim slowly ran his flashlight back and forth over the liner.
“Now what?” Abdul asked, getting impatient.
Hakim didn’t answer, his attention focused on the fasteners holding the fabric in place.
“You see something?” Abdul asked.
Hakim motioned him closer. “See this? Here we have staples”—he pointed to the other side of the couch—“and on this side, we have tacks. They look pretty new to me.”
Abdul nodded. Hakim handed him his flashlight, pulled the switchblade from his pocket. It made a gentle hiss when he flipped it open and he drove its sharp blade into the material, making a deep gash. With his other hand, he yanked at the fabric. Worn by time, it gave without resistance. Hakim tossed it aside and had Abdul direct his flashlight into the opening. Jammed high up between the springs was a plastic bag. Abdul leaned in.
“Shit!” he exclaimed.
Hakim pushed him out of the way and got down on the floor in order to reach into the narrow space. Twisting his arm sideways, he got a grip on the bag. The way it was wedged, it wouldn’t budge. He gritted his teeth and pulled harder. The bag ripped open and bundles of hund
red-dollar bills rained down. Abdul whooped and Hakim gave him a nasty look.
“Shut the hell up,” he growled, “you’re going to wake the damn neighbors.”
Abdul stepped back, a miffed expression on his face. Hakim went back to scrutinizing the inside of the sofa. Pieces of the bag and a few stubborn bills remained trapped in the springs. He had to fish them out one by one. He got the rest of the bag and tossed it in Abdul’s direction. As he yanked on the last bundle, one of the bills became impaled on a broken piece of spring. After some more maneuvering, he finally got a hold of it and wrenched it free. A small corner was missing, but he didn’t give a damn. He sat up and smiled at Abdul, then it dawned on him. The diamonds were not in the bag. He ran the flashlight back and forth inside the couch once more. Nothing. His grin turned into an angry scowl. He looked at Abdul.
“That son of a bitch! There’s no way he could have pawned the stones so quickly. Not those gems. They have to be somewhere in this dump. Don’t just stand there, get busy. We have to find them.”
They slashed mattresses, shredded pillows, groped in corners of cabinets and inside closets, searched through a couple of old suitcases, even gutted a teddy bear, before finally giving up. After more than an hour searching, Hakim came to the conclusion that Thomas knew the two convicts were going to kill him, and decided to cheat them out of the gems.
They tossed the money in an old gym bag they found in the hall closet, then waited a couple more minutes, listening and checking the street, before going out the front door. Rain, sharp as needles, pelted them as they dashed to the car.
Driving away, Hakim couldn’t stop brooding. It was one bad turn after another. It started with that damn courier dropping dead at the airport, then Thomas’ woman led them on a wild chase ending in her death. Sure, they had the money, but the stones were missing and he had no idea where to search for them.
The rain didn’t let up all the way back to his computer repair shop. The parking lot had ankle-deep water. He drove to the rear of the building, parked near the back door and made a dash for it.
A flip of a switch lit up a windowless room furnished with an old metal desk, a couple of worn office chairs and two file cabinets. Abdul remained by the door, dripping water on the linoleum floor, holding the bag of money with an undecided look.
“Where do you want this?” he asked.
“Put it on the desk,” Hakim said over his shoulder as he stepped into the adjacent room. A work bench, piled with phones and laptops, loomed like a dark monster. He made his way past computer equipment and a multitude of parts shoved along the wall, and entered the reception area. Leaning against the elevated glass desk, he peered into the darkness.
Thick sheets of rain pounded the shop window. Visibility was less than a foot. He could barely make out the sidewalk, much less the other stores. Reassured the shopping plaza was deserted, he went back to the office.
“Man, don’t you have any towels?” Abdul inquired, squeezing water out of his T-shirt.
Hakim glanced down at his own drenched clothes and scoffed. “Towels? What do you think this is? A Turkish bath?”
He sat down at the desk, impatiently shoved aside a stack of paper, unzipped the gym bag and dumped its contents. Despite his anger at the turn of events, the sight of the pile of cash brought a small measure of satisfaction. He motioned to the other man. “Sit down, start counting.”
Abdul shrugged and dragged the other chair up to the table. Hakim ignored his show of annoyance. He split up the bundles and pushed half of them across the table. They tallied the money, ending up just short of a hundred thousand. Hakim assumed Thomas more than likely helped himself to some of it.
Still, he shook his head, fuming. “It’s not enough. We need those damn diamonds.”
Abdul’s eyes widened. “It’s a lot of money, man.”
“You have no idea, do you? It takes a load of cash for the operation we have planned. Without the diamonds, we come up short.”
“The reason I don’t know is because you won’t tell me anything. Don’t you think you should start filling me in on the details?” Abdul retorted.
“You’re right. I will, as soon as I get the go-ahead from Abboud. It should be soon now.”
“So what are you gonna do about the diamonds?”
Hakim gazed at the wall for a moment before answering. “He had to hide them someplace else. We went over that house with a fine-toothed comb. The stones aren’t there. That’s a fact.”
“And what if he sold them?” Abdul asked.
Hakim scoffed. “Then the money would have been in the couch with the other cash. Besides, you don’t just get rid of a million dollars’ worth of stones just like that.”
Abdul nodded. “So, now what?”
“I’m going to talk to Jenna. See what else she can find out at the police station.”
Abdul gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t know how you think she’ll have access to their investigation.”
Hakim glared at him. “She got us the name of the thief, didn’t she? Besides, it’s the only thing I can think of right now. Let’s get out of here.”
He shoved the money back into the bag, swung it over his shoulder and headed out the door. Tomorrow, he would start the hunt for the diamonds and he was determined. Nothing would stand in his way.
Chapter Nine
She was stepping out of the shower when the phone rang. She grabbed a towel and ran to answer it. It was Jim Boyd. “Jessie…”
She sensed something was wrong.
The detective continued, “We won’t be meeting with Dariel Thomas today.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“He’s dead.”
She closed her eyes, lowered herself into a kitchen chair.
“What happened?” she asked weakly.
“He was murdered.”
Somehow she could barely think. “How could this be? He was locked away in jail.”
“Someone got to him last night. Took him out of his cell, stabbed him and beat him to death in the showers.”
She was stunned. “I don’t understand. Aren’t the prisoners under watch at all times?”
“Apparently there was a lapse in security. It’s being investigated right now.”
“Do you think he was tortured?”
“From the looks of it, I would say yes.” Boyd said glumly.
A chill crept up her spine. “This can’t be a coincidence. It’s about the briefcase. What other reason would there be for him to be tortured?”
“Now, Jessie, you can’t jump to conclusions.”
“Do they know who did this to him?” she asked bitterly.
“Not yet. But you can be assured we’ll do everything we can to find out.”
Jessie’s chest tightened. “Oh my God, Lilly! First she loses her mom and now her dad.”
“I know, it’s pretty sad for the child. We’re trying to find a relative,” Boyd said.
“As far as I know, Dariel only has one relative, his sister Emily.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“We talked about it yesterday. I told him I would find her phone number.”
“Do you have the information?” he asked.
“The last name is Newhart. Emily Newhart. Dariel said she last lived in Pine Island, Minnesota. I haven’t checked yet for an address or a phone number. I was waiting to see when he would be released.”
Boyd paused for a moment. “I’ll get a hold of her. I have some questions and we need to find out about arrangements for both Dariel and his wife.”
“Does Lilly know yet?” she asked.
“No. I talked to Mary Gilmore earlier and she wants to hold off.”
“Can I go see Lilly?”
“You’ll have to ask Mary. I don’t see why not. But of course, it’s not my decision,” Boyd said.
“Will you let me know if you find out any more about Dariel’s death?” Jessie asked.
“It won’t be today, Jessie, that I can
tell you. But I will call you whenever we find out.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
Jessie sat on the edge of her bed and thought about Dariel. And the more she thought about it, the more she was certain he was murdered by someone who was after the contents of the briefcase. Someone powerful enough to get to him in a jail cell. Someone dangerous. With her stomach still tied in knots, she skipped breakfast, got ready and left for work. Art looked at her questioningly when she walked in his office. “Who dressed you today?”
She glanced down at her clothes and realized she had pulled on an old Rolling Stones T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. She shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention. I had other things on my mind.”
His eyebrows shot up as she told him about Dariel’s death. She could see his face changing.
“So you think his murder is linked to the briefcase?”
Jessie nodded. “I’m sure it is. Dariel was a small-time crook. He did whatever it took to survive, and that included keeping a low profile. This wasn’t just a jail house fight resulting in his death. This was cold-blooded torture and murder. An act of desperation by very bad people. Remember what Dariel told me, Art. The briefcase held lots of money and priceless diamonds. The thought had to enter their mind that Dariel might make a deal with the cops, and then they would be out of luck.”
The old man stared at her soberly. “Now the guy is gone. What if these people suspect that he told someone else about all this?”
Jessie realized what he was suggesting. “How would they know I talked to him?”
“Jessie, if you can get a man killed in jail, you can certainly find out who his visitors were during his short stay.”
She hadn’t considered this until now.
“I want you to be careful, you hear? We don’t know who we’re dealing with here,” Art warned.
“Does this mean you’ll give me more time to work on this?” she asked.
He gave her a stern look, pointing his finger at her. “I don’t want my reporter killed in order to get this story. So proceed with caution, young lady.”
“One of these days, I’m taking that finger away from you,” she warned, suppressing a smile.
Diamond Lilly Page 7
