Kiss Her Goodbye (11 page)

"Eastern," I corrected.

Ordinarily, the old man would have wanted to spend an hour over such kidding pleasantries, but his curiosity got the better of him—me coming to him on a business matter was a rarity. So as soon as we had sat down in wooden chairs on either side of a scarred old table, he poured us each a paper cup of wine.

"Now, Michael, what is it you wish to see me about? A lawyer I'm not. Neither am I a ladies' man. Diamonds I know, but what would you..." He paused, looked at my face, and his expression grew curious. "Are you buying for that beautiful secretary of yours? You are finally coming to your senses?"

I shook my head. "We split up while I was away."

"A shame. Is there no hope?"

"I don't believe so. Anyway, David, I'm not here buying."

"Selling?" This time his tone was wary.

"Not exactly."

"So there's a third alternative?"

I held out my hand and let him see the marble-size stone in my palm. He didn't reach for it, just looked at it, then I let it roll over so he could see the ground-in little window into its gleaming soul.

This time he
did
reach for it, felt it, rolled it around in his fingers, then finally brought out a worn loupe, took off his glasses, twisted it into his eye, and examined the pebble carefully. Twice he changed the intensity of the light to be sure of his appraisal.

I let him take his time, not even watching him. Several times his eyes left the stone to peer at me, a strangeness in the silent expression.

I said nothing and waited until he was through. "It's for real?"

"Oh, yes, Michael. It is very much 'for real.'" He paused, then handed the stone back to me. "Do you know how much that is worth?"

I grinned at him. "That's what I'm here to find out."

"Something is funny?"

"How much the stone is worth is
not
the question you wanted to ask me, David."

"Now you are a mind reader?"

"Sure. When a guy like you has no expression just when he's gone into slow motion? Sure."

"So what is it I am supposed to ask?"

I grinned again and waited.

He squirmed because I wasn't playing his game. "Okay, Michael, I will ask—
where did you get it?
"

"I found it, which is the truth, but that's not what you want to know, is it? There's another overriding question, right?"

"How can you
do
this to me?"

"That's not the question."

And then he put me right where I wanted to be in this ball game.

"
Where are the rest of them?
"

I raised a hand in a gentle "stop" gesture. "Right now, David, I really don't know. But what you have in your head is what I
have
to know."

The excitement in his voice was the gentlest quiver that few would pick up on; he was under control again—almost. "Michael, do you think you can find them?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. I'm guessing this little gem has a history."

"It ... may have."

"David, don't hedge with me. We're not bargaining yet."

He shrugged. "With one stone, how can I be sure?"

My eyes narrowed and, through a slit of a smile, I asked, "How did you
know
there were more?"

He took a deep breath and sighed loudly. "I am too old to be doing this. Such excitement I do not need."

"Bullshit. You thrive on excitement."

"But I could be wrong."

"Come on, David. I'm here because I trust your opinion as much as I trust you."

He rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward, propping his chin on his fist. He tapped on the tabletop. "Put the stone there."

I set it in front of him.

"It looks like an ordinary pebble, yes?"

"Sort of."

"Do you notice on the surface anything peculiar?"

"No. I'm not a jeweler."

"It is like an erosion," he said. "But ... what has such hardness as to wear down a diamond?"

"Another diamond."

"Very good." He rolled the stone over gently. "Such an erosion as this ... no scratches, no chipping ... what does it tell you?" He watched me carefully again.

But when I could only shrug, he said, "I could say it is likely that this precious pebble was carried in a pouch with many other stones for a very long time. Continuous rubbing together, over a period of years, would make the surface like so. They are not like that when they come from the earth."

"David, you're looking at one stone and building a history out of it. Where is this going?"

He was good at long pauses. When he had finished thumbing through his thoughts like a Rolodex in his mind, he said, "Michael, you are my friend. You I can trust. When I look at this gemstone, I get a feeling only a true lover of fine jewels can possibly get. It is almost ... mystical."

When he spoke, there was a dreamlike quality about the words. Even his tone of voice changed, giving them a hollow ring.

"There is a story of a jewel cutter named Basil, a most mysterious man who came to Germany from Russia when the Communists took over the country. It was Basil himself to whom the tsar went for his jewelry. There have been tales of the fabulous stones Basil produced for the Tsar, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, fantastic baubles few outside the royal family ever got to see. After the revolution, these cut stones all disappeared, probably broken up and sold to make more revolution."

"But Basil himself managed to escape..."

"Yes. When the Communists killed the tsar, they searched for Basil, but never found him. Many thought he was dead, but every so often wonderfully cut stones would surface with the remarkable beauty that bore the mark of Basil himself. He became a legend in all of Europe. Whispers had him operating out of Germany, but even there he remained a man of mystery."

"If Basil fled to Germany, how could the quality of his stones remain so high?"

"It is believed he brought a quantity with him from Mother Russia, though it's possible he found some new source. Always of top quality, they were."

"Why didn't he get into the open market?"

For a second, David came out of his reverie. "And show himself?"

I nodded.

"Michael, he was a Jew. Let us say that, on his person, he carried the last of his treasured uncut stones. The Communists would declare them stolen from the state, thieves and mercenaries worldwide would make of him a target. Death could come from any side. Imagine, in a simple leather pouch, Basil carrying a multi-million-dollar value that in this day would be doubled and tripled a dozen times over."

"So he took his time."

"Yes, he was very clever, this Basil. He never showed himself, fashioning his works of art only if he needed the money. But he was a presence, a living legend, Basil and his pouch of huge stones. Just before Hitler came to power, he cut his last known diamond, a ninety-six-carat masterpiece that now graces an oil sheik's collection."

"Do we know if Basil survived the Holocaust?"

"Michael, we do not. We know the Nazis searched for him. Oh, yes, how they searched. But they were dealing with a person who had spent a lifetime in subterfuge, and was an expert at hiding and escaping or whatever was necessary to stay alive ... and he and his pouch of fabulous uncut stones never surfaced." His eyes burned into mine. "Until
now,
Michael."

"You seem pretty damn sure of what you're saying, David."

He nodded sagely.

"
Why
are you sure?"

His fingers turned the stone until I was looking at the window carved into its surface. David held the loupe out to me. I put it to my eye and drew the stone up to it. I could see, but I couldn't put it together.

I handed the loupe back, shrugged, and he said, "There are facets that are the trademark of Basil."

"Why isn't
it
eroded too?"

David smiled. "That is a ... shall I say, concave cut? This you understand?"

"The surfaces of the other stones couldn't touch it?"

"That is right."

"Why cut the window at all?"

"Basil never displayed a finished work. It was ordered, paid for, then delivered. Now—what layman knows from an uncut stone? Not many. To show them what is this pebblelike thing, from which will emerge an art object of untold beauty and value, he would open up a small part of it. And even doing
that
he left his trademark. Yes, the mark of Basil—it was always there."

"You've seen it before?"

"No. Only fine drawings made by a master craftsman who had indeed known Basil. He was no legend, Michael—he was a man. Remarkable men do walk this earth from time to time. I would say, with no intention of embarrassing you, that you are such a man."

"I can cut a throat, David, but not a diamond."

"You are indeed a diamond in the rough, Michael." He shifted in his chair. "Twenty years ago, I was fortunate to be able to study two of Basil's early pieces. Remarkable. There is nothing done like that today."

"You think Basil's dead?"

"Wouldn't he have to be?" the old man asked. "Who lives
that
long? Even men who become legends die. This is something you might keep in mind, Michael, the next time a burst of recklessness comes upon you."

I put the stone back in my pocket. "Thanks, David. This is helpful."

"It is unless I have just been making all of this up. Just an old windbag trying to impress his young friend."

"Not you, buddy."

"Michael..."

"What?"

"This is trouble. Big trouble. Trouble as big as man's greed. You do
know
that?"

"David,
that
I really know. That I can give you an expert opinion on."

"Someday ... you will tell me more?"

"Sure."

"And if you should wish to put this pebble on the market, will you remember your old friend?"

"Of course. Maybe we can get rich and retire to Florida together."

He waved the offer away. "You may have retirement, my friend. I prefer to live."

As I wandered through the many deals being made on that singular street, I could only think how amazed each of these merchants would be if they knew about the rough pebble in my pocket with its window into untold wealth.

It had fallen out of her sleeve cuff.

Things don't fall
into
a place like that, so it had to have been
put
there. And the only people who put things in the cuffs of sleeves are those who wear them.

And now the big question...
why?

David Gross may have put his finger on it when he asked me where the rest of the stones were. Suppose the dead girl
did
have a pouch of them? Why would she extract one, and one with a window in it?

Come on,
I told myself,
it isn't
that
hard.

Virginia Mathes was no heist artist. She wasn't into any part of that game at all. Somebody had used her as a patsy, dropped a fortune in uncut diamonds on her with a story to go with it, and she'd bought the lie.

She was a suddenly recruited carrier, told just to follow instructions, but curiosity had compelled a look at what she was carrying. Not being a lapidary, she couldn't tell one pebble from another, but picked one as a sample, the one with the shiny window—maybe to take to a jeweler herself to find out what this was all about.

Or maybe whoever she was working with only sent her out with one stone—maybe that missing purse hadn't held a pouch of diamonds, and her cuff had been home to a sample to prove to some buyer that the precious things existed and were in her controller's possession.

Still, either way—why walk down a damn dangerous street? She'd have been better off one street over, where it was still hopping and other people were around. Or maybe she thought she could avoid being followed by cutting over onto some out-of-the-way route. A normal person in her position would have been jumpy—checking behind her would have been automatic.

But she hadn't been jumpy, or a guy in sneakers couldn't have sneaked up behind her.

Or
had
she been jumpy?

And a mugger hugging the shadows let her go by, then went at her when she passed. He could have had the knife out as a threatening gesture, but the victim was so on edge that her frightened turn, and readied scream, were so instantaneous the guy just stuck the knife in her, ripped it out, cut her purse straps, and took off with the bag.

But the purse wouldn't have held the rest of the pebbles if she'd brought only a hidden sample with her. And a mugger wouldn't think to go check out her apartment looking for stones he hadn't known existed. He might go there to make a simple heist, only Ginnie's pad had been searched, not stripped.

Somebody else went through her apartment. Looking for the rest of the stones? And found them, maybe?

If a mugger had been the fly in this ointment, he was out of it now—he had his thirty-five bucks plus tips and that was all. Muggers don't hold on to wallets or purses very long. They empty them out, grab the cash, and dump them. Credit cards and checks can be chancy, but everybody takes cash.

Ginnie had been a messenger, a go-between in over her head. Somebody had sent her to show somebody else one of the stones—that
had
to be it.

It felt like someone had either heisted the stones or stumbled onto them somehow, and was either in the market to sell them to a buyer or back to the owner.

I knew I should turn the pebble over to Pat Chambers and share all of these thoughts with him. I was in no position to do the kind of in-depth investigation it would take to follow all these threads. Pat had an army, and I didn't even have an office.

Or a secretary who happened also to be a P.I. herself, and who could have helped me figure this damn thing out.

So why wasn't I going to Pat?

Because this little kill, which had turned out to be about very big money, had taken place within a few blocks of the mortuary where Bill Doolan had been sent off. What I had blithely written off as coincidence was feeling more and more like something significant, something I didn't understand yet.

But if whoever killed Bill Doolan was also responsible for Ginnie Mathes's murder, only one person was going to settle both scores.