The Case of the Yellow Diamond (4 page)

 

Chapter 6

B
efore I left the Bartelmes, I learned they weren't sure how much information Stan Lewis from St. Louis had been bringing to Minnesota. He'd remained suspicious enough I thought it worth a shot to get in touch with the St. Louis police to suggest they check out the old man's residence.

I did this through Ricardo. I knew a call from some unknown PI in Minnesota wouldn't get much attention, especially since the murder of the as-yet-unidentified old man off the train had happened a long way from their jurisdiction.

Only an hour later, around noon, Ricardo called back to tell me he talked to a detective in St. Louis, who did a search of 911 calls and learned there had been an apparent burglary at an apartment in the city. The address was listed to a Stanley Lewis. When the cops broke down the door, his place had been thoroughly trashed. It appeared, Ricardo related, that the break-in had happened about the time Stan was arriving in Chicago. The St. Louis cops had put the burglary down to somebody looking for drugs or fenceable items. It was impossible to tell, without the owner's help, whether anything was missing.

I called the Bartelmes with the news. “Here's what I think,” I said to Tod. “Since there was no wallet and no papers found with the body, you need to reach out right away to your contacts in the vets group to find out anything you can about Stan and what documents he may have had. Maybe it's already too late and the papers are gone from his apartment, but everything you've told me about him so far suggests he may have had a more secure storage place, like a safe deposit box in a bank. That poses problems in itself, but not insurmountable ones. Meanwhile, you may be able to locate a source of copies of whatever Mr. Lewis was bringing you.”

“Got it. I'll get on our email list right away and see what I can learn.”

“Try to be discreet. The rest of your group doesn't need to know Lewis was murdered. At least, not just yet. And one other thing, Tod.”

“What's that?”

“You need to consider that you and Josie are now targets.”

“What?”

“If Stan Lewis was murdered for the papers he was carrying, whoever did this may figure you and your wife also have information dangerous to them. You and Josie ought to review everything you can think of that relates to your contacts with Mr. Lewis. Try to recall what he knew about you two and what you've told others. And try not to go anywhere alone. I don't want to frighten you—”

“You're certainly starting to,” Tod said.

“Well, I'm sorry, but just be careful and keep track of any odd or unusual contacts. Something's going on here, and it's going to take me some time to figure it out.”

I hung up the phone. I didn't tell Tod to stay out of dark alleys. I figured that wasn't anywhere in his experience or future. I went to my file of out-of-town investigators. Many private operators developed professional contacts across the country. I used mine, sometimes paying a fee, other times returning local service where called for. My rolodex revealed I had a years-old contact with a St. Louis area code. I called the number, but it was not in service. I tried Ricardo Simon to see if he knew anybody there. He wasn't in. So then I dialed a local investigator to whom I usually referred divorce cases.

The guy I wanted was in and he had an active contact in St. Louis. With that reference, I called Carl Wisnewsky. He was also in and knew my original contact who, he informed me, had died in bed of nothing more suspicious than natural causes. He agreed for a reasonable fee to look into the Stan Lewis burglary case. I added Carl to my rolodex.

I explained that by now the cops in St. Louis would have heard from Winona and elevated the case to something more than simple burglary. There was no heavy lifting here. I only wanted whatever the cops would let go. He rang off, and I went to my computer to make notes on what I had so far.

Even with my rudimentary understanding of computer systems and the Internet, I was slowly becoming more dependent on the machine for keeping track of case notes and my business. Two things worried me: loss of notes in the mysterious ether of cyberspace, through my ineptitude or a breakdown of the silicon inside the machine, or loss by some thug stealing the machine or its memory. I protected myself against theft by making copies of my notes on those plastic discs called CDs. I taught myself how to use that recording program. Those copies I kept in various secret places, just as I had with paper records. I couldn't do anything about machine problems and I still flinched every time the lights in my office building flickered due to some sudden surge or drain on the electrical system.

Now, as I organized my memories of the people and events of this case of Yap, questions came flooding in. This was a not-uncommon circumstance early on. I didn't yet know all the players well enough to decide whether they were Godless or on the side of the angels.

The telephone rang. Enter Gary Anderson. He was calling, he said, from his office in downtown Minneapolis. It was, I knew, on the umpty-umpth floor of one of the newer towers growing up like spring weeds around the metropolitan core. I could remember as a child in Minnesota, the tallest building in the city was the Foshay Tower, and in St. Paul, the First National Bank building. Now there were towers taller and more spectacular all over the place, although St. Paul seemed determined to avoid overshadowing the big red number one on top of the bank building.

“We were unable to talk privately at the Bartelmes the other day,” he said. “A good deal's happened since and I wonder if I might impose on you to meet me today.”

“Sure,” I said. “I could come to your office in about an hour or so.”

“Hmm. I wonder if we could meet for lunch? There's a nice quiet little place near here. Say, eleven-thirty?” He mentioned a name.

“That's fine. I know the place.”

Interesting
, I thought as I replaced the hand set in its cradle.
He wants to meet but maybe he doesn't want to be seen with me at his office.
Lawyer Anderson was known for his discretion. He was also known in some legal gossip circles as someone who skated close to the edge of the ethical cliff from time to time. His primary focus was manipulation of financial assets for the benefit of his well-off clients and for himself, naturally.

The restaurant, on a short side street in the middle of downtown, had no connection to the skyway system. It was not a place where the up-and-coming young hustlers in the financial or other commercial trades in the city went to see and be seen. This was a small, quiet restaurant with an excellent chef and a highly discreet waitstaff. An awning over the sidewalk sheltered the single street door, but the awning was plain and there was no elaborate lettering on the front window. No lettering on the window at all. The lettering on the door simply gave the street number, which was repeated on the matte black letter-box slot in the wall beside the door.

Inside, the hostess, a well-set-up woman of middling years with a calm demeanor, eyed me as I stepped through the door.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said. Then she waited, looking down at me.

She didn't ask if she could help or be of service. These were not on her agenda.

“I'm meeting Mr. Gary Anderson,” I said. “Perhaps he called?”

“Right this way, sir.”

She wheeled smartly about, her shoulder-length, straight, ash-blonde hair swinging aside, and led me around the panel that blocked my view of the interior. I had to stretch to keep pace, my legs being shorter than hers. I didn't want to trot, did I?

We passed eight tables, four on the left and four on the right. The blonde hostess stopped at a ninth at the very back, not too far from a door that led, I presumed, to the kitchen and probably certain sanitary facilities as well. Each table, I noted in passing, was laid with a white cloth, cloth napkins, silverware, and wine and water glasses.

I took the chair she pulled for me, so I sat with my back to the room. She left my side and a waiter materialized with a pitcher of water, which he generously shared with me. He also inquired if I wanted a drink. I declined, refraining from requesting a bottle of Bud, just to see what his reaction would be.

The tall, stork-like Gary Anderson, his eyes alight with mischief and with his large hand already extended, walked around the table, waving me down and sank into the chair opposite.

“No trouble finding it, I see,” he said. The waiter repeated his routine, and Anderson ordered a dry martini with a twist. “Not drinking this noon?”

“I usually wait until later in the day unless the job calls for it,” I said. “And my recollection is that the drinks here are substantial.”

Anderson raised his eyebrows. I imagine he was wondering if I was a regular or how frequently I had been here. He had no way of knowing, of course, except that he'd never seen me here. I was not going to enlighten him. I assumed we were engaged in some sort of game to either impress me or frighten me into getting lost, or perhaps into proving my mettle.

I knew a good deal about Mr. Gary Anderson, attorney at law. I had clients, regular clients, who could buy and sell him several times over. That I preferred to hang about with middle- and other-class folks didn't mean I couldn't and didn't make my occasional way in more rarefied circles. I even knew how to find Deephaven, should I ever need to do so.

“I appreciate the lunch invitation, Mr. Anderson. How may I be of service?” Unlike the hostess, whom I could hear behind me seating other guests, I was anxious to get down to the meat of the matter. I figured if I kept a light pressure on, Mr. Attorney Anderson might not only reveal his agenda, but a few other choice tidbits as well. I'm always willing to receive choice tidbits.

He smiled, nodded at someone I couldn't see, and said, “Let's order, shall we? I understand the broiled salmon is quite good today.” Then he proceeded to do exactly that, having downed half his martini. For both of us. He didn't order the broiled salmon. Instead we had cold smoked salmon steaks with a small boiled potato and a crisp arugula salad combined with a light balsamic and oil dressing and half a thinly sliced tomato. It was a dynamite lunch and I said so. He airily waved the compliment away. I got the impression he might not have known the difference if the salad was limp iceberg and the salmon was hard and dry, which it certainly wasn't.

He had another dry martini, and I had another glass of water. He took a sip and got down to business, speaking just loudly enough so I could hear him over the other conversations in the room.

 

Chapter 7

A
s I'm sure you are aware, Mr. . . . Sean, I have had the privilege of serving the Pederson financial interests for some time, and more recently those of Tod and Josie Bartelme,” Gary began. “Even though neither of the Bartelmes has the kind of investment resources our firm normally deals with, we are happy to be assisting Mr. Pederson's daughter to realize a comfortable retirement.”

“I assume there's some depletion of those resources going on at the moment.”

“Indeed, you assume correctly. This near obsession of Josie's to locate her clearly deceased granduncle Amundson is not only taking up a considerable amount of time, it's now eating into the family retirement resources.”

“You needn't go into the details, but I am curious as to why you are telling me this,” I said, taking another sip of water.

“I decided it would be wise for you to be in the picture, so to speak, in order for you to better understand current family dynamics. Ordinarily an outsider like yourself wouldn't have this kind of access. I'm aware that Tod and Josie have already talked rather freely, which is their right, of course.”

Yeah, their right, and Anderson didn't approve. I could tell.

“Mr. Pederson, out of his not inconsiderable resources, largely financed the first two expeditions to the South Pacific,” he continued. “After Tod established the website and they made contact with veterans groups around the nation, and word of their quest got out, some contributions came in. They got a lot more requests for information than they did money, unfortunately. A few people even asked if they could hitchhike along. It is hard to imagine why there seems to be so much interest in this project. There are others, of course. Relatives and historical groups are always looking for missing pieces and as I'm sure you're aware, there are still a considerable number of unrecovered remains from that war.”

I agreed he was correct and had some more water. Anderson's empty martini glass had been replaced with a full one. The alcohol he was imbibing had no discernable effect on his speech, and he still leaned confidentially over the table at me. His hands and arms made no histrionic gestures. All in all, it was a pretty good performance.

“Well, as you can understand, after the first two trips, which inevitably cost more than budgeted and resulted in little significant additional information, some of those investing time and money assumed that would be the end of it.” He grimaced. “We misjudged the depth of Josie's interest and her husband's support. They both became a bit obsessive. When her father expressed reluctance to finance further trips, they directed me to begin to sell off their investments in order to pay for the trip this fall. Neither her father nor their advisors were pleased with the idea. Nor was the rest of the family, most of whom take a certain proprietary interest in the family fortunes.

“The situation's getting out of hand. Frankly, Mr. . . . Sean, you're an added expense no one expected. Now we have an apparent murder.” He spread his hands.

“I take it you'd like me to butt out,” I said coarsely. I wondered what his source for the death of Stan Lewis was, but I didn't ask.

“Correct. It appears to us the law enforcement people are capable of handling these recent and most distressing developments. I'm prepared to pay you for your time and expenses up to now, plus a generous bonus. All you have to do is reject Tod's request.”

“What do you suggest I tell him?”

Anderson shrugged. “I don't care. Tell him you have a conflict. Tell him your workload is too heavy. Suggest he wants help you don't know how to provide. It really doesn't matter.”

Actually, it would matter, if I cared about my business. So, after a nice lunch and some sweet water, I was being offered my walking papers. I told Mr. Anderson I'd think about his suggestion, and I wouldn't charge anything for the time I spent thinking, nor for the time we spent at lunch. I also mentioned he could expect to hear from me by the end of the day, barring unforeseen circumstances.

“Thank you, Mr. . . . Sean. I was sure you'd be reasonable in this matter. Please call me at this number with your decision.” He slid a business card across the white tablecloth to me. It had a number printed on it by hand. I saw right away it was not his office number.
So,
I thought.
He wants to keep things as far away from his regular business as possible. Perhaps he doesn't want his partners and associates to know about this at all. Now why would that be?

DeLoite, Anderson, Martin, and Norton was a well-known and respected firm. No serious scandal had ever attached itself to them, although they had a reputation for aggressive courtroom tactics and preferred financial clients who lined up on the riskier side of the investment equation. So what was this attempt to separate me from the Bartelme affair all about?

That was a question for another time. I took the card, rose from my chair and nodded to Mr. Anderson. He didn't respond as I turned and walked back toward the front of the restaurant. It was noteworthy that, like my previous visits, no one at the other tables even glanced my way. I knew telephones and small office cabals would remark that day that lawyer Gary Anderson had been seen at lunch with a small man almost no one could identify by name. I was sure most of those who did know me by name would not be eager to reveal it.

As a private investigator, private was my stock in trade. It was what I emphasized. I avoided getting my name in the papers. Building a reputation as discreet and anonymous was important to what I did. And I was good at what I did. When I cracked a case, even a big case, sometimes involving prominent people, they often got their names in the news. Not me. So I would remain a mystery to most of those whom I passed in that restaurant. Good deal.

* * * *

I'd told Anderson I'd think about his offer. His slimy offer. I wasn't going to accept it, but I sat at my desk and considered it, because there might be clues there to what was going on in this case. I still couldn't figure out why anyone would care about an obscure attempt by ordinary Minnesotans to locate the grave of a relative killed in the Pacific Ocean. Now I had a lawyer, part of the family support system, presumably, trying to buy me off. One of the other pins on which a PI rested his professional life was his perceived integrity. I liked mine, and I was going to keep it.

The murder of veteran Stan Lewis while he was presumably bringing information to the Bartelmes was more than a little worrisome as well. These two recent events combined with the sabotage that was on the rise said somebody was upset about Tod and Josie's search efforts. I was going to have to talk with them again about abandoning their quest altogether or at least persuade them to employ a little personal security. It would not be a fun talk and I knew it had to be face to face.

I called the Bartelme residence and learned they'd both be available that evening. I'd barely hung up the phone when my man in Saint Louis was on the horn.

“It's definite a search of Lewis's apartment was made about the time he was on the train to Saint Paul ,” my contact told me. “The police are also sure the place was ripped up to conceal a thorough search for something.”

“How thorough was the search?”

“Interesting you should ask that. Very. For example, grates on the heating ducts were pulled off. The searchers replaced the duct covers, but it was obvious they'd all been removed. Tracks in the dust confirmed it. The other thing is that usually you can tell when a search stops. The searchers just quit, and there are signs where they stopped. Not in this case.”

“Which means we can be confident they didn't find what they were looking for or they wanted to conceal that the break-in was for a purpose other than finding saleable stuff.”

“Exactly. These were not your ordinary street-level, smash-and-grab boys. They were smart, thorough and careful. I don't know what you have going up there in Minnesota, and I'm not sure I want to know.”

“I get your point,” I said. “We seem to be bumping up against a fairly sophisticated operation. Thanks for your help. Send me a bill.”

We concluded our connection and I went home, thinking hard. There appeared to be considerably more layers to this case.