Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (21 page)

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.

“Abner Delahunt hasn't been here in over a week, so you weren't talking to him the other day. If you're another creditor, either get the hell out, or we can call the cops and let them sort it out.”

“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 three 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
.

Marlowe wasn't there, of course, but in retrospect I knew exactly what his expression would have been.

24.

I had a totally noncommittal lunch with Sorrentino. I mentioned that I'd tried Delahunt's office across the river with no success.

“I didn't even know he
had
an office in Kentucky,” said Sorrentino.

“Neither did I until this morning,” I said. “How about you? Got anything at all?”

He shook his head. “Not a thing. Those diamonds could be in Peru or Pakistan for all I know. I never saw anything that valuable vanish that fast. You'd think ten million worth couldn't stay hidden that long, that
some
one would say something.”

“From everything we've been able to find out about them, they're worth a million, tops,” I said. “You know that.”

“I know, I know,” he said with a weary sigh. “But damn it, Eli, he
said
ten mil, and he sure as hell didn't sound like he was lying.”

“I've seen one of the diamonds,” I said. “We've both seen the insurance form.”

“I don't buy it,” he said.

“Why the hell not?” I shot back. “We
know
the one that Mitzi Cramer's got is worth a hundred grand, tops.”

“I know what it's worth, and I know what the insurance papers say, but there's one thing we haven't really considered,” said Sorrentino. “Why did the Bolivian drug cartel send expensive hitters after a million? They'd figure one man could handle it. But,” he added, leaning forward, “if it's ten million, three hitters ensures that one of them won't be running off with the loot.”

“And that's all you've got to go on?” I asked.

“That, and the fact that Palanto had no reason to lie to me.”

“Maybe he was afraid you might shoot him and run off with the cat,” I said. “After all, someone did.”

“I could do it just as easily for one mil,” said Sorrentino. “And I just can't buy that the Bolivians would send three hitters over for just a million.”

“Hell, maybe they're the kind of guys who'd have sent three men over for fifty grand, the kind who don't let anyone rip them off even for lunch money,” I said. “We both know there are certain New York families that would feel that way.”