Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) (26 page)

FORTY-ONE

When Adam was back at the safe house and I was home, the phone rang. It was Glennie.

“That was easy,” she said.

“What’s the Hope Diamond’s value?” I asked.

“It doesn’t work like that. There is no standard for establishing value on a one-of-a-kind gemstone. It depends on a thousand variables. And some of the most important variables don’t even have to do with the diamond itself.”

“You’re not making sense,” I said.

“I spoke to representatives of the world’s biggest diamond sellers. I found out that much of a diamond’s value comes from factors such as the current investment climate and how other investment vehicles are doing. For example, when investors start to think that the stock market is overvalued, they will bid up the price of other investments such as art. And when the art market seems over-heated, they will put more money into stocks. When it comes to diamonds, there is an arcane…”

“Glennie,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“I appreciate all of your hard-won information. But let’s skip it for now. Just give me a figure. How much is the Hope Diamond worth?”

“You really know how to celebrate a girl’s hard work.”

“Sorry. I’m aware that you work hard and that your skills are top-notch. That’s why I called you in the first place.”

The phone line was silent for a long time. I was about to speak when she said, “Three hundred fifty million.”

I was shocked. “The Hope Diamond is worth three hundred fifty million?” I couldn’t even imagine that kind of money.

“That’s what I just said.”

“I know, but I can’t believe it.”

“I was trying to give you the background information that supports the number, but you cut me off.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You’re right. Okay, I believe you. I’m still shocked. That’s a lot of money.”

“There’s an understatement,” Glennie said. “So you can assume that your Blue Fire of Florence is worth a lot. How much less than the Hope Diamond, I have no idea. If I had to just throw out a figure, I’d guess two hundred million.”

I was trying to visualize $200 million. That kind of money would buy anything.

“Are you still there?” Glennie said.

“Yeah. Thanks, Glennie. That’s a big help. A giant help.”

We said goodbye and hung up as there was a simultaneous knock on the door.

Spot was wagging as I pulled it open. Street stood on my front step. She glanced at me, then turned and looked up at the mountain behind my cabin.

I kissed her and ushered her inside.

“I called your cell an hour ago, and the line was busy,” she said. “I called your cabin a few minutes ago, and the line was busy. I was heading home from the lab and thought I might as well drive up the mountain and see what all the phone commotion is about.”

“Sorry. I’d asked Glennie if she could learn how much the Hope Diamond is worth, and she called back to say three hundred fifty million dollars. She guessed that, without provenance, the Blue Fire might be worth two hundred million.”

“You’re kidding,” Street said. “That raises the stakes an order of magnitude beyond what I was thinking.”

“Does that kind of money make any sense to you,” I said, “assuming that Bruno Valenti was telling the truth when he said that Sinatra paid two million for the diamond fifty-some years ago? Could something go up in value a hundred times in fifty-some years?”

Street sat on the edge of the rocker, her arm out and over Spot’s back. “That’s impressive appreciation, but many investments have done that. From the nineteen sixties, I’m sure that some Tahoe real estate has gone up a hundred times. Lots on the lake that once sold for twenty thousand probably sell for two million now. I remember reading that stock in Warren Buffet’s company Berkshire Hathaway has gone up something like ten thousand times. So a hundred times is not hard to believe.”

I thought about it.

“I suppose that no provenance is the major downside,” Street added. “But the upside for a thief is that no provenance also means that it would be very difficult for someone to prove that they ever owned it and claim that it was stolen from them. Possession becomes the greatest claim to ownership.”

“And if experts say it is real and it fluoresces red and such, whoever has it could be looking at an amazing payday,” I said.

“Enough to make someone murder?” Street trailed off.

“Certainly. Let’s say it sold at wholesale or on the black market for only a hundred million or a measly fifty million.”

“Measly,” Street repeated.

“In my career, I’ve met dirtballs who would kill for five thousand dollars. Bump the payout to many millions, and that would be enough to push any number of people over the edge.”

“So where do you look now?”

“I’ve been reading about Sinatra, but there’s no mention of any diamond. What I need is people who knew him or studied him, people who aren’t historians. The historians write what they know, and that shows up in a Google search. I want to talk to people who might know something but never thought to write about it online.”

“How would you find those people?” Street said.

“Fall back on the old gumshoe standby, pound the pavement and ask questions.”

Street nodded, got up to leave, then noticed the pentagram note on my kitchen counter.

“You got another warning?!”

“Yeah. I’m being real careful,” I said. “As should you.”

“Because the killer might target me to get at you.”

“I hate to think it, but yeah,” I said.

Street moved in slow motion as she picked up the note and stared at it. “What can you do?” she finally said.

“Catch the killer,” I said.

FORTY-TWO

“C’mon, Largeness,” I said after Street left.

Spot jumped up, always eager for a ride.

I drove down the mountain on the private road, turned north on the highway, crawled up Spooner Summit, then turned north again to wind my way up the East Shore to Incline Village and around to Crystal Bay.

Once again, I saw a black pickup three or four vehicles back. With the sighting came the vague sense that it had been there some time. As I got to Crystal Bay, I turned off the highway, went around a block at speed, and pulled back out onto the highway. I was hoping to get behind the pickup, but as I sped forward, it was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not.

I pulled into the Cal Neva and saw that it was still closed for renovation. I parked, reached under my seat, and pulled out my clipboard with the pad of pre-printed forms on it. The form had lots of illegible fine print and little boxes in a vertical row. I used a red pen and wrote “Cal Neva” at the top of the pad and put bold check marks in several of the boxes. From the glove box, I got the plastic clip-on sleeve with the photo ID and clipped it to my shirt pocket. The picture of me was fuzzy and the writing underneath even fuzzier. I told Spot to be good and got out of the Jeep.

There were trucks and construction equipment and chain link fencing setting off certain areas. I wandered over to where a group of men were unloading pieces of pipe from a pallet. They hauled it over and put it into a cargo box on a forklift.

“Looking for the foreman,” I said to one of the men.

He made a single nod. “That’s me.”

I glanced at my clipboard, flashing the printed form toward the foreman, then looked up at him. “The county is working on a historical record of hotel renovations going all the way back. Nothing to worry about. This isn’t about code violations or anything. We’re just building a database of past remodels and using the cost-to-social benefit modality in order to expedite future projects and make our county more business friendly.”

The look on the man’s face showed frustration.

“I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,” I said. “I just need to find whoever has worked construction around here the longest and ask him a few questions. Would that be you?”

He shook his head. “I just moved to Truckee from Kansas last year.” He turned and called out to his men. “Hey, guys, any of you worked this area before this project?”

They all shook their heads.

“Sorry,” the foreman said. “We’re hired out of San Francisco. I guess you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“Are there any other crews working here today?”

“Sure, inside the hotel. But you can’t go inside without an appointment and someone from the main office accompanying you.” He pointed to a long office trailer at the edge of the lot. “You could ask at the on-site office.”

“Thanks,” I said, and I walked off toward the trailer.

He called after me. “If the trailer’s closed, check the Tahoe Biltmore across the street. Our Crew Chief went over there about twenty minutes ago looking for some…” he stopped.

“Looking for what? Did he get our mailer?”

“Looking for toilet paper. We ran out.”

“Ah. Hate to run out of that, right?”

There was a portable three-step stairs at the trailer door. I walked up and knocked a couple of times, but no one answered.

The Tahoe Biltmore Hotel was a short walk across the highway. I waited for a break in traffic, then trotted over. Once inside the lobby, I walked over to the check-in desk and repeated my phony story to a young woman behind the counter. She glanced at my clipboard and frowned.

“Well, I’m kind of new, so I don’t know everyone who works here. But no one comes to mind.” She pulled out a business card from a cubby under the counter. “This is the manager. You could contact her in the morning and see if she can help.”

I took the card. “Thanks much.” I was about to head outside when I about-faced and went back to the counter.

“Here’s another thought.” I gestured toward the casino area. “Is there any chance that you have any oldtimer customers? You know, someone who’s been coming in for years?” I held up my clipboard and pointed to an unchecked box. “We actually have a space on the form for non-official information contributions.”

She frowned again, maybe wondering why a supposed official like me would want to talk to anyone who wasn’t part of the hotel staff. She must have decided the idea was benign for she said, “Well, I suppose you could talk to old man Joseph. He comes in every day and plays the slots. I hear he once won big dollars on the slots, and he’s been trying for a repeat ever since.”

“Old man Joseph?” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what he calls himself. Like it’s his actual name or something. He’s here now if you want to talk to him.”

“Sure. Where would I find him?”

“He still works the slots.” She gestured toward the casino.

“What does Joseph look like?”

“You can’t miss him. He’s real old, and he has a crooked mustache and long straggly hair pulled back into a ponytail.”

“Thanks.”

I walked to the slot machines in the center of the casino. There were several customers scattered about, but only one fit the description.

“Joseph?” I said to him.

He had a plastic jug of quarters in front of him. He put a quarter into the slot and pushed the button. The electronic facsimile of wheels pretended to rotate. When they came to a stop, none of the symbols matched. The machine sang out its beeps, noise to some, no doubt music to others.

“Joseph?” I said again.

He turned and looked at me, his eyes seemingly dead from decades of staring at slot machines. He had earbuds in his ears.

I held out my hand and spoke louder. “My name’s Owen McKenna.” I flashed him my clipboard.

He didn’t notice it. Nor did he notice my outstretched hand. I realized he was blind.

I changed my story.

“I’m a private investigator researching a case that may have connections to this area a long time ago. Fifty, sixty years, in fact. I’m wondering if you knew this area back then.”

The man pulled his ear buds out. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Owen McKenna.”

The man picked up his jug of quarters, hefting it as if to judge its weight. “Time for my lunch. We can talk in the bar.”

He stood up, picked up his white cane, which had been leaning against the slot machine, carried his quarters in his other hand, and walked out of the casino. Joseph headed for the bar with the assurance of one who’d made the trip a thousand times, tapping the floor with his cane but not swinging it. He picked the barstool at the end, set his quarters on the bar top, hooked his cane over the bar rail, and pointed to the stool next to him.

“You can sit here.”

I sat.

The bartender poured a draft beer and set it and a packet of peanuts in front of Joseph. “Your lunch, Old Man Joseph,” he said as he winked at me.

Joseph took a sip, the head foaming over his mustache. He used his forearm to wipe the foam off his mustache. Then he reached out his hand. “I’m Old Man Joseph.”

We shook. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“You want some lunch? Will, bring this man some lunch.”

The bartender pulled another beer and set it and another pack of peanuts in front of me.

“You want history from a long time ago, I’m the man,” Joseph said. “The Biltmore’s been here since nineteen forty-six, and I’ve been here longer than any three of their employees.”

“I believe it.”

“Why? Because I look so old?” he said.

“Well, that, but mostly because I’m good at reading people. You telegraph history.”

“And I’m not senile, either. That’s no small thing, you get to my age.” He moved his arm over and bumped my elbow.

“Got it,” I said.

“I’ll be eighty-seven in two days.”

“Wow. You don’t look a day over ninety,” I said.

Old Man Joseph threw his head back and laughed, his mouth open so wide I could see his gold crowns. “You’re a funny guy,” Joseph said. “Will, is this man a funny guy or what?”

“Yeah, Joseph. Wish I’d thought of that line myself.”

“You come here often?” I said.

“Now he’s trying a pick-up line on me.” Joseph said, laughing even harder. Then he lowered his voice and leaned close to me. “I like you, but I’m more of a ladies man.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, yes, I come here every day. I live in a cabin just up the street. Sixty-two years. First, my wife and I rented it. I was twenty-five, and Stella was twenty-seven. I had a taste for older women, ha, ha. We saved our pennies and bought the cabin seven years later. Life was good. She worked bookkeeping, and I ran telephone lines, and we used to come to the Biltmore for dinner once a week. Thirty years ago, Stella caught the cancer. I couldn’t stand to watch her as she died. That’s what made me go blind. The doc said it was a neurological disorder, that the blindness was in my brain, not my eyeballs. So be it. Still can’t see. After Stella passed, they told me not to make any major changes in my life for awhile. So I didn’t. And I’m still doing the same thing all these years later. I’ve got my monthly check, which buys these.” He rattled his quarters. “I’ve got Will to bring me my lunch.” He turned and pointed toward the check-in desk. “And Mandra got me this.” Joseph pulled open the front of his jacket and showed me an iPod. “Mandra put my favorite music on this pod. And every afternoon when I’m leaving, she plugs it into something that puts my favorite radio news show on this thing so I can listen to it at home with no regard to when it was actually broadcast. You can get interviews, too. Have you heard of that? It’s called downloading.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” I said. “What kind of music do you have on it?”

“Swing era. Big band stuff. Duke and the Count, anyone Riddle worked with. But mostly Sinatra. He’s still the best. ‘That Old Black Magic’ was our song, Stella and me. I still get teary eyed when it comes on. That’s what Stella had, and I was under her spell of magic until her last day. Strange that sightless eyes would still make tears, don’t you think? But that’s what happens when you really love a woman.”

Joseph drank some beer, chewed more peanuts. “Our favorite joke was about the Norwegian who loved his wife so much that he almost told her. I can say that because I’m Norwegian. I told her I loved her every day.”

Joseph drank more beer. “Tell me about your case,” he said.

I decided to tell the whole thing starting at the beginning. I left out a few details to save time, but I explained the murders and how Sinatra had his mother buy the Blue Fire Diamond and my theory that it was a gift for Marilyn Monroe to woo her back from President Kennedy.

“So I’m looking for someone who might have known Sinatra or any information about the diamond.”

Joseph nodded. “Stella and I saw Sinatra perform several times at the Cal Neva. He was amazing. But we never knew anything about his personal life. So we were surprised when that information about him and the Kennedys and Marilyn Monroe came out. I never heard anything about a diamond, though. I suppose the best thing would be to go where Sinatra hung out. Talk to people.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you. The Cal Neva is empty and undergoing renovation. None of the construction guys has been around for any length of time. Do you know other places where Sinatra spent time?”

“Well, you could search out the places where The Misfits was filmed. Marilyn’s finest performance. I heard that Sinatra spent some time on the sets. He invited everyone in the cast up to the Cal Neva where he sang for them. There was The Mapes Hotel in Reno, too. He often stayed there and performed there along with many of the greats. But you can’t go there because they tore it down in the year two thousand. There must be people in Reno who used to work there. You could run an ad or something.”

“Do you know anyone who was a real Sinatra buff?”

“Well, I’m pretty much of a Sinatra buff.”

“What about people who collect his stuff?”

“That would describe me.”

“What kind of stuff do you collect?” I asked.

“You got some time? I started with an autographed napkin. It was so innocent in the beginning. Then I got an autographed drink coaster. From there, I started going to fan conventions, collecting various memorabilia. My first significant acquisition was one of his gold records. That really fired up my interest.”

“How does someone get an artist’s gold record? Isn’t there only one? Why would Sinatra part with it?”

“I don’t know anything about gold records. But a vender I’d worked with before  - a guy I trusted - said he had one, and he sold it to me for only five hundred dollars. It wasn’t one of those commemorative knockoffs. It was the real thing that Sinatra used to have on his wall. Every time I picked that record up, I felt like I could actually feel the gold.”

“What record was it for?” I asked.

“‘September Of My Years.’ Nineteen sixty-five. A great piece of work.”

“You collected more Sinatra stuff?”