The Case of the Yellow Diamond (15 page)

 

Chapter 28

I
was in early the next morning organizing my notes and discovered that nobody had called my answering machine overnight. I was questioning motives, everybody's. For some time I'd been leaning toward Preston Pederson as the killer. His abrupt death by gunshot was a certain clue there were other yet undiscovered dimensions. And I still had no idea why Pederson's corpse had been so oddly dressed. According to the family, the last time anyone had seen him alive was early the morning he was shot, and he'd been dressed in a swimsuit, raggedy old t-shirt, sandals, and carrying a beach towel. According to Maxine, who supplied the description, he'd been walking across the deck, heading in the direction of the beach. Since that had been just after dawn, and I found the corpse at about nine, there was only a three-hour gap. Who filled it with animosity and death?

What about Tod or Josie? Since they had instigated my involvement and appeared to be intent on pursuing their search for Amundson's bomber in the sea off Yap Island, I had to assume they were innocent. I could conceive of no rational reason why they would persistently try to sabotage their own expeditions.

Jennifer and Julie, Josie's girl buddies, had no reason I could discover to be involved in any of this. Nor did I seriously consider the other Pederson family members—Alvin, Maxine, or the boy, Calvin. It wasn't just the fact that Calvin had been wounded on the beach. What sixteen-year-old boy would have a deadly stake in seventy-year-old events on the other side of the world?

Stan Lewis, the murdered World War Two vet from St. Louis, was out of the picture. His connection was much closer, even than any of the local family. And then there were the others, Lawyer Gary Anderson, Richard Hillier, Lorelei Jones, even Josie Preston's dead father.

In my mind there was a conspiracy here. It had begun during the waning months of World War Two, in the Pacific Theater, and I thought it somehow had to do with thefts, smuggling, and the acquisition of wealth and influence through illegal means.

A soft rap on my doorframe brought me back to the present. Belinda Revulon's shining face and luxuriant head of honey-colored hair captured my view and my attention.

“You have something for me?”

“I do, honey. I do,” she husked.

“Come. Sit. Tell.” So she did.

“Here is a timeline on your target, Mr. Richard Hillier. Thirty years ago, give or take, the boy was living in Gary, Indiana. His family was unremarkable, upper blue-collar. Later, he attended a college in northern Illinois, went to work in Des Moines and then to Omaha to a construction company and in 1995, moved to our fair cities, where he hooked up with Pederson Construction and Development.”

“Any signs of malfeasance?”

Belinda smiled. “Wait. Let me call your attention to a timeline we produced earlier. Like yesterday.”

“What? Who? Oh, sure.”

She laid a piece of paper in front of me. Both Revulons had a taste for the dramatic. I recognized the name at the top and smiled at her.

“Just so. Mr. Hillier's timeline triggered our memories, so we did some crosschecking with your earlier target, Gary Anderson.”

I could tell she had something juicy. “So, tell.” I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

“It seems Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hillier are long-time buddies. They went to the same high school in Gary, Indiana. Anderson was a year behind Hillier in school but they played on the same football teams.

“Later, they attended the same college. Then Mr. Anderson went to law school and Mr. Hillier went to work. For a construction company in Des Moines, as I said earlier.” She smiled again. “That's in Iowa.”

“Yes, it is.”

“The Des Moines company is owned by the same people who own the Omaha company that later employed Mr. Anderson.”

“Is that a fact.”

“It is, and what is also interesting is that both have family connections to an investment company in Chicago.”

“My, how the web entangles.”

“Oh, there's more,” Belinda said. “On two occasions, almost identical dates, mind you, both Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hillier went off the grid for short periods of time, like a week. We can find no evidence of resignations or of either being temporarily laid off or any reason for their disappearances. But it's clear in our minds, Betsy's and mine, that those two have long been on closely joined paths and they went somewhere together for something.”

“But we have little or no concrete evidence of that.”

“Unfortunately, that's true. However, neither Betsy nor I have the slightest doubt you will take these facts and our conclusions and make something wonderful out of it all.”

“Wonderful, I doubt,” I said. “I'm more inclined to see collusion and crime here. Thank you, so much. I am, as always, in your debt.”

Belinda departed and I contemplated my next move, based on this new information. My first assumption was that Anderson and Hillier were up to something. Something that was illegal and of long standing. It did occur to me that maybe they were off on a fishing trip somewhere. I had to check it out. Fishing? Possibly, but I'd bet it was something tied to the construction trades in three states but now centered in the money game here in Minnesota. I needed more information so I sauntered down the hall and lodged yet another request.

“There are three companies in the construction business linked to all this,” I said to Belinda after thanking her again for their efforts on my behalf. “I believe I need additional background on each of them. History, ownership, like that. And, if you please, I want to know about their support of the war effort.”

“Specifically, I bet you mean the Second World War.”

“Yes. Further, it would be interesting to discover if anybody tied to the companies during those years was in military service and—”

“And did any of them serve in the Pacific Theater, yes?” Belinda had a sometimes annoying habit of finishing my sentences. Sometimes.

“Exactly.”

She nodded enthusiastically, understanding just where we might be going. I left the Revulons to their tasks.

I wondered if we'd discover the Pryor name in our searches. I hoped not. I liked Mrs. Pryor, and she'd helped, both with financial support for Tod and Josie and by raising the specter of the jewel smuggling activity.

I made a series of summary notes in my computer and logged off. It was time to head home to Kenwood. More and more, I realized, I was thinking of Catherine's apartment as home. That was a good thing.

 

Chapter 29

S
ounds as if your case is becoming more instead of less complicated.” Catherine's voice floated from the kitchen to the living room, where I was relaxing on our couch with a little Scotch and the early evening news on TV. I hit the mute button. The news wasn't that interesting, anyway. Riley Sparz was talking about dogs in hot cars or something.

“You'd think it would begin to sort itself out, people being murdered and all.”

Catherine had become sort of used to my mordant humor, but I was careful not to disparage those on the wrong side of the law, even the dead ones. She continued to believe there was some good in all of us, even those ripping off NGOs trying to help the less fortunate among the world's populations. “I had the sense you were leaning toward Josie's father as the head saboteur.”

“Right you are. Even though that was disturbing, he just seemed to be right for it. And he has, or had, these questionable associations.”

“Dinner is served in our elegant kitchen. Bring your drink. What associations?”

So I enumerated Pederson's associations. While I did so, it occurred to me, not for the first time, that a good deal of his clout in the local construction business had come about because of his father's connections, particularly the political ones. I made a mental note to pursue the politics further.

“What is it about the death of the lawyer, Anderson, that bothers you so much?”

“Apart from the fact that he was murdered by a bomb in his car and that his wife, who was probably innocent of any involvement, died with him?”

“Apart from that.”

“These
au gratin
potatoes are spectacular,” I said.

“Thank you. How do you like the pork tenderloin?”

“Also spectacular.”

“Do you know why Anderson's death bothers you so much?” Catherine asked again, eying me over the thin rim of her wine glass.

“I don't think I am muchly bothered. At least, not any more muchly than usual.”

“Yes, you are. And it's because you were there. What? Four or five car lengths behind him? And you saw the flash from the bomb. And you saw the crash.”

“Honey, I've been closely involved in killings before, some by my own hand.”

“I know that. And in the past, as now, each of them has disturbed you. In this instance, I think you're wondering if your presence might have triggered the event. I think you're wondering if somebody who was also observing Mr. Anderson may have seen you trailing the Andersons, and that made whoever it is decide they couldn't wait. He had to be killed to keep you from finding out something important.”

I stared at the ceramic tile under my plate and traced the lines of the joints. I didn't go in much for second guessing or introspection. Most PIs didn't, I suspected. We did what we did and moved on. Our efforts at mental gymnastics were mostly reserved for trying to outguess the adversary or determine our next moves. Catherine's insights were a little disturbing. I could already tell she was right on the money. I'd have to be a little more careful about unburdening myself in the future.

Catherine put her hand over my restless finger. “I think you're feeling a little direct responsibility. If your following Mr. Anderson hadn't happened, maybe his wife would still be alive.”

I looked up into her concerned face. I could understand she was at least partially right. “Yeah, if that's why he was killed, my presence may have been the motivator.”

The next morning Catherine whisked off to her massage school while I cleaned up the kitchen and the rest of the place. Then it was time to spend some serious effort fleshing out Anderson's background and his connection with Richard Hillier.

Anderson's law firm was located in a small, obscure strip mall on the border between Edina and Minneapolis. I parked in one of their client/visitor spots and confronted the receptionist. “I'm sorry to bother you today. I know it must be hard, having just lost one of the partners, but if I'm to prevent any more damage to your employers, I need to see a senior partner right away.” It was mostly bullshit, of course, but I was counting on the turmoil surrounding the murder and my ominous statement to break through their normal shields.

The woman opened her mouth to say something negative, I had no doubt, when a big burly man dressed in a very expensive dark suit crashed out of an inner office and came striding down the short hallway, bellowing, “God damn it! Somebody has got to have the key to that asshole's desk.” He caught sight of me and without the slightest hitch in his stride, transferred his frustration to my small self. “And just who the hell are you?”

Now, I could have been a prospective client, about to bring his firm a million dollars worth of business, and at that minute, he could not have been less interested. He stormed up to the edge of the reception desk and stuck his face down to mine.

“Well?”

“Mr. Larson, my name is Sean. I must speak with you about your recently murdered partner, Gareth Anderson.”

“Gary? What's your connection with this mess?” He drew a quick breath and swung his large head toward the woman, now standing at her desk. “Ruthie? Go through that box of stuff again. Anderson's keys must be in there. Now, you. What did you say your name was?”

“Sean Sean. I'm a private investigator.”

The man had his mouth open, no doubt to send me out the door. I could almost see my name register in his consciousness. There's a certain level of satisfaction when that happens to a short guy.

“Sean Sean. Oh. Yeah. I found your name in Gary's stuff. Just now. In his date book.”

“He didn't have a smartphone or whatever?”

Larson started to turn away, then glanced back. “Backup,” he said tersely, not explaining. “You'd better come with me.”

I followed lawyer Larson to a corner office, past a couple of closed doors with no nameplates. His office wasn't very large, with a single tall, narrow window that looked out on a sun-washed parking lot. Apart from a single framed diploma, the light yellow walls were empty of any decoration. Larson's desktop, a big wooden one, was cluttered with files.

“Sit,” he said. He didn't have to tell me which chair, as there was only one besides his desk chair. He was a big man and his throne reflected that.

After I alit, he contemplated me for a long moment. Finally he exhaled and said, “Gary's death has been a huge blow. He was handling a bunch of cases, several of which are coming to resolution soon. It's gonna be a bitch to get up to speed, and I hate continuances.”

“I'm really only interested in one client,” I said. That was a lie, of course. Had Anderson not been murdered, I probably wouldn't have cared about his other clients, but, as they say, that was then, this is now. “Mr. Anderson was the attorney for Preston Pederson. I'd appreciate anything you can give me.”

“Well, there's still client-attorney privilege attached, you know. He handled Preston's business for many years, did most of the family's wills, some labor contracts, an occasional vendor dispute, all the usual for the kind of business Pederson was in.”

I nodded and started to ask the same question in a different way when Larson interrupted.

“I have two entries in Gary's appointment book with your name attached. That's why I recognized you. We're trying to reach out to all Gary's contacts and clients. If you can tell me why you consulted him, I'm sure we can help.” This guy was bulling ahead, attorney reticence be damned. I needed to play for a little more time.

“What were those dates again?” I asked. He gave me the dates, both being in the immediate past when we'd been at the Bartelmes. Then he stared at me, fingers squeezing the edges of the date book. “Nothing earlier?” Sidney Larson shook his head. So I had been right. He hadn't wanted his partners to know about our lunch meeting, the one where Anderson had tried to get me to back off and abandon Tod and Josie. In another office, a clock chimed.

“What about taxes, corporate or personal? Did Anderson involve himself there?”

“No.” Larson shook his head. “We have a tax firm that takes care of this partnership and several of our clients. Anderson had no involvement with IRS law, far as I know, and I knew Gary pretty well.”

“Besides the construction business, I understood he was getting pretty active recently in the markets. Was that part of Anderson's portfolio?”

“I can't say for sure.” Larson spread his big hands over the desktop. “I presume it was although we haven't researched all the files yet. You understand.”

I nodded, but did I? “Socialize much? You know, parties with families, the occasional lunch or dinner with clients?”

“Some. Oh, sure, we all know each other's families to a degree, but mostly that was separate. Anderson didn't have any children, thank God, and he seemed to prefer the company of Preston Pederson and some of his financial cronies.”

“Was Richard Hillier one of those cronies?”

“They went to school together, you know. So, maybe if you tell me what you're looking for, I could help more.” Larson leaned forward and shuffled some of the papers under his fingertips.

“Contacts, Mr. Larson.Associations, networks. Background work is what I do. Putting meat on the bare bones.”

“Yes, I suppose so. And what happens to the meat you dig up?”

The images were getting a little gritty. I shrugged.

Larson shifted in his chair. “Well, it was a tragic accident. I can't understand how it happened.” He scratched his nose. “Look, I'm very interested in what's going on, so I'll put together a list after we get into Gary's desk. I'll shoot you a copy of whatever I think's relevant. You can take it from there. Depending on, there might be a small retainer attached.”

As I stood to leave, I spread my hands in the universal sign of ignorance. We shook and I left, smiling to the receptionist.
I might need to see her again. Accident, Larson had said. Didn't he know Anderson and his wife had been murdered? Or was he trying to probe my knowledge?
I wasn't happy with Larson's control of the information he was going to release, but I sensed if I pushed, he'd get his back up and I'd get even less. Sometimes you just go with the flow, but I had to wonder if Larson was being as open and straight with me as he appeared. Maybe that was his technique: appear easy, even eager, while in reality just letting out the bare minimum. Well, we would see.