The Clouds Roll Away (35 page)

“Making life hard, how?”

“I can't reveal that.”

“Like death threats?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of something Mr. Minsky once said.”

“About death threats?”

He nodded. “I asked him one time why he lived in New York City. He said it was safer. I said no way can that place be safer than Richmond. But he just laughed. I always wondered about that.”

“You know Mr. Minsky pretty well.”

“He—” But then he stopped.

“I gave you my secret, Jimmy.”

“It's not a big deal. Some other pilots do it too,” he said. “You know, pay me a little extra, to take extra good care of his plane?”

I held the small stone in my hand, knowing that if I pulled out the clear plastic evidence bags from my coat pocket, I would rip the helpful attitude right off Jimmy Gint. I wasn't paying him; Minsky was.

“I hate to ask this, Jimmy, but is there a restroom in here?”

He pointed across the hangar. “The door with the Cessna sticker.”

In the small bathroom, where I briefly wondered about how much time I spent in places that made me want to compulsively wash my hands, I took out the evidence bag, depositing the stone. Then I called Sonny.

“Thanks for sending Jimmy,” I said.

“I thought he'd be a good choice.”

“Now find something else for him to do.”

“You don't want a ride back?” Sonny asked.

“I'm okay.”

I flushed, washed my hands, and found Jimmy walking around the plane with the top half of his snowsuit unzipped and peeled down to his waist. When his radio suddenly squawked, he reached under the empty arms.

“Yeah?” he said into the radio.

“Need you back at the shop.”

It wasn't Sonny's voice, so it was somebody he had called.

“Something happen?” Jimmy said.

“If it does, nobody's here,” the man said.

“Got it.” Jimmy clicked off the radio and gave me a cool expression. “You ready?”

The radio squawked again.

“Leave her there,” the man said. “She's going to lock up when she's done.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said into the radio.

But I watched several thoughts float across Jimmy's brow, none of them good. He didn't have his degree from the community college yet, but he had a master's in common sense.

And as he left the hangar, I knew time was running out.

Sixteen minutes later, I shrugged off my snow-smothered coat and waited for Sonny to finish his phone calls—two at the same time. Cell phone to one ear, desk phone to the other. I lifted our Most Wanted flyers from the ring on the bulletin board and became acquainted with the seven dangerous men and three equally hazardous women, reading until Sonny hung up.

“We found 'em,” he said.

“Congratulations.” I replaced the flyers.

“They're staying near Columbia University. With a physics professor. He's from Algeria.”

“Physics?”

“Yeah, New York had the same thought. Bomb-making smarts. They've been watching this prof since 2002 when his brothers started flying over. Guy has more brothers than John Boy Walton.” He leaned back. His relief was palpable. “So what's with the plane?”

“I'm not sure.”

“You keep saying. But you've got nothing better to do than drive out here in a blizzard. On Christmas Eve.”

“I'm working a case that involves him. If he leaves in that plane, I'm concerned he won't come back. Did he file any flight plans for upcoming trips?”

Sonny laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Flight plans are optional, Raleigh.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. The FAA strongly encourages pilots to file them, especially for travel that air traffic control can't track. But nothing's compulsory. The pilot files one, great. If not, we can't force him. And that pilot of his isn't about to clue us in on his travel plans.”

“Victor Minsky.”

He smiled. “Jimmy told you. I thought he might talk. Jimmy likes to impress pretty girls.”

“Minsky pays him to keep an eye on things?”

“Yes, and then I have lunch with Jimmy.” Sonny smiled again. “But Minsky's a slick character. Ever hear of a flag of convenience?”

I shook my head.

“Pilots claim Liberia is their country of origin, even if they're not citizens. No taxes, no inspections.”

“And he flies there with RPM, doing humanitarian missions?”

“Maybe. But if he's hooked up with Minsky, the guy's not Mother Teresa. What else you got?”

I thought about RPM's estate and the crack house on Southside. They had one thing in common: guns.

“I saw some assault rifles. They looked like AK-47s but with some modifications. Beat-up wooden stocks. Old guns, heavily used.”

“You see a lot of them, or just a couple?”

“Dozens.”

He spun his cell phone on the desk. “Rumor is Minsky once flew for the Soviets. He's a creepy dude. Comes in and out of here like a cipher. We can't get anything on him.”

“You think he's gun running?” I asked.

“If you're a crook, there's good money in it. But Minsky's careful. Like I said, I'm dying to slap a search warrant on that Gulfstream.”

I stood up. “I'll let you know if I come up with something solid.” I shrugged back into my coat. It felt heavy with melted snow. “Phaup shot down my idea of putting RPM on the no-fly list. But maybe this weather will keep him grounded.”

“The storm's supposed to be gone by tomorrow,” Sonny said. “Blue skies for Christmas.”

The expression on my face must have revealed my thoughts because he immediately tried to cheer me up.

“Hey,” he said, “you ever hear the saying about those old Kalashnikovs?”

“No.” I buttoned my coat.

“The Russian mob loves those guns. Their saying is, ‘Kalashnikovs Cut Clean.' Only they spell it with all Ks. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's a Russian spelling.”

“What did you say?”

He repeated the phrase.

“The acronym,” I said. “KKK.”

“Well, yeah,” Sonny said, in a tone that said I was missing the point. “But not our KKK. That's the Russian mob's KKK.”

chapter forty-one

I
t was 12:22 p.m. on Christmas Eve when I walked into Greenbaum's Jewelry Emporium at the corner of Fourth and Broad. The store's owner, Reuben Greenbaum, stood behind the counter and as I turned to close the door, I heard him tell a customer, “You want to knock her socks off, this'll do the trick.”

The gray granite building was among the few structures that survived the fires of 1863, and the store smelled fusty and parched, as if the old plaster walls had been sifting their limestone into the crimson rug. Aside from the four guys at the counter, the place felt dead.

“Be with you in a minute,” Greenbaum said to me.

He stood behind the counter near a brass register that looked original. I knew of his store, and of him by sight, because his niece Lydia went to St. Catherine's. A beautiful girl who lowered her eyelashes as we read through the Gospels, she did almost the same thing when her uncle showed up at fund-raising events, passing out inexpensive green pens advertising his store. In the ten years since I saw him last, the large man's posture had only worsened. The weight of his large stomach pulled his shoulders forward, yet he walked on tiptoes, like a man perpetually on the verge of saying, “Boo.”

“Is it gorgeous or is it gorgeous?” he asked the youths at the counter.

One held a gold ring. Diamonds smothered the surface like white coral. All four of them wore black parkas and black jeans and black tennis shoes.

“Still not big enough,” the guy told Greenbaum.

“That's four carats.”

“Yo, Greens,” the guy said, “it's all broken up. My lady wants her diamond
big
.”

Snatching the ring from the guy's hand, Greenbaum snagged his fingernail under a gold chain, lifting it from a velvet display. He dangled the necklace like a hypnotist.

“This has been known to cause temporary blindness. And she doesn't even lift a hand.”

The pendant was made to look like a nest of gold woven around a large diamond egg. Mostly, it looked like the jeweler was in a hurry. But as Greenbaum turned his wrist, light ricocheted from the stone.

“You're getting warm, Greens.” He closed his hand around the pendant.

Greenbaum turned to me. “What can I do for you?”

“I can wait,” I said.

He nodded then looked back at the buyer. “You want a second opinion?” He tossed his head toward me. “Ask a woman.”

The guy glanced over with a dubious expression.

“They're all the same,” Greenbaum said, reading his thoughts. “Go ahead, ask her.”

He lifted the necklace.

“Wow,” I said.

“What'd I tell you?” Greenbaum chuckled, his shoulders inching up with mirth.

The guy said, “Sold. On the tab.”

Sweeping the necklace from the guy's hand, Greenbaum walked it down to the old register. The brass had tarnished to a dull brown, but he opened a drawer under the counter instead.

Taking out a white box, some cotton fluff, and a red ribbon, he dumped it all in a green bag advertising his store. He handed the bag to the guy. “Happy holidays.”

“Back at ya, Greens.”

When all four guys cleared the door, I reached into my coat and took out Zennie's box of rocks.

“I'm not sure what these are,” I said, setting the box on the glass counter. “My friend gave them to me. All rocks sorta look the same to me.”

Because of his tense shoulders, when he looked down, his chin touched his chest.

“A friend gave you these?” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

He picked up the box, tipping it to one side. A jeweler's loupe hung on a black cord around his nonexistent neck. The cord was frayed, apparently from his habit of running the lens back and forth, which he did several times before pinching a stone out of the box. The ocular muscles around his right eye cinched around the loupe as he moved the stone forward and back, then dropped it into the box, plucking another.

“This friend just handed these to you?”

I kept my hands on the counter, the glass warm from the lights shining below. But the surface was so scratched I couldn't see what was on the shelves.

“To tell you the truth,” I said, “she's fallen on hard times. I thought maybe these were worth something. You know, to help her out?”

He lifted his eyebrows, letting the loupe fall on the frayed cord. “You need a gemologist,” he said.

“A what?”

“Gemologist—expert on gems.”

“So you think these rocks are worth something?”

“I didn't say that.”

“But, boy, that would be some good news.”

“Give me your name and number. I'll take these over to him. He'll call you.”

“Oh.”

“Something wrong?”

“Well, I'm not sure . . .”

“I got insurance,” he said. “And I'd like to help your friend.” He grabbed a pen but searched for paper, finally ripping a piece off the receipt roll. “Name?”

I bit my bottom lip. “I need to think about this.”

He smiled, dark eyes flattening, and pushed the box toward me. “You change your mind, I'm open tomorrow.”

“Really, on Christmas Day?”

“Not my holiday,” he said.

The female guard at the front desk of the Richmond police annex was singing along with a jazzy version of “Jingle Bell Rock.” As she checked my credentials, her head bopped to the beat in the frosty air and I walked down the hall, hoping it was the right time to knock on the pebble glass door.

Detective Greene's eyes still looked jaundiced. “How'd you know I was here?”

“I'm a trained investigator.”