Who Let the Dog Out? (9 page)

I nod. “Worth a try.” It’s a long shot, but at this point we have very few shots, and as long as the Mandlebaums and the gang don’t mind doing the work, we’ve got nothing to lose.

But probably little to gain.

Harry Goldman mans one of what seems like three million jewelry counters on Forty-seventh Street in Manhattan. Actually, trying to navigate through it all, three million seems like something of an understatement. Because the setting is so modest, it’s hard to believe that each of the cases under the counters is packed with valuable jewelry. It also seems hard to believe that there could be enough customers spending enough dollars to keep all these counter people in profit, but I’m sure there are, because they wouldn’t be packed in here for their health.

I have to admit I don’t understand the appeal of jewelry. I guess some of it is nice to look at, but it has a value only because we say it does. It’s useless; you can’t live in it, drive it, listen to it, eat it, drink it, or swim in it. But people pay out huge sums of money for these little rocks, and as they get more successful, they trade them in for bigger little rocks.

I doubt that I would have ever found Harry’s counter if not for the fact that Hike, Willie, and Zoe are standing in front of it. I also doubt that dogs are allowed in here, but I’m positive that no one would have the nerve to tell that to Willie. Willie’s not Marcus, but he projects a toughness that can be intimidating.

Dylan has not sent someone to be present at this examination; it confirms my feeling that he doesn’t consider it important. He could easily be right about that.

Harry and I went to high school together, and we meet for lunch once every few months. He sold me the engagement ring I gave Laurie. He told me he gave me a deal on it, but a good guess is that he tells that to everyone. For what I paid, I could have gotten something with bucket seats and satellite radio.

I don’t see too many people from the old days, since pretty much all of them have moved out of Paterson. So has Harry, but he lives nearby in Teaneck.

I’ve spent my adult years exaggerating my athletic and romantic exploits in high school, so with Harry I have to consciously remember that he knows the truth. Of course, he was no more successful than I was in those areas, so we basically avoid talking about them. Instead we talk about sports and
Seinfeld,
his two passions in life.

But there’s no chitchatting today; I get right to the point. “What do you think about the stones?”

“I haven’t looked at them yet. Your friends didn’t want to give them to me until you showed up.”

I nod to Hike, and he takes the stones out of his pocket and hands them to Harry, who lays a felt cloth on the counter and puts the stones on it. He stares at them for at least a minute, then nods slightly, though it’s impossible to tell what that means.

“What is it you want to know?” he asks.

“Two things. How valuable they are, and if it’s possible to trace where they came from.”

Harry picks up the stones and brings them back to a small desk he has beyond the counter. He has some equipment that he uses to look at the stones, and strange little lights that he shines on them. The process takes about ten minutes, during which time he does not say a single word.

When he’s finished, he carries the diamonds carefully back to the counter, still resting on the cloth, and puts them down in front of us. “Where did you get these?” he asks.

“From a murder victim.”

“He’s got good taste in stones. They’re real, and they’re spectacular.”

It’s a
Seinfeld
-ism, but I assume he means it seriously. “So they’re valuable?”

“Probably a hundred and fifty grand each. Very unusual.”

“Unusual how?” I ask.

“Outstanding grade and quality, but they’re uncut and unregistered.”

“So?”

“So you don’t usually see uncut stones this small. Which means they’re probably not blood diamonds. But they’re unregistered, which means they might be.”

“Blood diamonds” is a term I’ve heard; I even think there was a movie about them. But I don’t know what it means, so I ask Harry to explain.

“They’re diamonds usually mined in West Africa, in war zones. They’re stolen and sent to other countries to finance war efforts, arms purchases, things like that. But they would generally be larger stones.”

“Any way to trace these?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not really. There’s no laser identification on them. That would come when they are cut. I know people that could probably tell you what country they were mined in, but that’s as specific as they could get.”

“How do I learn more about all of this?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment, and then says, “You know Alan Divac?”

“No.”

“See if you can get to him. He is the go-to guy when it comes to bringing diamonds into the country. That diamond I sold you was one of his.”

“So you know him?”

He shakes his head. “No, there are about twelve rungs between us on the ladder.”

“But the diamonds he brings in are legal?”

He shrugs. “Depends on who you talk to.”

I thank him, and as we’re ready to leave, he points to the evidence diamonds and asks, “Are these yours to sell?”

“Why?”

“You give them to me on consignment, and yada, yada, yada, we could make a big profit on them.”

“Sorry, they’re evidence in the murder case,” I say.

He nods. “People have been murdered for less. These are the real deal, legit or not.”

Before we leave, he asks me if Laurie is ready to trade in her ring for a more expensive one, but I decline, even though he tells me he could give me a good deal.

I give the stones to Hike to take back to Dylan’s office. “Tell Dylan they’re fakes,” I say, and then smile at Harry. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

The problem with our case at this point is that we don’t have one. We certainly have our suspicions about the Caruso murder being inextricably tied to the Downey killing, but that is just a theory based on Zoe being involved in both. It is not something that would convince a jury; it’s unlikely we could even get it admitted to present to a jury.

We have been focusing mostly on the Brantley connection because the Downey case is a relatively simple one, and one that the jury will clearly be able to follow.

Our ability to defend Tommy, independent of Brantley, is very limited. The facts are the facts, and the evidence against our client is very incriminating. There is no alibi; he claims he was at home at the time of the murder, but has no way to prove it.

Tommy had a motive, and there is substantial physical evidence against him. We’ll certainly challenge it, but we’ll be playing defense the entire time. And the irony of criminal trials is that when the defense plays defense, it loses.

I’ve been trying to meet with Tommy each day at the jail, though the meetings are brief, and he has no way to be helpful. If he is telling the truth, then by definition there is no chance he has knowledge about what really happened in that house. Rather, he was an innocent nonbystander who was brought into it by events out of his control.

So my visits are not to ask questions and gain insight, but more to let him know that we are working on his behalf, that he is not alone. I could send Hike down to see him, but I’m afraid that after thirty minutes of talking with Hike, he’ll hang himself in his cell.

The diamond connection strikes me as important, maybe even crucial. Downey was not the type to have valuable diamonds, especially uncut ones. He did not get them by knocking over a liquor store, or for that matter a local jewelry store.

I also have to assume that whoever killed him was not aware that the diamonds were in the house. According to Pete they were not well hidden; they were simply lying in his dresser drawer. Maybe our arrival on the scene caused the killer to panic and run, but I would have thought he’d make some effort to find the diamonds if he knew they were there. He certainly could have used his knife to compel Downey to reveal their location.

But Downey had the diamonds, and my working theory is that he received them as payment for services rendered. But what were the services?

Stealing Zoe? That would mean he probably got them from Brantley. But then, where would Brantley have gotten them?

Killing Michael Caruso? That would mean he got them from whoever wanted Caruso dead, be it Brantley or someone else. But there is nothing in his record to indicate Downey was a murderer.

So the key is Brantley, with the diamonds the wild card. That is nothing new; they have occupied those positions since the case began. I’m just unfortunately no closer to knowing what part they play.

So if the trial were to start tomorrow, it would be short and ugly. We’d cause Dylan some aggravation, but he would basically roll over us.

Fortunately the trial is not tomorrow; it just feels like it is.

Robby Divine didn’t like my asking if he knew anything about diamonds. “Are they worth money?” he asked.

“A lot of money.”

“Then I know a lot about them,” he said. “Here’s a general rule: the more money that is involved, the more I know about it. You haven’t picked up on that yet?”

I think Robby may be starting to regret he ever met me at that charity event, since I am constantly asking him for favors. “My friend Harry the jeweler says that Alan Divac is the guy to talk to if I want to learn about importing diamonds,” I said. “Do you know him?”

“I should. I own five percent of his company, which I would sell to you, if you were rich.”

Robby thinks that the thirty million dollars or so that I have qualifies me for food stamps. “Can you get me in to see him?”

“What am I, your social secretary?”

“That position is currently unfilled. If you’re interested in it, I can set up an interview.”

Robby declined that offer, but did set up a meeting for me with Alan Divac. His office is on West Forty-seventh Street, not far from the Diamond Exchange. It’s raining today, so I allowed for an extra hour to get into the city. I’m not sure why water slows down traffic so much; since cars on these streets never go more than five miles an hour anyway, skidding on the wet pavement seems unlikely.

It’s a small office; I only count nine employees on the premises. One of them comes out to greet me, introducing himself as Paul Turner. “Alan is tied up for a while; you can come wait in my office.”

I follow him back there, and he offers me something to drink. I take a Diet Coke and sit on the only available chair in his modest office, as he sits behind his desk. “So what did you want to talk to Alan about?” he asks.

“I’ll wait for him,” I say. “No sense going through it twice.”

Turner smiles. “I’m what’s commonly called his right-hand man. I’m supposed to find out if I can deal with this without him getting involved.”

I return the smile. “I hate to disappoint you.”

If he’s put off or surprised, he doesn’t show it. “No problem. Let’s go see Alan.”

He takes me down the hall toward a corner office. He opens the door without knocking and brings me into the office, which is considerably larger than Turner’s, but by no means impressive. He points to a couch for me to sit on, and takes a chair himself; apparently the right-hand man sits in on meetings.

The man I assume is Alan Divac is on the phone, screaming into it. “What the hell do you think I’m selling you, marbles? Forget it … these stones are flawless; you wouldn’t know what the hell to do with them.” With that, he slams down the phone.

“Wrong number?” I ask.

He laughs. “You can say that again. Robby said you want to learn about diamonds?”

“I do, and—”

He interrupts me. “They are God’s most perfect creation.”

This guy has obviously never met Laurie and Tara. “I’m interested in the ones that come into the country illegally.”

He shoots a quick glance at Turner, probably wondering how I ever got past him. Then he frowns. “Aren’t we all. It was the scourge of the business, until we got it mostly under control.”

“How was it brought under control?”

“It’s called the Kimberley Process. It requires that all diamonds be certified, so that no illegal diamonds can come in from war zones.”

“But some do?”

He nods. “Some do. That’s why I said mostly under control.”

“So the diamonds are merely currency that is used to buy arms?” I ask.

“They can buy anything, but I believe arms are the primary product.”

“What does your company do?”

“We import the legitimate stones, then cut and polish them into various shapes, pearl, oval, etc. Once this is done we classify them by the four Cs: cut, color, clarity, and carat weight. Then we sell them to wholesalers or diamond jewelry manufacturers.”

“And then it’s marked up a thousand percent and sold to dopes like me,” I say.

Divac smiles. “Think of it as an extraordinarily beautiful investment.” Turner laughs at the comment, though I suspect he’s heard Divac say it a thousand times.

I ask Divac if he’s heard of Eric Brantley, and he says that he has. I ask, “Could Brantley have been involved in smuggling diamonds?”

He shrugs. “Certainly possible, at least on a small level. You don’t need a license to do it; you just have to make the right contacts. But it’s a dangerous business to get into, as he may have found out.”

“So illegal smugglers would not have appreciated the competition?”

He smiles. “Why would they? The market is finite.”

“I want to talk to some people in that world; it’s important that I understand them.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to have a road map,” I say. “These people have committed a murder, and my client is going to trial for it.”

“Mr. Carpenter, neither Tommy Infante nor Gerald Downey inhabited the world you are talking about. And if they did, their involvement would have been insignificant.”

“You seem to know a lot about them.”

Divac and Turner make eye contact. “I have thorough people in my employ.” It’s clear that Turner has done some research and briefed his boss on me and my case.