The Case of the Yellow Diamond (18 page)

 

Chapter 35

T
he air was still hot and oppressive when I punched the doorbell. I was back in Deephaven, standing before the large front door to the Pryor residence. Mrs. Pryor was expecting me, and once again she opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” I said. When I stepped into the front room, a wave of conditioned air greeted me. “It's a fine day, isn't it?”

“Come in, Mr. Sean. I'm glad to see you.”

She led the way into a second room with large windows that faced a sunny lawn, backstopped by what appeared to be a thick growth of bushes and trees about a hundred feet distant. She gestured me to a comfortable chair, and I sat. Mrs. Pryor refreshed her mug of coffee after offering me one, which I declined, and settled into a matching chair.

“You said something about a final report, I believe.”

“Yes, ma'am. Since you financed a good portion of my investigation, I owe you an explanation of the investigation itself and my results.”

She nodded, and I launched into a recital of recent events, starting with my trip to Des Moines and the Pellegrino Construction Company. I detailed my conversation with Mary Astor without mentioning her name, or the names of the two workers I met in that Des Moines bar. Mrs. Pryor was interested. I could tell. There was a gleam in her eyes.

Then I moved on to explain that Gareth Anderson had been doing a number of things off the books, as it were, and behind the backs of his two partners in the law firm. His will had been probated and a bank account and safe deposit box opened.

“Anderson and his wife had no children, and the people at his firm can't find any living relatives so it looks like this is the end for this branch of the family tree.”

“I assume Mr. Anderson had an attorney. Most good attorneys do, you know,” Mrs. Pryor said.

“Yes, the senior partner at his firm handled Anderson's will. His assets went to his wife and hers to charity and her church. All pretty ordinary and mundane.”

“Except?” she said softly, never taking her eyes from my face.

“Except for a few pebbles in a brown manila envelope in the deposit box. There was a slip of paper in the envelope. No note, just the letters M. P.”

“Ah,” she said. I had a feeling then that she withdrew emotionally. The feeling only lasted a few seconds, but it uncharacteristically alarmed me in a subtle way. I was tempted to stand up, but I resisted and kept my gaze fixed on Madeline Pryor's face. Whereas before I had seen what I thought were welcoming smiles in the small creases at the edges of her mouth, there now seemed to be a sterner look to her. Yet her expression appeared not to have changed.

“Have you reached any conclusion about that? Those initials, I mean?” She might have been asking if I wanted a refill to a cup of coffee.

“No, ma'am. They could mean almost anything. They could be a person's initials.”

“Such as mine.”

“Correct.”

Madeline Pryor looked down for a second and seemed again to withdraw. Then she looked back into my face and smiled. “Well, I have a confession. A small confession. I don't know if those initials have anything to do with me. They could also refer to my husband, Max. Or to someone or something else.”

“Obviously, but you have to admit it's a bit of a coincidence.”

“I never met Mr. Hillier, but my husband's firm did have business with Mr. Anderson. In the early years, immediately after World War II, two members of my family returned from duty in the services. One, a distant uncle, was in the army, stationed in the South Pacific. I don't believe he ever saw combat but in some of his letters, he refers to having met an officer named Terry Amundson. In one letter, which I still have, he called him R. Terry. I didn't really know my uncle, and he's long since died. However, after the war Max told me he occasionally would get to telling war stories, and one of the men he mentioned was this Amundson who, I gather, was sort of sketchy. He was never court martialled, but he was reprimanded a time or two. Conduct unbecoming an officer, for example. Reporting late, things like that.

“When Tod and Josie told us they had been to Yap and were planning to organize a serious search for the aircraft Amundson had been on when it was shot down, we were of course interested. Max told me before he died that he thought Josie's father, whom he never got on with, was a reluctant backer of the project. Mr. Pederson put up some money, but he kept telling Josie and Tod to be careful. He seemed overly worried about their safety. We all put it down to a father's natural instincts, but it's now clear he didn't want the body or the plane to be located. We couldn't figure out why.”

“He was afraid if they found the plane, they might also discover items that should not have been in the plane,” I said. “Specifically, uncut jewels. Like these.” I took a small white envelope from my shirt pocket and spilled three small pebbles into my open palm.

Mrs. Pryor looked down and poked at the gems with one slender, well-manicured finger. She sighed softly. “Yes, these look just like the uncut diamonds I saw at my jewelers. A little dustier, perhaps.”

“These are most likely smuggled. I have to return them to the bank from whence they came. But I wanted you to see them because they represent a part of what this whole caper has been about. There's also the possibility there is information still preserved on the aircraft that could prove embarrassing.”

“To Preston, or perhaps my family?”

Quick on the uptake, Mrs. Pryor
. I nodded and continued. “During World War Two, military traffic out of Southeast Asia was focused on the war effort. A lot of flights came in with only cursory examination and some smart folks realized that smuggling small stuff with a high dollar value was better than trying to get bulky drugs across our borders, although there was certainly some of that as well. I'm sure that a certain pilot, acting as a courier and a transporter of planes, was able to carry contraband into the country fairly easily.

“He probably did it mostly for hire. He didn't make a lot of money, but he also didn't have to deal with processing the jewels at this end. He apparently made multiple trips with gems, which were then hidden away to be used as needed for the operations of some construction firms in Illinois, Iowa and Minnesota. Later, Anderson and Hillier became the trusted couriers who took the uncut jewels from wherever they were being kept and sold them discreetly. The resulting funds were fed into the firms' operations. The extra cash apparently gave the firms certain advantages.”

Madeline nodded. “I see. And you believe there may be evidence on the airplane that would tie the smuggling to Preston and perhaps others? Have you discovered where the gems were being stored?”

“Not for sure, which is why this mystery is still unsolved. I'm persuaded they are probably in Saint Louis somewhere.”

“What about the wounding of that young boy? Calvin?”

“I think that was another botched attempt to place the family in such turmoil they'd forget all about Yap.”

“Will you look for the jewels?”

“Until Richard Hillier is arrested, definitely. I don't like loose ends, and Mr. Hillier needs to answer for his crimes.”

“If you find the ‘stash,' as you call it, what will happen to them? The jewels, that is, if any are left?”

A thought wiggled into my mind that Mrs. Pryor seemed mighty interested in this sidelight. But I dismissed that thought and said, “I don't really know, although I think the government might show up in the form of customs and maybe the IRS.”

“Is there anything else you wish to report?”

“No, I think that concludes our business, until Mr. Hillier is apprehended. I think Josie and Tod will be able to return to a relatively normal life of preparing for another trip to Yap Island to look for their granduncle, assuming they can secure financing. With no more interference.”

As I drove away and headed to my home in Roseville in the hot afternoon sun, I wondered where Hillier had gotten to. I wanted to bring him down. He was a killer and needed to be stopped.

My house, having been shut up for several days, was stuffy and the cats were upset. They weren't hungry but I gave them treats and some attention and then saw to routines around the place. By the time I finished, it was getting dark so I called Catherine to say I'd spend the night alone at home.

 

Chapter 36

M
y instincts were out to lunch when I called her, because Catherine didn't pick up, and I didn't react. She said she'd be going home. Well, maybe she was in the pool or the shower. Neither was true.

It was dark and very early when my second line buzzed and flashed, which woke me. Very few people knew the unregistered number of that line. A few cops, my cyber specialists down the hall, and Catherine.

I fumbled the phone to my ear and rolled over to sit up on the edge of the mattress. I heard breathing, distant thumps, and a voice I almost recognized. The voice seemed to carry menacing undertones, but under the circumstances, that wasn't surprising. I hummed something soft and unrecog­nizable. No response. With the phone stuck to the side of my head, I pawed at my clothes and began to dress.

Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

Moments later, a sibilant hiss, punctuated by gasps, said, “Sean. Hillier has me.”

Even with the stress, I knew that voice. Somewhere, Richard Hillier had laid his hands on Catherine and was holding her hostage.

Apparently she'd been able to speed dial my number on her cell. I listened harder. In the background, Hillier was talking. It also sounded like he was moving stuff around.

“This is silly,” came Catherine's voice. “I'm of no use to you.”

“Shut up, bitch. Cooperate and maybe I won't shoot you after I get clear.”

“What's in the bag?”

His voice was suddenly louder and clearer. He must be right next to Catherine. “What's in the bag? Why would you care? What's in the bag is my passport, my personal stash of rocks, my code to the bank in St. Louis, and the gun I'm gonna kill you with.”

“Have you ever really killed anybody?”

“Jesus. Why'm I talking to you? Yeah, sweetie, bombs and bullets, that's me. If those damn kids hadn't insisted on diving in Yap an' got her dad all worried, he'd be alive and we'd still be sittin' pretty.” His voiced faded. He must have walked away.

Catherine muttered, “We're in Hillier's apartment.”

I grabbed the other phone to dial 911. When it rang before I could punch in the three numbers, it startled me. It was Ricardo.

“Sean, we've located Hillier. He appears to have someone with him. Maybe a woman.”

My heart was thundering, and I had trouble capturing a full breath. “I know. It's Catherine. The bastard's holding Catherine. What's the address?”

“I'm coming,” I said louder, hoping Catherine might hear.

After scribbling the address on a scrap of paper and dropping the phone, I ran to the gun safe and grabbed my Colt .45 and a box of ammunition. Feet slid into shoes and I scooped up keys, ID, wallet, and bolted out the door. The address Ricardo had given me was a place on the east side of Minneapolis, south of Franklin. At 3:00 a.m., or whatever time it was, there was little traffic, and I sped through town hoping to not encounter a patrol car. I probably upset a few wandering dog-walkers as I screeched around corners and ran a red light. A block from the address a Minneapolis prowl car blocked the street, and I parked, jumped out and ran toward the shotgun-toting cop, waving my ID.

The cop looked, nodded and pointed down the dark street. I turned away and he began to talk into the radio pinned to his shoulder.

Detective Simon materialized out of the dark and dragged me to shelter beside a fat elm. “He's made one trip to his vehicle, the car parked by the door with the trunk lid up. He must have restrained Catherine while he packs up.”

“She called me, and she's sort of got him talking. I left the recorder on so you're gonna probably have a confession of sorts. What's the plan?”

“Wait him out and take him down the next time he appears.”

“I'm gonna get closer. Maybe I can jump him when he comes out.”

“Don't!” hissed Ricardo. “There are several cops out here with guns. You could get killed.”

I ignored his warning and trotted silently across the street. It was easy to avoid the two dim streetlights. When Hillier appeared in the doorway dragging Catherine by one arm, I raised my gun. Maybe he didn't know we were there. Hillier pulled the door to the sedan open, and the cops revealed themselves. Two big spotlights and four pairs of headlights in a rough semi-circle lit up the corner and the building entrance. A voice from a bullhorn crackled, then roared, commanding Hillier to raise his hands and release the hostage.

Hillier slammed Catherine into the open car door and reached to his waist. Catherine cried out. Hillier raised a pistol, and someone off to my right fired a rifle. The bullet caught Hillier high on his left shoulder, knocking him back. Hands tied, Catherine lunged across the seats toward the passenger door.

I wrenched it open and clawed at her, dragging her out of the car and onto the warm pavement behind the front tire. Hillier raised his weapon and fired into the empty front seat. Another shot rang out and I heard Hillier grunt from the impact. He took two staggering steps and crumpled to the sidewalk. For a long moment there was no sound, then I heard the shuffle of many feet as a squad of cops rushed forward and surrounded a prone and dying Richard Hillier. Ricardo's partner, Leon, reached me and said, “You're okay, right? Didn't shoot, right?” I shook my head, reached to help Catherine up, slid my arms around her, clutched her to my chest. We stood pressed together, sobbing with relief and trembling with the adrenaline surge.

I put my weapon back in its holster and covered it with my shirt. I untied Catherine's wrists, wincing at the red marks left on her skin by the tight cord. Uniforms and a couple of strangers in suits with badges prominently displayed walked by, barely glancing in our direction.

“Guy's dead,” I heard. An ambulance, lights flashing, no siren, showed up and the routines of forensic detailing a shooting scene moved into high gear. Leon escorted us back across the street and outside a line of yellow plastic tape. I was having trouble walking normally. The EMTs gave Catherine the once-over and declared her good to go.

More police vehicles arrived in a steady stream.

“Go. Home,” said Leon. “Come to the station in the morning to give a statement. Okay?”

I shook his hand and Catherine and I sat in my car, winding down, watching the circus of cops for many minutes until the shaking went away and I felt I could handle driving us to the apartment.