The Case of the Yellow Diamond (5 page)

 

Chapter 8

T
hat evening I decided I needed to know a good deal more about Yap Island and its place in the grand scheme of things back in the forties. So I went to the library and then I went to the Internet to do some research.

The next morning I called my good friend and main squeeze, Catherine Mckerney.

“Say, fella,” she said, “I'm missing you a good deal here. What's going on?”

“A case, of course. One filled with murky details, sexy broads, pricey jewels, gold bars, murder, mayhem, and the usual list of questions with few or misleading answers. I spent last evening at the library and I think I may be more confused than when I started.”

“Sounds to me like we should have an evening in and discuss things,” she said, putting into words what I realized I was subconsciously hoping to hear. I sometimes discussed elements of my cases, when Catherine was willing. Gave me a different perspective, and sometimes good answers.

“That'd be fabulous,” I purred. “I'll arrive in time to mix a pitcher of Sangria. Or maybe some exotic kind of hot-climate libation.”

She chuckled in my ear. “I love it when you talk dirty to me. See you later, lover.”

But it was not to be. Not that evening. There was a shooting that afternoon. I got the call from a frantic Tod Bartelme.

“Can you come right away? Calvin's in the hospital. He's been shot.” Tod let out a single large sob and struggled to go on. “We're at St. John's East. Know where that is?”

Regrettably, I did. I had made it my business to know the best routes to every hospital in the area. I got in my car and tore east, bypassing a couple of lakes in my way, and made it to the hospital in record time. No police squads hampered my run. In the Intensive Care section of the relatively new facility, I found both Josie and Tod in a state of shock, restlessly waiting for news from the doctors who were somewhere behind the swinging doors to the operating suites. They paced across the small waiting alcove.

Josie looked terrible. Her eyes were puffy, and tears left silvery tracks on her pale cheeks. She was casually dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans. She wore her brown topsiders without socks. Her hands trembled, and the wad of tissue she held was quickly succumbing to the picking of her restless fingers.

Tod had obviously rushed to the hospital from work. His conservative suit was rumpled, and he'd yanked his tie down and opened the collar of his shirt. He kept running his fingers through his already messy brown hair.

“Tell me what happened,” I demanded. “Everything you can remember. Have the cops been notified?”

Josie gulped, wiped her nose and took a deep breath to try to calm herself. We stared at each other. “I was home. Calvin and some of the neighborhood kids were swimming and fooling around on the beach. Our beach.”

“We collaborated with the neighbors on either side to make kind of a swimming area with a small diving platform,” Tod muttered.

“It's a float. We anchor it about twenty feet off the beach so the water's deep enough for diving. The diving board's only six feet off the water,” Josie said. She waved one hand and dropped a tissue. “Anyway, they were taking turns cannonballing off the board, you know?”

I nodded. I knew what that was. Cannonballing, a common lake activity, especially for young and vital teens, had you run off the board, tuck knees and arms and make a great splash, usually near some friends. If you did it right, the wave was big, and the water stung your back just a little when you hit it. Whooping and hollering were usually part of the act.

“So when Calvin went up and jumped off, he hit the water sort of funny, more stretched out,” Josie said. “That's what Jeff told us. Jeff Brooks. He's the next-door neighbor. Nice kid. Anyway, Jeff said Calvin surfaced but he didn't roll over or swim or anything. First they thought he was faking it. Calvin was drowning.” She swallowed some air and Tod put his arm around her again, turning her face into his shoulder. Josie let him hold her for a moment then she pushed away. “One of the boys grabbed Calvin and rolled him over. He wasn't breathing.” Josie began to sob then, leaning over at the waist. Her knees bent as if she couldn't stand any longer.

Tod put his hands on her shoulders again and eased her back onto the sofa. He sank down beside her and ran one arm across her shoulders, squeezing gently. He took a deep breath and continued the story, “We don't know how close to death he came. Too damn close, anyway. When they pulled him ashore and started CPR, one of the boys noticed blood on his shoulder, and there was a hole in the skin.” He shook his head. “Apparently nobody heard a shot. What kind of fool shoots off a gun in a place like that? It's insane.”

None of us noticed the silent approach of a doctor in rumpled pale blue surgicals with yellow booties until she was right next to us. I didn't see any blood on her scrubs. She pulled her mask down and said. “You're the Bartelmes?”

Tod acknowledged they were. There was a minute pause as if we were all afraid to continue. Finally, Tod stood and said. “How's Calvin? Is he all right?”

“He's fine, and he should fully recover, physically.” The doctor nodded. “A small-caliber bullet penetrated his shoulder and exited just above the scapula, the big bone that makes the wing on the back. He's very lucky. The bullet missed major arteries and did very little damage to the muscles in his shoulder and back. With proper therapy, he'll be fine. There's no bone damage at all.”

I looked at the doctor. She glanced at me and then in a lower voice said, “I recommend Calvin have some counseling after he recovers some. Being shot, even with minimal damage, can be very traumatic.”

“You've notified the police, I assume,” I said.

“Of course. They'll be here any time now for your statement. It's required with all gunshot wounds, even accidental ones.” The physician looked at Josie and then back at me. I could see she was wondering about my role in this.

“Can we see him?” asked Josie.

“Of course. He's not yet out of the anesthetic, but he'll wake up in a little while. You can sit with him.” The doctor turned to lead the Bartelmes to recovery.

I took Tod's arm, and we lagged a step behind. “You aren't sure this was an accident, are you,” I murmured.

He turned his head and said in a low voice, “That's why I called you. With everything that's happened, I just want the rest of us to be safe.”

I nodded. “I'll check it out. But I better not stay. Is the house open?”

“Yes. Somebody is there pretty much all the time.” He turned to go and I heard an undertone in his voice that suggested he wasn't entirely happy with some of his guests.

I slowed and let them get a step or two ahead. “I'll be in touch, Mr. Bartelme.” The doctor's head came up. She was going to mention me to the cops. Josie didn't look back. The trio disappeared down the wide hall and through a door to the recovery wing. Across the room an elevator dinged and two uniformed officers appeared. I nodded at them and headed for the stairs. In the ground floor lobby I found two quarters in my pocket and went to the bank of phones hanging on one wall. It was a small bank. The proliferation of cell phones has reduced the need for public pay phones in hospitals and other buildings by quite a bit.

I left a quick message for Catherine that I was delayed and not to wait dinner. I also mentioned I was looking forward to some pillow talk a little later. Then I beat it out of there. I needed to get to Bartelmes' without delay. In the car I made a couple of quick notes on my conversation with Tod and Josie and drove to their home. When I pulled up and parked, the neighborhood seemed unnaturally quiet. The air was still and hot. The last time I was in that driveway I recalled I'd been able to hear the sounds of suburbia: a distant mower, kids, birds, and dogs. Now it seemed as if there was a collective pause, a silence while the neighborhood waited to learn Calvin's fate. Maybe it was just me.

“He's going to be fine,” I said. Then I said it a little louder, maybe to persuade myself, maybe I was trying to reassure the fence, or the garage, or the birds in the bushes. I wasn't sure, but I said it again, firmly, out loud. A tiny breeze stirred the lilac bush beside the fence where Calvin had met me. I pushed through the gate and walked around the house to find three people on the deck clutching tall drinks. They looked like rum. The drinks did.

Alvin Pederson was closest, standing beside a small mobile bar loaded with the makings of various cocktails. He was about to add ice to a depleted drink when I appeared.

Farther along, sprawled primly in a chaise was his wife, Maxine. Her glass was empty except for what appeared to be a dark straw. She smiled and did one of those things with her shoulders that women know how to do. It made her thin blue blouse gap wider in front. She didn't appear to be wearing a bra. When she smiled up at me as I advanced up the steps, I deduced that she'd been drinking. Her look had that almost-focused gaze of too much booze too fast or on an empty stomach.

The third porch squatter was a man I had barely met at the last rendezvous, Richard Hillier. Although we weren't personally acquainted, I knew a few things about him. He had been associated with Preston Pederson for many years. From what I'd gathered so far, he was an untitled bag man, an associate unafraid to get his hands dirty should that be necessary. He was big, maybe two hundred fifty pounds on a wide, heavy-boned frame. In his day, he would have been a fearsome adversary. But his day was gone on the wings of time, too much drink, rich fatty foods, and not enough exercise. Even so, he could probably wipe the floor with me. If he could catch me.

He turned his face toward me silently and then, with a certain deliberation, raised his glass to his lips. He wore a pair of dark aviator-style sunglasses that effectively concealed his eyes. Cool, very cool.

“Tod and Josie aren't here,” Pederson said, adding an ice cube to his glass. He didn't bother to use tongs.

“I know,” I said. “I just came from the hospital.”

 

Chapter 9

H
illier raised one eyebrow and looked at me. “So you know about Calvin being shot.”

“I'm here to check out the circumstances.” I paused by Mrs. Pederson's chaise and ogled her bosom for a second.

“What's the point of that?” whined her husband. “What can you do about some neighbor nutcase firing off a gun?”

I didn't make the obvious response that there were some unanswered questions, such as where, who, and why. More than just some, actually. “Detecting is what I do,” I said. I thought I was being satisfactorily obscure. I allowed my mouth to curve slightly in a somewhat enigmatic smile. I thought it was, anyway.

“If you need a guide around the place, I'll be happy to oblige,” said Maxine. She put out her hand for help rising from the couch. Since I was closest, it seemed only polite I offer her my hand.

“Oh, for Chrissake, Max! Give it a break. You come on to every upright male that shows up with a half a wit.” I turned my gaze on him. Alvin's face took on a decidedly unhealthy color. He gulped down half his drink. For his gut's sake, I hoped it wasn't too strong.

“I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Pederson.” I said, mostly to bug Alvin. “You can show me the way to the second-floor rooms that look out on the lake.” I didn't use my Bogart imitation.

“Oh, you want to see the bedrooms?” Her grin was predatory. Her husband shuddered, and Hillier seemed to stare impassively. Maxine missed their reactions as she spun on her heels and led me through the sliding patio door. Once out of sight of the two men on the patio, her attitude de-escalated and she stalked ahead of me to the stairs that led, I learned, first to a landing, then to the long second-floor hall that bisected the house. There were five rooms on the second floor, Maxine told me, four being used as bedrooms, but only two faced the lake. One was the master bedroom with a broad sliding glass wall that led to a narrow balcony directly over the patio. I could hear Pederson and Hillier in conversation. From her stance, I figured Maxine was straining to hear what they were saying.

The other bedroom had no balcony, was smaller, comfortable with a queen-sized bed and a highly polished armoire instead of a closet. The windows did look out on the lake. By twisting my head I could get a narrow look through the removable screen at the swim area, but it was an awkward position at best.

Maxine turned arch as we went back to the hall. “My room is over there,” she said, gesturing across my chest.

“Since you have no view of the lake, I won't need to see it,” I said. “I take it you and your husband live here with the Bartelmes?”

Her hesitation was miniscule, but I caught it. “Oh, no, but we're here for Josie and Tod during these troubles. You know.” Her voice trailed off as if she wasn't sure how to respond. What was that all about? I filed her reaction in my mental tickler file, and we went back downstairs.

I had the names and addresses of two of the boys who had been at the Bartelmes' beach when Calvin was injured. They were on a crumpled scrap of paper Josie had thrust at me at the hospital. I hoped to get an eyewitness account of the shooting. I walked down to the edge of the lake, alone. Maxine had declined to accompany me into the hot sun. I looked at the empty floating raft with its low diving platform. It was altogether a peaceful summer scene. I found it hard to believe what had happened.

Voices arose on my left from the adjoining property. A hedge separated the properties, but no fence. The location was one of the two I had for boys on the scene earlier that afternoon, so I pushed through the hedge and found myself on another beach with a short dock in the middle of the property.

Three boys about Calvin's age sprawled on the beach in their swimsuits. A fourth thrashed through the water toward the beach, making a great laughing, sputtering production out of it. The other three were flicking sand and water droplets at each other. When I appeared, fully dressed, a stranger, they turned immediately serious. I walked forward holding their attention while the fourth boy struggled toward us out of the lake.

“My name's Sean Sean,” I said. “I'm working for Tod and Josie Bartelme.”

“You're the PI,” one of them said, “with the same first and last names. Cool.”

“How's Cal doing?” another asked.

“He's going to be fine,” I said. There was immediate reduction in the tension. The boys relaxed. “Now I need some help. Which one of you answers to the name of Jeff Brooks?”

Teenager automatic distrust of adults asserted itself. The boys glanced at each other, not saying anything. Except two of them looked at the same boy.

“This is no big deal. I just want to try to recreate the shooting. I know you and some of your friends were on Bartelmes' beach when it went down.” I stared at Jeff Brooks. “You were the closest, according to what I've been told. I suppose these other fellows were there too, right? Now, the cops are gonna be here soon to get formal statements. Your parents are probably being notified and lawyers rounded up. There'll be delays while routines are followed. I just want to find out what happened to your friend, whatever you saw, as near as possible before things get complicated.”

I spread my hands and looked at them. The boy I'd figured was Jeff stood up. “I'm Jeff Brooks,” he said. We shook hands.

“Let's go next door,” I said, and we all trooped back through the hedge of lilacs. It turned out my instinct was right, all the boys were there when Calvin got shot. The one who they all agreed had been farthest from the action, Ted something, insisted he didn't actually see anything, so I selected him to be Calvin for my deal. I had my new digital camera with me. The plan was to get a series of pictures of a body flying through the air in the same position as Calvin was. At first it didn't work. For some reason Ted Something-or-other couldn't get his arms and legs in the right position. The boys were serious and pointed out problems in jump after jump.

Finally the Brooks boy came out of the water saying, “Let me try it. I showed Calvin how I do a cannonball. It's with a half twist, like this.”

He swam to the dock and did his cannonball with a twist. The other watching boys all enthusiastically agreed that was exactly how Calvin was positioned when he was shot. So I had him do it six more times and took lots of pictures. We all figured he got his arms and legs just right at least four times. That was easier than trying to calculate how high off the water Calvin had been when he was plugged.

It wasn't perfect but I was happy. I thought I'd be able to get pretty close to the place the shooter had stood or laid to make his shot.

When I dismissed the boys with thanks and turned back to the house, I discovered an interested audience. Hillier and Al Pederson were standing, drinks in hand, watching from the lakeside veranda.

“What are you doing?” Pederson inquired.

Normally I wouldn't say. Normally I wouldn't give somebody like Alvin Pederson the time of day. I knew his type. He thought he was an insider and any bits of gossip he could scrape up gave him a supposed advantage over someone. Alvin Pederson was a bottom feeder.

The other reason I wouldn't normally give him a passing glance was that we detectives liked to be a little mysterious from time to time. Other times we weren't sure ourselves what we were doing or why; it's just something that feels right at the time. In this case, I figured it wouldn't hurt to explain and the telling might shake something loose, depending on who they talked to.

“I want to recreate the scene of the crime,” I said. “When I look at blowups of these pictures together with pictures of Calvin's injuries, I'll learn a few things.”

Both Hillier and Pederson nodded as if they understood exactly what I was saying. I wondered if
I
did as I left the premises and drove back to Roseville.

At home in my basement office I downloaded the digital pictures to my computer and made a series of quick prints on plain paper. I laid out the ones that showed Jeff Brooks in the closest position to Calvin's body when he'd been shot. By superimposing a tracing of the wounds I made from memory, I was able to determine several things. Some of them I already knew.

The shot had been fired from outside the house. I thought it likely the cops would have a tough time recovering the slug. If my calculations were correct, after it passed through Calvin's hand and along his ribs to exit at the top of his shoulder, it had probably tumbled to the ground somewhere in the vicinity of the bramble patch beside the lilacs that separated the Brooks's place from the Bartelmes'.

I pulled a topographic map of that end of the lake from my file. Coincidence? Nah. Over the years I made it my business to collect such documents and even tried to keep them reasonably up to date. Useful tools of the trade.

After some peering and jockeying of the map and a crude drawing I produced for myself, I was able to diagram an oval on the opposite shore of the bay that would have likely been where the shooter had stood. It was far from ideal, but it was a woodsy grove with thick underbrush below the pines and ash trees, so it did provide concealment for the presumed shooter. And the bay was pretty narrow at that point.

I called the hospital to check on Calvin's progress. I got the runaround jabber about patient privacy and they couldn't find either Tod or Josie. I left the house and journeyed back to White Bear along now crowded Highway 96. The afternoon had waned and home-bound traffic was jamming up the road, so it took me longer than usual to get to the place on the other side of the bay where I thought the shooter must have been located.

I pulled the car off onto the shoulder as far as the trees allowed. The left rear fender hung over the white stripe they paint at the outside edge of these roads, but I figured my car was pretty easily seen. I brought my small, efficient pair of binocs along. I walked to the edge of the property and stood on a large boulder and scanned the opposite side of the bay until I located the Brooks place and next to it, the raft and the Bartelme home. The shoreline was empty of people. The sun was still hot and low to the horizon. Behind me critters rustled and muttered in the grass and weeds. A lethargic sparrow hopped from tree branch to tree branch, keeping one eye on me and the other, presumably, alert for any edible tidbit that might turn up.

I walked slowly into the copse. A bramble immediately attacked my left pant leg. I pulled free and scanned the ground around me. It appeared to be an ordinary piece of ground with few tracks, certainly nothing that would indicate the presence of a large two-legged predator. It took several sweaty minutes with no relieving breeze to cover the patch of ground where I figured the shooter must have been. I found nothing on the ground to indicate anyone had been there that day or even in the recent past. No boot treads to plaster cast, no cigarette butts to bag for DNA analysis, no cartridge cases.

I raised my sights and began to peer more closely at the small branches and sapling trunks. And patience paid off. I was good at what I did and, therefore, often lucky.

About half a foot above my head on a small birch tree I spotted a mark. A rub mark. The kind of mark a rifle might make when pressed for stability against the bark and then fired at a bird, say, or perhaps at a young man jumping repeatedly off a low raft.

Now that I was reasonably sure where the shooter had stood I looked more carefully at the bushes to the right. Sure enough, wedged in the fork of a bush, hidden from view unless you were looking very closely and knew what you might find, was a shiny brass casing. The shot that wounded Calvin Pederson was a steel-jacketed Remington center-fire .22-caliber slug. It had been fired from a rifle probably used mostly for target practice and occasionally plinking at varmints. A good shot, but not requiring expert sniper talent.

I smiled to myself, bagged the casing and got out of there. The slug itself was probably unrecoverable, but the brass just might have a fingerprint or other clue. I retrieved my vehicle and drove around to the Bartelmes' where I encountered Tod and Josie, who had just returned from the hospital and were being quizzed by a bevy of Ramsey County law officers. Calvin was awake but groggy, Josie reported, and every sign favored a full recovery.

I knew the sergeant in charge and was able to take him aside for a brief chat. I handed over the baggie with the cartridge, explained where I'd found it and departed with his thanks and a promise to stay in touch on the case. Things were definitely looking up.

In spite of a paucity of evidence, the discovery of the cartridge was going to provide me with a very large lever.