Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (19 page)

“Yes, of course. The important thing is to get to the bottom of all this.”

“That’s important all right, but remember I’m a newsman, and this was to be our story, you know. I’ll work with you if you’ll help me.”

“Fine, just tell me what you know,” she said sharply.

“Actually Mariana was extremely secretive; she refused to give me any details. She wanted to break the story herself, but I believe she went to that club to meet someone who she thought was an informant.

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And the diamond angle makes sense. Before she left, she received a call saying she was to meet someone called the “diamond cutter.” I have no idea who that is, not yet. And I don’t know what Tiffany Jones or that rapper Cheeno has to do with this, but I do know she had been seeing a lot of Brixton. Also she had some of our stringers checking on the activities of a Dutch hoodlum named Van derVall. Maybe it’s all connected. That’s all I know, and this morning I related that information to the constable who questioned me.”

“That’s it, that’s all you know?”

“That’s everything, except that when the authorities searched her flat this morning they found it ransacked—turned inside out.”

“Did the police find anything?”

“Not really, not even her notes. If she left anything behind, it appears that someone got to it before they arrived.”

“But she must have had notes . . . something.”

“Maybe, but what about you, did she tell you anything? I’d like to know before Scotland Yard calls you.”

“Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, I had to give them your name. As I said, you were one of the last to speak to her. So! Why was she so anxious to talk to you?”

Again, Kim hesitated. She was still reluctant to bring up Ruff Daddy and Klaus Svrenson until she was absolutely sure they were involved.

And if Wittington wasn’t lying, the names hadn’t come up yet.

“As I said, she wasn’t very forthcoming. She wanted me to look into possible connections between the deaths of my clients and the deaths of Brixton and the two musicians from France, Lester Bennett and Renee Rothchild. And, yes . . . she mentioned Kees Van derVall, she seemed certain he had been involved in some way.”

“Did you know Brixton or Bennett and Rothchild?”

“No.”

“What about this guy Ruff Daddy? The rap mogul who invited Brixton to America. Did she mention him?”

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“Er, no . . . why, does he have something to do with it?”

“I’m not sure, but Mariana did a story on him a while back and she liked to consort with these black musicians,” he said, attempting to provoke her into revealing something more.

“I’m sure there was a very good reason for her preference,” Kim snapped. “You sure there’s nothing else?”

“Miss Carlyle, I’m a newsman,” he said, getting more annoyed with her reticence. “We’re still working on this but there is only so much I’m willing to divulge. Read tomorrow’s edition.”

“I’ll do that,” Kim said. Then, softening her voice, she added: “If I find something concrete, I’ll contact you, for Mariana’s sake. This was her story, and I guess she would have wanted the Globe to have it.”

She hung up, more frustrated than before she called. Wittington either wasn’t saying anything or knew nothing. And if he wasn’t lying about Scotland Yard, they didn’t know much more.

Before finishing her coffee and going upstairs to dress for the meeting with Lt. Jackson, Kim tried once again to call Klaus Svrenson at his home and office, and Ruff Daddy at his office and on his cell. Neither could be reached. She left messages with their assistants as well as on their machines, then she put aside her frustration and began preparing herself to face her old friend’s interrogation.

At Henry’s, Kim told Lt. Jackson everything, or at least everything she was absolutely certain about. That, of course, allowed her to avoid mention of Mariana Blair’s suspicions about Ruff Daddy and Klaus.

She did, however, air her concern about their dropping out of sight and about the mysterious disappearance of Maria Casells, as well as what she knew about the musicians who had died in France. She also told him all she knew about Cheeno and the unknown patron who had apparently been supporting him, and repeated what the Globe editor had said about Blair’s intended rendezvous with the “diamond cutter” on the night of her death.

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Both agreed that all evidence pointed toward some crooked diamond scheme. But that didn’t explain the deaths of the musicians.

Neither could figure out exactly how or even if they were involved.

And if they were part of it, why were they being killed and who was doing it?

The only new information Lt. Jackson offered came from some discreet inquiries made with the OCCB regarding Kees Van derVall. The Bureau knew that Van derVall had been in the United States at least once and had spent his time in New York City and Cleveland. In the larger picture, he was considered small time. The detective seemed far more interested in the whereabouts of Klaus Svrenson. Based on Klaus’s curious interest in the fake jewelry Tiffany was wearing and his disappearance after her death, and on the English reporter’s having gone to meet someone from the diamond industry, Lt. Jackson had made Svrenson one of his central concerns. “It’s not very much to go on,” he said, “but Klaus is the only apparent link between the deaths and the diamonds.” When they paid the check, he told Kim that, for the time being, he’d direct his efforts at finding and questioning Tiffany’s husband.

It was nearly 2:30 when she left the restaurant at 103rd Street and Broadway and walked back to her apartment. A half hour after returning home, Kim received her third call of the day. It was Ruff Daddy phoning on his cell.

“Hey, baby,” he said, “it’s me, Ruff.”

“Shelton,” she gasped, “where are you? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m just layin’ low till all this shit blows over.”

“I’ve been trying to contact you for over a week. What the hell is going on? I . . . I thought something had happened to you. Why did you suddenly drop out of sight and . . . well, do you know anything about these killings?”

“That’s why I’m calling, Kim. Fact is, I’m in this shit up to my ass.

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And, if my info is correct, you already know a whole lot about what’s going on. Thing is, I had to disappear to protect myself. Niggas droppin’ like flies out here—you know what I’m sayin’? I still don’t know if that Atlanta hit was intended for me or Brixton. I need your help, baby—and, well, I’m willing to help you too.”

“What exactly are you involved in, Shelton? And who’s after you and the others?”

“First tip is my involvement is between me and my lawyers. And if I knew who was poppin’ these dudes I’d a done something about it myself. Which gets us back to the real deal. I know you were in touch with Mariana Blair before she got iced and you working with this detective, Jackson, from the Twenty-eighth. But from what I hear y’all been chasin’ your tails. I’m lookin’ out for my own ass, that’s why I’m willing to help. If you’ll look out for my interests, I can point you in the right direction. Is that cool?”

“You know I can’t promise to protect you—not unless I know how deeply you’re involved in all this.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you might go that route. Always on the straight and narrow, ain’t you?”

Kim didn’t answer.

“Don’t matter, I’ll look out for myself. What I can tell you is that nobody involved in the deal—”

“What the hell is the deal?”

“C’mon, sugar, don’t be coy. I know that you and Jackson figured out that this whole thing is about diamonds.”

“Okay, that’s true. We suspected that much, but how—”

“Forget it, baby. I ain’t implicating myself, and like I said nobody knows the whole picture, except maybe Klaus Svrenson.”

“Klaus is involved then?”

“Yeah, but I don’t believe he’s the one responsible for the death of his wife and the others. Far as I could tell, he ain’t got the balls. No, it’s 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 140

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much bigger than that, and whoever’s doin’ it got real muscle behind them.”

“Shelton, how can I possibly help if you don’t tell me any more than this?”

“Like I said, I only know parts of the operation and I can point you in that direction. Everybody I know is either dead or running scared.”

“All right, I won’t ask any more questions now,” Kim said; Ruff Daddy wouldn’t be coerced. “Where should I start looking?”

“There’re a couple of things. First I don’t know what’s up with Mo; I ain’t heard from the nigga since the drive-by. Ain’t like him, he would’ve left a message unless he’s hidin’ something and duckin’ me.

I’d also have your detective friend look into the death of K. J. Hunter, that Texas businessman, and if I were you I’d check out that Atlanta detective Freddy Carmichael. Something strange about that dude. He was suppose to be on the case, protectin’ us.”

“No way, Freddy’s all right—”

“I ain’t sure about that, but it’s up to you. I do know that there’s a broad in New Orleans, Josephine St. Claire, who was at the center of everything. She wasn’t runnin’ the show, but she was key. Some of the art work she imported was more valuable than she let on. You know what I’m sayin’?”

The name sounded familiar. And, after a moment’s thought, Kim realized that though she didn’t know St. Claire, Tiffany Jones had known her and occasionally talked about her, even shown her pictures. Tiffany had been the guest of honor at a few lavish parties thrown by the woman. Kim had been invited to attend once or twice, but she’d always declined.

“How do I find her?”

“Easy, she owns a big-time art gallery down there and has connections all over Europe and Africa. And . . . well, there’s one other thing.” Ruff Daddy paused, in thought.

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“Yeah, what is it?”

“What you doin’ tonight? There’re some people I want you to see.”

“I was supposed to meet Rick at the Sugar Bar for dinner at nine, but I guess I can postpone it.”

“No need, but can you meet him at the Lenox Lounge? Then I could meet you a half hour earlier.”

“So you’re in town?”

“Back off with the detective bullshit—can you meet me there?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Don’t be late, and, Kim, don’t bring your cop friend with you if you want to see me, understand? And take your cellphone in case I need to call you,” Ruff Daddy said before hanging up.

She immediately called Rick Dupre and changed the site of their dinner date.

It was 8:15 when Kim stepped out of a cab in front of the Lenox Lounge. Her haute couture Joseph Abboud skirt and silk blouse were contrasted sharply with the attire of most pedestrians who traipsed between 124th and 125th Streets and with the commonplace appearance of the supper club itself. The Lounge, which opened in 1939, was a historical Harlem landmark, and the new owners had insisted on maintaining its original appearance. So outside, with its dull-red exte-rior and the large block lettering, it did not stand out from the surrounding buildings, having the faded look of a 1940s speakeasy. Inside, however, the original art deco interior had been preserved and restored to its former glory. Kim’s chic attire was perfectly suited to the decor and the upscale dress of most of the other patrons, both locals and the new influx of downtown visitors and tourists.

She quickly scanned the bar to her left and the booths to her right when she entered, hoping that Ruff Daddy had already arrived. She also looked into the Zebra Room, and at the bandstand and dining 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 142

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area in the back of the restaurant, before taking a seat at the bar to wait for him. Kim ordered a martini and politely informed two admirers that she was waiting for her date. Her cell rang fifteen minutes later. It was Ruff Daddy.

“Hey, I see you made it,” she heard him say over the buzz of conversation at the bar.

“Yes, I did. Where are you?”

“Don’t matter,” he said. “The important thing is that you’re there.

Do you have a clear view of the booths near the front window?”

Kim looked over her shoulder at lounge booths. “Yes, I’m at the bar, near the door. I can see them.”

“Okay. And is there a big, heavyset dude with a balding head sitting in the corner booth?”

“Yeeessss,” she said, becoming increasingly impatient.

“I thought he’d be there tonight. That’s Clarence Johnson, better known as Mojo, and he should be sitting with a tall African dude who usually wears a dashiki.”

“Right again, but what’s all this supposed to mean?”

“Well, that’s Ezekiel Kwabena, a businessman from Sierra Leone who’s connected all the way up to the U.S. Congress. You wanted information on this diamond deal, well, it’s sitting right in front of you.

Except for Klaus—and I don’t know where the hell he is—they’re the only two people I know in the deal who are still breathing. They’re also the reason I didn’t show up tonight. I ain’t taking no chances until I find out who’s behind this shit.”

“I don’t know this Kwa . . . Kwabena, but isn’t Clarence Johnson the owner of a record shop up here?”