Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 01 - A Brilliant Plan (30 page)

“Yes, right after…
 
the accident,” Altward swallowed. “After I arranged the break-in, I closed the gallery. Then I thought about an alibi for myself. So I rode up to La Jolla and spent the rest of the night with Phoebe.”

“Just to get the record right. You dined with Mr. Thomas Cornelius in the Gaslight Quarter, went over to your gallery to get something from the safe floor for a customer date the next morning, had the conflict that resulted in Mr. Eastman’s death, then you called your partner Faulkner who arranged for the safe-hacker. The hacker arrived and did his thing, giving you a digital alibi. You grabbed the jewels and drove to see Phoebe Eastman in La Jolla.”

“That is correct. The next morning was pretty hectic because my assistant called about the burglary and the dead Mr. Eastman. I had to leave early, of course, and couldn’t talk to Phoebe. A terrible morning, I had to break the news to her of the death of her father and my conscience had to carry that load. One of her girlfriends came over to keep her company and I drove back to San Diego.”

“And the Maximilian Jewels?”

“In the hectic events of the morning, I left the jewels in Phoebe’s apartment.”

“You simply forgot them?”

“Yes, all of them. They were in the side pocket of my jacket. Because of my hectic departure, I left the jacket on the hanger.”

“The Maximilian Jewels were in a jacket on a hanger in Miss Eastman’s apartment?” Ron probed and showed his disbelief.

“Yes, together with the Montenhaute pieces and the stuff for my customer that morning. While I spent the next two days at the gallery with your colleagues, Mr. Wynn and you, Phoebe and one of her girlfriends spent the day mourning and distracting themselves. They came across the jewels. Nothing to it, Phoebe sometimes lent herself some of my pieces; she could wear certain styles very well. Hell, sometimes I even encouraged it.”

“When did you notice that they were missing?”

“The one piece?”

“No, when did you remember that you left the jewels at Phoebe’s place?”
 

“Oh, right away. I left Phoebe’s place around nine in the morning and I remembered on the drive to the gallery. It was like a mental check, my God, what if they search you and find the jewels that you will claim to have been stolen. But then I thought, ‘good thing I left them with Phoebe.’”

“When did you manage to get the jewels back into your possession?”

“Two days later, it must have been Saturday or Sunday, I had free time to meet again with Phoebe. We had phoned several times, I mean, it was very hard for both of us. I had so much to hide and her father was dead.”

“You were still on good terms?”

“Of course, we were on good terms. There was no argument or any such. As I said, it was simply a bad situation, for both of us. I visited her, and managed to retrieve my jacket but didn’t check the contents. Phoebe was around after all. I didn’t spend the night at her place, I simply couldn’t and I also wanted to give her some room to grieve properly. Later, at home, I found out that the Maximilian necklace was missing. At first, I was a little nervous. Had I left it accidentally at the gallery? Had I dropped it on the floor? Nonsense of course, except for the missing Montenhaute, the searches and inventory counts never revealed anything out of the ordinary.”

“You called Phoebe later?”

“Not right away. We had a date for dinner the following night. I simply asked her for the missing piece, she apologized for not telling me, which I accepted. I mean, in those circumstances, it was not a big deal. Her father had been killed. She handed the necklace back to me that night. Case closed. As far as I was concerned, I had the complete set in my possession again. The next morning was Monday and I drove to Marion’s weekend house and stored the jewels there.” Altward pointed his thumb in the rough direction of the house next door.

“When did you see Phoebe next?” Ron was leaning toward Altward and he stared intensely at his face. Altward was a broken man, he had confessed, we had him.
 

Altward lifted his head, a glassy unfocussed look in his eyes. He simply stared between Fowler and me into the bright blue ocean. After a minute, he responded, “I never saw her again after that night.”

Tears were streaming down his face.

After that, Ron decided to break up our little assembly. He had enough on tape to put Altward behind bars and he didn’t want to risk any lawyer bickering about the style of the interrogation.
 

Andrew Altward was put into handcuffs and brought to police headquarters in Downtown San Diego. Juanita got an update from the crime scene techies next door. Fowler and I killed some time, went out into the garden, and warmed ourselves in the sinking afternoon sun.

“What will happen to the Maximilian Jewels, now that they have been found?” I asked Fowler.

“Judging from the recent publicity, it is very likely that Mexico will claim them very quickly. And the State Department will give in for the sake of bilateral peace. A day or two?”

“Even though they are held as evidence?”

Fowler gave his thin disillusioned smile; been there, heard that, seen it all. “It will depend on whether the district attorney defines the Maximilian Jewels as evidence. If the DA is comfortable with the case without the material evidence, he may waive it being produced at the trial. The DA and the defense may agree on the facts and stipulate that the Maximilian Jewels played a minor part in the murder of Wally Eastman and carry on without them being physically present. Remember, the murder of Mr. Eastman was over something completely different. And Altward’s attempted insurance fraud was with the good old Montenhaute grandma stuff. And whether it was legally or illegally, we still don’t know how the Max Jewels came into Altward’s possession.” Fowler sighed. “But, of course, these charges are comparatively minor to the murder charge.” He glanced over at me. “And you, are you happy that your plan worked out all right?”

That was probably as far as Fowler would lean over to me to tell me that he was wrong in accusing me of the break-in.

“The jewelry thing, yes. I am glad that it is over and that we found the jewels and the killer of the night watchman. But what about poor Phoebe?”

“I bet that was Altward, too,” Fowler said. “He would fit the bill.”

“But what’s his motive?” I thought about Mundy’s theory that Phoebe and her dad had stolen the jewels.

“For not telling or for killing her?” Fowler frowned. “For not telling, that is easy. Killing her dad is brought down to manslaughter. But killing Phoebe makes it two in a row and that doesn’t make it look so good. The DA could throw in plenty of motives—lovers’ quarrel, greed, panic, calculation, whatever.”

“But do you think those were his motivations?” I insisted.

Fowler gave me the same kind of look that Ron had given me all those weeks when I always appeared to be one step ahead of him.
 

Fowler raised his hands and said, “OK, I give up. Either you tell me what you want or you leave me alone.”

I beamed at him. “I want to be there when they hand over the Maximilian Jewels to the Mexican representative.”

He looked astonished for a second and then his eyes grew into their usual suspicious slits. “That’s all?” I nodded.

“I think that will be easy to arrange, you being the one who came up with the trap to retrieve ‘The Max.’ I will see to it.” He made it sound happy for me but he did not look the part.

Poor Fowler, he wouldn’t see it coming.

FOWLER AND I spent the rest of the afternoon and the early evening giving our statements to the police.

Ron gave us a quick update on Billy Bounce. Had we ever seen him before? No. Fowler and I shook our heads, while I crossed my fingers under the table. They held him on several accounts, mostly the resistance and shooting stuff. Although it appeared that he was some kind of professional thug, he wasn’t on anybody’s wanted list. Billy Bounce simply asked for his attorney, made his one phone call and within an hour had the best lawyer in town at his side; another hot legal eagle from L.A. was also on the way. Ron speculated that Billy Bounce was a robber among robbers and simply wanted to get the piece of pie for his master. Followed by another quick look at me.

Still denying any involvement with Phoebe’s murder, Altward was interrogated several more times. So far, his statement matched the story he gave us.

In parallel, Paul Faulkner was also brought in for questioning. At first, he too refused to talk and waited for his lawyer to arrive. Juanita and I were behind the mirror screen of the interview room while Ron and another policeman tried to pull something, anything out of Faulkner.
 

“Do you know this man?” Ron was asking. He put down the same photo of Hans Polter we had shown to Altward.

Faulkner didn’t even glance at the photo. He folded his arms, “Can I have another coffee?”
 

Ron tried some other questions to rile Faulkner into an answer, any answer, but no such luck. Faulkner simply stared at some undisclosed spot on the wall. A few minutes later, his lawyer arrived, the serious type with a Hermes silk tie and a calfskin briefcase. He introduced himself as Henry Winston, what fitting irony if you know about fine jewelry. He glared at the mirror screen as if he could make us out behind it.

Juanita whispered, “Has regular lunch with the mayor and plays golf with the chief of police.”

“Can I confer a few minutes with my client, Officer?” He inquired politely.

Ron said easily, “We only have a few questions for Mr. Faulkner, no big deal.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the Eastman murders or the break-in at the gallery?” Winston raised a skeptical eyebrow.
 

“It might,” Ron conceded.

“Is there a place where we can have privacy?”
 

They all got up, Ron showed them out and we heard them shuffling along the corridor, another door opening and slamming. A few moments later, Ron stepped into the interrogation room with fresh coffee and sat down, studying his file. Juanita and I sat down, too, and waited.
 

Faulkner and Winston met for about twenty minutes and then they marched back into the room. Ron switched on the recorder and stated the names of the people present.
 

“Who is behind the screen?” Winston pointed at the mirror.

“Detective Garcia, Officer Smithson, police consultant Moonstone and insurance agent Wynn,” Ron said. “They all belong to the investigation team. May we begin?”

“Go ahead and ask your questions.”

“First, I want to inform you that we have arrested your gallery partner, Andrew Altward, on the counts of killing your security guard, Wally Eastman, and attempted insurance fraud, other counts are pending.” He left out the Maximilian part. “He will be officially charged tomorrow.” Ron held up his right hand in a stop gesture. “And before you say ‘ridiculous,’ I further inform you that Altward has confessed to both counts.”

“He has representation?”

“He does, be assured. And a good one.” Ron pushed the photo of Hans Polter over the desk. “Do you know this man?”

“I might,” Faulkner said, without looking at the photo.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Neither. I meet so many people in my profession, it is possible that I have met him but forgot him already. Happens all the time.”

“Does the name Hans Polter ring a bell?”

“No, can’t say that it does. German?”

“Norwegian, living in the US.”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“Your partner Mr. Altward claims that you do.”

Faulkner shrugged, played with his empty coffee cup. A small smile played around his lips. “Asked and answered, Detective,” the lawyer said impatiently.

Ron didn’t show any reaction, simply continued asking his questions. “Did you contact Mr. Polter at the night of the break-in?”

“Don’t know him, couldn’t contact him.” At least Faulkner didn’t skip any answers. “I was in Mexico at that time, remember?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “This is the new millennium, there are international phone calls!”

“I remember the evening of the break-in. Yes, Andrew called me in the evening or late at night. But as far as I do remember, it had to do with one of his clients.”

“How did he sound?”

“His usual self. Had a date with his girlfriend and a customer that night.”

“He didn’t mention an argument with Wally Eastman?”

“He had an argument with Wally? The night of the break-in?”

“Didn’t mention it?”

“He didn’t.”

Faulkner could deny everything as long as we didn’t had any concrete proof of his involvement. It was just Altward’s incriminating statement against Faulkner’s story. As Hans had gone underground for good, there was no one to support Faulkner’s involvement. The phone call had been explained, no harm done.
 

“That weasel,” I remarked quietly to Juanita beside me.

Juanita nodded. “We need to get our homework done real soon; otherwise he will just slip through our hands like a flopping fish.”

Ron continued, “So you didn’t call Hans Polter on the evening of the break-in?”

Faulkner ignored the question.

Ron flipped over some pages in his case file. Suddenly, he snapped it shut and said, “That’s all. Thank you for your time. The officer will show you out.”

Henry Winston was probably pissed that he couldn’t bill more time and he jumped up. “Hang on, Officer Closeky, you didn’t drag my client here just to ask him two questions and then let him go again. This is close to harassment.”

Ron looked him evenly in the eye. “I think your client lies. He was incriminated in a statement that he had been actively involved in the break-in of the gallery and therefore involved in the murder of Wally Eastman.” Faulkner and Winston got up, started to protest. Ron held up his hands to stop them from speaking. “Gentlemen, you denied any involvement, I took your statement, that’s all for today. We will contact you as soon as there are new developments. Don’t leave town, etc.; you know the drill from endless television series.”