Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (16 page)

“I'd have to consider the ring, the work required . . .” Kaiser began.

“If you knew it was a sure sale for more than a hundred grand, would you pay ninety?” I asked. “Eighty-eight?”

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Probably. But I'd have to be sure at both ends—that my customer was willing and able to pay for it, and that you were the true owner.”

“So you'd pay ninety percent of the diamond's value for a legitimate sale?” I said.

“If the other conditions were as stated,” replied Kaiser.

I gave him a huge grin. “You know what a fence will pay for a hot diamond?”

“I have no idea,” he answered.

“Between five and ten percent, depending on how hot it is and how long he has to keep it off the market. Now do you know why I'm thinking that maybe the diamonds might show up at a respectable diamond merchant's like this one?”

“I see!” he said, wide-eyed with wonderment. Suddenly he laughed. “Clearly I should have been a fence!”

“Stay legit,” I said. “You deal with a better class of clientele. Safer, anyway.”

“Sound advice,” replied Kaiser. Then: “Have you any other questions?”

“Just one. You got a Xerox machine?”

“A photocopier? Yes.”

“Then make a copy of the descriptions and keep it handy.”

“You could just leave the policy here,” he suggested.

I shook my head. “No, I've got to make a copy for every jeweler in the area. Hell, probably in the county.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I see. Well, hand me the policy, I'll copy the essential parts in the back room, and return it in less than a minute.” He took the policy to his office or work room or whatever it was, and was back almost instantly.

“You know,” he said, returning the papers to me, “I could just call all the other dealers—the ones who can handle this kind of transaction—and have them contact you if and when someone tries to unload the hundred-thousand-dollar diamonds.”

I shook my head. “Ain't gonna happen.”

“I don't follow you,” he said, frowning.

“There'll be some jewelers who might not be as careful as they should with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond,” I said, “but any jeweler who's confronted by ten of them is going to make dead sure of the identity of the seller at the very least. If I were a betting man, and I am, I'd make it even money that if someone tries to unload them at all, they'll be spread over half a dozen shops.”

“I see,” he said. Then: “You've got your work cut out for you, Eli. You don't even know for a fact that they'll try to sell them here, or that they're still in the city.”

“Oh, they're in the city,” I said.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because every person who would kill for them is still in the city,” I answered.

He stared at me for a long moment. “You make me very happy that I'm just a jeweler,” he said at last.

16.

I met Sorrentino for dinner. He hadn't learned a damned thing, and neither had I. The cow that supplied the steak had been a muscle builder that would put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame. Dessert wasn't much better, and we agreed to meet at yet another Bob Evans for lunch the next day. Then I remembered that it was Sunday, and I had planned to stay home and watch the Bengals, so we agreed to skip lunch and meet at a German joint, of which Cincinnati has its share, for dinner.

I was really looking forward to kicking off my shoes, fighting Marlowe for the couch cushion that was directly in front of the TV, and watching Cary Grant portray Cary Grant in a quartet of movies.

But before I could unlock the door to my apartment, Mrs. Cominsky rushed up to me.

“Three hundred and seventy-two more, just today,” she announced.

“Find the guilty party yet?” I asked without much interest.

“Guilty of
what
?” she responded. “We've got seven for-sure rapists, a dozen sodomists, nine pedophiles, twenty-two hookers . . . and the list goes on and on.”

“The charm of living in the city,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Makes me afraid to walk to the supermarket,” she said.

“Well, turn 'em over to the cops and let
them
worry about it,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to get by her and put my key in the lock.

“Not yet,” she said quickly. “There are some I need to study further.”

“To see who returned the cat?”

She looked blank for a moment, and then my question registered. “Oh, of course,” she said quickly. “Definitely. That's what this is all about.”

“Right,” I said. Marlowe, who had doubtless been listening, finally barked, now that the dirty parts were over. “If you'll excuse me, I'd better take the dog for a walk before he does something dreadful to your rug.”

“My
carpet!
” she snapped.

She stepped aside as I unlocked and opened the door. Marlowe was standing just on the other side, and his expression seemed to ask why I was wasting my time with this dirty old lady when I could be walking him in the freezing rain. I didn't have an answer, so I stuck a leash on him and took him outside.

He'd just finished blessing Mrs. Garabaldi's petunias in his own unique way when she stuck her head out the window and began cursing us both out, as usual.

“Hey, Mrs. Garabaldi,” I said. “I want to make amends for my dog's poor behavior.” She stared at me, frowning. “Mrs. Cominsky down the street has a bunch of pornographic letters she'd like to share with you.”

She kept staring.

“I'm not kidding. They're the real thing.”

“Mrs. Cominsky?” she said at last.

“Right.”

“Dirty letters?”

“Filthy,” I said.

She closed the window without another word. I went straight home and never did see if she showed up or not, but the thought of the two old biddies poring over those letters kept me warm on a chilly winter night.

The next day, I woke up half an hour before kickoff, watched the Bengals almost blow a twenty-point lead, met Sorrentino for dinner, exchanged three pleasantries and no information, and went back home, where Marlowe and I spent a few hours watching Gary Cooper say “Yup” and “Nope” and occasionally shoot the bad guys. I walked him one more time and went to bed.

This time I was photographing Bettie Page on a beach. There was no one within miles of the two of us, and she was twenty-four years old again. I told her I loved her. She opened her moist red lips to answer, and nothing came out but a ringing sound.

“Bettie, are you all right?” I said apprehensively.

She smiled reassuringly and tried to tell me she was fine and madly in love with me, but she made that ringing noise again.

Suddenly the wind growled in my ear. It seemed to be saying,
Answer the fucking telephone
.

I sat up in the bed, shook my head a couple of times to remove Bettie from it, told Marlowe to shut the hell up, and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I muttered.

“Mr. Paxton?”

“Right,” I said, blinking my eyes to get some of the sleep out of them.

“This is Phineas Kaiser.”

“Who?” I said groggily.

“Phineas Kaiser.”

“Do I know you?”

“I'm a jeweler. You were in my store on Saturday.”

“Oh! Right!” I said, suddenly alert. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kaiser?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “But perhaps
I
can do something for
you
.”

“I'm all ears.”

“I passed the word about your missing diamonds to some of my colleagues, the ones who might expect to handle such items. And I scanned the insurance policy's description and e-mailed it to them.”

“And?” I said, trying to keep my excitement out of my voice.

“And Winslow Monroe, who runs a shop about a mile from mine, tells me he was offered a diamond ring that was worth in the neighborhood of one hundred thousand dollars. He passed on it—even a jeweler of Winslow's stature doesn't shell out that kind of money without a buyer in mind—and he returned it to her. But of course he examined it very thoroughly, and he is certain it was one of your missing diamonds.”

“And his name is Winslow Monroe?” I said.

“That's correct.”

“Do you happen to have his address?”

He gave it to me. I'd fallen asleep in my pants and shirt, so I pulled a pen out of my pocket. I couldn't find any paper on the bed table, so I wrote it down on my shirt cuff.

“Thanks, Mr. Kaiser,” I said. “What time does he open?”

“It's eleven o'clock,” answered Kaiser. “He's been open for two hours.”

“You've been a big help,” I said. “If there's ever anything I can do to thank you, just let me know.”

“Well . . .” he began slowly.

“Yes?”

“Next time you're near the store, please drop in and inspect my burglar alarm system. I've been wondering if it's time to update it.”

“You got yourself a deal, Mr. Kaiser,” I promised him.

We hung up, I decided to change shirts, and then Marlowe reminded me that it was time to walk the dog. I took him out, and even though he spread more holy water on Mrs. Garabaldi's petunias, there was no cursing.

“Eli,” I muttered to myself as we turned to go back home, “you've made two old ladies very happy.”

I decided that it was my good deed for the month, and it was time to get back to work. I returned Marlowe to the apartment, barely avoided him as he made a dash for the couch, and went off to talk diamonds with the one man who had actually seen what I was looking for.

17.

Winslow Monroe's shop was called The Pearl Diver, which at least was attention-getting. So was the stuff he had on display in his window—the usual rings and bracelets and necklaces, but also a golden sword with rubies and emeralds embedded in the handle, and a beautifully carved cuckoo clock that was perpetually open at three o'clock, showing an onyx bird with diamond eyes and a sapphire beak poised to squawk out the hour.

I walked in, pretended to browse while a young guy argued about the price of a ring, and watched while he stormed out of the place.

Winslow Monroe, a middle-aged man with a neat little mustache and goatee, looked at me and shrugged apologetically.

“I'm sorry for that gentleman's behavior,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“You can start by not calling him a gentleman so I'll know I can trust your judgment on other things,” I said.

He chuckled. “I stand corrected.”

“My name is Eli Paxton,” I began.

“Ah, yes!” he said. “My friend Phineas told me to expect you. Would you like some coffee? I have some brewing in the workshop.”

“I would love some coffee,” I assured him.

He put a “Closed—Back in 20 Minutes” sign on the front door, locked it, and led me through to what I would have called a cross between a back office and a storage room, but there
was
a table filled with a number of delicate instruments I'd never seen before.

“Have a seat, Mr. Paxton,” he said, indicating a stool.

“Thanks,” I replied, taking off my coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall, then sitting down next to a work table.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Whatever makes you happy,” I replied.

“I prefer mine black.”

“Then black's fine by me,” I said. “What I care about is the caffeine.”

He smiled. “Yes, I imagine you must keep some rather strange hours in your profession.”

“And I imagine you must handle some interesting objects in yours,” I replied as he carried two cups to the bench, set one down in front of me, and sat down opposite me.

“Probably less than you would think or I had feared when I got into this profession and opened this store,” he replied. “Cincinnati is not exactly a haven for master criminals.”

“It's got its share,” I replied, taking a sip of the coffee. “Which is what I'm here to talk about.”

He nodded. “Yes, Phineas faxed me the policy. He wanted to scan and e-mail it, but I'm not very comfortable around computers.”

“Welcome to the club,” I said.

“Anyway, based on the excellent description of the diamonds—size, weight, cut, color, coding—I am convinced that I saw one of the stones you're looking for.”

“Mr. Kaiser said it was in a ring?”

He nodded. “A young woman—very pretty, looked to be in her midtwenties, brought it in and asked me what it was worth. I told her that in my professional opinion it would bring perhaps ninety thousand dollars at a legitimate auction, but that very few jewelers would give her anywhere near that much unless they had a customer waiting for just such an item, and I, alas, did not.”

“And that was it?” I asked. “She didn't say who gave it to her, how she came by it?”

“May I be blunt, and perhaps a tad vulgar?” he replied.

“Yeah, I think I can stand it,” I said with a smile.

“Her clothes looked like they were from off the rack at Walmart, her shoes were much the same quality, and I couldn't help but notice that she drove up in a car that was”—he paused, considering his next words carefully—“almost as old as yours.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “It is my considered opinion that women like that do not buy or inherit such jewelry.”

“I'm not inclined to argue with you,” I answered.

“Now, Phineas said there were ten stones. I have not seen the other nine.”

“At least now I know one's still in the area,” I said. “That's more than I knew yesterday.” Then came the money question. “Do you have her name and any contact information?”

He nodded. “She left it with me, in case a buyer materialized in the next few days, though I gather she planned to keep trying to sell it elsewhere.”