Diamonds and Cole (23 page)

Tommy, trying to get Tattoo to his feet, didn’t respond. Tattoo was coughing and trying to wipe the blood from his eyes.

“You tell Tree that he is in deep enough shit already, and he don’t want what we can bring down on him. You hear?” Luis handed Cole a red bandana from his back pocket.

“Tree will kill you, man.”

Luis flipped open his cell phone and punched three numbers. “I need an ambulance. Palmwood Motel on McAllister. Man’s bad hurt, hurry.” He flipped the phone closed and put his hand on Cole’s shoulder. “You okay, man?”

Cole took a deep breath, groaned, and said, “Thank you.”

“An ambulance is on the way. It would probably be a good idea if I wasn’t around when they get here. You be okay by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine. I think I need to sit down a minute.” As he spoke, Cole’s knees buckled.

A car door slammed, and Tommy ran around the back and opened the driver’s side door. He turned and raised his middle finger to Luis, then jumped in the car and started the engine. Luis took a 9mm automatic from his waistband and pointed it at the car. The car burned rubber, and sped across the parking lot, hitting the speed bump hard and exiting without slowing down. The sound of Tommy’s screeching tires was nearly drowned out by the sound of brakes slamming cars to a stop in the street.

“I don’t think that guy likes me,” Luis said, helping Cole to the stairs and sticking the gun back into his waistband.

In the distance, a siren cut through the night air. Cole sat on the second step of the stairs and put his head down between his legs.

“I’ll see you around, amigo.”

Cole sat up and offered his hand to Luis. “You better get out of here. Be safe.”

Luis shook his hand, then turned and disappeared back into the dark alcove. Cole spit on the sidewalk. His head was spinning. He could only see out of one eye, and he got a sharp pain every time he breathed in. A few minutes later, an ambulance pulled into the Palmwood parking lot. The driver used his high beams and a searchlight mounted in front of the door to scan the lot. The blinding light came to rest on Cole.

“Good evening, sir. What seems to have happened?” A fresh-faced, young blonde man with a red goatee approached Cole.

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Well, let’s take a look.”

On the way to the hospital, Cole tried to think what he was going to do, but he kept blacking out. His head throbbed and everything was cloudy.

“Try not to go to sleep, Mr. Sage. You have a pretty good concussion, and I’d sure like the doc to take a look at you before you catch a few Zs.”

EIGHTEEN

“Good morning, Mr. Sage. How are we feeling?”

Cole winced as he tried to open his eyes. His right eye felt swollen. A small, bright-eyed Asian woman was standing at the foot of the bed.

“The doctor removed a pretty nasty clot in your eye, and you have a few stitches on your eyelid. Let’s see, what else, one broken and one cracked rib, a badly bruised sternum, a concussion, and six stitches in the back of your head.” She smiled at Cole and said, “You feel like visitors? There is a policeman who has been waiting for you to wake up. Another guy, too. You say no, I get rid of them.” There was no doubt from her tone that this little woman could get rid of whomever she wished.

“No, it’s okay. I have a feeling I’m going to feel bad for awhile.”

“You sure will, but as soon as the doctor sees you, you gotta go. We need the bed. Good news is, you won’t die.”

“You are a real ray of sunshine.”

“That’s me!” she said flicking her nametag with her index finger. “Sunny!”

“Bring on the cops, Sunny,” Cole said raising his head. “Ouch,” he groaned.

Cole tried to shift his weight in the bed. A sharp pain shot through his side, and he felt a heavy bandage wrapped around his midsection. The pain pills he had been given gently fogged his thoughts. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick. His speech sounded slurred. Cole reached for the cup of water on the bed stand. He took a sip, shut his eyes and held the cool, moist cup against his swollen eye.

“Mr. Sage?”

Cole opened his eye to see a tall thin man in a blue uniform standing where Sunny had been moments before. “Yes.” Cole’s voice seemed to echo in his head.

“I’m Officer Winton. I need to ask you a few questions about last night.”

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Well, that doesn’t account for all the blood on the sidewalk,” Winton said flatly. “I have reports from several witnesses that you were attacked and a fight ensued.”

“The windows at the Palmwood are awful dirty, Officer.”

The officer decided to change tactics. “Do you know a Tommy Thorson?”

“Nope.”

“He is the registered owner of a black Acura that was seen leaving the Palmwood Motel at a high rate of speed. He is identified by witnesses as one of two men seen attacking you. What do you say about that?”

“I dropped a piece of candy and when I bent over to pick it up, I lost my balance and fell down the stairs.”

“Had you been drinking?”

“Coffee,” Cole replied. “Hershey’s Kiss.”

“What?”

“Thought you were going to ask me what kind of candy.”

“Sir, we’re trying to catch the people who did this to you.”

“At Hershey’s?”

“Here’s my card. If you should decide to be more forthcoming, give me a call.”

“I’ll do that.” Cole closed his eyes.

“Stairs, my ass.” A wide-faced man with bushy graying eyebrows and black horn-rimmed glasses had taken the chart off the end of the bed and was reading it. He pulled on his nose like he was trying to make it longer, and then shook it. He put the chart back on the hook.

“Finding anything interesting?” Cole asked.

“Says here you have a bad case of lying to the police.”

“That so. Is it curable?”

“At your age, probably not. I’m Fergusson.” He casually flipped open his ID wallet and stuck it back in his inside breast pocket.

“What brings you here?”

“I called your motel, and they said you had moved here.”

“Bed’s not as soft, but I think it might be cleaner.”

“I called your buddy, Harris, in Chicago. Good guy. I told him I’d keep an eye on you. But I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Me either.” Cole smiled.

“So, who used you for the punching bag?”

“Tree Top Jefferson’s guys. You call him?” Cole asked.

“Not yet. Got a warrant for his residence. The Treasury folks and IRS are looking at his taxes. Department of Motor Vehicles has been tipped off to his car dealings, but that’s a state problem.”

“Somebody called him. That’s what they were upset about.”

“You want to tell me how all that blood got splattered about?”

“You really need to know?”

“No, not really, but from the looks of you and seeing how there were two of them, I don’t think it had anything to do with the punishment
you
inflicted on them. That one guy was sliced like an apple.”

“You see him?”

“When I was looking for you, I talked to the doctor in ER that stitched him up. Refused to be admitted. Left as soon as the doctor finished. Couple hundred stitches.

“Here’s something for ya: The doctor said the cuts across his scalp severed several sets of nerves. He was sliced down into the bone and then some. Unless he has surgery to repair the damage, and real soon, he’ll be left with one side of his head and face numb and the other with a permanent tingle. Get this: The numb side might lose him the ability to grow hair. Weird, huh?”

“Can he still wiggle his ears?”

“Funny.”

“So, what’s next?”

“When I leave here, I’m going to have a chat with your friend Mr. Christopher. Done some checking on him. He’s been investigated twice by the Real Estate Licensing Board. He’s received two letters of sanction in his file and a formal warning that the next time his name comes up, his license will be revoked.

“It was alleged that Mr. Christopher was putting a $5,000 personal representation fee in all his transactions with non-English speaking clients. Since it was added at escrow, his brokers never saw it, and the buyers thought it was part of the closing costs. Usually, it was first-time Spanish speakers who were excited to be buying a house. Their translator, if they had one, either wasn’t able to translate Christopher’s doubletalk or didn’t want to look stupid, so they went along with it. What got him off the hook was that the translators either couldn’t be found or claimed they’d explained it to the buyers.”

“Un vato malo.”

“Meaning—?”

“A bad man.”

“Ah. Harris says to give him a call when you’re able. I really appreciate your help on this. You didn’t have to do it. Most people wouldn’t want to get involved.”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Harris said you’re a real do gooder. Anyway, thanks. If I can ever return the favor—”

“You
can
do me one favor. If the name Whisper, Whisper Perez, comes up, he’s clean. Well, not clean-clean, but he doesn’t have anything to do with all this. He’s kind of a pet project of mine. He’s trying to straighten up, and I don’t want anything to distract his efforts, you know?”

“Fair trade.”

“No, I mean it. He’s not involved in this. He just helped me turn over a few rocks. That’s how you’re going to get Christopher. So—”

“You got it.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, you take care. When they say you can leave?”

“Soon as the doctor checks me out.”

“Maybe I’ll see you in Chicago sometime.” With that, Fergusson was out the door.

When Fergusson knocked on the door jamb of Allen Christopher’s office, Christopher was going through his desk drawers. Papers were stacked in disheveled piles on the floor. He was obviously intent on finding something and didn’t look up until Fergusson spoke.

“Allen Christopher?”

“Yeah,” Christopher said, sounding annoyed with the interruption.

“I’m Special Agent James Fergusson, FBI.”

Christopher sat straight up in his chair. He fumbled with some papers on his desk like he wanted them to disappear somehow. As he straightened the stack, Fergusson noticed a strange long dent in the top of the desk.

“What can I do for you?” Christopher said, trying to sound casual.

“You’ve made quite a mess here. Looking for something special?”

“What? Oh, this? Just sorting through things,” he said nervously.

“Do you know a man named Jefferson, goes by Tree Top?”

“No, who’s he?” Christopher spoke a little too quickly.

Fergusson took a pile of papers off the chair facing Christopher’s desk and sat down. “How about the Malcor Corporation?”

“No. Well, not exactly. I have heard of them.”

“This can be a lot easier if you just tell the truth.” Removing a micro recorder from his jacket pocket, Fergusson said, “Mind if I tape this? I want to make sure I get everything right.”

“Yes. Record it. I want this very clear.”

“This is Special Agent James Fergusson interviewing Allen— I’m sorry, what’s your middle name?”

“James. Allen James Christopher.”

“Now, I ask you some questions, and you tell me the answers. Real easy, so enough with the lies. You’re not very good at it. Now, tell me about Tree Top Jefferson.”

“He is, well, I, there is an associate of mine named Richard Anderson. He and Tree Top were doing business together.”

“What kind of business?”

“Oh, I don’t, I’m not, they—” Christopher began shuffling papers again.

“He said you bought diamonds, and he bought cars with them. Your boss, a Mr.—” Fergusson flipped through a notebook, “—Brazil, he’s told me that you had the stones shipped here. Now, cut the crap.”

“It was that bastard, Sage, wasn’t it? He’s the one! He told you everything didn’t he?” Christopher was now standing and yelling at Fergusson.

“Mr. Christopher, this won’t help you at all.”

Fergusson closed his notebook and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “When I come back, it will be with a federal warrant to arrest you. Now, you can make it difficult or you can come clean.”

“It was Anderson. He’s the one. He introduced me to Tree Top. He ordered the diamonds. I just did him a favor by signing for the packages. He, he—” Christopher stuttered.

“We checked out Richard Anderson. He’s a small-time conman who served a total of 18 years at various facilities. The people at Zeff Wholesale Jewelry said they once had a customer named Anderson, but he always paid cash and bought silver that he sold in carts at various malls around the state, not diamonds. On the other hand, Mr. Christopher, they have your signature on numerous invoices and cashier’s checks drawn on your bank. More importantly, there’s an outstanding invoice for $380,000 dollars that’s 90 days old. They’re not very happy about that. Do you have $380,000 to pay that invoice, Mr. Christopher?”

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“But you had enough to buy a new car. Euro Motors says you paid cash. Where does a realtor get cash like that?”

“You got this all wrong.” Christopher’s face was a deep red.

“Here’s what I know. You are in tight with Malcor.”

“Finally, some facts.” Christopher seemed to relax.

“Again, Mr. Christopher, are you familiar with Malcor Corporation?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“They’re my clients. I’m helping them put together an industrial project on the southeast part of town.”

“Would you say your relations with them are friendly?”

“Friendly? Yes, I would say so. I hope to be part of Malcor soon.”

“Do you know Sven Elias?”

Christopher stood up. “Get out!”

“Now, Mr. Christopher,” Fergusson said patronizingly, “you don’t want me to leave,
do you?”

“Get out!”

Fergusson stood and walked to the door. “Agent Wallace, will you please come in?”

A handsome black man with dark glasses appeared in the doorway.

“Christopher Allen, you have the right to remain silent.” Fergusson began.

“What! You can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything!”