Diamonds Aren't Forever (25 page)

"Sure."

Jamey pushed the controls to lower the head area and glanced at the phone. Wondering why Bob hadn't called, she rolled over, covered her shoulders and closed her eyes. She drifted into a light sleep, only to be abruptly awakened by the jangle of the phone. Grabbing the receiver on the second ring, she pushed the button to raise her head.

"Hello."

"Jamey, it's Bob. Can you hear me all right?"

"Yes."

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better. The detective has already been here. They're keeping my bracelet. I pray you've gotten a lawyer."

"Yes. He's one of the best out of San Francisco and should be there by six or seven this evening. His name is Joseph Rosenberg. I clued him in on what's happened so far.” He paused. “Why the hell did you wear that bracelet?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Just tell me if the lawyer gave you any indication of my chances."

"He just said, don't worry. And told me to tell you not to talk to anyone until he gets there."

"So far I haven't said a word."

"Good girl. I can hardly wait until you get home."

"Wish you were here with me. It's sure lonesome going through this by myself."

"You know that's impossible unless you want me thrown into the slammer. Relax, everything's going to be just fine."

She fingered the edge of the sheet. “I hope so."

After Jamey hung up, a nurse came in and took her blood pressure, temperature, removed the needle from her wrist, then rolled the drip bottle contraption away. Shortly after that, a lab technician entered and drew blood.

"My Lord, how does a patient get any rest with all these interruptions?” she asked.

The young man smiled. “Hospitals are like that. No rest for the weary.” He winked. “If you hurry, you might snatch a cat nap before they bring ye lunch."

His fake Irish brogue made Jamey grin. “Thanks for the advice."

"You're more than welcome, me lady.” He bowed and left.

Jamey dozed for a few more minutes, only to be awakened again. This time by the clatter of food trays.

She almost complained, but gasped when she noticed the woman who brought her lunch looked like her disguise when she went to the title company, except for her pink uniform. “Do you work here?” Jamey asked.

"No, I'm a volunteer."

"Do you like it?"

Her faded blue eyes hinted of a sparkle. “Yes. It's nice to be needed and it keeps me busy.” She pushed the table in front of Jamey. “Now you eat, so you can get strong.” Patting Jamey on the arm, she limped away and could be heard pushing the cart down the hallway.

Jamey removed the dish cover and decided this meal didn't look so bad. A broiled chicken breast with a small salad, mashed potatoes and a chocolate pudding cup. She had juice and hot tea for her drinks. I think I can handle this, she thought.

After lunch, she changed into her own gown and finally napped for a couple of hours without interruption. When she awoke, she freshened her face, and noted the swelling around her mouth had almost disappeared. After combing her hair, she donned her robe and took a walk down the hallway. Jamey felt her energy returning, even though she still had some discomfort in her abdomen. When she returned to the room, she adjusted the curtain around her bed, then flipped on the television and watched a couple of sitcoms.

Another volunteer brought dinner. Jamey searched for the little old lady who'd served lunch, but didn't see her. She finished her meal and tried to focus on the television, but her gaze kept flitting to the door. Her watch showed six-thirty. Had the lawyer let them down? Apprehension surged through her and she gripped her hands together. What would she do if he didn't show?

Get hold of yourself, she thought. If Bob said he'd hired a lawyer, he'll be here. Maybe he got delayed. After all, he did have to fly in from San Francisco. Her thoughts were interrupted as a man poked his head around the edge of the curtain.

"Hello. Are you Jamey Schyler?” he asked, in a low, rumbling voice.

"Yes."

Stepping around the screen, he held out his hand. “I'm Joseph Rosenberg."

Jamey shook the man's firm grip. “Nice meeting you.” She figured him to be in his mid-fifties. He had a full head of black hair, slightly tinged with gray and deep olive skin. His eyes were a deep brown, sunk above high cheek bones. The tall body and broad shoulders fit the dark blue silk suit to perfection. He carried an expensive looking leather briefcase.

Pulling a chair close to her bed. he sat down and put the valise in his lap. “Do you feel like talking a little business? I understand you've been through quite a trauma."

She nodded. “I'm feeling fine. I want to get out of here and go home as soon as possible."

He smiled, exposing perfectly straight teeth. “I think we can make that happen. Oh, by the way, I'm late because I stopped by the police station and had a conversation with Detective Williams on your behalf."

"I hope he agreed to a deposition. I certainly don't want to spend a year in this burg waiting to testify at Carl's trial."

Mr. Rosenberg frowned. “I guess you haven't heard that Mr. Hopkins committed suicide in his jail cell?"

Jamey gasped and put a hand to her throat. “Oh, my God!"

Hawkman left the hospital and drove to his office. Today, even the fragrant doughnuts didn't tempt him. He thought about the battle Williams faced. The questions over Carl Hopkins dying in his jail cell by self-inflicted wounds meant several investigations into his department, along with being hounded by the press for weeks. He didn't envy his friend's position. He hated to approach the detective about Jamey Schyler. More than likely, that case had been pushed to the back burner. Now that Hopkins had died, and his suicide note didn't mention Jamey, no way could she be linked to him or the diamonds without his testimony.

Pulling another file in front of him, Hawkman concentrated on the new case and took down some notes. About six thirty, his phone rang. He reached across the desk and punched on the speaker phone.

"Hello, Casey here."

"Hawkman, Williams. This has become one hell of a mess."

"I can imagine. Is there any thing I can do to help?"

"No, but thanks for offering. The reason I called is, this Jamey thing isn't going to hold water now that Hopkins is dead."

"I agree. We have nothing but hearsay."

"Ms. Schyler's lawyer came by about thirty minutes ago. A shrewd guy. His name is Joseph Rosenberg and he's with a very prestigious San Francisco firm. From what I hear he's one of their best, that is, if you can afford him. He dropped by the station about thirty minutes ago and talked with me about Jamey. He's headed over to see her now."

"It sounds like you and I have come to the same conclusion. Jamey can't be held accountable for her part in the Oklahoma heist."

"That's about what it boils down to. And under the circumstances, I can't afford to use more men to pursue her. It would be a waste of taxpayers money."

"I definitely see your point. Appreciate all you've done. Let's hope the suicide mess will soon pass."

"Thanks. I'll be talking to you soon."

Hawkman leaned back in his chair, and rested his feet upon the desk. Staring into space, he stuck a toothpick into his mouth. Jamey would leave the country as fast as possible, which would probably be tomorrow morning. Before she left, he wanted the satisfaction of telling her he'd figured out her involvement in the heist. He didn't expect it to make much difference, but sure as hell would make him feel better. So, if he wanted to talk to Ms. Jasmine Louise Scyhler, it better be tonight.

He glanced at his watch and figured the lawyer wouldn't stay with Jamey much over an hour. He dropped his feet to the floor with a thud, stood and stretched. So, he'd best be going. Closing the file on his desk, he put it away, and unplugged the coffee maker. He wouldn't be returning to the office. Turning out the lights, he locked the door and left.

When Hawkman entered the hospital swinging doors, he brushed shoulders with a distinguished looking gentleman on his way out. He wondered if he was Jamey's lawyer. Glancing over his shoulder, Hawkman noticed the man had stopped in his tracks, staring in his direction. There were few men with eye-patches and Jamey had probably described him to her lawyer.

He continued through the lobby toward the elevators with an occasional look back. The man finally shrugged, turned around and headed toward the parking lot.

When he strolled into Jamey's room, the screen had been pulled, hiding her completely. He walked around to the side and spoke to her through the curtain. “May I talk to you?” he asked.

"I don't have to see you,” she said.

"I know. But it'll only take a minute."

"Oh, all right. Come on in, but you can't stay long. I'm very tired."

He pushed open the curtain a few inches and stepped inside. Jamey had her gaze on the television, the remote control resting on her stomach. She had on a soft looking brown robe with the collar turned up touching her chin. She turned her head slightly. “Where's your detective friend?

Hawkman scooted a chair around so that it faced her. “He's busy at the police station."

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I can imagine, since a man killed himself in his jail."

Hawkman figured the lawyer had clued her in on all the events. “That should make you feel better now that you don't have to worry about Carl telling his story."

Her brown eyes bored into him like hot pokers. “And what does that statement mean?"

"Carl could have at least interested the press about how you conned him into stealing the diamonds last year in Oklahoma. And the adventures he encountered when he caught up with you in Medford. Then, along with the aid of your boyfriend, Bob Evans, how the two of you set him up as the patsy for the heist."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Who's Bob Evans?” she asked, turning off the set.

Hawkman leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. “You know damn well who he is. You've been living with him in South America ever since you fled the country."

"May I ask where you got this ridiculous information?"

"I have my sources."

"I see,” she said, stifling a yawn.

Hawkman ignored her feigned boredom. “You ended up not only with thousands of dollars worth of diamonds, but also some rare gems worth several million. Unfortunately, Carl didn't learn about those until later."

Jamey raised up on an elbow and chuckled. “And pray tell, how did this all come about?"

"My bet is Bob hid the big gems in the hotel room or else got them to you before you fled."

Jamey shook her head. “Oh, brother, do you have an imagination."

"Don't forget I witnessed you shooting your girlfriend's lover in self-defense when he showed up hoping to get his cut."

"Sounds like you have this all figured out. So, continue. I want to hear the rest of this fairy tale."

"Something happened that kept you in Medford longer than planned. Maybe Bob had legal problems and couldn't get out of Oklahoma as soon as he wanted. So you had to pawn a couple of the marked diamonds to survive. Your job at Curly's didn't pay enough to take care of the bills. When you were questioned about where you got the gems, you told the jeweler they belonged to your grandmother. That tipped us off that your story smelled mighty fishy.

Then somewhere along the way, you set fifty of the real diamonds into that zircon bracelet that you wore constantly. And then placed the fake diamonds into the bags with the real ones.

You also used Curly's son, Mark to help you keep the diamonds hidden, almost ruining his life. When Carl Hopkins showed up you got scared. You had his truck keys in your purse. I saw them when Detective Williams made you dump the contents on the table in search of the diamonds. I didn't think much about it at the time. But now I realize you're the one who planted the diamonds in his vehicle. You decided to sacrifice him for your freedom."

Jamey sighed. “Why would I do a thing like that?"

"Because you cared nothing for Carl Hopkins and the diamonds were like pennies compared to the big gems. This way you could get off scott free and let Carl take the blame. You managed to sneak by the authorities and fly to South America where you met your partner in crime. The two of you have been living off the wealth of those gems for over a year."

She cocked her head. “You think you've got this all figured out."

Hawkman leaned back in the chair. “Sounds pretty feasible if you ask me. So, tell me Jamey, why'd you risk coming back here just to sell the house? And of all things wearing that bracelet? Surely, you haven't run out of money. If so, you could have sold those diamonds in South America and lived off the proceeds for another few years."

Her eyes narrowed. “Mr. Hawkman Private Investigator, it's none of your damn business why I wanted to sell the house. But I did. And now your friend Mr. Charley Sullivan will have a cute little cottage and a garden to live out his days. And you know this whole cockeyed story that you've made up?"

"Yes."

"Well, it could all be true. But you know what Mr. Hawkman, old boy?"

"What?"

"You'll never be able to prove it. I'm outta here in the morning. I'm going home. But I'll guarantee you one thing."

"And that is?” Hawkman asked.

"You'll never see this rich bitch again."