Diamonds Aren't Forever (8 page)

"No. But due to the nature of the case, I can't disclose why I need to know. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her you've talked to us."

"This certainly sounds intriguing,” Marge said, opening a file on her desk. “Normally, everything could be done by mail. But we have a slight problem with the names on the deed and Jamey's signature. She'll have to come in person and prove her identity."

"Do you know when she'll be back?"

"Not yet. We've sent notification, but haven't heard from her. I'm assuming she'll set up an appointment since she has to fly in from South America."

"I'd like to be notified the minute you get confirmation of the time and date she'll be here?"

"Certainly. That's no problem.” Marge immediately red flagged the file. “This will remind me to give you a call. Could I have your phone number."

Williams wrote it on the back of a business card and handed it to her. “I can always be reached on my cell phone."

"Very good,” she said, stapling the card to the file. “I'll contact you as soon as we know."

"Appreciate it."

The two men left and were driving back to the police station when Williams let out a laugh. “I don't get it. You seem to never meet a stranger. I've lived here longer and I'd swear you know more people than I do."

Hawkman chuckled. “Well, one reason might be because I'm married and you're single. So I know twice as many. Marge is a friend of Jennifer's. Also you don't have much of a chance to meet the good people, only the bad."

"Yep, that explains it,” Williams smirked. “This old bachelor just don't get out like he used to."

"You've had lots of chances to tie the knot. But you chose to remain single."

"Aw, no woman deserves to be married to a cop and put up with the long hours. Plus never knowing whether he'd return at the end of the day dead or alive."

"I hear ya.” Suddenly, Hawkman swiveled his head and pointed at a gray Toyota. “There he is!"

"Who?” Williams straightened in the seat and looked out the front windshield.

"Carl Hopkins.” Hawkman turned at the next corner and circled the block. “Let's see where he's headed."

While stopped at the light, they watched Hopkins’ old car slowly make its way across the intersection. Hawkman made sure several cars drifted between him and the clunker before he followed the man to a seedy hotel on the outskirts of the older part of town.

Williams pointed at a parking lot across the street. “Pull in there, and let's see what he does."

When Carl climbed out of the car and strolled toward the front door of the building, Williams let out a gasp. “Good Lord, that can't be the same man we arrested. He's aged a hundred years."

"Don't let all the hair fool you. It's the same man,” Hawkman said.

Carl Hopkins disappeared into the building and didn't exit.

After several minutes, the detective said, “No sense in sitting here any longer. At least we know where he's staying. If need be, I can obtain a warrant to check his room. Of course, right now we have nothing on him to justify a legal search."

Hawkman smiled at the word ‘legal’ and drove out of the lot. “Wonder where he's working? He has to be getting money from somewhere to pay for the rent and buy that car. I know the rooms are cheap, but he still has to pay the bill."

Williams waved a hand in the air. “There are plenty of jobs around, if a guy doesn't mind getting dirty.” Then he glanced at Hawkman and winked. “Why don't you follow him and find out. Still like to know if he has a gun."

A smile curled the corners of Hawkman's lips. “I just might do that."

Hawkman dropped Williams at the police station, then drove back to the hotel. The Toyota hadn't moved from the parking spot. Hawkman figured if Hopkins had a job, it must be at night. It might take a little doing, but he could search the local bars and look for that car. It certainly stood out. He decided to return to the office and finish some work while waiting for the sunset.

When he'd settled at his desk, he noticed the message light blinking, but called Jennifer first to let her know he'd be late and not to wait up. Then he punched on the answering machine.

"Hawkman, Curly here. Call me as soon as you can."

He flipped his Rolodex open to Curly's Bar and punched in the number.

"Hey, Curly. Hawkman here. What's with the urgent call?"

"Hold on a second. Let me go to my office."

Within a few moments, Curly came on the line. “Needed a little privacy."

"So what's the problem?"

"You know that guy, Carl Hopkins."

"Yeah?"

"He came by the bar again, but this time he wanted a job."

"I'm listening."

"I decided to hire him. You know why?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea."

"Help you keep track of him."

Hawkman chuckled. “Curly, you're a genius. So what have you got in mind for the vagrant?"

"He'll do cleanup work in the evening, and in the meantime I'll train him to help wait tables. He's got a mean look. Don't think anyone will mess with him."

"Sounds good. When does he start?"

"Tonight at six, so I can show him the ropes. If he turns out reliable, I'll train him for other positions real soon."

"Thanks for letting me know."

"Thought you might be interested."

After hanging up, Hawkman checked the time. Hopkins should be leaving for his new job in another thirty minutes. Little did Curly realize how much he'd helped.

Reaching into the desk drawer, Hawkman slipped the lock picks into his pocket.

Hawkman chewed on a toothpick as he stared out the window, and drummed his fingers on the sill. He wanted to give Hopkins plenty of time to leave before he approached the hotel. Time moved slowly when you were in a hurry. After a few minutes, he crossed to the desk, closed the file he'd been working on and slid it into a side drawer, then shut the window and locked the door.

When he arrived at the old inn, he circled the parking area. He didn't see Hopkin's car, so figured he'd left. Hawkman pulled across the street into the lot where he and Williams had parked earlier.

He ambled up the chipped concrete steps leading to the entrance of the hotel and glanced around for mailboxes outside. Not seeing any, he grasped the tarnished brass handle and yanked open the heavy wooden door. He stepped into the foyer onto a worn dirty carpet which appeared as ancient as the structure. The stairwell stood directly in front of the door and an adjacent hallway led back to the first floor units. He entered the large room to the right which appeared to have been a magnificent lobby at one time. At the far end stood a large counter with a small ante room behind it.

Hawkman approached the large bar like construction and read a hand-scribbled ‘NO VACANCIES’ sign perched on the top, plus a placard listing the prices for extra services. A person could get a weekly room cleaning for twenty-five dollars a month. Dry cleaning and laundromat services were available. No loud music, drugs or wild parties permitted in the rooms.

Behind the structure on each side of the doorway hung cabinets with cubby holes. He assumed they served for mail or messages. Each opening had a room number and a name sticker attached. Hawkman quickly canvassed the cluster and found Carl Hopkins in room twenty-three.

He heard the muted sound of a television or radio coming from the rear and turned to leave, hoping not to be discovered. But then a loud voice rumbled through the room, “Can I help ya?"

Hawkman stopped and faced a man not more than five feet tall, his head and shoulders barely visible over the tall counter. Bushy gray hair stuck out in all directions and his thick eyebrows bobbed up and down. His left arm appeared to be missing and the long shirt sleeve clung to his side where he'd tucked the cuff into his belt.

"No, thanks,” Hawkman said. “I see you don't have any vacancies."

"Nope, nothin’ available. Sorry.” He gave a wave, and headed back into the area that Hawkman assumed to be the man's own quarters.

Waiting until he disappeared, Hawkman slipped around the corner and silently stole up the stairs. The second floor hall extended the length of the building. Most of the apartment numbers hung askew on the doors. The second room on his left, number twenty-three, had the number two hanging upside down, held only by one small nail. He knocked softly. When he received no answer, he removed the lock pick from his pocket. He gave a quick glance up and down the hallway, then worked the pick into the old lock, and had it open in a matter of seconds.

When he stepped inside, a small feather floated down in front of his face. Hopkins had obviously rigged up a trap so he'd know if anyone had entered the room. He'd make sure to return the piece of fluff when he left.

The light from the hotel sign hanging directly over the window lit up the room enough so a flashlight wouldn't be necessary. The dingy curtains fluttered as a faint breeze came through the partially opened window.

An unmade bed took up most of the room and a small desk occupied the space next to the headboard. In the far corner, a lamp with a dirty, tattered shade rested on a round table flanked by a chair on each side. On the opposite wall as you headed toward the bathroom, a scuffed four drawer wooden dresser leaned cockeyed as if one leg was shorter than the others. Hawkman noticed a phone sitting on its top. Odd, he thought, why is that there and not on the bedside table?

He walked over, picked it up and discovered the cord missing. Crossing over to the head of the bed, he moved the desk slightly away from the wall. He found the small square outlet for a phone connection above the baseboard. with the telephone cord still plugged in. He followed the wire with his hand to the point where it disappeared into the bed. Lifting up the corner of the mattress he found a laptop computer tucked underneath. He understood why Hopkins hid this piece of expensive equipment, but it also indicated in Hawkman's mind that Carl hadn't lost his hacking skills. He decided not to investigate the machine at this time, not knowing exactly how long Hopkins might stay at Curly's tonight. He'd wait until he had a good couple of hours before searching its contents. Removing the miniature camera from his pocket, he snapped a picture of the machine and took several shots of the room.

He rummaged through the wastebasket, and found a receipt that indicated a cash purchase for the computer a couple of days ago. Hawkman let out a low whistle. “Where the hell did he get money for that toy?” he mumbled aloud, sticking the paper into his pocket.

In the desk drawers, he found the instructions for the laptop and a few miscellaneous receipts. The closet revealed a scarcity of clothes. As he dug through the dresser, his hand hit a hard object. He carefully unrolled a pair of boxer shorts, and found a small caliber handgun concealed within the fold. Hopkins’ prison record prohibited him from owning any type of firearm, so he'd obviously purchased this illegally.

Hawkman stared at the weapon, wondering why the man needed a gun. The thought sent a chill through his body. Careful not to touch it, he snapped a picture, then refolded the underwear around the pistol and closed the drawer.

Checking the time, it surprised him that he'd been there almost an hour. He decided he'd better leave and retrieved the feather he'd placed under a glass on the table.

He pressed his ear against the wooden door and listened for several seconds before opening it a couple of inches. The dimly lit hallway revealed no one in sight, so he stepped out of the room, stuck the feather on the top of the door and closed it. He hurried down the stairs and just bounded off the last step when he collided with the clerk rounding the corner from the lobby. Hawkman grabbed the man's shoulders to prevent him from falling.

"What the hell are you still doing here? I told you there ain't no vacancies,” the clerk said, frowning.

"Uh, yeah I know,” Hawkman stuttered. “Just thought I'd look around a bit and see if I'd like it here.” He moved toward the exit. “I must say it's a quiet place.” With that, he rushed out the door.

Close call, he thought, trooping briskly across the street to his 4X4. He glanced back at the hotel as he climbed into his vehicle and noticed the clerk watching him through the large front window.

Hawkman decided to stop by Curly's bar before heading home. He lucked out and found a parking place nearby. None of the cars around the establishment resembled Hopkins’ junker, but he figured it could be in the alley where many of the employees put their vehicles to save room for the customers.

Several patrons mingled on the front patio enjoying the mild evening temperature. A few recognized Hawkman and waved as he made his way toward the entrance. Inside, he weaved through the customers to the bar and perched on one of the stools. He heard Curly's irritated voice coming from the kitchen, complaining about the low stock of hot wings.

He ordered a beer and swiveled around to search for Hopkins. In the far corner, he spotted the long-haired, bearded man loading a cart with dirty dishes as he cleared and wiped off tables. He appeared oblivious to the people around him.

Curly stormed out of the kitchen mumbling, threw a towel over his shoulder and helped the bartender load the trays for the cocktail waitresses. It took him several minutes before he spotted Hawkman.

He dried off his hand and stuck it out. “Hawkman, how the hell are you? Hey you look different, lose some weight?"

"No, got a haircut,” Hawkman said, suppressing a smile.

"I think I know why you're here.” He winked and nodded toward the corner of the room.

Hawkman grinned. “Yeah, you got that right. So, how's business?"

"Couldn't be better.” He lowered his voice. “That is, if I could keep my damn cooks on the ball so they'd let me know what I need to order. That's what I pay ‘em for, but they're so anxious to get out of here at night, they don't even take inventory of what we need.” He shook his head and wiped off the counter.

"You want me to go get something?” Hawkman asked.

Curly waved a hand. “Naw, we'll make it through the evening. Thanks though, appreciate the offer."