THE CARBON STEEL CARESS Page 9
“She come up with anything?”
“Yup. After lunch.”
“Huh?”
“Gentlemen don’t tell.”
Donal waited, refusing to acknowledge that he’s been baited and hooked.
“Josie wanted to talk in the privacy of her home. How was I to know she was a lonely divorcee. Anyway she told me Marie was a Saint, but Joe was stepping out with Alicia Wentworth-Martinville.
Hmmm, old South Carolina name.”
“DAR, with a taste for the seamy side. Josie says she’s been sneaking off to find her fun since college days. Likes rough stuff. The antithesis of the genteel crowd I guess.
“Josie said the woman’s kinks were an open secret among Tri-Delts.”
“You talk to Wentworth-Martinville?”
“You bet I did. I got to her place on the Island faster than a Florida greyhound after a bunny. She’s a nervous cutie. Scared shitless her blue blood husband would find out she fucks around and cut her out of the good life.
“You should have seen her digs. Huge house in Wexford Plantation; musta' been at least ten thousand square feet. Pool, tennis courts. On the water. The whole nine-yards. She has something to protect.
“Anyway, she was in Europe with her husband when Joe Della Porta died and still abroad when Marie was murdered. She couldn't shed any light on Marie's murder. But, I did find out that Cynthia Echols was a sorority sister.”
“Bingo, Mike. The connection. We know Echols home was burglarized, but until this there wasn't any connection to the razor killings. But, this might strenthen Tony’s contention that his brother-in-law's shady dealings figure in Marie's murder.”
“It takes a different twist that what Tony suspected, though doesn't it.”
“Sure does,” Donal said. “What she told you makes it appear that she and Joe Della Porta are the key to the killer or killer's identities. What did Wentworth-Martinville tell Della Porta about Echols? And who did he tell what to? The Echols and Della Porta murders might be connected through pillow talk.”
“I pushed. Asked about who they discussed. She says she and Joe never spoke of other women or their spouses. Claims Cynthia Echols name never came up between them. And she swears that she and Della Porta never talked about money or gems. I pressed and got zip.”
“You got more than you know. Where’s the action report.”
“Didn’t write it yet.”
“Good. Keep this stuff between you and me for now. No report for Tony’s eyes. He’d fly off the handle and cause Wentworth-Martinville grief she doesn’t deserve.”
“I thought you’d feel that way.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Moultrie Bay, SC
August 22
Capers and Joan drove her parents to the Savannah airport so they could catch an early flight to Columbia. John Bertram Wiley had been posted to the Capitol, the State Industrial Commissionership that he had campaigned for finally his. He and Agnes had played all their cards right, capping their campaign by inviting those individuals key to John Bertram's career to their daughter's wedding and skillfully turning the affair to their political advantage.
Walking through the airport terminal 's main concourse, Agnes said, “We'll miss both of you. We've had such wonderful times together. Come up to Columbia soon. It's only a two and a half hour drive.”
Their daughter, who had kept her resignation from Trent, Goodsell, Archer, and Windsor from her parents, said, “I'11 be able to take some vacation in a month or so, I'11 visit then.” She darted a swift glance at her husband, who had strode on, ignoring Agnes's invitation. “Perhaps Micah will come with me.”
Capers said nothing.
They reached the gate area where the plane waited for departing passengers. The PA system announced the last call for boarding. The woman watched as her parents walked through the security gates.
Agnes stopped just past the gates and said to John Bertram, “I'11 be just a minute.” She retraced her steps to where her daughter stood. “I forgot to tell you, your father and I want you two to use the summer house whenever you find the time. It's such a peaceful place.” She placed a key in Joan’s hand.
“We will, Mother. Now hurry or you'll miss the plane. We'll see you in Columbia soon.”
Capers stood silent, scowling. Leaving the airport building he asked, “What summer house?”
“Oh, an old, rustic place in North Carolina's Pisgah forest. Mother calls it their retreat.” Joan smiled at him, “You know, the peace and tranquility of a country home so they can escape from the stress of daddy's career. Very proper, very civilized. One of Mother's little fantasies.”
“Your mother is whacked.”
“Not really. She has little fantasies and they're easily fulfilled.”
“Whacked,” Capers said, but he mentally filed his mother-in-law's reference to the remote mountain cabin.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Moultrie Bay, SC
September 5
Nikko slid a mug of black coffee across the counter to Donal and said, “I got something. There's a guy, Jake Clearey, 'usta be a diamond cutter 'fore he took to the bottle. He comes in now and then. He's local, lives over on Lady Caroline Island, but he runs a pawn shop in Savannah. Clearey says that Joe Della Porta was holding diamonds when he died.”
“How does he know?”
“Clearey said Della Porta was looking to sell the stones. He was interested in buying. But then Della Porta died.” Nikko swiped the countertop with a damp cloth. “So the deal died.” He took another swipe. “Clearey also says a woman's been peddling diamonds. He says, lots of them.”
“He buy from her?”
“Naw. That's his beef. The rocks have been going to someone else. Cleary’s pissed he didn't get any of the action.”
“What's the woman's name?”
“I asked. Clearey clammed. Claimed he don't know. I figure he realized his mouthin' off could be asking for trouble.”
“His pawn shop in Savannah, where?”
“Derinne Ave, near Abercorn. Twelve hunnert block, I think.”
“Thanks Nikko. I'11 pay him a visit.”
Nikko raised a shaggy eyebrow; the hand that held the wiping cloth raised involuntarily from the chipped Formica countertop.
“Your name won't come up,” Donal said.
Clearey's shop address wasn't listed in the Savannah phone directory. Donal drove to the 1200 block of Derenne Avenue, parked, and checked mailboxes. He found Clearey's place mid- block, located above a S&M shop. A shave pated critter, dressed in leather chaps and an open vest, his hollow, hairless chest bare, stood in the doorway. The crit whistled at Donal. Donal twisted his shoulders and stepped past his admirer. He climbed the stairs and rapped on a steel clad door.
Shuffling footsteps approach the door, an eye level peek panel slid back. Jake Clearey's alcohol seamed face appeared in the opening.
“Closed.”
“Open it,” Donal said.
“For who?”
Donal held his Moultrie County South Carolina P.I. identification card to the opening.
“John Donal, Private Investigator. Big fuckin' deal,” Clearey said.
“I need information.”
“About?”
“Diamonds?”
“Go read 'em up in an Encyclopedia.”
“Don’t be smart ass.”
“Those South Carolina P.I. credentials you’re carrying don't impress me none. Shop's closed. Now go on, get lost.”
Donal put on his firm-but-polite voice. “No sir, I won’t. I’m investigating a murder connected to diamonds. Call Myerkamp Diamond Brokers. Ask for Herb Apfel; he'll vouch for me.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because,” Donal's voice hardened, “I can cause you no end of grief if you don't.”
“Like?”
“Like cops climbing your ass. Serial murder pisses cops off. Makes them want someone to lean on.”
“I don't know what you’re talk
in' about.”
“Sure you do.”
“You're talkin' circles Bud.”
“Un-uh. You know I'm not. You know about the serial killings in Moultrie County and you know that diamonds were stolen from Joe Della Porta’s home. You know who sold diamonds and you know who bought them.”
“Says who?”
“Says you. You've been mouthing off.”
“Bullshit.”
“You going to let me in?”
“No.”
“Talk to me or I talk to cops about what you know and then you talk with them. Cops love to ask alkys about murder.”
“What murder?”
“Marie Della Porta's.
“I don't know anything about that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But, you do damn well know who's selling diamonds.”
“Everybody in this business knows something about someone selling gemstones.”
“Does everybody know about under the table deals?”
“You hold up right there. Nobody is gonna accuse me of anything?”
“Hey, I just don't think you want to discuss this with cops.”
“I'11 call Apfel. If you check out, we can talk.”
“Fair enough.”
The door panel slid closed.
Donal waited and while he waited he had an urge for a cigarette. He mentally lit up and savored an invisible Camel. Mental hits from imaginary cigarettes was an ersatz pleasure he indulged in on occasion but always with disappointment born of remembrance of the real thing.
Finally, Clearey opened the door. “Okay, Donal. I called and Apfel says you're okay. Come on in.”
The shop was grime encrusted. Clearey led Donal across the room to a scarred old oak wood swivel chair alongside an equally battered oak roll top desk. On the desk were a jeweler's loupe, a faded green ledger, and a bottle, Wild Turkey 101. its level down by two thirds. Clearey picked up the bottle. His hand shook. “Have one'?”
“I'11 pass.”
“You mind.”
“No.”
Clearey splashed at least three ounces into a filthy tumbler. He gulped half and put the glass on the desk. “All-right, what is it you want to know?”
“Who bought the diamonds that belonged to Joe Della Porta.”
“I hear Arnie Van Heerden.”
“Who sold?”
“Rumor is a lady.”
“I've heard that much. Who? What's her name?”
“Don't know.”
“Your sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I bought stones from her in the past. She's a little lady. Real small, short, you know? Pretty,” he leered. “But l never got a name.”
“Come on, man.”
Clearey shrugged. “Lady was very closed mouthed. No small talk. All business. She had good stones and l always check the sheet and the stones she sold never listed hot so l bought. What did I need a with a name?”
“How did you make contact with her?”
“Word was around the wholesale auctions that a lady was lookin' for a buyer. A friend gave me a number. I called.”
“When did you make the buys?”
“I don't remember.”
“Try.”
“Let me think.
“O.K., the first time was in late May, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth. Other buy was June, fifth or sixth, around then. Sixteen stones she sold me. Perfect.”
“Where are they now?”
“Gone. I sold them off.”
“Why did she go to Van Heerden with the Della Porta diamonds?”
Clearey shrugged, “Who knows? Van Heerden bids high sometimes. Maybe she knew Della Porta talked to me about the stones. Coulda figured I’d recognize them.”
“You were negotiating with Della Porta for the same stones you say that she sold to Van Heerden?”
Clearey shrugged again, “Same; different. How should I know? I never got to see the merchandise. Della Porta kicked off before we got down to a deal.”
Donal straightened up and said, “Okay. Give me her phone number.”
Cleary checked his cell. “It’s not here. I musta forgot to save it.”
“You find it, call me.”
“I'11 do that, Donal. I told you what I know because I don't like that fat Dutch prick Van Heerden.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“He’s probably gone home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Amsterdam. Check with Apfel. He'll know the bastard’s address.”
“Thanks Clearey.”
“Yeah. And word to the wise, watch out for fat fucker Van Heerden, he's bad news.”
***
Herb Apfel's voice came back scratchily over Donal's cell phone. “As far as I know Arnie Van Heerden was going to Atlanta for a buy. He's probably still in the city.”
“You have any idea where he stays?”
“Yeah, sure I do; he keeps a dumpy efficiency on Peachtree.”
“Terrific. There are thirteen Peachtree's in Atlanta. Peachtree Avenue, Peachtree Circle, Peachtree Mews, you name an Atlanta address, it's got a Peachtree in it.”
“Yeah, that's the pits.” Apfel belly laughed. “Van Heerden's Atlanta address is in center city,” he said. “Peachtree Ave. Number Eighteen fifty-eight. A third floor walk-up, apartment --3-C.”
“Thanks, Herb.”
“Anytime, Donal. And, by the way, Clearey wasn't kidding about Van Heerden. Watch yourself with him. He's usually armed.”
“You have any idea why Clearey put me on to Van Heerden?”
“For the reason he gave you. Bad blood. Van Heerden screwed Clearey on more than one deal.”
Donal drove to the Savannah airport, parked, and caught an air taxi to Hartsfield. He rode the subway into the city where he went directly to Sal Minetola's office. Minetola, a P.I., who Donal had done business with frequently in the past, kept in his office a .38 S&W chief's special registered to Donal and complete with a city of Atlanta carry license. A similar gun and papers belonging to Minetola were kept in Donal's South Carolina office.
The practice of holding firearms for colleagues was widespread in the P.I. community since the late sixties when airline baggage checks started, 9-11 cemented the practice. Donal had firearms salted in private detective's offices throughout the United States. Each of his agency's offices was equipped with a floor model gun safe expressly for reciprocal storage of out of town private detectives' guns.
Donal checked the load in his blue steel .38 and slipped
the handgun into its clip holster.
“Need backup,” Minetola asked?
“Yeah. I'd appreciate it.”
Minetola strapped on a nylon shoulder rig with a Glock 9mm parabellum, picked up his sports jacket, and said, “let's go, Kimasabe.”
“Bill my office”, Donal said.
“You bet. This guinea that doesn't work gratis. I've got a houseful of mouths to feed and feet to shoe.”
Donal climbed three dimly lit flights to Van Heerden's room. He stopped at number 3C and rapped.
No answer.
Donal rapped again, waited full minute, and then 'loided' the cheap spring lock with his Am Ex gold card.
The room was filthy. Chinese carryout cartons and MacDonald's wrappers littered a time scarred oak table. The bed was a disarray of newspapers and skin magazines entangled within filthy sheets. The room smelled of stale sweat. An old, green, Mosler safe stood in the northeast corner of the room.
Donal crossed to a barred window. Minetola stood on a fire escape platform. Donal opened the window.
“Can't get past the bars,” Minetola said.
“Well, get down from there before a cop sees you. Come on up the front way.”
Minetola, his hand atop the safe, said, “Nothing short of a nitro shot is going to bust into this antique son of a bitch.”
“So we wait.”
“How long?’
Donal shrugged.
“Bastard better show soon or we'll get
a pot of pasta over our heads,” Minetola said.
“Maria's cookin?”
“Layin' a table. I told her that her favorite P.I. was in town. Don't see what she finds to like about a dullard like you.”
Donal held his hand up in a silence gesture. He moved to the right side of the door. Minetola drew his hand gun. A key scratched in the lock and a fat man with slick backed black hair and Van Dyke chin whiskers stepped into the room.
The fat man reached inside his suit coat when he saw Minetola. Donal stepped up and jammed his chief's special behind the fat man's ear. He grasped the fat man's left elbow and squeezed. “Don't touch that gun,” he said.
Minetola stepped forward and took a Beretta 9 from the fat man's shoulder holster. He tucked the gun in his waistband. Donal turned the fat man around and shoved him toward a chair.
The fat man backpedaled, stumbling, half falling into the chair.
Donal held his .38 on the fat man. “Van Heerden?”
The man looked at Donal. He spoke with a halting, guttural Dutch accent. “What is this that you want?”
“I'll ask the questions.”
The fat man nodded.
“Good.”
“You are going to rob from me?”
“I said, I'll ask questions.”
“Yes.”
“Who sold the Della Porta diamonds to you?”
“I do not understand.”
“The diamonds you bought from a young woman that belonged to Joe Della Porta.”
“You are speaking with the wrong person. I do not know from any Mister Joseph Della Porta.”
“The diamonds were stolen from Della Porta's estate. You bought them from a woman. I want her name.”
You are not correct. It could not be me. I am a respected businessman. I would neffer, neffer purchase stolen diamonds.”
“I have it right. And, I want the woman's name.”
“Fuck you.”
“Talking more like an American now, huh?” Donal cocked the thirty-eight.