Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (17 page)

“She's still got it,” I said with conviction.

“What makes you think so?”

“It hasn't turned up with any of the bigger fences, and I would assume every jeweler who can afford it has your reluctance to buy it without a customer in the offering.”

“True,” he said, nodding his agreement. “And there's one more thing as well.”

“Let me guess,” I said, finishing my coffee.

“Go ahead.”

“No legitimate jeweler's going to shell out even half what it's worth without proof of ownership, and if she got it the way we both think she got it, that's one thing I'm pretty sure she can't supply.”

He smiled. “Phineas said you were good at your job.”

I grimaced. “If I was good at my job, I'd know who stole the damned collar, and then I'd know who the killer was.”

“I beg your pardon?” he said, startled.

“Just detective talk,” I said. “Pay no attention.”

“There was a murder?”

“There was a murder.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “Malcolm Pepperidge?”

I nodded. “Was he a customer?”

He shook his head. “No. I heard about his murder on the radio a few days ago.” He paused. “A fine, upstanding citizen from everything I've heard about him.”

“Yeah, that's what they say,” I responded.

“And you've been hired to catch the killer?”

“No, that's the cops' job.”

“Then shouldn't they be looking for the diamonds too?” he asked.

“They will eventually,” I said.

He frowned. “Why not now?”

“There's some possibility that they weren't stolen,” I answered.

“Then you think Pepperidge gave the ring to . . . ?” He let the sentence hang there.

“It's a possibility,” I said.

And it was. In fact, every time I encountered her it was more and more difficult to believe a man with Palanto's money and background didn't have a girl on the side, maybe two or three.

“That's a mighty big diamond to give to a girlfriend, but I suppose when you're as wealthy as Malcolm Pepperidge . . .” He finished his coffee. “Did you know there was a rumor that he was considering bringing the Royals—or at least some NBA team—back to Cincinnati?”

“They're before my time,” I said. “I'm not a native, though of course I've heard about them.”

“They were really something,” he said, his face lighting up. “I was just a kid, but I remember the Big O.”

“Oscar Robertson?” I asked.

He nodded. “They traded him, and two years later they were gone. The city never forgave them. I had real hopes for Mr. Pepperidge.”

I decided not to disillusion him. But if Palanto was sitting on eighty million dollars and they gave him the stadium for free, that money might buy a two-year contract with a LeBron James or Kobe Bryant, but he'd still have to find a way to pay the other eleven players and the coach. As rich as he was, he was no billionaire, and owning a pro sports franchise was a billionaire's game.

I looked at my wristwatch. “You've been closed for fifteen minutes,” I said. “I don't want to cost you any business, so if you'll just give me the girl's name and contact info, I'll be on my way.”

“Right,” he agreed.

He got up and walked over to a small desk, fumbled through a pile of papers, pulled one out, copied it down on a fresh sheet, and handed it to me.

I took it from him and read it aloud: “Mitzi Cramer.” I looked up. “Mitzi? There hasn't been a Mitzi since Mitzi Gaynor.”

“Who was she?” he asked.

“See what I mean?” I continued reading. “Hell, she lives a couple of miles west of me. Pepperidge could have gotten her for a much smaller diamond.”

“I wonder what she was doing in this area?” he mused.

“Looking for a better price.”

He considered my answer, then nodded his agreement. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Well,” I said, standing up, “I don't want to take up any more of your time.”

“Actually, I've enjoyed our conversation immensely,” he said, getting up and walking me to the door, where he took down the “Closed” sign. “I love my work. There's nothing I'd rather do. But excitement doesn't exactly go with the job.”

“Unless you're robbed,” I said.

“Please!” he responded. “Don't even joke about it!”

“I apologize.”

“Happily accepted,” he said. “If any more of the diamonds turn up, I'll contact you. Phineas gave me your number.”

“I appreciate it,” I said, shaking his hand and heading out into the street.

I wondered if I had time to get across town and hunt up Mitzi Cramer before I had to meet Sorrentino for lunch. I decided since I didn't plan to share anything I learned with him until we turned in the diamonds, I figured I couldn't tell him what I didn't know. So I stopped by the apartment, took Marlowe for a walk, and waved to Mrs. Garabaldi, who looked like she was about to blow me a kiss but exercised remarkable self-restraint. Then I headed off to Bob Evans to lie to my partner.

18.

Sorrentino didn't have anything to report, and I didn't have anything I
wanted
to report, so we had a pleasant meal, talked about the Bengals and the Bears, couldn't decide whether Muhammad Ali in his prime could have beaten Mike Tyson in his, and mostly settled for enjoying our sandwiches and coffee.

He had a few calls in to his bosses' West Coast fences and was in no hurry to leave since they rarely got in to work before noon their time, but I wanted to get over to the West Side and hunt up the lady with the ring.

While we were waiting for the check, he decided he wanted to debate whether Zenyatta could have beaten Ruffian at nine furlongs, and that turned into whether Affirmed was better than Alydar or just luckier. Finally I made an excuse that I had to visit the men's room, stayed there seven minutes by my watch, and when I emerged he had paid the bill and was waiting by the door.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Forgot to shave. Just taking care of it.”

He studied me. “You missed a few spots.”

“They give me character,” I replied.

“Nuzzle a girl and you're gonna have more than character,” he said with a smile. “You're gonna have one hell of a slap in the face.”

“I'll only nuzzle girls with beards,” I said.

“What about dinner?”

“Nice Mediterranean joint opened up a few months ago.” I gave him the address.

“What's Mediterranean?”

“Like Greek, only different.” I told him how to get there.

He grimaced. “Thanks a lot. Seven o'clock?”

“Sounds good,” I said, walking out the door before he could start another conversation.

I got to the Ford, had a little trouble starting it up but finally managed, and headed off to the west. I slowed down when I got within a few blocks of my destination and surveyed the area. Nice, well-kept apartment buildings, probably built in the 1940s and 1950s. (Someone once told me when I was considering moving to Cincinnati that if I wanted to see what America was like during Eisenhower's presidency, come to Cincinnati. And of course Mark Twain once remarked that if the world came to an end, he wanted to be in Cincinnati because everything happens five years later here.)

It was a nice enough neighborhood. Little shops on the corners, tiny but well-manicured lawns. To hear the locals describe the town, Interstate 75 is the north-south running dividing line, and all the money is on the east side. Well, most of it is, but that doesn't mean everything west of the highway is a slum. It's very nice, just not, well, Grandin Road nice.

I pulled up to the address I'd been given, got out of the car, waited for a kid on a skateboard to coast down the sidewalk, entered the building, and went to the row of doorbells, looking for one with Mitzi Cramer's name on it.

I rang, waited for an answering buzz to let me in, but none was forthcoming. I tried twice more with no response. I couldn't believe that a girl who was walking around with a hundred grand on her finger was working a nine-to-five job, especially given what Winslow Monroe had suggested, so I went back to the car, climbed into it, tried to find a station that wasn't playing rock music, finally got some twenty-four-hour news channel, and got a quick education in Ethiopia's latest hunger crisis.

I'd been there about an hour when the most gorgeous blonde I'd seen since coming to Cincinnati a few years ago came walking—well, undulating—down the street. Her skirt wasn't
that
short, her heels weren't
that
high, despite the cold she was just starting to open her coat and her neckline wasn't
that
low, but you took one look and knew she'd be a unanimous choice for Playmate of the Year, even if, like Zenyatta, she had to give weight to all her overmatched competitors.

I didn't need a second look to know that this was Mitzi Cramer. I checked her hand and there it was, glistening in the afternoon sun.

I was afraid if I stopped her on the street she might make a scene, so I waited for her to go into her building, gave her time to climb the stairs to wherever her apartment was, and then got out of the door, entered the building, and rang her bell again.

The building wasn't new enough—or perhaps the landlord wasn't generous enough—to have an answering system so the person could call down and ask who was there. You either pressed the buzzer and let your guest in or you didn't . . . and since based on what Monroe had told me she was unlikely to turn callers away, I wasn't surprised when the buzzer sounded and the inner door unlocked.

I climbed a flight of stairs, didn't see any open doors, then climbed up to the third floor. A door was cracked open, and a blue eye peeked out.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“Not yet, Mitzi,” I said, pulling out my detective's license and holding it up for her to see. “I'd like to talk to you.”

“I've stayed clean,” she said defensively.

“I'm sure you have,” I said. “May I come in? It won't take long.”

She stared at me. “I don't know.”

“We can talk here or down at the station,” I lied. “It's up to you.”

That did the trick. She opened the door, stepped aside as I entered, and then led me to a living room that was furnished a little better than the average.

“Have a seat, Mister . . . ?”

“Paxton,” I said, sitting on a chair rather than a sofa so she wouldn't feel she had to sit on the same piece of furniture. “Eli Paxton.”

She sat down, facing me. “What do you want?”

“You can tell me who gave you that ring,” I said.

She covered the ring with her free hand.

“Why?” she demanded.

“It has to do with a case I'm working on.”

“I don't know what you think I done for it . . .” she began.

“Mitzi, I don't
care
what you did for it. I just want to know who gave it to you.”

She stared at the ring, then looked up at me. “It's hot, right?”

“That depends on who gave it to you,” I said. “Give me the right name and you can keep it for all I give a damn. Give me the wrong name and it's potential evidence in a—” I decided not to use the word
murder
“—criminal case.”

Her entire body relaxed, which was eye-popping in its own way. “Okay,” she said, clearly relieved. “It was a gift from a very wealthy gentleman friend from the other side of town. He's got all kinds of connections and was going to help me become an actress.”

Shit!
I thought.
Palanto gave it to her, he had every right to, and we're back where we started
.

“Sounds good,” I said. “Just for the record, what was his name?”

“Abner,” she replied. “Abner Delahunt.”

I frowned. “Abner Delahunt?” I repeated. “I've never heard of him.”

“Why would you?” she said. “He's a big real estate tycoon, and surely you ain't investigating
him
. I mean, he could afford a dozen rings like this.”

“I suppose so,” I agreed. “But he won't be giving you another, will he?”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“How do you think I found you, Mitzi?”

She just stared at me without saying anything.

“I got your address from a jeweler you tried to sell it to,” I told her. “That doesn't sound like a girl who expects her sugar daddy to keep her in diamonds, does it?”

For a minute I thought she was going to throw a lamp at me. Then all the tension went out of her body, and she just leaned back on the sofa.

“We split up,” she said at last.

“Less than a week after he gave you the ring?”

“How did you know that? It didn't come from that jeweler, that Mister . . .”

“Monroe,” I said.

“Right, Monroe. My gentleman friend didn't buy it from him, so how do you know when I got it?”

“It's only been missing about a week.”

“The ring?” she demanded. “But my initials are on it!”

“Not the ring,” I answered. “The diamond.”

“But he doesn't have to steal nothing!” she protested. “He's a millionaire! He lives in a great big mansion over there in Hyde Park!”

“I'm not saying
he
stole it,” I replied gently. “I'm saying that
someone
stole it, and he wound up with it.”

That didn't sound good even to
me
. If he could afford that kind of stone, why the hell was he dealing in a hot one? Sure, maybe he had a wife who was being kept in the dark about Mitzi, but how did a hot stone that the cops would soon be after make it any darker?

“Just a minute,” she said. “If it wasn't even a ring a week ago, what makes you think it was stolen?”

“The diamond was insured.” I kept it singular; why tell her there were nine more missing? “The insurance policy describes it in such detail that any competent jeweler could identify it, and you took it to one whose shop is just a mile or so from Delahunt.”