Diamonds and Cole (21 page)

“Aha.”

“Not what you think. She’s dying, called me for help. Christopher was trying to cheat her daughter, his stepdaughter, out of an inheritance. I was trying to see what I could do. Just so you know where I fit in.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect. Sounds like you’ve been a busy boy. We’re really low on manpower right now. Man, if I could tie this Christopher guy to the Castigleones— Okay, where can I reach you?”

“Palmwood Motel, Room 218. My cell is 773-677-8120.”

“I’ll be in touch. And Sage, don’t get too nosy. The Castigleones have a nasty habit of finding construction projects to bury people in, get me? And, for God sakes, don’t print anything about these Detroit guys for a while. Please, we need to nail this guy. You go to print and they’ll scatter like roaches in the light.”

“I hear you. I’m about done here, so I won’t be in town much longer.”

Cole hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. As he raised the toilet seat, he saw the words “Leave or Die” written on the mirror in something white. He looked around the tiny bathroom and saw his deodorant in the sink with the cap off. He knew it couldn’t be the mob guys, at least not yet. Christopher would never think of something like this. It had to be Tree Top’s muscle.

Cole had been threatened before. He didn’t like it, but it came with the job sometimes. Over the years, people angry about something he’d written would call the paper or send unsigned hate mail. Once, he’d gotten a dead rat with a little sign around its neck with his name on it. Tom Harris told him long ago that people who send or call in threats are not likely to follow through. He said the time to start worrying is when they send a letter to the paper after you’re dead, claiming responsibility. Harris had a strange sense of humor. All the same, the message on the mirror gave Cole a knot in his stomach that he never got used to.

The next call was a courtesy. It was a kind of journalistic tradition to tip off the local paper to a story you uncover in their town. That is, if it isn’t a scoop you intend to use yourself. He punched in the number for
The
Daily Record
and asked for the editor. The editor was out at a luncheon and wouldn’t be back until about three. The city editor would have to do.

“Hi, my name is Cole Sage. I’m with
The
Chicago Sentinel
.”

It didn’t take much to get the city editor excited. It took even less for Cole to accept a free lunch. Cole never understood the meaning of “no such thing as a free lunch.” He had eaten plenty of them. He always knew going in that it was
quid pro quo
. The thing that made the meal free was Cole’s willingness to give away whatever he had. He didn’t see it as giving anything away because if it were truly of value, he would keep it and buy his own lunch. Most of the time it was a way to have a nice meal, meet somebody new, and have an interesting chat. Even if the chat was boring, two out of three wasn’t bad.

As far as the meal was concerned, he had an uncle that shared a philosophy which he had never forgotten. Cole’s Uncle George was a multimillionaire. He had started out as a door-to-door salesman, an education he said that was far more valuable than any he’d learned in school. “People,” he would say, “are all the same, only different.” Uncle George had received a PhD in Education from the University of Oklahoma. He later became the head of Ford Motors in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, a dean at O.S.U., and Secretary of Education for the State of Oklahoma. This provided him the greatest opportunity to play golf with a
Who’s Who
list of state and federal movers and shakers.

While playing golf with the Secretary of Health Education and Welfare, the Secretary bemoaned the fact that Congress was about to pass a bill requiring asbestos to be removed from all public buildings because of its link to cancer. The fact that the cancer developed after a lifetime of working, mining and processing the stuff had little bearing on Congress’s decision. It was all going to have to be removed.

Bright and early the next morning, George contacted the Yellow Pages sales offices for every county in five states, placing an advertisement for All State Asbestos Removal. It was like a broken record. “I’ve never heard of that before. What do you do?” George gave a simple, nondescript answer. When January 1 of the next year rolled around, All State Asbestos Removal was flooded with calls. It was bumpy at first, but he sold the company—orders and all—in June of that year for a cool $16 million.

George devoted the rest of his life, which sadly was only another six months, to fine food and golf. He died of a heart attack on the golf course one day shortly after lunch. George told Cole when he was a boy that “we eat three meals a day, 365 days a year, so make each meal an adventure.” On the rare occasion that Cole had a meal with his favorite uncle that wasn’t good, George would stand up from the table, pat his rather large stomach and say, “Well, that was an adventure!” Cole had used his uncle’s expression ever since.

Lunch with the city editor of the
The
Daily Record
was at one o’clock downtown at the Thailand Caf
￩
. Cole arrived a few minutes early and had a cup of tea while he weighed just how much to tell the local paper. He sat in a booth tucked back in a corner facing the door. The Caf
￩
was bright and cheerful. Everywhere he looked, there were splashes of red and gold. Above the front door was a portrait of the King of Thailand in full military uniform with a very dignified scowl on his face. The waitress was a teenager who probably should have been at school. Nearly every table was full of people who looked like they worked at City Hall. Cole realized, as he watched a man about his age loosen his tie, that it had been nearly a week since he had worn one. He also realized that he had forgotten to call Brennan.

Jerry White was a tall man with a dark crew cut heavily waxed in front. He wore a plaid shirt and a woven tie that had gone out of style with disco. His pocket bulged with the micro recorder that was a dead giveaway he was a newspaperman of the post-1980 variety. Cole was taught to take notes and commit to memory. Memory was his greatest gift and worst enemy.

“Jerry!” Cole waved his arm as he called out.

“Hello.” The tall man offered his hand to Cole, who took it.

“Have a seat.” Cole indicated the chair across the table from him.

“So, all the way from Chicago.” White said, sitting. “How are we so honored?” He took out the mini-recorder from his pocket and clicked “Record.”

Cole reached across the table and clicked the recorder off.

“Want some tea?” Cole had grown tired of having to tell about Ellie to people who really could care less.

“Yeah, thanks. So what can you tell—”

“Look, here’s the thing. I have made a complete report to the FBI. Since we talked, I’m not quite sure how much I should tell you, mostly because I fear for your safety. So, here’s a start. An FBI agent named Fergusson will be in town soon to investigate several leads I gave him. They include attempted bribery of a city official. That, you cannot print. Here’s what you can, and it’s the tip of the iceberg. Put somebody good on this and who knows what may turn up.

“There’s a local street punk called Tree Top Jefferson who’s been trading diamonds for cars, boats, motorcycles, and who knows what. He then turns around and sells them.”

“What’s the point of that?” White replied.

“There’s a huge markup in bulk diamonds—five, maybe six hundred percent. So, a $1,000 stone wholesale is worth $6,000 retail. They trade three or four stones for a $16,000 to $20,000 car, costs them four grand. They turn around and sell it for $11,000 to $16,000 and pocket the difference. Slick, huh?”

“So what’s illegal? I don’t get it.”

“You have to pay for the stones. Tree Top’s guy didn’t, hasn’t, can’t, whatever—thus, the Feds. Interstate mail fraud.”

“Yikes.”

“It’s like pebbles in a pond from there. Call Fergusson. Let him know you’ve been tipped off to the diamond scam. He seems like a fair guy. He’ll probably give you first shot at the story.”

“I really appreciate you giving us the scoop. How in the world did you stumble on this diamond thing?”

“When you turn over rocks, you’re gonna find bugs, Jerry. Hungry?”

“I could eat a horse.”

“I don’t think they serve that here,” Cole said dryly.

“What?”

“Never mind. You buying?”

“Of course.”

Cole smiled and gently waved at the young waitress.

“Ready to order?” she smiled brightly, pad in hand.

“I’d like the fried rice,” Jerry began.

“What! No, no, no. You can’t come in a fine place like this and order fried rice. Come on, Jerry, get with the spirit of things.” Cole winked at the waitress. “Cancel the fried rice. We’ll have Tom Yum Goong, not too hot. Pra Ram Long Song and Tom Yum Talay Haeng. Diet Coke for me. How ‘bout you, Jer?”

“I don’t see any of that stuff on the menu,” Jerry said frowning at Cole.

“He’ll have a 7-Up.”

“How’d you know...” Jerry trailed off.

“Sit back and relax Jerry, this is going to be an adventure.”

SIXTEEN

By the time Cole and Jerry White had finished eating lunch and exchanging war stories, it was nearly four o’clock. Cole had supplied tale after tale of the big city reporter and foreign correspondent. Jerry had told of local scandals and a couple of grisly murders. Cole had told of how Brennan had taken a chance on him when he was just starting out and how he always seemed to end up working for Brennan regardless of where he wandered. Jerry explained how he went from editor of the high school paper “right here in town” to cub reporter. The farthest he had ever gotten was San Francisco for the Republican National Convention.

The one thing that anyone eavesdropping would have picked up on was the love these two had for the newspaper business. They were a million miles apart in experience and recognition, but they were part of a brotherhood that spoke the same language, understood the rush of a scoop, and the thrill of seeing your name in print.

Before they parted, Jerry had written down what they had ordered and said he was bringing his wife back for dinner. He thought it would really impress her. Cole left with a promise from Jerry that he’d send clippings of anything from his tip.

As Cole entered the convalescent home, he noticed that for the first time since he’d arrived Eastwood Manor was bustling with wheelchairs and walkers. He stopped at the front desk and told Skillings, the office manager, that she would receive full payment for the next 12 months and all back payments due. She offered Cole a piece of See’s candy from a two-pound box behind the counter. He took two of his favorites—California Brittle and molasses chips—from the little brown paper cups. Money wasn’t supposed to make you happy, but it seemed to Cole that the billing department had forgotten to tell Skillings. Suddenly, Cole had a new best friend.

He moved quietly through the halls on his way to Ellie’s room, making an effort to smile at everyone he passed. Everyone he saw was well over 70. Why was Ellie in this place? He should have used the money from the diamonds to find a better hospital. Maybe there was a place with younger patients, people with some hope of leaving. It was then he remembered that Ellie
wouldn’t
be leaving. Call it denial or whatever you want, but he just couldn’t face her not getting well.

When he poked his head through the door, she was propped up in bed watching television.

“
Days of Our Lives
, El?”

“Cole, hi. Come sit down. It’s almost over.”

“It’s been going on for 40 years! You really think it’s ending today?”

“Hush.” Ellie smiled.

Ellie looked better than he had seen her since he arrived. Her hair had been washed and combed. She no longer had the shoulder-length curls he so adored. Her hair was cut short and was heavily streaked with gray. It was becoming and seemed to fit her. Her eyes sparkled as Cole bent to give her a peck on the forehead.

“Stop, the nurses will all gossip.” Her smile grew even bigger.

“Let ‘em! They’re probably bored. Since when do you watch the opium of the masses?”

“That’s religion, not TV. Hush.”

Even though speech was difficult, the old sparkle of Ellie’s personality still shined through. It lifted Cole’s spirits to see her obviously feeling better. As he sat, he looked at her for a long moment. A commercial suddenly blasted the room with a scene of a happy housewife spraying something around a room. Ellie clicked off the TV.

“It is good to see you,” she said.

“You look terrific. Must be feeling better today.”

“I have good days and not so good ones. With you here, it’s a
really
good one.”

“Flirt! Got some good news for you.” Cole scooted his chair around so he faced Ellie. “I met with Allen, and the power of attorney has been shredded.”

“Oh, Cole.” Tears welled in Ellie’s eyes.

“Knock that off, or I’ll go tape it back together.”

“Thank you. You just don’t know how much it means.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Cole smiled. “I also have some not-so-good news. Are you up for it? I can wait until later if—”

“My laters aren’t always predictable. I’m a big girl. What is it?” Ellie seemed to straighten a bit, bracing herself for what was to come.

“Two things, actually.” Cole cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “First, I found Erin.” He sighed and looked deep into Ellie’s eyes for a long moment before continuing, “She won’t come back, El. I am so sorry. I failed you.” Cole felt his face redden. “She is a beautiful girl. Looks just like her mom. No wonder you’re so proud of her. But there’s a lot of hurt and misunderstanding there. Reminds me of you—not just looks, but her laugh and some of her mannerisms.”

“Does she know I’m sick, Cole?”

“I told her. She cried and then got angry, kind of like I did. I think I softened her up a bit, though. She’ll come around. She loves you a lot, said so. She’s just mixed up. I am so sorry, Ellie.”