Diamonds and Cole (24 page)

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“I don’t need any lawyer! You got nothing. Hearsay and circumstantial evidence.”

“You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?”

“What do you want to know?”

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand?” Fergusson pressed on, ignoring Christopher.

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk!”

“If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand?”

“I don’t want to go to jail!” Christopher pleaded.

“Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?” The mini recorder still sat on the desk.

“Yes, yes. What is it you think I’ve done?”

“You will be charged with mail fraud, conspiracy to commit grand theft, and the attempted bribery of an elected official on behalf of the Castigleone crime family. It’s over, Christopher. Now if you are willing to work with us, we might be able help you.”

Christopher sat down. Everything Cole Sage said would happen, had happened. He was guilty. He knew it, they knew it. Richard Anderson had set him up. The money had blinded him to it. The noose around his neck was real. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He was going to prison. All of his posturing was for nothing. He knew it, they knew it.

“Okay, look, I don’t want to go to prison.”

“That’s up to a jury.”

“I thought you said we could make a deal?”

“No, I said I might be able to help. What is it you want to tell me?”

“I did it.”

“You did what?”

“I worked with Tree to buy and sell cars with diamonds.”

“That’s not a crime and not what I’m here for.”

“I was going to pay for the stones with the proceeds. It just didn’t work out.”

“Do you have any stones left?” Fergusson asked.

“I did, but Sage stole them from me.”

“Look, Christopher. There’s a warrant for two of Jefferson’s guys for attempted murder and another for Jefferson for ordering the attack. Cole Sage is an award-winning newspaperman, highly regarded by the Chicago police. Now, whatever you have against him doesn’t matter beans to me, but save the ‘Cole Sage did this, that and the other thing,’ ‘cause nobody’s buying it.”

“What attack?”

“On Cole Sage. He’s in the hospital right now, beat to hell.”

“I had nothing to do with that!”

“You said Jefferson was your man. I have a feeling Jefferson’s orders came from you.”

“I know nothing about beating up Sage. My only connection to Jefferson had to do with the cars, nothing else. He’s on his own otherwise, I swear.”

“So you burned Zeff for the diamonds, right?”

“I guess.”

“You mean yes?”

“Yes.”

“Did you offer Sven Elias diamonds to change the zoning on the property you were trying to buy for Malcor?”

Christopher looked down at his feet. “Yes.”

“Mr. Wallace, will you please prepare Mr. Christopher for transport?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Christopher, please stand and put your hands behind your head.”

Without a word, Christopher stood and did as the man said. Wallace turned him around and quickly patted him down. He removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and restrained Christopher. Fergusson knew his federal case was not very strong. A good defense attorney could probably whittle down some of the charges, but with the confession, Christopher would do time. More important was his link to the mob. Putting them on the West Coast, involved with criminal activities, would give him some leverage, and that’s what really mattered.

The raid on Tree Top Jefferson’s crib was far more productive than Fergusson had imagined. Although there were no federal violations per se, the local police had a field day. Built into the house were several false walls and safe rooms. It took two police cargo vans to haul away the loot they found stashed behind the walls: Neatly shelved, tagged, and complete with inventory sheets on clipboards hanging from the walls, was a fortune in stolen goods.

Along with the dozens of DVD players, car stereos, laptop computers, and a myriad of other electronic devices, there were several hundred cell phones. Many new in boxes, others in plastic Ziploc bags. In each of the bags was a photocopy of instructions on how to reprogram the phone and the name of several people who could, for a price, hook up the purchaser with an untraceable account to activate the phone.

The real score was in Tree’s bedroom. The top of the dressers was a veritable contraband pharmacy. Bowls of crack and powder cocaine, apothecary jars of marijuana, and a crystal candy dish of Ecstasy. In one of the drawers was a large Ziploc bag later identified as methamphetamine.

In his closet, along with enough shoes to make Imelda Marcos blush, were four assault rifles and three sawed-off shotguns. On one shelf at the end of the closet were stacked several heavy-duty aluminum travel cases. Each case was full of handguns. Glocks in various calibers, nickel-plated Colt 45 automatics, 9mm Smith & Wesson automatics, a variety of fancy engraved ivory-and-pearl-handled pistols, and enough ammunition to launch a small war. On the floor behind a rack of shoes was an Army green wooden box about six feet long. Inside the box were two surface-to-air missiles and a grenade launcher—a federal arms felony violation.

During the search of the bedroom, the phone next to the bed rang.

“Jefferson residence, Special Agent Fergusson speaking.”

“Yeah, yo’ funny. Where’s Tree?”

“Haven’t seen him. But if you get a hold of him, will you let him know I’d like to speak with him?”

“Who is this, again?”

“Fergusson, FBI,” he said, but all the Special Agent heard was laughter and a dial tone.

Fergusson sat down on the side of the bed and made a couple of notes. As he pressed down on the mattress to stand to his feet, a small ebony box slid out from under the green velvet brocade pillow on the bed and hit his hand. Inside the box was a piece of red velvet folded over and tucked in at the sides. Fergusson turned back the cloth to find several hundred diamonds. Jefferson had been skimming off the supply. This tied him directly to Christopher. Even without the diamonds, there were enough felonies represented in this raid to send him away for a long, long time. He would let the local cops take care of the dirty work. The federal violations were minimal. Fergusson chuckled to himself. The guy from Chicago had certainly made a lot of cops look good around here.

This would be the end of Tree Top Jefferson’s career as the city’s flashiest street hustler. By the time he’d get out of jail, the streets would be filled with hydrogen-burning hovercraft.

*
   
*
   
*

Cole checked out of the hospital around three o’clock and into the Holiday Inn. He figured after the lumps he’d taken, the upgrade to a softer bed and nicer surroundings would be worth the expense, and aid in his recovery. The television had a remote, and there was a refrigerator in the room with lots of ice. He had kept the icepack from the hospital and had it on his eye while he tried to watch a Cubs game on TV. His eyeball ached and his ribs were sore, but the call from Agent Fergusson around nine o’clock made it almost worthwhile. Christopher had folded like a house of cards, and Tree Top had been caught holding the bag. The Cubbies were up by two, God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world. Around midnight, Cole drifted to sleep with the help of Tylenol with codeine.

NINETEEN

Cole awoke with a sharp pain in his side as he tried to roll over. His head and neck were throbbing from being propped up on pillows for so long. He reached for his wristwatch on the nightstand. It was 9:15, and the light through the curtain’s gap told him he had survived the night.
What day is it, though
? he thought.
Must be Sunday
. Another jolt of pain shot through Cole’s middle as he sat up and put his feet on the floor. He made his way to the bathroom and didn’t much like what he saw in the mirror. Thankfully, his eye was in far better shape than he expected. It was badly bruised, but the butterfly bandage covered the stitches and most of the swelling had gone down. He was in need of a shave, and his hair needed shampooing. Overall, he looked pretty much like he had been stomped by a herd of buffalo.
 

After a shave, shower, and a long hot soak in the tub, some of the stiffness receded and his mobility improved. He dressed and went to breakfast, stopping at the gift shop in the lobby on the way to buy an overpriced pair of cheap sunglasses. He was able to avoid the stares of the Sunday brunch crowd and idle chitchat of a waitress by going through the buffet and sitting in a dark corner. If anyone noticed him at all, they probably thought he had a hangover.

Cole ate mostly scrambled eggs and blueberry muffins. He got his $12.95’s worth by drinking three cups of Caf
￩
Mocha from the coffee bar. His jaw ached, and his bottom lip had a raw gash on the inside, so soft and warm was the order of the day. As he drank his last cup of coffee, he glanced through the paper. No mention of Allen Christopher or Tree Top Jefferson yet, but on the bottom of the front page of the local section there was a teaser for a feature story coming Wednesday on the new Zoning Commissioner entitled “Getting it Right.”

By the time Cole got to his car, he was feeling pretty good. On the drive to Eastwood Manor, he rolled down the windows and turned the radio up. “Good Day Sunshine” blasted from the speakers, and Cole did his best Paul McCartney impersonation as he sailed through traffic on the way to see Ellie. It felt good to be alive! Even a little battered, he was grateful to be in one piece. When “Sunshine of Your Love” came on a few minutes later, Cole proved he knew every one of Clapton’s guitar licks as he mimicked the Stratocaster,
wah-wah
pedal and all.

Cole was excited to see Ellie. He had decided as he’d lay on the gurney in the ER that he would tell her straight out how much he loved her, how much he had missed her all through the years, and how much he regretted ever letting her get away. There would be no skirting the issue anymore. He wouldn’t hold back. He’d ask her forgiveness. Their parting long ago was mostly his fault, and he knew it. There was no doubt that this was the right thing to do. He could go home knowing he had said all the things he had dreamed of saying for a long, long time.

“Baby, now that I’ve found you, I won’t let you go, baby even though, You don’t need me, now, You don’t need me.” Cole was singing along with The Foundations at the top of his lungs, singing like he hadn’t in years. As he drove, the hits just kept on comin’ and Cole just kept singin’ and smilin’.

The Eastwood Manor parking lot was full. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and the visitors had turned out in droves.
Good for them
, he thought.
They need to visit the folks in here
. Cole finally found a spot on the far side of the main building. As he walked to the entrance, he smiled and greeted several people making their way to their cars. A middle-aged couple approached the front door with a big bouquet of colorful flowers. Cole opened the door for them and made a theatrical bow and sweep of his hand inviting them to go in first.
This place doesn’t look that bad
, he thought as he made his way toward Ellie’s room.

Her door was open, and Cole heard voices coming from inside. He was surprised to see two nurses putting things from the closet into a bag.

“Hi, how are we doing today?” he began.

“Fine,” the older of the two nurses replied.

Cole did not like the way they looked at each other.

“Have they moved Mrs. Christopher?”

The nurses once again looked at each other before the younger of the two answered, “No, she, uh, she got sick. I’m not sure where they put her.”

“Sick? What kind of sick?” Cole demanded.

“Maybe you should talk to Mrs. Elliott. She’s the manager on duty. She’s at the front—”

Cole was running down the hall before the nurse finished her sentence.

“Where’s Mrs. Elliott?” Cole called out to the woman at the front desk as he approached.

“What’s wrong, sir.” The woman stood to her feet.

“Mrs. Christopher, Ellie Christopher in 224, where is she? Where have they taken her?”

“Just a moment. Let me see. It will be okay, sir, please don’t be upset. I’ll find out.” She saw Cole’s panic and picked up the microphone. “Mrs. Elliott, Code 15. Mrs. Elliott, Code 15, front desk please.”

A thin, graying woman came jogging up the hall toward Cole. She moved with a graceful gait with no self-consciousness in her movements.

“How may I help?”

“Mrs. Christopher. Where has she been moved?”

“Are you family?”

“Yes,” Cole said without thinking.

“Mrs. Christopher has been moved to the county hospital. She has been diagnosed with pneumonia. We thought it best if she—”

Cole was already running to his car. He started the engine and sped, tires squealing, from the parking lot. He turned off the radio with an angry snap. The county hospital was 15 minutes away. Cole ran three stoplights in a row and was about to fly through a fourth but spotted a city bus and stopped. He had no thoughts. He only wanted to get to the hospital. His focus was speed and avoiding hitting anything that would stop or slow his getting there.

The rental car nearly left the pavement as Cole turned into the hospital parking lot and hit a speed bump. He parked and ran the 50 or so yards to the entrance. Pulling the automatic door open with a hard yank, he walked quickly to the reception desk. A woman in her 70s in a red-and-white striped bibbed jumper watched with apprehension as Cole approached.