He doesn’t know about Peralta and the robbery.

This was a good thing, or so I calculated. If he knew, he might have somehow used it against me. For the first time, I was thankful for a society of ignoramuses that didn’t read newspapers or even watch television news.

He stubbed out the Marlboro. “I don’t deal in ’em.”

“How would a person fence valuable diamonds, in unique settings? Hypothetically speaking.”

“Way over my pay grade,” he said. “Diamonds make people crazy. The 2003 Antwerp heist? A hundred million. They got caught. Absolutely insane plan. But it didn’t keep them from trying. You get into that kind of shit, you better pick out your dirt furniture.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Dirt furniture,” he repeated. “Goes well six feet under.”

When I spread out comfortably in the chair, he talked again.

“Here’s what I’ve read, okay? Uncut diamonds are the easiest to resell. They’re tough to trace. The buyer could cut them, change their characteristics, and make it hard to track them. Nothing worth more is as small and easy to move. No mineral is worth more per gram. Now, cut diamonds are a different breed of cat. If they’re expensive enough, they might be laser-inscribed, with a number or name. De Beers does that. I’m no expert, but that’s what I’ve heard, see.”

For somebody who claimed little knowledge of diamonds, he knew quite a bit.

I said, “So they’re not fence-able?”

“I’m not saying that.” His pride kicked in. “The smart thief would wait. Let the cops move onto other stuff. Then find the right wholesaler. You know, with the right set of ethics. They’ll still get a fraction of what the diamonds are worth. The wholesaler will resell ’em to retail jewelers who don’t want to ask too many questions.”

He picked out another smoke with the remarkable dexterity of that shot-off hand and lit up.

He continued, “Wholesalers make the money. But understand, they’re after diamonds worth millions, not the engagement ring your girlfriend gave back, see? That’s what I’ve read, at least. Honest to God, I don

’t deal in diamonds. If I did, I wouldn’t be in this fuckin’ mess.”

“So who would know about these wholesalers?”

He watched me closely. “You’ll leave if I give you a lead?”

I nodded.

He reached for a notepad with his good hand and scrawled an address. He tore off the page and slid it across to me.

“I handled a delicate matter once,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that. I delivered a package to this office.”

“Who works here?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to know and my client wasn’t going to tell me. My instructions were to walk into the outer office at a certain time and put the package on the secretary’s desk and leave. I didn’t see a secretary or anybody. Don’t think that wasn’t intentional. After I got back in the hall, I heard the door being locked behind me. Look, I’m taking a chance even giving you this much.”

As he checked his watch for the tenth time, I unfolded the computer-generated color sketch of Strawberry Death.

“Ever seen this woman?”

“I thought you said you were going?”

I tapped on the sketch.

He actually took a moment to study it. “Nope, but I’d like to. She’s cute. Not exactly the kind of clientele we get in here, you know? She lose a diamond?”

“Something like that.”

I thanked him. And although I already knew his answer, I told him we could help, get him into witness protection in exchange for his cooperation.

He waved me away with his three-fingered hand, the Marlboro held firmly.

Tags: Jon Talton David Mapstone Mystery Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net