Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

“Don’t be silly.” Catharina tried to smile, but there was too much fatigue and sadness-and terror-in her face. “Rachel’s death was a tragic accident.” Her voice cracked. “She was a childhood friend, Juliana, my friend. I know I’m not being myself, but-her death has nothing to do with you.”

“Why did she come to New York?”

Catharina sighed. “To see me.”

“And Senator Ryder?”

“I know nothing about that. Rachel knew many powerful people, including senators. Now she’s dead. Whatever business she had with Senator Ryder is none of our affair. Take your vacation, Juliana. You look tired.”

“You hadn’t seen Rachel Stein in a long time, and she shows up in New York just like that?”

“It’s easy to lose track of people as you get older.”

“Mother-”

Catharina abandoned her ruined dough. “That’s the end of it, Juliana. It’s finished. Did you see I made chicken pies today?” She brushed back a fallen curl. “Something new. Take one with you to Vermont.”

“Mother, dammit.”

But under the best of circumstances Catharina Fall was closemouthed-discreet, she called it. At the moment, however, Juliana wasn’t sure she had much room to criticize. She had never told her mother about Uncle Johannes’s visit backstage seven years ago, about his gift-if one wanted to call it that-of the Minstrel’s Rough. Her mother knew the Minstrel existed, knew the four-hundred-year-old tradition. All the Peperkamps did. But Uncle Johannes had advised her not to mention the Minstrel to her mother, and she never had.

My God, where will this end?

“What about Father? Does he know any of this?”

A dumb question, she thought. Catharina Peperkamp Fall told her husband as little as she did her daughter-unless he’d been feigning innocence all these years.

“Know any of what?” Catharina countered. “There’s nothing to know.”

“Well,” Juliana said in a falsely cheerful voice, “I suppose the Dutch don’t have their reputation for stubbornness without foundation.

“Go to Vermont,” her mother said. “And wash your hair first.”

Of course she wouldn’t ask why it was lavender to begin with. Juliana said goodnight. On her way out, she didn’t take a chicken pie.

Matthew took the shuttle back to Washington and headed straight to the Gazette. It wasn’t the first time he’d shown up in a newsroom after hours, but his colleagues on the Gazette didn’t know that. He ignored their curious looks and went over to Aaron Ziegler’s desk.

“Burning the midnight oil, Ziegler?”

The young reporter looked up at Stark and nodded, his expression betraying a mix of eagerness and nervousness. “I’ve got your information. I didn’t tell Feldie, but she knows I’m doing some research for you.”

“She around?”

“No.”

“Good. Give me what you’ve got.”

“I haven’t written anything up yet.”

“That’s okay. Just spit it out.”

Ziegler, his rep tie loosened, consulted a steno book on his neat desk. Stark remained standing. He didn’t know what to do to make the kid less nervous, so he didn’t do anything.

“The world’s largest uncut diamond naturally varies from time to time because it doesn’t stay uncut for very long-unless you’re talking about the Minstrel’s Rough.” He glanced up, his eyes questioning Matthew.

Stark said, “I don’t know if I am or not. Give me what you’ve got.”

“Well, it sounds pretty farfetched.”

“Don’t worry about that. If it’s not what I’m looking for, I’ll just keep digging.”

“All right. Supposedly ‘the world’s largest and most mysterious uncut diamond’ is the Minstrel’s Rough.”

“Supposedly?”

“That’s just it: no one’s ever been able to verify the thing even exists. It’s been rumored to exist for the last four or five hundred years, and there have been a number of unconfirmed sightings of it. Nothing can be substantiated, but I gather it’s not supposed to be. Part of the legend-the mystery-is that the Minstrel can never be proven to exist. That way no matter how big the current biggest uncut diamond is, people will always wonder if there’s one bigger.”

“The Minstrel.”

“Right.”

“Sounds like a lot of bullshit, Ziegler.”

“I know. But the mystery surrounding the Minstrel adds to its symbolism. Supposedly it’s in the hands of caretakers who’ll never cut it, in remembrance of those who have suffered persecution and hatred. In other words, it’s a reminder that no story is more important than human life. Which brings me to the Minstrel’s ‘alleged’ potential as a cut and polished stone. Not only is it huge, but it’s an ice white.”

“What’s that?”

“The highest grade of diamond, as close to pure and colorless as possible. If the Minstrel does exist and ever is found and cut, it could be worth millions. Over the centuries there’ve been countless sightings and loads of attempts to track it down, but still no Minstrel. But the material I’ve read treats it strictly as legend.”

Matthew’s thoughts were already racing. Just who the hell was Sam Ryder planning to buy off with those millions? Because Sam, of course, was enough of a dumbass to go after a mythical diamond. The Weaze was right about that, no doubt. “Shit,” he muttered, then sighed. “Okay, Ziegler, thanks. Anything on the other business?”

“That was considerably easier,” Aaron said, looking more relaxed, if not at ease. “Rachel Stein came from Amsterdam; she was a member of an old diamond-cutting family that was wiped out during the Holocaust. She and her brother Abraham were the only survivors. Pretty grim stuff. I have a lot on her life in the U.S., but you were just interested in the Dutch connection, right? There wasn’t much. They were hidden by a Dutch family through much of the war but were discovered in its last months and deported to the death camps. As I said, there wasn’t a lot of detail. As for Juliana Fall-there was a nice, fat folder on her in the library.”

“I’ll bet,” Stark said.

“As you said, the Dutch connection comes from her mother, whose maiden name was Peperkamp. She grew up in Amsterdam. There was a file on her-a review of her bakeshop. I went ahead and checked under Peperkamp. You’re not going to believe this, but there’s a diamond cutter named Johannes Peperkamp.”

Here a Peperkamp, there a Peperkamp. “Go on.”

“There wasn’t much recent stuff. He started out in Amsterdam and moved to Antwerp after World War II, and he’s cut a number of famous large diamonds, including the Breath of Angels, which is now in the Smithsonian. He’s the last of the Peperkamp cutters, who apparently got into the business in the sixteenth century when they provided safe haven for Jewish diamond merchants fleeing the Inquisition in Antwerp and Lisbon, which until that time were the principal diamond cities.”

“Any relation to Catharina or Juliana Fall?”

“None mentioned, but that’s not surprising. Juliana would have been just a kid when most of the material in the folder was published.”

“Any mention of Hendrik de Geer?”

“No. I couldn’t find anything on him.”

“Any connection between this Johannes Peperkamp or Juliana and Catharina Fall and Rachel Stein?”

“None that I could find.”

“Okay. Thanks, Aaron. I appreciate it.”

Ziegler beamed. “Should I keep stalling Feldie?”

“By all means.”

Matthew went for coffee, pure rotgut but hot, and sat in the cafeteria for an hour talking sports with a couple of reporters. The Caps were playing the Bruins at home and losing in the third period. He wondered if Juliana Fall had ever been to a hockey game. They could go together, and she could get up on the organ and play the national anthem. Hell, that’d kill her reputation faster than getting caught as J.J. Pepper. Did she even know what the inside of a hockey arena looked like? He doubted it. Had she ever eaten a hotdog from a concession stand? Had she ever eaten a hotdog at all? Probably called them frankfurters.