Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Sharp said, “Now we are going to unwrap the object in question to verify Dr. Alexander Delaware’s perception.”

She pulled out the lamp, used a penknife to deftly snip the tape, took her time unwrapping as Milo held the base for stability.

Perception verified.

Noreen Sharp put the camera down. “Obviously some defense attorney can always say one of your guys or one of our guys stole it. I think we’re looking pretty solid, that’s why I always play it by the books. But you know how it is post-O.J.”

“One way to avoid that bullshit, Noreen, is for me to find the damn ruby and solve the damn case. So let’s keep this quiet.”

“Something like that missing?” she said. “I need to file papers.”

“I know that but keep them in your desk until I tell you.”

“For how long?”

“Wish I knew.”

“Hmm.”

“Please, Noreen.”

She took in the room, shook her head. “I’ll do what I can. And both of you will need to fill out incident reports, plus we’ve still got the other problem: What if I need the bay for an actual car?”

“Can you find another place for the stuff?”

“Probably, but it might have to be divided up. And given what’s happened, we’re adding another layer of complication.”

“Let the chips fall, Noreen. I’ll make sure it’s my problem, not yours.”

“Appreciate the sentiment, Milo, but it’s not always up to people at our salary grade. Meanwhile, I’m changing the code to the bay. Going to find my deputy and have him witness it and video that, too.”

She phoned an extension. “Bay Three, Arnie, A-sap.” Unflappable blue eyes scanned the space again, settled on the bubble-glass lamp. “We need some idea about what we’re dealing with in terms of value, so if you could get an appraisal? I realize it would be without an in-person inspection and less than sterling, but it’s important to document on at least a theoretical level.”

“You read my mind, Noreen.”

“A clairvoyant?” she said. “We haven’t established that division, yet.”

Reports written and signed, we got in the car and headed back to the freeway.

Milo said, “She’s right, we could use an appraisal.” Looking at his Timex. “Not exactly my field of expertise.”

I said, “I know a guy.”

He looked at me. “You always do.”

Elie Aronson sold high-quality diamonds and custom jewelry from a vault-like office in a building on Hill Street, downtown. A judge who loved his wife had referred me to Elie as a source for “When you really mean it, or have to atone.”

I’d bought a few pieces from him for Robin. Last year, we’d done an insurance appraisal. Everything from Elie had appreciated.

We were approaching downtown when I reached his cellphone. He said, “What are you looking for?”

“Information.” I explained.

“I’m having lunch, when do you want to come?”

“I can be there in ten.”

“Fifteen, I’ll be finished with my shawarma, drive slow. Then we need to go fast, in twenty-five I got an appointment. I wait for you out front, okay, and we do it chick-chock. ”

He stood to the right of the building’s guarded brass doors, wearing a white shirt, pressed jeans, and red calfskin loafers. Muscular Israeli in his fifties with an unlined face, a luxuriant mass of wavy gray hair, and piercing black eyes. No trace of bling on him, not even a digital watch.

Milo pulled to the curb and I stuck my head out the passenger window. Elie looked around and got into the backseat of the unmarked.

“A police car,” he said. “Looks like I’m being arrested. How you doing, Doctor?”

“Good. You?”

“Can’t complain. Wouldn’t help anyway.”

He looked at Milo. Traffic zipped by as I made the introductions.

Milo said, “Appreciate the consult, sir.”

“Hey,” said Elie, “you guys protect me, I shouldn’t help you? Okay, show me the picture of this thing.”

I handed him the black-and-white from the museum show.

He glanced at it briefly, handed it back. “Can’t tell from that.”

Milo said, “Can you give a general idea?”

“I give you something but I don’t promise, too many iffies. First thing, is it genuine? Second, is it Burmese? Was it heat-treated? Do you got serious inclusions? Even with that it’s a tough thing. Something that size, it gets complicated. But... real, Burmese, no problems... it’s millions. How many?” He shrugged. “Could be two, could be eight, could be ten, could be twenty, if the color and clarity are super-good. But then there’s the market, another complication.”

“The market’s unstable?” said Milo.

“There’s fluctuations,” said Elie. “Also the larger the stone, the pool of customers gets small, there’s no standard, everything’s negotiable. Top of that, if it’s stolen, it’s gonna go cheap, like ten percent of value. But still, this size, a real Burmese... I don’t see it not being millions.”

I said, “What about the provenance?”

“Some guy showed it at a museum a hundred years ago? Big deal. Unless you get a collector of historicals who also has the big money. No one cares about a hundred years, these things are billions of years old.”

Milo said, “Any guess where it might end up?”

“If I’m betting, I’m putting my money on Asia, number one, an oil state, number two, Russia, number three. Maybe Russia is even two, they got oligarchs, want everything big and flashy for the twelve girlfriends.”

Milo said, “No buyers in the States?”

“I’m not saying no, Lieutenant, but that wouldn’t be my bet. Someone buys a stone this big and hot and wants to keep it here, they going to have to hide it. No way the girlfriend can go to the party with it dangling from a chain. Asia, Abu Dhabi, Russia, they don’t care.”

“Meaning it could already be gone.”

“I wish I could give you good news but that’s my other bet. Who belonged to it?”

“An old lady who got murdered.”

“Oh.” Elie shook his head. “That’s terrible, I’m sorry for her. You want, I can ask around but I don’t think I’m gonna learn anything.”

Milo said, “We’d sure appreciate anything you can do.”

“You bet.” He reached for the door handle. “Murdered for a piece of carbon. Same old story.”

As we approached West L.A., Milo said, “Millions of bucks at stake makes me jumpy. Ergo hungry. Feel like pizza?”

“Whatever you want.”

“How do you do it? Control the appetite.”

For most of the ride, I’d been thinking about Thalia being snuffed out. Visualizing the details. An excellent suppressant.

I said, “I’ll eat, I just don’t care what.”

A mile later, he said, “Forget pizza, too festive. Something Irish would be appropriately morose — soda bread and boy-yald poday-dos, ey? Then again, that’s why my ancestors left the old sod, so how ’bout Mexican for a compromise?”

I said, “Olé.”

He sped past the Overland exit for the station, got off two ramps later in Santa Monica, and pulled into the parking lot of a fake-hacienda called El Matador. Big, mostly empty room, warm air ripe with cheese and beans and corn chips. Heavy fixtures of not-quite wrought iron, tile floor, clumsy Tijuana furniture. Bullfight posters on the walls — there’s a shock, for you.

We settled in a corner booth. Milo said, “We were right near Boyle Heights, coulda had something authentic, my timing’s off.”

A sweet-faced waitress took our order. Bottle of Tecate and the combo special for him, iced tea and beef fajitas for me.

She said, “With fajitas the pan’s super-hot — legally, we have to warn you.”