Ginny Aiken: Priced to Move

The phone rings a couple of times, three, then, “Hello?” Dulcet feminine tones do not equal Roger. “Tiffany? Where’s Roger? Or did I dial your number by mistake?”

“Andie?” She sounds as surprised as I am. “Ah . . . I wasn’t expecting the phone to ring. Neither was Rog. He’s, um . . . unavailable. You do realize it’s late, right?”

“It’s not that late. Could I please speak with him? I only have a question or two for him. I won’t keep him for long.” Tiffany sniffs. “I can tell you’ve never been a bride, Andrea. We need our privacy.”

Eeuw! TMI. “All right, all right. I’ll call him in the morning.” Then, to make my discomfort even greater, Max looks at me. “Well?”

I blush hotter than . . . well, than the fire of a Burmese ruby. “Trust me, Max. You don’t want to know. It has to do with the two of them and their privacy.”

To my mischievous delight, Max turns pigeon’s-blood red. “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”

Neither one of us speaks, and the grinding of our mental gears is almost deafening. Then something comes to me. “You know what else I want to know?”

He leans forward, empty glass in hand. “What’s that?”

“Who Chief Clark’s silent shadow is. Aren’t you curious?” Max leaves his glass on the table, sits back in his chair, tents his fingers. He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, he does so in a quiet and thoughtful voice.

“Maybe he’s one of the Feds on the case. They have to be involved. The chief even brought up Interpol, like you said. That guy with him looks like a Fed. He’s always worn a suit, white shirt, and navy tie. He’s almost a cliché.”

“Well, the chief wears his dress shirt and tie, but I think the missing suit jacket’s his style choice.” Or lack thereof. “But wouldn’t an FBI agent ask his own questions? Wouldn’t he introduce himself? How about homicide detective? Maybe that’s what he is, but in some junior, training job.”

“No way. The detectives came in right after the chief and the responding officers the first night. I think you were just too out of it to notice them collecting evidence.”

“And the chief’s the one that keeps coming after me. Interesting he’s not let the detectives take over. At least not with me. Sounds like control issues, you know.”

Max chuckles, but says nothing.

I go on. “Okay, if he’s a Fed, like you say, why didn’t he question me?”

“I’ve heard all these different law enforcement types tend to be territorial. The Fed might be deferring to the locals, as long as he feels everything’s being done right.”

“Still sounds strange to me.”

He pushes away from the table and stands. “Nothing about this is normal. Strange is the least I’d call it.”

“Then I know I’m not missing anything.”

“Unless I’m missing the same thing.” He shakes his head.

“I guess I’m just not cut out to be a detective.”

I wink. “Or a gemologist.”

“Not fair! I asked for lessons, but the accident got in the way. How about we start those up?”

If tonight is anything to go by, I think I’d survive. “Okay. Tomorrow looks good.”

“After the show we’ll get a phone book, check out some government agencies, eat, and do gems.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

A sudden awkwardness hits us both, and just as my cheeks start warming, he smiles and heads down the hall. “I’d better get some sleep,” he says. “Otherwise Allison’s job tomorrow’s going to be harder than usual.”

“You’re not worming any compliments out of me.”

He winks. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Good night, Max.”

“Good night, Andie.”

As I close the door behind him, I can’t make myself believe he’s the killer.

“Lord? Am I right? Because if I’m wrong, I’m really wrong. You know what I mean?”

The silence is thick, but I remember Peggy’s duct tape. I’m hanging. Still.

Faith. It’ll see me through.

The next day, our show goes off with less nastiness than usual. True, Max teases me a couple of times. I give him grief right back on his lack of knowledge. But I go easy on him. After all, most people would think a gem-quality kunzite looks like a washed-out amethyst.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Max says after we take off our mikes.

“Okay, it wasn’t horrible.”

“Should I get that in writing?”

I head for the green room. “Don’t push your luck, bud.” “How long do you think it will take you to get ready?”

“For lunch and a lesson?”

“What else? Oh, and the phone book. Don’t forget that.” Our cease-fire feels good, but I wonder if I’m just falling for a charmer’s spiel. People did say Ted Bundy was a nice guy. Until he started killing people.

One thing’s for sure. I’ve got to keep my eyes peeled every moment I’m with Max. My life might depend on it. Not that I’m calling him a mass murderer or anything.

I glance at my watch. “I can meet you in the parking lot in say . . . about fifteen minutes. I’ll just take off my makeup and stash the sample trays in the vault.”

“Great. Gives me time to get rid of my war paint too.”

His grimace makes me laugh. Is this for real? Mr. Magnificent acting this near to normal? Or am I the one that’s taken a turn for the extraterrestrial? I have to stop myself before I pinch my thigh. With my luck, he’d catch me and laugh. Again.

I cream my face, wipe off the heavy goop, then suds off the residue. I’m excited about the chance to track down Mr. Pak’s steps after he entered the country. I would imagine he came in through JFK, since he’d more than likely go to the diamond district in New York first.

Even though it’s called the diamond district, way more than diamonds are sold there. Mr. Pak had loads of contacts among the other jewelers there; we were only one of his usual stops. I know at least a handful of the others, and I’m all about making calls today.

I snag my Coach bag and hurry out, not wanting to give Max any more reason to tease, and I’d be willing to bet that anything he construes as “primping” would bring on the teasing.

“You’re quick,” he says when I run out to the parking lot. “I want answers to our questions.”

Over General Tso’s chicken and kung pao shrimp, we come up with a plan of attack. I’ll call the jewelers, and Max will take on the FBI. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think Max is right. Chief Clark’s shadow is probably a Fed, just giving the chief his space.

An hour later, I slap my phone shut. “Let’s talk about equality here. There was none. You had the easy call—only one. I’ve been on the phone all this time, and no one I spoke with had an appointment with Mr. Pak.”

He turns his hands palm up in fake helplessness. “What else was I going to do? I don’t know every jeweler west of the Atlantic’s shore. And it’s not my fault that when I called Chief Clark, I had my answer. He was surprised I was asking about your ‘shadowman.’ He didn’t realize, or so he says, he hadn’t introduced the man. The shadow’s John Stewart, the Special Agent assigned to the case—a man of few words, and driving our good chief crazy with his silence.”

I give Max an impish grin. “Couldn’t happen to a better man. Any word on why Roger didn’t get grilled?”

“Let’s just say Chief Clark isn’t one for sharing information.”

“No joke.” I rap my fingers on the table. “You know, I’m convinced the answers are with Mrs. Pak.”

“You want to try to hit up the FBI guy?”

“Hah! If Chief Clark can’t get him to talk, what makes you think we’ll get anywhere?”