He said, “Car’s worth fifteen G but looks like a million. There’s gotta be a moral in that.” He rubbed his face. “Where the hell are those maids?”
I said, “If they weren’t hired through an agency, maybe it was a personal referral.”
“Meaning?”
“Her spa buddies.”
On-hold purgatory at Dr. Lana Demarest’s dental office was soundtracked by a spiel about baby teeth. When someone finally broke in, it was an answering service operator. Closed for the day.
At Toni Bowman’s real estate company, a receptionist listened, and put Milo on hold during four minutes of felonious Beatle adaptation. “Yesterday” and “I’ll Follow the Sun” debased by flatulent tuba and trombone and ice-rink Hammond organ.
Milo said, “Sadists,” and rubbed his eyes and looked at his Timex.
Finally: “Here you go, sir.”
“God bless—”
Toni Bowman said, “You’re into the holy roller stuff?”
Milo said, “Whatever helps,” and told her what he was after.
She said, “So no progress. Yeah, she asked me for a referral because her genius husband had hired a service who did a lousy job. I talked to my Rosa. She’s a gem, I knew anyone she vouched for would be golden.”
“Could you please ask Rosa if she has addresses for Ms. Ruiz and Ms. Santiago?”
“Meg hired two people? I only know of one, a friend of Rosa’s, no idea what her name is and you’ll have to wait to find out. Rosa’s on vacation in Mexico for another week.”
Milo said, “Long as we’re talking, do you know of any connection Meagin had to San Pietro?”
“Where’s that?”
“Ventura County.”
“She never mentioned it. Why?”
“She phoned up there.”
“A lot?”
“Once.”
“Sounds like you’re grasping at straws,” said Toni Bowman.
“Sometimes it comes to that, ma’am. Thanks for your time and when you do have a chance to talk to Rosa, please let me know.”
“I’ll have a chance in a week,” said Toni Bowman. “I have no idea how to reach her in her little village. And don’t ask me which one it is, all I know is they keep chickens, she once showed me a photo of chickens.”
We both decided to call it a day. I was just out the door when Milo’s phone beeped the first four notes of Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1. To me, his ringtones are just as sinful as the assault on Liverpool but they don’t seem to bother him.
He looked at the number, motioned me to sit back down, switched to speaker, and said, “Sir.”
Douglass March said, “When can I have her jewelry?”
“It’s in safekeeping—”
“Where?”
“Our scientific division.”
“For what reason? Fingerprints? DNA?”
“Do you need it in a hurry, sir?”
“No, but I see no reason to delay. I’m going to have all her shit appraised at Christie’s or Sotheby’s then sell it. I’ve done some research and with inflation looming, prices are rising, and there’s one piece I’m fixing to make a serious profit on. Purple diamond necklace, one and a half carats, super-rare. I paid a hundred thou and since then colored stones have skyrocketed.”
Each sentence had lowered his volume and pitch, buffering the jagged contours of his words. Calming as he talked about making money.
Then he said, “I need to get something out of all this,” and the hard edge returned.
Milo said, “I’ll have everything inventoried and let you know.”
March said, “That’s not much of an answer.”
“It’s my answer,” said Milo. “If you have a complaint, my captain is—”
“Oh, don’t waste my time by shunting me to another bureaucrat. Everything she owned — is mine, so do what you need to do and get it back to me A-sap.”
Click.
Milo stared at the phone. “Gimme a diagnosis.”
I said, “F-minus people skills, angry and doesn’t care who knows it.”
“I was thinking malignant asshole.”
“That’s another way of putting it.”
“But not a psychopath? Not conscious, arrogant, throwing it in my face?”
“You know what I’m going to tell you—”
“Anything’s possible. But?”
“To me that came across as a tantrum. One thing he mentioned that was interesting: the purple diamond. I noticed it at the scene because it was small and simple compared with the other pieces. I assumed it was semi-precious, something she’d held on to for sentimental reasons. But now that I think about it, she wore it in the gala photo.”
“He’s right about it being big-time hoohah.”
“Let’s see.”
Internet research confirmed the rarity of intense pink and purple diamonds. The stones were mined mostly in Australia, occasionally in Siberia or Africa, the color theorized to be the product of extreme pressure.
Milo said, “Should be my birthstone.”
Online sites were all over the place value-wise and many came across as scams. Not that any of them actually owned purples; the only images were of pale-pink diamonds many of which were barely pigmented. But still pricey.
I said, “We could try the dealer you used on the Thalia Mars case.”
“Remember his name?”
“Not offhand.”
He drummed his fingers, began searching years of emails. “This doesn’t work, I’ll go downstairs and pull the file.”
I’m better with faces than with names. Closing my eyes I summoned up a full, pink, white-mustachioed face. Cheerful eyes and voice. Older man, eighty or so, spry, dapper... Armenian.
Like the writer.
I said, “Saroyan.”
He logged off his mail, looked up the number in his contacts, googled. “Here we go. Harold A. Saroyan, Sargis Premium Jewelers, the downtown Jewelry Mart.”
Saroyan’s lightly accented voice answered. “Hel-lo. Sargis.”
“Mr. Saroyan, it’s Lieutenant Sturgis. You may not remember but a few years ago—”
“Of course I remember. I don’t get to do such exciting things very often. What do you want me to look at, now?”
“Nothing yet, sir. I’d just like a ballpark appraisal of a one-and-a-half-carat purple diamond.”
Saroyan clicked his tongue. “Ah, such a pity.”
“What is?”
“The laws of probability say you have a fake, Lieutenant. Maybe, at best, a tasteless chemical enhancement. Did somebody steal it? Or worse, kill for it?”
“No, sir,” said Milo. “An owner has requested its return and I wanted to have a—”
“Ballpark estimate,” said Saroyan. “Okay, let’s go to Dodger Stadium. What shape is the stone?”
Milo looked at me.
I said, “Pear.”
“Pear.”
“No big difference,” said Saroyan. “And the color?”
“Purple, sir. We thought it might be an amethyst.”
“And you might be right.”
“If it is real—”
“On the slight chance it is real, Lieutenant, we are talking two hundred fifty thousand to three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Minimum. And the way things are going, that figure will be higher by next year due to inflation.”
“Really.”
“Really, Lieutenant. But it’s more like an infinitesimal chance. The last purple I obtained was six years ago and I worked hard for it, including a trip to Australia. I sold it to a famous person. Six carats. Millions.”
“Wow,” said Milo.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Lieutenant. The ability to be amazed is a good thing.”
“Happens to me often, sir.”
“With murders?”
“With the things people do to each other.”
“Ah,” said Harold Saroyan. “That sounds more like horror than amazement. If you want me to look at whatever this is, just call me. I will come to you.”