“Appreciate that, sir.”
“Oh yes, Lieutenant. The last time I worked with you I had a good story for my grandchildren.”
Milo thanked him, hung up, scrawled some notes, stretched his legs as far as the mean space permitted. “Two fifty to three fifty and Dougie paid a hundred.”
“She scammed him?”
“Given the nature of their relationship, it’s possible, no? Notice, he didn’t say he bought it, he said he paid for it. What if she came to him, I found something I like, honey. He doles out a hundred. She buys an amethyst and pockets the dough.”
“Did she have her own bank account?”
“Don’t know yet. Just put in the subpoena but even if I get it, I have no idea where to look.”
I said, “Learning she conned him financially as well as romantically isn’t going to do much for Doug’s disposition.”
“Only thing that matters to me is if that led him to shoot two people and I can prove it. Any ideas?”
I shook my head.
“No prob,” he said, “it’s dinnertime, anyway. Gonna find some slop nearby, then get back here and keep grasping at straws.”
“Why don’t you come over for dinner?”
“Don’t you wanna ask Gorgeous?”
“She loves you.”
Despite himself, he smiled. “It’s mutual. Thanks for the offer, amigo, but I’m feeling the pull of solitude.”
Chapter 26
I spent the morning writing up my evaluation of a six-year-old girl injured by a bicyclist speeding on a sidewalk in Pacific Palisades. The biker’s defense: his activism helped the environment and pedestrians needed to be aware of their surroundings, specifically the child’s mother.
No need for me to comment on any of that, just to report on the psychological ramifications of a broken ankle plus significant terror.
I emailed the report to the lawyer who’d hired me, made coffee, and was drinking it when Milo phoned just after one p.m.
“It was a nothing day,” he said, sounding strangely cheerful. “Until a few minutes ago when Claudio Aggiunta called. Every year, the family gave Gio a hefty cash allowance. Three hundred thou over and above all the bills they paid for him. The deal was he needed to document everything.”
I said, “Probably so they could deduct it as a business expense. Or they just wanted to keep tabs on him.”
“Either way, he was compliant, sent everything back to Italy every three months for their accountants to examine. The last batch hasn’t been looked at but because of the murder, Claudio just checked. A coupla months ago a hundred G’s disappeared with no notation. That spark any free association?”
“The same amount Doug paid for the purple diamond or whatever it is.”
“Could be our gal Meagin was an equal-opportunity grifter. Makes sense, given her time in Vegas milking the gig economy.”
“It could also explain someone gunning for her.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Rip off one person too many and it’s your last scam.”
“Gio was wrong place, wrong time, wrong woman.”
“It’s looking that way, Alex. Poor guy, living the high life, shelling out money he didn’t earn to the hottest cougar he’d ever known.”
I said, “A hundred thousand for jewelry. Backs up what I said before: more to the relationship than sex.”
“Yup, looks like he had feelings for her,” he said. “And she led a bad guy to his doorstep. Gonna be tough explaining it to the family. Once I get to the point where I can actually prove something.”
“What’s next?”
“Finding out exactly what that stone is. Called the lab and Noreen Sharp had fun with me — here you go again, hassling us with bling, why can’t you be like the others and just send bullets. I sent Moe over to pick it up, he just got back, they packed it in a big box, triple-sealed. Just opened it and took a peek. You’re right, compared with her other diamonds it’s dinky. But pretty, at least to my eye. Anyway, Saroyan’s on his way. Bringing a grandkid, who am I to deny him?”
I arrived at the station just as a uniformed driver guided Harold Saroyan out of a matte-gray Suburban. The jeweler looked exactly the same as two years ago: five-six, mid-eighties with white hair and a luxuriant white mustache. Turned out impeccably in a cream-colored suit, sky-blue spread-collar shirt, hugely knotted orange silk cravat, and mirror-polished caramel wingtips.
When he’d been safely deposited on the sidewalk, the driver raced around to the street-side door. Not in time; the door flung open and a teenage boy bounded out, heedless of traffic, slouched over to Saroyan, and stood next to him. Wide-eyed.
The boy was fourteen or so, stocky, handsome, with a smooth round face under a nest of brown curls and eyes blurred by thick, black-framed glasses. His version of dressing for success was a red AC/DC T-shirt, plum-colored board shorts, and orange Nikes.
I made my way over. “Hello, Mr. Saroyan.”
Puzzled look for half a sec, then a smile. “Ah, you work with the lieutenant.”
“Alex Delaware.”
“Yes, of course, Alex.” Smooth dissembling, warm smile, warmer handshake. “This is my number one grandson Clifford Avakian.”
“Hi, Clifford.”
The boy’s head dipped. Studying the sidewalk.
Saroyan nudged him. “Clifford?”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Throat clear from Grandpa.
A mumbled, adolescent “Sir.”
Saroyan nodded approvingly. “Clifford watches police shows. I want to show him reality.”
The driver returned to the door that had egested the old man, reached in and extracted a black leather case I’d seen before.
Saroyan said, “Please give it to Clifford, Gerald.”
The transfer completed, Gerald said, “Okay if I go and find parking, Mr. S?”
“Please do, thank you, Gerald. Clifford will text you when we’re ready to be picked up.”
Gerald got back behind the wheel, the Suburban drove south, turned right, and vanished.
I headed for the station’s front door ahead of Saroyan and the boy and held it open. No challenge. The jeweler walked slowly, with stiffness I hadn’t seen the first time.
“I’m a little less hare and a little more turtle,” he said, lacing his arm through Clifford’s free limb. Smiling broadly, in counterpoint to his grandson’s grim mien.
“Cheer up, Clifford, this will be educational.”
Milo was waiting in the large interview room. Two blank whiteboards, no refreshments, the pair of long tables pushed together, a two-foot-square white cardboard box with the lab’s emblem on four sides resting in the center of the right-hand table.
Entering the station and riding up in the elevator had stunned Clifford into silence and he remained that way. Being introduced to Milo lowered his eyes again and parted his lips, as if air supply had dropped and he needed to mouth-breathe.
Saroyan said, “Shake hands with Lieutenant Sturgis, Clifford. If you behave he will not arrest you.”
No smile from the boy.
“I’m kidding, Clifford, we kid all the time, no?”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“You and me, we’re the best kidders.” Gently elbowing the boy’s arm. “No?”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
Shrugging, Saroyan turned to Milo. “Okay, Lieutenant, let’s get to work.”
The jeweler sat directly behind the box, motioned for Clifford to settle to his right, then motioned for the black leather case. Unzipping it with slightly palsied hands he drew out a multi-lens loupe and a stereoscopic microscope.
At the same time, Milo reached into the box and drew out a thick wad of white wrapping paper. Once taped, now merely folded back into place. Unfolding, he lifted the necklace and handed it over to Harold Saroyan.