Chapter 1: Slugs Don't Lie
Bullets whizzing by always get my attention. The thunk of the first deadly pellet into Duco's tobacco store Indian, made me tense, ready to get out of the line of fire. As the second slug clanked off of the iron awning frame and clattered into Emilio's roll-down, metal window cover, I crouched down trying to push through the door of his hat shop. There was a huge gun blast echoing down the block away from me, then another. Some shots were pointed in my direction. Other shots were obviously fired in directions away from us.
While I tried to push through the door to the hat shop, a tall, heavyset Rabbi with a new fur hat, was exiting in a hurry, almost bowling me over
I heard Emilio say "Thanks Rabbi Rosenbaum," as the door opened.
I yelled, "Hey buddy", and grabbed at his coat as he went by.
"HEY Buddy, don't go in the street and get yourself killed."
"Okay, I understand," was all he said in a kind of surreal daze.
Tinkling thumps sang out the arrival of more bullets and the splatter of glass fragments broke the moment as the Rabbi turned back towards the street. For a few seconds the gunfire stopped. A stream of electrical sparks fountained from the interior of a Buick by the curb.
"Aiy-eee, my car" the Rabbi screamed and pulled out of my grasp. Dazed, he wobbled out to check the damage to his car's rear window. The sparks in the interior had subsided. I entered the hat shop with my digicam ready. The Rabbi held his head in shock in the middle of the sidewalk. (Click) Wandering pedestrians looked down Spring Street, craning to see what was happening, blocking most traffic.(Click) A few street smart gawkers looked out from behind cars or lamp posts.(Click) One pretty Asian woman was driving very slowly away from the action towards me, staring into her rear view mirror, acting oblivious to the open street in front of her.(Click) She was attentive to a small Asian guy in the back seat. He kept talking and pointing and looking out the rear window. (Click) The little Asian guy wore a huge baseball cap that made his head look tiny, and he seemed to be waving a big gun around with his right hand. For a moment, he looked directly at me through Emilio's window.(Click) Then "Mr. Baseball Cap" looked back again, towards the chaos at the street corner behind his ride.
Women were screaming down by that street corner. The Asian woman driver popped the locks to open the passenger doors of her car. Her passenger window rolled down as another woman screamed. Shooting victims were everywhere, blocking 7th & Spring St in LA.
A burly, young, Hispanic man, wearing a black pea cap, jeans and a T-shirt, came running up the sidewalk carrying a jewelry sample case. (Click) He was looking at the Asian woman in the car. She was pointing up the street. (Click) This took his attention away from the Rabbi who continued to stagger towards his parked car. Their collision was as violent as any NFL run block. (Click) A very tall, black man, following close behind Mr. Jewelry Case, tripped over the tangle of big bodies. (Click) He had one of his hands wrapped around a dark blue sweatshirt that flew off into the street somewhere. (Click) Bright crimson blood streaked the cream-colored skin of his right cheek. Dribbling red streams ran down his jaw on to his shirt. I was snapping away with my digicam.
The Mr. Jewelry Case was up in a flash case in hand, while helping Mr Lost Sweatshirt to his feet. (Click) The collapsed Rabbi looked to be out cold, but Mr. Lost Sweatshirt kicked him hard anyway. (Click) Both men resumed running away from the scene as the Asian woman gunned her engine, squealed her tires, and screeched to a stop by the curb. I heard the car doors slam. The engine gunned again, just as I opened the hat shop door and took another photo. I got one quick shot as they drove down Spring Street, and one last one as they sped away around the corner.
Although still shaky, with the sound of more screams and moans ringing up the street, I kept depressing the shutter release. I took an accidental panorama of shots in the direction of the Rabbi's shattered, rear, car window, just as the Rabbi pulled himself up. I hoped some witness faces would register later. Then I was thinking, "I should help this Rabbi" (brain two said to brain one). He seemed okay as he shook his head, groggy from the crash. Half a dozen onlookers were trying to help him to his feet but he waved them away.
Suddenly three uniformed policemen came charging up the street guns drawn. Two ran after the suspects. One of the policemen stopped to ask the Rabbi if he was okay, and I didn't hear much more. When finished taking photos I heard Rabbi Rosenbaum say, "... in Studio City near Du-Par's" as I reentered Emilio's. It was all over in less than 4 minutes.
Emilio was arriving in his front showroom to see what was happening.
"Ah, Mr. Gradeczek, is there something else I can do for you? Do you wish to wait so perhaps I can clean and block your hat while you are here? It would be an hour or so to finish."
"Emilio there's just been some kind of shootout right in front of your store. Don't worry about my hat now, but can you let me use your computer to send myself an email? I just need it for a few moments."
"Ah, certainly, no problem; my computer is back in the office. I'm glad the Rabbi looks okay." as he looked through the front window. He led the way to the back, passing numerous Fedoras, Stetsons, and Borsalinos. I noticed my own Stetson on the last hat stand, number 27 in the 'Cleaning and Block' area. It seemed like my hat helped me reconnect with who really I was. So I eased away from being Mr. Photo Robot. There were steaming pipes everywhere. It was more damp and sweaty back there than outside. But at least the air didn't sandpaper my throat when I inhaled, like LA smog did on hot days. I can enjoy life when it's sweaty. In the back of the shop there was a tiny office with a desktop computer. Emilio's outstretched arm pointed to his chair.
"Please, be my guest. As long as you don't need anything special, I'll go see what is happening in front of my store. I am already online."
"Thank you; I'll only be five minutes."
Emilio went back towards his front showroom, while I popped a floppy disc out of my digital camera. Within seconds, I was into my webmail sending copies of the photo files to myself and my news website. For safety, I transferred a copy of all the photo files. The "bad guys" on one disc, and the panoramic shots to another floppy disc. Once this was done I put a third floppy into the camera and headed back towards the front of the store. The doorbell went off again as I left the shop. I waved to Emilio mouthing "Thank you", as he helped another customer. Walking towards the scene of the shooting I saw Rabbi Rosenbaum was recovering. He was leaning against his car, while a policeman wrote the Rabbi's story in his notebook.
Half a block down Spring Street the scene was pure circus. There were at least a dozen police already there. Yellow tape was flying around like parade streamers. Victim number one was lying on the sidewalk in a very awkward position, but the pool of blood surrounding him suggested he couldn't care. The first dead guy was short, and mostly bald, with heavy spectacles. He was on one side where he had fallen and the two entry wounds in his back and neck were very large, screaming out his immediate demise. A security guard was also face down on the ground in front of a shattered, blood-spattered display window. He had taken a slug in the front of his neck and the exit wound in back was huge. After severing the guard's spinal cord, the bullet continued on through the glass. I could see the guard's arm bent under him with his gun in his hand. It looked like a stainless Smith and Wesson .44mag but it might have been a clone.
Across the intersection further down Spring Street was another victim, a young woman wearing a fast food uniform. Holding back some wailing women, the police put up more crime scene tape and covered this other victim with a blanket. Another fatality had been sitting in his car waiting for the light to change. Half a dozen other shooting victims were sitting or laying down on sidewalks in all direction. Some police were giving first aid while others tried to un-grid-lock the intersection to allow numerous EMS vehicles into the area to treat victims. With half a dozen police cars, newly-arrived paramedic teams and shattered glass still falling, there were more flashing lights, "Chirping sirens" and tinkling noises than a carnival. Sadly, the mood was anything but fun. There were already two newspaper photo crews and a TV truck shooting crime scene photos, while another news team set up to broadcast. In a dozen different directions shattered panes were still falling out of the window frames which had sustained bullet damage. Blood was everywhere from the ricochets. I asked Jimmy Burns, one of the photographers, how they had arrived so quickly.
"We were here on assignment when all hell broke loose. It was a press conference with Montenegro standing in the street with his aides." I was shooting as many digi-photos as I could when a familiar gravelly voice got my attention.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now unless you are press, or were involved with this part of this crime scene area."
Without looking back, I replied and continued to shoot photos. "Hey I'm better than press, I'm an actual eyewitness." Then I added, "But I'm press too!"
As a strong hand tried to pull me around, I ejected the floppy from the camera and dropped it into my pocket. I acted indignant as I turned around and confronted my assailant.
"I'm not kidding, Lieutenant Rocker I actually saw the two shooters run up the street."
"Ya, well, we got a real eye witness and he's a Rabbi, so you can get your ass outa here, and go wait in line with a thousand other people down at the station. That stupid website you write for doesn't make you press in my book, and until you get a legit press card, gimme the camera."
Thinking fast I yelled out. "Hey Jimmy, can you get a picture of the Lieutenant denying me my civil rights and seizing my camera, so I can feature it in my website? You will get bold lettering credits."
"Sure", the photographer yelled. He blasted the Lieutenant and me with a major flash that blinded us both for a moment. Jimmy joked, "It'll be bad news for you if you don't spell my name right. I'll email the photo to you in an hour." Jimmy was referring to BaddNews.com, my local news website.
"Well, maybe the Lieutenant won't be confiscating my camera, but I'll mention your name anyway."
Over the shock of being flash blasted, Lieutenant Rocker was getting surly while screaming. "If you don't get the fuck outa here NOW," he screamed, "I'm running you in for interfering with a criminal investigation. And you can expect a subpoena for your stupid photos too," he added as obnoxiously as possible.
As I backed away, I tried to sound cooperative, but with a little snotty sauce. "Yes sir, Officer Friendly. No problem Sir, anything to help you out. I'm always willing to help the police." When I saw the Lieutenant's neck veins starting to bulge, I squeezed back under the police tape, through the pressing crowd of gawkers and headed back up the sidewalk. The blue police barriers now blocked the entire street. Another guy in the middle of the street was "sort of screaming" in what you might have called a marginally polite way. His voice seemed to rise a pitch register with each sentence.
"You assured us there would be more police on the streets. Do you understand how much this could cost us? We got you elected, and you haven't done shit to help us." With this the screamer had to take a breath, and his target tried to defend himself.
"It was the voting electorate who 'Got Me Elected', Mr. Nussfeld", he mocked, "and I don't like your tone." The shorter screaming man was busy punching his fingers through his calculator, barely able to contain himself. His target was a tall, well-dressed, black man with a heavy Hispanic accent. When the little man finally hit the equal sign on his calculator, he exploded and began punching his finger into the lapel of the taller man very forcefully. The taller man fell back against his entourage. This was worth a couple digiphotos before I introduced myself. Perhaps the heat and smog had taken their toll on the little man. He sounded like misery would have been a step up mood-wise. He was more like enraged.
"My tone? I don't care about my fucking tone. Our loss could be over two million dollars. Two fucking, million dollars. I'm talking about the lack of police protection, and you bitch about MY TONE." One of the big man's assistants stepped in between the little man and his boss. He was trying to avert another murder.
The tall man was LA City Councilman Eduardo Montenegro. Spring Street was part of the ethnically-diverse neighborhood he represented. The little man was Bernie Nussfeld, Chief Claims Adjuster for All-Risks Insurance. The offices of All-Risks overlooked the crime scene, as did the offices of Councilman Montenegro. Most of All-Risks' clients were diamond merchants or jewelers in LA's famous, Spring and Hill Street jewelry district. These merchants and jewelers didn't live in the same neighborhoods as their shops and offices. But they were always generous contributors to the local political campaigns. All-Risks was also a very large contributor to Councilman Montenegro's campaign. The councilman had needed all this money from the "trade" to win a close, hard-fought, election a few months earlier. Now the contributors wanted payback in the form of bigger police budgets and more uniforms on the streets. The Councilman was more concerned about re-election, and he had pushed an agenda focused on cleaning up slum areas, closing down the drug dealing in the district and making absentee landlords accountable for the tenements where his voters lived. In a world with finite resources everyone had their own ideas about how money should be spent. I thought I'd interrupt with good news for both of them, so I just barged in on their little tete-a-tete.
"Councilman! Bernie! I thought I'd give you some good news because I have photos of the bad guys, and I was actually an eyewitness to the getaway." My direct nature took them aback. Bernie recognized me and his face showed he had the advantage. So he mustered a bit of unhappy composure as he spoke out in a snappy sort of tone.
"You down here for watch business, or what?" Grateful for the break in the tense confrontation, the Councilman quickly composed himself and offered his hand as he spoke.
"Do you know this gentleman, Bernie?" Then he took my hand and beamed with warmth, "Hello, I'm Councilman Montenegro."
Bernie enjoyed bursting the Councilman's balloon immediately. "Yes, I know him. He thinks he's some sort of watch expert, and he also runs that bullshit website, BaddNews dot com." The councilman seemed to know my website was often uncomplimentary, with stories and editorials about the way the city was run. His tone got about a hundred degrees colder as he disdainfully withdrew from my handshake.
"I'm sure the police will be doing their maximum to solve this crime. It's your civic duty to provide any assistance you can to the police." Then the Councilman got the high sign from one of his aides standing by the victim across the intersection. Montenegro disengaged with a parting comment designed to be media fodder for all the newspaper and radio people within earshot, as well as possibly placating Bernie.
"Bernie I'm sure you are quite upset right now but you can be sure I will mention your concerns about police protection at the next City Council meeting." Montenegro acted like his follow-up comment would make a great sound bite on the 5 o'clock local news. He spoke louder, with more dramatic emphasis as the TV cameramen approached. "You know Bernie, I live in this neighborhood too, and I walk these streets every day, so no one knows about the need for a protective police presence here more than I do." With that the councilman waived and headed towards the small crowd near the fast food victim. He smiled towards people who recognized him in the crowd. Montenegro knew how to massage the media until they had orgasms.
Bernie was spitting out every word as we headed for his office building. "That son-of-a-bitch. He doesn't live here anymore. He spends all his time now fucking starlets in Topanga, or models in West Hollywood." Then he focused his anger on me. "Okay cowboy so what the fuck are YOU talking about with this eyewitness crap? You know, if this is just bullshit, then I'll make sure you never get insurance on those watches you review, ever again."
I was hurt by that comment, and it showed in my voice. "Hey, I wouldn't kid about a thing like this, I have close-up photos of the bad guys and besides that, I already have the reward spent." He stopped still in the middle of traffic and spit out a few more words, with a little lip foam for punctuation. "What the fuck reward are you talking about? I'm not even the one who decides on a reward."
"Bernie, you don't fool me. On a deal like this, there is definitely going to be a reward."
"You're dreamin Tom. Look, this isn't like when you find an identical watch for me to replace an insured item that was stolen. Besides that, if you are a witness and you blab to Rocker, then there won't be squat that you can use to claim any part of a reward. If you find those diamonds then maybe there is a reward. But I saw Rocker collar you five minutes ago. Everything you know is officially public property now."
"Perhaps, perhaps, but I'm willing to help you with what I know right now, and then, if I come up with something new that breaks the case for you, I expect a big reward, or at least a share of it."
"Look, I'll get you on staff immediately for two thousand bucks if you dump your guts right this second. Then, we'll throw a few bucks your way if you find anything else. But, so help me, if you screw up any of the work our professional investigators start doing, I'll rat you out to Rocker, claiming you are interfering with an ongoing investigation, and then, I'll help him harass you."
"No chance, Bernie. You get me that GMT there, and I get you started immediately," as I pointed to the store window showing a used Rolex GMT for sale, "and you convert my reward money into that Patek (pointing) and that Royal Oak when I help you break the case."
With a quick look into the window and a look at me, he said, "Okay on the GMT, but the others have to be steel, and only if you find these diamonds".
I looked shocked. "What kind of cheesy reward are we talkin about here? No way I'm helping find killers and two million dollars in diamonds for less than an 18-carat gold, automatic, perpetual calendar Patek and an Audemars Offshore with diamond dials and bezels." Bernie winced like I had hit him in the gut with a brick.
"You are fercockta; no chance. Two-tones are the best I can do. And what do you want with pimpy diamond bezels anyway?"
I was a human calculator at that moment. "Too cheap! It has to be diamond dials and bezels on both jumbo two-tones with MOP dials." Bernie was crunching numbers as fast as the sweat beads were breaking out on his wrinkled forehead. "Next, you'll want to fuck my sister as part of your rip-off reward." Then, back to negotiations, he continued. "The bezels will be after market."
I was ready for him. "Okay, but then there have to be rubies on the 3-6-9-12 on the Royal Oak and blue sapphires on the Patek, and they have to be new with boxes and open papers. And by the way, I respect your sister for putting up with you, so I would always be a gentleman with her." He eyed me up and down and knew I wasn't bluffing. With a very unpleasant tone, he agreed. "Okay, but this fucking well better be good." We shook on it.
I was already headed for my car, and he was headed into the shop with the Rolex as I yelled back. "It's better than good, it's fucking incredible. I'll meet you with my laptop in your office in five minutes. Get Mona to make up the agreement for the final payoff watches; oh ya, and you pay the taxes on the reward." Bernie nodded holding his head with both hands, then disappeared into the store. I walked on air over to my car.
I had just arranged a two thousand dollar down payment on what could turn into about a one hundred a fifty thousand dollar final reward for me. Sure it would only cost Bernie about half that much, if that, but when I unloaded the watches to one of my contacts, I would make out big time, and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was the low end on my expectations. Losing two million in diamonds had a way of making one hundred and fifty thousand dollars look like couch coin. I was sure I would have Bernie riding me every second until the recovery to get his money's worth, but that might mean I would be working up close and personal with Mona. I whispered, "Oh baby", because that thought made everything feel better.
Bernie and I often crossed paths at the National Association of Watch and Clock Collectors convention marts. The Regional Show in Orange County would always have at least four or five million dollars in vintage watches on display for sale. All-Risks provided the insurance for Continental Security who supplied the guards for the event. Each person with a display had to carry their own personal insurance. But the guards and overall coverage were to protect against a massive theft that would have had every seller suing the people who ran the show. These show situations used to be all honorable and safe, but, since vintage watches were now a gigantic and lucrative business, there were more thefts and more security. It was escalating every year. Time Artists alone had had two major armed robberies recently. Their losses were in the high six to low seven digit range. I knew this because I had a list of all the missing serial numbers in case I ever found one of the stolen items. Show security had become so heavy, it was making the buyers uncomfortable. So, the Internet was becoming the hottest way to sell vintage watches.
Bernie was interested in vintage watches like I was. On a few occasions I had advised him against buying an item, because I'm just that sort of a helpful guy. Besides that, I didn't like some of the sellers I knew were screw artists. These guys would take a watch on its last legs, clean the case and then try to pass it off as a "mint collectible, hardly ever worn by a little old man in Pasadena". A quick check with a loupe and a stethoscope sang a different tune. I always passed on this kind of junk. It was nice stuff to look at, but the stress of wearing a worn-out watch like that would make it fall completely apart within six months. Then, a supposed "deal" became too costly to repair. Bernie bought a few of the trashy watches I warned him against at first (all collectors make these mistakes). But now, if I shook my head at him at a show, he would politely back away from an item. He was too proud to do what some of my "friends" did. Some guys I knew would literally drag me over to various tables at these shows and ask my opinion about various watches. Watch collectors who needed me, seemed to trust my analysis, even though it goes without saying, free advice might only be worth what you pay for it.
Bernie usually preferred to trust his own judgment. He offered to sell me watches once in a while, but I noticed him biting his lip if I found a big defect that made the item uneconomical. Once or twice, at the end of a show, I heard him loudly using words like "Liar" and "You won't get away with cheating me". I'm sure he was discussing a dispute over the seller's description of an item. Now, of course, Bernie and I were making a deal about some major moola, and we weren't going to be friends until his ass was covered or as I joked to myself, "Re-covered".
Bernie's former life in the Israeli Security Forces was part of his known resume`. Once, over lunch, Mona had told me Bernie had been a secret paymaster, delivering money to Mossad operatives around the world. Mona also suggested I shouldn't take Bernie for a "softie", because a few guys had tried to rob Bernie, and Bernie had "hurt them real bad". Mona served in the Israeli Defense Forces as a foot soldier. She wasn't what I would have called a stereotypical "softie" herself; so, if she said Bernie was really a "bad guy" in disguise as an accountant, I wouldn't argue.
In fact I didn't want to argue with Mona about anything, except maybe who slept on which side of the bed. She was not very tall, and she didn't have a face like Marilyn Monroe or anything, but she was very cute to me these last few months. Her short, slim body drove me crazy. She was twenty-eight years old according to her gun permit. But her shape and condition screamed "college babe". Perhaps I've never outgrown hard-bodied, cute, college girls. So what if Mona was a bottle blond? Nobody's perfect. If one is savoring the pleasures of love, perfect is no more important to the moment than nuclear physics. It isn't what kind of matrix our particles form. It's what we are doing with our particles that matters.
Mona had always been pretty clear about liking blond, slim guys who were six foot four. She had a very direct look she could throw at a guy to "dispel any confusions he might have". She'd thrown said look at me a couple of times, and after the dust settled, I realized I had been completely, "unconfused". In a few of our rare, quiet moments, she wondered some rather strange questions in whispers, like, "What are you some kind of brainiac or something?". On another occasion she had sung out breathlessly, "A romantic gentleman is nice, but what I need NOW is your muscle."
Admittedly, I had always been a bit confused by her second statement, but since I had whatever muscle she needed, I wasn't about to ask which one in particular she wanted. Unfortunately, Mona wasn't about to be serious about one guy in particular, or at least, not about me. Most likely, I was the wrong religion to bring home to momma.
I gave my entrance into Bernie's office a loud "Ta Da-a-a-a" fanfare. Then, looking at Mona, I tried sounding sarcastically professional. "Mona, can you dial into 'Face Maker' on the Net, because I think Bernie and I will need it?"
Without looking away from her monitor, she threw me back some of her own pro sarcasm. "I can't right now Mr. Hired-Help; I gotta print out your agreement with Bernie."
"Okay, thank you. Hope all is well with you today."
"Oh, I'm just fab," she said while she proofed the agreement.
"Well, I know that," I said quietly with mock indignity. With that, she looked up and winked at me. As I began to move closer towards her across the desk, she looked serious again and shook her head, pointing towards the door. "Bernie's waiting, and I got plans tonight. Maybe next week," she said with another wink and that look she used to "dispel my confusion". Then, grinning, she wondered out loud "I was just thinkin that it's too bad one of these watches isn't for a woman."
"Whoah!" I gave her one last air-kiss as I headed for Bernie's office. "I was just thinkin' that it's too bad I don't have a blond, Jewish wife to give one of these watches to." Mona recovered fast from the mini-shocking joke and responded with sarcasm of her own.
"I'm too busy to get married this week, and you're too old for me." She stared intently at the monitor screen, with an impish smile on her face, then sent me a pick-me-up line while I went through Bernie's door.
"Maybe next week, ... you could look...younger."
I choked back a laugh, because I could see by Bernie's face that he was not in a laughing mood. The Rolex GMT was on his desk blotter. He pushed it over towards me.
"So get your mind out of your pants and show me why you aren't wasting my time."
"Hey, sue me for my three million years of evolutionary development before we had pants." I was busy booting up my laptop and uploading the photos from the floppy into Photoshop(Photo House). There were two other men in the room, so I introduced myself.
"Hi I'm Tom." I extended my hand towards the first guy, who was about the size of a door. He did some magic that made my hand and wrist disappear into his grip, while he coughed out a name like "Vladek". The second door pretending to be a guy took my hand and clearly said, "Bonjour ... Henri", in a Belgian sort of way. Man, were these guys wearing body armor indoors, or what? Bernie waved towards them while he leaned over the desk to see what came up on my laptop.
"These are the two detectives who will be working on this case for me. The only reason I'm letting you rip me off for this Rolex is because you will save us a few days before we can get our hands on the official police report."
"WRONG!" I made like a game show host. "The only reason you are exchanging this Rolex token of your appreciation for my information is because, number one, I don't think Rocker is bothering with my stuff in the official report for now. And number two, I have 'inside' for you he doesn't have. Rocker may have a description of the getaway vehicle, and the Rabbi's probably down at the station house going through mug shots as we speak, and the cops in pursuit may even have the license plate number, but you have ... THIS."
With a flourish, I turned the laptop and showed him the digiphoto of the getaway car with its license plate and model tags clearly defined. Then, I clicked on the photo of the profiles of the two robbery suspects sitting in the getaway vehicle. Then, I clicked on a third photo of the get-away car side view as it turned the corner and was speeding away. Then, I clicked on the shot of the bad guys tumbling over the Rabbi. Each photo got a gasp from my "audience". As this part of the slide show was about to finish, I became assertive about something else.
"Unless you want these diamonds to piss away like rain down the LA River, you better switch plans on using your two human dumpsters here. Because when you see the back seat driver's picture in Face Maker, you'll want a couple of short, Asian types to do your sleuthing for you. Also, I know where one of the slugs that got away is sitting right now. Perhaps you should look at it because there is something 'off' about this shooter."
Bernie was all ready to be disagreeable, but first, he yelled out 'Mona-a-a?'. When she acknowledged his bellowing, Bernie screamed some more.
"Come in here and set up Face Maker on my computer and charge it to this case." Bernie then continued for my benefit. "Then send Rocker a copy of Blondie's photos but say they are from one of our detectives." Then with a hard look he fired words at me, "You are a temporary, unofficial, detective, with no papers, Not That YOU'D need them with your special Get-Out-Of-ANYTHING-Free-Card. That's IT. You are NOT Mike Hammer or something. Got It?
Then Bernie gasped, "And, for your fucking information Mr. Know-It-All, those diamonds are going nowhere. They'll never sell them, and we won't need you if the shit-asses who stole 'em want a deal on returning 'em."
Entering with a wiggle and mock grace through the door, Mona dropped a couple sheaves of paper on Bernie's desk. She pulled out the rolling table with a computer terminal, and booted it up. Waiting for the website to recognize the password, she smiled at me. I think she took pleasure in watching men exchanging verbal blows. Maybe she had been in the army too long. But, I had to wonder about Bernie's opinion.
"What are you saying? Most diamonds don't have serial numbers, and I could walk out the door right here and probably peddle these stones in one afternoon." Bernie knew something I didn't know, and he was just stretching out the moment, savoring his one-upmanship.
"These stones have better than serial numbers. Once the details get out, it will be impossible to sell this shit. These stones were all colored."
I sat back stunned, but wanted the details.
"You mean like blue, green, pink, and yellow?"
"That's canary shmuck. And yes, these stones were all large-carat, heavily-colored, and irradiated. The first one that shows up here, or anywhere in North or South America, Japan, or Europe, and we'll have a fucking army on these guys. So here," signing the papers and pushing them over to me, "you can look over and sign your agreement, but I'm betting you'll never collect on this one unless the thieves are going to sit on this stuff forever and you happen to stumble over their stash."
With Face Maker on the screen, Mona watched as Bernie and I finished reading and signing the agreements. When we were finished, she headed for the door with a smile and a little encouragement for me.
"Hold on while I get my notary stamp and book. You never know, Bernie, this is a very lucky guy." Unamused Bernie looked at me, but he commented loud enough so Mona would hear him in the outer office.
"That kind of lucky don't count here. In fact, that's the kind of lucky that might get his ass in a sling."
Looking confused, the two giant detectives kept shrugging to each other during our exchanges. Mona returned and began making entries in her book, with my driver's license number and other details. Her small crack to Bernie in Hebrew("Don't upset my Hunk.") brought smiles to the two Goliaths and then giggles. Then everyone but me exchanged further witticisms in Hebrew. I had time to ask questions, so I wanted details.
"So, how many colored stones does it take to add up to two million dollars?" Mona stood up, puzzled.
Mona said, "You mean twenty million dollars, doncha?"
I was shocked. "What? $20 million? Hey Bernie, you said it was $2 million."
Looking pleased, Bernie sat back and explained. "I said more than two million dollars, idiot. I'm not telling that asshole councilman what the real deal is, because he'll just grandstand with the media. Eventually the police may tell somebody how many millions we lost, who knows. But because these thieves were so stupid they stole unsaleable stones, I'm not going to give them any special credit for being idiots. Like I said, it will be impossible to move these rocks. I don't even need to look at them; I could check these stones out with a Geiger counter and I'd know they were the right ones. The wholesaler had to get special permits on these stones because of the radiation residue, and we got counts on most of them. Hey, all this paperwork for you is gonna be a waste of time, because you ain't gonna find dick here. I'm just doin' it to humor you. Of course you could win big on this deal. I'll pay you the full reward if you find two million in these stones, and double that if you find more than half of them."
The telephone rang while Mona divided up the signed agreements and put mine in an envelope. I packed the envelope into my laptop case while we all listened to Bernie making unhappy, but agreeable noises, responding to someone on the telephone. After the call finished, he turned back looking unhappy, but more in-the-know. He began to talk to the two detectives in Hebrew and then decided to have me get to work.
"Okay, these photos are nice, but I need for you to make up good composites at various angles, using Face Maker here. Mona can make printouts for the files right now. By the way, the police ballistics lab has IDed the slugs from the shooter. The killer used a .45 auto. So, if you don't mind would you please get on these composites while I brief these two gentlemen on the details?" I wasn't going to be put off.
"First, you haven't told me how many stones are involved here and their sizes, and second, the shooter didn't use a .45 auto. Start with the story on the stones please."
Bernie seemed a bit perplexed, so he played along.
"The stones were mostly between one-half and one-and-a-half carats in size, plus quite a few biggies between five and ten carats. Mona can even get you file photos on the lot. These stones were all gonna be used in a ceremonial crown and scepter for some African princess. Montenegro was here to unveil the mock-up with princess what's-her-name. After she approved the design with her dad, they personally inspected the stones. The diamond merchant was moving the diamonds down the block to the fabricator's shop. There were six decoy couriers and guards moving cut glass, and this one guy and his guards carrying the real stuff. The merchant was trying to protect against a gang heist on an armored truck, so he tried this weird tactic. Two of the three guards were Tazered coming through a spinning glass door and then, when the courier and the third guard came out on the street, there is this guy with a silenced .45 auto, and he gets them both. So what do you think you know about this?"
It was my turn. "The shooter was a black guy who must have been hit by at least one shot from the guard but he didn't seem even a little phased by it." Bernie was mumbling as I spoke.
"Typical druggie."
"Ya, well maybe; I didn't get a urine sample, but I know the gun couldn't have been an automatic of any kind."
"Hey smart guy, the police got a witness who saw the shooter reload. He pulled something out of the gun and then puts another clip in and then poof poof poof, he fires away. Besides slugs don't lie, and the slugs are hollow point .45 auto slugs, not .45 Long Colt."
Sure of what I saw I persisted. "So what if a stupid shooter reloaded .45 auto slugs into .45 Long Colt cases just because they both said .45 on them?"
"Then the rifling would be irregular, and the rifling shows up clear and clean on these slugs."
"Look Bernie, I'm just telling you what I saw. This shooter had a sweatshirt wrapped tight around most of this gun, and you can't fire a .45 auto that way. Besides, the whole package was too short for the shooter to have a silencer on his gun, and when the gun flew off during the shooter's tumble, it would have allowed the spent casings to go flying off into the air, but there weren't any casings that flew away."
Bernie and the two giants suddenly looked stunned.
"Vot you saying? Da gun flew avay." Vlad was trying to communicate. Bernie gave him the "cut" hand sign.
I was showing Bernie the two sequence photos of the bad guys slamming the Rabbi, but he went crazy and started yelling.
"You mean you think you saw the killer's gun fly loose? Well, where the fuck is it?" He jumped up and looked out the window over the street.
"Look Bernie, if I was psychic, I wouldn't need you. I'd be at the track all day. I was looking at the camera screen," I said emphatically. The camera was looking at these guys. See, here is photo #6. There are the Mr. Jewelry Case and the Rabbi's legs in the air, and the blue thing here entering the shot is probably a sweatshirt wrapped around the gun. Now in photo #7 we see the black guy's legs in the air, and in photo #8 we see Mr. Blue Right Hand using a parking meter to keep from falling under a car, and then in #9, we got the Hispanic guy helping up his buddy with no blue sweatshirt visible. Ipso facto, the gun flew away."
"They must have had a hundred cops out there searching the street and they wouldn't still be looking if they had already found the gun and brass." I was beginning to get upset by the doubting tone Bernie was using.
"Look Bernie, I don't have a personal stake in this, I just want the watches as a reward. I saw the gun wrapped in the sweatshirt as it flew out of the shooter's hand. It wasn't a .45 auto with a silencer, or you could see the silencer sticking out of the blue thing. It was a revolver, maybe with a wildcat round and a re-barrel, I don't know. I do know that when the shooter opened the car door with his right hand, where this blue thing Had Been, he didn't have the gun or the sweatshirt in either hand as he got in and they drove away."
Bernie had a quick change of attitude. He directed the two dicks to go out into the street to help with the search. He added a few extra instructions in Hebrew, and both gorillas looked at me and nodded. Then, he re-focused on me. Shoving the Rolex at me again he started.
"Here, take your watch. I'm going to have to go talk to the diamond merchant. Then, I gotta go over to Bel Air. You work with Mona on those faces. Have her make copies of your floppy photos. Now tell me something. You still live up Simi Valley, don't you?"
"Ya, sure; why does it matter?"
"Well, I was thinking that maybe it wouldn't be a good idea for Lieutenant Rocker to be harassing you right now. I got two apartments where we keep special witnesses and whistle-blowers, and I think you should use one of them."
"Wait a minute," I protested. "I can't cope with the smog here. I need to breathe real air at least once a day, and there isn't any in LA County. If I want to live with the constant stench of urine, smog, rotting food and dog shit I'll open an indoor animal kennel and keep a couple of lawn mowers running inside all day. I only come to LA once a week, and then I have to recuperate."
"So, who said they were here? One place is in Marina Del Rey on the beach and the other place we got is up in the Santa Clarita Valley; Mona knows where they are and can give you directions. Plus, I'll give you some cash for your groceries and expenses. When you get done here, hang out for a few days in one of the apartments. They're both real nice, with pools. They even have computers hooked up to the Internet. Unless you'd rather have some cop on your ass the second you get home, taking you back to the Hill Street Station to answer questions for five or six hours a day, it's up to you." Mona was behind Bernie shaking her head in "yes mode" when he said Santa Clarita and "no mode" when he said Marina Del Rey, so I acted agreeable about Santa Clarita.
"Okay, you got a point. I need some quiet time after today. Let's try the place you got up north I'm sure I can breathe up there.."
"Okay, I gotta go. Mona, take one of the big packets out for expenses and give it to Tom. When you two finish with the faces, blanket our offices with a copy of every one. Then, close up here for me tonight. Got it?"
He was already on the way out as she replied in the affirmative, but I was now awakened by my pants....
"Gosh Mona, I thought you had plans for tonight."
"I do. But, it's a real nice condo we got up north, and in a couple days, who knows?" There was that look again, but with a little smile added. As I turned towards the monitor and started to manipulate the tools in Face Maker, Mona went over and opened the safe. We worked as we talked. Soon, she was looking at the laptop screen and pointing at some of the tools on the Face Maker development page.
"Let's redo the shooter, because he shows up best in these photos. Here's three thousand dollars. You won't need to do any cooking with this kind of expense money. If I visit, maybe we can splurge on champagne?" She winked for emphasis. "You know, Bernie isn't a bad guy, but Morrie and Kevin were his cousins, and they all served together in Lebanon."
"I'm sorry? What are you talking about?"
"The two guys who got killed, they were Bernie's cousins. Now, he's gonna have to go see their mothers and tell them the bad news. This is all very personal for Bernie. I've never seen him so upset before. Insurance is business, but this is family. These thieves will be lucky if the cops get them first. You know the two detectives Bernie introduced you to?" I nodded. "Well, this guy Henri is ex-DeBeers security, and he worked in Angola as a mercenary for the South Africans for a while. Then he went kind of flippo on them, laughing while he killed people. The other guy, Vladek, he gives me the creeps. I think he used to be an X-man for the STASI, and then the SLA in Lebanon. Bernie went to his Very-Black-Book to find these two guys. Every guy in that book is a spooky person. Bernie was going to have them carry the crown when it was finished, but now he wants that shooter to be Xed out."
"An X-man, Xed out?" I asked mystified.
"Yah, ya know. Like they give Vladek a photo of some guys, and there's an X on one guy's face, and then the guy disappears...like forever...completely, with never a trace of how or when." I stiffened up, and I guess I sounded worried.
"Great, I'm working for a guy with a family vendetta, alongside two gorillas. One is a happy-go-lucky, French pycho-killer and the other is an assassin and 'cleaner'. Well, I guess since we're all on the same team, I should be comforted, but, somehow, I'm not feeling all warm-and-fuzzy." Mona came up behind me and reached over my shoulder to point at one of the eyebrows in the FaceMaker kit. Her cheek brushed my ear. She kind of leaned on me in a light, gentle way. She knew how to comfort me, so she whispered.
"Don't you worry, Tommy, I won't let anything bad happen to you. You're too much fun. Besides, there aren't many guys around who can give me a head massage and a foot massage at the same time." With that, she giggled lightly and kept breathing in my ear. I just wanted to finish with the work at hand, so the next two days could pass...and soon, but not soon enough, it would be..."next week".