“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?”
Now he’s the one with the mischievous grin. “You can start lecturing him on rocks. Sooner or later he’ll yell
“I get an A for effort. And you laughed. But you’re right. It’s all about the rubies—like you said before. Who’s tried to track down the stolen stones?”
“I’m sure the government of Myanmar has. Remember our secret service babysitter? And how about the guy at the airport and his searcher buddies? Don’t forget, Chief Clark mentioned Interpol, so I’m sure they’re in the hunt.”
“Wonder how the original theft happened.”
I snort. “Did you forget that mine already? Security’s not their thing. Anyone can come and hold up the miners. Or even the buying office where we went. There wasn’t much there besides a regular lock on the front door.”
“Then that’s that, and we’ve made no progress. How about we head out? I don’t think this’ll be a good place for a lesson on gemology.”
While we ate, the normal hum of the restaurant didn’t register, not even while we talked. Now, though, I notice the Asian music that underscores the constant murmur of diners, and the occasional burst of laughter. Not exactly conducive to learning.
“You know, it’s not quite one thirty. How about we go back to Aunt Weeby’s kitchen? I have my personal collection of stones at the house, and it’s better to learn with the real thing in front of you. Books only go so far.”
“You keep valuable gemstones in the house? Aren’t you afraid someone might break in and steal them?”
Is that his plan? To lull me into trusting him, bringing out my collection, killing me, and then adding my gem trays to the missing rubies— “Oh no!”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“You’re not going to believe this. I forgot to return the sample trays to the vault. I left them in the green room. Anyone could have taken them.”
