Simmons sighed. “Well, you’ll find the man who had the diamond in New Mexico. In the McKinley County jail in Gallup waiting to be indicted for murder. That’s where you’ll start.”
4
Bradford Chandler suddenly swiveled in his beach chair to keep the sea breeze out of his ear. The old bastard had finally said something interesting. Something about diamonds?
Chandler had let his mind wander away from this rambling conversation, just enjoying the feel of the sand blown against the bottom of his bare feet by the Caribbean wind, and the sensation of the sun on his legs, and the sight of the nicely tanned and very shapely girl strolling along the surf line clad in a string bikini and not much else. Thinking of her as prey. Thinking of himself as predator. Enjoying, too, just being here on this very private beach, and his memory of the polished limo pulling up beside the old bastard’s private jet with the big black driver holding the door open for him. Savoring the feel of luxury. Knowing that was the way fate intended it to be for Bradford Chandler. And that was the way it wasn’t. Not yet.
“Diamonds?” Chandler said. “You don’t expect diamonds in that part of the world. Where did they come from?”
“Mr. Chandler.” The old man’s tone was impatient now. “You haven’t been paying attention. My interest is in one diamond. If I knew where it came from, you wouldn’t be sitting in the shade here ogling one of my women.”
The old man was Dan Plymale, sitting in a recliner chair and sharing the shade of a huge beach umbrella just to Brad Chandler’s left, taking off his sunglasses now and staring at Chandler, his broad, tanned face stern, his hair and his eyebrows dead white, his eyes a pale and icy blue. Reminding Chandler of his deceased father. Bradford Churchill Chandler Sr. Plymale was another of their kind of people. Part of the Anglo-Saxon, Nordic ruling class. Or “we predator people,” as his dad would have proudly put it.
Chandler Senior had been deceased nine years now. But, alas, not deceased soon enough. He’d found time to change his will and cut Chandler out of it before he died.
“I just told you I need to know where that diamond came from,” Plymale was saying. “I’m ready to talk business now. Are you ready to listen?”
Chandler could not remember anyone ever speaking to him in that tone. He’d overheard it in a hundred luxury hotel lobbies, in the first-class sections of aircraft, and had used it himself sometimes, understanding it reflected the low regard of the luxury class for those below them. But he had never heard it directed at him.
“I was listening,” he said. “But you already told me you know where that particular diamond is. It’s being held as evidence by the cops in some dinky town in New Mexico. Right?”
“Wrong,” Plymale said. “I wasn’t asking where it is. I want to know where it came from.” Plymale sighed, took a sip from whatever he was drinking. Something iced. Slightly green. Certainly too expensive to be Chandler’s normal beverage these days. He loved the taste of such luxury on his tongue.
Plymale moved his bony old man’s hand over to a buzzer button on the table between them. Pressed it.
“Bring me another one, and one of whatever my guest is drinking.”
Then he leaned back, slipped a folder out of the briefcase on the table, and began leafing through its contents, glancing over at Chandler now and then, sometimes frowning. The drinks arrived on a tray carried by a pretty young woman. No “thank you” came from Plymale, Chandler noticed. He didn’t even waste a receptive nod. The very model of Brad Chandler Sr.
“Time for business now. Time to tell you what you need to know. But first we’ll give a few minutes to this resume of yours.”
“Resume?” Chandler said. “I didn’t send you—”
“Of course not,” Plymale said, looking at Brad quizzically. “That’s not the way anyone intelligent collects a resume. You get it from people who know the subject. People you can trust.”
“Oh,” said Chandler.
“Like this,” Plymale said. “Right here it says—Well, I won’t read that. About you getting arrested at a ski resort in Switzerland. Drunk, disorderly, and physical assault on a security type.” He looked up from the page, eyebrows raised. “Would you have put that in?”
“No.”
“It says, ‘Chandler bought out of that.’ That right?”
“Right.”
“Which Chandler? Is that you or your daddy?”
“Well, I handled it,” Chandler said.
“How much did it cost?”
“Let’s see. I think it was ten thousand Swiss francs to the guy I hit. And then something to the guy who arranged the payoff.”
“Your daddy’s money?”
“Sure,” Chandler said. He was beginning to resent this.
Plymale switched to another page.
“Bennington,” Plymale said. “Three years there. Looks like you made good connections.” He read some more. “Looks like some really good connections.” He chuckled. “But not good grades. Not wasting your time on the books. The smart boys know why Dad’s getting them into those exclusive ruling-class places. Gets ’em connected with the
