Chapter 15
Shattered Lives
When Jim, Don and Pam came to my office to tell me the rest of the Golden Dragon saga, the picture was starting to come into focus. Luther Bell had been way over his head but not smart enough to realize it. It appeared he genuinely thought the restaurant was going to be a cash cow that would provide him substantial income. He would take his management fee and skim additional money at every opportunity. Unfortunately, the hiring of Carl Stillwater along with numerous other management miscalculations eliminated any such possibility. Jim, Pam, and Don took a seat across from me, and Jodie brought them coffee. I got up and refilled my cup.
We chatted a few minutes and then Pam continued the story since she had the most knowledge of what happened after the partners' meeting. "After a couple days I realized I hadn't been getting much mail. I called the post office and was advised the mail had been forwarded to Luther Bell's home. That really upset me, so I went immediately to the post office and demanded the change of address be canceled. The local postmaster advised me that in the case of a dispute over the rightful owner of mail it would be held pending agreement of the parties or a court order directing where it should be delivered.
"I called Don to tell him what had happened, but he was out of the office. Desperate to do something, I called Jim hoping he would be at work. He was and I filled him in on the situation. He got very angry and said he was going over to Luther's place immediately to straighten things out. He can tell you what happened at that point."
Pam paused and we all looked at Jim. I took a sip of my coffee in anticipation of the rest of the story. Jodie came in and refilled everyone's cup. Jim looked like he was in a trance, so I said, "So, what happened, Jim?"
He looked at me, took a deep breath and then continued the story. "After getting Pam's call, I was so infuriated I immediately left the building and headed for Luther's condominium. It was late in the afternoon when I knocked on Luther's door. Margie Mason, Luther's girlfriend, answered and claimed Luther wasn't home.
"I was frustrated because I knew Luther was home. His Cadillac was parked out front. Margie was just covering for him. So, I told her to give him a message: 'Tell him that he better release the Golden Dragon's P.O. box by noon tomorrow or his dentist is going to have lots of reconstructive work to do on his mouth!'"
"Margie didn't respond. After a few seconds I turned and walked away. Margie closed the door and locked the deadbolt. The following day Luther released the post office box, but unfortunately it was too late for Pam as you know."
In my short legal career I had seen some strange things, but nothing quite so bizarre as the Golden Dragon fiasco. Every one of the partners had ample motive to kill Luther Bell. I wondered if one of them actually was guilty.
"So what do you think, Stan?" Jim asked.
"I don't know what to think. Luther had a lot of enemies besides you guys. His ex-wife is a good suspect. She actually drew a gun on him once." I told them that story.
He pissed off his manager over at Mid-America Life and they had some words. I'll just have to do some more digging to find out who hated him enough to kill him."
"Do you think they will arrest any of us?" Pam asked.
I shrugged. "They could arrest any one of you. You all had strong motives to kill Luther and I haven't heard a good alibi yet. If any of you do get arrested, keep your mouth shut, okay?"
They all nodded. I watched them carefully for body language that might indicate one of them was guilty, but all I saw was despair. They had been sailing through life, tasting and relishing the American dream, but now they had encountered a storm--no, not just a storm, a hurricane, and they were washed up on the rocks. Now the question was: could they survive the storm or would their lives be broken into pieces and scattered across the beach?
After the meeting, I noticed I had a telephone message from Melanie. I quickly dialed the number and a receptionist put me through.
"The contract is ready," Melanie said.
"Oh, great. . . . Mail it to me and I'll sign it and send it right back."
"I was thinking since I go by your place on the way home, maybe we could meet somewhere. I've talked to a few prospective buyers and I'd like to report on what I've found out. You could sign the contract then."
The prospect of seeing Melanie excited me. I wanted to see those legs again. The thought of it made me numb, but I knew it was a bad idea.
Then I heard myself say. "Okay, where and when?"
"Six o'clock at Bennigans near Valley View Mall. That's not too far from your office, is it?"
"Sure, that's not far. I'll see you later then."
"Great. Bye."
Looking at my watch, I saw it was nearly three o'clock. I wondered why Melanie wanted to meet in person. Was she interested in more than a business relationship. I was ambivalent about that possibility. It was an exciting thought, but I knew I couldn't let anything happen. If I was sociable and had a few drinks, I couldn't go right home because Rebekah would smell the booze and ask questions. Then I'd have to try to explain why I had met Melanie for Happy Hour. That could get ugly. I picked up the phone and started to call Melanie to cancel the meeting but Jodie yelled that Tex was on line two. Since a call from Tex meant he had a new client to refer, I quickly punched two and took the call. At five o'clock, I remembered I hadn't canceled my meeting with Melanie, so I picked up the phone and called her. There was no answer. There was no choice now, but to meet her.
The bar at Bennigans was packed. I looked around for Melanie but didn't see her. Then I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. I turned and faced Melanie. She smiled and said, "Good timing."
"Yeah, I hope we can find a table."
She pointed over in the corner where miraculously a small table sat unoccupied. We made a dash for it. Melanie looked quite sophisticated in her red sleeveless chemise and matching coat. I helped her out of the coat and folded it neatly on the spare chair. Her arms were long and nicely tanned. She smiled graciously and took a seat. I sat. "So, what do you usually drink? Let me guess. Gin and tonic?"
"How did you know?"
"Whenever I tend bar at a party that's what half the women want."
"I didn't know that."
I waved to the barmaid, and she came over and took our order.
"So, what did you find out?"
She hesitated a moment and then said, "Well, after you left the other day I carefully examined the pottery and checked its authenticity."
"And?"
"The pieces appear to have come from the Moche Civilization in Northern Peru. There has been an archeological excavation going on there off and on for twenty years and these pieces resemble many of the artifacts found there."
"Really?"
"That's right. . . . How well did you know Marvin Schwartz?" she asked.
"Not at all. He just showed up one day needing a lawyer."
The barmaid came with our two drinks and placed them in front of us. I smiled and gave her a ten dollar bill. She left and we both took a sip. Then Melanie continued her story.
"Well, he was more than a preacher."
"He was? What do you mean?"
"Do you know anything about the diamond trade in Brazil?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Well, every year millions of dollars worth of diamonds are smuggled out of mines located in the jungles of the Amazon."
"Really. I didn't know that."
"Yes, and one of the ways the diamonds are smuggled into the US is through missionaries traveling back and forth from South America. Since most missionaries are good people trying to help the disadvantaged they are often whisked through customs with less scrutiny than other travelers."
"So, what are you saying?"
"What I'm saying is Marvin Schwartz was a diamond smuggler."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, while I was studying the big ceramic vesse
l, I noticed a discoloration inside on the bottom. I thought perhaps something had been stored in the bowl which had stained it. But upon running my fingers over it I discovered it was soft and had a different texture than the rest of the bowl."
"Okay. So what does that mean?"
"It meant to me that this substance was placed in the bowl after it had been discovered. So I decided to scrape it off and that's when I realized Marvin was more than a preacher."
"So, you found diamonds in the vase?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I found."
"Damn," I said speechless.
"I hope you appreciate my honesty. I could have taken, them and you wouldn't have known the difference."
"That's true. I'm impressed. Honesty isn't a trait you find in people too often. . . . So tell me more about these diamonds."
"Between all the pieces I found 21 which varied in size from one to three carats. I talked to several dealers and the best offer is $21,100 for the pottery and $315,000 for the diamonds."
My body suddenly became numb. This turn of events was difficult to fathom. Melanie looked at me expectantly. Somehow I couldn't get excited. Easy money usually meant trouble. I took a deep breath. My mind was racing trying to figure this one out.
"So, Marvin was a diamond smuggler, huh?' I said.
"It appears so."
"So, why did he send you to get the diamonds? He must have known you would discover them."
"Actually, he told me just to pick them up and pay you two grand for them. He promised me he'd pay me five when I brought them back to him."
"So, why didn't you do what he asked?" I asked a bit confused.
"Because I'm not that stupid. I knew something wasn't right, so that's why I kept my options open until I could examine the pottery."
"Kept your options opened?"
"Yes. I didn't promise you anything until I knew what I was dealing with. Now I know."
"Aren't you worried if Marvin finds out you've double crossed him?."
"No. The bastard was using me. Can you imagine if I'd got caught in customs with those diamonds? I'd have gone to prison. The bastard can go to hell as far as I'm concerned."
I looked at Melanie thoughtfully. What had I gotten myself into?
"Melanie leaned forward and said, "Forget about Marvin, let's just celebrate our good fortune."
"Our good fortune?"
She smiled, "Yes, my cut is $50,415."
I laughed. "Hmm. I guess you're right. Our good fortune."
Melanie waved to the barmaid and she came back over to our table. "Another round of drinks, please," she said.
I was already a little light-headed from the two drinks I had already consumed, but there was no stopping Melanie now. She was excited about her good fortune and she wanted to party.
It was eight-thirty when I finally got loose of her. I couldn't go home because I was half drunk, so I went back to the office and made coffee. After I felt a little better I called Rebekah--not to tell her the news for that was too delicate a subject--but to explain my disappearance.
"Where have you been? I've been worried sick."
"I'm still at the office. I've been buried in these real estate contracts. They're going to close tomorrow and I have to make sure there isn't anything too egregious in them."
"You're at the office? I called there at seven but there was no answer."
"I went over to Subway and grabbed a sandwich."
"Hmm. Why didn't you call?"
"I'm sorry, honey. I just got wrapped up in this stuff."
"Well are you planning on coming home?"
"I'm about to leave. I'll see you in a half hour."
"Okay, I miss you."
"Me too. Bye."
The next morning on the way to work I drove into the Dallas Auto Impound and parked in front of the administrative office. I needed to take some pictures of Richard Banks' Porsche. I went inside and walked up to the counter. A young man in jeans and a t-shirt came up and said, "What can I do for you?"
"I need to see the Porsche that killed Anant Ravi a few weeks ago. The police said you'd have it."
"What was the name of the driver?"
"Richard Banks."
The clerk looked through a bin full of tickets and finally pulled one out. "Okay, here it is. You want to pick it up?"
"No, I just need to look at it."
"All right, I'll take you to it. It's in slot R27."
We took a golf cart to the space where the vehicle was stored. As I inspected the vehicle I knew something was wrong. I said, "This isn't a 1982 Porsche. Are you sure this is the right car?"
The man looked a the paperwork he had brought with him and replied, "It's a '72 Porsche just like it's supposed to be."
My stomach began to twist into knots. I couldn't believe what was happening to me. How could the newspaper have made a ten year mistake when they reported the accident? I shook my head in disbelief.
"But the police report and the newspaper stories said it was a '82 Porsche. How could there be such a discrepancy?"
"Somebody made a mistake on the initial identification of the vehicle and everybody just copied it, I guess. It happens all the time."
I put my hands on my hips, gazed at the beat-up Porsche and said, "Wonderful?"
After getting over my initial shock and disappointment over this new revelation, I told myself the situation might not be all that grim after all. Even if Banks was driving an older car it still was a classic and he probably had it well insured.