Cole rolled and tumbled most of the night, finally falling into a deep sleep around dawn. He hadn’t gotten what he wanted from Jefferson. Richard Anderson, for whatever reason, had shielded Allen Christopher from Tree Top and probably anyone else involved with turning the diamonds into cash. Had Anderson planned on skipping town from the start? How hard was Christopher feeling the squeeze? Did he even know Anderson was gone? Only one way to find out, Cole thought.
He sat on the edge of the bed. It was nearly 10 o’clock. He rubbed his eyes and thumbed through a stack of business cards on the nightstand. He dialed the number for John H. Brazil & Associates.
“Mr. Brazil, please. Bob Borsma from Denver calling.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Borsma.”
“John Brazil, how can I help?”
“Good morning. My name is Borsma, Bob Borsma. I’m with Coloco Properties here in Denver. Got a minute?”
“You bet, what’s up?”
“I understand you’re the broker?”
“Yep.”
“I need to get some info on one of your agents if I may. He’s listed as a principal investor in a project our office is trying to put together. I don’t need facts or figures or anything like that. We’re just trying to get a feel for the players.”
“So, who’s your man? Oops, sorry—or woman. Gotta be PC.”
“Man. Allen Christopher. What can you tell me about him?”
“Allen’s been with us about a year, maybe a little less. Came from an office ‘cross town. You say he’s an investor?”
“Yeah, it’s a general partnership we’re putting together. Why, would that be a problem?”
“Well.” The line went silent.
Cole smelled blood, and his shark was in full-on. “Big producer, is he?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that. Tell me a bit about this project, Bob.” Brazil was being far too careful. Cole could almost hear the man ask himself, How much do I tell this guy?
“Sure, are you looking for a project, John?” Cole decided to soften his approach a bit.
“Ah, no, no—just curious.”
“Eagle Rock is in its second phase. The Remco Investment Group pretty much controlled Phase One. We’re looking at about 800 homes in Phase Two. Median of about $450,000. The thing with Phase Two is the shopping center, and that’s where Allen has really shown an interest. We have Wal-Mart and Albertson’s on board so far. Starbucks and Blockbuster are pretty sure things. Couple in negotiation that I probably shouldn’t talk about quite yet. We figure right around $42 million after we split the cost of the highway refigure with the State. It’s a bit of a bear. We need to add an overpass. Solid project, John. We still need a couple of investors to tie it up.”
“Allen has bought in?”
“Not yet. We haven’t signed docs on Phase Two partners. John, do I sense some hesitancy on your end of the line there? I really need the straight dope. You see, Allen is the only out-of-towner in this deal. Unless I can bring you in.” Cole gave a slight chuckle. “Little humor there, John. So, what’s up? Is there something I should know?”
“Well, Mr. Borsma...” Brazil began.
“Bob, please.”
“Bob. I just don’t know where Allen would get the money for this kind of a project.”
“All tied up with stuff out there?”
“Not exactly. Hold on a second, can you?”
“Sure.”
Brazil got up and Cole heard the thud of an office door closing. “I’m back. Look, Bob, Allen Christopher is not a big producer around here. He’s pretty near the bottom, actually. I loaned him $4,500 about four months ago. Seems he couldn’t pay for his wife’s care in a rest home. I guess the insurance would only pay so much. So far, I haven’t seen a cent.”
Cole felt his jaw tighten.
“Here’s the weird part. He pulls up yesterday in a new Mercedes, now you call. I’m getting a bad vibe here.”
“Tell me something, John, just between us. He’s not involved in drugs, is he?” Cole thought he would throw Brazil a curve ball.
“God, no, at least—no, I can’t see that.”
“This is really upsetting. I was counting on his five mill to—” Cole paused for effect. “I’m sorry, please try to forget I said that. Guess I was thinking out loud. Hey, I’ve kept you long enough. Thanks for your help. Seems I need to have a little chat with our Mr. Christopher.”
“Bob, I, well, I feel there is something else you should know.”
“What’s that?” Here it comes, Cole thought.
“My receptionist came to me a while back and said a friend of Allen’s had been receiving packages from a jewelry wholesaler. She didn’t think anything of it the first time it happened. Allen explained the friend was a business associate and that was that. Thing was, he started getting about one a week. So, she came to me asking if it was all right. I got busy and then was gone on vacation. You know how it is. When I asked him about it, he said his friend needed the packages to be signed for and sometimes paid for, and since he was usually around, he didn’t think it would be a problem. I asked him what he was doing, and he basically told me it was outside of work and none of my business. I still get steamed when I think about it.”
“John, I appreciate your candor. I have a funny feeling Mr. Christopher hasn’t been on the square with me. Thanks again. I hope we get to meet someday.” Cole hung up before Borsma had a chance to respond.
In Ellie’s file at Eastwood Manor there had been a copy of a check Christopher had written. When the office manager wasn’t looking, Cole had jotted down the account number on the back of the form she’d given him. He looked up the phone number for the Century Banking Company.
“Bookkeeping, please,” Cole said in a cheerful voice.
The sound of laughter and talking preceded a woman’s voice saying, “Hi, this is Brenda. How can I help?”
“Good Morning, Brenda. Phillip Potter here, I’m with People’s Credit Union in Oxnard. Sounds like your day’s going pretty good so far.”
“I’m really armpit deep in alligators,” she giggled. “One of the girls just got engaged, so we’ve been sort of celebrating. I am so behind! How can I help?”
“Got a check here drawn on an account with you folks. Can you tell me if it will clear?”
“You betcha. Account number?”
“O2-34-6792, belongs to an Allen Christopher.”
“Oh,” Brenda said flatly.
“Ooo, I don’t like the sound of that,” Cole said mockingly.
“How much this time?”
“Forty-six hundred and change.”
“Oh, brother. I don’t even need to look, Phil. No way, Jos￩.”
“Great. Tell me something. Does this guy have a history of this?”
“He keeps just enough in the account to keep from having it closed. Got a big overdraft, so some of his checks roll over. It drives me crazy. I’m always on the phone either declining payment or trying to get him to make a deposit. Argh,” Brenda growled.
“Yeah, I’ve got a second one here for another of $3,200. My customer was going to sell him a car or truck or something, then he came back and was buying a trailer. Customer dropped off the checks, so I’m checking while he’s at the teller window. He’s not going to be happy. What’s the bride-to-be’s name?”
“Jessica.”
“Well, tell her congrats from me. Thanks, Brenda.” Cole hung up. That was too easy.
He loved to stir things up. Maybe it was just a mean streak. Being able to get the information he needed was a skill, but then being able to add a little poison to a bad guy’s life was a pleasure. Everybody likes to be sneaky, but Cole relished it, savored it, and replayed it over and over. In less than five minutes, he found that Allen Christopher was broke, had a bad track record with his bank, and had driven a very large wedge between himself and his boss. To sprinkle gasoline on the fire, Cole made the inquiries as a dignified real estate mogul and a friendly, thoughtful bank employee. A
ny denials by Christopher would only reaffirm people’s preconceived notion of what he was all about. Cole smiled at the thought of Christopher being confronted by his boss as to how he thought he was going to invest in a huge building project when he still owed him $4,500.
Cole remembered first learning the art of the anonymous payback. When he was about 10 years old, he had made a trip to the county library with his teenage cousin, Michelle. She had told their parents they were going to do homework, but she taught Cole something he remembered far longer than anything he learned in the third grade. An old lady down the street had told Cole’s aunt that Michelle was with a bunch of girls in a car smoking. The woman had seen them cruising downtown on Friday night when Michelle was supposed to be at the home of a sick friend. The plan now was payback.
For more than an hour, Cole and Michelle removed the subscription cards from nearly every magazine in the library. Then, using their left hands and pens in a dozens colors—so, as Michelle believed—no one would be able to prove it was them, Cole and Michelle filled in the old lady’s name and address. For months, the old lady received dozens and dozens of magazines in her mailbox, followed by requests for payment for subscriptions she had no clue why she received. Cruel? To be sure. Payback? Gloriously so. Most importantly in Cole’s eyes was that the secret wasn’t revealed until long after the old woman’s death.
In the years that followed, Michelle honed her ability to torment. Pizzas arrived at the door of some unsuspecting offender, subscriptions to three or four record clubs, and orders for gas, water, or electricity to be turned off. The closing of bank accounts and balances sent to a victim’s home was her final victory. With the account closed and the balance spent, seven days’ worth of checks bounced all over town like little rubber balls. Shortly after the bank stunt, Michelle married a law student and found out she was dancing very close to a felony. At the funeral of Cole’s aunt, his cousin had shared this revelation with him and thus ended one of the great careers in revenge.
Cole’s years of undercover newspaper research had always seemed a bit more rewarding when accompanied by a bit of venom. He wondered many times how the little light he shed on a foul deed, otherwise unexposed, helped tilt the balance just a little in favor of the good guys. He did just enough to cause a lot of aggravation to unpunished villains who hadn’t broken the law but just caused an innocent person pain: The current address of a deadbeat dad who owed child support sent to a welfare mother’s caseworker; a tenant a poor landlord couldn’t get rid of who just happened to have an outstanding warrant tipped to the police; the restaurant owner who cheated waitresses out of their fair share of tips and whose sanitation violations the health department was happy to hear about. Cole seldom, if ever, disclosed his little role-playing episodes to anyone, and he liked it that way. Just like the Lone Ranger or the Bob Dylan movie, he like being Masked and Anonymous.
Thumbing through the cards on the nightstand, Cole found the one for Sven Elias.
“Sven? Cole Sage. Any word on our friend?”
“Hello, Mr. Sage—Cole. Yes, he phoned yesterday. He asked if I had changed my mind, and I did just as you said. I told him I was still thinking about it. He became quite curt with me. Said he didn’t have all the time in the world. I think he’s under some kind of pressure.” Sven laughed softly. “I played dumb and said my wife wanted to know how many karats and what grade the diamonds were. Then he really got mad. It was pretty funny.”
“Sounds like I’ve created a monster. Good job. Just don’t scare him off. I think I’m going to pay Mr. Christopher a visit. For now, it might be a good idea not to take his calls. Looks like this is going to come together real nice. Thanks for letting me in on the action.” Cole couldn’t help making Elias feel important. He was always a sucker for the underdog.
“Thank you, Cole. I’m not real creative about stuff, and you have really helped me a lot.”
“Take care, Sven.”
Cole showered, dressed, and had breakfast with the help of the McDonald’s drive-through. It was a bright, warm Saturday morning, and on his way to Allen Christopher’s office, Cole passed three or four schools with soccer fields packed with brightly colored teams surrounded by lines of parents.
As he pulled into the parking lot, Cole noticed a group of men in matching red jerseys gathered in front of the office. Four of them were playing catch. The others just stood around talking. Cole parked and approached the group. He could now see that the fronts of the jerseys said “BRAZIL REALTY” in bold white letters. The backs said, “HUMP DAY LUNCH LEAGUE.”
“Beautiful day for a game!” Cole called to two of the men playing catch.
“Sure is!” a tall, good-looking black man called back.
“Mind if I borrow this a minute?” Cole said as he pulled an aluminum baseball bat from the canvas bag lying on the sidewalk.
He didn’t wait for an answer and went through the double glass doors into Brazil & Associates Realty.
“Allen Christopher’s office?”
“The end of the hall.” Cole was already halfway there as the receptionist tried to protest, “but he’s on the phone. Sir, sir!”
Allen Christopher sat behind his desk, one hand across his brow, the other tightly pressing the phone to his ear. Cole closed the door behind him and pushed in the lock with his thumb. He turned and twisted the wand that closed the vertical blinds.
“What the hell do you think—” Christopher began as Cole reached the desk and randomly pressed one of the buttons on the phone.
“Oops, they hung up,” Cole said coldly.
“Get out! Who the hell do you think you are?” Christopher started to stand.
“We’re going to have a little talk. I suggest you sit down. I have something to say, and there is something I want. When I’ve said it and have what I want, I’ll leave. The only options are, when I leave, you’re still sitting in your desk, or I’ve splattered your brains all over that wall.” Cole pointed with the baseball bat at the wall behind Christopher.
“What? Are you crazy! Get out of here!”
Cole took the bat and raised it high over his head and, with every sinew in his being, brought it down on the top of the desk. The glass cover shattered and the bat sank deep into the highly polished walnut top. Christopher again started to stand. Cole took the end of the bat and jabbed him hard in the chest. Christopher fell back in his chair.
“First of all, let’s get something straight. I really don’t care what happens to me. Do you understand what I’m saying? If I killed you and they fried me in the electric chair, I could care less. The only thing I ever cared about, I lost a long time ago. Now she’s dying. Why she married you, I will never understand, never. But it’s over. Your abuse, your games, all the bullshit ends today. Now, get in whatever drawer you hide things, and I want the power of attorney you had Ellie sign.”
“I don’t have it.”
Cole swung the bat, and the phone exploded against the wall.
“All right, all right, don’t hurt me. It’s in the safe. I’ll get it.”
There was a knock on the door. “Allen, are you okay?”
Cole looked at Christopher and gave him a big fake smile and made the okay sign with his left hand while pointing the bat at him with his right.
“Fine, Shelly. I was moving my desk, and the phone fell,” Christopher panted.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, be out in a minute.”
“Well, okay.”
“You lie so well,” Cole said in a disgusted sneer.
Christopher knelt by the small gray safe in the corner, fumbling with the combination. He stopped, spun the dial, and began again.
“You know, you really need to get your affairs lined up in the next few days. The police are going to keep you occupied for quite a while.”
“And why’s that?”
“Let me be the first to tell you. Your friend Richard Anderson has left town. He won’t be coming back. He took the diamonds. A
big order. You financed them.” Cole spoke in short, hard statements, like a prizefighter landing blows to a body. “Have you got $380,000, Allen?”
“I don’t know any Richard Anderson.” Christopher’s shaky voice betrayed the lie.
“Is that what you’ll tell the FBI when they come calling? Thin, Allen, very thin.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Tree Top Jefferson isn’t very happy, either.” Cole was like a very big cat playing with a mouse.
“I don’t have anything to do with him.” Christopher was starting to breath hard.
“You ever been to jail, Allen?”
“Please stop. I can’t remember the combination.”
“Why? You’ve done nothing wrong. Except for that little matter of offering Sven Elias diamonds to change the zoning on the south side. Bribing a city official is a felony, you know.”
Finally getting the combination, Christopher pulled down the handle and opened the safe door. The three shelves inside were covered with various documents and papers. He lifted a small stack of envelopes and sorted through until he found one with a folded sheet of paper clipped to it. He stood and turned toward Cole, then suddenly spun about to close the safe door.
“Not so quick. Leave that open,” Cole growled.
“You said you wanted the power of attorney.”
“I do. But I’m kind of a curious guy. Get back in your chair.”
As Cole moved toward the safe, he rested the bat on his shoulder and looked at Christopher as if daring him to try something. Christopher, sensing that Cole was just looking for an excuse to hurt him, returned to his chair.
“There’s nothing in there of interest to you. It’s just papers. Birth certificates, insurance policies for my kids, nothing to do with you.”
“Important stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Hard to replace?”
“Yes, please, you don’t need them. Some are impossible to replace. They have nothing to do with Ellie.”
“The magic words.”
Cole reached in the safe and took out a stack of papers. Without directly taking his attention from Christopher, he began glancing through them.
“Okay, you’re right, I don’t need this stuff.” Cole approached the desk and reached out his hand. “Give me that.” He indicated the envelope Christopher held.
“Here! Now will you just go?” Christopher was trembling and his hand shook as he handed Cole the papers. “Please.” He began to cry.
Cole took the envelope and removed the sheet of paper clipped to it. Unfolding it, he scanned the language and looked at the document. “How did you get this notarized?”
“The girl up front.”
“And Ellie’s fingerprint?”
“While she was sleeping,” Christopher said softly.
Cole would not look at him. Gone was the swaggering, self-assured cock of the walk. Instead, in front of him sat a defeated, sobbing fraud. Cole refused to let go of his anger. He held it close, it warmed him, yet there was something else. He knew he would never hurt Christopher physically. Somehow just getting the power of attorney was not enough.
“Please, go. You got what you wanted.” With the back of his hand, Christopher wiped the snot that was running over his lips and onto his chin.
“What did she ever do to deserve—” Cole stopped in mid-thought.
On the wall next to the safe sat a large paper shredder. Cole reached over and flicked on the red power switch. The machine began to whir and small shreds of paper softly waved in the corners of the rotating blades. Cole folded the paper he came for and slipped it into his hip pocket. He paused just for a moment, then turned and started feeding the stack of papers in his hand into the machine. The rollers crushed and cut the papers in a matter of seconds. He reached in the safe and took another stack.
“Oh, please. Please stop, don’t do that. My papers, please.”
“My, me, mine, that’s all you’re about, isn’t it?”
“My kids, that’s theirs, too, their future, please. Why hurt them?”
“Why hurt anyone? Ellie has no future. Let’s level the field a bit.”
Cole started slipping page after page into the shredder. Deeds, insurance policies, birth certificates, passports, letters, envelopes, old photographs, Social Security cards, an autographed picture of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris, bank books, stock certificates, licenses—everything in the safe, shelf by shelf, was fed into the hungry jaws of the shredder. Christopher only looked up once, when something metallic in an envelope rasped and clattered as it went through the shredder’s teeth. The crisp crinkling sound of paper and the crunching thud of paper clips and staples fell silent to the smooth whir of the shredder’s fan. Cole was finished.
“I guess that does it.” Cole clicked off the shredder and shifted the bat from one shoulder to the other.
“Why have you done this?” Christopher’s body shuddered as he spoke.
“Because I hate you.”
Cole started for the door, then turned. On Christopher’s desk sat a bronze eagle on a thin marble slab atop a walnut box. The thing that caught Cole’s eye was the shiny brass plaque. He approached the desk and Christopher looked up at him. The tears had stopped. He wore a strange expression, a kind of mixture of resigned defeat and yet a look of knowing.
Cole picked up the eagle trophy and Christopher shifted in his seat.
“Top Producer 200,” he began reading. “You have learned to soar with the eagles.” Cole held the baseball bat in the middle and with a quick snap knocked off the eagles extended wing. “Looks like you’re grounded.” As Cole righted the trophy to put it back on the desk, the bottom panel opened, and a plastic bag fell out. “I’ll be damned.” Cole chuckled.
Christopher, without thinking, grabbed for the bag. Just as quickly, Cole struck him with a swift blow to the wrist. Christopher recoiled in pain.
“These look like about enough to bring Ellie’s account current and then some.” Cole turned the plastic bag in his hand, then stuffed it into his pocket.
“There are close to $40,000 worth of stones there.” Christopher panted, messaging his wrist. “I tell you what, we could split them. You can pay for Ellie’s care for a while and I can—”
“My God, is there no bottom to how low you’ll go? I can pay for Ellie’s bill? She’s your wife, you bastard! Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? You’re through. You can’t bribe me. Hell, you couldn’t even bribe that poor, innocent Elias. You have no way out. You’re going to jail, and what they’ll do to you in there, well, you’ll see.” Cole smiled at the thought. “I’m satisfied now. Goodbye, Mr. Christopher. Not that you would think of it, but don’t worry about Ellie. I’ll take care of her; the devil can have you.”
With a click of the lock, Cole left the office. The receptionist stood gazing down the hall towards him. As he approached her, Cole brought the end of the bat up in a mock salute.
“Mr. Christopher twisted his wrist rearranging his office. You might want to get him an ice pack. Oh, and don’t say anything about the way it turned out. He’s a little upset with the results. Have a nice day.” Cole was out the front door.
“Hey, where’d ya go with my bat?” Asked one of the buzz-cut softball players still lingering in the parking lot.
“I heard there was a rat in there.”
“A rat?”
“Yeah, but he turned out to be a mouse.” Cole tossed the bat to the mystified player.
FIFTEEN