The Case of the Yellow Diamond by Carl Brookins Read Free Book Online

get on our email list right away and see what I can learn.”
    â€œTry to be discreet. The rest of your group doesn’t need to know Lewis was murdered. At least, not just yet. And one other thing, Tod.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œYou need to consider that you and Josie are now targets.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIf Stan Lewis was murdered for the papers he was carrying, whoever did this may figure you and your wife also have information dangerous to them. You and Josie ought to review everything you can think of that relates to your contacts with Mr. Lewis. Try to recall what he knew about you two and what you’ve told others. And try not to go anywhere alone. I don’t want to frighten you—”
    â€œYou’re certainly starting to,” Tod said.
    â€œWell, I’m sorry, but just be careful and keep track of any odd or unusual contacts. Something’s going on here, and it’s going to take me some time to figure it out.”
    I hung up the phone. I didn’t tell Tod to stay out of dark alleys. I figured that wasn’t anywhere in his experience or future. I went to my file of out-of-town investigators. Many private operators developed professional contacts across the country. I used mine, sometimes paying a fee, other times returning local service where called for. My rolodex revealed I had a years-old contact with a St. Louis area code. I called the number, but it was not in service. I tried Ricardo Simon to see if he knew anybody there. He wasn’t in. So then I dialed a local investigator to whom I usually referred divorce cases.
    The guy I wanted was in and he had an active contact in St. Louis. With that reference, I called Carl Wisnewsky. He was also in and knew my original contact who, he informed me, had died in bed of nothing more suspicious than natural causes. He agreed for a reasonable fee to look into the Stan Lewis burglary case. I added Carl to my rolodex.
    I explained that by now the cops in St. Louis would have heard from Winona and elevated the case to something more than simple burglary. There was no heavy lifting here. I only wanted whatever the cops would let go. He rang off, and I went to my computer to make notes on what I had so far.
    Even with my rudimentary understanding of computer systems and the Internet, I was slowly becoming more dependent on the machine for keeping track of case notes and my business. Two things worried me: loss of notes in the mysterious ether of cyberspace, through my ineptitude or a breakdown of the silicon inside the machine, or loss by some thug stealing the machine or its memory. I protected myself against theft by making copies of my notes on those plastic discs called CDs. I taught myself how to use that recording program. Those copies I kept in various secret places, just as I had with paper records. I couldn’t do anything about machine problems and I still flinched every time the lights in my office building flickered due to some sudden surge or drain on the electrical system.
    Now, as I organized my memories of the people and events of this case of Yap, questions came flooding in. This was a not-uncommon circumstance early on. I didn’t yet know all the players well enough to decide whether they were Godless or on the side of the angels.
    The telephone rang. Enter Gary Anderson. He was calling, he said, from his office in downtown Minneapolis. It was, I knew, on the umpty-umpth floor of one of the newer towers growing up like spring weeds around the metropolitan core. I could remember as a child in Minnesota, the tallest building in the city was the Foshay Tower, and in St. Paul, the First National Bank building. Now there were towers taller and more spectacular all over the place, although St. Paul seemed determined to avoid overshadowing the big red number one on top of the bank building.
    â€œWe were unable to talk privately at the Bartelmes the other day,” he said. “A good