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

deal’s happened since and I wonder if I might impose on you to meet me today.”
    â€œSure,” I said. “I could come to your office in about an hour or so.”
    â€œHmm. I wonder if we could meet for lunch? There’s a nice quiet little place near here. Say, eleven-thirty?” He mentioned a name.
    â€œThat’s fine. I know the place.”
    Interesting , I thought as I replaced the hand set in its cradle. He wants to meet but maybe he doesn’t want to be seen with me at his office. Lawyer Anderson was known for his discretion. He was also known in some legal gossip circles as someone who skated close to the edge of the ethical cliff from time to time. His primary focus was manipulation of financial assets for the benefit of his well-off clients and for himself, naturally.
    The restaurant, on a short side street in the middle of downtown, had no connection to the skyway system. It was not a place where the up-and-coming young hustlers in the financial or other commercial trades in the city went to see and be seen. This was a small, quiet restaurant with an excellent chef and a highly discreet waitstaff. An awning over the sidewalk sheltered the single street door, but the awning was plain and there was no elaborate lettering on the front window. No lettering on the window at all. The lettering on the door simply gave the street number, which was repeated on the matte black letter-box slot in the wall beside the door.
    Inside, the hostess, a well-set-up woman of middling years with a calm demeanor, eyed me as I stepped through the door.
    â€œGood afternoon, sir,” she said. Then she waited, looking down at me.
    She didn’t ask if she could help or be of service. These were not on her agenda.
    â€œI’m meeting Mr. Gary Anderson,” I said. “Perhaps he called?”
    â€œRight this way, sir.”
    She wheeled smartly about, her shoulder-length, straight, ash-blonde hair swinging aside, and led me around the panel that blocked my view of the interior. I had to stretch to keep pace, my legs being shorter than hers. I didn’t want to trot, did I?
    We passed eight tables, four on the left and four on the right. The blonde hostess stopped at a ninth at the very back, not too far from a door that led, I presumed, to the kitchen and probably certain sanitary facilities as well. Each table, I noted in passing, was laid with a white cloth, cloth napkins, silverware, and wine and water glasses.
    I took the chair she pulled for me, so I sat with my back to the room. She left my side and a waiter materialized with a pitcher of water, which he generously shared with me. He also inquired if I wanted a drink. I declined, refraining from requesting a bottle of Bud, just to see what his reaction would be.
    The tall, stork-like Gary Anderson, his eyes alight with mischief and with his large hand already extended, walked around the table, waving me down and sank into the chair opposite.
    â€œNo trouble finding it, I see,” he said. The waiter repeated his routine, and Anderson ordered a dry martini with a twist. “Not drinking this noon?”
    â€œI usually wait until later in the day unless the job calls for it,” I said. “And my recollection is that the drinks here are substantial.”
    Anderson raised his eyebrows. I imagine he was wondering if I was a regular or how frequently I had been here. He had no way of knowing, of course, except that he’d never seen me here. I was not going to enlighten him. I assumed we were engaged in some sort of game to either impress me or frighten me into getting lost, or perhaps into proving my mettle.
    I knew a good deal about Mr. Gary Anderson, attorney at law. I had clients, regular clients, who could buy and sell him several times over. That I preferred to hang about with middle- and other-class folks didn’t mean I couldn’t and didn’t make my occasional way in more rarefied circles. I even knew how