Sanctuary (18 page)

Marge shrugged helplessly. “Anything new on the Yalom boys?”

“They’re still checking out terminals. Thank God for computers. Without them, the task would be unthinkable. You want to call up some airports ourselves?”

“No, I’m still curious about VerHauten,” Marge said. “Why don’t we go back down to the diamond center and
grab ourselves a random dealer. Someone over there has
got
to know something about VerHauten.”

Decker thought a moment, then started the motor, pointing the unmarked for downtown LA.

Unsure how to start, Decker took out his shield and flashed it to the first Chasid he saw. The man was five ten, his face hidden behind a thick pelt of beard and side-curls. He wore the requisite uniform—black suit, white shirt, and black hat. His tzitzit—prayer fringes—were peeking out from under his shirt. He fingered them vigorously as he eyed the gold badge.

Decker said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for the offices of VerHauten Corporation. I was told they are located around here, but I can’t seem to find them in any building directory.”

The religious man was confused. “VerHauten corporate headquarters is in South Africa.”

“How about their local subsidiary offices?” Marge said.

Again, the man squinted. “They don’t have any offices here.”

“Maybe they’re not listed under the name VerHauten. Some sort of satellite office, perhaps.”

The Chasid shrugged. “Nothing I’m aware of.” He turned and spoke to another of his ilk, the two men dressed identically. “Eli, do you know if VerHauten has a local office here?”

“In LA?” Eli shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

A thirtysomething blond man in a black suit and tie interjected himself into the conversation. “You’re looking for VerHauten?”

“Yes,” Marge answered.

“The actual corporation?”

“Try South Africa,” another businessman shouted out.

Decker noticed they were attracting a crowd. The blond man stuck out his hand and said, “Ronnie Guttenberg. Why don’t you come up to my office?”

Decker eyed Marge, then said thanks. Guttenberg led them into the express elevator that took them up thirty-five flights in fifteen seconds. They got out and went with Guttenburg into a small office, not unlike Yalom’s place. The layout was almost identical—an anteroom, a hallway, then the office. Guttenburg’s lair was furnished in warm woods and oiled leather, but it wasn’t overdone. He pointed to two plush chairs and Decker and Marge sat. Guttenburg took a seat behind his desk.

“You’re the police?”

Marge and Decker nodded.

“Can you tell me anything about Arik Yalom’s murder?”

Decker took out a notebook. “Why are you asking me about Yalom’s murder?”

“Because you’re the police and I’m scared. I knew Arik only slightly. But that’s not the point.” Guttenburg tightened his jaw. “Diamonds are risky business. Every time you hear about something like this, it scares the wits out of you. And his wife, too. Did Yalom have children?”

“Yes, he did,” Decker said. “They’re missing.”

“Missing?” Guttenburg frowned. “You mean someone kidnapped them?”

Marge said, “We’re not sure.”

Guttenburg said, “Why are you asking about VerHauten?”

Marge said, “Because we can’t find a listing in the phone book.”

“That’s because they have no U.S. offices. They’re considered a monopoly, and as such, they’re not allowed to do business in the United States. We have antitrust laws here.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

Marge took out her notebook and raised her eyebrows. “You’re telling us they don’t do business with the United States?”

“No, I’m telling you they can’t set up shop here. But they do
plenty
of business in the United States. We’d all be out on our asses if VerHauten didn’t exist.”

Guttenburg folded his hands and placed them on his desk.

“It’s Sherman Anti-Trust Act technicalities. It’s stupid and inefficient. The upshot is American cutters and sellers are forced to shell out money in travel to get our stones overseas.”

“From Antwerp?” Decker took out his notepad.

“Personally, I go to Tel Aviv to buy my stones. But VerHauten deals with Antwerp. VerHauten
is
Antwerp.”

Guttenburg smiled.

“I exaggerate, but only a little. VerHauten may be barred from our soil, but they still control us lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Why do you go to Tel Aviv?” Marge asked.

“I’m not big enough to warrant a box from VerHauten directly, so Antwerp isn’t really suited to my needs.”

“A box?” Marge asked.

“The big guys—the real, real big guys—get their stones directly from the South African mines, the diamond pipes. The giants send in their orders, and twice a year they get their boxes of diamonds from VerHauten directly. The company tries hard to satisfy their customers, but even the big players are forced to buy stones they really don’t want.”

“Forced to buy stones?” Marge looked up from her notes. “What do you mean?”

“You either take all—no questions asked—or you get
none, meaning you’re relegated back to the secondary market.”

Decker said, “The boxes are nonnegotiable?”

“Precisely. The only questions you can ask concern things like grading—quality, color, things like that. Even so, VerHauten has the final decision. In this business, they are God.”

“What constitutes being a really, really big guy?” Marge asked.

“How about Sir Maxwell Ogdenbaum.”

Maxwell Ogdenbaum. For fifty years his name had been associated with the jewels of kings and sultans. Glitter and glitz. Decker remembered reading about a tiara designed for some sultan’s wife. The price tag was about the cost of Hawaii.

“Yep, Sir Max is definitely a big player,” Guttenburg said. “If you’re approved, by appointment only. Getting a box from VerHauten is like getting a seat on the stock market. You’ve got to earn it and be big enough to afford it. Which leaves ninety-nine point nine percent of small players out of the first string. However, second-string players like me are vast and many.”

Decker said, “So a company like VerHauten wouldn’t even bother working directly with men like you or Arik Yalom.”

“You’re getting the picture.”

“Yet Arik used to travel to Antwerp.”

“That would make sense. There’s a huge secondary market over there. For my needs, Tel Aviv is better.”

“Mr. Guttenburg, what would it indicate to you, if a man like Arik Yalom had an ongoing correspondence with a vice president from VerHauten?”

Guttenburg paused. “What do you mean by ongoing correspondence?”

“Have you ever heard of a woman named Kate Milligan?”

“Everyone knows who Kate Milligan is. She was director of marketing and sales for VerHauten…used to work out of Belgium.” Guttenburg brushed sandy hair out of
his milky-blue eyes. “She corresponded with Arik?”

“That would be unusual?” Decker asked.

“Very.”

Again, the room fell silent.

Guttenburg said, “This is all very interesting.”

Decker said, “Tell me about it.”

“Kate Milligan is a dynamo—a highly esteemed international lawyer. That’s how she originally came to VerHauten. But she was so sharp, they moved her into marketing and sales. Anyway, she passed the American bar here and in New York some time ago. Then suddenly, about a year ago, she opened up her own firm—a multinational law corporation. Its LA branch is just down the street.”

“She left VerHauten?” Marge said.

“Yes. It surprised everyone.”

“Is VerHauten using her offices as a front for their business?”

“No, they couldn’t get away with that,” Guttenburg said. “Milligan deals in international business law. You know, she helps foreign investors wade through the mountains of red tape to set up business here. No, her practice is her own. But
I
wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of her practice was dedicated to finding a way to get VerHauten into the American market legally.”

Decker asked, “Are they bankrolling her?”

“Let’s just say rumor has it that they have a great deal of confidence in Kate Milligan.”

Marge said, “The parting was very amicable.”

“More than amicable. VerHauten and Ms. Milligan are on the very best terms.”

Marge cupped her brow with extended fingers, protecting her eyes from the onslaught of the midmorning sun. “You’ve got to ask yourself why a top dog like Milligan would bother with Yalom. The answer is, he had something she wanted. But I can’t think that his stockholdings would be anything worth screaming about. Hell, if they were truly valuable, seems to me the easiest
thing would be for VerHauten to buy the guy out.”

Decker said, “Agreed. Something else is at stake. You want to pay an impromptu visit to Ms. Milligan?”

“What are the chances that she’ll be in or that she’ll see us if she’s in?”

“Her offices are only a few blocks away. Let’s go for it.”

Marge shrugged. “You’re the veteran.”

Decker looked at the street signs. “This way. Let’s walk. The weather’s nice.”

Ten minutes later, Decker was standing in front of a waffled monolith of chrome and glass that reflected the glare of sunlight. He shielded his eyes and rolled his shoulder.

“Your bullet wound acting up?”

“Just when the weather’s been damp.” He smoothed back his hair. “Let’s do it.”

They went into a sunlit lobby, taking another express elevator. Decker felt his stomach lurch with each stop until they exited onto the twenty-third floor. Steel doors opened and they stepped into a paneled lobby. The entrance to the inner sanctum was blocked by a twenty-foot walnut desk manned by a pair of headphoned receptionists—one blonde, one brunette. The blonde had on a short-sleeved teal-blue dress; the dark-haired lass wore a tomato-red suit. Across the satin-smooth paneled barrier bronze capital letters spelled out
MILLIGAN AND ASSOCIATES
. The left side of the lobby held a six-foot leather couch; on the right were two wingback club chairs, between them a table holding several copies of the day’s
Wall Street Journal
. Decker approached the desk, attracting the attention of the blond receptionist. She smiled at him, but continued talking into her headphones. A moment later, she gave them her full attention.

“May I help you?”

Her voice was delicate, shaded with a South African accent. Decker said, “Kate Milligan, please.”

The blonde furrowed her brow. “And your name?”

“We don’t have an appointment.” Marge took out her badge. It attracted attention not only from the blonde but from the brunette as well.

The brunette said, “What’s this all about, Mae?”

Mae answered, “I don’t know.”

The phone rang. The brunette answered. “Milligan and Associates. This is Ellen. How may I direct your call?”

Mae said, “So Ms. Milligan isn’t expecting you?”

Decker smiled. “Just tell her the police are here.”

Mae seemed mired in indecision.

Decker said, “Why don’t you pick up your phone and call her?”

Mae seemed impressed by Decker’s solution. She pushed buttons on a switchboard, then turned her back. Neither Marge nor Decker could hear what she was saying. Then she swiveled back to face them. “May I have the nature of your business?”

Marge said, “Personal.”

Once again, Mae turned her back. Then she hung up the phone. “Ms. Milligan’s secretary is contacting her. Why don’t you have a seat for a few moments.”

The moments stretched to minutes, then to a half hour. Just as Decker was about to get up, Mae smiled at him. “That was Ms. Milligan’s secretary. He said that she’ll be down in a few moments.”

This time the moments were really moments. A woman appeared, and instantly, Decker felt his heart lurch in his chest. He cursed himself for reacting like a man first, a cop second. But he just couldn’t help himself. He stood, focusing on her face, trying to observe without staring.

Goddamn Guttenburg for not warning him.

She was beautiful—tall and lithe with skin as smooth as buffed bronze. Her bone structure was flawless, her eyes clearwater blue. Her hair was a wavy perm of copper-colored tresses. She wore a tailored ivory suit with a lace camisole peeking between the lapels. Her perfume was light with a floral hint. Decker’s eyes went from Milligan’s face to the shield in his hands.

“Ms. Milligan?” He showed her his shield. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker from the Los Angeles Police Department. This is Detective Dunn. We’d like to have a word with you.”

Milligan stared at the badge, then at Decker. “What’s this about?”

Of course, her voice had to be husky.

“Arik Yalom,” Marge said.

“Oh, not
him
!” She became cross, her South African accent pronounced with her anger. “I can’t actually believe he’s sicced the police on me! I resent having to deal with such rot! While I have nothing but admiration for law and order, I am very busy. You may feel free to take any official matters up with my personal lawyers. Their offices are on the floor above. I’ll even have Ellen ring them up for you.”

“Can we just have a few minutes of your time, Ms. Milligan?” Decker said. “I promise we’ll be brief.”

Milligan’s eyes met his. They were exquisite but unreadable. “All right. Come.”

She turned on her heels, expecting to be followed. Decker looked at Marge, who rolled her eyes. They walked behind Milligan’s long legs, her heels clackety-clacking on the hallway’s floor. Up yet another two flights in an elevator. Decker never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but he felt a sweat coming on.

Maybe it was the woman.

Milligan turned into her executive secretary’s office, waltzing past the young man’s desk. She led them into a grand-sized room sporting a panoramic view of downtown LA.

Decker’s sweat had turned suddenly cold. Maybe that was the office—all chrome and glass and ultra-modern with wall art that didn’t believe in anything representational. Expensive though. Big canvases and big names, the most notable being the dripping style of Jackson Pollock. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, but instead of providing warmth and softening, it only added
heat and glare. About as inviting as the spotlight on an operating table.

“Have a seat,” Milligan said.

But she remained standing by her desk—an enormous high-polished piece of granite rock. Behind the desk was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The top half held law books—American law, South African law, English law and international law. The lower half was dedicated to books on economics. Books by John Maynard Keynes and Milton Friedman. There was one full row of books on the post—World War II economies of Germany and Japan.