Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (7 page)

“Yeah, I’m cool. I’ve taken necessary precautions,” he said, before pausing. “What the fuck is going on there? You got someone with you?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, kissing Brigette as he carried her toward the bed. “She’s one of my finest associates.”

“Shit, man, you know I don’t discuss no business when a third party’s present.”

“Hold on, old buddy, this ain’t no third party. She’s part of the deal—in more ways than one.” Brigette nibbled at K. J.’s ear as he listened to Ruff Daddy.

“Yeah, if you say so, but get the bitch away from the phone. I ain’t broadcasting my conversation—not after the call from New York and the Atlanta deal. I don’t know who’s watching or listening. I don’t trust nobody.”

Hunter sat Brigette down on the bed.

“What about you,” Ruff Daddy said, “you noticed anybody on your tail?”

“No way, not a soul,” K. J. laughed. “Ain’t nobody gonna fuck with me in Texas. They don’t wanna mess with a good ole boy—not down here.”

“Don’t let ya head get too big for that ten-gallon hat. Something’s up, you better watch your ass.”

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“Yo, where are you?”

“Never mind that. I’m calling to let you know the deal is on. I’ll call Billy Ray when we’re through.”

“Great, great, he’s waiting for the word.”

“You got enough merchandise for the show right now?”

“Sure, but I need more for the Houston show. I like to have it in hand in advance. I don’t like foul-ups. It takes a lot of money to put these shows together.”

“The material is moving.”

“Great. You just saved Billy Ray an ass kicking, for real,” K. J.

laughed. “Say, what really happened in Atlanta? The only word I got was what I read in the papers. You gotta fill me in—wait, there’s another call coming in. How can I get back to you?”

“I’ll call you,” Ruff Daddy said before hanging up.

“Yeah, it’s me!” K. J. yelled into the phone, then immediately changed his tone. It was his wife, calling from Fort Worth. “Hey, sweetheart. I was just thinking about you.”

“I bet you were, K. J. I just bet you were just thinking about me so much that you didn’t call home this morning like you said you would.”

K. J.’s wife, a former high-school cheerleader, was not unaware of his philandering.

Brigette stood up. Holding his hand over the receiver, K. J. told her he would meet her in the ballroom at the exhibition. He patted her bottom as she left.

“Yup, well, I can explain that, darling,” he said to his wife. “I know, I know.”

When K. J. finally arrived at the Lone Star Jewelry Show, he was doubly agitated. Not only was Ruff Daddy acting a little strange, but his true-blue, American-as-apple-pie wife was getting frisky and had threatened to leave him and go home to her daddy.

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K. J. stood in the center of the ballroom under a huge neon sign blinking DIAMONDS FOREVER and looked out over the vast array of booths. Buyers packed the huge trade-show floor, flitting from booth to booth to peruse the glistening showcases where diamonds, gemstones, and designer jewelry of every sort were on display. He knew he could patch things up with his wife—a little trinket, some piece of jewelry would do that. But the other thing, the shooting in Atlanta. What was that about? Did Ruff Daddy know more than he was saying? As soon as the show closed he’d have to look into it. For now it had to be strictly business.

Hundreds of diamond wholesalers and exhibitors had turned out for the show. They had come from nearly every corner of the globe—

Belgium, China, France, Germany, Great Britain, Greece, Hong Kong, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Japan, Singapore, Spain, Sri Lanka, Switzerland, South Africa, Tahiti, Thailand, and more—to display their wares. Three of the booths were selling gems that belonged to him and his associates—rough diamonds that would net nearly $6 million. That thought set his heart pumping nearly as fast as watching a corral full of fine thoroughbred stallions. But it was not, as some suspected, the money that excited him. He already had plenty of that. No, it was the wrangling, the careful planning, the shrewd manipulations, and the precise execution that went into the deal. The danger! For K. J.

there was nothing like it; except maybe riding and breaking one of his high-spirited stallions.

Trying to relax, K. J. wandered through the maze of exhibits until he found Brigette. “Sorry ’bout the interruption, but we’ll have plenty of time later,” he said.

She smiled and surreptitiously touched his hand. “Everything all right?”

“Nothing a Texan can’t handle,” he said. “Let’s go over and see how the goods are moving.”

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They pushed their way through the crowd as the sensuous Texas drawl of the show’s pitchwoman oozed from loudspeakers, describing current trends and luring buyers with special offers.

“Designers are making a big to-do over burnt oranges and yellows, or earthy browns and lush greens as design elements in apparel and accessory fashion trends. Jewelers are responding by making state-ments with pink stones ranging from intense, magenta rhodolite gar-nets and rubellite tourmalines through a wide palette of lighter tourmalines and pale pink sapphires—beautiful! So beautiful! Watch out for . . .”

“K. J.! K. J.! You old horse thief,” someone shouted.

K. J. turned to see a small man with wrinkled, weather-beaten skin advancing toward him. “Clyde! Hey, keep that horse thief stuff quiet, partner,” K. J. said, smiling broadly. “People might take you serious.”

He grabbed the man’s hand and shook it vigorously. “What are you doing here?”

Clyde T. Hammond, despite his harmless avuncular look, was an oil pipeline manufacturer and old friend of K. J.’s father who had connections that stretched from the White House to the Middle East and, rumor had it, to the inner circles of America’s underworld Eastern mob. He laughed now and, stepping back, squared off in a boxer’s stance and threw a few blows into K. J.’s midsection.

“Still tight as a drum,” K. J. said as he permitted the old man to hit him hard in the abdomen.

“Just out for a breath of fresh air,” Clyde said.

“More perfume in the air in here than stinky stuff at a skunk’s picnic.”

“Hey, come on, take a walk with me back toward the antique and estate jewelry pavilion.”

“Ah . . . look Brigette, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, we have some unfinished business.”

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“One of your wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” she said as the two men left.

“What’s a matter. You fall on hard times, Winston? Got to sell the family heirlooms?”

“No. Actually, son, I came down here to talk to you. I knew I’d find you here. Your mother’s worried and so is your dad.”

“About what, Clyde?” K. J. paused to survey the old man’s face.

“About what?”

“Let’s step over here,” Clyde said, pointing to a quiet area near a bank of telephones. “Conflict diamonds. They think you’re trading in diamonds that come from one of them African countries where they’re having civil wars.”

“What in the world are you talking about, Clyde?”

“Blood diamonds, boy, that’s what they call ’em. That whole business stinks to high heaven.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Terrible things are going on, K. J., folks cutting off the hands of children in Sierra Leone and Angola. You must know the rebels are using money from illegal diamonds to buy weapons.”

“Tell me, Winston, what is an illegal diamond? Diamonds are perfectly legal. And since when did you start caring—”

“You know damn well what I mean. They’re trying to pass a bill in Congress banning the import of them diamonds, right now.”

“Yeah, well, until the bill passes, the diamonds aren’t banned, am I right? And since when did Daddy start caring about Africa and the Third World? I really don’t need a lecture about clean diamonds from him or you. You and I both know there’s plenty of dirt in every business—even the oil business, the one you and Daddy are in.”

“Your mother and—”

“You know, Clyde,” K. J. snapped, staring at the old man suspiciously, “I don’t think you even talked to them about it. My daddy 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 48

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would’ve called me if he was really concerned. He sure wouldn’t have sent somebody like you. The Hunters keep family matters in the family. What’s the deal, Clyde? What in hell are you up to?”

“You don’t have no reason to talk to me like that, boy. It’s pretty simple, let’s just say I’m trying to warn you to get out of the creek before the dam breaks.”

“Look, old man, your concern is touching, but knowing what I know about your business, I wouldn’t believe you if you had your damn tongue notarized. You haven’t lifted a hand to help anybody, including my daddy, since I’ve known you. Not unless there was something in it for you.”

“Let’s not get personal, my boy,” Clyde said. “But if you know me so well, then you know that I’ve got as many connections as you and your daddy. You may think you’ve got everything in hand, but there’s some stuff happening now that you ain’t even considered. Whether you know it or not, you could use some help, and I’m the man that can supply it.”

“Is that a threat, Clyde? You about to drop a dime on me? Or are you just fishing and hoping to buy into something that you don’t know shit about?”

“You was always a clever boy, K. J. You figure it out. But as an old friend of the family, I’m telling you to watch your back. You’re dealing with some ruthless folks. Your daddy and your highfalutin’ lawyer brother ain’t gonna be able to protect you. I’m not even sure that I can.”

“Spit it out, Winston. What are you—”

“Stay clear of the Vietnamese girl. I’m just warning you for your family’s sake—especially with your brother planning to run for gover-nor some day, and maybe even the Senate. If anything blows up, everybody is going to get hurt. You don’t have to admit it or deny it, all I come to say is that folks are worried and some folks are hoppin’ mad.”

“You know, I don’t think anybody’s worried except you, and I’m not falling for your scam. My business is my own, and I’m advising you to stay out of it.”

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Clyde started to speak again, but before he could utter another word, K. J. turned and abruptly stormed away, leaving the old man standing alone. As far as K. J. could see, there was no need to continue the conversation. He was convinced it was a shakedown and, until he discovered exactly what the old man knew, he wasn’t saying anything else. Klaus had been evasive, but he had warned him that things might get sticky. Still, K. J. hadn’t expected it to happen this quickly. He had also been told not to panic—just wait and ride it out. But with Clyde sniffing at his heels, he felt he had to do something. At least get on a secure phone, make some calls, and attempt to protect himself. For that, he couldn’t return to his ranch. He had to get to his hideaway, the condo he kept under an assumed name in Arlington for anonymous trysts or just to cool out and disappear. With the exception of Sally Brierton, the cute cocktail waitress he picked up at Avanti, and a few high-class call girls, no one even knew he owned it.

K. J. was headed toward the exit when Brigette intercepted him.

“What’s the hurry?” she asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.

Anyway, I thought we were going to get together later.”

“We’ll have to take a rain check; something unexpected has come up. I have to leave.” He pulled away from her and started toward the door, then, thinking about their earlier foreplay, turned back. “You know, you could come with me. After this is settled, I’ll need some TLC.”

“I’d love to,” she said, “but I have to get back to the booth. I’m talking to a buyer. Besides, don’t you think one of us should stay here and keep an eye on the goods? Why don’t you call me when you get on the road—we’ll arrange something for later.”

“Sounds like a plan, honey. See you later.”

K. J. hurried to the check-out desk, tossed his room key at the clerk, and told her to check him out of his room and put the bill on his tab.

“And buzz valet parking, have them bring my car around,” he said, striding toward the entrance.

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Outside, he paced nervously as he waited for the car. He wasn’t sure how he would solve this, but he knew he had to get back to Klaus and find out more. If that didn’t work, he’d have to go even higher. He felt that he’d been played into a corner without wiggle room, but he was sure he’d survive. Ever since his college days on the football field, he’d managed to find a way to get over no matter what the odds were. This was no different, he told himself.

The green Porsche screeched to a halt in front of the hotel and a pimple-faced teenager stepped out smiling as if he’d just been to Dis-neyland. K. J. sneered at him but still slapped a ten-dollar bill in his hand before sliding into the driver’s seat. He had just bought the Porsche to replace his year-old Ferrari, and he didn’t appreciate the way the kid handled it. He lit a Cuban cigar before angrily pulling away from the hotel onto Akard Street.

“Damn Germans just make a more reliable car than the Italians,”