Jockeys and Jewels Read online

  “No, Mr. Friedman owns a jewelry shop. ‘Pieces of Seven’, I think it’s called. Can’t be doing so good though, because the real estate agent was here last week. Standing right where you are now. She liked my flowers too.”

  “Yeah, they’re real nice,” Kurt said. “So the owner is selling?” He bent over and helpfully tossed a weed into the wheelbarrow.

  The man stiffened, and Kurt guessed maybe it hadn't been a weed after all. He stepped away from the flowers, and the gardener relaxed.

  “Selling out, is he?” Kurt prompted.

  “Yeah, the housekeeper said he’s moving back to Europe. Selling his house and cars. His wife don’t like it here. She already left.” He scratched at his thin chest leaving a smear of dirt on his shirt. “Sure hope the new buyer keeps me on.”

  “Yeah. Wonder why they’re moving...” Kurt let his voice drift.

  “Dunno. Mr. Friedman don’t talk to me much. Housekeeper says he’s homesick.”

  “Homesick, yeah.” Kurt nodded. “That’s probably it. Well, thanks for the directions. Good luck with the new owners.”

  Anticipation pulled him down the hill, and it was an effort not to jog to his truck. He did a U-turn, waved at the helpful gardener and punched ‘Pieces of Seven’ into his GPS.

  No such shop existed. He searched every type of jewelry business. Had driven ten blocks east, cutting cross-town, when the screen finally showed a store called ‘Pieces of Eight.’ Ah, bingo. 37th Avenue, SW.

  Fifteen minutes later he stood on the sidewalk in front of a neglected building. Several gold letters had peeled from the sign, leaving its name unreadable. Assorted silver jewelry was displayed in the window, but steel bars blocked his view and three large stickers warned of a security system.

  He stared through the window, scanning the pattern on the silver. Designs focused on the city’s western heritage—lots of chuck wagons, cowboys and bulls. Odd location for a retail outlet. The stuff might appeal to tourists, but this avenue fringed a residential area. It felt like a shop with no real desire to sell.

  He jogged up the three front steps and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled; a lady bustled from the back room. Her pink shirt was tucked into shapeless beige slacks, and silver jewelry matched the type on display. 'Betty', her nametag read.

  She eased to a wary stop, staring at him, as though suspicious he intended to rob the place. He gave a reassuring smile.

  “Good morning.” She relaxed a notch and stepped forward. “May I help you?”

  “Probably,” he said. “I’m looking for a gift for my girlfriend.”

  Her head bobbed with eagerness. “We have many lovely gifts. What kind of jewelry does she like?”

  “I’m not sure.” He glanced around, studying the shelves.

  Betty's bracelets jangled as she pointed at a glassed display case. “A chain or a brooch might be nice. What color—”

  “Green, and her hair is like honey with blonder streaks.”

  “I was going to ask what color she wears. Green?”

  “No, that’s her eye color.”

  She smiled then, a big approving smile. “Some men have been married for years and still don't know the color of their wife’s eyes.”

  Kurt shrugged. He was a trained observer. Only natural he noticed everything about Julie. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  “We have some popular pendants with a Stampede theme.”

  His mouth tightened as he remembered Julie’s persistent cowboy friend in the red shirt. “Nothing with a cowboy,” he said quickly. “Maybe something with a stone.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t sell those. Our silversmith designs all the pieces here, but he doesn’t set stones.” She gestured hopefully toward a smaller display. “Maybe you’d like to look at something over there?”

  “No stones?” His disappointment was so acute he gripped the edge of the glass case. Another dead end, yet he’d been certain he had it figured. Otto and friend couldn't be smuggling silver; it was much too bulky to conceal on a horse.

  “Well, we do have some zircons,” Betty said. “But they’re not sold out of this shop.”

  “Zircons?” Kurt blew out his relief, and his fingers did a relieved tap dance on the glass. “Are those the fake diamonds?”

  “It’s a mineral,” she said primly, “not a fake diamond. We usually ship them to overseas customers. But maybe we could find an extra one, just for you. Please wait a minute.”

  She bustled through the door and reappeared in seconds with a portable display cradled in her arms. “Ted designed these pieces and can add a zircon anywhere you want. The stones are lovely. Not many people can tell the difference between a zircon and a diamond.”

  “Bet not,” Kurt said. “Is Ted the owner of the store?”

  “Oh, no. Ted is my son. He’s the designer.”

  “May I talk to him?”

  “Sorry, sir,” she said. “No one is allowed in the back. Store rules. I’ll just fill out an order form and have Ted come out.”

  “Wait.” Kurt worked hard to maintain a solemn expression. “Before I place this order, this special order, it’s imperative I see Ted in his work environment. It makes the jewelry much more personal. I believe the artist’s individuality is the very essence of his creation, so it’s important to have a sense of his work.”

  Betty stared, her mouth slightly open, and he feared he’d overdone it, but then her head bobbed. “Yes, yes. You’re absolutely right, sir,” she said. “And you do understand the creative process. I didn't realize you wanted a special design. Follow me. But you can only stay a few minutes.”

  “Of course.” He tracked her behind the counter.

  “In this door,” she whispered. “Ted doesn't mind visitors, but the owner is very…fussy. Teddy!” she called. “I have someone here who wants a special order.”

  Kurt followed her into a spacious workshop. A young man sat at a bench, engrossed with shaping a strip of silver. An assortment of pliers and snips covered his plastic work surface.

  He peered at Kurt over the top of black-rimmed glasses. Acne dotted his face, and a lank strand of hair was shoved behind his ear. His black t-shirt sported music notes, a confusion of foreign symbols and a spattering of shoulder dandruff.

  “Working on a ring.” Ted gestured with his head as he placed a strip of silver on an anvil and tapped it with a steel rod. His eyes narrowed in concentration. He seemed untroubled and largely oblivious to Kurt's presence.

  Kurt scanned the room. On his right there was a jeweler’s bench with a more elaborate lighting system. A gold-framed picture hung above it. Looked like Friedman with a smiling woman and a sullen-faced teenager. He eased sideways.

  “You can’t go there! That’s Mr. Friedman’s section.”

  Kurt stopped at Betty’s sharp warning. She plucked nervously at the silver chain around her neck. Ted didn't look up.

  “Does the owner do the same work as you?” Kurt asked, obediently moving back beside Ted.

  “No. He only sets stones.” Ted shook his head in disdain, still tapping with his rod. “I design my jewelry from scratch using sterling silver. Look at this.”

  Kurt looked down at the unremarkable sheet of silver. “Wow,” he said.

  “This is the silver before I transform it. It’s 925/1000 pure. I started designing using copper and pewter, but now I only work with silver.”

  “Great. Excellent progress.” Kurt gave a hearty nod, stealing another glance at Friedman’s table. He didn't know the names of the tools and equipment, but the shop seemed exceedingly well equipped.

  The door chime jangled. He felt Betty’s stare and pretended an absorption in Ted’s silver creation. Her footsteps receded as she left to greet the new customer, but he waited until the door clicked shut before he spoke. “Your mother said you could add zircons to a custom-made piece,” he said, speaking quickly. “Could I see some of the stones, Ted? I understand there’s a wide range of quality on the market.”

 
; “I have a few in my drawer, but most of them are locked over there.” Ted jabbed at the corner workstation. “Mr. Friedman looks after the settings for overseas customers. But you can pick a stone from this group. Prices are listed on the back.” He pulled out a display case and dropped it in front of Kurt.

  Kurt tingled with satisfaction as he studied the spectrum of colors. “What did you say the owner’s name was?” he asked.

  “Marcus Friedman. He’s from Belgium or Germany, someplace like that. Last year he saw me selling my pewter at the flea market and hired me on the spot. He pays for all the materials, the tools and the workshop.” Ted squared his narrow shoulders in pride. “I get a percentage of sales. Just like an owner.”

  “I see. And how are sales going?”

  “Well, kind of slow.” His smile faded. “But Mr. Friedman says it takes time for artists to build a customer base. Anyway, the shipments to Antwerp are going well.”

  “How often do you ship overseas?”

  “Four or five times a year, I guess. Mr. Friedman delivers them himself.” Ted adjusted his glasses and glanced around as if expecting Friedman to pop up any moment. “I guess that’s where he is now,” he added.

  “So the pieces shipped always have zircons in them?”

  “Either zircons or fake stones. They really like that stuff over there.”

  Kurt muzzled his satisfaction as he fingered a colorless stone. “This one looks like a real diamond. Must be hard to tell the difference.”

  “Yeah, especially the ones used as diamond simulates. The stones we send to Europe are top quality.”

  “Where do you get the zircons?” Kurt propped his hip against the table, keeping his voice casual.

  “I think they're mined in Australia or Thailand, places like that. They come in brown and green crystals.” Ted shuffled through a drawer. “Anyway Mr. Friedman looks after all that stuff. He wants me to concentrate on the silver design and not worry about gemstones.”

  “Of course.” Kurt cemented a bland expression, but his heart thumped with triumph.

  “So, did you want a brooch or a pendant?” Ted found a piece of creased paper and extracted a stubby pencil from his drawer.

  “What?” Kurt frowned. “Oh yeah. How about a pendant. And stick this rock in it.”

  “You sure you want a zircon? That’ll make it quite expensive.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Can you design a mountain peak and put the rock at the bottom? Use one of those chains out front to hang it on.”

  “Yeah, sure. I'll feather the mountain and put the zircon right here.” Ted sketched an image and tapped the paper with his pencil. “That’ll be ready in two weeks.”

  Kurt peeled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the workbench. “How about a little extra,” he said, “if you finish it in three days?”

  “Three days isn’t a problem.” Ted scooped up the money.

  The door tinkled. Seconds later, Betty hurried back. Her eyes relaxed when she saw Kurt lounging harmlessly beside Ted.

  “Ted, I just sold a ring.” She included them both in a bright smile and looked at Kurt. “Isn’t his work lovely?”

  “Very nice,” Kurt said. “In fact, I worked out an order with him. And I'm happy, extremely happy, with what I found here.”

  Sales must be slow, he thought, noting the relief that lightened her kind face. But considering the location, he wasn't surprised. He felt a surge of pity for the struggling pair who clearly believed the shop had more conventional business goals.

  “Let’s go out front, and we’ll calculate your deposit,” she said. “You really shouldn't be back here. The owner likes everyone to follow the rules.”

  Kurt followed her meekly. “Is the owner strict?”

  She hesitated. “A little, but he gave us both jobs. Taught me to do the paperwork, even though I don’t have a bit of accounting training.”

  Satisfaction edged from the corners of Kurt’s mouth, and he didn’t even try to stop his smile. This was all excellent information, and he wanted to pick up Betty and give her a big hug.

  “I just wish we had a better location,” she went on. “We don’t have many browsers, and Mr. Friedman doesn't want the store open on weekends. Now, I need your name and phone number.”

  Kurt reached out and pumped her hand. “Betty, I'm in a hurry, but you've been a huge help.” He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, considering it money well spent. “Here’s a deposit. Ted said he’d have the necklace ready by Friday. I’ll come back then.”

  He strolled out beneath the sound of the tinkling bell, ignoring her sputters about receipts, records and strict store policies.

  His diesel truck started with a triumphant roar. He drove east, heady with satisfaction. He used a few minutes to process the information, then hauled into the curb at a vacant meter and called Archer. Plenty to report today.

  “I just left a jewelry store called ‘Pieces of Eight’,” he said. “I suspect the owner, Marcus Friedman, works with Otto fencing diamonds. They bring the stolen goods across the border with a horse. Or on a horse.” He frowned into the phone. “I haven’t figured that part out yet. But Friedman’s store is a front. He reworks the diamonds into cheap costume jewelry, and it enters Europe as zircons.”

  Silence.

  Seconds later, Archer’s breath came over the phone in a whoosh. “Any chance we can catch them with the stones?”

  “Friedman probably flipped the last shipment in Antwerp,” Kurt said. “He’s winding down. House is on the market. Family moved out. But check the export records from Customs. The value and description will be for costume jewelry, but we can get an idea of the volume he’s running. Substitute diamonds for zircons, and we’re talking millions. Did you get the vet report?”

  “All negative except for internal parasites and some anemia.” Archer snorted. “The vet said some of those tests you ordered seemed purely health-related. All you care about is animals, and now we own a goddamn horse.” But the satisfaction in his voice was obvious, even though he was two thousand miles away.

  “What about the tail on Otto?” Kurt asked, making a mental note to ask Adam to include vitamins in the mare’s feed.

  “Order’s in. And I’ll get surveillance on Friedman. We should have them tagged in a day or two once we free up some manpower.”

  “Push it through,” Kurt said. “What about your earlier promise? Something about unlimited support?”

  “You don't need unlimited support,” Archer said. “As usual, you're a one-man wrecking crew. This was fast, even for you.” His voice lowered. “Your cover’s okay though? You safe to wrap this thing up?”

  “Yeah, but we need to play Otto tight. I overheard them talking about a last shipment. That’s why they didn’t want to lose the mare. They needed her for a final run.”

  “Okay but check in every day. And go easy.”

  “Always,” Kurt said, closing the phone on Archer’s sardonic chuckle.

  He pulled his truck back into the inching traffic. A dented yellow taxi cut in front, but he slowed and gave the car some room. He was in no hurry. It had turned out to be a very good day. Not as enjoyable as yesterday, of course, but definitely a very good day.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The spring air was crisp, but the dawn held promise. The track would be good today. Kurt sauntered into the barn, nodded at a bleary-eyed groom and tossed his empty coffee cup into the garbage bin. It dropped to the center of the container with a satisfying clink. The perfect toss.

  He strode down the aisle feeling all was well in his world.

  “Morning, Kurt.” Sandra’s cheery greeting stopped him.

  He backed up and glanced in her tack room. A box of doughnuts sat on the floor surrounded by crumbs, cups and a cluster of napkins.

  A man in black jeans, the same man who had ogled Julie yesterday, lounged on Sandra's cot. His arms bulged beneath the sleeves of his too-small shirt, and his hair was the same color as a sleek wharf rat.

&
nbsp; Kurt almost didn’t see Julie. She was wedged beside the guy, laughing at something he said. Must have been a good joke, because she didn't look up.

  His mouth tightened; he pointedly checked his watch.

  “We’ve already been out,” Sandra said, looking absurdly satisfied. “They're harrowing anyway, so it’s our eight o’clock break. Cody here has been voted trainer of the week. He brought beer yesterday, coffee and doughnuts today.”

  Cody gave Kurt an absent-minded nod and gestured at the doughnuts. “Dig in, dude. Plenty for everyone.”

  “I hope you’ll make your weight, Julie,” Kurt said, confident his voice showed nothing but professional concern.

  “I will.” She leaned over and studied the selection then extracted a sticky pastry, glossy with white icing.

  “Julie doesn't have to worry about weight. Just look at her,” Sandra said as she leaped forward to scuffle with Martin over the last chocolate doughnut.

  Kurt was looking. He was looking as Julie took a big bite, was looking as her mouth opened and the tip of her pink tongue licked the corners of her mouth. Was looking as her bottom lip curled—

  He glanced away, afraid Sandra might guess the nature of his thoughts. But she’d beaten Martin in the doughnut skirmish and seemed preoccupied with wiping the icing off her fingers.

  “Ride my horse,” Cody was saying. “He’s had about sixty days’ training.”

  Kurt waited until the man finished talking before cutting in. Julie could ride any horse she wanted but not on his time. He’d already booked her for Ace and Lazer—she was supposed to be with him, with his horses.

  “I’d like you to ride my horses now, Julie,” he said. “After your doughnut and coffee, of course. Ace is entered for tomorrow.”

  “Certainly. Just let me know when he’s ready.”

  Kurt’s mouth compressed. He'd assumed she would watch while he saddled the horse, the way she always did. After another solitary evening, he’d been looking forward to some company. Yet if she preferred to eat doughnuts and giggle with Cody, the so-called trainer of the week, that was fine too.