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“When the call first came in, I expected the shipment was a bunch of engagement rings, something like that. But the jewelry store manager told us it was a closed show for their most exclusive customers.”
“Chandler has changed,” I said.
“Lot of money,” she said. “Not quite Scottsdale, but getting there.”
“Enough rich women to be exclusive customers.”
She frowned. “That’s a sexist thing to say.”
I started to apologize, but she tapped my knee. “I’m kidding. Relax. You know what you call a woman flying an airplane?”
“No.”
“A pilot, you sexist pig.” The fine laugh rang out again, and then her face grew serious. “Here’s the thing. This wasn’t any ordinary diamond show. It was ice. Bling. Hip hop stuff. Amazing, gaudy, huge. The big deal was a pair of rings that Tupac Shakur had worn, 3.6 carats, top clarity and color. You know who he was?”
“Even I know.”
I told her it didn’t fit with the white-bread image of the suburbs.
“That’s probably where most hip-hop music is bought,” she said. “It’s all my son listens to. Ugh. How many talks have I had with him about the misogyny and hate for the police in the lyrics. He thinks I’m so out of it. He talks about how it’s poetry of struggle and oppression. Do you have kids?”
“No.”
When I said the word, something closed in her face and she thought differently about me. In Chandler, what married man wouldn’t have children? She didn’t know anything about Lindsey or me. Now I was simply strange, beyond comprehension.
I pushed the thought away and said, “Hip hop has gang connections. Tupac was somehow tied in to the Bloods. Or maybe it was the Crips. Could they have initiated the robbery?”
“Maybe,” she said. “I did some research. A couple of years ago a music producer was robbed of a fifty thousand-dollar diamond necklace, plus a Rolex worth another fifty K. But I didn’t find anything this large or audacious. Anyway, the people invited to this show are all respectable, rich, white. For all I know, real rappers aren’t so much into bling any more, so it’s become a collectable for the housewives who watch reality television.”
“And all this was worth a million dollars?”
“That’s what the expert from New York said.”
“Only a million…”
“Yes. I don’t know about you, but in my life that’s a lot of money.”
I took it in and we settled into silence.
“Well, thanks for telling me,” I said, extending my hand.
She took it. Her skin was smooth and cool. “Have you heard from Peralta?”
“No.” I said it without hesitation. But this is what I had been waiting for. Megan Long wasn’t here for a courtesy call. Rapport had been established. She was now down to business. So I ran through my Friday, how I knew Peralta had agreed to do a diamond run, but told me nothing more. The dictaphone message, that part I left out.
She nodded as I talked, not writing anything down. This didn’t deviate from the statement I had given the FBI on Friday.
“They tell me your wife is in critical condition,” she said. “Do you think this shooting is related to the robbery? Sergeant Vare thinks it is.”
And she would be right. But once again I said nothing about Strawberry Death and the demand for “her stones.” After a moment, “I don’t know what to think. I’m focused on Lindsey getting better.”
“Here’s to that.” She toasted me with the cup, stood, and gave me her card.
I said, “May I ask a stupid question?”
She cocked her head.
“Didn’t the rolling bag have a GPS tracker?”
