air. “The .22 has a left-hand rate of twist 1 in 10, and the .38 right-hand rate of twist of 1 in 12. You’ll find that one bullet came from a barrel with six grooves while the other came from a barrel with eight grooves.”
For a long moment, the words hung over the room like a thick fog. Moran and Hernandez looked at each other.
“Are you saying that two guns were used?” Hernandez said.
“That’s where I have a problem,” Fielding said. He picked up the report and flipped to the last page. He pointed to a paragraph that was highlighted in yellow. “Read it.”
Moran grasped the report and when he finished, he dropped it on the table and rose from his chair. “Both casings were struck on the same side and with the same firing pin indentation,” Moran said.
“Exactly,” Fielding said. “You and I know that no two pins strike the primer at the same angle and with the same indentation. All of which throws the two-gun theory out the window.”
Moran slid the report to Hernandez and turned to the ballistics chief. “What’s your take?”
Fielding massaged his chin. “Never seen anything like it.”
“What about a derringer?” Hernandez asked.
“If it is, it’s got to be one hell of a custom job,” Fielding answered.
Hernandez scratched his head. “Then it’s got to be two killers and the firing pin markings are just a fluke. Which could mean the killer used two guns to make it look like two shooters.”
“And both guns left the identical firing pin markings?” Roy Fielding said. “I can’t buy that.”
“I agree,” Moran said. “Two separate shooters can’t produce a pattern that tight. It’s impossible for two separate weapons to produce the same angle of entry.”
Hernandez furrowed his brow and his gaze drifted back and forth between Moran and Fielding. “Maybe you’re right.”
Moran began to pace. “Let’s play it out. Myer and his assailant have a violent argument. They struggle, and in the heat of the fight, the killer strikes Myer on the side of the head with a heavy object, and then shoots him twice,” the lieutenant stopped and faced Fielding and Hernandez. “If it was a planned hit the killer would’ve just shot the guy and been done with it,” Moran said.
Alice Simms floated in through the glass doors of the Haifa Diamond Exchange. The store’s large window displays pricey objects that ranged from gaudy Rolexes to oversized diamond rings. But it wasn’t in the city’s Diamond District, home to wholesalers and retailers of ninety percent of all the diamonds that entered the United States. In fact, the jewelry store was flanked by a Falafel eatery on one side and crates of tropical produce from, ‘La Isla,’ a bodega, on the other. The several glass counters with expensive jewelry on display were busy with salesclerks attending clients. From nearby a man with thick eyeglasses wearing a long black beard and ringlets that ran down the sides of his thin, pallid face moved toward Simms.
“Can I help you?” he said. The man’s long black coat sagged over his lanky frame and he tipped the wide brimmed black fedora that rested on his head.
Simms showed him her badge and ID. “I need to talk to someone about this,” she said and drew out Lacy’s Movado exchange receipt.
After examining it, the clerk gazed at her appraisingly. “This is over a year old,” he said and grinned at her. “Go to the back and see Max Roth, one of the owners. Maybe he can help.”
When Simms knocked on the glazed door of Max Roth’s office, a small ruddy-faced man with a long white beard and blue glistening eyes opened the door and doffed his black fedora. He was attired like the clerk.
“I was told you could help me,” Simms said when she stepped inside and identified herself. She handed Max the receipt. “I’d like to know more about this. Police investigation.”
Max Roth shrugged and gestured to a chair next to his roller-top desk. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gazed at the receipt as he lowered himself into his roller chair which creaked under his weight. “Is there something wrong?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Simms said. She sat and placed her business card on Roth’s desk.
Max eyed the detective, setting aside an open ledger that lay atop a pile of bills bound by a rubber band next to a computer. “Excuse the mess, I still have to plug these into our database.” Roth tapped the pile with the pads of his fingers. He returned his attention to the receipt. “Aha! I remember this,” the jeweler finally said.
Simms arched her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“The original purchase, a lady’s diamond Movado watch, was bought by this gentleman client of ours who always paid in cash and—”
“What was his name?”
Roth massaged his forehead. “I, eh… don’t know.” He gazed at Simms with soft, moist eyes. He gave a smile—a patient smile.
“Young lady, when a man his age buys so many expensive baubles so often, you know they’re not for his wife. So you do the obvious thing and don’t ask questions.”
“How old was this man?” Simms said.
“Oh, maybe late forties, early fifties. I’m not very good at guessing ages,” Roth said.
“When was the last time he was in?”
The old jeweler chortled and raised his hands. “Oy, my memory is not as good as it used to be. But he was a regular for about a year. I haven’t seen him for over eight months. Always purchased the finest and in cash.” Roth emphasized the last word cash. Then he turned to the computer keyboard and clicked a few keys. His eyes, beneath his dark closely-knit eyebrows darted across the flickering screen. A spreadsheet appeared and Roth sat back in his chair. “Here it is,” he said with pride.
Simms pushed her chair closer to the desk and looked at the screen. Next to a date was an entry for the purchase of the Movado for two thousand dollars in cash. When she shifted her eyes to the next line, she saw that Lacy had exchanged the watch for a diamond tennis bracelet the next day. The detective reached inside her purse and drew out a folded copy of the New York Times picture. She placed it on the desk in front of Roth.
“Do you see your client in this photo?” Simms asked.
While Roth slowly examined the picture, Simms watched him, for any sign of recognition in the old man’s face. Suddenly, she noticed Max’s eyes flare for an instant and his right cheek twitch.
“Which one is it, Mr. Roth?”
The old man tipped the fedora back and passed the palm of one hand over his creased brow. “I’m sorry, but it’s none of these people.”
Simms maintained her gaze on Max Roth. “Funny, I would’ve sworn you recognized someone,” she pressed. “Can you at least tell me what he looked like?”
Roth
