Simms rose from her chair. “It’s only been eight months since you saw him, and before that you said he was a steady customer for a year. Your memory can’t be that bad,” she pressed.
“My dear, I’ve seen so many people by the end of a day, customers, buyers, colleagues… as you’ve noticed we’re very busy. It’s impossible to remember everyone’s face with any detail.
Besides, I wasn’t the only one who tended to him.”
“Who else?”
“I’m sorry, young lady, but I don’t remember.”
Simms leaned in and gave the jeweler her best NYPD intimidating stare.
“I think you should know we’re investigating the murder of the woman who made the exchange. You may have read about the case. A Lacy Wooden found brutally murdered?”
Roth’s eyes widened. “Oy vey! So, that’s who she was.”
“She was murdered the day after she exchanged the watch,” Simms said.
The old man swallowed hard and rolled his chair to face the detective. “But I thought the murderer had been caught.”
“A man was, but he was recently exonerated, so the case is still open,” Simms said. “I still find it strange that you didn’t think it peculiar having someone pay such large amounts of cash.”
Max chuckled. “Not at all. Many of our customers pay in cash. Frankly, I prefer it, less paperwork… just like the old days,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”
Simms’s eyes swept through the small cubicle. “I’m curious as to why you’re not in the Diamond District. I mean, this isn’t exactly a high-brow neighborhood.”
Roth grinned broadly. “Precisely. Less competition and lower rent.”
The detective nodded and stood. “Thank you for your time, sir. I’d like a detailed list of all the purchases this client made. My email address is on the card.”
When Simms left the Haifa Diamond Exchange, she knew that sweet Max Roth had played her for a patsy. Despite his attempts at seeming to be a doting old man with a short memory, the momentary flash in his eyes and the facial twitch told another story.
In another part of Manhattan, the green recording light of an answering machine in a dark, empty room glowed while it recorded the message that came through the machine’s speaker. “It’s Max. The police were here today and showed me a newspaper picture with you in it. Don’t worry, I was like a dead person and said nothing. Just thought you should know.”
When the machine stopped recording, the door opened and a wedge of light carved its way into the room. A silhouetted figure stepped into the light, crossed the room and pressed the ‘Replay’ button. When the figure finished listening to the message, the ‘Erase’ button was pressed.
“Alice,” Hernandez said, “do you realize that if you’re right it could be anyone in that photograph— Shilling, Judge Corbin, or even Greg Saunders. They all more or less match the age of this mysterious cash customer.”
Simms sat upright in her chair and faced the sergeant. “I’m tellin’ you Max Roth’s face lit up when he saw the photo.” While Simms detailed her encounter with Max Roth, a thoughtful, silent Moran sat in a swivel chair at his desk gazing out of the office’s meshed window at the Municipal Building. He was weighing her every word and visualizing her meeting with the old jeweler.
At the time when Commissioner Newbury decided to increase Moran’s staff, the lieutenant immediately thought of Alice Simms over at Missing Persons. He knew her analytic mind was being wasted looking for persons who had gone missing without having committed any crime—usually people who didn’t really want to be found. Simms had an almost photographic memory for details and an engrossing narrative style—all beef, no filler.
When Simms finished, Moran spun around and with his lower lip caught between his teeth hoisted himself off the chair. He walked toward the two cops, his usual bounce replaced by a noticeable limp. The knee again.
“I agree with Alice,” Moran said. “Max Roth was lying.” He pointed to the boxes that contained Lacy Wooden’s personal effects; they were stacked against the far wall. “I want to go through them again. Now that we’ve a clearer idea of what we’re looking for, there might be something among her things connecting her to somebody in that photo that we missed the first time.”
“Why don’t we just question all of them?” Simms said.
Moran waved his hands dismissively. “Much as I’d like to there’s no way we can lean on this crowd like they were run-ofthe-mill thugs. We need compelling evidence before we brace them. Let’s go through Lacy’s stuff again and then we can weigh our options.”
The purr of the fax machine caused everyone to focus on the document that started to come through. Moran stepped toward the machine and pulled out the paper. It was a black-and-white photograph of a pretty, swarthy, shapely, smiling woman. Her straight jet-black hair was gathered in a tight bun. The lieutenant read the paragraph under the picture and walked back to the table. He set the fax down in front of Hernandez and jabbed his index finger on top of the picture.
“That’s the real Linda Garcia—age fifty and vice-president of Banco de Mejico’s main branch for the past five years,” Moran announced.
Hernandez’s jaw dropped as he gazed at the picture. “How… how did you get on to this?” he stammered.
“The day after you returned,” Moran said, “Miss Garcia phoned, apologizing for having not kept her appointment with you. She had gotten a call that her car had been hit by another vehicle in the bank’s parking structure across the street. Turned out it wasn’t true. She dismissed it as a prank. As you can see, she doesn’t match the description of the woman you met.”
Hernandez gave Moran a quizzical look.
“When I spoke with Linda Garcia to set up your meeting, she was very cooperative and pleasant on the phone, and she sounded like an older woman. Much different from the Linda Garcia you met. So I had the bank’s Human Resources department fax me a picture of Linda Garcia on the pretext that we needed to clarify a possible identification snafu.”
“Then who the hell was the woman I met?” Hernandez said.
Moran shrugged. “Had to be someone who knew Garcia and the bank’s procedures in order to give you a copy of the bond transaction. Someone in the bank.”
“Which would explain her curtness; she wanted me out of there before the real Linda Garcia returned.”
“Exactly.”
Simms asked. “But why give Frank anything at all?”
“Giving him nothing would’ve seemed suspicious,” Moran said.
Hernandez
