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“Gio was wrong place, wrong time, wrong woman.”
“It’s looking that way, Alex. Poor guy, living the high life, shelling out money he didn’t earn to the hottest cougar he’d ever known.”
I said, “A hundred thousand for jewelry. Backs up what I said before: more to the relationship than sex.”
“Yup, looks like he had feelings for her,” he said. “And she led a bad guy to his doorstep. Gonna be tough explaining it to the family. Once I get to the point where I can actually prove something.”
“What’s next?”
“Finding out exactly what that stone is. Called the lab and Noreen Sharp had fun with me—here you go again, hassling us with bling, why can’t you be like the others and just send bullets. I sent Moe over to pick it up, he just got back, they packed it in a big box, triple-sealed. Just opened it and took a peek. You’re right, compared with her other diamonds it’s dinky. But pretty, at least to my eye. Anyway, Saroyan’s on his way. Bringing a grandkid, who am I to deny him?”
—
I arrived at the station just as a uniformed driver guided Harold Saroyan out of a matte-gray Suburban. The jeweler looked exactly the same as two years ago: five-six, mid-eighties with white hair and a luxuriant white mustache. Turned out impeccably in a cream-colored suit, sky-blue spread-collar shirt, hugely knotted orange silk cravat, and mirror-polished caramel wingtips.
When he’d been safely deposited on the sidewalk, the driver racedaround to the street-side door. Not in time; the door flung open and a teenage boy bounded out, heedless of traffic, slouched over to Saroyan, and stood next to him. Wide-eyed.
The boy was fourteen or so, stocky, handsome, with a smooth round face under a nest of brown curls and eyes blurred by thick, black-framed glasses. His version of dressing for success was a red AC/DC T-shirt, plum-colored board shorts, and orange Nikes.
I made my way over. “Hello, Mr. Saroyan.”
Puzzled look for half a sec, then a smile. “Ah, you work with the lieutenant.”
“Alex Delaware.”
“Yes, of course, Alex.” Smooth dissembling, warm smile, warmer handshake. “This is my number one grandson Clifford Avakian.”
“Hi, Clifford.”
The boy’s head dipped. Studying the sidewalk.
Saroyan nudged him. “Clifford?”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Throat clear from Grandpa.
A mumbled, adolescent “Sir.”
Saroyan nodded approvingly. “Clifford watches police shows. I want to show him reality.”
The driver returned to the door that had egested the old man, reached in and extracted a black leather case I’d seen before.
Saroyan said, “Please give it to Clifford, Gerald.”
The transfer completed, Gerald said, “Okay if I go and find parking, Mr. S?”
“Please do, thank you, Gerald. Clifford will text you when we’re ready to be picked up.”
Gerald got back behind the wheel, the Suburban drove south, turned right, and vanished.
I headed for the station’s front door ahead of Saroyan and the boy and held it open. No challenge. The jeweler walked slowly, with stiffness I hadn’t seen the first time.
“I’m a little less hare and a little more turtle,” he said, lacing his arm through Clifford’s free limb. Smiling broadly, in counterpoint to his grandson’s grim mien.
“Cheer up, Clifford, this will be educational.”
—
