The private telephone line rang in the quietly luxurious office located above Parks Fine Jewelry, West-Coast rival to Tiffany’s in New York.
Walter Parks lifted the receiver. “Yes?” he said without preamble. He listened to the message with no expression, then asked one question. “You’re sure?”
The caller answered affirmatively.
“Send me a copy of the death certificate,” Walter ordered the private detective. “No, not here,” he said a trifle impatiently as if the man should have figured it out for himself. “To the post office box.”
In twenty-five years, he’d well learned how to cover his tracks. The post office box was with a private postal service two doors down the street. No one in his family knew of it. But then, no one in the family knew much of anything that he didn’t want them to know.
He replaced the phone and stood by the window, watching the December rain fall endlessly from the winter sky. The only place as cold and dismal as San Francisco could be in the winter was San Francisco in the summer on days when the coastal fog shrouded the city.
So. Marla was dead. About damned time. Twenty-five years he’d had to worry about her, and had even felt guilty at times about her and her pack of brats. But no more.
As his old man, poor as the proverbial church mouse, had often said—life was what it was and a man had to look after his own fate.
Walter had found that to be true. The gods of fortune smiled on those who grabbed each opportunity when it came along. A slow man was a loser. That man wasn’t him.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to sense the weight rolling off his back, to experience the easing of it in his spirit. Realizing he didn’t feel lighter in heart, body or soul, he grimaced. No matter. The last link to his past, the dangerous part of it at any rate, was gone.
He put a hand to his chest. A little heartburn there. He should eat healthier. He knew it. And no alcohol, except for a couple of glasses of wine. That was good for the ol’ ticker, according to the doctors.
The rain pelted the windowpane in a wind-blown fury, sending an odd chill along the back of his neck. He rubbed the spot, then started as the phone rang again. Glancing at the light, he saw it was his office line.
“Parks,” he said upon answering.
The caller was his oldest son, destined to one day run the company. Pride lifted his spirits. He and Anna had produced a fine brood, if he did say so himself.
Cade was the best of the bunch—smart, handsome and coolheaded. Walter had wanted the boy in the office with him, but Cade hadn’t been interested in the diamond and jewelry business, the wheeling and dealing on a global level. He’d been fascinated by the law. Walter had conceded a lawyer wasn’t a bad thing to have in the family.
Now the boy worked for a prestigious law firm—something Walter had personally seen to—and handled the business of the jewelry company from contracts to taxes. At twenty-nine, Cade already knew every aspect of the diamond trade. He was in position to take over when Walter needed him to. The boy’s sense of responsibility would see to that.
“Cade, how about some lunch?” Walter asked in a jovial tone. “Top o’the Mark in half an hour?”
“Fine. I have the information you wanted on King Abbar and his son, Prince Lazhar, of Daniz. The king is ill. I understand the son handles most of the details of running the kingdom nowadays. Shall I bring the folder with me?”
“Yes.”
Walter smiled as he hung up. Daniz was one of those tiny European countries most people had never heard of. Which showed how stupid most people were. Its diamonds were some of the finest in the world. A new find, its mines produced pink-and champagne-colored stones, which fortunately were becoming the rage among the celebrity crowd…with a few judicious gifts here and there on his part. A sharp deal with the ruler could be lucrative for them both.