Part 6 (1/2)

”What happened last night?” Father John persisted.

”Nothing happened.” The other priest spit out the words. ”I called one of Mary Ann's friends. She came over, and I stayed until the friend got her calmed down.”

Father John walked over and sat down at his desk. His a.s.sistant was lying, and the man wasn't any better at it than dozens of people he'd counseled, dozens of penitents in the confessional-lying to themselves first, hoping that if someone else believed the lies, then they could also believe, as if the believing would make them true.

He glanced up. ”Take whatever time you need. I'll be here when you get back, should you want to talk.”

Fifteen minutes later-he'd just taken a spoonful of the oatmeal Elena had set before him-Father John heard the front door slam and, a moment after that, tires crunching the wet gravel on Circle Drive.

”Well, I told you so.” Elena plunged a plate into the soapy water in the sink, disappointment etched in the set of her shoulders. Father John understood. Don Ryan wasn't just another priest in a pa.s.sing parade. Here for a few weeks, a year, then moving on. He was . . . well, he'd seemed to like the place.

”What makes you think Father Don won't be back?” He heard the doubt creeping into his own voice.

”I told you before. He was never here,” Elena said after a moment. ”His spirit was somewhere else.”

Father John finished the oatmeal. Considering. So many priests through the years. Elena knew. He was going to have to cut back on the summer programs, limit them to what he could handle. Until the Provincial found another a.s.sistant. He would be even busier than he'd imagined. Which meant he had even less time than he'd thought to convince Detective Slinger that Duncan Grover was murdered.

He thanked Elena for breakfast and asked her to tell anyone who stopped by that he'd be back later. Then he headed down the hallway, grabbed his jacket and cowboy hat, and left for Lander.

12.

The Equitable Building spread over a quarter block at the corner of Seventeenth and Stout streets, ma.s.sive stone towers with marble-paved floors and 1890s Tiffany stained-gla.s.s windows. Vicky found Baider Industries on the directory and rode the bronze-trimmed elevator up several floors.

She'd called this morning to make an appointment with Nathan Baider. The founder of Baider Industries may have turned the company over to his son, but the old man was still calling the shots, Wes had said. If anyone knew why Vince Lewis had wanted to see her, she suspected it would be Nathan Baider.

”Mr. Baider's schedule is full today.” A woman's voice on the phone.

”Tell Mr. Baider I witnessed Vince Lewis's murder,” she'd said.

”Murder!” A gasp burst over the line. ”Mr. Lewis was in an unfortunate-”

She'd cut in: ”Tell Mr. Baider what I said.”

After a long pause the woman's voice had returned. ”He'll see you right away.”

Vicky emerged into another marble-paved vestibule and let herself through the gla.s.s doors across from the elevator. Instantly she was enveloped in the hushed silence of dark blue walls, cl.u.s.ters of chairs, and polished tables. Large photographs lined the walls on either side of a window that framed a view of the parking garage across the street.

”May I help you?” An attractive woman somewhere between thirty and fifty, with stylishly cut blond hair that brushed the collar of her red suit jacket, rose from behind the mahogany desk.

Vicky handed her a business card, which the woman studied for a couple of seconds, snapping the card between her red-tipped fingers. Finally she set the card down and said, ”Wait here,” letting herself through the door on the right.

Vicky strolled over to an arrangement of photographs behind the desk, western landscapes with white-peaked mountains and suns.h.i.+ne streaking the endless plains. Above the landscapes, the clear blue sky.

On each photo, small white arrows pointed to barely perceptible disruptions in the earth. She leaned closer, studying the areas beneath the arrows: gouges, clumps of buildings, roads flung through the wilderness, trucks, and bulldozers. She realized the photos had been shot from a great distance-from airplanes, maybe even satellites.

Beneath each photo was an engraved gold plate: CRIPPLE CREEK MINE, CANADA; JENNISON MINE, CANADA; and three mines in Wyoming-LEMLE, BRIDGER, KIMBERLY.

She crossed to the opposite wall. Here the landscape photos were replaced by photos of various-sized diamonds s.h.i.+mmering in the camera's flash. On the bottom frames were the identifying gold plates: THREE-CARAT YELLOW DIAMOND, KIMBERLY MINE, 1992. NINE-CARAT WHITE DIAMOND, BRIDGER MINE, 1993. SIX-CARAT BLUE DIAMOND, LEMLE MINE, 1996.

She strolled over to the gla.s.s-topped display case beneath the window. Flung out like grains of sand on a black velvet bed were dozens of diamonds. White, yellow, blue. Some as tiny as pinp.r.i.c.ks, others as large as pebbles, all reflecting back the light and the colors in the room.

”They're synthetic.”

Vicky swung around and faced the woman in the red suit.

”Synthetic?” She glanced again at the fiery stones. Was nothing what it seemed? Was everything a symbol of another reality?

The woman began explaining. The company could hardly keep millions of dollars in diamonds in the building. She gave a sharp laugh. What would the insurance company say? The stones were excellent cubic zirconia that could even fool a jeweler.

”The real diamonds are here.” She gestured toward the photos behind her. ”Baider Industries has an international reputation for the quality of the diamonds we produce. Notice all the gems have the four Cs required of excellent diamonds-color, cut, clarity, and estimable carat size. We've produced the largest finished diamond found in North America: fifteen-point-six carats.” Slowly she took her eyes away. ”Mr. Baider will see you now.”

Vicky followed the woman down a corridor as wide as a small room. From beyond the closed doors came the m.u.f.fled sounds of voices, a sharp burst of laughter.

”Mr. Baider has an important meeting in ten minutes.” The woman paused at the last door. ”Please be brief.”

She ushered Vicky into a rectangular-shaped office that resembled the reception area with similar chairs and polished tables arranged around green plush carpeting, similar photos of landscapes and diamonds on the walls.

Nathan Baider sat behind a perfectly cleared desk, hands folded on the s.h.i.+ning surface. He looked more fit than she remembered, but she'd only spoken with him briefly at the emergency room. His cheeks and hands were sunburned and freckled, his gray hair tousled, as if he'd just come indoors. He wore a blue s.h.i.+rt and a dark tie somewhat askew, knotted in a hurry, she thought.

”Sit down,” he said in a gravelly voice accustomed to obedience. The pale blue eyes didn't leave her as she crossed the office. She took the chair nearest to the desk. A few feet away, leaning against the wall, was a red-and-gold golf bag with the putter jammed halfway down. A minute earlier, she guessed, Nathan Baider had been putting a golf ball over the green carpet.

”Thank you for seeing me,” she began.

He cut her off: ”What's this about Vince being murdered?”

Vicky said, ”I saw it happen. The black Camry deliberately ran him down.”

Baider drew in a long breath that expanded the fronts of the blue s.h.i.+rt. ”About thirty other people saw it happen, Detective Clark says, and n.o.body else calls it murder.” He allowed the word to settle between them, his eyes steady on hers. ”It was an accident, Ms. Holden. Some drunk weaving down the street, couldn't tell the curb from a white line. Hit-and-run, that's what it was.”

”I was on my way to meet Mr. Lewis when he was killed,” Vicky hurried on. There was little time. She half expected the secretary to appear and announce the meeting was over.

”Yes, yes.” The man waved one hand over the desk. ”So you informed me after the accident. If Vince made an appointment with you, it must have been personal business.” He shrugged. ”In any case, it no longer matters.”

”It was a matter of life and death,” Vicky said. ”Someone killed him to keep him from talking to me.”

Baider was quiet a long moment. He seemed to be staring at some image behind his eyes. ”A very large a.s.sumption. What's your evidence, Ms. Holden?”

”Lewis's own words.” She was thinking how she would demolish a witness on the stand for offering such evidence. How can you be certain of what Mr. Lewis meant? She hurried on: ”Lewis's job was to locate new diamond deposits, am I correct?” Slowly now, feeling her way, groping to express the idea that had been nagging at her since she'd learned that Vince Lewis was dead. ”Is it possible he located a diamond deposit on the Wind River Reservation?” It sounded preposterous, even as she spoke.

Baider shook his head. ”You're correct about Lewis's job. We're always looking for kimberlite pipes that may be diamondiferous. Maybe you know the world market can no longer depend upon diamonds mined in Africa. Deposits in places like Angola, Congo, and Sierra Leone have been taken over by rebels. They've been flooding the world market with so-called conflict diamonds to finance their b.l.o.o.d.y wars. d.a.m.n conflict diamonds amounted to seven hundred million dollars a year until the industry got a certification program. Now diamonds traded on the world market gotta have certificates proving they didn't come from rebel-held mines. Not as easy as it sounds.”

He shook his head and held up one hand, like a teacher about to make his point. ”Much easier to certify diamonds mined in the United States. When we find a pipe, we file a claim. We have dozens of claims on the southern Wyoming border. The area is rich in diamond deposits. None in central Wyoming, I can a.s.sure you.”