"Why has a stone turned up now?"
"After the war, a small cadre of Nazis hiding out in South America used the gems to build their new lives. This included the predictable cover stories and lavish estates, not to mention top-notch tutors to teach them a new language and culture ... but eventually the need to create a new, ongoing income became imperative. This group of Nazis—three of them, two ranked just below Goebbels, the other was two notches under Himmler—used the stones and cut gems over the years ... parceling them out to discreet, wealthy, very private collectors ... to become the masters of the Colombian drug cartel."
"Gems were a perfect way to fund their activities," I said.
"Yes—your theory about the mob using them for money laundering was essentially correct, only it wasn't the mob. It was the cartel."
I was nodding. "And Doolan sold two valuable paintings, which he neglected to remove from his will, to fund your South American trip. What the hell did you do down there, doll?"
Her chin went up, proud of herself. "I landed a job as the executive secretary to one of the three masters of the cartel. They have also built up legitimate businesses over the years, in part for cover and money laundering, but some are very successful in their own right."
"How did you and Doolan swing getting you in that close to the top guys?"
Her smile had an impish quality, which in such a big sleek cat of a woman should have been silly, but wasn't. "I have contacts that even Doolan doesn't have ... that even you don't have, Mike. You know I worked for Military Intelligence during the war."
"And did a C.I.A. stint in the Cold War. Which I could hardly forget. So they helped you with a cover story?"
"They call it a 'legend' these days, Mike. See? You're not the only legend in this partnership." She stroked my cheek. "Through those contacts, I got tight with some D.E.A. agents. They are anxious for this information."
"Bet they are. So your federal friends paved the way?"
"Yes."
"So what did you learn?"
"Plenty. I have microfilm of financial records and extensive photographs of all three former Third Reich bigwigs—they have been discreet over the years about having their pictures taken, as you might imagine. And I have confirmed their relationship with Anthony Tretriano. He'll be taken down by the D.E.A. and I.R.S. within days."
Old Alberto had been right—he'd had contacts, too.
"Doll, what was the photography bit? Why did Doolan want those pictures of Chrome, and where does she fit in? He wasn't really shooting photos for some L.A.-based reporter, was he?"
She laughed lightly. "Doolan was no photographer, Mike. You knew that."
"That was you taking the shots of him posing with Chrome, right?"
"Right. And as for Chrome, I don't know where or even if she fits in, Mike. She's an entertainer, and a very rich, successful one, and apparently Tony Tret really is crazy about her. Which surprises me, because I always thought he leaned the other way. But these days, you never know. The pictures weren't of her, anyway."
"Sure they were—I saw them. They were in Doolan's files."
"Well, she's in the photos. But we were after shots of the three guys in her band."
"Her band?"
"Yeah. So-called band. They're phonies. My friends in the D.E.A. suspected those three might be connected to the Colombian bunch, and they are. They're not musicians, not really—they're bodyguards with a long association with the cartel."
I snapped my fingers. "I knew they weren't playing those instruments on stage. Chrome was singing to a prerecorded track—they were just faking it, miming it."
Velda shrugged. "It may be as simple as Chrome needs protection. She's a big star in South America, and the word is that she's primed for superstardom here as well. Those three bodyguards are the only direct connection between her and the cartel."
"So who was the pebble for?"
She frowned. "What do you mean, Mike?"
"I mean that kid Ginnie Mathes—she was an innocent, manipulated into being a delivery girl. Somebody mugged and killed her before the handoff was made. Who was supposed to get that last stone of Basil's?"
Velda shook her head. "No clue. But it sounds like you think the mugging really was a mugging...."
"I can't prove it, but I can tell you what makes sense to me. I think Ginnie Mathes got back together with Joseph Fidello, maybe not steady again but just saw him a few times when he was between cruise-ship gigs. And I think sailor-boy Fidello, who had been around, saw that unpolished gemstone and knew what it was. Knew that his dumb little ex-girlfriend had temporary possession of an object of untold value."
"So he mugged her?"
I nodded. "But Ginnie wasn't as dumb as Fidello thought—the pebble wasn't in her purse, it was tucked in the sleeve of her blouse."
"Then who killed Fidello?"
"Whoever sent Ginnie to make that delivery. That's who went to Ginnie's apartment looking for the stone, and that's who went to Fidello's apartment to look for it there."
She was nodding slowly, following right along. "And to tie him off as a loose end, when the stone wasn't found in his flop ... or when Fidello claimed he never had it."
"Right. The problem with this case, doll, is that I have been viewing a whole scattering of puzzle pieces and trying to make one picture out of them. This is not one puzzle. It's two or three or even four puzzles, and each one is simple."
"Unless its pieces are mixed in with all those others."
"Bingo, baby."
"So what now?"
"Now I think I'd like to get cleaned up."
"I think I'd like to see you cleaned up."
I gave her a funny look. "I don't know, though—I can't quite buy you as a blonde."
She pretended to take offense. "Really? I was a blonde when we met."
"Yeah, you were an undercover policewoman and I damn near ruined everything trying to save your pretty behind."
"I didn't mind. That guy needed killing anyway."
Memories.
"So," she shrugged, "maybe blondes don't have more fun."
And she grabbed at the scalp of the ash blonde hair and yanked it off. She tossed the wig with the rest of the odds and ends scattered around the office floor, and unpinned all that black, auburn-highlighted hair and shook it and shook it and shook it some more ... then smoothed it some.
Then there she was—Velda.
With that timeless pageboy and those beautiful brown eyes and a mouth that fed your hunger even as it encouraged you to sup some more.
"Baby...," I said, and was reaching for her.
"First you get cleaned up," she said. She shook a finger at me. "And maybe buy a girl a meal. You don't think I'm easy, do you?"
She had left a suitcase out on the landing, and we collected that and caught a cab to the Commodore. When I took her up to my room, and she saw that it was the Honeymoon Suite, she started laughing, but managed to blurt, "You gotta be kidding me!"
"Hey, you know I'm a sensual slob."
She gave me a narrow-eyed look, hands on her raincoated hips. "Have you been having fun while I was away?"
I ignored that and pointed. "There's a hot tub in there. Big enough for two. You had a long plane trip. Maybe we could ... wash away each other's sins?"