She saw them pause, glance about casually, then saunter up to Stuttgart's front door. Both bent over the lock. Ortiz was true to his word; they were inside within a minute. The door closed behind them. Dora turned on the radio. She caught a weather forecast. It didn't sound good: rain and sleet turning to snow. Accumulations of up to two inches expected in the city, four inches in the suburbs. She lighted a cigarette and waited.
Nothing occurred and she was disappointed; a little high drama wouldn't have been amiss. Less than twenty minutes later, the two men came cautiously out of Stuttgart's front door. They paused a moment while Ortiz fiddled with the lock. Dora turned on her lights, and the cops came trotting across the street and climbed into the back of the Escort.
"]ee-sus!" Ortiz said. "It was cold in that dump."
Dora opened the glove compartment, took out a brown paper bag, handed it back to them. It contained a pint of California brandy.
"Something to chase the chill," she said.
"Did I tell you I love this woman?" Terrible Terry said to Wenden. "Love her!"
They opened the bottle and handed it back and forth as Dora pulled out and started back to the Bedlington.
"Not too fast, not too slow," Wenden warned.
"I know the drill," Dora said crossly. "How did you guys make out?"
"Drive now, talk later," he said.
She didn't offer another word on the trip back to the hotel. The two detectives conversed in low voices in the back, but she paid no attention. She was almost certain she knew what they had found at Stuttgart.
The cops had flashed their potsies and left John's heap in the No Parking zone in front of the hotel. Dora double-parked, cut the engine, lights, and windshield wipers. The snow was beginning, but it was a fat, lazy fall; the flakes looked like feathers in the streetlight's glare.
She turned sideways, looked back at them. "Find any drugs?" she asked.
"Not a gram," Ortiz said.
"Gold bars?"
Both detectives laughed.
"Oh yeah," John said, "we found stacks of gold bars. As a matter of fact, we even took shavings from one of them with my handy-dandy Boy Scout knife. Want to see?"
He dug a hand into his jacket pocket, then stuck an open palm forward for Dora's inspection. She saw what she expected to see: thin curls of a dull pewterish metal.
"What the hell is that?" she asked, all innocence.
"Lead," John said. "Starrett Fine Jewelry has been dealing in lead bars."
"Shit!" Terry said disgustedly. "You'd think a high-class outfit like Starrett would have the decency to coat their lead bars with genuine gold. But no, those bars were painted, with five-and-dime gilt. Can you believe it?"
"I don't get it," Dora said, willing to give them their moment of triumph. "Why are Starrett and Ramon Schnabl schlepping gold-painted lead bars all over the country?"
"It's a be-yooti- ful scam," John said. "Here's how we figure it works: Cash from Schnabl's drug deals is carried by courier to cities where Starrett has branch stores and delivered to the managers. They buy gold from Starrett in New York and pay with the drug money. Starrett headquarters, in turn, transfers the money electronically to their overseas gold suppliers, all owned by Schnabl."
"But there is actually no gold at all," Dora said. "Just lead bars they keep moving back and forth to get apparently legal documentation in the form of bills of lading, shipping invoices, warehouse receipts, and so forth."
"You've got it, Red," Wenden said. "The whole thing is just a scheme to launder drug money, get it out of the country in what appear to be legitimate business transactions."
"But what's the reason for Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry in Boston," Dora asked, "and all those other little jewelry shops?"
"Fronts," Ortiz said. "Set up by Schnabl so, on paper, the Starrett branch stores can show they have legit customers for all that gold they're buying from New York. And maybe some of those holes-in-the-wall are also banks for local drug deals."
Dora thought a moment. "Clayton Starrett must be in on it."
"You better believe it," John said. "Up to his eyeballs. And the branch managers hired a couple of years ago. And probably the guy running Starrett's Brooklyn vault. They're all involved and getting a piece of the action. Solomon Guthrie was too honest to turn. But he knew something was going on that wasn't kosher, so he got whacked. By Schnabl's hatchets."
Dora shook her head. "You've got to admit it's slick. I wonder who dreamed it up."
Wenden said, "My leading candidate is Turner Pierce, the computer genius. It would need computers to keep track of purchases, sales, expenses, and then come up with a bottom line every week or so."
"If it really was Turner Pierce," Dora said slowly, "you think his sister knew about it?"
"Helene? Of course she knew. Had to. And she's going to marry Clayton Starrett, isn't she? That keeps the fraud a family secret; no outsiders allowed."
"John," Ortiz said, "we'll have to bring the federates in on this."
Wenden slumped. "Say it ain't so, Terry."
"It is so. This caper is interstate and international with the electronic movement of big money. It's going to take an army of bank examiners, lawyers, accountants, and computer experts to sort it out and make a case. We just don't have enough warm bodies. We'll have to notify Treasury, the DEA and FBI."
"Aw, shit," Wenden said, "I guess you're right. But make sure that Red here gets the credit." He smiled and leaned forward to pat Dora's arm. "There wouldn't be any case at all if she hadn't started snooping."
"There's enough glory to go around," Dora said. "What's your next move, John?"
"Go back to the office, alert the Feds, and start the wheels turning. But before they get their act together, maybe I'll look up Turner Pierce and have a cozy little chat."
"I think I'll come along," Terry said. "If we lean hard on him, he might rat on Ramon Schnabl. I want to see that bastardo in Leavenworth, playing Pick-Up-the-Soap in the shower."
"I know why Guthrie was capped," Wenden continued, "but I'd like to find out why Lewis Starrett and Sid Loftus were put down. It all connects somehow to the gold trading plot and laundering of drug money."
Dora made no response.
"Listen," Terrible Terry Ortiz said to her, "maybe I never see you again, which is a big sorrow for me. I just want you to know you are one lovely lady, and it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He leaned forward to kiss her hand. "And take care of mi amigo," he added, jerking a thumb toward Wenden. "He deserves a break."
Dora nodded, but said nothing as they climbed out of the Ford, got into John's clunker, and drove away. She maneuvered her car into the spot they had just vacated in the No Parking zone. Then she went into the Bedlington, told the night clerk what she had done, and asked if the doorman would take care of the Escort when he came on duty.
The clerk assured her that her car was okay right where it was and handed her two messages, both from Gregor Pinchik. Please call him as soon as possible, at any hour of the day or night. But it was then close to 2:30 in the morning, and all Dora wanted was to hit the sack and grab some Z's.
Upstairs, she made herself a warm milk. She sipped it slowly while she reflected on the night's events and how they might or might not affect the insurance claim she was supposed to be investigating. She felt like someone in search of honey who finds herself enveloped in a swarm of buzzing and ferocious bees. But she could not flee; that would be unprofessional.