For Mary

by Darren Brimhall

Brought in to salvage a ruined undercover sting operation, Duke finds there was much more involved than a meer eight million dollars in diamonds now missing.

One.

Like the Brooklyn city neighborhood it was located in, the Grand Hotel had easily seen better days. The old eight floored stone structure may had gone to seed long ago, but still stood defiantly amid the hustlers, prostitutes, and various other inhabitants of the area.

But in a few more years, Duke figured, it'll either be taken over for low-rent housing or turned into yuppie condos and businesses as part of some urban renewal project--if it burn down first.

Right now, with all of the Police around Duke figured something was up. But it wasn't his business, and kept the site out of his mind as he identified himself to the front desk clerk on duty.

"I'm here to see Mr. Haskel." Duke added.

The Clerk, a nervous young man in a dark suit, became quite alarmed at the mention of the name.

"Mr. Haskel?" The Clerk nervously repeated.

"Yes." Duke patiently nodded. "Mr. Will Haskel. I understand he has rooms here."

The Clerk went a few shades white, then, after a quick motion to Duke to wait, he scurried into the Manager's Office. Duke, surprised by this behavior, gave the register before him a quick glance. There was Haskel's signature; a lengthy scribble that was just readable in blue ink with a time of Ten-thirty am in the 'Out' Box and Six-thirty pm in the 'In' Box under today's date.

But it left him to wonder why the Clerk freaked like he did, unless it had something to do with the Police right outside. Duke quickly dropped that train of thought when from the Manager's Office came an older heavy-set man with thinning black hair wearing a brown business suit with plenty of dignity.

"You are here to see a Mr. Will Haskel?" The Manager asked carefully.

"Yes." Duke nodded.

"Are you a friend? Relative?"

"Er, no." Duke was starting to wonder what was going on. The Police, the nervous Clerk, now the Manager asking odd questions. "It's a matter of Government business I haft to speak with him about."

Duke brought out his Agency identification, displaying it for the Manager to examine.

"I see." The manager nodded, then after clearing his throat unexpectantly added, "There's been a…accident. Would you please follow?"

Duke did, up three flights of musty smelling stairs that creaked and groaned slightly under several light bulbs of different luminosity wondering what the 'accident' was. Haskel, they said, was old. Perhaps he fell, breaking too many brittle bones. Or, had a heart attack.

Or maybe he was robbed. If that was the case, Duke knew his Superior would have a fit.

At the third floor landing, there was a Policeman who gave them both a very sharp looking over. The Manager approached the officer, explaining everything as to why they were there before turning back to Duke.

"The Police will take you from here." The manager quietly apologized, and left before Duke could ask him any more questions.

But then, the tap on the shoulder from the Policeman was distracting enough.

"You have business?" The Policeman asked, eyeing Duke over as only a street veteran could.

"Yea, I do." Duke responded, as only a veteran government agent could while displaying is identification again. "With Mr. Will Haskel."

The Policeman didn't appear impressed with what he was shown, but spoke into the radio mike hooked to his right shoulder. Moments later, he touched his ear-jack listening to what was coming back to him.

"Detective Banyer would like to speak with you." The Cop relayed to Duke while motioning down the Hall. "Room 314, you can't miss it."

Duke figured he probably couldn't.

"Thanks." He said.

"You're welcome." the Cop replied.

The floor's corridor was wide, but that was the only good thing to really say about it. The carpet was dirty and becoming thread-worn in others, and many of the fancy wall declarations had already lost much of their luster. Here and there where small dirty spots and hurried repainting done to hold back what was peeling on the walls marring the once classic Art-Deco appearance, with the faint scent of mold in the air.

Time, money, and plenty of work would make the place new again, Duke reflected, after arriving at Room 314's open door guarded by two more Policemen, and several more inside. But who really had that sort of gumption these days to save such a place?

"Agent Hauser?"

Duke was stopped by a tall stony faced man with a lean build and curly red hair, wearing his Detective's Badge on the lapel of his simple grey business suit.

"Detective Sergeant Banyer." The man introduced himself. "You're here to see a Mister William Haskel?"

Even as he nodded in response, Duke knew he was in a world of hurt. "I am. May I ask what happened?"

May as well, he figured.

"May I ask what that business was?" Banyer responded.

At this point Duke could lie, masking the real matter of why he was there, since the matter in its self was of no business to the Police. But then, where would it leave him with regards to why he was there if the lie was exposed? Having to deal with the entanglements of interfering with a Police Investigation was bad news…

So Duke chose to be honest.

Mr. Haskel inadvertently received a package that wasn't meant for him." Duke simply explained. "The Government would like it back."

"And what was in this package, if I may ask." Banyer replied.

Duke was tempted to say 'no'. And by rights could say 'no'.

But something happened, and Duke knew he was about to find himself in the thick of it very soon.

"Diamonds." Duke quietly answered. "Raw, uncut diamonds."

Banyer wrote it all down on his small note pad. He started to ask more, but an interruption caused by a slight, dandy-dressed man hysterically running towards them shouting; "Where is he? Where is he! Where's Haskel? Where's my shipment!!"

Banyer to his credit tried calming the man down before several uniform beat cops arrived and escorted the frantic man away. But for Duke, it only confirmed the worse.

The frantic man was Emerson Blake, the diamond merchant being used in the government operation that was now undoubtedly on the ropes.

"What happened to Haskel?" Duke demanded, when he finally got the chance. "Was he robbed, or—"

"He was murdered." Banyer simply stated.

Like the Grand itself, Room 314 had seen better days. But here at least there was some effort to make the large suite look decent enough for people to live in, even though the design of it was some sixty years out of date. The furniture, built in fireplace, wall fixtures, a whole lot of things reminded Duke of his Grandmother's house when he was a kid…

Except for Mr. Will Haskel, lying dead on the floor between the sofa and coffee table.

He was a very slight man well into his Eighties, wearing an old brown coat over an old brown suit, lying face down on the floor with the back of his head smashed in and blood splattered all over the sofa and faded carpet. The Crime Scean people had the area taped off and were busy doing what they did as Banyer explained to Duke; "We figure a declarative urn. There's a matching one up there on the fireplace mantle."

Duke looked. The Urn in question was a large fluted brass cup on a wooden base, almost like a flower vase.

"Maids swear there's two of those things in every suite." Banyer continued. "Betting the killer ran down the fire escape. I've got people out in the back alley looking for it."

"And nobody herd a thing?" Duke quietly asked, surveying the scean.

"Well, they herd the cleaning woman scream. That's why we're here. The door was open a bit, and when she went to enquire before closing it there was a body. She's down at General calming down." The Detective answered unobjectively. "If anyone did before that, they aren't talking. The clientele of this place is the kind that always keeps to itself, or have other activities going on."

Duke just nodded. He could imagine what those other 'activities' were.

Meanwhile, Banyer flipping through his notebook, found the page he was looking for and read it to Duke. "Victim last seen at 6:30pm, leaving the Front Desk after signing back in for his room key. Between then and Ten that morning, spent the day on the town…"

"Buying diamonds." Duke quietly let slip, staring down at what was only hours before a living human being. "And messing up a plan…"

"Really?" Banyer sounded interested. "What kind?"

There was no point at all in hiding it, Duke figure, no point at all.

"Agency Operatives set up a Sting operation to bag Cobra's main moneyman—the Corsican, Tomax." Duke explained, "Emerson Blake, that hysterical man we 'met' in the hallway, was the merchant who was the intended receiver of the diamonds—which were to have been the bait in the Sting .

"The package containing the diamonds is, as I understand about the size of a large box of toothpaste, bearing Customs seals from both England, where the package was shipped from, and America. The diamonds are raw stock, uncut and unfinished—but of very high quality."

Banyer kept writing away, and Duke went on, "It was meant to draw the Tomax out into the open, away from their protective muscle and lawyers."

"Did you know how much the diamonds are worth?"

Duke shook his head. "Eight million, I could guess. It was a blind deal."

"So being raw, they could be used for anything." .

"Anything." Duke nodded.

"You're the Agent in charge of this matter then?"

"No," Duke shook his head again, "he broke his leg earlier today. I was called in to get the diamonds back."

To which Banyer remarked while writing it all down; "What bad luck."

"What do you mean, you told him?"

The Field Supervisor, as the Agency's 'Desk Jockeys' liked calling themselves in spite rarely venturing too far from their comfortable offices, that Duke was speaking with over his cellphone, was a middle-aged buck by the name of Richards--who'd never been in the trenches due to education and connections.

But lord could he yell, and Duke was getting the full brunt of it.

"Look, Haskel's dead, somebody smashed his head in. The Police are here, but the diamonds aren't. And who told that Merchant that Haskel was—"

"What I want to know is why you violated protocol!" Richards fired back over the line. "What else did you tell them?"

For the moment, Duke paused.

The urge to tell Richards a thing or two about reality was starting to well up inside of him. But a Supervisor is a Supervisor. Even thought Duke was a Senior Field Agent with considerable experience, he still had to respect Richards's position. Telling him off wouldn't amount to anything useful in the case. Instead, he held the phone far as he could from his ear, letting Richards rant on while the anger within him passed downwardly to a controllable level.

Only then did he try to speak.

"Sir, there's no point in arguing this. The Police would have found out everything—"

But Richards was continuously persistent, "It doesn't matter! You broke protocol by telling them, Hauser! A direct violation of Operational—"

Duke snapped his phone closed. Fine, he'll take it in the shorts for blowing Richards off. But as far as all things were considered, the whole op was blown by whoever sold Haskel the diamonds at Belton Importers—also brought in by the Agency to handle to goods. Geeze, what a screw-up! Duke grumbled inwardly.

And he was stuck with the job of sorting out the mess.

Duke made his way down the stairs slowly, concentrating on each step as the means of controlling his anger. Fine, he was stuck. Whining about it wasn't going to get him anything except a very bad review, and people staying away from him until he was acceptable again. That hardly bothered him; he was hardly in the Office anymore since returning to the Joe Team full time doing what really counted, as far as he was concerned.

Still he needed his head clear, anger was muddling it up. And to clear it up he focused on what he knew so far; Haskel had been out on the town for a good part of the day, buying the Diamonds at two that afternoon for eight million dollars—using a personal check that had been quickly cleared by his bank.

Duke slowed his decent. Where did Haskel get that kind of money? He wondered,

With that kind of a wad, why come to a run down hotel…Why not head up to Manhattan instead?

He reached the foyer just above the entrance lobby that formed the dining room of the Hotel's restaurant with those thoughts buzzing about his head, when he was pounced upon by Blake. Duke didn't really see him being that his vision was more forward and down, and Blake rushed from the side with two officers in pursuit.

They managed to catch up with the Merchant just as the Merchant reached Duke.

"Detective! I demand to know what is being done about my diamonds!"

Blake's voice was almost hysterical this time, but demanding just the same as he was gazing wildly at Duke for answers. The Officers were starting to pull Blake back just as Duke's head cleared enough act.

"Diamonds?" He asked in a puzzled manner, wondering what lying would get him from the Merchant.

"Yes! Over several million dollars in raw, uncut stones—my personal property!"

Blake's rantings were attracting attention from some of the diners. Duke knew he had to act fast.

"Sir, we're doing all we can to locate your property." He calmly responded. "But, how did you manage to loose it in the first place?"

Blake looked at Duke as if he was an idiot.

"Damnit! How in Hell would I know!! That package was to have been kept specifically for me and me alone at Belton!! That old man wasn't even to have been allowed to see them!! Henderson has a lot of explaining to do!"

At that point, the Officers decided it was best to get Blake away from there. And began moving him down to the first floor, possibly out through the back entrance so not to cause a scean out in front—figured Duke as he watched them go.

They already had enough excitement to deal with that evening.

And Duke had more things to wonder about.

The Night manager was helpful to a degree; he had just arrived for his shift when Haskel returned from his day in the city. No, he didn't have any packages with him at the time, the Manager vividly remembered. To him, Haskel was just on this very side of senility, bouncing slightly with glazed eyes and a smile on his face. Happy because he made, 'Mary's happy at last."

"Mary?" Duke wondered.

The Manager nodded, "He was going on and on about it, now Mary's happy at last. He didn't mention any last name."

Nor did it strike Duke that Haskel was capable of driving a car, and car, due to his age. A quick check of the register showed no mark next to the name, indicating he even was using the parking garage. Nor could Duke see Haskel using the Bus. Too many transfers and too much distance to reach Manhattan, where he bought the diamonds, and come back with that much money in his pocket—eccentric or not.

He had to have used a Cab.

"That would have been handled by the Manager of the Day Shift." The manager explained, and retrieved the record book for that from under the front counter.

For a third rate hotel fallen far from it's former glory, Duke was quite impressed by their level of record keeping. The entry was soon discovered.

"Global Cab Company, they're up on Twelfth Avenue near where the Passenger Ferry's are docked and where the Intrepid Museum is."

Duke wrote it all down, even the telephone number.

Outside the Grand, it was already nightfall and the early autumn's heat was starting to dissipate. And with it those who lived during the night were starting to crawl out of their dens.

And the Cab he hired to wait for him was nowhere in sight, Duke cursed his luck while reaching for his Cellphone to call for one—keeping wary of the people who were around him, even though it appeared that he wasn't.

'Duke!"

The voice was clear, female, and coming from the least likeliest person Duke expected to see in that particular neighborhood appearing halfway out of the sunroof of an Art-Deco styled black stretch Limo's in all her tight black leather and spandex glory—Lisa Hawkern.

"Herd you were in town. Need a lift?" she unabashedly called to him.

There were few things Duke could have done, though in a polite sense.

One of them wasn't standing in a seedy neighborhood waiting for a Cab. But there was one small matter…

"I'm on duty, Ms. Hawkern." He smiled back while approaching. "No nightclubbing."

Hawkern reply came with a coy smile, "It's Monday. Nothing happens on a Monday."

Which made things perfect, and Duke climbed in. And quickly too, for the sight of such a vehicle and its notable occupant was bound to attract unwanted attention from the locals outside the Grand. And did, in the form of three individuals, either Gangers or Hustlers, trying to beat Duke from closing the Limo's door and just failing. But undeterred, they banged on the car pleading to be let in. Even chased it for a half block before finally giving up with a flurry of aimed curses and jesters.

But Duke's attentions were elsewhere to really bother with the outside. Sitting across from Hawkern, he found himself next to a very mischievously smiling brunet with long flowing hair wearing large oval-lensed glasses and a business suit.

"Marcy Aton." Hawkern introduced her to Duke with a suggestively purring tone as the Limo moved into traffic, "My…personal Secretary."

And without doubt, Duke mentally noted, another Edrailian.

Possibly more, considering how she was spoken about, but Duke didn't dwell on it.

They could almost be sisters, Duke reflected, lingering just so as he cordially smiled to her with a polite 'Hello' as they were seemingly cut from the same bodily mold; long legs, perfect hips, narrow waist, and a very pronounced chest.

"I noticed the Police about." Hawkern suddenly mentioned. "Were you involved in anything serious?"

Duke snapped back to reality, facing the woman quite notoriously known as the 'Madam of the Nightlife' for her incredibly bawdy and libidinous behavior with both sexes, well documented at numerous Nightclubs around the World. But Lisa Hawkern was also known for her shrewd business ability, managing one of the top flight modeling agencies in the World—and one among the alien Edrailian race living in hiding on the Earth.

Nor was she trying to tempt Duke. She was gazing at him quite concernedly.

"Not directly." Duke began. "But now since it's all gone downhill, I'm grabbing at anything that can help me."

"Please explain." Hawkern said, shifting herself forwardly as Duke explained everything as to his being at the Grand, and everything that happened as a result.

When he finished, Hawkern frowned.

"Sounds like a mugging." She commented. "With the Diamonds' either being the real target, or an unfortunate bystander in all of this."

. "Possible." Duke stated, "But no one noticed at the Grand that Haskel even had diamonds on him. I doubt the Police have even found the package, or will, in the Suite."

"That leaves someone at Belton Importers." Hawkern settled back in her seat, not hiding the fact that she was thinking.

Duke shook his head, "Sorry, this was a private deal. Outside of the Agency, only the Office Head at Belton would have known about it."

Hawkern nodded, and began figuring "He was on the town for eight and a half hours, using a Cab. He bought the Diamonds' in Manhattan."

She started counting time with her gloved fingers…

"Maybe Mary has them." Marcy musically chimed.

"Point." Duke smiled to her, "But, who's Mary?"

"Probably the one with the Diamonds." Hawkern absently put in, gazing at her fingers. All but two of her fingers were bent upward at the second knuckle "There's two hours I cannot figure on, and that's involving taking a Cab from Brooklyn to Manhattan during the Lunch Rush."

And then turning to Duke asked, "You have any ideals as to who she is?"

"I have one or two." Duke smiled to her.

"Want to check them out?"

Hawkern motioned smilingly to Marcy, who now had a flat panel laptop computer resting on her lap warming up.

When Duke looked over, she responded with a very seductive smile…

"Business first, Marcy." Hawkern gently admonished.

Two.

As Hawkern's Limo made its way into the City's expensive heart, the scenery outside changed from decrepit and rundown to fashionable and well maintained. While inside the vehicle, the life of Will Haskel was laid out in expert detail by Marcy's deft computer skills at cracking open numerous stored files.

Born in to a north Texas farming family in 1919, his family went West to escape the Great Dust Bowl. There, he started his very lengthy history of legal run-in's with the various law enforcement agencies of California's Central Valley concerning fist-fights, drunkenness, and heavy gambling. He entered the Army in January of 1942 largely to avoid serving prison time for an especially ugly bar fight in Albury, and was sent into the Pacific to fight the Japanese during the Second World War where he bounced often between the ranks of Private and Sergeant due to the combination of drinking, fighting, and gambling—usually several times in a single year. In 1943, Haskel was to have been shipped to Military Prison, but the transport carrying him and others was captured by the Japanese. But he managed to escape, becoming, as he claimed, a Resistance fighter in the Philippines for the rest of the War.

But reports from Military Officials, and those who organized such forces, openly expressed doubt at this claim. According to their detailed accounts, Haskel had spent the entire time working as an enforcer for a local criminal boss in Manila. This would have sentenced him to a lifetime in Prison, and nearly did when captured with several others stealing weapons from an American freighter. But for turning evidence against the crime boss, Haskel was set free and returned to America in 1945.

When not indulging in his now favorite pastimes of drinking, fighting and gambling, he alternated working between the oil fields of Texas and cattle ranches in Oklahoma. And when his indulgences finally gained him a very nasty reputation with people in the area, especially law enforcement, Haskel went east. Chicago was the first stop, where he stayed for only a week before leaving in a hurry for New York. And try as she may, Marcy couldn't find a reason why that occurred.

"You shouldn't worry about it." Duke told her. "Given what's there already, a guess why would be easy."

And with a becoming smile towards Duke, Marcy continued.

In New York, Haskel carried on with his usual life, supported by numerous odd jobs, when not drinking, fighting and gambling. This ended in early 1951 when he was caught robbing a jewelry store in lower Manhattan. Once again, he entered the Army on another plea deal arranged by the Judge overseeing the case. But by mid-1952, after a very vicious bar fight in Tokyo, Haskel was sentenced to fifteen years hard labor in Alaska for what he did. There, his behavior and several escape attempts caused his initial sentence to be extended up to forty years.

So when he was finally released, he was well into his seventies with noting to show for his wasted life except for the scars on his body, the memories in his head, the clothes on his back and a family that wanted nothing to do with him. Now drifting aimlessly, drinking and fighting were sporadic, but he still gambled whatever money he was able to gain from odd jobs and panhandling when not spending time in jail for vagrancy.

Then three years ago, that changed when he created a series of simple but utterly useful little nick-knacks while serving jail time in Chino. Then fought like he never had against those serving time with him during then when they tried laying claim to his ideal.

Earning him a total of Eighty-five million dollars just last month…

"Well, now we know where he got the money from." Hawkern remarked.

But Duke became interested in a past fact.

"He was arrested for robbing a jewelry store in 51'?"

Marcy dove back into her computer, searching the specific records on the matter.

"Artman Jewelers, located on Twenty-Second Street." Marcy began reciting from her laptop's screen. "The robbery occurred January seventh, at Six-fourteen pm. Items involved were three diamond necklaces, each valued at Fifteen hundred dollars, several rings valued at a total of Twelve hundred dollars, and a large Ruby broach totaling Fourteen hundred dollars.

"The Jewelry in question was fashioned for evening ware, most likely seen at upscale parties and formals among the more affluent guests. But some of the rings wouldn't be too awkwardly noticeable for everyday ware."

"Haskel forced his way through a rear door with a crowbar, but the activity was seen by a Police Office during the course of his rounds—who surprised Haskel when he emerged from the store."

"Probably with his nightstick." Duke imaginatively mused while settling back in his seat.

"Mary had expensive tastes at the time." Hawkern mused as well.

Duke turned to Marcy when the sudden though to ask occurred, but Hawkerns' vivacious secretary already found the answer…

"Haskel wouldn't say why, or for whom he was stealing the merchandise for."

Belton Importers was a second place Marcy looked into, but it didn't yield anything of criminal significance. In its Thirtieth year of existence, it was held in high esteem by several international Diamond Houses in Europe and Asia for its strict adherence to the International Rules of Trade. And often acted as a purchasing agent for the self-same Diamond Houses, a very hard fought honor they earned in full.

So Duke sat and wondered, his imagination performing wonders in his head as he sought another path to take…

Mary was a woman…a very special woman…He began thinking…Haskel was a tough-guy way out of his league in New York, but always on the prowl to make it rich…

Duke focused on that last part; Haskel's gambling addiction. He could have played the Horses, but Duke realized he was small fry. If he won, it wouldn't be as big as the big time gamblers were getting because of the small amounts he'd bet.

Cards…Dice…He mentally worked on the possibilities. Could he have met Mary at a Gambling Club—or at a Club that ran illegal games in the backroom?

Very possible; Haskel was experienced muscle. He would haft to prove himself loyal since those who ran the illegal games didn't just take anyone off the street.

And the same went for those who entertain the gamblers at those clubs…

"I'm thinking 'Mary' was either a showgirl, or an entertainer working a Club's backroom." Duke stated. "Haskel probably worked at such a place before attempting that robbery, so I'm wondering if she wasn't at the last placed he worked at."

It was an interesting ideal, but both Hawkern and Marcy hit it with a hard dose of reality.

"If he told the Police where he worked at," Hawkern began, "and, if the Club's owners actually admitted that he worked for them. They could easily deny his existence as easily as they could deny there was anything illegal going on at their establishment, crooked Police not withstanding."

"And that area has changed a lot in the sixty years since the robbery." Marcy quietly explained. "Business' rise and fall, and whatever records they had are moved from holder to holder. Sometimes they are lost, or are destroyed when they loose their importance."

"Marvelous." Duke sourly remarked.

"But," Hawkern started again, "it shouldn't be impossible to run a database search starting with all the clubs existing at the time which Haskel could have visited while working, or see from copies of the newspapers weither or not any of the Clubs in the area put out help wanted notices."

And Duke's attitude brightened to the sound of Marcy's long red fingernails tapping her way to another record search.

The one thing Duke carried with him throughout his life was the belief that no matter how difficult the situation, you should never give up without giving it your best possible shot. Time, if there was any, and patience were always necessary, but to get it done you had to work at it.

In a five mile area, built from where Artman's was once located, there were some Seventy clubs are various sizes and distinctions. But there was no guarantee that 'Mary' even worked at any one of them.

But Haskel knew he could still find her, even after all this time.

While the man's interference in the Diamond Sting wasn't going to easily work itself out, Duke did have several possibilities to work with towards finding out what he did with the diamonds. These he passed along to the Deputy Supervisor of the Office, a young sounding man named Dwight with an even handed manner that was a pleasing change from Richards' yelling and screaming.

"Well, we've certainly been busy—haven't we?" Dwight commented with a friendly chuckle.

Real chummy, Duke thought. "I just hope those records still exist. This 'Mary' is the only real lead we have.

"Right." Dwight became serious again. "If something pops, where can I reach you?"

Duke gave both his cellphone number and the number of the phone in the guestroom let him use at the residence of Hawkern's Modeling Business. Dwight didn't ask if it was a Hotel or a Motel before cutting off, and Duke really wasn't in the mood to explain that he was rooming at a place where rumor has it explicitly wild parties occur…

Hawkern assured him that those occurred in another area of apartments, three blocks to the north of where they were at.

"This block is where I run the business from." Hawkern smiled as she explained, "I keep the 'Adult Activity' well separate from the rest of the Business' interests."

It wasn't an imposing choice; Duke found himself whisked away from the Rock by a direct command from the Agency's Head, there wasn't much time to pack beyond wearing the civilian clothes he kept at the Joe's base. Nor was there a chance to reserve a decent hotel room. The Agency didn't have the forethought to do so, and Duke couldn't find one on the spur.

But then, it was Manhattan. Good luck trying to find a decent room without a reservation.

Thankfully Hawkern knew better.

"You'd either end up in a Flop House or at the 'Y', which hasn't been the same for years." She told him. "At least here, your privacy will be respected. And the food served in the Taproom is decent."

The Guest Rooms occupied the third and fourth floors, but she lead him up to the fourth floor indicating that there were a few things he might need up there. And amid the room's well furnished offerings of a very comfortable bed, fancy writing desk with swivel chair and built-in computer, and fully equipped bathroom with shower, shaving kit, and several choices of cologne—along with several small weapons cashes hidden perfectly within the walls, writing desk, bathroom and under the bed and nightstand. All Edrailian make but clean and ready for use, as Hawkern explained while showing him how to access each cache.

"You always expect trouble?" Duke remarked.

"No differently than you do." Hawkern replied. "But, this is New York."

She was also sizing him up.

"I can have some men's suits brought up." She added, "Business apparel, appropriate for this time of year. Do you have a particular style, color, or material preference?"

"Nice and comfortable." Duke answered. "Not too outlandish."

Hawkern kept her promise on that. Several minutes later, after a needed shower, Duke emerged from the bathroom to find an ornate brass Porter's trolley left next to the writing desk with five different good quality cotton-blend business suits of different colors with matching ties and shoes hanging from the central post waiting use.

Definitely useful for what he wanted to do tomorrow.

Things began as soon as Duke woke up, to the sound of his Cellphone going off.

"Morning. I hope you weren't too distracted…"

It was Banyer.

"Well, top of the mornin' to you as well." Duke replied. "Anything breaking at your end?"

"Nothing much," the Detective deadpanned, "Your people descended on my Captain last night, before grilling me on what we talked about last night. But outside of that, everything's fine and dandy."

That was a low blow. Richards, undoubtedly more concerned over his current state of favor with the Agency, than remaining calm, had just committed a major breech of protocol himself by ripping into the Police. Duke had hoped to work with the Detective on finding the diamonds that were now so central to the murder case…

Now, he had the sick feeling that a lot of unrepairable damage had just occurred.

"Ye Gods." Duke breathed.

"Oi Vay would have been better." Banyer replied.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry." Banyer began. "Either you develop a sense of humor to protect yourself from all of the death and insanity you see in this profession, or you get your own special room with complementary straightjacket up at Belleview."

Duke knew where the Detective was coming from, having been a foot soldier himself.

"Children are the worse to deal with, but I digress." He continued. "Global Cab Company's proving to be a tough nut to crack."

"Oh?"

"It's run by Punjabi Immigrants. Not all of them speak English very well, but they do know the City and can pass the driving test." Banyer revealed. "We're trying to find somebody fluent enough to translate. Considering how interested you are in the case, I thought you might know anybody that can help?"

The Grand's Night manager probably let slip about the Cab request. Duke thought it over quickly. There were two people that he knew from the Joe Team who could help, and they were currently in the City.

"Let me talk to some people I know." Duke told the Detective, knowing full well that Richards would have his hide for it.

But then, if the kid had ever worked the trenches he'd know how things are really done.

"Also, I may have something on Haskel that may interest you."

"Spill." Banyer said, and Duke told him everything Marcy had dug up the night before—right down to the possibility of who 'Mary' was.

"It's a longshot." Banyer commented afterward. "But the arrest paperwork should still be in the Record's Hall out in Brooklyn."

"Should be?" Duke puzzled.

"Yea, a simple jewelry heist like that, by a person who's never entered public office, should still be there. Somewhere in the Basement, most likely, all dusty and what, but still there. And, hey, thanks for the lead."

Three.

It was a risk worth taking. Banyer had a lead and would call Duke back with the results.

That's how things were done in the trenches; establish a working relationship with the locals and reap the benefits of covering twice the ground in the same amount of time. It also helped establish relationships that would be beneficial in the future. So Richards could just go hang himself if he didn't like it, Duke reasoned, and settled down to make two phone calls that would hopefully cement the relationship with Banyer.

The first person called was Tunnel Rat, currently on the Joe Team reserve roster and working as a Youth Councilor in New York's meaner sections—which fit the scrappy native perfectly.

"A Punjabi Speaker?" Tunnel Rat's locally flavored voice carried with it his surprise at Duke's request. "Tall order there. Usually the East-Indians are very tight family-wise. Right now, I'm working with a few of the kids who are learning English so they can help the Parents."

"How about an older adult?" Duke asked.

"There a few about, but they speak with a heavy accent." Tunnel Rat replied. "I'll see around if there are any who speak better."

Duke gave him Banyer's contact information, then placed a call to Cover Girl; another Joe Team reservist. She was a former Fashion Model also working with children, but in the role of a psychoanalyst—that is when not working with, or on, Shipwreck.

"Hmm, it's been a while, but I'll contact a few people I know at Fashionscape." Cover Girl answered. "They have deep connections in the various fashion centers of Asia."

"Keep me informed, this matter's important." Duke told her, and gave Banyer's contact info as well.

"Will do." Cover Girl replied.

Duke dressed himself in a blue business suit that fitted him perfectly, even to the point of hiding his pistol, and was going over it in the mirror when the room phone rang.

It was Hawkern. "You have Carte' Blanche at the Café two houses down at the far left corner." She merrily informed him. "And don't worry about running into any performers."

By that she must meant the 'Adult Performers', who at times she 'worked' with in that special section three blocks north, Duke figured, that is one awfully strange marriage she has. But Ayers' wife definitely made the effort at keeping the various aspects of her Business separate, especially that aspect, from each other. That was evident at the Café in question; a nicely furnished bistro with a friendly, open atmosphere of a few Inn's he visited when in the New England states.

Another fact of Hawkern's efforts at keeping her business efforts separate was plainly on display in the Café; parents with their Children and other up and coming models, each speaking over breakfast dishes with photographers and designers about the day's shooting schedule. Given facts, Duke didn't think that the Café in the Northern part was any worse than this one was. But it was largely because of what went on up there.

Best not to dwell on it too much, Duke reasoned with himself.

But one thing was for certain, Hawkern's extension of curtsey hadn't ended just yet. For while enjoying his breakfast of Ham and Eggs, he was approached by a Courtesy-Agent, who asked Duke if he preferred a Cab or a private car to use during his stay. Knowing full well what it would be like stuck in the traffic jams so prevalent in Manhattan, he smiled and replied, "The Cab, please."

"There will be one ready for your use when you are ready to leave." The C-A said while bowing and moving away.

And sure enough, there was clean and decent looking cab waiting for him outside at the curb—for his expressed use, for however as long as he needed it.

The first place Duke wanted to visit was Belton Importers. Through them, the Agency Sting was to have occurred and where Haskel went the day before. Located in Upper Manhattan's business district where the traffic moved better than Duke figured, though at a crawl it was moving. Nor was he desperate to get to where he was going, like the multitude of high-powered business executives and their assistants who pounced on any taxicab that came into view. To them it didn't matter if the cab was in service or not, it was there and it was fair game. Becoming very rude, as Duke found out, when the various bankers, stockbrokers, business executives, and other self-important whatnot were told otherwise as Duke exited the vehicle.

A few of them withered when Duke glared back.

The Cab driver told Duke that he'd drive around the block until he called.

"You got my number?" he asked.

Duke nodded, and as the cab went back into traffic while being chased by three men in dark business suits clutching briefcases.

Duke shook his head and entered the building.

Belton occupied the whole northwest quarter of the building's twelfth floor. Not too difficult to find from the elevator due to the expensive sign fixed to the framework that supported panes of heavy armored glass, and numerous armed security officers outside and inside the front lobby area made it extremely easy to locate. But the receptionist at the front desk, enclosed by a thick wall of bullet-proof glass, was anything but helpful.

"I'm sorry." She coolly responded, even after Duke showed his governmental identification. "Ms. Henderson is not seeing anyone concerning Mr. Emerson's 'shipment'."

In fact, she looked at Duke as if his very presence disgusted her.

Duke took the hint with out revealing it.

"Fine." He smiled to her. "I'll just contact my superior, and be back in an hour with a warrant."

He didn't see the Receptionist scowl back at him as he left. Outside and around the corner from Belton, Duke's cellphone suddenly rang for attention.

It was Richards, this time he wasn't yelling.

"I don't have any good new for you." He casually began. "Agents were up all night searching through City Records for what you wanted."

Duke went sour inside, keeping any defensive remarks to himself. But he nearly said that he had Banyer searching for the same thing.

And Banyer told him where they could be found.

Something wasn't quite right, but Duke kept it to himself.

"They found nothing?" he said instead.

"Records from that era have been moved to an upstate storage facility." Richards flatly responded. "If they were important enough."

Marcy did state the possibility of them being destroyed, but even that did jive with what Banyer told him.

Duke took a deep breath and continued, "I'm here at Belton Imports. They've just given me the bum's rush over Emerson's diamonds, and won't let me speak with Henderson—"

"That's quite understandable." Richards casually responded.

Duke paused, wondering what was going on. Richard's tone and attitude didn't quite add up.

"Sir, I need—"

"The matter is finished, Agent Hauser." Richards interrupted. "You are released back to your 'Other' duties." And with that, ended the conversation leaving Duke absolutely perplexed.

A man is dead, not the most considerate man, but he's still dead—murdered.

All because he tottled into this very building, into the offices of Belton Imports, walking out with a very important part in a sting operation against Cobra…

Eight million dollars in uncut diamonds…

Forget about it—case closed.

Go back to the Rock…

What the hell?

Duke tried calling Richards back. The lest he could do was explain why the operation was halted, but the call was blocked every time.

He was hot heading for the elevator. He wanted answers; he wanted to know the reasons why this was happening. Just dropping it was no way to deal with such a matter, someone higher up was going to raise bloody hell over the missing diamonds—if he didn't do so first. But by the fifth floor, his self-control started battling back the impulsive anger.

Things are never done without reason…There was always a purpose for every action taken…

Duke dwelled on that, and by the second floor the realization hit him squarely between the eyes; how would the receptionist know about Emerson's shipment?

Granted, Belton was a very secure place. It needed to be due to all that money passing through. So, Duke wondered, why would a lowly wage slave like that receptionist even know about the Emerson deal? Had she used the phone to contact her boss, things might have been more different, but the receptionist didn't.

She told him outright once she knew of his reasons for being there…

Was the whole op shady? Duke wondered.

By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, and after fighting his way through those wanting to enter the elevator in a rush and those who wanted to push him away from his hired cab Duke was already formulating a plan.

Haskel may have been a first-class rat for most of his life, but he definitely deserved a better end.

All Duke needed was access.

And he knew the best place to go for that.

It was a different C-A told him both Lisa Hawkern and her Secretary were currently in a photo-shoot, and couldn't be pulled from it. But, it was Hawkern's expressed order that Duke be shown every courtesy by the company for as long as he needed them.

"Thank you." Duke smiled, knowing he was in good hands.

The A-C showed him to a flat-screen computer terminal, similar to the one Marcy used the night before but more of a desk-top model than portable demonstrated how to operate the touch-screen system before leaving Duke knowing that if he ran into any trouble with the system all he had to do was to call him over.

Now alone, Duke started digging up what he could on one Bryon Emerson.

The New Zealand native had come from a very long line of diamond merchants, but was dragging the family's long established integrity down the drain with many very serious occurrences of fraud and theft. His latest adventure in Sierra Leone ended in a violent clash between two rival gangs in the local diamond trade, resulting in the deaths of several gang members and many innocent locals. Prior to that though, he was already on suspension from several major diamond brokerage houses for several 'questionable' trades in the Middle East involving several terrorist groups.

Of course, Emerson venomously denied the charges. Interpol though was steadily collecting evidence proving otherwise, and very eager to speak with him about his business practices…

The guy was dirty, Duke realized, very dirty. And it was also very easy to understand how he managed to enter the country; the Agency needed someone with a 'notable' past, otherwise Tomax would never even consider taking the tempting bait of millions in raw diamonds. So, it wouldn't be too difficult to tell the State Department to 'look the other way' with regards to the Interpol investigation—which would have easily blocked Emerson's entry into the Country.

Richards was running a shadow operation, or trying to run one. Haskel screwed it up, so Richards opted for the fast dump to distance him from the mess.

Leaving Emerson a very loose end, and very easily Ms. Henderson at Belton Importers as well.

That made Duke work faster; crooked as they maybe, it wouldn't take too much for Richards to arrange for them to have accidents—or vanish.

He reached for his cellphone, but it started ringing before he flipped it open.

"Hi." Banyer chimed from the other end. "Catch you at a bad time?"

This time it was a large dark newer model Ford sedan, and Banyer was driving.

"Tough break on your end." The Detective winced after Duke told him what occurred. "Looks like somebody got the runs on your side, and dumped everything before their boss noticed it."

Sitting in the front seat next to Banyer, Duke quietly agreed. Though what excuse Richards would come up with concerning the lost diamonds was utterly up in the air.

"And when they did dump it, they pulled their gnomes off of the record's search. Where as the NYPD's kept right at it."

And that resulted in the neat photocopied sheets concerning one William P. Haskel's arrest at Artman's Jeweler's, which Duke was now reading. Especially the one sheet that inventoried the contents of the man's pockets, which in highlighted yellow described two matchbooks from the Burmington Club on North 37th Street.

As they drove, Banyer, in his easy manner, gave a brief history of the Club; established during the Prohibition as a speakeasy where smuggled liquor and unregulated gambling were greatly enjoyed, until it came out in grand style once the liquor prohibition ended lasting all the way to the mid-Nineties when it's last owners discovered they could make more money selling the property to developers.

"It was never really a big place." Banyer explained to Duke. "Kinda in-between the known and unknown. Musicians and the help was the transit sort; they'd stay for a while before moving on."

"Swell," Duke remarked, "I hope they kept good records."

"That's where we're headed for." Banyer smiled. "Even if their workforce was transit, they still had to pay them—and report it."

Well, at least there was some good news about this case, Duke figured.

Then he remembered…

"What about Emerson?" He asked the Detective.

"Arrested last night for interfering with a murder investigation, but sprung from the lock-up before I could speak with him. His whereabouts are currently unknown." Banyer frowned while explaining. "The Judge that allowed it is notorious for doing such 'early releases', has taken a emergency leave of absence for personal reasons. Like Emerson, his whereabouts are unknown as well."

"Emerson has a residence in town?" Duke wondered.

"He's got residences all over the place." Banyer answered. "Most are in Government hands due to crimes and back-taxes. But there's a Townhouse Uptown he's recently purchased here in Manhattan has apparently slipped past them. I have it under watch with rotating pairs of Uniforms, but I doubt he'll return to it."

Duke quietly nodded. He had his own ideals, but kept them to himself.

"But," Banyer lightly added, "we do have a bright shining star to guide us by. Managed to get the Cabbie who drove Haskel around to open up about that trip, that fashion designer was a very interesting fellow."

Duke smiled a little. He owed Cover Girl for that.

"Haskel stopped at an old cemetery on the east end, right after visiting Belton." The Detective explained, "Clear Haven hasn't had a new tenant in years, not counting the homeless and the junkies of course. There's a bunch of developers eying the place to build condos, and the City is debating weither or not disturbing the dead is worth the hassle."

"When did that ever stop them?" Duke commented.

"Watching too many horror movies perhaps." Banyer smiled back. "Anyway, there's sixty some Mary's buried out there."

"Going to search the place, if the diamonds are still there?" Duke asked.

"I'll need a large group, which will bring the wrath of the local politicals down upon my head—expenses, you see." Banyer answered. "So, in this case, what we'll do is a 'pin-point strike approach."

At that moment, Banyer slid the big sedan to a halt at the curb before a tall stone-gray building.

"Hall of Records." He announced. "Now you'll get to see some real police work in action."

Duke already knew what to expect. It was more often than not the drudgery of hunting through old files and leads more often broke a case faster than quick thinking and excellent timing, though they too had their place in the scheme of things. Storage box after storage box filled with filed records were brought to the table by clerks who'd wanted be elsewhere than performing such manual labor, or dealing with records of business that thrived in Lower Manhattan's entertainment district when gasoline was cheap and Detroit produced the world's best.

Duke didn't pay attention to the time, a conditioned attitude honed by military experience and intelligence operations. Banyer himself wasn't any different. Not once during the whole time did he even glance at his watch during the search, though he did take off his jacket revealing a large oddly designed revolver carried in a shoulder holster.

The search was occasionally punctuated by finding the occasional file labeled 'Burmington Club' with month and year typed in. But no 'Mary' associated with the Cemetery list was found.

After the last case was rifled through, and the last file examined, both were at a loss. Which for Banyer lasted for a few moments.

"Well," he said, rising from his seat, "this will require rethinking things."

It burned, it simple burned. So Mary wasn't a Bar-Girl…

Then who was she?

Duke pondered the matter as Banyer drove him to Emerson's residence.

Emerson's apartment loft wasn't much better. Set in fashionable central Manhattan, the apartment was situated in a desirable corner up on the twentieth floor, and was considerably expensive. When Duke and Banyer arrived there, it was in the process of being cleaned out.

"Failure to Pay Rent and Vandalism to the Property." The landlord, a small balding man who looked at the two as if they'd insulted him, quickly threw out.

"After a week?" Duke posed.

"By law it's Ninety Days." Banyer added, this time displaying his badge.

"There was also constant noise and lude activity occurring." The Landlord quickly added upon seeing the Badge. "Numerous complaints were filed by his neighbors."

"Which would have attracted the attention of the police." Duke countered.

"Or at least what passes for Security in this building." Banyer added, now bringing out his cellphone. "But never the less, for an immediate move out, a Judge must grant permission before it can take place."

The Landlord tried bolstering his position, but the gaze from Duke and Banyer calling up people in the District Attorney's Office, many any further arguments from him worthless. In fact, he was beginning to appear nervous.

"Say, can we get Emerson's stuff diverted to Police Headquarters?" Duke asked.

Banyer nodded while on his phone.

"That property is being taken to a storage area, where it will be auctioned off to pay for damages occurred!" The Landlord suddenly roared. "You have no jurisdiction to lay claim to it!"

"I can have a warrant issued in ten minutes giving me the right to confiscate that property, and anything else I feel like." Banyer directly told the Landlord, just before being distracted by his phone, "Yes Barry, and also can you cut me a confiscation warrant for the property of one Emerson Blake…"

"Damage to the Apartment?" Duke quietly frowned at the dismayed Landlord. "What did he do, spill his morning Java on the carpet?"

Before they left, Banyer had to two uniformed officers standing outside come up and guard the apartment against any further removal of personal property from it. Which from the looks of things had just recently started. And then warned the sputtering Landlord that if anything else happened to the property or the officers guarding it, he would be facing the charge of deliberate interference in a Murder Investigation as well as accessory to assault and battery against a police officer.

With nowhere else to go after that, Banyer offered to drop Duke back at where he was staying. And during the drive, Duke went back over the Marry matter…

Mary was a girl, who after fifty years still had a strong hold over Haskel. The Diamonds he bought were definitely for her, so the theft at Artman's' was a direct connection…

And the more he dwelled on it, the clearer things started to be.

He had to know, while in Prison, that she died…And where she was buried…

And when it ideal hit him, he sat suddenly upright as if suddenly charged with an overabundance of electricity.

"Of course!" he practically yelled. "He would have had something with him telling of her death, and where she was buried at!"

Banyer, to his credit, didn't suddenly react with surprise—which would have most likely have caused a car crash.

"Which would have been found either on the body, or amongst his personal effects." Banyer slowly reasoned. "Which would still be in the evidence locker, unless otherwise touched."

"But," the Detective quietly added with a definite undertone of concern, "there's questions I'd like to ask at Belton Importers, if you don't mind that is."

"Such as?" Duke wondered, especially what was on the Detective's mind.

Banyer took his right hand off the steering wheel, kept his fingers upright and began; "William Haskel walks into Belton Importers, and walks out with eight million in raw diamonds he paid for on the spot. But, there's Zwin's on Bollery and Maja Corrin on Fifty-third—much closer by miles to where Haskel was rooming at. So, why Belton?"

Banyer lowered a finger before continuing, "Haskel arrives at Belton by Cab, one that was hired for him by the Hotel he's rooming at. He never called for one—in fact, he never even used the phone while he was living there. Yet, he told the cabbie to go to Belton."

Another of the Detective's fingers folded downward. "Considering how quickly you got the brush off at Belton, Emerson's disappearance and removal from his flat, and finally your superior's willingness to write off millions of dollars just like that gives me the impression that something really stinky is going down and all involved want it buried—fast!"

And a third finger went down. "And then there's Emerson Blake, with a criminal record that'll get him put down for longer than life, doing business in the Diamond Trade that for all reason should turn its back on him. So why is Belton doing business with him?"

Then Banyer turned to Duke and asked, "What do you think?"

It didn't take Duke too long to work out an answer. "Somebody suggested Belton to him as the place to go by diamonds 'for Mary'. And that someone knew about the Sting and Emerson, or just Emerson, and wanted it all shut down.

"But that person would have had to have known about Haskel's desire." Duke then added.

"Not necessarily." Banyer shook his head. "Haskel could have just been a mark, looking to buy any amount of diamonds regardless of their condition. Probably called around to the various businesses' who handle such merchandise well in advance of setting foot in New York."

Duke nodded. It all made sense.

"So he was just convenient, and paid for it."

Banyer nodded.

"Have any suspects?" Duke asked.

"I have ideals." The Detective replied. "Emerson is on the list, so is Miss Henderson at Belton. In fact, I'm also looking into the phone records of as many diamond merchants as I can comparing them to the number of places Haskel's train stopped at on the way here."

"Train?" Duke wondered.

"There was a ticket stub amongst his effects." Banyer smiled.

Miss Henderson at Belton Importers was anything but nice, or cooperative.

Child-like shortness may have given her an overall cute appearance, but she wasn't hesitant to make her displeasure known at Duke and Detective Banyer's 'intrusion' into 'private business affairs.'

"Emerson Blake has been removed from the List of all credible Diamond Mercantile Houses for his illegal activities in Africa." She glared at them both. "We will not, nor ever will, have any business dealing with him of any nature."

"Then why did you handle a multi-million dollar shipment for him recently?" Banyer casually asked. "And sold them to a walk-in, no less."

"We don't deal Walk-in's, Detective."

"Then how did Haskel buy the diamonds from you?"

Henderson tensed angrily, "He called for an appointment."

"And naturally you arranged it." Banyer nodded. "Ever hear of William Haskel before that call?"

"No…"

Banyer nodded, writing it all down in his note pad.

Duke had to admire the Detective; he had brass to stand there against the withering stares Henderson shot back from behind her desk. And even more brass to push his way into the very heart of Belton Importers with the cool flash of his policeman's badge. There would be hell to pay, of course.

But there were reasons to do it anyway.

"We were…fooled by Government Agents." Henderson angrily spat out as well. "We had no ideal what was going on until it was too late."

"And when was that?"

She was balancing between yelling and screaming, with her face contorting between the two extremes. Duke couldn't take his eyes off of the scean.

She gave him vicious looks in return.

"You see, Miss Henderson, it comes down to this." Banyer quickly entered, "William Haskel came directly here, purchased those diamonds, and several hours later was murdered. The diamonds have yet to be found."

"Are you saying I did it?" Henderson glared.

"You knew what he had." Banyer replied.

Henderson leaned back in her high-backed chair, maintaining her glaring stance at Banyer for several quiet moments before breaking it by growling, "Those were raw diamond stock, what we'd call a blind sale because there was no way to examine the diamonds for serious flaws that would decrease their overall value without breaking the seals on the package—which would seriously invalidate the merchandise with in. I'd haft to contact a cutter to make the appraisal, and the news of Mr. Haskel's death has already spread throughout the local industry."

Then she leaned forward with a defiant look. "What would I want with them anyway? This was all arranged by representatives from the Government, it was completely out of my hands."

"Maybe flush em' down the toilet…Throw them in the river." Banyer wittily suggested to her. "Maybe send them back to Africa anonymously, to pay for all the misery they caused."

Henderson glared at him.

"Haskel paid eight million for them. Now what happened to that money?"

It must have killed her to get out the day's financial records, Duke figured. Yes, the transaction was there; it occurred at 1:14pm on that day involving a check in the amount of the eight million. The Business Office questioned weither or not the check was legal, but the log had been anointed with the small message from the First National Bank of Oregon that it was legitimate and the funds would be transferred over soon.

Then Banyer asked; "Could you describe the representative from the Government, who approached you about overseeing this deal?"

After another glaring session from Henderson, she answered in stucco fashion—forcing the words out of mouth. "Tall, white, male, well groomed, dark business suit, name Richards…"

And Duke winced inwardly.

He didn't even have the sense to use a false name…

After telling the fuming Henderson that they would be back if there were any new developments that needed checking, Duke and the Detective went to the Police Precinct house to examine every piece of Haskel's personal property—namely what was in his possession when killed.

An old leather wallet containing a very out-dated driver's license faded Military Identification, a Social Security card, some small black-and-white photos—but oddly no money inside or any recorded on the evidence record sheet. There was a set of keys, no ideal where they went to. A matchbox with several wooden matches inside. A checkbook, with two checks used but not recorded as to where and what they were used for. The afore mentioned train-ticket stub, but no letter or note detailing who Mary was—which dismayed Duke…

And a large tube of quick-set epoxy all rolled up flat with its protective cap adhered to its tip.

It held the Detective's attention.

He unrolled it and read its cover. "Dura-Form Super Epoxy. For use with Wood, Metal, Stone, and Concrete—Guaranteed to last in extreme conditions."

There was something important that teased Duke's mind, but it was just out of reach…

Even Banyer was at a loss…Until.

"Haskel buys diamonds, visits a cemetery, and has this with him." He muttered.

"To repair Mary's Tombstone." Duke suggested the teasing ideal suddenly closer. "You said the place was run down."

"He got into town the evening before." Banyer slowly shook his head, reaching for the ticket stub. "He didn't visit the cemetery until the next day, after purchasing the diamonds."

Banyer closely examined the ticket, the slim yellow and gray slip was the size of a tiny candy bar and torn neatly in half across the middle. But at the end, had something very interesting printed in small black letters.

"This is a One-Way Ticket." Banyer announced. "Purchased in Portland, Oregon last week."

"Thought you knew that." Duke wondered.

"I was only told of a train ticket, there was nothing specifically mentioned about it." Banyer replied and paused while apparently in thought…

Then looked at the checkbook.

"I could see him buying glue and diamonds with a check, but not a train ticket." Banyer then mentioned. "The ticket agents would insist on either cash or credit card, besides being faster it's also a way of insuring there's enough to pay for the ticket at the point of purchase than waiting for a week."

Duke picked the check book off of the table. "First National Bank of Oregon. Located in Portland." He read off of the top check. "It gives his name and an address…"

And Duke glanced at Banyer, "But, why buy a One-Way Ticket?"

Banyer couldn't think of an answer.

Four.

Nothing was truthfully making sense. But Duke allowed Banyer to pursue his ideals on the case. Perhaps what was found could make sense of it all, either here or in Oregon.

The Detective had Duke driven back to Hawkern Place in a Patrol Car. With little else to do, except the need to write down everything in his working log, Duke thanked Banyer for the evening and asked to be kept posted if anything happened.

"Always." Banyer said with a smile when they parted company.

While being driven back, Duke quickly text-messaged his report on the affair to The Rock. They needed to be informed as to what he was involved in, and take action should anything happen to him. By then, he really cared less what Richards said about anything. His fat would soon be in the fire anyway over running such a sloppy op, perfect punishment for dragging the Agency through the mud.

He was let out at the front of the main housing block, just moments after finishing the message off. And moments after the Car drove away, as Duke started up the steps, he herd a voice coming out of the darkness to his left and behind…

"Agent Hauser…?"

Duke turned slowly, ready to move in a instant.

Emerson Blake was in worse condition than last night. Standing in the fringes of the porch light, his suit was dirty in spots with his tie nearly undone, and looking much disheveled as he gazed hopefully up from the sidewalk towards Duke.

"Have you found my diamonds yet?" Emerson evenly asked.

Duke glanced at Emerson's hands. They were concealed in the shadows cast by the wrought-iron stair rung.

A bad sign. If Emerson had a weapon out and ready, Duke knew he couldn't get his out in time. The best he could do was stall, while getting close enough to Emerson.

"No, I haven't." Duke replied while slowly descending the steps.

Emerson's face when form soft to hideous anger in an instant, as he was seized by a sudden anger that made him tremble all-over. "That's not possible!" he raged. "That old man didn't go anywhere else except home after buying them!"

"Oh?" Duke wondered, taking a step closer. "Mr. Haskel went to a good many places after Belton."

Duke kept his eyes on the man's face as it shifted from rage to disbelief. "Other places?" Emerson exclaimed. "But he just went home…That's what I was told at Belton."

"Ms. Henderson said so?" Duke was already at the base of the steps, placing Emerson within reach of a solid kick. A little closer perhaps, he wondered, since Emerson was now distracted by the revelation given to him.

"But…but…no, she wouldn't. She couldn't…"

Duke was now comfortable with the distance he had. There in Emerson's right hand was definitely a small pistol, pointed downward.

"But, she said…"

"I'm sorry." Duke gently said to him.

The more Emerson worked on it, the faster the change from bewilderment to realization became. And from that plateau to explosive rage instantly.

"That Bitch!! She deliberately sold Haskel my diamonds to hurt me!!"

Duke wasn't surprised in the least. Those last parts helped it come together quite nicely in his mind.

And what a pretty picture it made; Henderson wanted those diamonds off her hands, probably when she realized they were Emerson's. To hell with what the Government thought, they knew about Emerson to—had to, it was just unavoidable. So to clear herself, in her mind, from an obliviously illegal operation she sold them to Haskel…

Probably the first package she showed him. And being the gambler, he went for it.

"Those diamonds are mine!" Emerson yelled at him. "Mine!! Earned honestly from months of hard work in that hell-hole of a country. But no, all people care about were those dumb bastards killing each other—blissfully ignoring the fact that they hated each other so much they would have killed each other on sight anyway!!"

Duke didn't do anything but listen. If he played it right, he'd get out of it alive.

He just needed the right moment.

"But they don't care, they don't care at all!" Emerson loudly raged. "I'm a killer, a murderous exploiter—they don't give a damn about the truth, not at all! They just want their business to look all right and proper to the World, while making me into some vile villain! WELL I'M NOT!!"

At that last part, Emerson, completely enraged, stepped forward raising his pistol as he did. Behind Duke, a light flashed on to the sound of a door being kicked open. But he was already moving. First by knocking aside Emerson's pistol with his left hand, then smashing his right fist into the merchant's jaw with practiced ease that spun the man into a sloppy turn before he collapsed on the sidewalk—at the feet of the very Cop that had dropped Duke off minutes earlier.

"Jeeze-uzus!" the Cop exclaimed at the sprawled sight of Emerson's body on the ground before him. Then turned to Duke as the sounds of running feet were coming from the surrounding darkness, exclaiming, "See, I told you this was a wild place!"

"You certainly meet some very interesting people in your line of work." Banyer remarked to Duke while nodding towards Hawkern

"It has its benefits." Duke easily replied.

The Squad Room of the Upper Manhattan District Police Department was, as countless depicted in countless movies and television shows, no different than its Hollywood counterparts; a large room harshly lit by several lights, cluttered with messy desks, constantly ringing telephones, over-crowded bulletin boards, well used coffee machines with stacked Styrofoam cups and boxes of sugar cubes near it. In the far corner was the Captain's Office, its windows shuttered and dark with its door locked. But Banyer told them he was on his way.

Hawkern was there simply because of what occurred between Duke and Emerson happened on her property, and remained with Duke after giving her account. Of course, he vouched for her which seemed to make a difference for Banyer.

"All I usually deal with are Corpses and the Criminals who made them." Banyer smiled. "But, this tale has come to a close."

It was a unusual affair, as Banyer explained, "Apparently, Emerson was in a very bad way financially. The transaction with Cobra would have netted him a nice amount of coin to continue living, had it not been for Henderson's interfering conscience.

"She knew of his reputation and your Agency's backing in the affair, but couldn't go through with the sale because of Emerson's history. So, when Haskel called Belton looking for Diamonds to buy, she jumped at the chance to be rid of them both."

Duke nodded in agreement.

"And now finds herself in deeper trouble." Hawkern put in.

"I really don't think she believed that Mr. Haskel would come to any harm if she sold him the diamonds." Banyer replied. "If that was her intention, then she'd be in Lock –up right now with Emerson.

"But, I believe her actions may have something to do with how the Diamond Syndicates work. You see, Emerson was a bad boy, a very, very bad boy, as we are finding out. And the Syndicates do not like dealing with such people, or those who help by fronting their ill-gotten gains regardless of the reason. Belton Importers has several reputations to up-hold, you see. Any amount of mud on that reputation would not only call their integrity into question, but also cause them to loose several Billion dollars in revenue on top of what they'd get in fines for violating the rules."

"So, regardless of weither the Sting was successful or not, Belton could have been forced out of business if this exchange was discovered." Duke remarked. It so easily explained why he was treated in the way that he was by those people when he first tried going there.

"Exactly." Banyer smiled to him. "And I may go as far as to state that your Agency wouldn't have stepped in to help them out."

"Since they violated the Law by letting Emerson into the country with those diamonds." Hawkern pointed out. "He would have been stopped long before he could enter."

"I don't think it was the whole Agency, per say, Miss Hawkern. " Duke carefully replied while working that angle out the story out. "Likely a few key members."

"Who can easily hide behind provisions in National Security." Banyer remarked while settling down at the edge of his desk. "A tough nut to crack without any direct link."

"What about Emerson and Henderson?" Duke wondered. "They'd—"

And stopped when realizing, "Emerson's word wouldn't be taken at value, and Henderson doesn't need to say anything that could incriminate her."

Banyer nodded smilingly at him. "It burns, doesn't it…But," he continued, "we do know where the diamonds are, and who the killer is."

The announcement didn't raise much interest in Duke. He was busy trying to figure out how to get at those in the Agency who set up the Sting, but Hawkern appeared to be interested.

"Remember the checkbook with two checks used?" Banyer asked Duke.

"One was used for the diamond purchase. The other for something else, there were no records kept as to where they went."

"Not any made by Haskel. But his Bank, as they should, kept excellent records." Banyer explained. "The first check was wired to a small outfit upstate that specializes in Tombstones for graveyards, nothing too outlandish or specialized, so they claim. About a week ago, they received an order with payment from Haskel; a large green marble marker for one Marilyn Wanda Allen—a young girl from the Midwest trying to break into show business out here. According to Records, she had the misfortune of being killed in a 'Lover's Quarrel' back in 1953."

"Our, 'Mary'" Hawkern wistfully remarked.

"Indeed." Duke commented. "He must have gotten world about her death while in Military prison. Must have really been smitten with her to keep such a promise after so long."

"And kept the location of her grave in his head the whole time. The Marker Haskel had made contains a secreted compartment that can be locked in several different ways." Banyer added. "Right now, there are two SWAT Teams and a bunch from the Port Authority out there looking for it. If power tools can't do it, they'll take it to the Authority's Yard and crack it open there."

"With all that epoxy Haskel used, they'll need explosives." Duke grinned.

"Well, I don't think it's go that far." Banyer mused. "But they are a very determined bunch out there by the River. We should be hearing from them very soon."

Hawkern shifted her tight leather clad legs around to another comfortable position in the chair and asked, "Now what about the killer?"

At this point, it didn't matter to Duke who did it. But he listened out of curiosity, because his attention was on nailing Richards.

"That, Ms. Hawkern, "Banyer began while folding his arms across his chest and situating himself better on the desk, "was an almost forgotten variable."

Then after turning to Duke, he continued, "I figured when you first told me about the diamonds, that they were the reason why Haskel was murdered. Emerson had good reason to do it, Henderson told him where Haskel was—that's why he was at the Grand.

"But, he wasn't the murder. We managed to find the cab Emerson hired to get to the Grand that night, and the driver remembered him throwing one of the biggest fits he'd ever witnessed because they were stuck in dinner-time traffic. Nor was it the diamonds that resulted in his death."

The Detective looked a little sheepish before continuing, "Being blind-sided by the diamonds cause me to be over look one important fact in this case…Do you recall how Haskel became a millionaire in the first place?"

It took Duke a few moments to recall that fact. But Hawkern was a little quicker in answering the question.

"A Copyright infringement case."

"You certainly know more than Porn." Banyer smiled at her.

"Definitely more." Duke commented, which got him a mock look of surprise from Hawkern.

"Thanks largely to happenstance, a Beat cop, and a very strong taste for Beer, I have made the acquaintance of a man named Rollo Morues. A not too terribly bright drifter who made a passing living as muscle for numerous Roadhouses and other assorted dives out west." Banyer explained. "He and Haskel did time in Chino, they were cell mates in fact. And if it wasn't for the memory of a Health Official who remembered Haskel working on those things, it would have been Rollo livin' the high-life while Haskel was the one staying at the homeless shelter."

"It was a nasty court fight." Hawkern mentioned.

"Nasty enough to follow him all the way to New York from Portland, and kill him over it. We don't have a clue as to how he followed Haskel cross country, possibly they were on the same train but in different sections of it. But after he did it, he took the money from Haskel's wallet and celebrated with plenty of Beer.

"Bragging of the deed while intoxicated isn't admissible evidence, but finding the second metal vase in his jacket pocket with blood and hair all over it, along with blood on his pants and shoes during booking, made the folks who busted him very suspicious…

"It turned out to be Haskel's."

At that point, there really wasn't too much left to do. The reasons behind the purchase of the One-Way Train Ticket only mattered to Haskel, no one else…

But there was one last thread to tie down, and Duke was every bit determined to tie it down.

The Agency's Offices occupied a small adjacent building across from the Federal Courthouse in Manhattan. A non-descript building of stone and rough-iron some four stories tall, attractive to pigeons due to the lack of predators and ample ledge space. Duke knew Richards' Office was up on the fourth floor, overlooking the street with a clear view of the Courthouse.

Unmolested, he walked up four flights of stairs to that Office.

"Business?" The Secretary, a very unremarkable woman, asked in the outer office area.

Duke paused for a moment, thinking.

Then he replied, "Probable violations of State Department Rules and Procedures with regards to allowing the International Fugitive, Mr. Bryon Emerson, entrance into the Country."

The Secretary blinked at him before calling Richardson on the phone.

Moments later, an immaculate man in a nice black suit opened the door to the main office with a very astonished look on his face.

Richards…

"Hi." Duke smiled at him. "Can we talk?"

Richards' smooth face twitched with slight irritation as his dark eyes focused on Duke.

"Hold my calls." He told the Secretary. "And no visitors."

Then he quickly beckoned Duke into his Office. It was nice; dark wood paneling from floor to ceiling gave the place a comfortable sense of place, with two large windows that let in plenty of natural light. The desk like the walls was dark and wooden as well, impressively designed with elegant carving along it's upper sides.

Mahogany, Duke figured. Must be Mahogany.

Richardson quickly seated himself in the executive leather chair behind that desk, there were chairs of lesser quality situated around the front, bookcases full of leather bound volumes around the room and walls covered by numerous acolytes and pictures.

Duke took it all in.

"What are you still doing in New York." Richards irritatedly scolded, "You should be back with your Outfit."

"I never leave a job half finished." Duke casually replied. "Nice Office."

"Thank you."

"Too bad you're going to loose it."

Richards gazed critically at Duke.

"Whatever made you think that you could nab Tomax with a simple diamond scam?" Duke critically asked Richards. "He may be greedy as his twin brother was, but he's not stupid."

"I don't understand you, Hauser." Richards glared back.

"You don't." Duke easily replied. "Perhaps Emerson may jog your memory. You know, the bad-boy of the Sierra Leone who somehow entered the Country in spite his fugitive status?"

Richards' face tightened, like he was eating a lemon while glaring angrily at Duke. But he's eyes shifted to his desktop's pen-set, stayed for a few moments, then snapped back to Duke.

"It was necessary to use him and his diamonds." Richards explained with surprising confidence. "No legitimate dealer would take the risk, and using an Agent posing as a dealer wouldn't have achieved the desired results. Emerson was known, there wouldn't be any problems."

A bug detector, Duke figured, giving the desktop pen set a quick glance before continuing, "But there were; an Importer with a conscience and an old man wanting to keep a promise." He carefully pointed out, before bluntly asking Richards, "Were you going to shaft Emerson in the end?"

"He was a fugitive, as you said." A curt smile formed on Richards' lips. "Once the transaction was underway, his usefulness was over."

"Ahhh, I see." Duke calmly replied while strolling over to the window that looked out at the Courthouse. "If there was any gunplay, Emerson would have been killed in the midst of it. Or else he would have simply vanished."

"Necessity would have demanded either course of action occurring, Agent Hauser." Richards crisply responded. "There were several options available to use regarding him."

Duke fixed his attention on the cars down on the street below, especially the stretch Limousine at the curb across the street.

"But he managed to elude his Bodyguards." Richards went on. "That needs to be dealt with."

"Naturally." Duke replied.

"And since your so…insistent, you'll take the assignment."

Duke turned away from the window, his stony face set and hard.

Richards met in with an expectant expression. "He needs to be dealt with, Agent Hauser."

"I don't swamp people."

"You've performed such before, against terrorists and other such criminals. Emerson's not very much different when you look at him. Especially after Sierra Leone. A very bloody mess, as I recall."

"True." Duke smiled back, "But it doesn't concern me any more."

"Oh?"

"Yea, because Emerson's in Police Custody tossin' his guts all over the place. And Ms. Henderson not only gave a detailed description of you, but gave your name as well. That's not only reckless, it's positively stupid."

Richards didn't appear to be too impressed with that. "We have plans for such cases."

"Oh really?" Duke mocked, blinking. "I wonder, given Tomax's ability to twist any legal system to his advantage, I wonder how long it would have taken him to shatter both it and you."

Now Richards was gazing irritatedly at him.

"They wouldn't have had much of a case at the onset, but Emerson's presence would have raised a lot of questions you wouldn't have liked to have answered."

"For the last time," Richards irritatedly growled, "there were plans. If he's still alive, anything he say can be taken as being 'far fetched' so there's no conceivable way to link the Agency to him. As for Belton Importers, they will be punished for gross violations of International Import and Trade Rules as well as violations of the Tariff Tax. I've planned every aspect of the operation down to every conceivable end."

Duke simply gazed at Richards who was gazing back with an airs of triumph, and simply wondered how such people, who've never spent any amount of time in the trenches of this duty, could ever think they were masters of the Craft.

It simply amazed him.

"Come over here," He motioned to Richards "I wanna show you something."

And as he did, Duke unhurriedly pulled out a metal-bodied ball-point pen from his outside jacket pocket. It been there the whole time of the conversation. So Richards never considered it, like Duke, to be much of a threat.

When he was standing next to him at the window, Duke spoke into the pen like it was microphone.

"Have the Driver step out and doff his hat to us up here."

In the window's reflection, Richards smirked.

Down below, the driver of the stretch Limousine got out of the vehicle and took his black drivers cap to them in salute.

Richards' face went from calm to shock instantly.

"Thank you." Duke said into the pen, and put it away while turning to Richardson while grinning.

"Seriously." He smiled to Richards, "You're a real jerk."

And calmly strode away.

51