Chapter Ten

"Can I help you?" asked the man behind the counter of a nondescript pawn shop in a busy part of the city where the upper class would never be seen, but those hovering on the edge of poverty or success might be drawn to add just a bit more green to their pockets.

The incoming patron laid a gold chain and diamond ring on the glass-top counter. "How much?"

The shop owner took out his loupe, looking for the weight mark on the band and chain, then turning his attention to the single diamond gracing the band. "That depends. Where'd you get it?"

"From a girl who didn't want it anymore. As payment for a debt."

The man behind the counter eyed his customer suspiciously. "Did you steal it?"

Looking the owner in the eye, the customer said, "No. She left the relationship and didn't want it...or need it anymore, and she owed me." Turning his head, he added quietly, "She's owed me for years." Looking back to the proprietor, he said, "She's just now had something to pay me back with."

"I'll tell you what," said the owner, bending down with his elbows propped on the counter, hovering over the jewelry he'd just examined. "The gold isn't worth much." He waved around him. "I've got gold coming outta my ears. But this diamond is a real nice diamond. I'll give you five hundred for the diamond and the gold. If that's not good enough, you can keep the gold. It's five hundred for the diamond."

"It's worth five times that."

"At least. But look at the price tags of the diamonds around you, friend. People don't come into a pawn shop expecting to pay top dollar. They come here for deals."

"I want cash."

"Then I'll need a name to go with the diamond. It's the law." Leaning forward, he said quietly, "But...ah...the law doesn't say I have to ask for ID, so just give me a name."

"Mark Hansen."

The owner peeled five one hundred dollar bills off a wad of cash in his pocket and laid them one at a time in the seller's hand. "Thanks, for your business, Mr. Hansen."

Shoving the money in his pocket, Mr. Hansen disappeared out the door and down the sidewalk.

The owner waited until his latest customer was out of sight before he picked up his phone, hearing the answering service he expected. "Yeah, I got a message for Tamara Savage. This is Lou at the Cash for Goods Pawn. I think I might have something you want to see." Hanging up the phone, he picked the chain and ring up off the counter, put it in an envelope, and then locked it in his safe.

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Trapper took a deep, testy breath at the traffic sitting still in front of him. He looked in the rearview mirror at the same mess.

"Pa, I had an extra helmet. We should have taken the bike," said JT, rolling down his window and stretching out as far as he could to see what was holding them up.

"I've seen you drive your motorcycle, JT. I'm not about to ride on the back." Checking his watch, he added, "I just hope the hospital doesn't page me," then thought to himself that they had been leaving him alone for the most part lately. Even that aggravated him. Lucky for him, he was in the outside lane of a city street where parking on the curb was permitted. When the car parked in front of him put on his turn signal to come out, Trapper let him out and pulled his RX-7 right into the space, and then adjusted the car to get closer to the curb.

"What are you doing, Dad? Now we'll never get out."

"We're getting out all right. Lock the door before you close it," said Trapper, easing the car door open and stepping out.

JT hesitated, but realizing his father was serious, he followed suit. He had to run to catch up. Trapper was already twenty feet up the sidewalk. "Pop, we can't walk all the way to the university. It'll take hours."

"We're walking far enough to get away from this traffic jam, and then we'll get a cab. By the time we finish speaking with your friend, this mess should be cleared. We'll take a cab back to the car."

They walked five blocks before they arrived at the scene of the accident that caused the delay, and though there were injuries, Trapper continued on down the block. JT, on the other hand, stopped walking. Looking at his father's back as he opened his mouth while pointing toward the tangled hunk of metal in the intersection, he thought he'd never see his father walk away when his expertise might be needed. He looked at the accident one more time before he closed his mouth and ran to catch up.

"Dad, that looked pretty bad back there."

Trapper slowed his stride, and eventually stopped, taking another deep breath as he looked up at the sky and moved his hands to his hips. JT was right to question. He couldn't ignore that accident. Gently, hitting JT's chest with the back of his hand, he said, "You're right. Let's go. But stay out of the way."

For the first few minutes, JT did as his father asked and stayed behind the yellow tape the police had strung for crowd control. His father had gotten into one of the cars, and had been there for some time before he emerged and called for the ambulance attendants to take the driver out.

When the driver was on the gurney, the attendants stepped to the ends, allowing JT to see the victim's face. "Oh no," he muttered as he dipped under the yellow tape and ran toward the scene. He didn't get far before a police officer stopped him. "Wait, that's my dad," he said in his defense.

"Come on, kid. That guy's too young to be your dad. Now get back behind the tape."

"No, not that guy. That guy," he said, pointing at Trapper walking with the gurney toward the ambulance. The guy from the wreck. That's the guy my dad was on his way to see, but he doesn't know it."

The officer rolled his eyes and grabbed JT by the collar and dragged him toward the gurney. "Doc, do you know this kid?"

Trapper looked at JT up on his tiptoes, and then back at the officer. "I do, but even if I didn't, you don't have to yank on him like he's a criminal. Let him go."

"Doc, he's still got no business back here."

"Dad, I just need to tell you. This is Hershel," he said, pointing to the young man on the gurney. "He's the guy you were going to see."

Turning to the attendant who was now loading the gurney into the ambulance, Trapper asked, "Do you have an ID on this man?"

"Yeah. A Hershel Maddox. You know him?"

"No. Not yet. I'm riding with you. We're going to San Francisco Memorial." Taking the car keys out of his pocket, Trapper tossed them to JT.

"JT, drive the car back to the hospital." He turned to step up into the ambulance, but stopped and turned back, giving JT a wide-eyed glare. "Don't. Wreck. My. Car."

JT returned a sheepish smirk. "I won't wreck your car, Pop."

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"I don't see why we have to go into every pawn shop in town," said Agent Allen.

Tamara veered over to a bench shaded by a tree in an area where the sidewalk had been expanded to allow for benches, planters, and trees. "Dr. McIntyre said he gave her an engagement ring, and had put it on her finger the night before she was found. The inventory records at the morgue didn't list the ring."

Allen crossed his arms, looking bored. "She probably wouldn't have worn it when she swam."

"That's true. But you and I both had a look at her place. I didn't see that ring anywhere, so I went back to look for it. I found some pretty pricey jewelry, but I turned that place upside down and didn't find her ring."

"So you're thinking someone knew about the ring, and went there to get it when they heard she was dead?"

"It's possible."

"Other than to steal it for money, why would anyone do that? And why would we care? It's not something we should waste our time on besides it being a long shot."

"Long shots are all we have at the moment. And if they were interested in money, there was a lot more valuable stuff in that pool house. Why would someone take the ring unless it meant something?"

"I thought we were going to see McIntyre."

She winced. "He wasn't in when I called, so I thought we'd kill some time looking for the ring," she said as she moved her hand down to her pager that had just beeped. "I've got a message. I need to find a phone," she said, looking around.

Darren pointed, and both walked across the street to a phone booth, and while Darren waited outside, Tamara called her service. She pushed the folding door open with a smile. "We've got a bite. Three blocks over."

When the two FBI agents walked into the pawn shop, the owner rushed past them, pulling the blind down on the door and flipping the closed sign outward after which he locked the door.

"Is there a problem?" asked Tamara, scowling.

"I don't want anyone to see two cops come in here," said the owner.

"We're not cops," said Allen.

"Then you're somthin' worse. I can smell you a mile away. Now, let's get on with it, so I can open back up. You two can leave through the back."

The agents looked at each other and shrugged. "You called me," said Tamara.

"Yeah, that's right. I run an honest business, so when cops come snooping around looking for specific things, I tend to oblige. You were looking for a ring. We'll, I've got a ring on a chain. I got a lot of rings like this one; a gold band solitaire, but not this big. Not this fine, either. But it wadn't the ring that made me think about you. It was the guy who brought it in."

Both agents stepped up to the counter while the owner bent down to retrieve the envelope from his safe. "What about this guy made him different?"

"Nothing that he looked like. He looked like every other vagrant comin' in here for some quick cash. Most of 'em bring in stolen junk. But this guy brought in this ring with a story that the woman who owned it didn't want it anymore. Then he said, she didn't need it and that she owed him. Most of 'em just admit they stole it. No, there was somethin' about this guy. Clean cut. Clean shaven. Didn't stink. Like he hadn't been a bum very long."

"Did you get a name?"

"Of course I got a name, but don't you figure he'd give me a bogus name?"

"What name?" asked Allen impatiently.

"Just a minute. I'll look," said the man, digging through a stack of note paper. "Mark Hansen."

Tamara pulled her notepad out to write it down, but Darren stopped her. "No need to write it down."

"You recognize the name?"

"Yeah. Mark Hansen, if that's really who the guy is, used to work for Manning Consulting under Leah Haverty at the hospital."

Raising her brows, she said, "Interesting," before she turned to the owner of the pawn shop. "We'll need that chain and ring."

"Now just wait a minute," the man said defiantly. "I paid five hundred dollars for that ring."

Darren leaned over the counter and spoke in a low, but threatening voice, "You give us the ring, or we go downtown and pull your license for receiving stolen property."

The man scowled and threw the envelope containing the chain and ring on the counter. Darren picked it up, put it in his inside jacket pocket, and the two agents left out the back door.