Yakov expressed his sympathy again, and I told him I’d get back to him if the diamonds ever resurfaced. His “I look forward to it” dripped with sarcasm. I hung up, and my growing frustration threatened to bubble out of control.

I now knew for sure the diamonds actually existed. Lots of them. My father hadn’t sold or given away his collection. He’d taken the diamonds out of the safe deposit box in preparation for Yakov’s appraisal and when his appointment got cancelled, he’d planned to take the diamonds back to the bank. But he hadn’t done that—he’d been killed before he had the chance. So whoever killed my father had his diamonds. My diamonds, if you wanted to be precise.

Lev was right. It was time to go to the police.

Conveniently, the Fairfax County Police Department had a station near Reston Town Center, across from the public library. I didn’t know whether that meant Reston was a hotbed of criminal activity or whether there had just been an empty taxpayer-funded building. At the front desk, I waited for the uniformed officer to get off the phone before I dumped my problem into the authorities’ hands.

“Hello, Officer. I’d like to report a murder. And a robbery. And I—”

The officer, a young woman, held up her hand. “Hold on. Hold on. A murder?” She eyed me suspiciously. To her, I must have been another walk-up crackpot, spouting wild tales of mayhem.

I took a deep breath. Started from the top, more calmly. “Yes. I’d like to talk to somebody about a possible murder.” I emphasized the word “possible.”

She sighed and shook her head, like she must do to all the nut jobs. “Just a minute,” she said, as she picked up the phone and nodded to a set of three molded-plastic chairs off to the side. “Have a seat.”

Instead of sitting, I paced around the small lobby. Several people came and went. I could overhear their conversations with the desk officer and none of them sounded serious. Certainly no one had anything as important as murder. Yet they got their questions answered without having to cool their jets in the lobby. I suppose handling a murder required a specialist.

A glass display case held certificates and citations from other local agencies, recognizing Fairfax County’s finest for various achievements. Several trophies from police-sponsored Boys Club athletic events stood in a line on a glass shelf inside the case. A plaque, commemorating the Department’s involvement in a September 11 anniversary function, hung proudly on the wall next to the display case.

“You the one with the murder?”

I spun around and my head slowly tilted upward. A tall man, shaved bald, stood before me, hands on his hips. Six-six, at least. Nicely tailored suit. “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “I’m Josh Handleman.”

“Detective Morris.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. Like shaking hands with a catcher’s mitt. Not only large, but leathery, too. “This way.” We got buzzed into the back, and I trailed him through a couple hallways into a large cubicle-filled room that looked more like an IBM office than a police station.

Morris pulled up short and I jammed on my brakes to avoid ramming into him. “Here we are,” he said, gesturing to his cubicle. “Please.” He nodded at the chair alongside his desk as he lowered himself into his and steepled his hands together. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

On the drive over, I’d rehearsed how I’d tell my story. I couldn’t remember a word of it now, so I just let fly. “I think my father was murdered. They found him on the floor, dead. Said he’d tumbled down the stairs. But I don’t think so.” I stopped for air and stared right into Morris’ impassive face.

I waited for him to say something, but he simply nodded. Go on.

“I assumed it was an accident. Then I come to find my father’s diamond collection missing. Two plus two …” I don’t know why I said that, I never speak that way. My jangled nerves were getting in the way.

Morris picked up a pencil. “Spell Handleman.”

I did and he jotted it down, then ripped off the sheet of paper from the pad and stood. “Back in a minute.”

He left and I followed his head and shoulders above the half-height cubicle walls as he zigzagged through the room before disappearing through a doorway. Several cops glared at me as they passed Morris’ cubicle, but maybe they weren’t really glaring, maybe I just felt guilty of something. Maybe that’s how everybody felt, sitting in the police station talking to a detective.

Morris’ disembodied head appeared again, and I tracked his progress through the cubicle maze. He sat and flipped open a file he’d retrieved. Began reading in an even tone. “Abe Handleman. Died December 22. Unattended death. Ruled accidental.” He looked at me. “That right?”

I nodded, then shook my head. “Except the accidental part, that is.”

Morris closed the file and leaned his chair back until it touched a filing cabinet behind him. With the tip of a shoe, he pulled out a desk drawer and extended his long legs, resting them on top of the drawer. “Why do you think so?”

“Someone killed him to get his diamonds.”

“Diamonds, huh?” Morris nodded at the closed folder on his desk. “Says there he tripped down the stairs. Doors were locked—dead bolted, too. Lived alone. My guy said the carpet on the stairs was threadbare. And that your father was … how did he phrase it? Handicapped?” He made no move to consult the file. Evidently, he’d read it and committed it to memory before he returned to the cubicle.

“My father used a cane, but he wasn’t really handicapped.” I’d found a handicapped hangtag on the rearview mirror in his car, and I’d ripped it up on my way to the funeral home. “I know it appears to be an accident, but I don’t think it was.”

“So you’ve said. But we need some evidence.” His expression remained neutral. If he thought I was a crackpot, he wasn’t letting on. At least not yet. “What about these diamonds?”

“My father owned a diamond collection. And it’s been stolen.” I looked at Morris. “Don’t you need to write this down? File a report or something?”

The beginning of a smile tugged at the sides of his mouth. “Why don’t we talk things over first? Then we can file a report if we need to.” The smile persisted, but it was ornamental only. No warmth. “Tell me about these diamonds. How many are missing?”

“All of them,” I blurted out, then stopped to take a breath. “I mean, I don’t know exactly.”

“You don’t know? How many diamonds did your father own?”

I swallowed. This wasn’t going like I’d hoped. “I don’t really know.”

“You don’t know?” Morris’ brow furrowed. “Have you ever seen these diamonds?”

“No.”

“Father talk about them a lot?”

“Uh, no, not really.”

“Ever?” Morris asked, like he knew the answer to the question already.

“No, but he—”

“How do you know they exist?”

“People have told me. People who have seen them.”

“Recently?”

I thought back to my conversation with Aunt Shel. She probably hadn’t seen the diamonds in decades. “No, I don’t think so.”

Morris nodded. “Okay. What makes you think they were stolen and not lost, or given to someone, or sold? Or accidentally thrown in the trash?”

“He had an appointment with an appraiser on the day he died.”

Morris’ eyes flashed for an instant, then returned to their normal state. “And he’d seen them?”

The room was getting warmer. “No, he hadn’t seen them yet. My father took the diamonds out of the safe deposit box the day before, and then he was killed on Friday and now they’re missing. That’s what makes me think they were stolen. By the murderer.”

“Do you have receipts for the diamonds?”

I shook my head.

“Photos? Authentication certificates? Appraisal reports? Insurance papers?”

I shook my head again.

“Do you have anything whatsoever that proves the existence of these diamonds, besides the word of a few friends and relatives?” He pursed his lips. “And the appointment with the appraiser, of course.”

“No. Unfortunately, I don’t.”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that your father had these diamonds, but that there’s no paper trail?”

I wiped some perspiration from my forehead. That question had me stumped, too. “Look, I know there were diamonds.”

“Mr. Handleman. Are you aware that stolen diamonds usually don’t have paper trails?”

“They were not stolen, Detective. My father bought them over the years. I’m sure of it,” I said.

He held up his hand. “Okay, assuming there are diamonds, how do you propose we go about searching for these diamonds without any documentation?”

I shrugged. “All you have to do is find his murderer.”

Morris smiled. “That’s a good plan.” He wiped the smile off his face. “Let me ask you something, but please think before you answer it, because accusing innocent people is not something I tolerate.” He stared at me. “Got any theories who might have done this? Father have any enemies ruthless enough to kill him?”

Kassian hardly fit that bill. Not ruthless. And if he did steal the diamonds, what was he still doing in my basement? My first instinct had been right. This was a mistake, a huge one. “No. None that I can really think of.”

Morris picked up his pencil and spun it around in his fingers while his eyes bored into me. Then he kicked the desk drawer in with his feet, tipped his chair down, and sat forward. “Mr. Handleman. In no way do I wish to be disrespectful or to upset you. But I’m a straight-talking guy. So please do not be offended. Okay?”

I gave him a quick nod and he opened the file and removed a few photos. Slid them across the desk to me. “These are pictures from the scene.”

In front of me was a picture of the carpet on the top step I’d been examining the other day. Close-up and in color. Morris spoke while I looked at the photos. “The report theorizes that your father’s cane caught on the jagged edge of the carpet, throwing him off-balance. It probably didn’t take much for him to fall. We see it a lot in the elderly.” Morris stopped talking and gave me a look brimming with reproach. “Were you aware of the dangerous condition of the carpet in your father’s home?”

I pressed my lips together. I’d brought it up on at least one occasion since Mom died, but it had fallen on deaf ears so I’d given up pestering, knowing how stubborn my father was. If only I’d been more persistent.

Morris flipped to the next page in the report. “The responding officer notes that the two EMTs concur in his assessment. The officer took a look around and found nothing out of the ordinary. No one in the house—the responders had to break in through a side door. No sign of a struggle. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Nothing obvious was missing. Per our procedures for an unattended death, the officer took some photos and made a few sketches. He attempted to contact next of kin, but the victim’s—your father’s, excuse me—sister did not answer her phone. Your father’s friend …” Morris glanced at the report. “Lev Yurishenko provided the information.”

I nodded, seeing where this was going. I guess I’d known it was a long shot, but …

“I’m sorry, Mr. Handleman. Truly.”

I recognized a blow-off when I heard it. “So now what?” I asked. Part of me—the masochistic part—couldn’t let it rest. Wanted things to go my way.

“Now?” Morris’ eyebrows rose. “Now, I guess we’ll see if any evidence turns up. And if it does, you be sure to get back to me, okay?”

“You’re not going to do anything, are you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Morris said. He picked up the file and slid it into a gap on the computer table next to him, between the monitor and cubicle wall, along with about a dozen other folders. “I’m going to keep this file handy, right here. Where I can reach it real quick, just in case.”

He couldn’t have been any more patronizing if he’d winked as he said it.