19.

I met Sorrentino at seven. He spent fifteen minutes trying to decipher the menu into known dishes. (Hell, I say that as if I’m some kind of sophisticate. I didn’t know what they were either, but given the prices—he was still paying—I figured all the dishes must be pretty good, so I just picked the one that sounded the best when I tried to pronounce it.)

“So,” he said, “any progress?”

“Not much,” I lied. “Spoke to a couple of minor-league fences, but they hadn’t heard anything. And you?”

He shook his head. “They haven’t shown up on either coast, or in Chicago or Miami.”

“I do have some news,” I said, feeling I had to toss him something before he got too suspicious.

“Oh?”

I nodded. “They’ve identified two of the Smith brothers,” I replied. “They should be on their way back to Bolivia, in cuffs, in a day or two.”

“And the third?” he asked.

“They’re working on it.”

“That makes us two-thirds safer, but it doesn’t get us any closer to the damned diamonds,” he said. “If I didn’t know from other sources—my friends in Chicago—that he really did swipe millions from them, I’d say our info was wrong and all he had was a million . . . but damn it, he said he had ten million on the collar, my organization says he skimmed between ten and thirteen mil off the Bolivians, and I can’t imagine they’d send three hit men here for less. So why the hell were they only insured for a million?”

I smiled. “That was the longest speech you’ve made since we met.”

“It’s driving me crazy!” he said. “I know he skimmed at least ten million! He himself admitted it. It’s not in any account he had access to, and we both know if it was in a safety deposit box or somewhere else where Velma could get her hands on it, she’d have grabbed it and blown town five minutes later.”

“It’s probably with whoever killed him,” I suggested.

He considered it, then shook his head. “Ten diamonds worth maybe a million bucks. Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s what we’re being paid to find out,” I said, and then smiled. “Except that nobody’s paying us, at least not until we find it.”

The main course arrived, and we stopped talking and dug in.

“Not bad,” said Sorrentino after a couple of bites. “What’s yours like?”

I shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. Some kind of meat in some kind of sauce, with some kind of vegetables and bread mixed in. Damned good. And yours?”

“Mostly fish,” he said. “I think.” He paused a moment. “Good, though.”

We concentrated on eating, were too full for dessert, and made arrangements to meet at a burger joint at noon. He picked up the tab, and we went out to our cars.

I assume he went back to his hotel. Me, I drove down to police headquarters and hunted up Bill Calhoun. I figured I needed to know a little more about Delahunt before I confronted him.

“You’re too late if you’re looking for Simmons,” he said when he saw me.

“You’ll do just as well,” I said.

“Uh-oh!” he said. “The last time I did just as well, I wound up with two guys shooting at me.”

“Ancient history,” I said, since it had happened almost four months ago. “I don’t need you to leave the office for this one.”

He stared at me suspiciously. “Spell it out, Eli.”

“I want you to turn on your computer and hunt up some information for me.”

“If it’s confidential you’ll have to get—”

“Who said anything about confidential?” I interrupted. “I just need you to pull up some stuff.”

“There’s Jim’s computer,” he said, pointing at the machine on Simmons’s desk.

“I see it.”

“So sit down and hunt up your info,” said Calhoun.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Why the hell not?”

“I don’t know how to work a computer.”

He sighed deeply. “No cell phone. No GPS. Yeah, it figures.” He started typing on his own machine. “Okay, what do you need?”

“Anything you can find on Abner Delahunt.”

“Delahunt?” he repeated. “Isn’t he that real estate mogul? Got offices all over the East Side of city?”

I nodded. “That’s the one.”

“Well, let’s see what Wiki has to say about him, if anything.”

“Who’s Wiki?” I asked.

He shot me a look of pure pity. “Wikipedia,” he replied. “It’s an online encyclopedia.”

“I don’t know if he’s done anything to merit being in an encyclopedia.”

Another similar look. “You’d be surprised at who’s in Wikipedia.” He began typing. “Yeah, here he is: Abner Delahunt, age fifty-six, married to Lorraine, two children, both grown and out of the house. He’s got degrees from Cornell and Stanford.” Calhoun frowned. “Both coasts. I wonder how he wound up in Cincinnati? He’s a little too young for ’Nam and too old for Iraq, but he helped bring Truth, Justice, and the American Way to Granada.” He paused as more information came up on the screen. “Went into real estate in the eighties, seems to have made a couple of fortunes, big donor to his church and the Republican Party.” He stopped typing and looked up. “Sounds like a good upstanding Cincinnatian.”

“Anything’s possible,” I said.

“You didn’t ask me to look him up if you didn’t think there was some kind of problem with him.”

“There may be,” I said.

“Well?” he said. “What kind?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

He grimaced. “It would help if you’d tell me what the hell you’re looking for.”

“I wish I knew,” I said. “Just anything out of the ordinary.”

“Well, let’s see if he’s ever been arrested for anything.”

“Wiki-whatever has stuff like that for the general public?” I asked, surprised.

He chuckled. “No. But this is a police computer.” He began typing. “No, never been arrested.” Suddenly he frowned. “Now, that’s curious.”

“What is?”

“He’s got a couple of lawsuits pending against his organization.”

“His real estate company?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Who’s suing?”

“One of his landlords,” said Calhoun, bringing up more information on the screen. “Seems he’s way behind on his rent on . . . let me see . . . seven of his offices. And it looks like he’s written a couple of bouncers on a pair of leased cars, a Mercedes and a Lincoln.” He shrugged. “So much for being a tycoon.”

“Is that information up to date?” I asked.

“Within a week or two, I’d say.” He stared at me. “Does the guy owe you money?”

“No.”

“You’re grinning like the cat that ate the canary.”

“Am I?” I said.

“May I assume Mr. Delahunt is the canary?”

“Could be,” I said. “How long do you plan to be here, Bill?”

“I started at eight tonight. I’ll be knocking off at four-thirty, unless Bob Hess oversleeps again.”

I shook my head. “Not long enough.”

“Not long enough for what?”

“Tell you what,” I said. “Either leave Jim Simmons a note or check it out yourself when you show up tomorrow . . . but I’ll bet that information you just gave me is out of date.”

“You think he owes more?”

“I think he’s paid them all off.”

“Yeah?” he said, arching an eyebrow. “And why do you think so?”

“I’ll tell you when I know so,” I replied. “Thanks for your help.”

Before he could ask me any more questions I was heading to my car, and fifteen minutes later I was walking Marlowe over to Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias.

“Yeah, Asta,” I said to him. “I think we cracked the case, and I don’t even have a Nora.”

He looked at me, and his expression seemed to say: I ain’t Asta, you ain’t Nick, Nora left you years ago, and nothing’s as easy as you think it’s going to be.