There were no problems selling the jewelry. Jake was surprised by how fast the consigned pieces went at Pacific Gems. He had called ahead and learned that everything, even the cheap bracelet and the diamond ring, had sold. He had four hundred and thirteen dollars waiting for him, and Tom, the man in charge of buying and consigning, had told Jake to bring more rings, if he had any.
Jake had plenty. He decided to bring one important piece to be appraised. It was a round brilliant cut diamond set in platinum, maybe three carats, with two quarter carat bagette diamonds on either side. He had missed it earlier because it was untagged and unwrapped, thrown in with what looked like a cubic zirconium ring, but as he spent more time in the safe deposit examination room, sorting and categorizing, he realized this wasn’t a cheap imitation. The cut was near perfect as far as Jake could tell, the table facet and crown height looked to the naked eye beautifully proportioned. He needed an appraiser to check the actual proportions as well as the crown angles, but he suspected this was a GIA-certified Class One diamond. If that was the case, he was looking at twenty grand easy. But it worried him that the ring was so carelessly mixed with the cheap stuff. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he was reading it wrong. He needed a second opinion, but had to be careful. This was the kind of ring that was listed in stolen jewelry alerts.
He’d also bring the tiffany-setting, one-carat ring, the eternity ring, and a couple of the cheap engagement rings. He wouldn’t sell or consign them all; he wanted a better sense of value. This job was larger than he had thought—maybe that newspaper article was accurate about the value of the take—and as he left the bank and walked towards Pacific Heights, he thought about the Korean family he had taken this from. He had cleaned them out, and even with insurance they were in serious trouble—jacked up premiums, bad publicity, coming up with new inventory. Chih had a friend who had been robbed, and the insurance red tape had gone on for years. By the time the friend had received a check—and it wasn’t even for replacement value—he had gone out of business.
Jake stopped walking. He was one block from the jewelry store and looked around. He had the feeling of being noticed. Cars drove by, cutting each other off as they raced through yellow lights. Pedestrians across the street waited at the corner for the Walk sign. Jake scanned the area. Maybe someone had seen him a few days ago heading to the jewelry store, and noticed him again. It was possible. He never ignored his instincts. Jake had learned that a feeling—even a fleeting one—of something amiss was usually grounded on a perception not fully registered, a glimpse of a familiar figure, even a sound of a voice or a cough that barely reached his ears.
The rings in his pockets were sending out signals. They were singing an aria of money, and Jake was an easy, unarmed target. He should be wearing a “Rob Me” sign. The paranoid get no rest.
He turned a corner and headed in the opposite direction. No need to see the jeweler right now. He’d go for a nice long walk. He saw movement in the shadows, and thought, Zombies wait and watch.