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Authors: S. J. Rozan
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Yesterday when he came here, he spoke to my son, I was out. I only just now saw the pictures he left.”
“Do you know something about the pieces in them?”
“Something. Ms.—Chin? A question: Maybe it’s possible for you to come here? The telephone is a fine instrument, but some things are better face-to-face.”
“I completely agree. Where’s here?”
“Thirty West Forty-seventh Street. Third floor. Friedman and Sons.”
“I’ll be right up.”
I hung up and looked at Bill. He was already on his feet.
For the second time that day I took the N uptown. Weaving along the crowded Diamond District sidewalk, Bill and I parted for three bearded, black-coated Hasidim and eddied around a Latino couple holding hands at an engagement-ring display. At Number 30 a minimal lobby led to a no-frills elevator. On the third floor, a camera peered from the ceiling and a buzzer clung to the wall by a door labeled FRIEDMAN AND SONS . I buzzed and it buzzed back.
In a windowless but brightly lit room we were greeted by a man with warm blue eyes and white hair under a black yarmulke. “Ms. Chin, I’m Stanley Friedman. Thank you for coming.”
I introduced Bill—as my associate, not my partner; he looked at me sideways and I thought,
So sue me
—and we all shook hands. Stanley Friedman gestured us to chairs around a book-piled coffee table. Luscious color photos of rings, bracelets, and necklaces decked the walls.
“These are your work?” I asked. “They’re beautiful.”
He smiled. “My father, of blessed memory, was a real jeweler, an artist. So are my sons. In between is StanleyFriedman, a peasant. I choose the stones and run the business.” He lifted an envelope from the table and slid out photographs I recognized. “Now, Ms. Chin, I ask you a question: These are the pieces you and your partner, may he rest in peace, were looking for?”
“Yes. Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“No? But—”
“Again, I ask you a question: These were all?”
“All?”
“Nothing else?”
“Not as far as I know. Should there have been something else?”
“Should, I can’t say. I’ll admit to you, when I saw these pictures, I got excited. I thought probably it was just Friedman being romantic, and it wouldn’t be true, but if it was, how wonderful to be part of it! But then I find the man who brought the pictures is murdered, and I think this: The chances of it being true are greater, and wonderful it’s not.”
“Mr. Friedman, I’m sorry, but I don’t follow you.”
He turned one of the photos over. On the back a bulleted list covered the facts of the case: Rosalie Gilder’s name, and Elke’s, Horst’s, and Paul’s; the date of Rosalie and Paul’s arrival in Shanghai; Wong Pan’s name, the date the box was dug up, and the date the contents disappeared.
“My son is a precise man,” Stanley Friedman said. “This is the information your partner gave him. It’s correct? These pieces were Rosalie Gilder’s?”
He spoke Rosalie’s name with an odd familiarity.
“Yes, it’s correct.”
He leaned forward. “Ms. Chin, your partner. He had found these pieces?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Possibly, you may need to think again.” From the coffee table Friedman picked up a thick book. “
Legendary Gemstones of the World.
Scott and Huber, 1992. A reference in my field. May I read an entry?” He slipped on half-glasses and opened to a bookmark. “ ‘The Shanghai Moon. A disc of white jade streaked with green, set in gold, surrounded by diamonds. The surface of the jade worked in a pattern of clouds and magpies, China, Tang Dynasty (618–907); the diamonds of nineteenth-century origin, reportedly bar-and princess-cut.’ Ms. Chin, Mr. Smith, do you know this gem?”
“No,” I answered.
But Bill said, “Yes.”
“You do?” I was surprised, though Stanley Friedman didn’t seem to be.
“When I was in the navy, in Asia,” Bill said. “It’s a brooch, right? And it’s lost. It was the
“Do you know something about the pieces in them?”
“Something. Ms.—Chin? A question: Maybe it’s possible for you to come here? The telephone is a fine instrument, but some things are better face-to-face.”
“I completely agree. Where’s here?”
“Thirty West Forty-seventh Street. Third floor. Friedman and Sons.”
“I’ll be right up.”
I hung up and looked at Bill. He was already on his feet.
For the second time that day I took the N uptown. Weaving along the crowded Diamond District sidewalk, Bill and I parted for three bearded, black-coated Hasidim and eddied around a Latino couple holding hands at an engagement-ring display. At Number 30 a minimal lobby led to a no-frills elevator. On the third floor, a camera peered from the ceiling and a buzzer clung to the wall by a door labeled FRIEDMAN AND SONS . I buzzed and it buzzed back.
In a windowless but brightly lit room we were greeted by a man with warm blue eyes and white hair under a black yarmulke. “Ms. Chin, I’m Stanley Friedman. Thank you for coming.”
I introduced Bill—as my associate, not my partner; he looked at me sideways and I thought,
So sue me
—and we all shook hands. Stanley Friedman gestured us to chairs around a book-piled coffee table. Luscious color photos of rings, bracelets, and necklaces decked the walls.
“These are your work?” I asked. “They’re beautiful.”
He smiled. “My father, of blessed memory, was a real jeweler, an artist. So are my sons. In between is StanleyFriedman, a peasant. I choose the stones and run the business.” He lifted an envelope from the table and slid out photographs I recognized. “Now, Ms. Chin, I ask you a question: These are the pieces you and your partner, may he rest in peace, were looking for?”
“Yes. Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“No? But—”
“Again, I ask you a question: These were all?”
“All?”
“Nothing else?”
“Not as far as I know. Should there have been something else?”
“Should, I can’t say. I’ll admit to you, when I saw these pictures, I got excited. I thought probably it was just Friedman being romantic, and it wouldn’t be true, but if it was, how wonderful to be part of it! But then I find the man who brought the pictures is murdered, and I think this: The chances of it being true are greater, and wonderful it’s not.”
“Mr. Friedman, I’m sorry, but I don’t follow you.”
He turned one of the photos over. On the back a bulleted list covered the facts of the case: Rosalie Gilder’s name, and Elke’s, Horst’s, and Paul’s; the date of Rosalie and Paul’s arrival in Shanghai; Wong Pan’s name, the date the box was dug up, and the date the contents disappeared.
“My son is a precise man,” Stanley Friedman said. “This is the information your partner gave him. It’s correct? These pieces were Rosalie Gilder’s?”
He spoke Rosalie’s name with an odd familiarity.
“Yes, it’s correct.”
He leaned forward. “Ms. Chin, your partner. He had found these pieces?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Possibly, you may need to think again.” From the coffee table Friedman picked up a thick book. “
Legendary Gemstones of the World.
Scott and Huber, 1992. A reference in my field. May I read an entry?” He slipped on half-glasses and opened to a bookmark. “ ‘The Shanghai Moon. A disc of white jade streaked with green, set in gold, surrounded by diamonds. The surface of the jade worked in a pattern of clouds and magpies, China, Tang Dynasty (618–907); the diamonds of nineteenth-century origin, reportedly bar-and princess-cut.’ Ms. Chin, Mr. Smith, do you know this gem?”
“No,” I answered.
But Bill said, “Yes.”
“You do?” I was surprised, though Stanley Friedman didn’t seem to be.
“When I was in the navy, in Asia,” Bill said. “It’s a brooch, right? And it’s lost. It was the
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