Free Cold Case Cop by Mary Burton Page A

taken a cab to the rental-car place and driven to the area where the ritzy Beacon Hill jeweler was located. She’d dressed in a black pantsuit and pulled her hair back in her customary tight ponytail. She’d chosen patent-leather flats and a costume pearl brooch she’d bought at a flea market years ago.
    Tara followed her directions to the letter but the jewelry store was harder to find than she’d first thought. It didn’t have display windows filled with gems or even obvious signage. There was simply the street number above the door and a small sign that read Robinson’s.
    She parked across the street and walked toward the shop, only to discover the front door was locked. And there were surveillance cameras trained on the spot where she stood.
    She rang the bell by the front door.
    After a two-or three-second delay the door buzzed and the lock opened. She went into the shop.
    Sitting behind a large oak desk was a small man with gray hair, a neatly trimmed goatee and rectangular reading glasses. He wore a tweed suit, a crisp white shirt and a red tie. A rich oriental rug warmed the floor and the walls were exposed brick. Large gilded mirrors hung on each wall. No gems were displayed. She had the sense she’d walked into a banker’s or lawyer’s office.
    The jewelry stores she was accustomed to were the kind found in a mall. They had large display cases, large Sale signs and a half-dozen hungry salespeople looking to make a monthly quota off the walk-in customers.
    The man rose. “Mrs. Freedman?”
    “Uh, yes.” He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would talk to reporters.
    He moved around the desk with an economy of motion. “Welcome to Robinson’s. I am Frederick Robinson. I wasn’t sure if you were going to make our appointment.”
    “I’m sorry. Traffic. There was a pileup in town, again .” She didn’t know who Mrs. Freedman was but decided to run with it.
    Mr. Robinson held out his hand to a plush chair in front of his desk. “Would you like to have a seat?”
    She smiled, praying Mrs. Freedman was running very, very late. “Lovely.”
    “Coffee? I have your favorite brand brewing. St Helena?”
    “You are so clever, Mr. Robinson.”
    He smiled, pleased with his attention to detail as he moved through a door into a back room. Minutes later he appeared with a silver tray holding a steaming cup of coffee in a lovely antique cup on a matching saucer, along with a plate of sugar cookies.
    She accepted the cup and sipped the coffee. “Delicious.”
    “I understand you are interested in a necklace.”
    “Yes.”
    He turned to the paneled wall behind him and pressed it. The panel popped open and behind it stood a huge safe. Mr. Robinson blocked her view with his body as he twisted the large bronze dial several times. The lock clicked open. The massive door swung open. He removed a long, slim velvet box, set it on his desk and opened the lid. Blinking up at her were twelve of the largest diamonds she’d every seen.
    The cup in her hand rattled and she gingerly set it on the table. She’d never seen such beautiful jewelry. “They are stunning.”
    “You said on the phone that you were looking for large, unique pieces. Preferably yellow diamonds.”
    She leaned forward and looked at the stones. “Yes. I’m thinking about having a necklace made.”
    “We can certainly accommodate you.”
    Tara pictured the photo of Kit’s necklace. The center stone had been a ten-carat pink diamond. “These are wonderful, but I’ve changed my mind about the color.”
    “What were you looking for?”
    “Now, don’t laugh.”
    He flattened his thin lips. “Never.”
    “I have always envied the piece Kit Westgate Landover wore on her wedding day. She also wore it in the engagement photo that the press ran again and again after she vanished.”
    He tugged the edge of his cuff. “That was a tragic event.”
    “Tragic.” She hesitated for effect. “And such a lovely woman.”
    A subtle tension settled in