She’d called this morning to make an appointment with Nathan Baider. The founder of Baider Industries may have turned the company over to his son, but the old man was still calling the shots, Wes had said. If anyone knew why Vince Lewis had wanted to see her, she suspected it would be Nathan Baider.
“Mr. Baider’s schedule is full today.” A woman’s voice on the phone.
“Tell Mr. Baider I witnessed Vince Lewis’s murder,” she’d said.
“Murder!” A gasp burst over the line. “Mr. Lewis was in an unfortunate—”
She’d cut in: “Tell Mr. Baider what I said.”
After a long pause the woman’s voice had returned. “He’ll see you right away.”
Vicky emerged into another marble-paved vestibule and let herself through the glass doors across from the elevator. Instantly she was enveloped in the hushed silence of dark blue walls, clusters of chairs, and polished tables. Large photographs lined the walls on either side of a window that framed a view of the parking garage across the street.
“May I help you?” An attractive woman somewhere between thirty and fifty, with stylishly cut blond hair that brushed the collar of her red suit jacket, rose from behind the mahogany desk.
Vicky handed her a business card, which the woman studied for a couple of seconds, snapping the card between her red-tipped fingers. Finally she set the card down and said, “Wait here,” letting herself through the door on the right.
Vicky strolled over to an arrangement of photographs behind the desk, western landscapes with white-peaked mountains and sunshine streaking the endless plains. Above the landscapes, the clear blue sky.
On each photo, small white arrows pointed to barely perceptible disruptions in the earth. She leaned closer, studying the areas beneath the arrows: gouges, clumps of buildings, roads flung through the wilderness, trucks, and bulldozers. She realized the photos had been shot from a great distance—from airplanes, maybe even satellites.
Beneath each photo was an engraved gold plate: CRIPPLE CREEK MINE, CANADA; JENNISON MINE, CANADA; and three mines in Wyoming—LEMLE, BRIDGER, KIMBERLY.
She crossed to the opposite wall. Here the landscape photos were replaced by photos of various-sized diamonds shimmering in the camera’s flash. On the bottom frames were the identifying gold plates: THREE-CARAT YELLOW DIAMOND, KIMBERLY MINE, 1992. NINE-CARAT WHITE DIAMOND, BRIDGER MINE, 1993. SIX-CARAT BLUE DIAMOND, LEMLE MINE, 1996.
She strolled over to the glass-topped display case beneath the window. Flung out like grains of sand on a black velvet bed were dozens of diamonds. White, yellow, blue. Some as tiny as pinpricks, others as large as pebbles, all reflecting back the light and the colors in the room.
“They’re synthetic.”
Vicky swung around and faced the woman in the red suit.
“Synthetic?” She glanced again at the fiery stones. Was nothing what it seemed? Was everything a symbol of another reality?
The woman began explaining. The company could hardly keep millions of dollars in diamonds in the building. She gave a sharp laugh. What would the insurance company say? The stones were excellent cubic zirconia that could even fool a jeweler.
“The real diamonds are here.” She gestured toward the photos behind her. “Baider Industries has an international reputation for the quality of the diamonds we produce. Notice all the gems have the four Cs required of excellent diamonds—color, cut, clarity, and estimable carat size. We’ve produced the largest finished diamond found in North America: fifteen-point-six carats.” Slowly she took her eyes away. “Mr. Baider will see you now.”
Vicky followed the woman down a corridor as wide as a small room. From beyond the closed doors came the muffled sounds of voices, a sharp burst of laughter.
“Mr. Baider has an important meeting in ten minutes.” The woman paused at the last door. “Please be brief.”
She ushered Vicky into a rectangular-shaped office that resembled the reception area with similar chairs and polished tables arranged around green plush carpeting, similar photos of landscapes and diamonds on the walls.
Nathan Baider sat behind a perfectly cleared desk, hands folded on the shining surface. He looked more fit than she remembered, but she’d only spoken with him briefly at the emergency room. His cheeks and hands were sunburned and freckled, his gray hair tousled, as if he’d just come indoors. He wore a blue shirt and a dark tie somewhat askew, knotted in a hurry, she thought.
“Sit down,” he said in a gravelly voice accustomed to obedience. The pale blue eyes didn’t leave her as she crossed the office. She took the chair nearest to the desk. A few feet away, leaning against the wall, was a red-and-gold golf bag with the putter jammed halfway down. A minute earlier, she guessed, Nathan Baider had been putting a golf ball over the green carpet.