Nevada Rose Read online

  “We’re looking straight at the back of the student union building from here,” said the deputy, motioning out the window with his chin. He’d gotten a map of the school out of his glove box and spread it open on his lap. “The Mineral Research Center is just off the old quad.” Pointing to a spot on the map. “You’ll find the Mineralogical Society offices up on the second floor…I called ahead.”

  Sara slid out the passenger door and declined when he offered to walk her over instead of waiting back in the patrol car.

  “See you when I’m done,” she said.

  “You need anything, call on my cell.”

  Make that fourteen with a schoolboy crush, she thought, and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  She started toward the quad, Vasquez’s good-natured attention putting a lift in her step. Though her heart fully belonged to Grissom—atriums, ventricles, blood in, blood out—it was encouraging to know she could draw the tadpole’s attention.

  The timing was perfect. She’d barely slept, and that had left her muzzy, but campuses were a downer anyway, no denying it. As a student at Harvard and then Berkeley, Sara had relaxed in the classrooms and lecture halls, grown her confidence, felt large and tangible for the first time in her life. But out in the bright open spaces, she meekly faded away, passed among the laughing, hand-holding students like a silhouette or a disembodied ghost. On rare instances, she’d emerged from her introversion and solitude, pushing off self-consciousness, challenging her inhibitions. There was that hazel-eyed and popular guy once—but she had shared little beyond the physical with him and eventually gave up the experiment in disappointment.

  Now she crossed to the north side of the quad with a certain insolent poise. If there were still days when the quiet shadows reached out to her, today wouldn’t be one of them.

  The Mineral Engineering Building, and the connected Mineral Research Center, were modern latecomers among the red-bricked, colonnaded structures bordering the campus lawn. Sara left the grass, took a concrete walkway under a row of graceful elms past the main entrance, and then hooked around the building’s south door toward the center out back.

  The walls of the Mineralogical Society’s reception area were lined with glass cases full of gleaming gemstones and rough mineral samples. Perusing them while she was announced, Sara immediately thought of them as inorganic counterparts to Grissom’s floating animal and tissue specimens. Well, sure, she would allow they were more socially palatable. But they made her feel right at home.

  Curtis Gaines, the head of the chapter, was coming around his desk when the receptionist showed her in.

  “Ms. Sidle, a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his hand extended. “Your trip was all right, I hope?”

  “Fine,” she said. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Gaines.”

  He motioned her toward a chair in front of his desk and pulled another up alongside it. “Care for something to drink? Soda, water, coffee—”

  “Water would be great,” she said.

  Gaines went across the room to the corner water cooler and opened its refrigerator door.

  “Professor Shane Evercroft heads our gemology program—he’s on his way over from a class he teaches,” he said. “Please make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. A tall, rangy man in his fifties with sunbaked features and shoulder-length white hair pulled back in a ponytail, Evercroft appeared in the doorway before Sara even took a sip of her water.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said after exchanging introductions with her. “Give me a captive audience, and I’ll torture a whole lot of ears.”

  Sara smiled. “Guess you’re in luck,” she said. “I’m here to listen.”

  Evercroft sat down in the empty chair beside her. He was wearing a white Oxford shirt, jeans, and glossy western boots.

  “So I understand you’re trying to identify some unfortunate person,” he said. “What can I do to help?”

  Without further preamble, Sara explained how Green Man was found in Fairmark Lake.

  “The body was in a decomposed state,” she continued, reaching into her case for a manila folder. “I’d like to show you a facial reconstruction we did with a computer-modeling program. And then have you tell me if you recognize this man.”

  Evercroft took the folder, flipped it open, and drew in a sharp breath.

  “Goddamn,” he said, studying the Profiler image. He pulled it from the folder and held it up for Gaines to see. “Curtis…look at this!”

  Gaines’s eyes stayed on the picture for ten full seconds before they shot to the professor’s.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said in a startled tone. “That’s Adam.”

  Sara jumped right in. “Adam Belcher?”

  Evercroft looked at her, nodding his head. “We’ve known Adam for years. He’s a respected gemologist. Self-taught, but as knowledgeable as anyone you’d meet.”

  “Adam’s published articles in some of the field’s leading journals,” Gaines said. “He’s donated literally hundreds of rock and gem specimens to universities and museums around the country.”

  “Does he have a relative named Charles?”

  “That’s his brother, Charlie,” Gaines said. “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Sara said. “We haven’t got much to go on as far as what’s happened.”

  Evercroft snapped his head around toward Sara. “Do you think foul play was involved?”

  “We think it’s possible,” Sara said. “Again, we don’t know a whole lot. Other than that it looks as if Adam’s body was transported to the lake from a different location.”

  Evercroft raised his eyebrows. “What location?”

  “I was sort of hoping you could help with that part,” she said, and paused. “Before I forget, do either of you know anything about Adam and Charlie having staked a joint prospecting claim?”

  “Yes. They’ve done extensive gemstone mining throughout the state,” Evercroft said. “Mostly as a team, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

  Sara didn’t answer that. There were certain things she didn’t want to disclose. Not just at that moment. “Adam had mining clothes on when he was found,” she said instead. “There were mineral traces in his shoes and pants cuffs…the type of sandy material you’d pick up while you were doing an excavation. Or maybe scouting out sites.”

  “You know its composition?”

  “Cookeite, microline, and quartz silicate,” she said. “They ring any bells?”

  Evercroft and Gaines exchanged glances.

  Sara raised her eyebrows. “Gentlemen?”

  “The brothers have a quarry up in the mountains,” Gaines said. “Not too far from the Blue Diamond wash.”

  “Over Red Rock Canyon?”

  “Right. Near the public lands.”

  “Any idea what they’ve been digging for?”

  “Yes,” Evercroft said without hesitation. “Beryl.”

  Ah, Sara thought. She’d never heard the name of a stone sound so loaded with implication.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Are the particles from Adam Belcher’s shoes the sort you’d find around beryl deposits?”

  Evercroft gave the computer likeness of Belcher another glance and replaced it in the folder.

  “They’re likely components of the matrix,” he replied. “You need to understand that beryl can take on different appearances and properties. Depends what other elements are intercalated into the crystals—made part of them on formation. Green beryl’s familiar to most people as emerald. We consider them precious gems because they’re kind of rare and we like how they look in earrings and necklaces. But red beryl, or bixbite, is a hell of a lot rarer and more valuable. On the other hand, aquamarine, or blue beryl, is a semiprecious stone. And colorless beryl—goshenite—isn’t worth much except to costume jewelers who buy it wholesale.” He paused. “Though some people want to call it pink emerald nowadays, pink beryl’s known as morganite to old-
time gem fanciers. After J. P. Morgan.”

  Sara was curious. “You mean the financier?”

  “One and the same,” Evercroft said, folding his arms across his chest. “Back around the turn of the last century, Morgan was a famous customer of a fella named George Frederick Kunz, who was the top gem expert for Tiffany’s. Far as rarity goes, pink beryl falls somewhere between the red and blue varieties. But call it whatever you want, collectors go at it tooth and nail over an exceptional specimen.”

  “And that’s the type of beryl Adam and Charlie have been mining out in Red Rock?”

  Evercroft produced a long exhalation. “What they were mostly finding at the site was clear beryl and maybe a little gem-quality aquamarine,” he finally said. “Then they hit a pocket with some morganite. Most crystals are sort of pale…I suppose you’d say they’re a peach color. They were all the craze a while back, but the color’s unstable. Leave the stones anywhere there’s sunlight, and they’ll fade out to an almost opaque pastel. But the deposit Adam and Charlie hit on was deep pink—the highest gem quality. Those crystals don’t fall out of fashion. They fetch the highest market value year in and year out.”

  “Sounds like the brothers really scored,” Sara said.

  “I think it’s fair to call that an understatement,” Gaines said, and then looked at Evercroft. “We ought to explain just what a singular find it was, Shane.”

  Evercroft continued, thoughtfully. “Twenty years ago, a Maine quarry came up with the largest deep pink morganites ever discovered in North America. It was thirty centimeters wide across the basal pinacoid—the two faces of the base. Once word of the find got out, everybody wanted to get their hands on it. Museums, schools like ours, private enthusiasts…it turned into a whole damned war. In the end, the miners that owned the morganite got tired of being stuck in the cross fire and had it cut into smaller gemstones—a tragic decision if you happen to be a gem lover.”

  Sara digested that for a second or two. “Are you saying the Belchers unearthed a stone as good as the one from Maine?”

  “Better,” Evercroft said. “Theirs was a richer color and a full forty centimeters wide.”

  Sara looked at him. “That’s more than a foot.”

  “Trust me,” Evercroft said, “it’s an unbelievable specimen. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “And where is it now?”

  Evercroft sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “When Adam announced the discovery in a journal about six months back, the fireworks between competing interests got started again. This time, it turned into a family feud, though. The Smithsonian wanted to put it on display and made an offer Adam was inclined to accept. But I heard that Charlie insisted they auction it off to collectors, figuring they could draw a handsomer profit that way. Gloria…I’m not sure where she stood.”

  Sara was puzzled. “Who’s Gloria?”

  “Gloria Belcher, their mother,” Evercroft said. He spread his hands. “An unpleasant woman. She put up at least some of the money for their beryl dig. Or that’s what I think. I’m not sure they could have financed it on their own. Or even agreed on a partnership.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The brothers are complete opposites,” Gaines offered. “Adam’s easygoing and friendly. I’ve always enjoyed talking to him.” He hesitated. “Let’s say Charlie takes after Gloria and isn’t too well liked.”

  Sara stared out the window behind Gaines, remaining silent as she watched the students sunning themselves down on the quad. Then she looked alternately at Gaines and Evercroft.

  “Do either of you remember when you last saw Adam? Or his brother?”

  Evercroft shook his head. “I’d guess a month for Adam. Maybe a little longer…he was here at a Society function, isn’t that right, Curtis?” he said.

  “Yes. He came alone,” Gaines said. “As for Charlie, I can’t even remember the last time he showed his face.”

  Sara sighed, thought a moment, turned to Evercroft. “Is there any more information you can give me about their mining projects?” she said. “Their latest one in particular?”

  He gave her a wan smile. “Absolutely. Though it’s possible you’d find everything I can tell you on the Internet. And gallery photos of the morganite to boot.”

  She tilted her head. “Any tips on where I’d look?”

  “It’s customary to name an outstanding gemstone after it’s registered,” Evercroft said. “The Patricia emerald, the Mandalay ruby, the Star of Bombay, American Star diamond…” He let the sentence trail. “To see how famous the Belchers’ stone has already gotten, you just need to Google its name.”

  “That being?”

  Evercroft uncrossed his arms. He still had that thin, sober smile on his face. “Sorry, I thought I already told you,” he said. “It’s called the Nevada Rose. Catchy, don’t you think?”

  Mark Baker was staring west toward the mountains from the shade of a bristlecone pine when he heard the veranda’s screen door swing open and shut behind him, followed by the sound of footsteps on the sunbaked tiles.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.” He did not turn around.

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “Why bother asking if you’re that sure?”

  “Maybe so you’ll share what you’re going through.”

  “Everything’s okay. I can handle this.”

  “Sitting out here alone for hours on end…that’s what you call handling it?”

  “It’s waiting, is what it is. And thinking. I can’t do much more that’s useful until they show up.”

  “What makes you certain they’re—?”

  “We can’t close our eyes to reality. They’ll show before long. I have to prepare myself. Decide what I’m going to tell them.”

  “There’s the truth.”

  “The whole truth, and nothing but the truth…”

  “Please, don’t make it sound like I’m naïve. You know I’m doing my best to help.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “These secrets…I’d keep them forever if you insisted. But I don’t want to see them be the end of you. That’s too high a price.”

  “They could be the end of me no matter how I cut it. If that’s the case, I’ve got to choose which ending’s easiest to stomach.”

  “And aren’t I worthy of a vote?”

  “Worthy, yes.”

  “I don’t get one, though. Do I?”

  He still had not turned from the hills. Once upon a time, he thought, fortune seekers had been lured into them by rumors of silver and gold.

  “I…you…no. It isn’t fair, but no, you don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t believe it. This is twice already.”

  “What’s twice?”

  “That you’ve apologized. How often have I tried wringing an ‘I’m sorry’ out of you and gotten pissed because you won’t relent? Now I get two for the price of one.”

  “If you insist, I can take them back.”

  “My God, was that an attempt at humor?”

  “Actually…yeah.”

  “Then I suppose there might be hope yet. Except I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Save your apologies for when they’re owed.”

  “And you don’t think they are now?”

  “No. Not to me.”

  “And what about Rose?”

  “Don’t punish yourself. It won’t help her or anybody else.”

  “Unless I’m to blame.”

  “You shouldn’t say that. Not even in private.”

  “Why? It hasn’t occurred to you I might be? Even for a split second? Remember, we’re all about the truth here.”

  “I love you. I could never love someone who had done those things.”

  Which wasn’t really an answer to his question.

  Baker resumed his silence. After a few moments, he heard the veranda door open and shut again. He still did not turn around.

  The sun, mov
ing down over the hills, jabbed through the branches of the old desert pine, splintering the protective shade around him.

  He stared off into the distance, not thinking as he’d claimed but honestly waiting, his eyes those of a man who had come out there to watch his own funeral.

  The office of Dr. Layton Samuels, listed in the phone directory as the Mesa Trinity Cosmetic Surgery Center and Anti-aging Spa, was in Seven Hills, a development named after the seven hills of Rome, even though the architectural motif of its sprawling, stuccoed, tile-roofed multimillion-dollar mansions had been chiefly inspired by the countrified villas of Tuscany, a region of Italy about two hundred miles from la città dei sette colli as the crow flies, go figure.

  This strained, not to say pretentious, nomenclatural conceit aside—“What’s good enough for the Romans is good enough for Las Vegans!” honked the real-estate brochures—Seven Hills could honestly boast of being among the chicest of the chicy-chic village communities that had sprung up in crisp, clear, picture-window view of the Strip some ten miles northward and the ruggedly striking Black Mountain range a like distance off to the south.

  As Catherine Willows nosed her car past the video surveillance cameras to either side of the center’s high iron entry gate, drove on between parallel lines of dignified palmetto palms, and finally swung under a small grove of peach trees to halt in the circular front drive, she was thinking this would be a nice, cozy place to come if she ever decided to have any part of herself enlarged, reduced, lifted, tightened, tucked, peeled, implanted, Botoxed, collagenized, micropigmented, or otherwise reshaped or redone—medical procedures she was certain were explained at length in Dr. Samuels’s New York Times bestsellers. Although, after having witnessed autopsies by the score, not to mention far too many grisly hack jobs at murder scenes, she’d seen enough slicing and carving of human flesh to make her singularly uninterested in elective surgery. If she went under the knife, it would be for some damned good reason.

  Ding dong.

  An attractive middle-aged blonde answered the door almost at once. Catherine thought the woman looked familiar, though she couldn’t make up her mind why.