Diamonds to Die For

By Jim Schneider

The unsolved murder of a local Coeur d’Alene writer draws the husband and wife team of Emil and Leela Pulaski back into violence and intrigue once again. An innocuous receipt from a local jeweler found among the dead writer’s effects leads the team to a plane crash from the 1940’s near Missoula, Montana, and a very valuable cache of diamonds that are being fed to the Hayden Lake neo-Nazis by the murderer a few at a time to be fenced. As the investigation threatens to end their lucrative bonanza, the Hayden Lake group starts to push back, first with intimidation, then a bomb planted in Leela’s car, and finally a deadly attack on the Pulaski home which leaves Leela badly wounded and the attackers dead. The chase leads them from Coeur d’Alene to Arco, Idaho, and then to Geneva, Switzerland where it finally ends unexpectedly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387091133

Book preview

Diamonds to Die For

Diamonds to Die For

A Mystery Novel

By Jim Schneider

Copyright © 2017 by Jim Schneider

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in search engines and book reviews.

Diamonds to Die For is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Stella P Schneider

Copyright © by Stella P Schneider 2017

Also by the same author

Biography: My Father’s War

Mystery Novel: Lost Legacy

ISBN: 978-1-387-09113-3

Published through Lulu.com

www.lulu.com/jamesfs

Acknowledgements

My wife Stella, companion, helpmate, and Chief of Grammar Police.

The Writer’s Group: Peter, Wang, Marty, Stephen and Janet, for the many hours of review, encouragement and critique.

Alan Hertzfeld, attorney, my editor.

Thank you.

Chapter One

Thursday, September 14, 1944  8:46 PM

Captain Jake Neely massaged his stomach, up high near his breastbone, and reminded himself to take it easy on those big meat and potato meals. Army Flight Dog 342 had just left Missoula, Montana, twenty minutes earlier, after a stop for supper and fuel. He took one last look at the gauges and made a minor adjustment to the nose trim of the Army Air Corps Beechcraft C-45. The big Pratt & Whitney radials sounded smooth as they pulled the little transport westward from Missoula in the darkening Montana sky. Lightning lit the thunderheads building in front of them, towering over the Bitterroot Mountains and Neely thought to himself it was going to be a rough ride as they made their way to Portland. There, they would turn the plane and its cargo over to a new crew and he could catch up on his sleep.

He had picked up the plane in Detroit for the second leg of its journey from Washington, DC to San Francisco, along with his co-pilot, 1st Lt. J. Dalton Cunningham, fresh out of multi-engine pilot training. His regular seat-mate, Arron Weismann, was laid up with a bad case of food poisoning and Cunningham was a last minute substitute. He looked impossibly young to Neely, maybe twenty-three or so. He shook his head as he thought how little training these guys received before they were sent off to war. He seemed pretty sharp and was eager to start flying, but Neely knew how important seat time, the experience of being in control of an aircraft, was to surviving as a pilot.

He was curious about his passengers and the briefcase they guarded so carefully. He’d had been ordered to ask them no questions. One was a hard looking civilian, and his assistant, an army sergeant with a .45 belted around his waist and a Thompson sub-machine gun always close to hand, looked like he had seen some rough times as well. The instructions were clear. Deliver the passengers and their cargo to San Francisco as soon as possible. At fifty-one, Neely had been piloting civilian aircraft almost all of his adult life and this trip was no more strange than many others he’d been on. The flight from Detroit to Missoula where they stopped for fuel and some supper had been pretty routine and boring. Cunningham had done alright, but it was mostly straight and level flying.

He looked over at Cunningham who appeared to be mesmerized by the storm clouds in front of them. How tall do you think those peaks are, Cunningham?

I think they’re about nine thousand feet, Skipper.

And how high do you think we are, say right about now? You know, without having to look.

I…I don’t know, Skipper.

Didn’t think so, said Neely, mildly. When you’re in the right seat of my airplane, Cunningham, your job is to know everything there is to know about this airplane all of the time unless I tell you it’s OK to go and take a leak. I think they must have taught you that in flight school. And one other thing, this isn’t a fucking boat and we’re not in the Navy. My name is Jake when we’re alone, Captain otherwise.

Yes sir.

And drop the sir. Three years ago I was just a civilian.

Ah, yes sir, I mean, right, Jake.

Good. Now pay attention to your instruments. It’s getting too dark to see any horizon. Check my heading and rate of climb. Are they correct?

Correct.

Don’t ever be afraid to tell me if you think they’re not. Go tell our two silent passengers to hook their seat belts. It’s going to get pretty bumpy in a few minutes.

When Cunningham struggled back into his seat, he said, That army sergeant is already looking a little green. I gave them a supply of barf bags.

Good idea. It’s always the copilot’s job to clean up after passengers. Says so right in the regs somewhere.

Neely shifted uncomfortably in his seat as a sudden stab of pain spiked in the heartburn he’d been experiencing ever since dinner back in Missoula. You have any Alka-Seltzer tucked away in your pockets? My stomach is giving me a bad time.

Sorry, Jake. Can I get you some water?

A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the terrain ahead of them.

Naw, it’ll go away. Did you see that peak just to the right of the nose? That’s called Gash Point. We’ll pass about half a mile south of it. We still need to pick up another thousand feet to stay clear of those guys.

Sounds like you know this country pretty well.

Yeah, I started out over in Spokane back in the 20’s when these things were made of wood and fabric. You’d be surprised at some of the places I’ve landed an airplane up in the backcountry.

Even up in those peaks?

Jake laughed, No, not there. I don’t think you could walk away from a landing in there.

For the next couple of minutes, Neely focused on flying, watching the altimeter slowly wind its way up. He leaned forward to lean the fuel mixture as the Beech climbed near the nine thousand foot level and gasped as pain flooded his chest leaving him helpless and barely able to breath.

Cunningham! Take the controls! My heart . . .

Cunningham grabbed the yoke and struggled to get the plane under control. Jake! Take your feet off of the pedals!

Neely slowly dragged his feet back. Turn . . . back . . . Missoula. Watch . . . It was all he could manage before he lost consciousness.

Oh Christ, moaned Cunningham. Hold on, Jake. I’m turning us around.

The plane was being buffeted badly now as it closed with the storm clouds. Cunningham looked in panic at his gauges which were bouncing up and down. He put the plane in what he thought was a tight turn to the starboard and struggled to make sense of his instruments. Air speed was dropping rapidly and he pushed the yoke forward, over compensating badly and forcing the plane into a dive.

The Beech almost cleared the rocky ridge southeast of Gash Point but a wing tip collided with a small spire of rock, shearing about a foot of the wing and fracturing the wing spar deep inside the plane. Momentum carried the wrecked plane and its occupants out over the dark canyon north of the ridge where the damaged wing collapsed and the wreckage rained down in a small, narrow ravine about seven hundred feet below.  When the fuselage with the left wing still attached hit the ground, the fuel tank ruptured and burst into a ball of flame. The fire burned with a white intensity for about fifteen minutes, the roar being punctuated for a while by the sound of exploding ammunition from the guard’s weapons. The brush in the ravine was on fire now and beginning to spread. But heavy rain began to fall and the fire soon gave way to smoke and steam.

The next morning, the clouds disappeared to reveal a brilliant blue sky. As the sunlight crept down into the narrow ravine, little showed of the catastrophic event twelve hours earlier. During the night, heavy rain had completely extinguished the fire and only a quarter acre of burned brush and small trees marked the spot. The intense fire from the crash melted most of the aluminum skin covering the doomed plane and only the structural framework, badly discolored by the flames, remained. Over the next week, light aircraft passed nearby from time to time in a vain attempt to locate the missing C-45. After one of the search planes crashed, killing the pilot and his observer, the search was called off and quiet returned to the rugged peaks and valleys.

The fate of Army Flight Dog 342 was front page news in the local newspapers for a time, but the army was very stingy with details about the flight other than giving the names of the three military personnel who disappeared. The civilian passenger was not identified and, with nothing new to report, the incident soon faded into history. The huge casualties in Europe and the Pacific were making the headlines and four more souls didn’t amount to much.

In the ensuing years, periodic avalanches spread the debris field down the ravine and covered much of it until only one engine and part of a tail fin remained visible.

Chapter Two

Monday, July 6, 1998 First Light

Bill Clifton propped his head on his hand and gazed fondly at Barb D’Amato who was still snoring gently in her sleeping bag next to his.  Outside of their tent, the early sun bathed the ridge above Hidden Lake in a beautiful orange light. Today was the last day of a four-day backpacking expedition to explore some of the lesser used destinations in the rugged Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness for the next edition of his trail guide of the area. It had been a great trip and the photos and notes would assure a successful 2nd edition of his book. They had celebrated with the last of the wine and some energetic love making. Barbara, more than a close friend and frequent bedmate, was an avid outdoors enthusiast whom he had met a few years earlier at a conservation symposium in Coeur d’Alene where they both lived. When not playing in the outdoors, she worked as an event planner for Coeur d’Alene’s famous hotel on the lake.

She opened her eyes and smiled, mouthing a kiss. I need to pee. You?

Already did. I’ll just watch.

Voyeur. She unzipped the bag and crawled out of the tent to where her flip-flops were. The cool morning air made her shiver and she clasped her arms around her bare body. She stepped a few paces away from their campsite and squatted. Whew, I smell a little high after last night. How about a splash in the lake?

Let’s wait until the sun gets a little higher. That water is freezing cold.

You’re a wimp, Billy. Throw me my shirt and I’ll get some coffee going.

They sat on a log in companionable silence while they drank coffee and spooned down some freeze-dried cereal and fruit. When they finished, Barb took his hand and led him back to the tent where they made love again. After a time, she said, Now we really need a splash in the lake. Let’s go.

The water was every bit as cold as Bill imagined and their bathing was accompanied by gasps and laughter. When they could stand no more, they clambered onto a rock where the sun soon warmed them. You ever think about getting married again? he asked.

Maybe someday. Not now. Why? Is this a proposal?

Bill laughed, Maybe someday soon. Not now. But keep me in mind, OK?

She smiled and nodded, OK, we can talk about it again someday.

Let’s go put some clothes on and pack up. We should be able to make the trailhead by late afternoon. I want some pictures of the canyon below Gash Point for the book.

It wasn’t long before they shouldered their packs and picked their way up the ridge just west of the lake, saving a long hike back to the trail system to the north.  From the ridgetop, they could catch glimpses of the trail they wanted, meandering through the canyon below. The view from the ridgetop was magnificent. Gash Point, still covered with snow near the summit, gleamed in the morning sunlight to the south.

God, this country still makes me weak in the knees when I see vistas like that, said Bill. Hold on, I want to get some pictures. Using his hiking staff as a monopod to brace the camera, he took a couple of shots before saying, Move out there so I can get you in the frame. That’s it, just a little to your right. Good.

As he pressed the shutter button, he noticed a bright reflection well below the peak. Can you see something shining over there? It’s in that ravine below the peak.

I can see something, but I don’t know what it is. Can you zoom in with your camera lens and see it better?

No, that doesn’t do much good. Hold on, I’ll dig that little monocular out of my pack. One of the perks of being an outdoor writer was a constant supply of interesting gadgets sent by outdoor equipment makers in hopes of getting a mention in his books. The monocular was fairly powerful and had good optics. By bracing it on his hiking staff, he was able to steady the distant image enough to get a pretty good view of the ravine. The reflection was too bright to identify but he could see something large close to it that wasn’t a rock.

It’s too far away to say for sure, but it sort of looks like some wreckage. I’d like to climb up there and take a look when we get closer. Do you mind?

Just get me home by Thursday or I’m going to be very hungry and grouchy, she replied with a smile. Lead on.

It was late morning by the time they reached the drainage he thought would lead up to the area he had seen. He stopped to change film in his camera. Looking up from the comfortable trail, it didn’t look very inviting. You sure you’re up for this, Barb? It might be heavy going for a while.

It’s just another hill, Billy. We’ve climbed worse than this. Let’s go.

The first quarter mile was difficult. A rushing stream limited them to just one side of the ravine and it was clogged with young trees and brush. It took them almost an hour to pick their way through it. They finally reached a small bench and the walls of the ravine began to spread out. Trees were more scattered and the climb wasn’t as steep as it had been.

Where do you think it is? asked Barb as they stopped for a breather.

It looked like it might be close to the stream but higher than this. Let’s stash our packs here and go on a bit further. If we don’t see something pretty quick, we’ll just give it up, OK?

Alright, but I’m going to stuff some snacks in my pockets and hang my camera on my neck.

Good idea. I will too.

Without the heavy packs, it was easier walking. Another two hundred yards up the drainage brought them to an area cluttered with loose rock and not much vegetation that extended up the ravine in a straight line for some distance. It flowed around an outcropping off rock about seventy-five yards above them. They had not gone far before Barb exclaimed, Billy! Look at this. She tugged a piece of torn metal from a pile of rocks.

Wow! That’s part of an airplane. Avalanches must have scattered it all over in here.

They continued up the ravine, finding more fragments of metal as they climbed. As they neared the rock outcrop, Bill said, There – just to the right of the rock face up there. I think that’s what I saw from the ridge. When they got closer, he said, It’s an engine! Pretty good size one, too. It’s caught up in these rocks. Jesus, some people must have died here. I’ll bet no one’s ever found this before.

The debris was more evident around the rock outcrop, somewhat protected from snow thundering down the ravine during avalanches. Bill examined the engine wedged in the rock, photographing it in detail. It was a rotary engine, a kind not used for many years, he thought. The manufacturer’s serial number was still visible on part of the metal and he carefully scraped away the grunge and photographed that as well.

A few yards away, Barbara was sitting on a rock, idly poking about in the litter at her feet when she exclaimed, Oh shit, Billy. Look at this. She held up a small piece of metal. Isn’t this what they call a dog tag?

It sure is. It looks like it’s been through a fire. Let’s get out in the sun and maybe I can read it. He moved the metal tag in the light until enough shadow highlighted what had once been stamped clearly in the metal. I think it says ‘Cunningham.’ I can’t make out the rest of it. He handed it back to her saying, Put it back exactly where you found it. If we’re the first ones to find this crash site, the authorities are going to want to come in and dig through this wreckage. If nothing else, they’ll want to try and recover the remains of Cunningham and anyone else that was killed here.

Barbara said, Goddammit, I wish I hadn’t found it. It makes me sad. Cunningham died here and nobody ever knew what happened to him. He must have had some family and maybe a wife and kids. What’s become of them? She carefully laid the dog tag back on the ground near the edge of the rock she’d been sitting on. How long ago do you think he died?

Beats me. The engine over there is pretty old fashioned so it could have been quite a few years back. The dog tag makes me think it might have been a military aircraft. Let’s poke around some more and see what else turns up. Photograph anything that looks interesting. Start with the dog tag you found.

They both started working their way slowly down the hill below the rocks. Bits of twisted and often melted metal poked up through the avalanche debris but they found nothing useful in helping to identify the airplane. Finally, Bill said, I’m going back up where that engine is. I want a last look around there before we have to leave. I’ll meet you down where we dropped the packs.

OK, Billy, but don’t take too long or we’ll be walking in the dark before we reach the car.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen as Bill reached the old engine again. He tried to move it to see if there were other identification marks, but it was wedged firmly in the rocks. Looking just above where the engine rested, he noticed a regular shape he had missed earlier when the sun was shining directly overhead. He clambered up to it and found a piece of debris about three feet long and a foot wide. The years of exposure had scoured the paint off leaving bare aluminum. This is probably what I saw reflecting the light this morning, he thought. It appeared to be a piece from the tail of the plane. Pulling a couple of large rocks away from the surface, he lifted the metal and was able to turn it over. The underside still bore faint traces of its original paint job and he was able to make out part of a number, 42-51 and maybe a 2, but the rest of it was missing. He snapped several photos of it before turning it back over the way he’d found it.

He turned back downhill again and just as he was preparing to leave he spotted something else. The afternoon light illuminated a crevice in the rock and pushed far towards the back was a small metal box. He could barely reach it, his fingertips just brushing the end of it, but he finally coaxed it out of its resting place. The box showed the same scorching they’d seen on everything else. It was about the size and shape of a carton of cigarettes only shorter, perhaps half the length. The lid wouldn’t budge and it appeared to have had a substantial lock on it at one time, mostly rust now. Delighted with his discovery, Bill shook it, but he couldn’t tell if there was anything in it or not. He thought to himself that he really shouldn’t be taking anything but the temptation of a small, locked box was too much. He brushed it off and put it in the cargo pocket of his hiking pants, rationalizing to himself that it certainly had nothing to do with human remains so it didn’t matter that much.

When he reached the packs, Barbara said, Another thirty minutes and we’d need to think about another night on the trail, Billy. Did you find anything?

I found a piece of the tail I think, and it had part of a number on it. Maybe it will be enough to identify the plane. And I found this, he said, pulling the box from his pocket. I haven’t a clue what it is, but it’s my souvenir from our adventure.

Is there anything in it?

I can’t tell. When I have some time, I’ll see if I can pop it open.

What about leaving everything exactly like we found it? Or does that just apply to the help?

OK, OK, I know I shouldn’t have picked it up. If it turns out to be something important, I’ll turn it in, OK?

Whatever. We need to get moving. We still have ten miles or so to cover. It’s going to be a long day.

Thursday, July 23, 1998 2:30 PM

Bill Clifton gave a sigh of relief as he sealed the flap on the package containing the final draft of his 2nd Edition Trail Guide to the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness. All that remained was to take it to the post office and mail it to his publisher.

When he and Barb had reached his car at the end of trail two and a half weeks ago, it had been dark and they were both exhausted. They made the slow and twisting drive to where Barb’s car was parked at the trailhead where they began their four-day walk. They decided to go as far as Missoula where they took a motel room and crashed after a quick meal in the restaurant next door. When they had reached Coeur d’Alene the next day, Barbara had to scramble to get ready for a convention at the hotel and Bill walked in the door of his home to find a message from his publisher on the answering machine saying they needed to move his deadline up two weeks in order to take advantage of an outdoor symposium coming up in Seattle. There’d been a thousand things to do and the mysterious box and long forgotten crash site dropped off his radar, but he’d managed to get it done. He had tried to reach Barbara a week ago, but she was tied up and he had left a message on her phone explaining his lack of attention.

He took his cell-phone from the holster on his