Diamond in the Buff by Susan Dunlap Page A

the posters. White on white. Yesterday in the heat this large white room had seemed comfortable, but today it was just cold, and the thick carpet made it not warmer but merely more irritating to walk across. I glanced at Himalayan-size photographs of Himalaya. The most interesting one had to have been taken from a mountain top, down onto ice, then the brown of dirt and the ever darkening green of fields and the tan of a village. There was an arrogance to that photograph, and as I looked at it I could almost imagine the heady thrill of standing where few if any men had ever trod, looking down on the world of lesser beings.
    Slumped on the edge of a huge white sectional, Hasbrouck Diamond was the picture of a lesser being. He sat slumped forward, staring down. The thick gold chain around his neck swayed back and forth in midair. The shine of his royal blue silk shirt only made his tanned face look drier, and white shorts showed shivering spindly beige thighs. He looked like he’d spent too much time with the movie types in L.A., immersed in the unreal. And yet there was no question that the man was seriously shaken.
    Sitting beside him I said, “Dr. Diamond, what can you tell me about yesterday?” When he didn’t respond I prompted, “After you talked to me?”
    “I was here, all day, except for a trip to the hardware store. The bulb on the projector was out. We need that for the presentation, it’s this afternoon, you know.” He swallowed. “Or it would have been. I have to call all those people. Some of them are flying up from L.A. I have to get to them before they leave for the airport. Can’t have them flying up here and find nothing. I’ll have to—”
    “Dr. Diamond,” I snapped.
    “Oh.” He gave his head a sharp shake, and looked up at me. “Sorry.” The dark circles under his eyes gave the illusion that they protruded more than they did normally, almost as if they were feelers. He appeared more foreign and yet because of his drained, bewildered look, more human than he had seemed yesterday. “Yesterday,” he repeated. “I was here, taking calls, going over the figures. I was here all day. I guess I could come up with a list of who I spoke to if you need it.”
    “Figures?”
    He looked up, brow furrowed. I tried to categorize his expression—fear, sorrow, confusion? None of those. “We had to plan, Detective. You don’t invite two hundred of the most influential people in the Bay Area, expect them to become a part of a history-making Himalayan expedition, and not have your figures straight.”
    “Figures for?” I insisted.
    “For everything, gear for the climbing team, the filming team, and the Sherpas, and the porters, food, air fare, arrangements for the receptions after the climb. It’s all detail work. We need to be able to tell them how many pounds of tsampa Bev’ll buy and how many anoraks the team will need.”
    “And you discussed that with Bev? When did she get back?” I had seen her at Indian Rock around three P.M.
    “Seven or so. We worked till ten.” Self-absorbed as Hasbrouck Diamond was, he was proving to be remarkably easy to prod. His glance upward had been brief; now he was directing his answers to his knees. He probably was barely aware I was next to him.
    “Where was Kris?”
    “Kris?” Diamond’s pale eyebrows drew together and he began to tap his forefinger on his thigh. “Who knows? Hanging around on the Avenue, probably. He should have been here. I had expected him to help out with the planning; told him when he got back.”
    “And that was?”
    “Somewhere around eleven. I was getting ready for bed. I suggested that he do that too. We needed to be fresh this morn— Or I thought we would.”
    “How did Kris seem then, last night?”
    Diamond hesitated; his face colored and that finger tapped more heavily on his thigh, leaving a paler circle in its aftermath. “Like he always was, happy-go-lucky.”
    I wondered if happy-go-lucky was really what he’d