The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (4 page)

“E
xecutive Decision: Fort Lauderdale Executive Hugo Hythe Tapped to Head Fortune 500 Company,” the newspaper headline trumpeted in May 2009. Helen looked down the telescope of time at a younger, thinner Hugo. He was grinning triumphantly in the blurry newspaper photographs, a man who’d climbed to the top of the financial world.

Business writers heralded him as the salvation of the scandal-wracked WDQ Financial Services Corp. Hugo was the white knight who’d rescue the corporation and its soiled reputation.

Then the news stories rehashed an older, embarrassing story: WDQ’s previous CEO had been fired for telling the new CFO—the company’s first female financial officer—that he’d promoted her because she had a great ass. Worse, he said that in a meeting, in front of six shocked witnesses.

The outraged CFO sued, and truth was no defense in this lawsuit. A graduate of Wharton with a sharp mind as well as a shapely derriere, the CFO was awarded a multimillion-dollar judgment.

WDQ’s punishment had just started. Women’s groups and sympathetic companies no longer wanted WDQ Financial Services.
The stock had dropped like an anvil out a twenty-story window and the former CEO’s fortunes plummeted along with it.

After a nationwide search, clean-cut Hugo had looked like the ideal candidate. He’d quietly hired a press agent who’d helped Hugo get his name in the media in dozens of positive stories, from hospital fund-raisers to Humane Society benefits.

One photo spread showed a grinning Hugo and two women on the roof of a thirty-story building in July. Wearing climbing gear and carrying their helmets, they were about to rappel down the skyscraper for a breast cancer charity. Hugo had paid their thousand-dollar fees, the article said.

Helen’s stomach twisted when she saw the thirty-story drop behind the three rappellers. The reporter asked the three: “Aren’t you afraid?”

A hatchet-faced brunette called Xenia Mathews said, “I thrive on challenge. I work with Hugo Hythe and have the greatest respect for him.”

A small, muscular woman named Cady Gummage had a determined look on her heart-shaped face and a blond buzz cut. “I’m a cancer survivor,” she said. “Nothing scares me anymore, not after chemo and radiation. I came back stronger than ever. Rock climbing is my hobby, and I’ve been everywhere from Austria to Australia. Rappelling off a thirty-story building is a piece of cake.”

“I wanted to give back to the community,” Hugo said. “You can’t be afraid of heights if you’re going to make it to the top.”

Hugo had leaked the news that he was the next CEO, hoping once the information was in print his position was secure. But WDQ had been badly burned by their last top executive. They looked past the puff pieces in the press and hired a detective agency to investigate Hugo. A private eye interviewed Annabel, Hugo’s ex-wife.

Annabel told the PI that Hugo was a hopeless hound who’d had a fling with his office manager. After the woman had a baby boy, she sued Hugo for child support. Hugo refused to pay. He told the court,
“Yes, she slept with me, but she’s had sex with every man at the office.” DNA proved Hugo was definitely the baby daddy.

WDQ no longer saw Hugo as their salvation. He’d barely managed to hang on to his old job. Now Hugo was fast-tracked to nowhere.

As Helen read the sorry saga of Hugo’s decline and fall, she saw many unanswered questions: Why did Annabel rat out her ex? Was she a vindictive woman? Or did Hugo wound her so badly she had to fight back?

Maybe Jenny would know the answers. She certainly thought Hugo was angry enough to kill his ex-wife as her own star was rising.

Helen worked at her laptop until her eyes ached. She rubbed her forehead, looked up and saw Phil, relaxed and smiling, strolling into their office. “It’s time for the sunset salute,” he said. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“And you look cheerful for the first time in weeks,” Helen said. “Did you find a job?”

“I think so,” Phil said. “I’ve been talking to some board members at the Silver Glade Condominiums in Little New York. They’re scared spitless they’re going to be the Gold Ghost’s next target.”

“The who?” Helen said.

“The gold thief.” Phil looked embarrassed. “The burglar who’s stealing gold coins from Little New York condos. TV stations are calling him the Gold Ghost because he slips in and out of the buildings like a phantom. The thief is never caught on the security cameras and leaves no traces.”

“Do you think he’s that clever?” Helen asked.

“Hell, no,” Phil said. “Most condo security guards are retirees. They sit in plush, air-conditioned lobbies, dealing with loud neighbors and chasing visitors out of residents’ parking spots. Condo security isn’t trained to handle serious crime. They’re supposed to call the police if there’s a real problem.

“That’s why Silver Glade needs me. The board is taking major heat from the condo residents. They’re holding a special board meeting this
afternoon. If they vote yes as expected, then they’ll meet with the condo manager, and I’ll have a job before dark.”

“Wonderful!” Helen said, kissing her husband. “I have a job, too.” She told him about Annabel’s sudden death and why Jenny had hired her.

“I’m sorry about Annabel,” Phil said.

“Me, too,” Helen said. “I barely knew her, but she seemed so talented. Jenny wants her killer caught.”

“At least our job dry spell is over,” Phil said. “Let’s go down for the sunset salute.”

“I think Markos is working tonight,” Helen said. “We’ll have to do without his mojitos and homemade appetizers.”

“I like Markos,” Phil said, “but I’m relieved he’s not making his healthy snacks tonight. Those roasted carrots the other night were awful.” He made a face.

“I liked them,” Helen said. “Roasted carrots have a sweet, nutty flavor. I loved the fresh thyme.”

“It was a carrot, no matter how he dressed it up,” Phil said.

“If you don’t like something, you could just say ‘no, thank you,’” Helen said. “You carried on like Markos had served you a dead mouse.”

“At least a mouse has meat,” Phil said. “I’ll make the popcorn at my place and bring it over.”

Helen and Phil had an unusual housing arrangement. Before their marriage, they’d both lived at the Coronado in one-bedroom apartments. They’d kept their small apartments after the wedding. Thumbs, Helen’s cat, didn’t mind switching homes as long as he was fed, but the two independent PIs needed their separate retreats when Phil blasted his Eric Clapton CDs or Helen wanted to read in peace.

But they always slept together. Helen thought the arrangement gave their love life a slightly illicit thrill.

“Good,” Helen said, kissing him again. “Make the popcorn in your kitchen, so you can clean it up.”

“You love my popcorn,” Phil said. “I use my mom’s old corn-popping pot. Makes the best popcorn on the planet.”

“You use a gallon of oil and don’t put the pot lid on until the last minute, so the stove, walls and floor are spattered with hot oil and popcorn flies everywhere. Last time you made popcorn at my place, I crunched it underfoot for days.”

“A chef needs freedom,” he said, and grinned. “I’m having a beer. You want some white wine?”

“Not if Margery is making screwdrivers,” Helen said. “I’ll get my own drink. Will you feed Thumbs? I think he’s at your place.”

By six o’clock, there was a cool breeze. Helen found Margery relaxing in a chaise by the pool in a cool cotton tie-dyed purple caftan and purple sandals that showed off her tangerine manicure. A pitcher of screwdrivers sweated on the umbrella table. “Helen,” she said, waving her over. “Have a cold one.”

“I was hoping you’d make screwdrivers,” Helen said. “Phil is on his way with popcorn.”

Margery handed her a frosty glass filled with pale orange liquid that could knock a strong woman sideways. Helen knew her landlady had her own recipe—a jigger of orange juice in a tall glass of vodka.

Phil arrived with a mixing bowl of warm, buttery popcorn and kissed Margery on the cheek.

“As useful as you are handsome,” she said, batting her eyes at Phil. “You make real popcorn, not that microwaved Styrofoam. I love a man who cooks.”

They clinked glasses, but Helen took only a polite sip of her screwdriver until she’d had a few handfuls of popcorn. Then the three crunched in silence, watching the setting sun gild the windows and turn the old white building a soft pink. Helen caught the sharp smell of pool chemicals and hot popcorn. It was so peaceful, she nearly drifted off to sleep.

Awk!
Helen heard a rumble on the pool deck as Peggy, their
downstairs neighbor, rolled out the big cage that had her two Quaker parrots, Pete and his mate, Patience.

Pete’s got a girlfriend. Pete’s got a girlfriend,
the little parrot chanted as he perched on the double swing next to Patience.

Pretty boy,
the parrot replied. Patience was learning to talk.

“I brought my lovebirds out for some air,” Peggy said. “This is their favorite time of day.”

“Mine, too,” Helen said. “Glad to see that Pete has resolved his relationship problem.”

“At least I have one man in my life who isn’t afraid to commit.”

Uh-oh, Helen thought. Peggy must be ticked at her boyfriend, Daniel. An uncomfortable silence descended until Margery said, “I heard on the news there was another gold heist last night in Little New York.” Only Margery could get away with using “heist.” “The burglar got away with thirty thou in gold coins.”

“No wonder Channel Seventy-seven calls him the Gold Ghost,” Peggy said. “Valerie Cannata is breaking in on TV every thirty seconds with news updates—and there isn’t any news. The cops don’t know a thing.”

Helen opened her mouth to say the Gold Ghost name was stupid, then swallowed her words along with another gulp of her screwdriver. Valerie was a friend whose news stories helped build Coronado Investigations’ reputation. Helen didn’t want to attack the person who’d helped their business.

“Like I said before, you and Phil should take that case,” Peggy said. “Have you talked with any of the condos in Little New York?”

“There’s a possibility one might be interested in hiring us,” Phil said. “I’m hoping to get a call soon.” He patted his cell phone on the table between his beer and popcorn bowl.

“If we do get this job, Phil’s going to have to take it without me,” Helen said. “I’m investigating a murder.” She gave Peggy a stripped-down version of her new case, without revealing any names or places.

When she finished, Peggy said, “I had no idea that nicotine could kill you.”

“It doesn’t take much, either,” Helen said. “Only—”

She was interrupted by Phil’s ringtone, Clapton’s “Layla.”

Phil didn’t put the phone on speaker—to protect client confidentiality—but from the way he was smiling after he answered, Helen guessed it was probably the Silver Glade Condo manager.

“Certainly I can discuss the matter with you,” Phil said. “Would you like my partner and me to come to your building?”

After a pause, he said, “You’d rather come here? Smart. Yes, I agree there’s a possibility these could be inside jobs. When would you like to meet? As soon as possible?”

He looked over at Helen and raised an eyebrow. She nodded yes.

“Why don’t you meet us here in half an hour?” Phil said. “Let me give you our address.”

After Phil hung up, Helen said, “Yes! The Gold Ghost is ours.” Now that name didn’t seem stupid at all.

V
ictor Trelford, general manager of the Silver Glade Condominiums and licensed community association manager, wore Florida formal wear to meet with Helen and Phil.

He braved the humid June evening dressed in dark pants, white shirt, navy blazer and red tie. Victor had a slightly wilted, end-of-the-day look, as if his round face had been lightly misted with cooking oil, but he put on a brave smile.

“Thank you for meeting with me after business hours,” he said. “This is an emergency. You know the buildings in Blue Heron Crescent have been hit by a series of burglaries.”

“The Gold Ghost,” Helen said.

Victor winced. “I don’t like it when the media romanticizes criminals, but yes.”

“We’ve been following the story,” Phil said.

His worried brown eyes peered out at the PI pair from heavy black spectacles. “The burglar seems to be hitting a different condo every night,” Victor said. “It’s only a matter of time before he goes after Silver Glade, the most prestigious building on the Crescent.” He pulled on his tie, as if it were strangling him.

“It would help if we had more details,” Helen said. “Can you give us any information that hasn’t been released to the media?”

Victor paused and ran his fingers through his fashionably spiked dark hair, as if he could pull the information out of his head. “I met with the managers of two condo buildings that were burglarized. The thief helped himself to a substantial number of gold coins. Naturally, we want this man caught.”

“What time did the burglaries occur?” Phil asked.

“The first time, he robbed three condos in one building around one a.m.,” Victor said. “The second time, he struck three more condos about three a.m. So six in all.”

“Was security on duty in both buildings during the burglaries?” Phil asked.

“Yes. All Blue Heron Crescent buildings have twenty-four-seven security,” Victor said.

“Any other patterns, besides the after-midnight hits?” Helen asked.

“Both buildings are the same height: twenty stories tall,” Victor said. “Only condos on the top two floors—the nineteenth and the penthouse floors—were burglarized. Both buildings have balconies overlooking the ocean, and the thief appeared to have entered through the balconies’ sliding doors.”

“Were the sliders locked?” Phil said.

“No,” Victor said. “The condo owners never expected anyone to come in from the outside when they lived so high up.”

“Did the condo residents hear anything during the burglaries?” Phil asked. “Did the thief stumble over anything on the balconies?”

“No,” Victor said. “If you live near the water, you know sound has odd properties—it carries farther, but the ocean is noisy. There’s the constant clamor of the surf and the wind. Plus, at least two owners are, uh. . . mature, and I think they’re slightly deaf.”

“What about the second building?” Helen said.

“Same situation: Those condos were also unlocked. The owners thought the first burglary was a onetime thing, not a crime wave.”

“How many people live in the condos that were hit?” Phil asked.

“A total of eight,” Victor said.

“How old are they?” Phil asked. The condos in Little New York catered to wealthy older people.

“Three are men, ages seventy to eighty-five, who live alone,” Victor said.

“Two are widowers and one is divorced. There’s also a couple who’ve been married forty-six years. The other couple is also married. He’s eighty and she’s twenty-eight.”

“How long has that couple been married?” Phil asked.

“Two years,” Victor said. “She’s from Belarus.”

“An older man married to a much younger wife,” Phil said. “Does she have any boyfriends? She might be the insider.”

“I don’t know Marina personally,” Victor said. “I’ve heard she’s very attractive. But her husband is supposed to be quite . . . ah, vigorous.”

Helen glanced at Phil and raised an eyebrow. They both knew a randy eighty-year-old man was not the same as a hunky thirtysomething.

“Can you get us contact information for the people who’ve been robbed?” Phil asked.

“I can try,” Victor said, wiping his damp face with a pocket handkerchief. “I know some may be reluctant to talk, but I’ll do the best I can.”

“Any evidence left behind? Hairs, fibers, shoe prints, fingerprints?”

“Nothing,” Victor said. “This hasn’t been released to the public, but the police did find some smudges on a glass door. They think the burglar doesn’t have fingerprints.”

“No fingerprints?” Helen said. “I thought everyone has fingerprints.”

“
Most
people have them,” Victor said. “But some people are born without fingerprints. It’s rare, but it happens. They don’t have fingerprints or sweat glands, so they can’t sweat.”

“That would come in handy here in Florida,” Helen said.

“Not really,” Victor said. “If you can’t sweat, you can die of heatstroke.”

Poor Victor looked so hot and miserable, even in the office air-conditioning, that Helen let that subject drop.

“People can lose their fingerprints, too,” Victor said, “especially if they’ve had certain types of chemotherapy. Some jobs can even wear down fingerprints. Bricklayers, for instance, lose the ridges on their fingerprints by handling bricks and heavy materials. People can also lose their fingerprints as they age.”

“You don’t think an old person is committing these burglaries, do you?” Phil asked.

“Of course not,” Victor said. “It’s obviously someone very athletic. But because he doesn’t have fingerprints, he got the name the Gold Ghost. He’s not in any fingerprint database.”

“What about photographs? Do the buildings have security cameras?” Helen asked.

“Of course,” Victor said, as if Helen had asked,
Do the buildings have windows?
“Both condos handled the thefts the same way. After the break-ins, the managers, the police and the security staff all went over the security footage.

“Both buildings recently updated their security. The residents need computerized key cards to access the buildings and their apartments. There are no old-fashioned locks that require physical keys.

“Visitors have to park in a special section near the door. They need a parking pass and must sign in at the front desk. Then the security guard calls the condo owner. If no one answers, the visitor must leave or wait in the lobby until the owner comes home. All delivery and repair people must park in another designated area and sign in. These routines are standard for all Blue Heron Crescent buildings.”

Helen and Phil nodded. “Most of the condos were built in the mid-sixties,” Victor said.

“What prompted the recent security change?” Phil asked.

“I can tell you what happened at Silver Glade,” Victor said. “We
changed our routine about the same time as the others. Like most Blue Heron condos, we used to have a system where the condo owners had ASSA keys—big square, metal things—for the elevators and building doors. The keys cost a hundred dollars to replace, but our condo didn’t collect them when people moved out. Owners handed out keys to their house cleaners, visitors, relatives and repair people. We had no idea how many keys were floating around.

“One night, four men unlocked our common room with an ASSA key and carried off the new seventy-five-inch television.”

“You caught them on-camera?” Phil said.

“Yes, but it was dark and the burglars never turned on the room lights. They used the light from the parking lot. We couldn’t see their faces. All we had was a rough idea of their height and build and the impression they might be younger than most of our residents. We didn’t know if they were professionals who’d gotten a key from a careless resident or someone’s dishonest grandchildren.

“After that, we upgraded the CCTV system and got the computerized keys.”

“So the footage the condos looked at after the Gold Ghost thefts was on the upgraded systems,” Helen said.

“Exactly,” Victor said. “The staff could see the faces much better. When they examined the security footage, they were able to identify everyone in the hallways or the elevators.”

“How long before and after the thefts did the condos check the security system?” Phil asked.

“Twelve hours each side,” Victor said, “in case the burglar was hiding in an empty condo or a janitor’s closet. They even checked the trash chute rooms.

“All the service personnel were accounted for. They’d registered with the desk guards on entering the buildings and signed out when they left. Everyone else was either a resident or a legitimate guest of a condo owner.”

“Do the condos have cameras in the stairs and the elevators?” Phil asked.

“Yes, that’s standard for Blue Heron Crescent buildings,” Victor said, “including ours. Silver Glade needs a new lobby elevator, but the condo association put off getting one. They’ve finally voted for it. Meanwhile, we’re using a backup generator to restart the lobby elevator when it goes out. That will be one of your duties, Phil—turning on the generator when the elevator goes.”

“So if all the buildings have security cameras in the stairs, entrances and elevators,” Helen said, “the Gold Ghost burglaries are probably inside jobs.”

Victor sighed and looked very tired. “I know. I feel terrible, but I don’t trust my own people anymore. I’ve known some of them for years, but I can’t risk it. That’s why I wanted to meet you here at your office. Everyone at Silver Glade thinks I went home after work.

“Our condo staff is carefully vetted by a detective agency. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to consider that someone on the staff is betraying the residents.”

“How many guards do you have?” Phil asked. “How old are they?”

“We have two guards on each shift, and we have three shifts for round-the-clock protection. The day guards are Billy and Edwin. Billy is forty-seven, a former police officer for a small force in upstate New York. Edwin is fifty. They come on duty at six thirty in the morning and leave at five.

“The evening shift is five to midnight. That’s Patrick and Janice. Patrick is fifty-five and has worked for us for ten years. Janice is forty and has only worked for us for five years. She was downsized from an office job. The graveyard shift, from twelve to six thirty, is very quiet. Kevin is an active seventy but looks ten years younger. He’s retired from the Boston PD. Jimmy is seventy-two, a former firefighter. Some of our security is retired, but none are what I’d call old.

“I want to hire you for the graveyard shift, Phil,” Victor said.

“Me?”

“Yes. Jimmy wants to take a long weekend. I’d like you to start tomorrow night. That will give you a chance to work with Jimmy for a night. He’ll show you the ropes, then leave for his vacation. The next night, Kevin can walk you through the routine. After that, you’ll be on your own, and I hope you catch the crook before Jimmy comes back.

“What do you say, Phil? Will you help me?

“You’ll have to wear a uniform, but it’s a nice one. You’ll look like a police officer, except for the patch on your arm.”

“Well,” he said.

“I’ll pay for the uniform,” Victor said.

Phil looked at Helen. She could almost read his mind. He wanted the job, but the late hours would cut into his evening beer drinking. She decided to give him a slight nudge.

“I love a man in uniform,” she said, and winked at Phil.

“I’ll take it,” he said.