Trust Me (26 page)

“I see.” That explained why Vernon had always insisted on doing his work in private, Desdemona thought. “Who are you?”

“Larry Easenly. You going to make good on the fifty bucks?”

“Yes, of course. Give me your address, Mr. Easenly.”

Larry rattled off a Capitol Hill address. “But I can come down there and pick up the check today.”

“Things are in a mess down here, Mr. Easenly. I use my computer to write checks, and I haven't even had time to turn it on. You can come down Monday morning, if you like, or else I'll put the check in the mail to you so that you'll have it by Tuesday.”

“I guess that'll be okay.” Larry hesitated. “I appreciate this, ma'am. I know my deal was with Tate, not you.”

“It's all right,” Desdemona said wearily. “You did good work. The ice sculptures you sold to Vernon were lovely.”

Larry cleared his throat. “You think maybe you'll need some more?”

“I may. I'll call you when I have everything sorted out here.”

“Sure thing,” Larry said eagerly. “See you then.”

Desdemona hung up the phone and sat thinking about what she had just learned.

Vernon Tate had lied to get the job with Right Touch. She wondered what else he had lied about.

An hour later Desdemona drove slowly down a quiet residential street north of the University of Washington campus. She searched the addresses on the aging houses until she saw the one she wanted.

She eased the car against the curb and switched off the engine. For a few moments she sat behind the wheel and studied the scruffy-looking two-story home where Vernon had lived.

She had dug the address out of her files for the police yesterday. They had probably already been here in their search for Vernon's next-of-kin.

The overgrown yard was in no better shape than the house. It was choked with weeds, which had managed to snag and hold fast several stray candy wrappers and a couple of beer bottles. The front door had once been painted green, but it had faded and peeled to the point where there were only a few patches of color left. An old tire sat in the center of what had once been a lawn.

Desdemona did not know if Vernon had any relatives, a special friend, or even a roommate. He had mentioned his landlady once or twice, but that was all. He had not even provided a phone number to go with the address, so she had been unable to call ahead. It occurred to her once again that she really knew very little about Vernon Tate.

She was not sure what her next move would be in the event that no one answered the door of the rundown house.

She walked up the cracked concrete path and knocked on the once-green door. The sounds of afternoon television filtered through the thin wood panels. Desdemona knocked again, harder.

A scratching noise indicated that a lock was being undone somewhere inside. The door opened a crack. A woman of indeterminate years peered out suspiciously. She was dressed in a faded housecoat and a pair of fluffy slippers. Her frizzy gray hair stood out at odd angles around her head.

“What do you want?” The woman's voice had the scratchy hoarseness of a longtime smoker. The smell of alcohol was strong. “I already talked to enough people yesterday. You another cop or something?”

“I'm Desdemona Wainwright,” Desdemona said. “I was Vernon's Tate's employer.”

“Vernon's dead.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Spent an hour talkin' to cops yesterday. Then they spent an hour or two goin' through his things upstairs.”

“You're his landlady?”

“Was. Name's Nadeen Hocks. Not that it's any of your business. I got better things to do than answer dumb questions.”

“I don't want to ask you any questions, Ms. Hocks.”

“Then what do you want?”

Desdemona lifted one hand in a vague gesture. “I just want to offer my condolences.”

“To who? Vernon didn't have no relatives or friends. Leastways, none that I knowed of.”

“None at all?”

“Nope.” Nadeen scratched her wiry gray hair. “Spent all of his time with that blasted computer of his.”

Desdemona stared at her. “He did?”

“Yep. As for me, I ain't gonna miss him much. Just the back rent he owed me.” Nadeen gave her a sly wink. “But I took care of that problem.”

“You did?”

“Damned right. I been rentin' out rooms for over thirty years. You learn a few things. And I stay informed. Got the television on all the time. Also got me a scanner radio. When I heard that some guy had been killed at a catering company early yesterday mornin', I didn't take no chances.”

“What did you do?”

“Went right upstairs yesterday and helped myself to his computer. Good thing I did, too. 'Cause the next thing I know, the police was knockin' on the front door. They'd've probably taken it, even though there ain't no one for them to give it to. Can't trust anyone these days.”

“I didn't know Vernon was into computers,” Desdemona said carefully.

“You kiddin'? Computer stuff was all he cared about. No friends, no family, no girlfriend.” Nadeen chuckled slyly. “And no boyfriend, either, if you take my meanin'. Figure I got a right to sell off his computer to make up for his back rent.”

“You're going to sell it?”

“Yep. Lots of folks are into computers nowadays. Maybe I'll put an ad in the paper. Expect I could get a hundred and fifty, maybe even two hundred, for it.”

Desdemona tried to think of what to do next. She needed some expert advice. “You know, I have a friend who's into computers. He might be interested in buying Vernon's stuff.”

A distinct glint of greed appeared in Nadeen's eyes. “You think so?”

“I can call him right now, if you like. See what he says.”

Nadeen looked doubtful. “He got enough money for a computer?”

“I think he can manage to come up with two hundred bucks.”

“I ain't takin' no checks,” Nadeen warned.

“I understand.”

“You sure you ain't with the police?”

“Absolutely positive, Ms. Hocks.”

“Well, all right, then.” Nadeen stood back. “Come on in and call your friend.”

“Thank you.” Desdemona stepped into the dark, stale-smelling room.

The rank odors of old smoke and alcohol were overpowering. The smell clung to the faded drapes and seemed to waft upward from the threadbare carpet. Desdemona tried to take small, shallow breaths.

The shrill voices emanating from the television were annoying and much too loud, but Nadeen appeared oblivious to the noise. Desdemona glanced at the set. The afternoon talk show host was interviewing three men who were dressed in frilly maids' aprons. They were extolling the thrills of cleaning house for a dominatrix.

“Phone's over there on the wall.” Nadeen pitched her voice above the drone of the talk show host. “Tell your friend I won't take a penny less than one-fifty. Cash.”

“I'll tell him.” Desdemona prayed that Stark would be in his office. She picked up the grimy phone and punched out the number.

“Stark Security Systems,” Maud said in a sunny voice.

“This is Desdemona Wainwright. I need to speak to Stark.”

“Certainly Miss Wainwright,” Maud said cheerfully. “I'll put you through.”

“Thank you.”

“Quite all right. Have a nice day.”

Stark came on the line. He sounded preoccupied. “Stark here.”

“It's me, Desdemona. I need some advice.”

“Advice? What's wrong? What's that noise in the background?”

“Don't ask unless you suddenly develop an overpowering urge to scrub a toilet.” Desdemona waited until the television audience quieted briefly. “Listen, I'm out in the University District, at the house where Vernon lived. Stark, he was a computer buff. A hacker, maybe.”

“Desdemona—”

“This is for real. His landlady says he spent all his money on computer equipment. She says he was always fussing with the stuff.”

“Are you sure?”

Desdemona knew she had his full attention now. She could always tell when she had his attention. The focused energy coming through the phone line was enough to heat the plastic grip of the receiver. “Yes. When she heard about his death she worried that she wouldn't get her back month's rent, so she went up to his room and took his computer. She plans to sell it.”

“Hmm.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it raises some interesting questions.”

“Well?” Desdemona asked tensely. “Should we buy it?”

“‘We?’”

Desdemona was exasperated. “You're supposed to be my hotshot computer security consultant, remember? I'm asking for a professional opinion. Do you think Vernon's computer might contain some useful information?”

“I don't know.”

“Should we buy it and see?”

“All right. Buy it.”

Desdemona turned toward the wall and lowered her voice. “The landlady wants a hundred and fifty.”

“What kind of computer is it?”

“I have no idea. That's a little beside the point, isn't it?”

“No. It could be worth anywhere between fifty or five hundred, depending on the brand, year, and what's inside.”

“Stark, this is no time to be overly literal. We're not buying Vernon's computer as an investment. We're looking for clues.”

“We are?”

She ignored that. “I've only got fifty dollars in my purse, and Ms. Hocks won't take a check. I'm afraid to leave here without the computer. She might find another buyer while I'm gone.”

“Give me the address. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hurry. I have a hunch I'm going to have to watch some very strange television while I'm waiting.”

Stark knocked on Nadeen's door thirty-five minutes later. Desdemona leaped out of her chair, galvanized by relief. “That'll be my friend, Nadeen.”

“He'd better have the money with him.” Nadeen padded across the tattered carpet and opened the door.

Stark loomed on the front step. “I'm Stark.”

“We've been waitin' for you.” Nadeen ushered him into the room. “Got the cash?”

“Yes. But I'll have to see the computer, first.”

Nadeen appeared alarmed. “She said you'd buy it, no questions asked.”

“I never buy anything unseen,” Stark said.

Desdemona pointed to Vernon's computer, which sat in a box near the kitchen. “That's it over there.”

Stark glanced at the television set as he walked across the room. He frowned briefly as the talk show host asked a man why he liked to videotape his wife in bed with another man. Then he looked down at the computer.

“Well?” Nadeen demanded. “What do you think?”

Stark studied the computer intently for a moment, and then he reached into his pocket for his wallet. “I'll take it.”

Desdemona breathed a sigh of relief.

She waited until she had followed Stark outside and watched him stow Vernon's computer in the trunk of his car.

“What do you think?” she asked as he closed the lid of the trunk.

“I don't know what to think yet.” Stark took her arm and walked her down the sidewalk to where her car was parked.

“I almost forgot,” Desdemona said. “I learned something else about Vernon today. He wasn't a real ice sculptor. He lied about that on his résumé. He bought the carvings from a man named Larry Easenly.”

“How did you discover that?”

“Easenly called today. He wants to be paid for the last swan. He said Vernon struck a deal with him for the ice work in order to get the job at Right Touch.”

Stark paused in the middle of the sidewalk. He stared into the distance. “That would mean that Tate knew you needed an ice carver before he even walked through your door to ask for a job.”

“Yes.”

“How could he have known?”

Desdemona thought about it. “Well, it was no secret. Rafael had just left me for a job on the Eastside. He could have told any number of people that I was in the market for another ice sculptor. Everyone who worked for me also knew I needed one.”

“A lot of people.”

“Yes.”

Stark started walking again. “I'll fire up Tate's computer tonight and see if there's anything interesting on it. But don't hold your breath, Desdemona. Odds are, Vernon was just an ordinary computer buff. It's very likely that the only things I'll find on his machine are a lot of games.”

They came to another halt beside Desdemona's car. She opened the door and slid behind the wheel. She hesitated and then decided to take the bull by the horns.

“You haven't said anything about Tony, but I know what you're thinking,” she announced.

“Do you?”

“Yes. But, Stark, trust me, there's no way he could be involved in this. I'm sure he really did get a call from the Hollywood people. That's why he left town yesterday morning.”

“I don't know about the Hollywood call,” Stark said, “but I did some checking. He was definitely booked on a flight to L.A. yesterday morning. But the flight didn't leave until nine-thirty. He checked in for it at the last minute. Almost missed it.”