by Josh Lanyon
“But you know about solving crimes.”
“I know about making up crimes. It’s not the same.”
“But it is,” she said at once. “It’s just the flip side.”
Flipped being the day’s watchword.
“Um…”
“Mr. Holmes, you have to help us. You have to help me.”
“You know, I really don’t,” I said. “I don’t mean to seem unkind or uncooperative or lacking in civic-mindedness, but—”
Ingrid flicked back the flap of her handbag and pulled out what looked like an antique Walther pistol. She pointed it straight at me.
Chapter Sixteen
“What did you need help with?” I asked.
Tears filled her eyes. The pistol wavered. “I’m a desperate woman,” Ingrid told me.
“I can see that,” I said. “Maybe you better start at the beginning.”
“Don’t make fun of me!”
The only thing more frightening than having a pistol pointed at you, is having a pistol pointed at you by someone having an emotional meltdown.
“I’m not making fun of you,” I said. “I’m scared out of my wits. Which I handle by chattering incessantly. Is that thing loaded?”
“Yes. And I know how to use it. So don’t try anything.”
“What the hell would I try? Besides curling up in a fetal position and waiting for you to go away.”
“I didn’t want to do it like this. I hoped you would be willing to help me without…without coercion.”
A horrible thought occurred to me. I glanced at the sunburst clock on the wall. Nearly three. J.X. was going to be home any minute. If he walked in and startled Ingrid, she was liable to lose it and shoot him.
No. No. No. I couldn’t even contemplate that without a rise of panic. A greater rise of panic. This one tidal wave-sized.
“Tell me what you want,” I said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I promise. Just…tell me what you think I can do.”
“You’ve met my grandfather.” She stopped.
“So far so good,” I encouraged. I didn’t let myself look at the clock again.
Ingrid said hopelessly, “It’s going to be hard to make you understand.”
“You’re probably right. But try.”
“My grandfather is rich, but most of his money is tied up in his coin collection. And as long as I can remember, that collection has been dangled in front of all of us like a-a carrot.”
Not a writer, Ingrid. “Go on.”
“Grandpa always promised that one day the collection would be divided between my mother and my uncle Nord. My mother didn’t care about the collection, but of course it’s very valuable, so she certainly wanted her share of it. My Uncle Nord also collects coins.”
It was hard not to grip my head with both hands and scream at her. I worked to keep my voice calm. “Right. Okay. Go on.”
“But my grandfather likes to, oh I don’t know how to describe it. Manipulate people? Control people? Whenever my mother or my uncle did something he didn’t like, he would threaten to give the complete collection to the other. Then, after we—Kenneth and Cynthia and I—came along, he began to say that the collection would go to us instead.”
I didn’t say anything, but what I was thinking was that was a great way to turn loving family members into bitter enemies. And Lorenson had seemed like such a nice old guy at first.
“When we were little, we didn’t think so much about it, but as you get older… Well, it would make a huge difference to all of us to have three million dollars each.” She clenched her hands. “For me, it means freedom. The chance to live my own life. My parents are…not like me.”
“That’s usually the way it works.”
“No. I’m not explaining this so that you can see what I mean. I’m twenty-four, but my parents still try to control every part of my life. They chose the college I attend and they’re the ones who decided I would be a business major. I don’t want to be a business major!”
“What do you want to be?”
“I don’t know! They insist that I live at home. They try to tell me who I can date, even who I can be friends with. My mother even tries to tell me what I can wear. At my age!”
I said, “See, here’s how you fix that. You get a job and you move out and then no one can tell you what to do for a living or who you can be friends with or what to wear.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think. About this part anyway. The trade-off for living under your parents’ roof is you accede a certain amount of control to them. I won’t argue that your parents sound more controlling than most, but you cure that by becoming independent.”
“I can’t be independent without money!”
“So, let me skip ahead to the punch line. You and—I’m guessing—your cousins decided to become independent by stealing your grandfather’s coin collection?”
“I explained this all wrong. You’re looking at it from their point of view.” The pistol was now pointed at my face.
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. Finish your story. Your explanation.”
“The coins were going to be ours anyway. Our entire lives that was what Grandpa promised. One day we would have that money.”
I guessed, “But your grandfather changed his mind again?”
“Yes. At Christmas he announced that he was planning to donate his collection—the entire collection—to the American Numismatic Society. Just like that! He said he believed that Ken and Cyn and I only cared about the money. We didn’t care about the collection at all, and he believed we’d just break it up and sell it off.”
“Which was correct, right?”
“Of course!” She looked indignant. “Our entire inheritance is tied up in that collection. He’s said again and again there’s no money after he dies.”
I smothered a groan. “So, again, you and your cousins decided to become independent by stealing your grandfather’s coin collection?”
“Cyn wasn’t involved. She’s just a kid. Ken and I decided…yes.”
So did that mean they had decided to cut Cynthia out or that someone would have held onto Cynthia’s share in trust? And what did it matter anyway? But against my will, I was curious.
“How the hell did you hook up with Elijah Ladas?”
Tears welled in Ingrid’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
“You’ve told me this much, you might as well tell me the rest.”
“I can’t tell you all of it, but Elijah and I met and fell in love. We were going to go away together with my share of the collection. But then he was murdered. I don’t know who killed him and I don’t know what happened to the collection.”
“That’s a problem,” I said. “The other problem is that the gallery owner was killed during the robbery. Which makes you all accessories to homicide.” I eyed the pistol meaningfully. “Among other things.”
“I know.” A sob burst out of her. “That was an accident. Nobody was supposed to die. Elijah had done that kind of thing a million times and nobody ever got hurt.”
“By nobody getting hurt, I assume you mean physically hurt, because people were certainly being robbed.”
“Yes. I know. And that’s usually wrong. But this time the money was ours. Or as good as. But Elijah brought…someone with him and that person killed John. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. None of us wanted that.”
“He brought his half-wit brother with him,” I said. “Beck.”
She gaped at me. “How do you know that?”
“I know everything. And nothing.” I spoke automatically. There were some considerable gaps in her story, but the very nature of the gaps was revealing. “Okay. I’ve heard your story. What is it you think I can do for you?”
Tears filled her eyes again. “I realize it’s all going to come out now. The truth about the robbery and everything. But I thought if at least I could help you get the collection back, then maybe the police will go easier
on us.”
“I think cooperating with the police is your best bet now,” I agreed. “I think that’s a great idea. But the person to talk to would be a lawyer.”
“I can’t go to a lawyer. I don’t have money for one, and even if I did, everyone would find out. My parents will find out. My grandfather… My grandfather can’t know about this until we can give him the collection back. It’s the only thing that will make up for what we did.”
There was no making up for what they had done. John Cantrell was dead, Elijah Ladas was dead. There was no fixing either of those things. But I kept the thought to myself, saying instead, “Ingrid, listen to me. I write mysteries about an elderly lady botanist and her cat. Half the time the cat solves the crime. Do you understand what I’m trying to say here? I don’t have any real experience with investigating crimes or the criminal justice system. I want to help, but I’m not the right person to talk to.”
“You’re all I’ve got!”
Something snapped inside me and I yelled back, “Then you’ve got nothing!”
Ingrid waved the pistol wildly. I put my hands up. She burst into tears. “Oh, what’s the use! Anyway, it’s not even loaded.” She threw the pistol to the floor.
The Walther banged down hard, spun around, there was an explosion—and a hole appeared, as if by magic, in the plaster over the baseboard right next to my foot.
Ingrid screamed and threw herself in my arms. I screamed too and clutched her back. The fact that she was taller than me made it interesting.
“I didn’t know it was loaded,” she cried. “It’s my grandpa’s gun. I didn’t know it had real bullets. I’ve never fired a gun in my life!”
I stammered, “You nearly sh-sh-shot me!”
“I’m so sorry!”
“You’re insane!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. You’re my last hope.”
I know it’s not logical, but I think the fact that she was sobbing in my arms, so clearly frightened out of her wits, softened me. It shouldn’t have. She could have killed me. At the least she could have taken my foot off. My skin smarted where the bits of plaster had hit my bare ankle. But I had never seen a damsel in more distress than Ingrid.
Or maybe it was just that, despite everything, I found real life mysteries as irresistibly tantalizing as Mr. Pinkerton found catnip.
“What is it you think I could do?”
Ingrid gave a couple of wet gulps, lifted her face from my now soggy T-shirt and, said, “I thought if you went with me to Elijah’s, you might be able to figure out where he hid the coins.”
“But the police will have been all over his place. In fact, it’s probably sealed off. The police probably consider it a crime scene.”
“They did. It was. We’ve—I’ve—been watching it. But they’ve finished with it now. We could go over there. We could get in without any trouble at all. I have a key.”
“But if there had been anything to find, the police would already have it.”
“The coins aren’t there. I know that. Elijah said he had a safe place to keep them.”
“He didn’t tell you where he hid them?”
“No.”
“I thought you were partners.”
“We were. But he was worried that the police might be watching any of us or all of us, so he hid the coins in a place he’d used before. He knew more about that kind of thing than we did.”
“So he died and none of you have any hint where the coins are hidden?”
“Yes. That’s what I keep telling you.”
I overlooked that show of snippiness. “And you think I’d be able to figure out where Ladas hid the coins by snooping through his things?”
“If you’re as clever as Grandpa says you are, yes. I’m sure you’d spot some clue the police missed.”
Ridiculous. Totally ridiculous. And yet.
One thing for sure, it was as much to my advantage to get this matter cleared up as it was to Ingrid’s. I was tired of waiting for Beck to show up again.
“I’m sure this is a complete waste of time, but all right,” I said. “Let’s go have a look.”
* * * * *
I made the mistake of letting Ingrid drive.
I hated driving in San Francisco. No wonder everyone relied so heavily on public transportation. I kept getting lost and I loathed all those narrow, ridiculously steep streets. The pedestrians and cyclists all seemed to have a death wish. And it was impossible to find parking. So I thought it would be simpler just to take her car. Keep her busy, keep her hands occupied and away from lethal weapons. But it wasn’t simpler. It was hair-raising. Never mind my heart being in my mouth, my entire stomach was crammed in there the whole journey.
However, against the odds, we did arrive in one piece at Elijah Ladas’ waterfront loft.
A squat brick building took up the corner of an unprepossessing street in a not particularly nice neighborhood. According to Ingrid, the building had been built in the early thirties and converted into a giant loft in the late nineties.
“It just goes to show, crime doesn’t pay.” I clutched my back as I staggered from the MINI Cooper. The air smelled of dead fish and soot and possibly urine.
“It just goes to show how much you don’t know about real estate,” she retorted. “That’s a million-dollar view of the bridge and the bay.”
“Yeah, but you still have to live here.” We gave wide berth to one of Ladas’ neighbors, a wino clutching his bottle, huddled in the entranceway of the adjoining condemned warehouse.
Ingrid ignored me and the mutterings of the bum both, heading straight to Ladas’ industrial-looking front door, punching a series of numbers into the access pad.
The door unlocked, Ingrid pushed it open and we stepped into an entrance of concrete walls and concrete floors and an old-fashioned cage elevator. Ingrid keyed another code into another access pad and then unlocked the elevator. Ladas had taken his security seriously.
We stepped into the elevator and Ingrid shivered as we began to rise through the gloom.
“What exactly attracted you to Ladas?” I asked curiously.
She lifted her chin defiantly. “We were kindred spirits.”
“He was like, thirty years older than you. And a crook.”
“He was the most charming man I ever met.” She said it like she was throwing it in my face, but I was not—and never had been—under the illusion that I was a charming man. Not unkind and occasionally witty, sure. Charming? No.
I shrugged. “Okay. That’s nice for going out to dinner a couple of times, but what did you have in common? Besides the desire to rip off your grandpa?”
She said as though this should settle the matter, “Elijah said we were a perfect match.”
“Really?” Well, Ingrid was pretty in a vapidly All-American way and her moral compass was not what one would call tightly wound. She seemed to be a girl in search of a savior, and maybe Ladas had liked thinking of himself as her white knight. From what I’d read of him, he had a tendency to romanticize.
I couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t exactly prostrate with grief. Sad, yes. Disappointed, certainly. But she wasn’t dying inside. If something happened to J.X.… Well, I didn’t want to even let the picture form, lest the gods start taking notes on new things to do that would really ruin my life.
“So after the heat died down, you were going to move in with him?”
“We were going to go to Cuba.”
“Cuba?”
“Hemingway lived in Cuba.”
“Well, I know. But—”
The elevator reached the top level. The doors opened. Ingrid stepped out and punched more numbers into the keypad. I looked around myself and I had to admit the view really was something. In fact, it was everything.
Personally, I’d have opted for blinds, but if you didn’t mind living front and center stage, it was an amazing space. Space being the keyword. Space and light were my immediate impression. There were a few b
rick walls, some furniture, of course, and some striking McCauley Conner crime fiction illustrations. Possibly originals, given Ladas’ day job.
“See?” Ingrid said.
What was I supposed to be seeing? That this really was a nice place to live? That there weren’t many possibilities for hiding Viking treasure?
“Well…” I wandered around the central rooms, stopping to examine various pieces of furniture or art. I figured he’d probably hired a professional decorator, so we had to take the hints regarding his personal interests and passions with a grain of salt.
The kitchen was all stainless steel and self-consciously utilitarian. “Did he cook?”
“He was a wonderful cook,” Ingrid said. “He was a wine connoisseur too.”
Of course he was. It was all part of the gentleman thief image.
“Did he do much entertaining?”
“Not a lot. He went out all the time. He loved to party. But he didn’t like to have people over.”
Okay. That was interesting. Probably not germane, but interesting.
“The police have his laptop,” Ingrid volunteered.
“I figured.”
“He always burned all his mail. Not that he got a lot. But he burned everything. He said he never kept any papers.”
“He can’t have burned everything,” I objected. “Pink slips, property titles…he didn’t burn that stuff.”
“He said he burned everything.”
“Yeah. Well.”
Saying and doing were two different things. As I could vouch for. Somewhere Ladas had a safety deposit box, but we were unlikely to gain access to that. He couldn’t have hidden his ill-gotten gains in a bank, but the key to the hiding place might be there.
Or maybe not. I had a feeling Ladas liked games. He liked puzzles. He was a romantic.
Which meant what? I wasn’t sure.
I wandered back to the long main room and examined a giant, surprisingly elegant metal shelving unit that contained, among other things, the complete Lazlo Ender series co-written with Richard Cortez. Cortez had been Cuban, come to think of it.
I glanced at Ingrid. She was watching me intently, apparently waiting for an epiphany à la that other Holmes chap.