The laptop Blood was borrowing from the staff was set up on the near end of a long mahogany conference table. We all took places around it while Blood sat down in front of it, his sausage-thick index finger positioned over the enter key.
“Before we start,” he said, “I want you to focus on something in particular.”
“Such as?” Val said.
“Since this video only shows the exterior of the building at night, and from an awkward angle at that, it’s not all that easy to make out. But it’s there.”
“What exactly is there, Mr. Blood?” Bruce asked impatiently.
“The person I believe to be Anna Kruise’s murderer,” Blood said.
He pressed his index finger on the enter key.
What appeared on the screen was a grainy shot that came from a security camera mounted to the building’s far corner, and not particularly close to the John Patrick Boutique storefront which was located pretty much in the center of the strip mall. People were coming and going from the Italian restaurant situated closer to the camera, one or two were going into the liquor store, and another couple was heading in and out of the bagel shop. No one, on the other hand, seemed to be heading into or out of the boutique.
But that’s when Blood stopped the video.
“Now,” he said, “watch this.”
“Watch what?” Bruce asked.
“Just keep your eye out for the hooded sweatshirt,” Blood added.
He hit the enter key once more and using his long index finger, pointed at what appeared to be a figure walking toward the front door of the boutique. The figure appeared so faint in the black and white grainy video that it almost looked like a ghost. But it was there all right, and just like Blood said, he appeared to be wearing a gray hoodie pulled up over his head. You couldn’t make out the face of the person, but you could make out the hands, the skin of which seemed to be as dark as Blood’s. One of them reflected the exterior lighting. Like there was something in his hand. A knife maybe.
“You see him?” Blood asked, his finger still pointing to the figure.
“Yeah,” I said. “I see him.”
“Now you don’t,” Blood said.
Because that’s when the hoodie man disappeared.
Chapter Seven
Val took a step forward, leaned in closer to the laptop screen.
“Play that again, Blood,” she said.
He did.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Somebody cut out a piece of video.”
“More like somebody cut the surveillance camera at a specific time that was pre-established,” I said. My eyes shifting to Bruce. “You know who was on duty that night watching the surveillance?”
He shook his head. “We’re not that sophisticated,” he replied. “No one watches it. It’s all automatic. The video only gets watched if it needs to get watched. Like right now.”
I turned to Val. “What time did the store close that night, Val?” I asked.
“Nine,” she said.
“How long does it take you to lock the front doors and clean up?”
“No more than ten minutes,” she answered.
“And you and Anna always left by the front door.” It was a question.
She shook her head in the affirmative.
“Yes,” she said. “We always parked our cars in the lot in front of the store. Not out back where it’s dark and creepy.”
“You guys ever hang around the place afterward? Maybe have a beer or something? Chat it up?”
“Never,” she said. “As it was, Anna and I were hardly speaking. The store wasn’t doing well, and we were getting on one another’s nerves.”
“But you did keep large amounts of cash in the till?” I asked.
“Five to seven thousand or so every day. High-end fashions demand high-end change for women who buy with cash so their husbands wouldn’t see the credit card receipts and hit the roof.”
“You left that kind of cash on-site?”
Val bit down on her lip.
“Well, not the best of decisions it turns out. We always tried to hit the bank as much as possible, but it was only the two of us running things, so we got lazy. And Anna was murdered the night before a day when the banks wouldn’t be open. Sunday.”
“I get it,” I said, pacing the carpeted floor. “So, it makes sense to me that anyone who wanted to rob the place could have scoped the joint out for a few evenings and made a determination on when the store would be empty.”
“But wouldn’t a person about to rob the store wait until the owner left the building first?” Bruce queried.
“Good question,” Blood said. “But as you can see in the video, the hoodie man came up on the boutique from along the sidewalk. He might not have waited to see if Anna had left. Could be he just assumed she was gone, especially when he saw that the lights were off, and the exterior sign extinguished.”
I said, “So if you and Anna used to leave the store within ten minutes of closing time, that means the dude who tried to rob the place would have had to wait until nine-fifteen or so, minimum.” My eyes back on Blood. “Blood, man, what time does the CCTV vid show when the hoodie man appears?”
He backed the film up a bit. He looked up at me.
“Nine thirty,” he said.
“Bingo,” I said.
Chapter Eight
Blood stood up, and naturally, soaked up every bit of oxygen in the room with his monstrous iron-pumped physique.
“Maybe it’s time we go examine the crime scene,” he said. “Try to reconstruct the murder like they do on CSI Miami.”
“You watch too much TV, Blood,” I said.
“Hey, when I got locked up in the joint, I didn’t get to watch nothin’. I’m catching up.”
I started for the conference room door.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Bruce called out. “Isn’t the boutique a crime scene now? I mean, we can get in trouble if we go traipsing around there. Perhaps it will contaminate the scene.”
“Looks like Mr. Slick Hair here been watching too many crime shows also,” Blood said, his eyes locked on mine.
“Let the contamination begin,” I said. “Oh, and Blood?”
“Yes, my brother.”
“Grab that laptop,” I said. “Miller will be happy to know we got ourselves our first big clue.”
We began making our way out of the building when nature called.
Turning to Val and Blood. “I’ll catch up,” I said. “Gotta firehose some of the coffee I’ve been drinking since we finished up at the gym.”
“T.M.I.,” Val said, shaking her head.
“See you on the other side,” Blood stated.
Bruce just looked at me like I had two heads.
I made my way into the men’s room off the vestibule, and while Mother Nature was taking her course, I stared at the blank wall and thought about the hoodie man in the CCTV video. The flashing coming from his hand. I thought about breaking into the building using the front door where people coming and going from other establishments might easily spot him. There was a back door on the boutique. Other than a few strategically placed exterior spotlights, it was quite dark out there at night. Why not break into the place that way?
I finished up, went to the sink, turned on the water, began washing my hands.
Something else bothered me about him using the front door. Anyone who wanted to break in would have to jimmy the lock. That would take time, effort, and it would even make some noise. Certainly, the camera would capture video of the hoodie man jimmying the door. But then, the camera was turned off. Maybe purposely turned off by someone who not only had access to the camera equipment, but who knew how to use it. And what if the hoodie man didn’t need to jimmy the front door? What if he had a key to the joint?
I looked up at myself in the mirror.
“Bruce,” was all I said.
Chapter Nine
Drying my hands, I exited the bathroom. But instead of making my way out the front door and
heading to the boutique, I decided to make a quick diversion. I headed ,instead, back into the Stephens Real Estate offices and made my way along the corridor until I found a door that said, “Bruce Feingold, CEO” on it, just like the sign outside on the reserved parking space.
My hand on the opener, I twisted it, stepped inside.
“Can I help you?” said the woman seated at a desk. Behind her was Bruce’s office, the door to which was wide open.
I put on my best Keeper Marconi irresistible smile, dug inside my pants pocket for a business card. I didn’t hand the auburn-haired middle-aged woman the card but just pretended she could read it from where she was seated.
“My name’s Jack Marconi,” I said through my smile. “I’m an old friend of Bruce’s. We used to row together down on the Hudson. Say, we’re looking at a property together, and he left his coat behind. He asked me to grab it for him out of his office after I used the men’s room.”
Before she had a chance to stop me, I put the card back in my pocket, went around the desk, and into his office.
“Excuse me,” she said, “what did you say your name was again?”
Then I heard her pick up the phone and dial a few numbers which told me two things. One, she was calling her boss, alerting him to the intrusion. And two, I had maybe one or two minutes to snoop before I’d have a security team breathing down my neck.
I pulled out my cell phone and stared down at his desk top.
First thing that caught my attention was a photo of the woman I took to be his wife. She was blonde and small and cute as a button. Judging from the blue ocean in the background, the sand dunes, and the way her hair blew casually in the wind, I made a wild guess that the picture was snapped at their summer beach house in Nantucket. Or Martha’s Vineyard. Or the Hamptons. What difference did it make? It was all the same place.
All manner of paperwork was spread out on the desk.
A contract with the word CANCEL stamped on it in bright red ink. A couple of bright red Stop Work notices that had obviously been pulled from two jobsites were placed under a Rotary Club cog wheel paperweight. There were several newspaper clippings of the Anna Kruise murder, plus bills. Lots of bills. Lots of overdue bills. Electrical, cable television, Visa, MasterCard, Amex, Macys…you name it. If it was paid for with plastic, they owed on it.
There was even a bank statement that hadn’t been opened yet. I shoved it in my jacket pocket along with the phone, came back around the desk. It was then that I noticed the mud on the carpeted floor. Not a whole lot of it. But mud stains. Days old mud stains very near the closet door.
Quickly, I made my way to the door, opened it. The old mud stains led directly into the closet as though whoever had the mud on the bottom of his shoes stepped right into the closet. But it wasn’t the stains that rattled me. What had me rattled was the gray hoodie sweatshirt that hung on a hook on the back of the closet door.
A large gray hoodie with blood stains on it.
Pulling the cell phone back out of my pocket, I snapped three or four pictures of it, and another three or four of the mud stains. Pocketing the phone once more, I made my way back out into the front office.
“I couldn’t find Bruce’s coat,” I tell her. “I gotta say, though, the place is a mess. Like it hasn’t been cleaned in a while.”
“Mr. Feingold is a very private man,” she said, her eyes wide, alarmed. “He doesn’t like anyone disturbing his office. Not even the cleaning crew.”
Well that explains the old mud stains…
The secretary crossed her arms over her chest as she stood. “And I don’t recall Mr. Feingold ever mentioning your name, Mr.…”
“Marconi…We’re the best of friends, me and Bruce,” I lied. “And believe me. After today, you’re going to be hearing my name quite often.”
I opened the door and stepped out knowing the digital photos and the bank statement that were now shoved inside my pocket were yet more evidence that would help me and the police solve the cold blooded murder of Val Antonelli’s business partner, Anna Kruise.
Chapter Ten
Like a speeding bullet, or a middle-aged man in half-way decent shape anyway, I exited the Stephens Real Estate office and made my way back out into the parking lot. Rather than head to the John Patrick Boutique, I listened to my gut which was telling me to visit the patch of woods located behind the strip mall to the direct north of the maintenance building.
Mud, the voice inside me said. Woods…Murder weapon tossed into the woods by an amateur killer who doesn’t have a clue about what he’s doing…
I didn’t waste any time. Logic ruled the day when it came to detecting. If I’d just cut somebody’s throat from ear to ear and wanted to ditch the murder weapon ASAP, how would I do it?
The quickest and easiest way possible. That’s how.
Making my way to the back door of the John Patrick Boutique, I then made an about-face, crossed over the asphalt access road and made my way into the woods.
The second growth wood wasn’t all that thick or big, but it provided enough cover to conceal something as small as a knife. I stared at the leaf covered floor, my eyes shifting from right to left and back again. It might seem a little like looking for a needle in a haystack, but when you knew exactly what you were looking for, and you combined your search with a little logic, it wasn’t all that crazy to believe I might come upon the weapon sooner rather than later.
When I noticed a glint of sunbeam shining off an object set on the leaf-strewn floor about ten feet in front of me, I knew I’d found what I was looking for. I might not have found the knife so easily had it not been for the bare branches on the winter trees and the way the afternoon sunlight was able shine down through them.
Pulling the phone from my pocket, I snapped another picture.
I now had more than enough evidence to share with Miller that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Anna Kruise’s killer was also her landlord.
Chapter Eleven
When I made my way back around to the front of the John Patrick Boutique, I saw that the yellow plastic crime scene ribbon had been removed from the door. Peering through the big picture display window, I could make out Blood and Val standing at the register counter while Bruce stood in the middle of the floor, his cell phone pressed against his ear. Again, listening to my gut, I had no doubt that he was talking with his secretary.
I stepped inside, a big smile on my face. I glanced at Val and at Blood. Then I glanced at Bruce. He was biting down so hard on his bottom lip I thought his teeth might go right through the flesh. On the painted cement floor was the white spray-painted outline of a dead woman. The floor was still stained with her blood.
Black blood.
Bruce pulled the phone away from his ear, shoved it back into his pocket.
“I need to leave,” he said, tone tight and agitated. “Something’s come up.”
“Blood,” I said, “the door.”
Blood didn’t hesitate. He made his way around the counter and stood in front of the front door, his huge body blocking it entirely.
Bruce charged the door anyway, but stopped just short of ramming into Blood’s chest.
“Please step out of the way, Mr. Blood,” he snipped. “I just happened to own the doorway you are presently blocking.”
“Mr. Marconi tells me to stop you from leaving,” Blood said. “I stop you from leaving. At all costs.”
Bruce about-faced, bolted across the shop floor, not bothering with stepping around the blood stain, and nearly collided with me. I didn’t have Blood’s height, but I was more than stocky enough to stop him…more than strong enough to put him down with my bare hands if I had to. Just in case, I pulled out my gun, aimed it at his chest.
Bruce immediately put his hands up in surrender.
“This is outrageous,” he said. “You’re a common thug. You are all common thugs…knuckle dragging animals. I want my lawyer.”
“How come he’s not asking for the police, Blood?�
�� I said, my eyes going from Bruce to Blood and back again.
“That because he guilty as sin. Or so I’m surmising, Keep. Plus, he called us knuckle draggers. That’s not politically correct.”
“Political correctness is dead, Blood. We gotta let that one slide.” Then, eyeing the real estate mogul alone. “Step on over to the computer, Bruce, baby. I want to share a theory with you.”
He slowly, if not dejectedly, made his way to the register counter, took his place beside Val. Blood came back around the counter, stood next to him. Rather, he didn’t stand next to Bruce so much as he pressed his hard body up against him. Did it just to remind Bruce that should he try something stupid, he would end up in a world of hurt.
“Play it again, Blood,” I said, like Bogie saying, Play it again Sam.
He hit the enter key on the computer and the CCTV video played once more. When the hoodie man entered into the picture, I told Blood to pause the video right there.
I pulled out my phone, went to the photo gallery and chose the picture of the gray hoodie sweatshirt. Showed it to Bruce. Val and Blood could also see it.
“That sweatshirt belong to you, Bruce, baby?” I posed. “Please don’t answer in the negative, because you and I both know I just found it in your office closet, and I wouldn’t want to have to call you a liar.”
He nodded, his pallor turning pale. A grayish pale, to be more precise.
Switching to the picture of the old mud stains on the office carpeting floor.
“These mud stains near your closet,” I went on. “They got me to thinking, Bruce. Where would I dispose of a murder weapon if I wanted to do so in a hurry? And then I answered myself by saying, the woods. Or, in this case, the woods behind the strip mall.” Switching to the photo of the blood-stained knife lying on the leafy floor of the woods out back. “And sure enough, will you look at that?”
Dressed to Kill Page 3