Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  But Eddie Caruso had.

  Because why would John Westerfield have copies of permits for construction of buildings he’d had nothing to do with?

  There was only one reason, which became clear when Caruso had noted that these three permits were for pouring foundations.

  What better way to dispose of a body than to drop it into a pylon about to be filled with concrete?

  But which building was it? Eddie Caruso’s commitment to Carmel Rodriguez was to find out exactly where Sarah Lieberman had been buried.

  As he looked down at the permits he suddenly realized how he could find out.

  He copied the first pages of all three permits, after getting change from another customer because, yeah, his dollars’d all been rejected by the temperamental Xerox machine. Then, returning to the cubicle, he carefully—and painfully—worked the industrial-sized staples from the paper and replaced the originals with the copies.

  This was surely a misdemeanor of some kind, but he’d developed quite an affection for Mrs. Carmel Rodriguez (he had dropped his rate by another twenty-five dollars an hour). And, by the by, he’d come to form an affection for the late Mrs. Sarah Lieberman, too. Nothing was going to stop him from learning where the poor woman was resting in peace.

  To his relief, the clerk missed the theft, and with a sincere smile Caruso thanked her and wandered outside.

  Lord be praised, there was no ticket and in a half hour he was parked outside the private forensic lab he sometimes used. He hurried inside and paid a premium for expedited service. Then he strolled down to the waiting room, where to his delight, he found a new capsule coffee machine.

  Eddie Caruso didn’t drink coffee much and he never drank tea. But he loved hot chocolate. He had recipes for eighty different types and you needed recipes—you couldn’t wing it. (And you never mixed that gray-brown powder from an envelope with hot water, especially envelopes that contained those little fake marshmallows like dandruff.)

  But the Keurig did a pretty good job, provided you chocked the resulting cocoa full of Mini-Moo’s half-and-half, which Eddie Caruso now did. He sat back to enjoy the frothy beverage, flipping through a Sports Illustrated, which happened to describe the Nigeria-Senegal match as the Game of the Century.

  In ten minutes, a forensic tech—a young Asian woman in a white jacket and goggles around her neck—joined him. He’d been planning on asking her out for some time. Three years and four months, to be exact. He hadn’t been courageous, or motivated, enough to do so then. And he wasn’t now.

  She said, “Okay, Eddie, here’s what we’ve got. We’ve isolated identifiable prints of six individuals on the permit documents from the city commission you brought me.”

  Technicians were always soooo precise.

  “Two of them, negative. No record in any commercial or law enforcement database. One set is yours.” She regarded him with what might pass for irony, at least in a forensic tech, and said, “I can report that you are not in any criminal databases either. It is likely, however, that that might not be the case much longer if the police find out how you came to be in possession of an original permit, which by law has to remain on file with the city department in question.”

  Precise…

  “Oh,” Eddie said offhandedly, “I found ’em on the street. The permits.”

  No skipped beats. She continued, “I have to tell you none are John Westerfield’s.”

  This was a surprise and a disappointment.

  “But I could identify one other person who touched the documents. We got his prints from military records.”

  “Not criminal?”

  “No.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Daniel Rodriguez.”

  It took five seconds.

  Carmel’s husband.

  Sometimes when people look into the past, they find things they wish they hadn’t…

  * * *

  WHATEVER YOU CALL YOUR PROFESSION, security or investigation, you need to be as professional as any cop.

  Eddie Caruso was now in his office, number crunching what he’d found, not letting a single fact wander away or distort.

  Was this true? Could Daniel Rodriguez be the third conspirator, the one who’d actually disposed of Sarah Lieberman’s body?

  There was no other conclusion.

  He’d worked in Sarah’s building and would have been very familiar with John and Miriam Westerfield. And they had known that Daniel, with three girls approaching college age, would need all the money he could get. He was involved in the trades and would know his way around construction sites. He probably even had friends in the building whose foundation was now Sarah Lieberman’s grave.

  Finally, Daniel hadn’t wanted his wife to pursue her plan to find out where Sarah’s body was. He claimed this was because it was dangerous. But, thinking about it, Caruso decided that was crazy. The odds of the other guy finding out were minimal. No, Daniel just didn’t want anybody looking into the case again.

  And whatta I do now? Caruso wondered.

  Well, there wasn’t much choice. All PIs are under an obligation to inform the police if they’re aware of a felon at large. Besides, anybody who’d participated, however slightly, in such a terrible crime had to go to jail.

  Still, was there anything he could do to mitigate the horror that Carmel and their daughters would feel when he broke the news?

  Nothing occurred to him. Tomorrow would be a mass of disappointment.

  Still, he had to be sure. He needed as much proof of guilt as a cop would. That’s what Game required: resolution, good or bad. Game is never ambiguous.

  He assembled some of his tools of the trade. And then decided he needed something else. After all, a man who can toss the body of an elderly woman into a building site can just as easily kill someone who’s discovered he did that. He unlocked the box containing his pistol, nothing sexy, just a revolver, the sort you didn’t see much anymore.

  He found the bullets, too. They weren’t green. Which meant, Eddie Caruso assumed, that they still worked.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY Caruso rented an SUV with tinted windows and spent hours following Daniel. It was boring and unproductive, as 99 percent of tailing usually is.

  On the surface, round Daniel Rodriguez was a harmless, cheerful man, who seemed to joke a lot and seemed to get along with the construction crews he worked with. Eddie Caruso had expected—and half hoped—to find him selling crack to schoolkids. If that had been the case, it would have been easier to report him to the police.

  And easier to break the news to his wife and daughters? Caruso wondered. No. Nothing could relieve the sting of that.

  Daniel returned home to his small but well-kept house in Queens. Caruso cruised past slowly, parked up the block and stepped outside, making his way to a park across the street, dressed like anybody else in the casual, residential neighborhood—shorts and an Izod shirt, along with sunglasses and a baseball cap. He found a bench and plopped down, pretending to read his iPad, but actually observing the family through the device’s video camera.

  Apple had revolutionized the PI business.

  The weather was nice and the Rodriguez family cooked out, with Daniel the chef and Carmel and their daughters his assistants. Several neighbors joined them. Daniel seemed to be a good father. Caruso wasn’t recording his words but much of what he said made the whole family laugh.

  A look of pure love passed between husband and wife.

  Shit, Caruso thought, sometimes I hate this job.

  After the barbecue and after the family had been shuffled off to the house, Daniel remained outside.

  And something set off an alarm within Caruso: Daniel Rodriguez was scrubbing a grill that no longer needed scrubbing.

  Which meant he was stalling. On instinct, Caruso rose and ducked into some dog-piss-scented city bushes. It was good he did. The handyman looked around piercingly, making certain no one was watching. He casually—too casually—disappeared into
the garage and came out a short time later, locking the door.

  That mission, whatever it was, smelled funky to Caruso. He gave it two hours, for dark to descend and quiet to lull the neighborhood. Then he pulled on latex gloves and broke into the garage with a set of lock-picking tools, having as he often did at moments like this an imaginary conversation with the arresting officer. No, sir, I’m not committing burglary—which is breaking and entering with intent to commit a felony. I’m committing trespass only—breaking and entering with intent to find the truth.

  Not exactly a defense under the New York State penal code.

  Caruso surveyed the jam-packed garage. A systematic search could take hours, or days. The man was a carpenter and handyman so he had literally tons of wood and plasterboard and cables and dozens of tool chests. Those seemed like natural hiding places but they’d also be the first things stolen if anybody broke in, so Caruso ignored them.

  He stood in one place and turned in circles, like a slow-motion radar antenna, looking from shelf to shelf, relying on the fuzzy illumination of the streetlight. He had a flashlight but he was too close to the house to use it.

  Finally he decided: The likeliest place one would hide something was in the distant, dusty corner, in paint cans marred with dried drips of color. Nobody’d steal used paint.

  And bingo.

  In the third and fourth he found what he suspected he would: stacks and stacks of twenties. Also two diamond bracelets.

  All, undoubtedly, from Sarah’s safe-deposit box. This was his payment from the Westerfields for disposing of the body. They hadn’t mentioned him, of course, at trial because he had enough evidence to sink them even deeper—probably enough to get them the death penalty.

  Caruso took pictures of the money and jewelry with a low-light camera. He didn’t end his search there, though, but continued to search through all the cans. Most of them contained paint. But not all. One, on the floor in the corner, held exactly what he needed to figure out Sarah Lieberman’s last resting place.

  * * *

  “COME IN, COME IN,” Eddie said to Carmel Rodriguez, shutting off the TV.

  The woman entered his office and glanced around, squinting, as if he’d just decorated the walls with the sports pictures that had been there forever. “My daughter, Rosa, she plays soccer.”

  “That’s my favorite, too.” Eddie sat down, gesturing her into a seat across from the desk. She eased cautiously into it.

  “You said you found something.”

  The PI nodded solemnly.

  Most of Eddie Caruso’s work involved finding runaways, running pre-employment checks and outing personal injury lawsuit fakers, but he handled domestics, too. He’d had to deliver news about betrayal and learned there were generally three different reactions: explosive anger, wailing sorrow or weary acceptance, the last of which was usually accompanied by the eeriest smile of resignation on the face of the earth.

  He had no idea how Carmel would respond to what she was about to learn.

  But there was no point in speculating. It was time to let her know.

  “This is going to be troubling, Carmel. But—”

  She interrupted. “You told me there might be things you found that I might not like.”

  He nodded and rose, walking to his other door. He opened it and gestured.

  She frowned as her husband walked into the room.

  The man gave her a sheepish grin and then looked back at the carpet as he sat next to her.

  “Daniel! Why are you here?”

  Caruso sat back in his office chair, which was starting to develop the mouse squeak that seemed to return once a month no matter how much WD-40 was involved. He whispered, “Go ahead, Daniel. Tell her.”

  He said nothing for a minute and Carmel asked pointedly, “Is this about Mrs. Sarah? Is this about what happened to her?”

  The round-faced man nodded. “Okay, honey, Carmel—”

  “Tell me,” the housekeeper said briskly.

  “I haven’t been honest with you.” Eyes whipping toward her, then away. “You remember last year you told me the Westerfields wanted you to find Mrs. Sarah’s papers?”

  “Yes. And when I said no they threatened, sort of threatened our daughter.”

  “They did the same to me. They said they couldn’t trust you, you were too good. They wanted me to help them.”

  “You?” she whispered.

  “Yes, baby. Me! Only it wasn’t just find the papers. They…”

  “What? What did they want?”

  “Miriam told me Sarah didn’t have long to live anyway.”

  “‘Anyway.’ What do you mean ‘anyway’?”

  “She said Sarah had cancer.”

  “She wasn’t sick! She was healthier than that bitch Miriam,” Carmel spit out.

  “But they said she was. And she’d told them she’d cut us out of her will. We’d get nothing. They said, if I help them now, if she died now, they could make sure we had lots of money.”

  “Helped them out.” Carmel eyed her husband coolly. “You mean, helped them kill her.”

  “They said she was greedy. Why should she have so much and people like them, and us, have nothing? It was unfair.”

  “And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell anybody they were dangerous?”

  “I did tell somebody.”

  “Who? Not the police, you didn’t.”

  Daniel looked at Eddie Caruso, who picked up the remote control and hit ON.

  The TV, on which a webcam sat, came to life with a Skype streaming image.

  On the screen an elderly woman’s face gazed confidently and with some humor at the couple in the chairs and Eddie Caruso. “Hello, Carmel,” Sarah Lieberman said. “It’s been a long time.”

  * * *

  WHAT EDDIE CARUSO HAD FOUND in the last paint can in the Rodriguezes’ garage was a letter from Sarah to Daniel with details of where she’d be spending the rest of her life—a small town near Middleburg, Virginia, with her widower nephew Frederick. Information about how to get in touch with her if need be, where she would be buried and the name of certain discreet jewelers whom he could contact to sell the bracelets Sarah had given him, along with suggestions about how to carefully invest the cash she’d provided, too.

  He’d confronted the handyman this morning and while the letter seemed plausible, Caruso had insisted they both contact Sarah Lieberman this morning. She’d told them what had happened and was now telling the same story to her housekeeper.

  The simple death he’d described to Carmel Rodriguez was anything but.

  “I’m so sorry, Carmel…I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. You remember that day in July, just a year ago? I was going to take the phone Freddy gave me and record them?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sarah.”

  “After you left, I started to go down there. But I met Daniel on the stairs.” Her gaze shifted slightly, taking in the handyman. “He had me come back to my apartment and he told me what they’d just said—that the Beasts wanted him to help kill me. He said they had it all planned. There was nothing anybody could do to stop them.”

  “Why not go to the police?” Carmel demanded.

  Sarah replied, “Because at worst they’d get a few years in jail for conspiracy. And then they’d be out again, after somebody else. I started thinking about what I told you. Remember the moth?”

  “The big moth you and your husband saw in Malaysia. With the wings that look like a snake.”

  “That’s right. But I decided: One way to protect yourself is to disguise yourself as a snake. The other way is to be the snake itself. I fight back. I couldn’t kill them but I could make it look like they killed me. I didn’t ask Daniel to help me but he wanted to.”

  “I was so mad at them and worried about you and about Rosa! John hinted that he’d been watching her, watching our daughter!”

  Sarah said, “The Westerfields were very accommodating. John already had the Taser and the tape and the garbage bags.” She gave a wry l
augh. “Think of all the money I’ll waste at Beacon Brothers Funeral Home here—that damn expensive casket. There are so many cheaper ways to go.”

  Daniel said, “We pretended to forge a contract selling the building to them and then took all of the jewelry and cash Mrs. Sarah had in the apartment. She kept some and gave me a very generous amount.”

  “And in my will I left Freddy here”—Sarah glanced to the side of the sunroom she sat in, apparently where her other coconspirator, her nephew, sat—“all my personal belongings. Probate took a little while but six months later everything was delivered here. Ah, but back to the scene of the crime, eh, Daniel?”

  He winced and looked at Carmel. “When the Westerfields were out and you were shopping, we both went downstairs. I put on gloves and took one of John’s hammers and Mrs. Sarah cut herself. We got her blood on it and some hairs, too. And put some duct tape on her mouth for a minute and we added some of Miriam’s hairs. I rubbed her toothbrush on it, for the DNA. Sarah stuck herself with the sharp points on that Taser. We hid those things in their apartment, then I tried to hack into Mrs. Sarah’s banking accounts from Miriam’s computer.”

  “I used to watch CSI,” Sarah said. “I know how these things work.”

  “I left the city permits and maps in John’s office.” Daniel started to laugh then reined in when he saw his wife staring at him in dismay. “I was going to say it was funny because we thought the permits would be obvious. But the police missed those entirely; they thought she had been buried in New Jersey. But they missed it; it was Mr. Caruso who figured out about the foundations.”

  Sarah said, “And I took the train down here. I’ve had to lead a pretty quiet life—they call it staying off the grid, right, Freddy?”

  A man’s voice, “That’s right, Aunt Sarah.”

  “But I love it in Virginia. It’s so peaceful. I lived here a long time ago and I’d always thought I’d come back to spend my last years in horse country.”