Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)

by Heather Haven

  Discretionary Inquiries, Inc.

  Data, Information, and Intelligence

  Room 300

  I turned the ornate brass handle, and the door opened on silent hinges into a world that was more of my life than I cared to think about. Before me, the atmosphere of the open reception room, filled with workers and clients alike, conveyed its usual, quiet importance. The setting often made newcomers and employees speak in whispered tones, which I find maddening because I can never catch half of what anybody’s saying. I think this odd behavior is due mostly to a combination of the thick carpeting, the heavy French furniture and the oil paintings of dead people hanging about on wood-paneled walls. To me, the place projects the feeling of a small museum or mortuary. I’ve felt this way ever since we moved here over a dozen years ago. That was when Silicon Valley boomed, and the business had expanded to five times its size in less than a year. Dad admitted to me the decor intimidated him, but Mom was convinced this kind of ambiance gave clients confidence. So far she has been proven right, even with the Silicon Valley crash of a few years back.

  However, I believe most of our success is due to Richard — weird, but wonderful, Richard. My brother is a computer programming genius from whom all things flow. He created and designed our in-house program that is so unique in its approach to investigations it has brought D.I. light years ahead of the competition.

  Having stated that, however, Richard’s true gift is in statistical compilation. He can link seemingly unrelated data and find answers where someone like me would just see a forest of numbers. Once he links the data, and explains it to the rest of us, everyone says: “Oh, yeah! I should have seen that,” but nobody ever does before Richard.

  It was around his fifteenth birthday that he broke the operations of a black market computer empire. During the previous five years, millions of computer disks were being stolen from several major Sunnyvale manufacturers, relabeled and sold to unsuspecting small businesses across the world.

  Buried in layers of dummy corporations and phony addresses, the “new bad boys of high crimes” had eluded the police who seemed capable of only snaring a few errand boys on bicycles.

  In desperation, three of the hardest hit companies banded together and offered a huge reward for any information that would lead to the capture of the brains behind it all. Richard was enticed. He considered that you couldn’t just walk away with hundreds of pounds of software; you've got to carry it in something. He searched online records for any information about the thousands of cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, and even helicopters that had been in those areas during the specific times of the robberies.

  Block by block, he expanded the search to each succeeding outlying street, as he wrote off the preceding one. It was a mammoth undertaking, but he was determined to solve the problem.

  He worked on it during any spare time he had, weeks on end, checking, crosschecking, entering, and analyzing. He was relentless.

  Finally he found the link: a Dodge Caravan with two unpaid parking tickets. Research found both tickets were given out about six blocks away from two of the companies that had suffered huge losses. The owner of the van was one of a three-brother team that was using “Wet, Wet, Wet and Now Dry Plumbing” as a front for a booming business in pirated software. Richard’s dogged approach broke the case and earned for D.I. $1.2 million in fees, plus international recognition.

  After that, Richard had been offered several lucrative jobs across the country, some asking him to name his own figure. He wasn’t interested. It wasn’t just that he worked in his father’s business; it was a family business. Dad had trained Richard, believed in him, nurtured his talent, and turned him loose with what was then state-of-the-art equipment. Richard had carte blanche at D.I., and it was the only place he felt thoroughly comfortable. Because of Richard’s talents, even Lila forgave him his eccentricities and ratty work clothes. For Lila, that’s a lot.

  I think I’ve mentioned anyone who works for D.I. adheres to the dress code or finds him or herself another job. The dress code, among other things, dictates suits for both men and women. The women can wear dresses only if they are “classic” in style, which means modest but expensive. “Ladies” can wear slacks if they are part of a slack suit, and of course, stockings and heels must be worn at all times. Ties are mandatory for men, even if they come into the office directly from the field. Anyone dropping by D.I. would swear they had gone back in time to circa 1960. Idiotic, but there you have it.

  Stanley, the receptionist and a man particularly astute in fashion sense and pecking order, keeps assorted ties and jackets for the men and silk scarves, belts, and jewelry for the women on hand.

  You can borrow from these accessories once. The second time, you’ll be hauled into Lila's office for a firm but lady-like reprimand. If it happens a third time, your services probably won't be “needed” anymore. As everyone is on a retainer contract, it’s quite simple not to use the services of a particular agent when a job is over. However, D.I. pays some of the highest fees in the Bay Area, so most agents are happy to comply with this unusual policy.

  Unfortunately, my close relationship to the CEO does not make me an exception to this hard and fast rule. Or any other rules, come to think of it. Richard, however, can wear his sweats, jeans, or come buck naked to work, as long as he stays out of the front offices and Lila’s sight. I guess you could say I come from an eccentric family.

  I smiled and waved at Stanley, who gave me two mornings’ worth of mail and a friendly nod without missing a beat in the conversation he was having with a potential client. I passed him and called out the names of the two latest file clerks, Brenda and Carl. On general principles, I try to develop a good working relationship with anyone in that position, so I made a point of saying hello. When they saw me, vacant stares were dropped and smiles occurred. After that, they sighed and returned to the bottomless stacks of paper before them. My heart skipped a beat because I recognized the signs. One or both would probably give notice any day.

  No matter how often one takes them out to lunch, one can’t get past the fact their everyday job consists of categorizing and filing hundreds of original, work-related papers. It gives the word “tedious” new meaning. If an original isn’t filed correctly, it might be lost forever in one of a thousand other files. Here’s the catch-22, if a person is smart, he or she is bored silly within three days.

  If they’re not smart, they can’t learn the complex filing system and that’s unacceptable. So, historically, we’re either terminating them, or they’re terminating us.

  The Board has addressed the constant turnover repeatedly, but we haven’t found a solution yet. It’s a mind-numbing job, but a legally necessary one. Even paying eighteen fifty an hour with benefits hasn’t kept someone in it for more than nine or ten months. Poor Stanley, who is in charge of hiring and training this sorry lot, has been given a series of bonuses and a constant supply of Advil, as a result.

  I opened the door to my office and breathed deeply. Until I got into this sanctuary, I never took in or let out a full breath. My office is done in a modern Mexican look, not unlike my apartment. It is light and simple, with accents of pure colors and papier mâchè works by Sergio Bustamonte. I love it. Lila doesn’t like any of the offices to be stamped with an individual personality, though. She wants each one to look pretty much the same, white and gray with touches of burgundy. You know, corporate. I argued I was the daughter, part owner, and after all, rank hath its privileges. On this

  issue, I was ready to create an ugly scene in front of the Board, if necessary, no idle threat to my mother.

  The “Board” consists of Mom, Richard, me, plus the in-residence CPA, Ms. Packersmythe, and the family retainer, James Talbot. Ms. Packersmythe is probably one of the most foul-tempered people I’ve ever met in my life. She moves like a Hummer in overdrive and, for some unknown reason, thinks corduroy should be eradicated from the earth. We keep her around because she’s loyal, terrific with numbers and
tax loopholes, and the IRS is scared to death of her.

  Mr. Talbot, surely the world’s oldest practicing lawyer, is nearly deaf and refuses to wear a hearing aid. He’s still as sharp as he was when he handled my grandfather’s estate way back when. The best part is, he knew Mom when she was “in rompers,” as he is so fond of shouting, and he is not one bit intimidated by her.

  It’s quite a group. Needless to say, my mother backed down on going to the board about my decorating style, but to this day has never set foot in my office, an unexpected bonus.

  I threw the mail down on the already littered desk, picked up the phone and dialed Richard’s four digit interoffice number. Richard always checks the number of the incoming call before picking up. Most times he doesn’t pick up. This morning he answered on the first ring.

  “Hola, Lee. Que pasa? You okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “Hi, Richard. Esta bien. I’m just fine,” I assured my younger brother. It was the first time the firm was involved in a murder, and my kid brother tends to be very protective of me, murder notwithstanding.

  I smiled into the phone. Even though I was three years older, I felt, in some ways, as if Richard had been born older. We did most of our growing up together at D.I., having become involved in our early teens, so we are very close, but in an atypical way. “Did you get the tape I transmitted last night? Sorry I couldn’t send more than three hours worth.”

  “Working on it. Working on it,” he replied.

  Regarding the aforementioned tapes, the standard practice for our type of surveillance was that every other hour for at least one twelve-hour period, the agent would record the license plate numbers of all vehicles, as well as names of businesses and residents of buildings, all within a two-block square of the objective. Then you are supposed to send these tapes on to Richard.

  Richard’s job is to compile and analyze this information with the help of the program he’s created. It’s tedious work for everyone except Richard, who loves it, but it often yields surprising results.

  “Don’t have anything for you yet, Lee. That’s some gorgeous girl you got on tape yesterday. Hey, does Lila know you’re still working on this job?” He changed subjects abruptly, as usual.

  “I just want to tie up some loose ends, that’s all. I don’t know if I am still working on it, so let’s not tell her about it yet.”

  “Yeah, right,” he countered. “Like she doesn’t know what’s going on around here at all times. Our Lady of Investigation knows everything.” Richard has a deep respect for our mother’s knack for staying on top of every project D.I. is involved in at any given time.

  I thought for a moment and then agreed silently with Richard. “I have to talk to her about some things today, anyway. I'll mention this to her. Meanwhile, stay on it, will you?”

  “Sure. I’ve got some license plates in the mix as we speak. One of them is that China Doll’s. She looks familiar to me,” he added in a puzzled tone.

  “I thought so, too,” I said, glossing over the derogatory remark he’d just made about the woman. Richard makes remarks about everyone, injudiciously and without discrimination. It does no good to chastise him about it, we learned early on. I remember the time he led a discussion on

  the merits of his sixth grade teacher’s fondness for peanut butter and sauerkraut sandwiches over the school’s PA system and was expelled for two weeks. Bearing that in mind, Mom likes to keep him out of the spotlight. A loose cannon, if ever there was one.

  “Whoa, gotta go, Lee. Two lines are buzzing. Catch me after lunch, okay?”

  “Okay. One thirty-ish. Thanks.” We hung up.

  I sat for a moment, thought of the happiness on Tio’s face this morning, and picked up the phone again, punching in another number I knew by heart. The voice I heard on the other end of the line was Patti, Lila's secretary. Calls were routed to her directly when Mom wasn’t in the office.

  After a brief discussion, I found out Lila wouldn’t be available until around lunchtime. Impulsively, I asked Patti to check her schedule and see if she was free for lunch. She was. Patti offered to let Mom know and make reservations at Il Fornaio, the up-scale Italian restaurant nearby and one of Lila’s favorites.

  That taken care of, I attacked a stack of unopened mail. In the pile were two letters from grateful clients. Good, I thought, making a mental note to give them to Lila for the scrapbook she drags out for prospective clients right before she tells them D.I.’s minimum fee. The rest of the mail was brochures, junk mail, and blanket invitations to openings, events, and similar happenings in Palo Alto.

  I turned from mail to voicemail messages or, as I liked to think of it, That Aspen Bitch. That’s the name I’ve given the generic cyber-female voice on the system that commands you through various levels of the program whether you want her to or not. I had eleven messages. Three were from friends, and the rest were calls that needed follow up. One odd message came from Mrs. Wyler, the recent widow, inviting me for tea at my earliest convenience. I tried to pretend I didn’t get that one, something ghoulish about it, but returned the other calls.

  An hour later, after getting coffee from the staff lounge, I switched on the computer and went into email. I found seventy-nine messages sent in the past two days, none of them spam. I groaned aloud and answered each one as quickly as possible. By the time I could glance at my watch, I saw it was a quarter of twelve. I got up, stretched from the two and a half-hours of sitting in one spot, and left the office.

  I turned right in the hallway and toward Lila’s office, the former office of my father. I didn’t like to go in there much now. As I came up to Patti, a petite woman of about my age, I had to fight back an idiot grin that came to my face.

  The secretarial desk, dark mahogany, with hand carved legs, was deliberately opulent and impressive. It was also so large it overwhelmed this small woman. Patti, vertically challenged at about four foot ten, often looked as if she were a little kid playing grownup in the office or was here for “bring your daughter to work” day. As I approached, I could see Patti's little legs swinging in the air under the desk. I hid my smile, and she turned from her computer to face me.

  “Lila said she’d meet you at the restaurant, Lee. Something about errands,” Patti said, as she flashed her broad smile. It was a smile complete with about sixty-eight white-hot teeth, reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat’s grin, only on steroids. I suspect that long ago someone mentioned her teeth were her best feature, and she never got over it. I think she bleaches them religiously every night.

  I tried to return Patti's smile, tooth for tooth, thanked her politely, and headed out on foot for the restaurant. A light rain had settled in, and I was glad I thought to bring my umbrella. The restaurant was less than two blocks away, a very convenient lunch spot. I arrived at one minute after twelve and dashed into the outside door of the restaurant located on the bottom floor of one of Palo Alto’s nicer hotels. I shook the rain off the umbrella and dropped it in the nearby umbrella stand.

  The maître de, Paulo, stood behind his podium, stationed at the main entrance. He glanced up from his reservation book and smiled at me. “Good afternoon, Ms. Alvarez. Mrs. Alvarez is at the usual table. I'll just take—” he began, as the phone rang.

  “Don't bother, Paulo,” I hastily called to him, as I walked past. “I know my way. Thanks just the same.” I wound my way in between the tables already crowded with early diners and toward the corner table directly under a large painting of a goat and a dog, dressed as people, bartering in a seventeenth century outdoor market.

  The table was bound in on both sides by hand painted murals of pastoral scenes. The gentle murmur of the busy restaurant had a soothing effect on me. Mom looked up, frowned, and the soothing effect nosedived.

  “Do you know why TransTrek decided not to pursue their investigation?” she demanded to know.

  My mind raced. TransTrek. TransTrek. Oh, yes! The start-up company we had a meeting with several days ago. Mr. Ronald Everett, Wealthy Investor.
Looking for a quick return in the computer market and had glommed onto a bright lawyer who had created a program linking every court system in the USA and Canada. Something was leaking out to a rival company, and Mr. Wealthy Investor came to Lila to see how it was done, and who did it.

  “No, no, I don’t, Lila,” I said, using my mother’s first name, once I had figured the answer out. When it was work oriented, as it often was, the family used each other’s given names. This saved a lot of explanations in the business world and, oddly enough, made everyone feel more comfortable.

  The frown continued on Lila's lovely face. Her forehead crinkled in deep thought. “I want you to call them, Liana. I want you to talk personally to this Mr. Everett. See what’s going on. We usually don’t get dropped like this without a word,” she added.

  “Why me? You do those kind of phone calls,” I said plaintively, my voice approaching a wail. I hate soliciting work. Lila is so much better at it than I am.

  “Yes, I know but Mr. Everett seemed to take to you.” The frown disappeared, and her face glowed as she looked proudly at me. She reached over and pushed back an errant lock of hair that had fought its way out of my chignon. “I want you to call him today and make an appointment to see him in person.”

  “But what if he won’t—”

  “Oh, of course, he’ll see you,” Lila interrupted, with a toss of her shoulder-length, straight hair. The humidity never seemed to bother her silken tresses like it did mine. If I hadn’t contained my hair in this kind of weather, I would have wound up looking like a chrysanthemum.

  “In any event, make him see you,” Mom said. She did it again, emphasized a word in the sentence. It just makes me crazy. Maybe someday I’ll have the nerve to tell her.

  “I'll try,” I answered, as I let out a huge sigh of martyrdom and picked up a menu.

  “I don’t know why you bother to read the menu,” My mother commented with a light laugh. “You always order the same thing.”

  That was true. I did and do. I like their homemade chunky tomato soup and Caesar salad with lots of breadsticks and rolls on the side. Just to be contrary, I toyed with the idea of ordering something else, but then, why should I? I continued to stare at the menu as if she hadn’t spoken.