The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “So you picked up the gun from the police and threw it in the ocean. How much did Ahmet give you to get rid of his gun?”

  Bernie jerked back as if she’d been slapped.

  “Hit a nerve, didn’t I?” Helen said. “You got Mark’s wallet, his gun and his thirty dollars. Thirty pieces of silver, Sister Judas. How much did Ahmet pay you to get rid of the gun? Tell me or I’ll tell your neighbors.”

  Bernie’s voice trembled. “I got ten thousand dollars,” she said. “But Ahmet subtracted Mark’s cocaine debt first. I needed the money to go to medical tech school. I’ve lived a good life. I’ve atoned for what I did. I never touched drugs again.”

  “You sold out your brother,” Helen said.

  “So did my mother.” The emotion flooded back into Bernie’s voice. She was talking faster now, desperate to defend those decisions. “Mark wasn’t supposed to die. I couldn’t bring my brother back. He wanted to save me. I started my training with the money I got from Ahmet. I succeeded. I had to, don’t you see? If I didn’t, Mark would have died for nothing. Mom and I both agreed it was the right thing. I promised her I’d never see Ahmet again.

  “After I came out of the hospital, Ahmet didn’t want to let me go. He followed me. He showed up at school and begged me to live with him. He said he’d make me rich and I’d never have to work again. I wouldn’t have to deal with blood and needles. But I didn’t go with him. I made the hard choice. I’ve tried to be a good person.”

  “Is that why you cut your hair?” Helen asked.

  “It made men crazy. I chopped it off and dyed it brown.” Now Helen heard contempt. Was it for the men who loved Bernie for her beauty—or for herself? “I made sure no man like Ahmet would look at me again. I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. It’s what I wanted. I told you all I know. Will you go now?”

  Helen left Bernie weeping alone in her beige mansion.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Bernie and her mother were both in on the cover-up for Mark’s murder,” Helen told Phil.

  She was back in the Coronado Investigations office reporting on her encounter with Gus’s sister.

  “For the love of God, will you please quit pacing and sit down,” Phil said. “I can’t concentrate.”

  Helen tried to sit still, but it wasn’t easy. Her interview with Bernie had left her restless and keyed up.

  “I guess Roseanna Behr figured she made the right decision,” Phil said. “She traded her daughter’s future for her dead son’s reputation.”

  “I wonder how Gus will feel about that deal,” Helen said. “Is it time to tell him?”

  “Not yet,” Phil said. “There’s one more mother mixed up in Mark’s murder—Lorraine Yavuz, Ahmet’s mother. The police report says he was inside his import-company building when Mark was shot. One of the witnesses was his mother. I checked the records. Mrs. Yavuz still lives in Lauderdale. Maybe she’ll remember something about that day.”

  “You really think she’ll say anything against her son?”

  “It’s worth a try,” Phil said.

  “Should I go see her in person?” Helen asked.

  “No,” Phil said. “Stay away from that man and anyone connected to him. I don’t want his mother giving Ahmet your description. He’s a killer.”

  “And a civic leader,” Helen said.

  “That makes him more dangerous,” Phil said. “He has too much to lose.”

  “You don’t think he’d hurt me and flee to Turkey, do you?”

  “No way,” Phil said. “Ahmet Yavuz is the Turkish version of John Smith. Despite their foreign-sounding last name, the Yavuz family is as American as Big Macs. They’ve been in the United States for four generations. Ahmet grew up in Fort Lauderdale.”

  “I’ll call Mrs. Yavuz,” Helen said. “I can pretend to be an old friend of Ahmet’s who is in town on a trip.”

  “Use an airport pay phone so the call can’t be traced back to you,” Phil said.

  Helen and Phil drove to the Fort Lauderdale airport together. Helen found a pay phone near the baggage carousels and punched in Mrs. Yavuz’s number. Phil stood next to her holding a notebook in case she needed to write something down.

  Mrs. Yavuz answered on the first ring. She was either drunk or lonely, or both. Helen struggled to hear the difficult old woman through the flight announcements and rattle of luggage carts.

  “My son is rich and important,” Mrs. Yavuz said, her words slurred. “He never comes to see me anymore. He’s got this new business.”

  “Yavuz Elegant Homes,” Helen said.

  “Not that one. That’s an old business. He’s started a bunch of new ones. One’s a propert—proppity—a real estate holding company. It’s called Silverhall. Isn’t that a pretty name?”

  “Yes, it is, Mrs. Yavuz. Silverhall is a very pretty name.” She signaled Phil and he wrote it down in the notebook.

  “I like it, too,” Mrs. Yavuz said. “I’m the CEO. My son made me a CEO and he still doesn’t come to see me.”

  Helen took the pen from Phil’s hand and wrote ‘she’s CEO.’”

  He nodded.

  “Your son has come a long way,” Helen said.

  “Too far,” Mrs. Yavuz said. “Too far to go back and see anyone from the old days. Like his mother. I won’t be here forever, you know. I blame those Behrs for changing him. Ahmet went to high school with the sister. There were three of them.”

  The old woman recited in a singsong voice, “Once upon a time there were three Behrs: Mark, Gus and . . . I can’t think of the other.”

  “Bernie,” Helen said. “The sister.”

  “You know her?” Mrs. Yavuz asked, sounding suddenly suspicious.

  “I am an old friend of your son’s, remember? I told you that. I talked with Bernie this morning.”

  “Yeah, right. You did say that. What’s your name again?”

  “Helen. Helen Hawthorne.”

  Phil was shaking his head no and signaling for her to stop. Helen scribbled: “She’s drunk. Won’t remember” on the notepad.

  Phil wrote: “Don’t tell her more.”

  “You there?” Mrs. Yavuz asked.

  An announcement for flight 1506 to Tampa blasted through the airport.

  “Yes, I’m not going anywhere,” Helen said. She frowned at Phil.

  “You said you just talked with Bernie today,” Mrs. Yavuz said. “Sounds like you’re at an airport or something.”

  “That’s right,” Helen said, hoping to coax the old woman back into a conversation.

  “Look, no offense, but that slut ruined my son,” Mrs. Yavuz said. “He’s a success. Once Ahmet threw Bernie out on her trampy ass, he started going places. My son paid a buncha millions for his new house. He’s got a wife, too, a good woman, not like that Bernie, and they have a son, Junior. My grandson is ten, but they never let Junior come see me.

  “My boy Ahmet’s completely changed. That wild Bernie Behr and her crazy brother did it. Ahmet was never the same after he hooked up with them. That Gus wasn’t so bad, but those other two were hell on wheels.”

  A drug dealer’s mother thought Bernie was trash? Helen didn’t know what to say. It didn’t make any difference. Mrs. Yavuz was happy to have an audience, even an unseen one. She kept talking.

  “Ahmet won’t come see me, even on Mother’s Day. He’s changed so much, and it’s all the fault of that Bernie Behr and her brother. The wild Behrs.”

  She gave a cackling laugh, then lowered her voice. “Mark was nuts, you know. Shot himself.”

  That was the opening Helen needed.

  “Where was your son the day Mark crashed his car into Ahmet’s building?”

  “At work,” his mother said, sounding surprised Helen would ask. “Ahmet was at work like he should have been, even if Bernie’s nutcase brother was threatening to kill him. My boy was no coward—I’ll say that for him. He went to work even though he knew that lunatic was looking for him. I saved his life, you know. My boy would be dead if it wasn’t for me. H
e gave me a job at his import company. I worked there. Made good money, too. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” Helen said. “How did you save your son’s life when Mark threatened him?”

  “I said, ‘Ahmet, you got a gun for protection?’

  “He said, ‘No, Mom.’

  “I said, ‘Well you better start carrying one. You better protect yourself.’ I was so worried I gave him his father’s old gun for protection. My boy would be dead without me, and he doesn’t ’preciate what I did for him.”

  “What kind of gun was it, Mrs. Yavuz?” Helen asked.

  “It was old. An old .32 Mauser. I was right, too. That crazy Mark Behr turned up at my son’s business. My son shot him.”

  Helen felt her stomach clench. “Did Mark have a gun?” she asked carefully.

  “Don’t remember. He could have. Mark was threatening to kill my boy. He deserved to be shot. I miss my boy.”

  Mrs. Yavuz started crying and dropped the phone. The line went dead.

  Helen hung up the pay phone and felt a wild surge of joy. She threw her arms around Phil and said, “We got him! We got him! Ahmet’s mother admits she gave her son his father’s .32 for protection, just before Mark’s murder. That’s the weapon that killed Mark. The one the police had. She said Ahmet shot Mark. We’ve tied the killer to the murder weapon.”

  Phil started steering Helen toward the parking garage.

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Helen said. “We can reopen the case. Mark’s killer will be arrested.”

  Phil looked at her sadly. “No, Helen. There is no case.”

  They were at the parking-garage elevator. Phil pressed the button for the second floor.

  Helen was still celebrating. “I realize Mrs. Yavuz drinks a little, so she won’t make the best witness.”

  “No, Helen,” Phil repeated, but his words didn’t register. The elevator doors opened. “The Igloo is parked in section J5,” he said.

  Phil tried to make Helen understand. “All her son has to do is visit Mrs. Yavuz and she won’t testify against him. He’ll make up some excuse and she’ll forgive him. Even if she doesn’t, we have the word of a drunken, confused woman. She didn’t actually see Ahmet shoot Mark, and there is no gun. The police gave the Mauser to Bernie. They thought it was Mark’s property. She threw it in the ocean.”

  “Oh,” Helen said. She got in the Igloo and started it.

  “The police never fingerprinted the gun,” Phil said. “There is no evidence.”

  “So that’s it,” Helen said. Her elation was gone. “I guess we’re ready to give our client his report.”

  “Not quite,” Phil said. “I want to spend some time on the computer looking into Silverhall before we talk to Gus. Why don’t you take a nap? Let me do some work.”

  Helen paid the garage fee. She had no intention of taking a nap like a child. She wasn’t sleepy. She was buzzing with energy. She would make Ahmet admit his part in Mark’s murder. She could do that. Phil was right. She had the personal touch when it came to interviewing people. Thanks to her, Bernie had spilled her story. She’d gotten Ahmet’s mother to admit she gave her son the murder weapon. Mrs. Yavuz said Ahmet shot Mark. Thanks to her clever questions, they had the whole story.

  If Helen told Phil what she planned to do this afternoon, he’d have a fit. Helen knew it was okay to visit Ahmet’s real estate office. Ahmet wouldn’t shoot her in broad daylight in the middle of Fort Lauderdale.

  CHAPTER 44

  Ahmet Yavuz was still a dealer. Now he sold something that had ruined almost as many lives as cocaine—Florida real estate. Buying and selling it was an addiction for many and destruction for some.

  Helen parked the Igloo on the lot at Yavuz Elegant Homes in downtown Fort Lauderdale. The two-story office had a green awning and a sign with fancy gold lettering: WE HANDLE FINE WATERFRONT PROPERTY.

  Helen’s jaunty PT Cruiser looked out of place among the lot’s shining, serious BMWs, Rolls-Royces and Mercedes.

  Helen wanted to meet Ahmet, the man who had destroyed so many lives.

  His waiting room belonged in a palace. Helen had never seen gilded French furniture like his outside a museum. Bewigged and beribboned aristocrats conducted frivolous flirtations on the tapestry mounted on the wall.

  The gorgeous redheaded receptionist reminded Helen of a young Bernie, her flamboyant beauty toned down by a tailored navy suit.

  “Do you have an appointment to view a property, Miss Hawthorne?” The receptionist’s voice was colder than the room’s well-regulated temperature. She correctly assessed Helen as low-rent—literally.

  “I have a quick question for Mr. Yavuz,” Helen said.

  “He prefers to meet by appointment,” the receptionist said.

  “It won’t take but a moment,” Helen insisted.

  The receptionist was too well trained to sigh. “I’ll see if he’s available,” she said and glided through the massive double doors opposite the tapestry. Helen tiptoed across the thick carpet and peered inside.

  Mark had been right. Ahmet was the devil—at least, Helen thought that’s how the devil would look. The dealer was an elegant older man with shining silver hair. His walnut skin looked hand polished and his suit was hand tailored. The receptionist approached him respectfully and relayed Helen’s request.

  “Come in, Ms. Hawthorne,” Ahmet said. “That is you eavesdropping at the door, isn’t it? A fitting pastime for a private investigator.”

  Ahmet’s office was even more opulent than the waiting area. His extravagantly carved and gilded desk was an antique. So were the chairs. He did not invite Helen to sit down.

  Ahmet had the glow only the very rich have. Helen studied his face for signs of evil. She saw only a businessman, gone a little fleshy from good living.

  “Ms. Hawthorne, I do not know why you are harassing me and my mother.”

  His voice was smooth and educated, his face impassive. Helen fought to keep her face immobile. She was still stunned that he knew she was a private eye.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Ms. Hawthorne. Mother told me about your chat. She was so excited that my old friend Helen Hawthorne called to see how she was. Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Hawthorne, but we never went to high school together. You’re from St. Louis. You and your husband Phil own Coronado Investigations. Your new agency has been getting a lot of favorable attention lately on television.

  “Mother said you didn’t really talk about old times, except for Mark and Bernie Behr. So very sad. That whole family is unhinged. First, their brother Mark tried to kill me. And we won’t speak of his unstable sister. Now the third brother, Gus, who still refuses to accept Mark’s unfortunate death, hired you to investigate matters that don’t concern you. You’ve been questioning my poor mother.

  “This has to stop, Ms. Hawthorne. I am an upstanding citizen. I do not have so much as a parking ticket.”

  “All that means is you haven’t been caught yet,” Helen said. She hoped her words would force Ahmet to react.

  Ahmet merely looked bored. Helen wanted to wipe that look off his face. “Your mother told me about the gun,” she said. “The .32 Mauser that killed Mark. She gave it to you.”

  Ahmet sighed. “When my dear mother called me today, I took her out to lunch. Mother and I agreed that I don’t spend enough time with her, but that’s going to change. She’s moving into the Evesham Home today, and I’ve promised to bring her grandson to visit once a week.”

  Helen froze. The Evesham was where rich South Floridians stashed their inconvenient relatives. It cost a fortune and looked like a plush resort, but it was the modern equivalent of locking the crazy relative in the attic. The Evesham was where the rich could hide the drunks, the drug impaired and the deranged.

  “Poor Mother drinks too much sometimes. When she does, she says the most outrageous things.” Ahmet’s voice was as soft as velvet. “Mother tripped in the parking lot of the restaurant after lunch and fell. She broke her arm. Bones ar
e so brittle at her age.

  “She needs extra care,” he said. “Especially now. It’s difficult to get into the Evesham Home, but I pulled a few strings. By now she should be in a lovely room overlooking the ocean. She has a bigscreen TV to watch her favorite shows. But she’s in a lot of pain. The doctor says she’ll have to take drugs for a while. He said not to worry. Mother will be fine, but she will sleep most of the time. She needs to sleep to recover her health.

  “Ms. Hawthorne, I had the resources to find out who you are and where you live in ten minutes. I had the money to get my mother into the Evesham today and they have a six-month waiting list. I have the power to pull your private eye license. Oh, wait, you don’t have one, do you? You’re merely a trainee. I have the power to pull your husband’s license and close your annoying little business.

  “I’m not threatening you, Ms. Hawthorne. I’m telling you, so you know where you stand. I always like to know that. I’m sure you do, too.”

  Helen’s last hope was gone. She couldn’t bluff Ahmet into saying anything. But she would not run away. She looked him in the eye and said, “You killed Mark Behr. And you will get yours.”

  Ahmet didn’t bother answering. He started laughing. It was loud and searing. Helen felt like he’d thrown acid on her. She’d been stripped naked by his contempt. She knew Ahmet would not harm her. She was not worth it.

  Helen left Ahmet’s office a complete failure. She could get nothing out of him because there was nothing in him. He was not some romantic figure of evil. He was a businessman. He’d killed Mark because it was expedient. He’d locked up his mother because she was inconvenient. He felt no guilt. He felt no remorse. It was just business.

  As she drove back to the Coronado, Helen felt a great heaviness overtake her. She fought to stay awake and prayed she’d make it home before she fell asleep at the wheel.

  Helen slept until seven o’clock, when Thumbs woke her up demanding his dinner. She fed the cat and saw the lights burning across the courtyard in the Coronado Investigations office. She remembered her encounter with Ahmet and felt hot with shame. She would never tell Phil what she’d done.