by Jay Giles
“Tomorrow. This same time. Impress upon him it is imperative he be available.”
“I will pass along your message, Mr. Albrecht,” she said, less flustered.
“Thank you, Maggie. Until tomorrow then.” He clicked off, seething.
The one time he needed to talk to that quack about something other than platitudes, he wasn’t available.
Albrecht picked up his glass, took a drink of Scotch. The doctor had better be available tomorrow evening. He couldn’t delay his schedule any longer than that.
CHAPTER 71
Hanna found Quentin Bayer, Longboat Key police chief, waiting for her in the condo lobby. “Agent Chance,” he said, extending his hand, “thanks for coming so quickly.”
Hanna shook hands with the chief. In his brief phone call to her earlier he’d said he had a lead on Marike Silber. That was all Hanna needed to hear. She’d stopped what she was doing, driven over to meet him. “No problem, chief. Appreciate the call.”
“Let me tell you what we’ve got,” Bayer said as they walked to the elevator. “A real estate agent showing a condo found a dead woman. Turns out the dead woman, Courtney Sheff, was a real estate agent, too, and yesterday, she showed that condo to an Inger Bloomstrom. We showed the guard at the gate the photo of Silber. He IDed her as Bloomstrom.” They entered the elevator. Bayer pressed the floor button. “Has to be the woman you’re looking for.”
“Sure sounds like it. Did the gate guard see her leave, as well?”
“He didn’t. But the guard who relieved him, did. She arrived at 1:00 p.m., left 6:45 p.m.”
“Long time. Any idea what she was doing all that time?”
Bayer grimaced. “Not yet.”
They reached their floor, exited. Bayer led her down the hall to an open door guarded by a uniformed officer, who nodded politely as they entered. Bayer showed Hanna to the dining room area where a man was down on his hands and knees, examining the body. “That’s Dan Lippson, our M.E. Dan, this is Agent Chance with the FBI. Anything you can tell us at this point?”
Lippson, a paunchy, balding man with a gray goatee that hid a weak chin, looked up. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said to Hanna. He pointed a rubber-gloved finger toward the victim’s neck. “Look at this.”
They both bent over.
“Puncture wound, probably a hypodermic needle.”
“Think that’s what killed her?” Bayer asked.
Lippson made a face. “Too early to tell. However, since it’s the only mark on her body, I wouldn’t rule it out.” He stood, turned to Hanna. “Are you going to want your people to handle the autopsy?”
“Not necessarily,” Hanna said, thinking it through. “I don’t mean to sound callous, but once Ms. Sheff got Silber in the building, Silber had no further use for her. How she killed her isn’t important. The question is why. Why this building? What was so important that Silber spent five-and-a-half hours here?”
“I did speak with Gordon Smith, the manager,” Bayer said. “No one has reported anything out of the ordinary.”
“No one would,” Hanna said. “Silber came to this building to get to someone who lives here. My guess is whatever happened happened behind closed doors.”
“Smith would have a list of tenants,” Bayer suggested.
They found Smith in his office. He was a slight man with a beer belly, puffy face, reddish-blond hair, nervous tic to his right eye. “Got a list right here,” he said agreeably when he heard their request. He handed it to Hanna. Bayer studied it over her shoulder.
Hanna scanned the list, felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise when she saw Robert Ruhl.
The name of the dead man they’d found with Beck last night had been Tom Ruhl.
“Bring your keys,” she told Smith, “I need you to let me into Robert Ruhl’s condo.”
Smith looked at her, frowned, reached for the phone. “Why don’t I call him, have him meet you at the door?”
“You can try,” Hanna said. “But it’s been my experience dead men don’t answer the phone or the door.”
CHAPTER 72
“I don’t like this,” Smith said, as he used his passkey on the door to Ruhl’s penthouse condo. When he saw Hanna draw her gun, his tic intensified. “I really don’t like this.” He turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open.
Hanna went in first, gun raised, Bayer followed her with his gun at the ready. The smell led them to Ruhl’s office. They found him on the floor, dead.
Wrapped around his neck was a piece of thin rubber tubing that had to be an oxygen line. On one end of the tubing, several feet from the body, was the cannula, the small rubber piece that fits in the nostrils. The rest of the tubing led out the door, down the hall. Hanna followed it, heard the distinctive Ping that indicated the oxygen was flowing, found a large tank in a hall closet.
She holstered her gun, got her cell phone, called the Bureau, was routed to dispatch. “It’s Hanna,” she said to the duty officer, “I’ve got a murder connected to the ones last night. I need Milt Walger and his team, immediately.”
While she waited, Hanna did a walk through of Ruhl’s double-unit condo, found it fascinating. The rooms were not only larger than any condo she’d ever seen, but they were also filled with elaborate collections.
In the entry hall, were framed photos, all inscribed “To Bob,” from: Cary Grant, John Wayne, Howard Hughes, Bill Gates, John Kennedy, Mike Ditka, Arthur Ashe, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly and Prince Ranier, Richard Nixon, John Glenn, Steven King, Leonard Bernstein, John Grisham, Frank Lloyd Wright. Two carved Gothic chairs, on either side of a display case that held forty ornate Faberge eggs, completed the room.
In the living room, the walls were covered with paintings, mostly impressionists. Hanna identified two Monet’s, a Cézanne. The furniture was English, antique. There were several upholstered pieces, a number of tables and chests. The wooden pieces were all beautifully grained, smelled of paste wax. On the floor was an elaborate needlepoint rug.
In the dining room, one entire wall housed antiquities—statues, jewelry, religious artifacts, coins, weaponry, armor—in floor-to-ceiling glass cases. The dining table was large, with twelve high-backed, ornately carved chairs.
In the kitchen, Hanna found elaborate cabinetry, granite counters, Sub Zero stainless steel appliances, a pot rack hanging above the center island. It was a very functional kitchen, one a gourmet cook would love. Off the kitchen was a large refrigerated wine room, filled to capacity.
The media room had theater seating, a large screen projection TV system. One wall was all VHS tapes, another DVDs. Hanna estimated, between the two formats, there might have been more than two thousand movies in the room.
In the office, an L-shaped built-in work service wrapped around two walls. On it were two Cray supercomputers, a lone Mac G5. The walls above the work service had been covered in cork. A massive collection of pictures, clippings, articles, notes, page grabs, and URLs was held in place with pushpins. On the opposite wall, a display case held antique fountain pens.
In the master bedroom, the walls were floor to ceiling bookcases. There were reference books, hardback best sellers, collectors’ editions. Not a paperback to be seen. The bed was king-size, with an elaborate carved headboard. Books were piled up on night tables on either side of the bed. An anti-gravity chair sat in front of sliding-glass doors offering a view down the beach. Next to the chair, a powerful telescope.
The closet off the bedroom was lined on four walls with expensive clothes. Hanna was surprised to find one wall all suits, dress shirts, ties. In the room’s center, an island with drawers. On top, a display case housed a watch collection. Hanna read the names: Patek Philippe, Cartier, Tag Heuer, Rolex, Baume & Mercier, Breitling, Bulgari, Omega, Piaget. Her Timex felt insignificant on her wrist as she walked back to the office, tried to make sense of this.
Why would a man with such wealth be involved in a kidnapping?
CHAPTER 73
Milt Walger’s round face wa
s split by a frown as he used his index finger to push his glasses up on his nose. His gaze kept darting back to those two Cray supercomputers. “We’re going to need Josh,” he told Hanna.
Josh Bramitt, the office’s IT director, was extremely knowledgeable about computers, but worked at a snail’s pace. Hanna shook her head in exasperation. “Too slow.” She used her cell to call the office. “I’ll get Sean to help us with this.”
Now it Walger’s turn. “Sean,” he snorted in disgust. “That baby. He’ll contaminate the crime scene.”
Hanna shot him a look.
Walger backed off. “Your call,” he said and turned his attention back to Lee Tayler the photographer. “Get the body, the walls.” He indicated the corked areas with a sweep of his arm. “Get anything on the work surface.” He looked past Tayler. “Karen. Soon as he’s finished, start dusting this tube for prints.” To the group: “Anyone know when Doc C. is due to arrive?” Charlie Coates was the FBI’s Medical Examiner.
“I think he was finishing the autopsy on Beck when we left,” said Drew Stafinsky, one of the team’s junior members.
Walger rubbed his chin some more. “Let’s go people. Lots to do before he gets here.”
Hanna watched them get started. “Milt, I’m going to see if I can find someone to give me background on Mr. Ruhl. I shouldn’t be long. Call me on the cell if you need me.”
He nodded.
Hanna left, took the elevator down to the lobby, found Gordon Smith in his office. He looked startled when she walked in. “Mr. Smith. I’d like to talk with one of Mr. Ruhl’s friends, someone who knew him well. Who might that be?”
“Harry Costella is the guy you want,” Smith offered without hesitation. “He and Ruhl go back years. What me to call, see if he’s home?” He asked, already reaching for the phone.
Hanna smiled. “That would be a great help.”
Smith dialed, waited, said loudly, “Harry. Got a lady here from the FBI who needs to talk to you. Why? She’ll tell you that. I’m going to walk her up to your place. You decent?” He listened, chuckled, hung up. Looked at Hanna, shook his head. “Harry’s a bit deaf, bit forgetful. On a few occasions, he’s forgotten his clothes, answered the door in his birthday suit. Other than that, sharp as a tack.”
Harry turned out to be a small, wrinkled man, wisps of white hair fluttering about his ears. His skin was gray, eyes rheumy, voice gravelly. He was dressed in a shirt that might have been older than Hanna, plaid Bermuda shorts, dark socks pulled high on his bony legs. They sat in living room, the drapes drawn. Even in the dim light, Hanna could see a thick layer of dust over everything.
“Tell me about your friend Robert,” she coaxed loudly.
Harry gave a knowing smile. “A shrewd businessman. A humanitarian. A legend, really. Where do you want me to start?”
Hanna knew exactly where she wanted him to start. “Tell me how he made his money.”
CHAPTER 74
Miles spent the afternoon at the gym, on the stepper, carrying a 60lb. backpack. His tee shirt and shorts were soaked with sweat, his hair hung down in his eyes. His step, however, never slowed. He treated himself to a drink of Gatoraide, looked at his watch. He’d been on the stepper for a little over two hours, had an hour to go.
He screwed the lid back on the bottle of Gatoraide, shifted his pack to a more comfortable position, was thinking about cranking the machine up a notch when his cell rang. He answered, heard: “Mr. Marin, this is Millie from the National Cremation Society calling, following up on your call the other day concerning Mr. Lohse.”
Miles had forgotten about Lohse’s final arrangements, was surprised Albrecht hadn’t called him back about the power of attorney. “Thank you for calling, Mille,” he said politely, “unfortunately, I’m still waiting on that power of attorney you need. It has to come from Germany.”
“We understand, Mr. Marin. Not to worry. Is there a time that would be good to follow up with you?”
“I should have it in a day or two—”
“Why don’t I give you a call first part of next week?”
“That would be great, thanks Millie.” Miles rang off, looked at the cell’s recently called numbers, found Albrecht’s, dialed. He heard the phone ring, click over as it was forwarded. Once again, the answering machine picked up. Miles left a detailed message about the power of attorney, asked Albrecht to call as soon as possible, rang off.
Why hadn’t Albrecht returned his calls?
• • •
Albrecht heard Miles leave his message. He was in the galley of his sailboat preparing a bite to eat, could have picked up, chose not to. Instead, he made himself a sandwich of cold cuts, grabbed a bottle of beer, headed back up on deck.
He had a good five hours of sailing before he reached port. That would put him dockside early evening, give him time to have dinner, pack, tidy up a few loose ends before his charter ended in the morning.
CHAPTER 75
“Bob got rich before I met him,” Harry Costella said. He got out a big white handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, looked carefully at the results, stuck the handkerchief back in the pocket of his shorts. “While I knew him he only got richer,” he added with a grin.
“Doing what?” Hanna asked.
“Well, a little of this, little of that. He had his hand in a lot of pots, you see. He was in import/export, land development, manufacturing, even movies. Bob had the touch. Everything, and I do mean everything, he touched turned to gold.”
“Any idea of his net worth?”
Harry nodded several times, “Somewhere above $300 million.”
“Wow.”
“After he retired, he doubled his money in the stock market. Every now and then, he’d say to me, ‘Harry, buy this or that.’ I always did it, always made money on his tips.”
“Mr. Smith said you two were good friends.”
“The best. We had good time, Bob and me.”
“What did the two of you do together?”
“Golf. We’d play at the drop of a hat. We played all the famous courses, too. Bob would charter a plane. We’d fly off, play Firestone, Pebble Beach. Of course, that was before Bob’s troubles started.”
“His troubles?”
“Well, he was a smoker all his life. One of his businesses had something to do with tobacco. I’m not sure what, but I do know Bob liked to smoke. Lit one cigarette from the last. Don’t think I ever saw him without a cigarette in his hand. Then the breathing problems started.”
“Emphysema?”
“Yeah. Oh, it was bad, too. Bob went through hell trying to quit. Finally, had to. They took out half a lung, put him on oxygen.”
“He had lung cancer?”
“Spot on his lung, yeah.” He nodded, got a far away look in his eyes. “When he got his strength back—after he had the operation—we palled around again, did things. When we went out, he’d use this little portable oxygen tank. I was with him when the thing conked out. Just quit giving him air. Bob couldn’t breath. I rushed him to the hospital. Got him there in time. But it scared him something terrible. Wouldn’t trust those portable oxygen outfits ever again. Started staying in his condo.” He shook his head. “He hasn’t left his place in, gosh, five years. Maybe longer.”
“What did he do cooped up in there all day?”
Harry got out his handkerchief, blew his nose again, wadded up the handkerchief, stuck it back in his pocket. “Books and movies, at first. Some cards. Then he discovered the internet, spent all day at the computer.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing everything, that’s what. He founded two computer companies, had sixty people working for him at one point. Pretty impressive, huh?”
Hanna smiled encouragingly, nodded.
“He started collecting over the internet. I remember, there for a while it was fountain pens. Then he wanted something more challenging and he got into relics. He was buying these ancient statues and crosses from all over the world. I told him some of that stuff wa
s from robbed graves, probably illegal. Hell, he didn’t care. It was the chase, the acquisition that turned him on.”
“Did he make financial transactions over the internet?”
“Sure. Handled banking and brokerage that way. One of those big computers up there?”
“Yes.”
“Strictly to handle his financial stuff. Needed a whole computer just for that.”
“What did he do on the other computers?”
“The other big one he used to buy and sell stuff. The little one was his computer game.”
“Computer game? What kind of computer game?”
“Couldn’t tell you. But I know that little computer was where he played his games, competed with other people on other computers. He’d play a game for days at a time. He really got into it. Loved it.”
“When was the last time you two were together?”
Harry screwed up his face. “Well, we talked on the phone every day. Last time I was up to his place was, maybe, a week ago.”
“Was he in good spirits? Anything troubling him?”
“You mean other than getting old?”
Hanna smiled.
“Nah, he was feeling good.”
“Tell me about his son Tom. Did you know him, well?”
“Tommy, sure. Apple of his father’s eye. He lives in Europe, Paris, I think, running his Dad’s import/export company. I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, but I know he and his Dad talked on the phone a lot. Close relationship those two.”
“Did Bob have any other children?”
“No. Just Tommy.”
“What about Mrs. Ruhl? What can you tell me about her?”
“Not a hell of a lot. Bob didn’t talk about her. She died years ago, before I met him.”
“Was there another lady in his life?”
Harry wheezed. Only later did Hanna realize he was laughing. “With his money, are you kidding. In the old days, women were always trying to get at him. But that all stopped. Bob didn’t like them seeing him on oxygen. I don’t think he’d seen a woman since the operation.”