Hot Property

by Sherryl Woods

  “Where have you three been? It took ten years off my life, when I came I here and you were missing. I knocked on every door in the hall. No one had seen you. You promised you’d stay here tonight until I got here.”

  “We went down to the garage,” Molly said meekly, as Liza challenged Brian to a video game and left her alone with Michael.

  “Why?”

  “It occurred to me we might have missed something the last time.”

  “Did we?”

  “Not in the greenhouse.” She told him what they’d found in the storage shed and the significance she’d attributed to it.

  “Could be,” he admitted. “Where’s the budget?”

  She found the papers and handed them to him, then waited in silence as he went over the items under supplies. “Hell, I don’t know what I’m looking for. I need cleanser, I buy one can of whatever’s on sale. I have no idea what constitutes a good deal for a place like this.”

  “But Manny Mendoza would know.”

  Michael nodded. “It all keeps coming back to him, doesn’t it? I suppose it couldn’t hurt to stop by for an unofficial chat.”

  He was halfway to the door before he realized that Molly was right where he’d left her. He grinned. “You, too. It’ll look less official that way. Besides, then I’ll know exactly where you are.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  The Mendozas were having a party. At least fifty people were crowded into their penthouse apartment, sipping brandy, following what had apparently been a lavish dinner. The heavy scent of Cuban cigar smoke drifted into the room, even though the smokers had been sent to the balcony for their after-dinner indulgence.

  “Molly, how lovely to see you again,” Rosa said, looking surprised but delighted. “And Detective O’Hara, isn’t it?”

  Michael nodded. “Good evening, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry to intrude, but I need to speak with your husband for a moment. Alone, if that’s possible.”

  “Why don’t I show you into the den, then?”

  As they crossed the living room, Michael greeted several of the Latin men whom Molly recognized as developers and bankers. As soon as Rosa had ushered them into the den and offered them something to drink, she said, “I think Manny’s out on the balcony. I’ll send him right in.”

  When Rosa had gone, Molly said, “There were enough power brokers in that room to buy and sell downtown Miami.”

  “That’s probably exactly what they were doing. A lot of deals get made in social settings just like this.”

  Manny Mendoza came into the room just then, an unlit cigar firmly clamped between his teeth. He took it out and dropped it into an ashtray. “Rosa insisted I give them up. Can’t break the habit, though,” he muttered. He eyed the offending cigar as if it were responsible for his weakness. Then he smiled. Molly had seen expressions like that before on posters of benign dictators.

  “Now, then,” he said, taking a seat behind an oversize desk. Under other circumstances the desk’s size might be functional. Tonight it was also intimidating, separating him from them, even though his words demonstrated a spirit of cooperation.

  “What can I do for you?” he inquired. Shrewd brown eyes seemed to be assessing both Michael and Molly. He dismissed her and concentrated on the detective.

  Michael leaned forward. “Mr. Mendoza, I’d like to ask you a few more questions about the night of Allan’s murder. I believe you told me you had a meeting that night.”

  “Yes, a committee of the Latin Developers Association.”

  “In a Little Havana restaurant, is that right?”

  “Versailles, yes.”

  “Do any of the other men who attended that meeting happen to be here tonight?”

  Mendoza’s eyes darkened with quick anger, but his voice remained impassive. “Quite a few of them, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’d appreciate it, if you would point them out to me in a moment.”

  “Friend,” Mendoza began in a decidedly unfriendly tone, then, “amigo.” With a glance at Molly he launched into a barrage of Spanish. He spoke too rapidly for her to follow what he was saying, but the increasingly furious expression on Michael’s face suggested that Mendoza had made a very bad miscalculation.

  “Mr. Mendoza, that is not how I conduct police business,” Michael said. Since his own Spanish was flawless, Molly had the feeling he was deliberately using English as a slap in the man’s face. “I don’t intentionally set out to get Hispanics, nor will I accept a bribe to protect them, and I resent the hell out of the fact that you think I would. Maybe greasing palms is the way you got things done in Cuba. Maybe it still oils wheels for you in Miami. It doesn’t cut shit with me.”

  Mendoza looked offended, though Molly wasn’t sure whether it was by the accusation or the obscenity. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Detective, please. I meant no offense. I merely asked that you do nothing here tonight. Some critical business matters hang in the balance. I would hate to have them go the wrong way because of your ill-timed questions.”

  “If world peace hung in the balance, you might not be able to stop me from asking,” Michael said, tension radiating from every indignant pore. “I will make every attempt not to upset anyone, but I’m trying to find a killer and some of your guests might be able to help.”

  “Only if you think that I am the killer, isn’t that right? You wish to check my alibi?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And can you not see that someone wishing to do business with me might have grave second thoughts if it were suggested that I might be involved in a murder investigation? Could you not call these people tomorrow? I will give you a list. It would be a favor to me, one I would not forget.”

  “I told you—”

  “I know, and I apologize for any misunderstanding. I see now that you are a man of principle. That does not mean that at some time in the future I would not be able to pay you back for your kindness tonight, perhaps with a word in the right ear.”

  No matter how Mendoza tried to polish it up, it still sounded like bribery to Molly. She watched Michael’s reaction. He continued to look as if he’d tasted water tainted with pond scum.

  Sensing that he might be close to victory, despite Michael’s expression of distaste, Mendoza said persuasively, “Perhaps you would like to stay, mingle a bit. You could observe, perhaps even ask a discreet question or two. I could trust you to be very discreet, could I not?”

  “Fine,” Michael said.

  “That is wonderful,” Mendoza said enthusiastically, beaming at his success. Molly doubted that he experienced losing often. “Come with me. I will have Enrique give you a drink.”

  At the mention of the guard’s name Molly and Michael exchanged glances. Perhaps they would learn more tonight than they’d anticipated only moments earlier.

  Michael hesitated at the door to the den. “Where were you last night, Mr. Mendoza?”

  “At the condo meeting. You were there, Detective. I’m quite sure you saw me.”

  “And after the meeting?”

  “Rosa and I went to dinner, alone.”

  “Do you happen to have a credit card slip from the restaurant?”

  “I always pay in cash, unless it is for business. However, you could ask. The waiters all know us. They would tell you we were there until nearly midnight. Now, please, follow me.”

  In the living room, he introduced them to several couples as if they were merely late-arriving guests, then pointed the way to the bar. “Enjoy yourselves. I am delighted you were able to stop by after all.”

  On their way to the bar, which had been set up near the balcony doors, Molly held Michael back. “Why did you agree to his terms?”

  “For one thing, I spotted Enrique as we came in. I wanted a chance to speak with him. For another, it was clear we were getting nowhere with Mendoza. I didn’t want his guests getting out of here tonight without my talking with them even if I have to do it discreetly and under Mendoza’s watchful eye. Y
ou know some of these people, don’t you?”

  “Some.”

  “Then you might do a little mingling yourself. See what you can pick up.”

  “About Mendoza’s alibi for the night of Allan’s murder?”

  “And last night.”

  Molly nodded. “Anybody in particular you’d like me to approach?”

  “Take your pick,” he said, handing her a snifter of brandy. He rolled his own expertly around the glass, then took a sip. “God, I hate this stuff. Enrique, I don’t suppose you have any beer tucked behind there.”

  With that he turned his back on Molly and began a friendly conversation with the fired security guard. Left to her own devices, Molly mingled, listening to the flow of conversation around her, much of it in Spanish. Occasionally the sentences would drift from Spanish to English and back again, as if the speaker could express some things more clearly in one language than in another or was, perhaps, unaware of the switches entirely.

  It was the head of the Latin Builders Association, a man with whom she’d often dealt when looking for special locations for various producers, who finally approached her. “Molly, you are looking lovely this evening,” Xavier Nunez said, brushing his lips across her fingers in an old-world courtly gesture.

  Despite the sincerity of the compliment, Molly suddenly realized how inappropriately she was dressed. The other women in the room wore fancy cocktail dresses, dangerously high heels, and enough gold jewelry to pay for a low-budget motion picture. Feeling the need to explain, she gestured at her slacks and blouse and picked up on Mendoza’s earlier lead. “I was on a night shoot for a film and was able to get away at the last minute. Manny said to come by no matter how late it was.”

  “You would be beautiful no matter what you wore, señora. How is the movie business these days?”

  “Picking up all the time.”

  “I have an interesting home you should visit. The architecture is very modern, very Miami. It is almost complete, but the owner will not take possession for a few months yet. I am sure he would be agreeable to having it used in a film. In fact I think he would find it most amusing. I could take you one day next week if you like.”

  Molly was only half listening by the time he finished. Distracted, she murmured her thanks and moved across the room in the direction in which she’d seen Jack Kingsley go with Manny Mendoza. Why would the manager of the condominium be at a party with the Mendozas and their high-powered friends? She went down the hallway after him, pausing outside the door to the den. It was closed, but she could hear the murmur of voices. If she recalled correctly, there was a bathroom connecting the den and the bedroom next door. Perhaps she could hear more clearly from in there.

  Glancing down the hallway, she slipped into the bedroom and peered cautiously through the open doorway to the bath. The door to the den was closed. She went into the bathroom and checked to make sure both doors were locked. Then she listened.

  “The board wasn’t happy with that last supply,” Kingsley said. “You’ll have to increase the quality this time or I’ll have trouble getting an approval.”

  “You forget that I am back. I will sign off. If I send you a higher grade material, that increases the cost to me. The increase will have to come out of your cut.”

  “No,” Kingsley said. “It comes out of your share. You do what you have to do or I’ll find a supplier who can come through for me.”

  “And who will sign the papers for you?” Mendoza countered. “You lost money those months when Allan was in charge. The college bills for your children did not stop, however, did they? Be sensible, my friend, or one of these days you’re going to go too far. In many ways these penny-ante deals of yours are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Suddenly the picture came clear to Molly. It was the manager, not Mendoza, who’d been behind the purchasing decisions, obviously with Mendoza’s cooperation. Mendoza’s company was apparently getting its own share of the take.

  With his business background and distaste for waste and mismanagement, Allan Winecroft had probably figured out the scam the first time he’d taken a good look at the books. Certainly he would have noticed the first time a major bid came in for supplies and was submitted from Mendoza’s firm without competing bids. Even if he hadn’t yet figured out who was responsible, if he’d objected strenuously, it would have threatened Kingsley’s way of doing business. If he was raking in thousands of dollars a year in kickbacks, that was certainly motive enough for murder. Mendoza had a motive also. Had Allan exposed his role in the scheme, it would have damaged his reputation as a legitimate businessman.

  But what about opportunity? Which man had that? And how had either of them known about the matching knives? Was there a set in Kingsley’s apartment? Or maybe even in this one? The two of them clearly worked together in everything else. What about the murder? Could they have plotted it together?

  Molly slipped out of the bathroom and made her way to the kitchen, where the caterers were just cleaning up. She smiled brightly. “Excuse me, I just wanted to get a plain glass of water. Would you mind?”

  One of the women nodded politely, got a glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice and bottled water. Molly sipped it slowly as she glanced around. “This is really quite a kitchen. Mrs. Mendoza has obviously done a lot in here. You must enjoy working for her.”

  “Sí,” the woman said. “She has only the best.”

  Molly’s gaze focused on the butcher block table at the back of the room. A wooden knife holder sat on it. The handles sticking up looked exactly like her own. “Oh, are those those Swiss knives?” she said, already moving toward them. “I’ve been wanting to buy some, but they’re outrageously expensive. Are they good?”

  The caterer looked puzzled, but nodded. “Sí, very good, very sharp.”

  Sharp enough to cut through human muscle anyway, Molly thought with a shudder. One by one she lifted them up, glancing at the blades. The paring knife was there, the utility knife, a bread knife, and a meat cleaver. The serrated knife and the carving knife were missing. Either Mendoza was behind the murders after all or Kingsley had had access to his kitchen on occasions other than tonight. Judging from the conversation she’d just heard between the two, it was likely that they met often. In fact, when Mendoza had been president of the board they would have had plenty of opportunities to plan and scheme together without anyone suspecting a thing.

  Once he’d been voted off the board and was no longer able to protect Kingsley’s unwise decisions, perhaps Mendoza had become a threat, too. She had just heard him suggest that he was about to cut the flow of money into the manager’s hands by ending the sweetheart deals he’d been making. By implicating him in the murder of Allan, the manager would have rid himself of all interference so that his shady business could continue as usual. Or Mendoza could have decided to take matters into his own hands.

  Her pulse racing with the excitement of her discovery, she went back into the living room and looked for Michael. Though the crowd was much thinner than when they’d arrived, she didn’t spot him immediately. She was so busy looking, though, that she didn’t see Kingsley coming up beside her. Before she realized he was there, his hand was under her elbow and he was wordlessly guiding her toward the balcony. Uneasy with his peremptory manner and filled with her own suspicions, she balked at the door.

  “Please,” he said then, smiling. “You look pale. A little air will be good for you. I’m sure you’re distraught over seeing Ingrid like that last night.”

  “I’ve survived,” she said, hanging back. He urged her forward. They were only twelve floors up, but for Molly that was several stories too many. She stayed as far from the metal railing as she could, her back pressed tight against the wall.

  “No, my dear, you must see the view,” Kingsley said, gesturing widely. “Because it’s on a northwest corner, you can see the Coconut Grove skyline across the bay. It really is lovely from here, especially at night.”

  At Molly’s failu
re to respond, a flicker of shrewd awareness sparked in his eyes. “Oh, that’s right,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “Heights make you nervous, don’t they?”

  Molly was trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She stared at the floor. Every time she dared a glance at Kingsley himself, she glimpsed beyond him and automatically calculated the drop to the ground. Dizziness swept over her.

  “How do you know that?” she asked, her voice choked.

  “I believe you mentioned it when you moved in. You said you could never live on a floor higher than the fire ladders could reach. That’s why you picked the apartment on five, even though we had one available with a nicer view and a better deal.”