Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  No shock there. “We’re not on the best of terms.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He strikes me as the type of guy who’d accuse his own mother of committing the crime.”

  Detective Gleason stuck his head in the doorway. “You about done, Jack?” he asked. “The medical examiner wants to talk to you before they remove the body.”

  Jack waved him off. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.” He drained the last of his coffee and gave me a strange look.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You never told me why you’re working here. I thought you had a good job with Gladstone Engineering.” He knew I liked engineering and that I’d done well financially. My income had always been better than his city paycheck.

  I didn’t want to go into all the gory details. “Gladstone felt they could do better overseas and my job went bye-bye.”

  “So concierge here was the answer?” His tone suggested he found the idea absurd. I was fairly certain he was unaware that I’d been the project engineer during BellaVilla’s construction. If he had known, he’d have given me more grief about the switch. “You couldn’t get anything better with your skills?”

  I sighed. “I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore. It makes a difference to the hiring managers.”

  “They must be blind.” He flashed me a dimpled grin. “You still look like a hot chick to me.”

  Pure Irish blarney. I stood and took his mug to the sink. “Didn’t Gleason say the medical examiner wants to see you?”

  “Hold on,” Jack said. “Seriously, how bad are things? You still have the house, right?”

  “For now,” I admitted. “But I can’t lose this job if I have any hope of saving it.” As I rinsed out his mug, I added, “So you see, murdering a resident isn’t exactly in my best interests.”

  Jack rubbed his bristled chin. “You know,” he said, “I may be able to help.”

  I shook my head vigorously, wishing I’d never confided in him. “No way! I don’t need any help from you.” I started to pick up the trays Marcus had dropped. “Our little chat is over.”

  He grabbed my arm. “Wait. I want to hire you.”

  “What?” The sugar had gone straight to his head. “Are you crazy?” I said, prying loose from his grasp.

  “It’s a great idea,” he said. “We pay informants all the time. As concierge, you’re in the perfect position to be my eyes and ears here.”

  “You want me to spy for you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way. You’d just be keeping me in the loop. You know the staff and residents are going to talk about what happened tonight with every other breath they take. Any tidbit you can throw my way just might solve this case. And you’d earn some dough in the process.”

  “No. Definitely not a good idea.”

  As Jack headed for the door, he said, “Just think about it, will you? We can’t lose our home.”

  We? Our?

  I did think about it. All the way back to my home. No matter how desperately I needed extra income, working as an informant seemed not only totally bizarre, but totally the wrong way to keep him out of my life where he belonged. By the time I fell into bed, I had given his proposal all the thought needed. The answer was still unequivocally no.

  The BellaVilla Bulletin

  Dear Residents,

  As you know, BellaVilla resident Mr. Vasily Petrov was tragically killed at the HOA social on Saturday evening. On behalf of the management team, staff, and residents, we offer our sincere condolences to the family and friends of Mr. Petrov. He will be missed at BellaVilla.

  Please be assured that management takes your safety and security very seriously. While we do not believe there were any breaches in our security system that may have contributed to this unfortunate incident, efforts are under way to review all of our policies and procedures. The management and staff are cooperating fully with law enforcement personnel, and feel confident that the perpetrator of this heinous act will be captured soon.

  If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact me directly or bring them to the attention of Lead Concierge Peter Westerfield.

  William Matthews, Facility Manager

  MEMO

  To: Concierge Staff

  From: Peter Westerfield

  Subject: Security

  While the unfortunate death of one of our residents at the HOA social is distressing for all of us, it is of particular concern to management. Any event that endangers our residents reflects badly on our staff. Management is currently reviewing all of our security systems with an eye to determining if anyone carelessly or deliberately violated company policy.

  I would like to reemphasize the importance of following all of BellaVilla’s security measures. If you notice anything suspicious or have questions about the proper protocols, you must contact me immediately. It is our responsibility to guarantee the safety of our residents, and I expect all of you to do your best to ensure this is the case.

  Although you are to cooperate with law enforcement, it is against company policy to discuss this case with each other or any of our residents. Further, do not allow media representatives on site at any time. You are expressly forbidden to talk with any reporter or other media representatives, either on duty or off. Violation of this policy will terminate your employment contract immediately.

  CONFESSION #6

  Twenty-four-hour security is an illusion.

  Jack was right. Vasily’s murder was topic number one at BellaVilla and just about everywhere else in town. Homicide didn’t happen that often in the affluent Seattle suburbs so when it did, it was big news. The Seattle Times carried an extensive write-up and the local TV channels all carried the story. Blood leads.

  The mysterious and brutal murder of a wealthy member of the community in one of the most elegant and supposedly secure buildings in the area raised a lot of uncomfortable questions for BellaVilla’s management team. That Vasily’s naked and blood-soaked body was found in a dimly lit massage room added a tantalizing sexual element to the case. The only thing that would’ve been more scandalous was if Vasily had been a politician or televangelist involved in a deadly love triangle with a prostitute. Or, better yet, a gay prostitute.

  In any event, the story “had legs,” as the journalists say, and looked destined to make headlines for weeks to come. Reporters banged on the lobby doors of both towers on a daily basis, pleading for an interview with anybody at BellaVilla who’d step up to the microphone. Failing that, they accosted one and all who ventured outside, where they waited, perched like vultures with their cameras and notebooks at the ready.

  Peter reacted to the drama in his usual nervous but self-important manner. He hurriedly called a staff meeting and reminded us that he spoke for upper management, meaning he was the boss and we’d better listen up. He droned on and on, needlessly repeating everything in his memo. Basically, his message was: keep your trap shut if you value your job. Fat chance. It was all everyone talked about, every hour of every day. Just like Jack had predicted.

  As before, I resisted all attempts to draw me into the rampant speculation. But it had nothing to do with Peter or his pompous admonitions. I’d come to believe that a good concierge spends more time listening and observing than talking. As I saw it, the concierge has a responsibility to maintain the trust and privacy of the residents served. That meant no gossiping or divulging of confidential information learned through the daily performance of duties. Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not some halo-wearing goody-goody. I just knew how I’d feel if the positions were reversed.

  Although I’d answered all of Jack’s questions truthfully, I didn’t reveal anything juicy that I’d learned in the brief time I’d worked at BellaVilla. I could’ve told him about so-and-so’s wife who was having an affair, the board member who had a drinking problem, the resident who had once lived in a homeless shelter, or any number of other private matters, but none of it seemed relevant to the investigation.

  Ha
ving said that, I did have my suspicions about certain residents, and Dr. Ronald Dean was at the top of my list. As far as I knew, he hadn’t done anything that could be considered suspicious. I just didn’t like the man. He was a semi-retired architect and chairman of the architectural committee, which he thought gave him certain privileges.

  The purpose of his committee was “to ensure that the integrity of the complex was maintained.” In short, anything that detracted from the intent and design of BellaVilla was not allowed. The committee members periodically patrolled all of the common areas—hallways, fitness center, theater, lounge, ballroom—to note any deviations from the Italian theme. They looked for such things as unacceptable doormats or decorations on unit doors, inappropriate or the wrong color drapes or blinds, and shoes, bikes, or strollers stowed in the hallways.

  As soon as I saw Dr. Dean walking toward the concierge desk a few days after Vasily’s murder, I knew there’d be a problem. At forty or so, he was a blond George Clooney lookalike, which was the best thing he had going for him. His manly features were overshadowed by an inflated ego and exaggerated sense of entitlement—two traits that often collided with my sense of justice and fair play. His blatant misuse of his position on the committee only encouraged me to poke at his ego whenever I could.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dean.”

  “It’s DOCTOR DEAN!”

  Bite me. “Oh, right. I keep forgetting you have a PhD.” You might have a doctorate, but PhD in your case stands for Piled higher and Deeper.

  “I want you to put this notice in everyone’s mailbox,” he said, dropping a stack of notebook-size paper on my desk.

  I picked one up and started to skim the document, but he snatched it away before I could finish.

  “Now!” he insisted.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, smiling tightly. “But I’m not allowed to open residents’ mailboxes.”

  “Who says?”

  “The United States Postal Service.”

  “That’s outrageous! I’m in charge of policies here. The government has no right to interfere with how we conduct business at BellaVilla.”

  Oh, boy. “I understand, Mr.—I mean, Dr. Dean. I’d be more than happy to distribute the notices for you, but I can’t access the mailboxes without a key, which the postal service won’t authorize.” I rubbed my chin as if to give the dilemma my utmost consideration. “But there may be a way around the government regulations.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I can post the notice where everyone is sure to see it—on the elevators, in all the common areas, and on the mailroom door itself.”

  He didn’t care for my obvious solution, but agreed it was the best I could do for him, short of leaving the notices on each resident’s doorstep—a violation of the architectural committee’s own rules. And there was a bunch of them.

  Dr. Dean’s pet peeve was residents who left their shoes outside their unit door. He made a point of confiscating any unsavory footwear he saw and depositing them at the concierge desk. A letter to the miscreant soon followed, but I’d have to deal with the shoeless resident long before they received the confiscation notice. One resident, Charlie Akana, was a repeat offender.

  “Somebody really likes my shoes,” he said. “No sooner do I take them off and poof!” He snapped his fingers. “They disappear just like that.” After the third time it happened, Dr. Dean told me not to return the shoes when Charlie came to the concierge desk to collect them.

  “When he doesn’t get his shoes back, maybe he’ll start following protocol,” Dr. Dean said.

  I didn’t like his solution since it put me in the middle of the issue. Charlie was from American Samoa, and although gentle by nature, he was big and brawny with a menacing look about him, which came in handy since he was a defensive lineman for the Seattle Seahawks. Not a man I wanted to cross. Nevertheless, I complied with Dr. Dean’s instructions.

  “What do you mean, I can’t have my shoes?” Charlie asked.

  I explained Dr. Dean’s reasoning.

  The gentle giant exploded. “That’s fucking ridiculous!”

  I stepped back from the desk a bit and he quickly apologized. “Excuse my French.” He thought a moment and then said, “I know how to handle this.” He didn’t bother to explain and I was afraid to ask if it involved violence.

  The next day, Dr. Dean rescinded his instructions. I was free to give Charlie his shoes anytime he requested them, but there was no need for him to do so. He never had his shoes confiscated again. No one did. The committee decided that shoes in the hallway were acceptable at BellaVilla after all.

  “Why do you think the policy suddenly changed?” asked Moze.

  “I don’t know for sure,” I said. “But certain members of a certain committee now have season tickets for a certain football team.”

  “Sam’s really got these people figured out,” Moze said. “Money solves all problems.”

  “And causes a few, too,” I said.

  Moze laughed. “Especially if you’ve got more problems than dough.”

  In the days following the murder, Jack and his partner were on site several times. They’d made an extensive search of Vasily’s penthouse, reviewed security tapes (unfortunately, no cameras were installed in the massage room for privacy reasons), and interviewed staff and residents. Some residents were called in to headquarters for additional questioning, which set off a whole new round of speculation by my coworkers.

  I hadn’t spoken to Jack since the night of the murder, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d make contact again. Jack was the persistent type. Once he got an idea in his head, he wouldn’t let it go. Another discussion about my role as in-house informant was a given. I probably couldn’t avoid him, but I could make sure our so-called discussion was short. As in one-word short—no!

  A week into the investigation, he stopped by the concierge desk at the end of my shift. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said, gathering up my handbag and shrugging into my coat. I don’t know why I thought he’d get the hint that my shift had ended and I was headed home. Hints were wasted on men like Jack Doyle. I’d learned early on in our relationship that if I wanted him to do anything, like close a window, I couldn’t just say I was freezing. I had to come right out and tell him to shut the dang thing or do it myself. “I’m leaving now. My shift’s over.”

  “Good. Then you’re free to have a cup of coffee with me. There’s a Starbucks right around the corner.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Got a hot date?”

  “Look, I can save you some time and the cost of an overpriced latte. The answer to your offer is still no.”

  “Okay. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s go have a drink.” He flashed me one of his winning smiles. “For old times’ sake.”

  I couldn’t trust him one little bit. Nothing was out of the way. He’d played me too many times in the past. But damn, he sure looked good, even though he was a walking cliché. His shaggy mop needed a trim, his rumpled suit had a button missing, his shirt collar was frayed, and his Florsheims were scuffed and dirty. But the disheveled detective look was part of his charm, sort of like a scroungy but lovable puppy you can’t resist picking up and taking home. I hesitated a little too long. He took my arm and steered me toward the door.

  “Wait,” I protested. “I didn’t agree to go anywhere with you.”

  “You’re not,” he said. “I’m going with you.”

  One of the reporters saw us exit the lobby and shoved a microphone in Jack’s face. “What’s the status of the investigation, Detective?” He pointed at me with his free hand. “Have you arrested her for the Petrov murder? What’s her name?”

  Jack gave his standard non-answer and shouldered past him. “No comment.”

  The guy started to follow us, but Jack advised him to back off as only Jack could do. “Leave us the hell alone!” he began. It got more specific from there. Something about where the guy
could put his microphone that sounded impossible, if not painful.

  Once we were seated at Starbucks, I said, “You could’ve told the reporter I wasn’t under arrest.”

  “Nah,” he said. “Those newshounds will put their own spin on it no matter what I say.” He broke apart a cranberry scone and offered me half. “You’ll probably make the paper anyway.” He formed a frame with his hands for an imaginary headline. “‘Beautiful Redhead Led Away by Police.’”

  “Oh, please. More like ‘Old Woman Led Away by Police.’”

  “Why do you put yourself down all the time? You have a lot going for you, Kate. “Looks, brains, personality—you’ve got the whole enchilada. And you’re not old, either.”

  “Flattery. An Irishman’s stock and trade.”

  He shook his head. “No, an Irishman’s honest assessment. Which reminds me, have you given my proposal any more thought?”

  As if you needed reminding why you dragged me in here! I glared at him over the rim of my coffee cup. “You heard me earlier. The answer was no.”

  He affected an innocent face and tone. “You said the answer to my offer was no. I assumed you meant my offer about going to Starbucks.”

  This was vintage Jack. Obfuscate was his middle name. “Then let me spell it out for you in no uncertain terms. I will not serve as your in-house spy, tattletale, informant, or whatever else you call it. The answer is and always will be no. No way, no how.”

  He held up his hands. “All right, already,” he said. “You don’t have to get your panties in a knot. I was just trying to help you make a little extra cash because you seemed to be in desperate need.”

  “Not that desperate.”

  Jack was quiet as he drank his coffee. He had dark circles under his eyes and there was a defeated look about him that I didn’t think had anything to do with me.

  “What’s wrong? This case getting you down already?”

  He ate the last of his scone. Some crumbs fell on his tie, but he didn’t notice. “It’s more than that,” he said, sighing.