Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  I grabbed hold of the door before he could slam it shut in my face. “I probably know the victim. If so, I could help, like you keep claiming you want me to.”

  He hesitated a half-second too long.

  “Just tell me who was killed,” I pleaded.

  “Amy Windham.”

  Oh, my God. The news hit me like a fierce punch to the gut. The young woman had stopped by the concierge desk just that morning to tell me about her new promotion. The memory of how excited she’d been contrasted sharply with the sudden image of her cold, lifeless body. I struggled to keep breathing and said, “I know Amy very well. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist and has had a lot of trouble with—”

  “Get in the damn car.”

  CONFESSION #8

  Everyone dies, but murder comes stomping on your doorstep, unwanted and unannounced.

  Jack’s driving was as bad as his language. He drove at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of traffic, and cursing every driver on the road. I tightened my seatbelt and gripped the armrest to brace for the almost certain crash ahead.

  “What’s the rush?” I asked. “She’ll still be dead once you get there.” I didn’t like to sound so callous, but I didn’t want to wind up as a victim, either.

  “Damn emergency light is broken or these idiots would have to pull over for us.”

  We arrived at Gas Works Park faster than I thought possible—with or without an emergency light—and despite my rattled nerves, no worse off from the harrowing trip. Jack told me to stay put in the car while he got a bead on what had gone down.

  “Don’t you need me to identify the victim?” I asked. The idea of viewing Amy’s body was disturbing, but I still held out hope that they’d made a mistake.

  “If I need you, I’ll come get you. In the meantime, enjoy the view.”

  He wasn’t referring to a view of the crime scene. It must have been located in another area of the almost twenty-acre park, because the only view available here was the parking lot filled with police vehicles, the medical examiner’s van, and a few non-official looking cars. I figured the other vehicles must have belonged to visitors who were enjoying an outing at one of Seattle’s favorite parks. It was a good day for it. We’d been experiencing some warm fall weather, and although it was nearing sunset, there was still plenty of daylight left. Jack’s car was stuffy so I asked him to at least lower my window before he turned off the ignition. It wasn’t an outrageous request but he seemed inconvenienced by it.

  “Comfy now?” he asked irritably.

  I gave him one of my best concierge smiles. “Super.”

  He scrambled out of the car and sprinted off before I could ask for anything else. Shortly thereafter, his partner, Detective Gleason, arrived and pulled into the space next to ours. When he climbed out and saw me sitting in the passenger’s seat, he stopped and said hello. I guess he didn’t feel the same urgency to get to the crime scene as Jack. If he was surprised to see me sitting in Jack’s car, he didn’t show it.

  “I don’t think we were ever properly introduced,” he said. “You’re Mary Kathleen, right?” He had a charming Southern drawl.

  “I go by Kate.” I wondered if he knew about my role as informant, but I didn’t say anything. It was Jack’s call whether or not to keep his partner in the loop.

  “I’m Kevin,” he said. “Kevin Gleason.”

  We shook hands and exchanged brief pleasantries until he said he’d better join up with Jack and the others. As I watched him go, I considered whether his polite attention was part of his Southern upbringing or if he had some motive for making nice. My first impression of the young man had not changed—he was on his way up and he’d do whatever it took to get there. If so, Jack had better watch his back.

  Under other circumstances, I would’ve strolled around Gas Works Park while I waited. I hadn’t been there in ages and the place was fascinating, if not a bit strange, for a park. It was located on the north shore of Lake Union and got its name from the former Seattle Gas Light Company gasification plant that once occupied the site. Vestiges of the old plant were still visible as ruins, while other parts had been reconditioned, painted, and incorporated into a children’s play-barn structure.

  I remembered when Jack and I took Erin to the park for picnics and our yearly excursion to watch the Fourth of July fireworks over the lake. Jack always made sure we had a good viewing spot at the top of the park’s popular kite-flying hill. Despite the eventual unraveling of our marriage, Jack and I had some good times together with our daughter. Gas Works Park was a big part of it. That someone had been murdered and discarded like a piece of trash here, or anywhere else for that matter, angered and saddened me. That the victim was possibly Amy Windham made it even worse.

  I squirmed in the seat and tried to get comfortable. Staying behind in the car made me antsy. It wasn’t in my DNA to sit idly by while others took charge. Despite Jack’s orders and any embarrassment I might cause him, I climbed out of the car and headed off to find the crime scene. The Burke-Gilman Trail skirts the northern edge of the park and that’s where a large contingent of officers and other official personnel had gathered. A seaplane droned overhead, no doubt on its way to the San Juan Islands or Victoria, BC. Besides seaplane traffic, Lake Union was a busy waterway for private yachts as well as commercial vessels. It appeared that the body had been dumped near one of the many docks lining the shore. Uniformed officers had strung yellow caution tape between several sawhorses in order to cordon off the area from the inevitable onlookers. They stood sentry nearby in case anyone ventured beyond the perimeter.

  I spotted Jack right away at the center of the action. He squatted near the body and appeared to be discussing his findings with Gleason and a couple of other detectives. It wasn’t possible from where I stood to determine if the body was Amy’s. But my heart sank when I realized I’d seen the long magenta scarf that was wrapped around the victim’s neck. It looked just like the Gucci scarf that Amy had recently stopped by the concierge desk to show me. She’d bought it at Neiman Marcus, and although she didn’t mention the price, the two-hundred-fifty-dollar tag was still attached. She was so thrilled with the purchase that she had to point out all the details, including the GG pattern and fancy fringe.

  As I strained to get a better look, Jack stood up and had a brief exchange with Gleason. Judging by the body language, it didn’t look cordial. There was a lot of arm waving from both men. And if I knew Jack, he tossed out a few salty words to go along with the gestures. Finally, Jack pointed a finger toward the parking lot and Gleason threw his hands in the air as if in surrender. Jack’s partner stomped away from the crime scene and had one of the officers lift a section of the yellow tape so he could pass through. I elbowed my way past the crowd and hurried after him. Gleason had a fast power-walker stride and I had to sprint just to keep him in sight. I called out his name several times, but he either didn’t hear or was purposefully ignoring me.

  I finally caught up with him at the parking lot. He’d already opened his car door and was about to climb inside. “Kevin!” I yelled. “Wait a sec.”

  He spun around, but I couldn’t read his expression as he looked from me to Jack’s car and back again.

  “Who’s the victim?” I asked, gasping for breath.

  “Were you down at the crime scene?”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t wait in the car any longer. I think I know the victim. Is it Amy Windham?”

  He paused as if debating how much he should disclose to a civilian. It was an uncomfortable moment. I didn’t know what Jack had told him about me, but gone was the charm he’d displayed earlier. “You know,” he said irritably, “Jack Doyle is the lead on this case. If you want answers, you’ll need to talk to him.”

  “I plan to. But in the meantime, can you at least confirm the victim’s identity?”

  “Not until we notify the family.” He swung into the driver’s seat. “And that’s where I’m headed now,” he said, scowling. “Jack’s orders.”
/>   He slammed the car door shut before I could say anything further. I debated whether I should go back to the scene or follow Jack’s orders myself and stay put. It grated on my nerves, but in the end, I decided to wait until Jack got back. Showing up after an apparent spat with his partner didn’t seem like a wise move. It was a long wait and eventually I dozed off.

  When I woke, it was completely dark outside and a chilly breeze wafted through the open window. The parking lot had cleared out except for the official vehicles and, based on the headlights flickering in my eyes, their exodus had also begun.

  Minutes later, Jack opened the car door. His breathing was labored as he eased into the driver’s seat and leaned his head against the headrest.

  “I’m getting too damn old for this crap.”

  “What happened? Was it Amy?”

  “Jesus, let me catch my breath, will ya?” He patted his jacket pocket where he used to keep a pack of cigarettes handy.

  He hadn’t smoked in years and I hoped he hadn’t started up again. I hated the filthy habit and it had been a source of many arguments between us.

  He caught me staring and said, “Relax, I’m looking for my notes, not a smoke.”

  I recognized the small notebook he retrieved as the same one he’d used at BellaVilla the night of Vasily’s murder. After he switched on the overhead dome light, he found a pen and jotted down a couple of notes. The nighttime breeze had become uncomfortable, but rather than interrupt his thoughts, I slipped on my coat and waited.

  When he seemed to be finished, I said, “Well?”

  “It’s Amy Windham, just like we figured.” He anticipated my next question and added, “She had ID and I remember interviewing her. Good-looking woman like her is hard to forget.” He paused and a note of genuine sorrow crept into his voice. “Not so nice-looking now.”

  I swallowed and asked, “How’d she die?”

  “Strangled. With her own scarf, it looks like. No sign of sexual assault or robbery.”

  He turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s hear what you know about her.” He leveled a cold stare at me. “And I want everything, whether you think it’s relevant or not.”

  “Sometimes people feel a need to confide in me. I don’t know why. I certainly don’t encourage it. In fact, Peter Westerfield doesn’t like us socializing with the residents. But Amy was so friendly that we hit it off right away and ignored Peter’s rules. She often stopped by the concierge desk on her way to or from work. Mostly we talked about how her job was going, her plans for the weekend, things like that, and—”

  Jack cut in sharply. “Is this spellbinding monologue leading somewhere?”

  “You said you wanted everything. I’m giving you everything.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t mean what she ate for breakfast! Just tell me about what might have a bearing on the case.”

  “Oh, you mean like what’s relevant?”

  “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. You mentioned earlier she was seeing a shrink. Let’s start with that. What was her problem?”

  “She never told me anything specific. She just said she needed to work through some issues.”

  Jack scribbled something in his notebook. “Do you know the name of her doctor, by any chance?”

  “No, but Amy took the town car to her appointment every Wednesday afternoon. I think the office is located in that business park near Redmond Town Center.”

  Jack checked his watch. “Today’s Wednesday. I wonder if she ever made it. I’ll have to talk to the town car driver again.” He flipped through his notebook, but didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “What’s the guy’s name? Sam something or other?”

  I told him and he wrote it down. “Will you talk to her doctor, too?”

  “Yep. And subpoena Windham’s records if the doc’s a hard ass about it.”

  “I thought there was a doctor-patient confidentiality law.”

  “All bets are off when the patient is deceased. Anything else?”

  I related Amy’s complaint about the blinds and “cavorting” residents. “It was the only time I ever saw her upset.”

  Jack laughed. “Sounds like my kind of scene. Sex wasn’t her thing, huh?”

  “I didn’t say that. Amy just didn’t want to be a voyeur in her own home.”

  “So this threesome she had a run-in with, you think they could have been angry enough to kill her?”

  “I’m paid to inform, not speculate.”

  “Don’t get all huffy on me now,” he said. “What about the men in her life? Did she have a boyfriend? Or was she one of Vasily Petrov’s playthings?”

  “No steady, but she wasn’t hurting for dates. As for Vasily, I’m certain she didn’t have a relationship with him.”

  “And what makes you so certain?”

  “She said he was a crook and she didn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “I thought you told me Vasily was liked by everyone at BellaVilla.”

  “It wasn’t that she didn’t like him personally, just professionally. I don’t know all the details, but Amy works…uh, worked in the financial district and apparently had some contact with Vasily’s real estate dealings. She said they were ‘fishy.’”

  Jack squinted at what he’d written in his notebook and then held it up to the dome light. “Hell, I can’t read these hen scratchings.”

  He tucked the notebook in his suit pocket. “I’ll need you to come down to the station tomorrow.”

  “What for? I’ve told you everything I know about Amy.”

  “I have some other stuff I want to run by you.” He turned the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse. “But not tonight. I’m too goddamn tired to think straight.”

  CONFESSION #9

  Rich or poor, a dog’s love is unconditional. It takes the sting out of being alone.

  I’d spent a sleepless night stewing and fretting about Amy’s death. I dreaded going to work the next morning to face the inevitable turmoil that a second murder at BellaVilla would generate. I’d be front and center at the concierge desk to witness it all, and I felt too drowsy and cranky to deal with any more rumors, hearsay, and morbid gossip. On the other hand, I did have the best vantage point to listen for any significant “tidbits”—as Jack called them—that might be sprinkled in with the chitchat. There was a fair chance that I’d survive the day if I could get a cup of coffee ASAP. A strong dose of Grandma’s tea and whiskey sounded better, but the way I felt, I would have been better off going straight for the whiskey. If only.

  I arrived at my usual time and had just walked into the lobby when Tom Lamont, the overnight security guard, sprinted around the desk to meet me. Tom was a nerdy twenty-year-old with bottle glasses and a frail, almost anorexic build that, combined with his timid personality, seemed ill-suited for a security officer. It was hard to imagine him ordering a ten-year-old to stop skateboarding on BellaVilla property, let alone confront a hardened criminal, especially since Tom wasn’t allowed to carry a weapon. If you didn’t count the recent murders at BellaVilla, the biggest problem he had to deal with during his shift was boredom. He drank a lot of Red Bull to stay awake and took advantage of the quiet, uneventful hours to study for his classes at the local community college.

  Tom’s turnover report was usually brief and delivered in such a listless monotone that you’d swear the guy was barely conscious or stoned. So the frazzled, panic-stricken way he greeted me that morning was alarming. “Thank God you’re here!” he blurted.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. A quick scan of the deserted lobby didn’t reveal anything that would explain his agitated outburst. Very few residents were early risers unless they owned a dog, and the morning parade to the designated relief area hadn’t yet started. But I could hear barking. Make that yapping. It was high-pitched and grating on my fragile, sleep-deprived nerves.

  “Come, I’ll show you,” Tom said, grabbing hold of my arm. His grasp was surprisingly strong for such a sligh
t man. He led me to the storeroom adjacent to the concierge desk and cautiously opened the door a crack. “Take a look,” he said.

  The yapping reached nuclear level when I peeked into the room. A bedraggled little white dog instantly charged the door, bared its tiny sharp teeth, and growled. The frightened eyes of Amy’s Maltese tugged at my heart. “It’s Bitsy,” I said, crouching next to the opening. “Quick, Tom, get the treat bag.”

  I always kept a supply of treats for pets at the desk. If there was one way to guarantee a resident will like you, fawn over their kid or grandkid. If you wanted them to love you, fawn over their dog. Although I admit to a certain distaste for the small yappy kind, I didn’t discriminate. Big or small, yappy or cuddly, they got a treat—which meant they’d practically pull the leash out of their owner’s hand to get to my desk. But I was firm. They had to do their business first. No peepee, no treatee.

  For a yapper, Bitsy wasn’t so bad. We’d even become friends. “Easy, girl,” I said in a soft, soothing voice. “Shh, Bitsy. You’ll be okay now.” She settled down somewhat and her pitiful growling soon gave way to a mournful whine. When Tom handed me the bag, I took one of the bite-size morsels that I knew she liked and placed it in my palm. I kept talking to Bitsy as I slowly pushed the door open wide enough for her to see the treat. Her whining stopped as she sniffed. Once satisfied I hadn’t tricked her, she snatched it in her teeth and retreated to the back of the storeroom to eat in private. I set a couple more treats by the door for her.

  “What’s Bitsy doing here?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know what else to do with her,” Tom said. He seemed on the verge of tears. I half expected him to start wringing his bony hands together like my grandmother used to do when she was upset.

  “Residents on Floor 24 kept calling and calling to complain about the barking. I phoned Ms. Windham, but she never answered. So I went upstairs and knocked on her door, but that just made the barking get worse. Her neighbors were having a fit about the noise, so I got Ms. Windham’s spare door key from the safe and brought the dog down to the lobby. Please don’t tell Peter.”