Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  “There’s a naked man pounding on my front door!” she shrieked.

  I quickly scanned the computer’s security screen for the fifteenth floor. All I could see was the guy’s backside, but he was definitely naked. Strange as this sounds, I recognized his pasty white butt. Bryan Sutliff was the teenaged son of a couple who spent half the year in Florida. Their son lived in a dorm at college, but frequently used their condo for a party pad while his parents were out of town. I’d dealt with more than a few noise complaints when the partying got out of hand. This wasn’t the first time he’d shed his clothes while intoxicated. Usually he just wandered around the hallway until some of the partygoers discovered him or I’d been summoned to deal with him. This was the first time he’d ever tried to forcibly enter another unit.

  By the time I got off the elevator, Bryan had given up pounding on Danielle’s door. He was now crawling on all fours down the hall toward his parents’ unit. I gathered up his shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops and followed after him. “Bryan,” I said. “Here’re your clothes.”

  He slowly turned his head and peered at me through half-closed lids. “Mom?”

  “No, your mother’s not here. But she’d tell you to get dressed.”

  The party pad door suddenly flung open. Loud heavy metal music and the stench of beer spilled into the hallway. One of Bryan’s fellow revelers stood in the doorway. He was fully clothed but unsteady on his feet. When he spotted Bryan, he yelled, “Yo! Man down!” His insightful observation brought a couple more party goers to the door. How they heard anything over the loud noise disguised as music was beyond me. They jostled each other to get a better look at Bryan. “Dude, where’ve you been? Did you get the booze?”

  Dealing with a room full of blitzed-out college kids pushed my patience to the limit. It took some doing, but within minutes Bryan was dressed, the music was lowered to a reasonable volume, and the partygoers threatened with immediate expulsion from the premises if I had to deal with them again. Not exactly tough love, but it worked. It was a fine line to walk. Come down too hard and you heard from the parents who thought their kids could do no wrong. Don’t satisfy the residents who complained and you lived to regret it.

  I stopped at Danielle’s to assure her that everything was under control.

  She answered the doorbell wearing a red velour bathrobe and matching slippers. “Thank you so much!” she said, tugging on her sash. “You know me and parties—it’s my thing. But when he showed up naked like that, pounding on my door demanding beer, I freaked out. As we say back home, I was as nervous as an ugly whore in church.” A mischievous grin lit up her plump face. “But girlfriend, I’m here to tell you—that city boy had a Texas-size dangle!”

  Alrighty, then. “If he gives you any more trouble, let me know. The police can handle things the next time around.”

  Danielle offered me a Benjamin. “For your trouble,” she said.

  This was the opening I’d hoped for. “I appreciate the thought, but there’s something else you could do for me that would mean a whole lot more than cash.”

  “What’s that?”

  I told her. She agreed. And the game was afoot.

  The next morning, Billy Matthews was waiting for me at the concierge desk when I arrived. For a facility manager, Billy had a relaxed take on fulfilling his duties. He hardly ever showed his face during my shift, or, according to Moze, at any other time. “That boy will never drown in sweat,” he said. Now that BellaVilla had begun to attract dead bodies like ants to a picnic, Billy was front and center. For some reason, the rich and powerful don’t appreciate having their lives upset by a killer on the loose. The crisis had upper management in panic mode. Their answer was to send Billy into the ring to deal with the fallout.

  The job had apparently taken its toll. Billy looked like forty miles of bad road. His rumpled, crumpled, and generally unkempt appearance aside, the man was all business. “I got a call from Danielle Livingston last night,” he said as soon as I walked in.

  “Oh?”

  “Woke me up at midnight to sing your praises.”

  Yes! I conjured up a concerned face. “Good to know she’s happy with me, but I’m sorry she disturbed your sleep.”

  “To tell you the truth, I welcomed her call. It’s the first nice thing I’ve heard from a resident lately. Outrage, fueled by fear, has become the new normal around here.” He sat down in my chair behind the concierge desk. “The upshot is this: Danielle is putting on a big charity event next week. She absolutely insists that you be allowed to help her with it. She thinks it will be good publicity for BellaVilla.”

  “In what way?”

  “We’re one of the major sponsors. We signed on to counter the negativity of recent events. The boutique hotel, restaurant, and retail businesses that make up the complex are hurting for business since the killings began. With Danielle and you representing us at the gig, it will demonstrate to the public that we’re not all ‘running scared shitless from some bloodthirsty killer.’ Her words, not mine.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think she has a point. But it means you won’t be able to cover the desk for the next couple of days.”

  “Peter isn’t going to go for that,” I said. “We’re already short of staff because of Marcus’s death.”

  “He’ll get over it. I’ll be filling in for you until Friday so he can’t complain too much.”

  You poor innocent man. I hustled out the door before Peter showed up and ruined everything.

  The BellaVilla Bulletin

  Dear Residents,

  I will be temporarily filling in at the concierge desk for the next couple of days while Kate Ryan is assisting Danielle Livingston at the Cascade Charity Auction. This event will be a wonderful opportunity for the public to see that the recent tragedies at BellaVilla have not negatively affected our responsibilities to the community.

  You are all encouraged to attend the auction to show your support for the charity, as well as to promote BellaVilla as a safe and secure place to live. I speak for the entire management team in expressing our gratitude for your patience and understanding during these difficult times.

  William Matthews, Facility Manager

  MEMO

  To: Concierge Staff

  From: Peter Westerfield

  Subject: Time Off Requests

  It is extremely important that all requests for time off be submitted to me in writing at least one week (or more) prior to taking leave from the concierge desk. If you are ill and cannot work, you are required to call me at a minimum of two hours before your shift begins.

  As you know, we are now short of personnel due to Marcus’s death. That makes it imperative that you do not schedule doctor visits or other appointments during your shift. I will be interviewing and hiring a new concierge as soon as possible. In the meantime, I expect you to avoid scheduling any time off until we are fully staffed again.

  CONFESSION #14

  A plan is a good thing…until it’s not.

  “What are you doing here?” Jack asked. I’d just signed in at the public safety building’s reception desk when he greeted me. The multipurpose facility was newly refurbished—courtesy of the president’s stimulus largesse—and housed the municipal court, jail, and a slew of administrative offices. The homicide detectives shared quarters with the robbery, fraud, and missing persons units on the third floor.

  Jack carried what he referred to as the detective’s breakfast special—a mug of coffee in one hand and a donut in the other. I clipped a visitor badge to my blouse as he munched on the donut between yawns. Billy had looked rough, but Jack’s appearance was alarming. The dark stubble lining his jaw couldn’t hide the weary face of a forty-five-year-old struggling to hold himself together—and losing. His bloodshot eyes and sagging shoulders sealed the downtrodden image. The rumpled detective look I usually found so endearing struck me now as unbearably sad, especially if it was due to alcohol. He’d been down that path before and it was
n’t a good journey.

  “You ordered me to come in today,” I reminded him.

  Jack checked his watch. “But it’s seven friggin’ thirty in the morning! I thought you had to work until this afternoon.”

  “I made your case a top priority.”

  Actually, I now considered the BellaVilla murders my case. But there was no way I could figure out what was going on while stuck behind the concierge desk. I knew Peter would never let me take a couple of days off, so I used Danielle’s charity event as my escape. She didn’t really need my help, but went along with the charade without questioning my motives. “I don’t know what you’re up to, gal, but it don’t matter none. If you need time away from that pompous ass you work for, I’m happy to oblige.”

  Come Friday’s meeting with the “pompous ass,” I probably wouldn’t have to worry about taking time off from work. I could play informant or detective to my heart’s content while I looked for a new job. I saw no need to mention any of this to Jack.

  “Follow me,” he said, “I want you to take a look at something.” His gait wasn’t an old-man shuffle, but it was a far cry from his usual fast-paced stride. We took the elevator to the third floor as he finished the donut, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him. We passed a labyrinth of gray and blue cubicles that served as offices for the homicide squad, but I didn’t see Jack’s partner anywhere.

  Jack opened the door to a large conference room across the hall from the cubicles and escorted me inside. The room was surprisingly well-appointed for a government facility. It featured plush leather chairs, a highly polished oak conference table, and a complex array of audio-visual equipment that took up an entire wall. “Wow,” I said. “This is better than some executive suites I’ve been in.”

  “Your tax dollars at work,” Jack snapped. He spent a couple of minutes fiddling with the computer that was connected to a large-screen TV mounted on the wall. “Have a seat and enjoy the show,” he said.

  The show was hardly enjoyable. He’d inserted the thumb drive containing BellaVilla’s security tape of Marcus’s death. I watched as Carla entered the garage, glanced around, and then joined Marcus at his parking stall. They talked while he loaded climbing equipment into the trunk of his car. Suddenly, they both turned toward the exit ramp. Within seconds, a black Cadillac Seville sped into view.

  Jack paused the tape. “Do you recognize the vehicle?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He zoomed in on the Washington State-issued license plate: HDR 289. “That number ring any bells?”

  “There are over six hundred residents living in the two towers. I can’t be expected to recognize all their vehicles or their license plates.”

  “Figures,” he said, as if anticipating my response. He pulled a computer printout from his suit pocket and pushed it across the table. “I got this vehicle log from your security people. Do you see the license plate listed there?”

  I ran a finger down the page he’d indicated. The list contained the make, model, and license number of all the vehicles with assigned parking stalls in both towers. The owners’ names were recorded on the list as well. “According to this, the vehicle in question belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Weinstein,” I said. Jack had to have already identified the owners. Was this his idea of a test?

  Jack refreshed the screen so that the driver’s side window came into view. “As you can see here, the driver is the lone occupant. So, which Weinstein is driving the Caddy?”

  I leaned forward to get a better look. “I can’t tell.”

  He ran the tape several more times, pausing right after Marcus pushes Carla out of harm’s way to spare me from viewing the impact scene. With each run-through, he asked me the same question and I gave him the same answer. “I don’t know who’s driving the car.” I pointed to the frozen image on the screen. “But that can’t be Mr. or Mrs. Weinstein.”

  “It’s their car, isn’t it?”

  “Apparently, but they always take BellaVilla’s town car whenever they go out. I didn’t know they even owned a car.”

  He turned off the machine. “I want all the details about this couple.”

  “They’re both quite elderly, maybe in their late seventies.” I told him about Mr. Weinstein’s use of the town car to claim a free newspaper. “Sam drives him to a different hotel each day so no one would catch on.”

  “Stingy old geezer,” Jack said, shaking his head. “If he’s too cheap to buy a paper, it makes sense he wouldn’t waste gas driving his own car. But maybe he had to. Maybe the town car wasn’t available and, rather than wait, he broke down and took his car to get the freebies.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But even if Mr. or Mrs. Weinstein took their car out for some reason, they’d surely stop after hitting Marcus. They’re both very responsible people.”

  “Assuming that’s true, who else would have access to their vehicle?”

  “I have no idea. You’d have to ask them about that.”

  “Gleason is on his way over to BellaVilla right now to question them.”

  “There you go. I’m sure he’ll get the answers you need.”

  “Maybe,” Jack said, frowning. He picked up his coffee mug. “I need a refill. You want a cup? Maybe some tea? We’ve got gourmet everything here since the upgrade.” He gestured to the Keurig coffee maker sitting on the granite countertop by the door. “That single-cup machine is an electronic wonder. I’m hooked on Hazelnut Dream. Not nearly enough sugar to suit me, but it’s still pretty damn good.”

  I declined the offer and waited patiently while he fortified himself.

  “So,” he said when he returned to the table. “We found the Cadillac abandoned two blocks from BellaVilla. The forensic team went over it with a fine-toothed comb. But, like the knife used to stab Vasily and the scarf used to strangle Amy, they’ve turned up nothing I can use. No prints, no fibers, no DNA.” He eyed me over the rim of his coffee mug. “Same as what you’ve given me. Zero. Nada. Squat.”

  “It’s kind of hard to give you information in a vacuum.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Look, I’ll do my best to tell you everything I know about the Weinsteins and any other residents you’re interested in. I just need to have some direction, some feel for your theory about the case in order to judge what to share.”

  “Damn it all. We’ve had this discussion before. You don’t get to judge. I determine what is useful or relevant.”

  I didn’t say anything further. It was a dealing-with-difficult-people tactic that I learned in a seminar once. The first one to speak loses the argument. The trainer said most people last no more than a minute, possibly two. Jack lasted ten seconds.

  “Okay,” he said, with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m tired of arguing with you. I’ll give you some direction, as you call it, but whatever I tell you is strictly confidential. Are we clear about that?”

  I nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “Here’s what we know so far: Vasily Petrov was involved in some complicated real estate development deals. He’d convinced a bunch of high rollers—and some who weren’t so well fixed—to invest in his projects, promising fantastic returns. He did so well that people practically beat down his door to invest.”

  “Sounds like a local Bernie Madoff.”

  “Exactly. The outlandish returns should’ve been a tipoff, but everything was great at first. People were happy and Vasily kept on signing up more clients.”

  “I get the picture. It was a Ponzi scheme.”

  “Yep. When the real estate market faltered, so did Vasily’s investors. Some lost everything they had. Vasily was about to be indicted by the Feds when he was murdered.”

  “You think one of his investors killed him?”

  “That’s my working theory.” Jack pulled another printout from his suit pocket. “This is a list of the residents at BellaVilla who invested with him. I’d like you to tell me about them.” He eyed me over the rim of his mug again. “Everything about them, releva
nt or not.”

  I skimmed through the list. It wasn’t extensive, but I was surprised by some of the names. “Danielle Livingston was an investor?”

  “Why have you singled her out?”

  “It’s just that she strikes me as too savvy to fall for a scheme like Vasily’s. She made her fortune in oil. ‘Texas tea,’ as she refers to it. Danielle’s a little rough around the edges but make no mistake—the woman is one smart cookie.” And the reason I’m here this morning.

  “Maybe so,” Jack said. “But she still invested with Vasily. Her portfolio is running close to empty these days. I’d say that gave her ample motive to exact some Texas-style revenge.” He tapped the printout. “Any other names give you pause?”

  “I see Dr. Dean and his wife are on the list.”

  “Yeah, the good doctor was hit with a double whammy. Lost his money and his wife to Vasily’s charming ways.”

  I didn’t voice any objections to Dr. Dean as a suspect and returned to the list. “Interesting,” I said, focusing on the next name. “Bingwen Li fell for Vasily’s scheme, too?”

  “Why the raised eyebrows?”

  “Mr. Li can barely speak English.”

  “Ha!” Jack chortled. “Money speaks loud and clear in any language.”

  I flashed back to Mr. Li’s elevator tantrum. “He’s wired kind of tight, but I can’t see him as a murderer, no matter how much money he lost. Besides, he’s so skinny and frail that Vasily could’ve overpowered him without even breaking a sweat.”

  “Have you ever heard of murder for hire?”

  “Of course. But Mr. Li? I highly doubt he would do something like that.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “He isn’t as unassuming as you seem to think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s head of the Bingwen Li Merchant Association, a Chinese business group in Seattle also known as a front for one of Seattle’s most notorious Chinese gangs. You don’t lose his money and not expect retribution.”

  “Good point.” I referred to the list again. “What about Carlton Leavy? From what I see here, he didn’t lose nearly as much as the others. Why do you think he’d resort to murder? As far as I can tell, he just wants to write about it.”