Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  “Leavy is an interesting character. He ought to put himself in the book.” Jack got up to fix himself another cup of gourmet coffee. “Sure you don’t want to try some of this?” he asked, holding up a packet of Hazelnut Dream. “Maybe a donut? We’ve still got a couple left.”

  I declined, but Jack grabbed the leftover donuts and brought them back to the table along with his coffee. “Have to eat ’em,” he said, acknowledging the look I gave him. “They’ll go stale otherwise.”

  Not a chance. “You were saying about Mr. Leavy,” I prompted.

  “He got that nasty scar on his face while in prison.”

  “He’s an ex-con?” The idea blew me away.

  An amused smile played at the corner of Jack’s mouth. “Didn’t know that, huh? I assume the HOA board doesn’t know about his past, either.”

  “Care to fill me in?” I said.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be filling me in?”

  “Come on, Jack. I’m doing my best.”

  He downed a couple of sips from his mug. “Leavy was a big deal in his previous life. He was CEO of a successful high-tech company, second only to Microsoft. Headed up all kinds of executive boards, including a few charities. Family man with pretty wife and little twin girls. His fall from grace came when he got drunk and caused a fatal accident. Killed the young son of a prominent judge, which pretty much sealed his fate. He got seven years. No cushy country club facility for him, though. The judge sent him to the worst of the worst, but he survived. Like many cons, he found Jesus behind bars.” Jack shrugged. “Jews for Jesus, no less.”

  “And all this makes him a suspect how?”

  “Leavy has worked hard to get his life back on track since his prison stint. His wife divorced him, but he managed to hang on to some of his money. It wasn’t much, but he believed Vasily’s claims and invested every last cent he had. Losing it all was a major blow. Leavy may have found Jesus, but he’s one tough customer now.”

  “Who do you favor as a suspect?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not going there.”

  “Then at least tell me if I understand the case so far. Your theory is that a BellaVilla resident killed Vasily. Not an employee?”

  “Gleason’s looking into the employee angle, but I don’t think it’ll pan out.”

  I wasn’t as confident as Jack. Not with Carla feeding his partner lies about me. “Just make sure Gleason understands that it’s highly unlikely any of us invested in Vasily’s Ponzi scheme. All we can afford is a meal at Denny’s now and then. Maybe we’d get a little heartburn, but we certainly wouldn’t lose our shirts.”

  “I hear you. Gleason is exploring other employee motives.”

  Oops. “But you’re convinced the killer is a resident who lost a ton of money in Vasily’s scheme.”

  “Right.”

  “You also believe that Amy Windham was murdered by the same person because she might have been able to identify him.”

  “Or her,” Jack said. “It’s not clear whether the suspect is male or female.”

  “Just tall, according to what Amy told her mother.”

  “Tall being a relative term,” Jack posited.

  “Same for short,” I said. “So, for the sake of argument, let’s agree that anyone under five feet seven is short and anyone over that is tall.”

  “By your definition, then, Leavy and Li are short. That leaves Danielle and Dr. Dean as the prime suspects since they’re tall.”

  I grinned. “You said it, not me.” I consulted the list again. “The other residents you have listed here live in Tower 2. I don’t know anything about them.” When I handed the printout back, I said, “I can understand why Amy was killed. But why Marcus?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Just that he was a good concierge who took his job seriously. He had an outgoing personality and got along well with everyone.”

  “He sure as hell pissed someone off.”

  “Or he stumbled across something he shouldn’t have. He was the one who told me about Dr. Dean’s wife and Vasily. Maybe Marcus knew something incriminating about one of the other residents on your list.”

  “Maybe.” Jack popped half a donut in his mouth and washed it down with a slurp of his dreamy brew.

  He spent the next half hour grilling me about the residents on his suspect list. Nothing I said seemed particularly useful, but he jotted down plenty of notes anyway. He acted pleased that I’d finally coughed up some dirt, disguised as insider information. I’d apparently played my part well, but it didn’t feel right. Betraying residents’ trust wasn’t an uplifting experience. The only redeeming factor was Jack’s reaction. Perhaps it was merely the donuts or gourmet coffee and not anything I said, but he didn’t look quite so beat-up and discouraged when I finished dishing.

  Jack flashed me a dimpled grin. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Easy peasy. As a root canal. “Let’s talk about Carla a moment,” I said.

  “Go for it.”

  “Our relationship hasn’t always been ideal, but—”

  “Not ideal? Give me a break. You hate her guts.”

  “Not true,” I protested. “I just feel she needs to be more responsible. She doesn’t take her job seriously and it isn’t fair to the residents or her fellow employees.”

  “Sugarcoat it all you want, but you’re the concierge on probation, not Carla.”

  “True, but I can deal with that. What’s harder to deal with is the lying. Carla lied when she said she got Vasily’s blood on her blouse from me. Carla lied when she told the police investigating the poisoning episode that I’d set her up. Carla lied to your partner when she told him I know more about the case than I’ve revealed. Even you seem to believe that. And to top it all off, she spun a heartbreaking tale about her past that contained no mention of her possible role in her own parents’ murders. Yet she’s strangely absent from your suspects list.”

  Jack was quiet a moment and then said, “Gleason thinks she may have been the target instead of Marcus.”

  “I think she turns on the tears and says whatever puts her in a good light. What do you think?”

  “I think she’s got you in her sights.”

  “Gee, how perceptive.”

  My sarcasm didn’t sit well with him. He leaned forward and locked eyes with me. “I’m serious. You need to protect your backside.”

  “My plan exactly,” I said.

  “And what plan would that be?”

  “The one that’s going to solve this case,” I said.

  CONFESSION #15

  Networking: Another way to say it’s who you know that counts.

  Jack and I did not part on good terms. Being cursed at didn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Mostly it motivated me. Jack didn’t buy it. “Why the sudden turnaround?” he asked, none too kindly. “Hell, you haven’t even liked being a paid informant. Getting anything meaningful out of you has been like pulling teeth. And now you’re going to go all Jessica Fletcher on me?”

  It’s true that I’d been a somewhat reluctant informant. That was then; this was now. “You created this monster,” I said. “And now I’m in it to win it.”

  Things had changed, not the least of which was my job. My future-as-a-concierge meeting with Peter would probably end with a security officer escorting me out the lobby door. Worse, the belief that I had something to do with the murders was getting more traction as time went on. Then there was Carla. She’d not only avoided inclusion on Jack’s suspect list, but had succeeded in raising troubling doubts about my innocence—doubts that could come back to haunt me the longer it took to find the killer. But the main reason I wanted to solve the case was simple: I was angry. Three people had been murdered now and no one was safe until the killer was caught. Like the night at Gas Works Park, I couldn’t just sit on the sidelines. It wasn’t in my nature to leave everything up to Jack or anyone else and trust that they would make it all okay.

  In retrospect, I sho
uld have anticipated Jack’s reaction. That I’d come up with a plan was one thing. Brashly claiming that I would solve the case was something else altogether. My bravado had to have been insulting, especially for an experienced detective with a big ego. Jack was the professional, not me. He had a whole team of forensic and other technicians on his side. Despite what he said about not having any fingerprints, DNA, or other concrete evidence, the homicide unit still had the skills to make sense of what they did have. As Jack said, “What makes you think you can do any better all on your own?” Good question.

  The answer was pure hubris. The success I’d had over the years as an engineer had given me a strong belief in myself and my abilities. I wasn’t afraid to act whenever necessary—as an engineer or a concierge. At BellaVilla, I was used to fulfilling outrageous requests and arranging the seemingly impossible. The rich and powerful expected that kind of service as their due, and I delivered. The key was to know my residents, my city, and whom to contact or where to go for access. In the short time I’d been a concierge, I’d developed a cadre of sources I could call upon to make things happen. I, in turn, had been the go-to person for many of these same sources. My plan was to call in some of the markers I’d established. The first person on my list, however, was a contact I’d made when I still worked as an engineer.

  Theodore R. Manning was a developer I’d collaborated with on several big projects in Seattle and on the east side of Lake Washington. He was well respected in the industry and knew everyone who counted. I’d called him and asked if he’d have some time to meet with me. I wanted to get his take on Vasily Petrov’s murder, but I didn’t get into that on the phone. As far as Manning knew, I was still with Gladstone Engineering and the get-together was work-related. He agreed to meet with me over breakfast at his favorite diner, Eggs ’N’ Stuff. As soon as I left Jack’s office, I headed for Seattle.

  The diner was a little known gem that the local construction trade had long ago claimed as its own. Basically a dive with grease and smoke for atmosphere, the homestyle cooking was the main draw. The artery-clogging menu specialized in generous portions of biscuits and gravy, pancakes smothered in syrup, bacon, hash browns, and, of course, eggs served any way you liked them. The place still attracted a blue-collar crowd, but it was nothing like it’d been in the booming pre-recession days.

  Located in the heart of downtown Seattle, tourists often passed the diner on their way to visit the popular Pike Street Market. The owners had tried to capitalize on their proximity to the tourist spot with new paint and even some flowerpots out front, but the spruced-up image apparently hadn’t worked. I noted a hand-lettered FOR SALE sign in the window when I arrived.

  There were plenty of stools available at the counter, but Manning had planted himself at a booth, where there was more room for his bulky frame. He sat facing the door like I’d seen Jack and other cops do. He looked up and smiled when I walked in. Manning was in his late sixties with a full head of wavy white hair and neatly trimmed beard to match. Although as rich as any resident at BellaVilla, he shunned the obvious trappings of wealth and came across as just another working stiff. He drove a ten-year-old Chevy truck and lived in the same middle-class neighborhood where he’d been since the early days of his career. Critics said he was tight with a dollar, but Manning’s company was still in business while more than a few of his competitors had gone belly up.

  Ever the gentleman, Manning stood and warmly greeted me. We spent a few minutes catching up. Breakfast had never been my favorite meal and, as expected, Manning ribbed me about it. “Starve yourself,” he said when I ordered plain toast and coffee. “But this old man is going to stuff his face.”

  Manning had a sterling reputation for honesty and forthright dealings that I had witnessed many times through the years. This morning was no exception. As soon as he’d finished the last bite of pancake, he got right to the heart of our meeting. “I’m glad you called, Kate, and it’s been nice talking over old times.” He gave me a playful wink. “But I don’t think it was my good looks that brought you here.” He pushed his empty plate aside. “It sure as hell wasn’t breakfast. So, what can I do for you?”

  “You’ve heard about the Vasily Petrov murder?”

  He nodded. “You’d have to be a hermit not to. The BellaVilla murders have everyone talking.”

  “What are they saying?”

  Manning raised a bushy eyebrow. “You trading in gossip these days?”

  “Not gossip,” I said. “I need facts. About Petrov’s development deals and anything else about the man. I thought you’d be the one person who could fill me in.”

  “And you need to know this why?”

  I explained about my new career and the reasons for launching my own investigation into the murders.

  Manning signaled the diner’s lone waiter and asked for more coffee. He knew I’d been the project engineer during BellaVilla’s construction, but he didn’t comment on my change in status except to say, “I’m really sorry to hear you’re not with Gladstone anymore. You’re one of the best engineers I’ve ever worked with.”

  Neither of us mentioned Fielding Commons, but we both knew it was the reason he had such a flattering opinion of my engineering skills. Fielding Commons was a Manning project that had virtually no chance of getting a building permit until I entered the picture. The permit had been denied because the county considered the property to be a highly sensitive wetlands area. When I analyzed the wetlands at Manning’s request, I discovered it was actually a man-made site. As such, it didn’t meet the stricter requirements for getting the permit approved. I filed the report with the county and it was ultimately approved. Manning got his permit and was able to build a multimillion-dollar complex on the property. Hundreds of jobs were saved without disturbing the natural habitat as previously feared.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but can you help me?” I asked.

  “I can tell you that no one is mourning Petrov’s death. He didn’t exactly give developers a good name.”

  “His Ponzi scheme?”

  Manning nodded. “That and the people he associated with.”

  His comment threw me. “His investors?”

  “No, I’m talking about his partners.”

  This was the first time I’d heard Vasily had partners. It didn’t surprise me that Jack had held back crucial information. I was sure he knew a lot more about this case than what he’d shared with me. “What partners?” I asked.

  “Petrov operated out of Portland before he landed in Seattle. He wasn’t into a Ponzi scheme then. His partner was another Russian named Ivan Novikov, and together they were developing a major shopping mall in an upscale area of Portland.”

  “You said partners, plural. Who were the others?”

  “That came later, after Petrov and Novikov ran short of funds to complete the project. The way I heard it, the bank was threatening to shut the project down because they were behind on making their ‘bridge’ payments during construction. The scuttlebutt is that both men had used the bank loan for their high-flying lifestyle and very little went into the actual project.”

  “So what happened?”

  “This is where the other partners came in. Petrov and Novikov had ties to another source of funds. We’re talking Russian mob. Petrov and Novikov had agreed to build the mall primarily as a money-laundering outlet for their criminal cohorts. When the project looked to be heading south, they went looking for additional funds to pay the bank. Their mob buddies came through, but Petrov and Novikov hadn’t learned a thing about living within their means. That’s when things turned nasty.”

  “The mob wanted their money.”

  Manning drained the last of his coffee. “Yep. When the broken leg approach didn’t work, Novikov and his wife were killed. Petrov got the message and hightailed it to Seattle. That’s when he hit upon the Ponzi scheme.”

  “As a way to pay back the mob?”

  “That’s my guess. Must not have worked, though.”
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  “You think it was the mob that killed Petrov?”

  Manning looked around the diner before responding. “I think you need to be real careful who you’re asking questions about.”

  Two warnings in one day. I was on a roll.

  Outside the diner, Manning gave me a hug good-bye and repeated his warning. “You could be putting yourself in real danger. Better let the police deal with all of this.”

  I smiled and nodded like a good girl. Manning meant well, but I wasn’t going to stop now. Not when I’d just begun. Not when I hadn’t even mined one of the most obvious sources yet—my own daughter.

  CONFESSION #16

  Nothing is private anymore.

  Erin was not a morning person. She didn’t like unannounced visitors, either. Since it was still early and I hadn’t called before coming by, I didn’t expect an enthusiastic greeting—and I didn’t get it. When I pressed the intercom button to let her know I was outside the condo, she was slow to answer. “Yes? Who is it?” she asked in a clipped and irritated-sounding voice.

  “Your favorite mother,” I said cheerfully. After a heavy sigh and lengthy pause, she activated the lobby door’s release so I could enter the building.

  Erin lived in Belltown, a hip Seattle neighborhood located north of the Pike Street Market. Longitude 12 Condominium catered to young professionals who worked in downtown Seattle and frequented the nearby jazz and rock venues, trendy restaurants, and avant-garde boutiques. Erin was the only single parent living in the building. She telecommuted most days for a high-tech firm in Redmond, which gave her more time with six-year-old Shannon.

  I remembered that Jack said Erin was having some trouble with her daughter and, although it wasn’t the reason for my visit, I planned to ask Erin about it. I probably should have contacted her before now, but I wasn’t too concerned. Mother-daughter issues weren’t all that unusual and Erin was certainly capable of handling things without my interference. If my relationship with her as she grew up was any indication, the years ahead with Shannon would hardly be problem-free. Payback can be a bitch.