Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  There was no concierge or security guard on duty in the lobby so I took the elevator directly to Erin’s floor. “What are you doing here?” she asked. It was the same question Jack had asked earlier that morning. While he’d been surprised by the timing, he was still glad to see me. Not so Erin. “This isn’t a good time,” she said. She still had on her nightclothes, a black silky thing barely concealed by an unbelted matching black robe. I immediately got the picture. I’d stumbled into the middle of an overnighter with her boyfriend, Rob.

  “Oh,” I said, blushing. “You have company.” I turned away from the door. “I’ll call next time.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. No one’s here but Shannon.” Loud crying assaulted the quiet hallway from inside the condo. “Quick,” she said, ushering me inside, “before the neighbors start complaining.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Meltdown, six-year-old style.” Erin nodded toward Shannon’s closed bedroom door, behind which the cries had escalated to desperate wailing. “She’s in timeout and not happy about it.”

  “Memories are made of this,” I said, chuckling. “Remember the time you—”

  “Not now,” Erin said. “I’m not in the mood.” I got the heavy-handed hint and clammed up as she led me to an alcove off the kitchen. The condo had an open floor plan decorated in a minimalist style. It seemed quite appropriate and chic for a young professional, but I’d always felt it was cold and not very kid-friendly. Or grandmother-friendly at the moment.

  “I just made a pot of coffee,” Erin said, shifting to a more pleasant tone. “Want some?”

  I passed but helped myself to the Danish pastry and some orange juice she offered. My hunger stat had finally kicked in.

  Erin wrapped her hands around her coffee mug as if to keep warm. Her grip was so tight that her fingers turned white. She favored her father with the same thick dark hair, blue eyes, and dimples, but she was much thinner. Too thin. I thought she’d lost more weight since the last time I’d seen her. There were bags under her eyes that I’d never seen before. Maybe the problem with Shannon was more serious than I’d thought.

  I glanced toward the bedroom door. The wailing had subsided somewhat. “What’s going on with Shannon?” I asked.

  Erin shrugged her bony shoulders. “Yesterday she wanted new shoes to go with her school uniform. Today she hates her uniform and refuses to wear it or the new shoes. Tomorrow it’ll be something else.”

  “I didn’t know Putnam Elementary required a uniform.”

  “It doesn’t. She goes to Langley Academy now. It’s a private school.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since she got kicked out of Putnam.”

  “Kicked out of first grade? What on earth did she do?”

  Erin leaned against the kitchen counter and sighed. “She’s a bully. That’s what they told me. Shannon fights with everyone, including the teachers. They tried to deal with it, but nothing seemed to work. When parents of the kids Shannon bullied complained, Putnam had no choice but to expel her. I scrambled to find another school and was lucky to get her into Langley.” She sighed again. “It’s very expensive, but what else could I do?”

  “I’m assuming you’ve had her checked by her pediatrician. What does he say?”

  “Actually, I haven’t. I thought she’d do better in another school and so far it’s been okay. She hasn’t caused any problems there. Just at home.”

  “This doesn’t sound like something you can handle on your own. You need professional advice.”

  Tears started welling in her eyes.

  “Promise me you’ll do that? For Shannon and yourself.”

  Erin nodded and grabbed a napkin to wipe her tears. Then she quickly changed the subject. “So, what brings you here? I thought you’d be at work.”

  I decided not to press the Shannon issue further. Erin would either take my advice or not. She was a single mother by choice, but I wondered if she was second-guessing her decision now. I suddenly felt bad for her. I’d been so caught up in my own world that I hadn’t spent much time with her or my granddaughter lately.

  I ate the last of the Danish I’d been nibbling on. “I’ve taken a couple days off.”

  “I’d take more than a couple days off from that place,” Erin said with a shudder. “From the news reports I’ve heard, they’re dropping like flies over there. Aren’t you scared?”

  “That’s sort of why I’m here.”

  Erin rinsed out her coffee cup. “Okay, I’ll bite. Explain.”

  I took a deep breath and told her about my plan to find the killer.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said when I’d finished.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “Come on, Dad’s the detective, not you.”

  “You’re right. But I’m way more motivated.”

  “Does he know what you’re doing?”

  I nodded.

  “And he’s okay with it?”

  I nodded again. Not exactly accurate, but I saw no need to repeat his foul-mouthed reaction. “Actually, I’ve been working as his paid informant on the case.”

  A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “He still has feelings for you, you know.”

  No matter how old a child is, they always think their divorced parents will somehow get back together. “No, I don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Oh, please. Jack is still Jack.”

  She frowned as if I’d called him a dirty name. Erin had always been a Daddy’s girl and he could do no wrong in her eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say your father and I are mismatched and leave it at that, okay?”

  “Okay, but I think you’re wrong. You and Dad belong together.”

  Like oil and water. I was tempted to remind her that I didn’t meddle in her love life and didn’t appreciate her meddling in mine—even though I didn’t have one. And even if I did, it certainly wouldn’t include Jack. But I said nothing about that. Pissing her off would get me nowhere. “Noted,” I said, smiling like I meant it. “Now, back to why I’m here. I need you to help me with a little computer sleuthing.”

  I knew my way around a computer, but Erin was a whiz at it. It was her job, after all. I reached into my handbag and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’ve jotted down some names. I’d like you to see what you can find out about each of them.”

  “Have you tried Google?”

  “Of course, but I need more than what a public search can give me.”

  “In other words, you want me to do some serious hacking?”

  I felt guilty for asking, but what could I say? You do what you have to do. Erin had gotten into trouble in high school for hacking. She’d changed a few grades on her friends’ report cards, which caused a major blowup at the time. It was a bumpy start to what would later become her professional career—minus the hacking part. Although she’d questioned my motives, she agreed to do the search, as I knew she would. Old hackers never die, they just wait until their mother needs to solve a murder or two.

  “I may be a little rusty,” she said. “But I’ll give it a try.”

  When Erin sat down at her office computer, I went into the bedroom to check on Shannon. She’d cried herself to sleep and was sprawled across her canopy bed, arms and legs akimbo. She had on bright pink leggings, a short green ruffle skirt, and a Justin Bieber-inspired tee shirt. Her school uniform—a white blouse, blue vest, and plaid skirt—was wadded up in the corner of her princess-themed room.

  Unlike the rest of the condo, Shannon’s room was definitely little girl-friendly. Erin had handpainted a colorful mural with white horses, magic wands, castles, and beautiful princesses dancing across the walls. Toys and myriad stuffed animals covered the large pink accent rug on the hardwood floor. One corner of the room was devoted to a study area, with desk and bookshelves lined with a collection of Shannon’s favorites, from Grimm’s Fairy Tales to Charlotte’s Web and a few dog-eared books lef
t over from Erin’s childhood.

  I lay down next to my granddaughter. Her chubby, tear-stained face was flushed and sweaty underneath a tangle of dark curly hair. I gently brushed a couple of stray curls off her face. Her eyelids fluttered briefly, but she didn’t stir. I watched as her tiny chest rose and fell with breaths as soft as a sparrow’s wing. Whatever demons pulled at this small child were silent now, but I worried they wouldn’t stay away for long.

  When Erin found herself pregnant at seventeen and a senior in high school, her life took a sudden U-turn. Abortion was never an option, but Erin rejected adoption as well. Her boyfriend went off to college as planned and never looked back. It wasn’t easy but Erin was a strong woman. She postponed college to support her daughter until Shannon was a year old. Then she adjusted her work schedule to part-time and, with the aid of a scholarship, fast-tracked through a computer science program. Although she looked like Jack, I liked to think Erin had my drive and perseverance. Jack called it stubbornness.

  Within minutes, I had nodded off. I woke to Erin quietly shaking my arm. “Mom,” she whispered. “I’ve got your information.”

  I looked at my watch as we tiptoed out of the room. It’d only been twenty minutes since Erin had begun the computer search. “That was quick,” I said. “Did you have any trouble?”

  Erin shook her head. “No, but you might.” She handed me the list I’d given her earlier. “These are not nice people you’re dealing with.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  She eyed me carefully. “Can you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does your job mean so much to you that you’re willing to risk your life over it?”

  My search was about more than just a job, but this conversation was getting us nowhere. “Did you find any information for me or not?” I asked, cutting off further debate.

  Erin retrieved a piece of paper from the printer and thrust it into my hands. I briefly scanned the information she’d gleaned from a variety of sources. “Wow, you got all this in twenty minutes?”

  She shrugged. “It’s just a matter of knowing where to look.”

  I tucked the printout into my handbag. “Thank you, honey. I really appreciate your help.”

  “I’d say anytime, but…”

  “I know. Don’t worry, I won’t ask again.” I grinned, hoping to ease the tension. “At least not without a phone call first.”

  We parted at the door with an awkward hug. “Be careful,” she said.

  It was good advice. I’d heard it before, but still, good advice.

  CONFESSION #17

  When you want the real dirt, bring cash or credit card.

  Next stop: Portland, Oregon. I’d planned to make the three-hour drive to the City of Roses even before getting the results from Erin’s computer hacking. I reasoned that the trip was justified because that was where Vasily’s problems began and also where Carla’s parents were killed. Call it a coincidence, but in my mind, the two incidents were related. I just didn’t know how. As soon as I left Erin’s condo, I sat in the car and took a few minutes to carefully examine the printout I’d only glanced at earlier. Then I got the connection, courtesy of the Oregon Department of Social Services.

  Erin had found the agency’s extensive confidential file on Carla Nelson. Only her real name was Calina Novikov. She’d been adopted as a youngster by the couple who’d been partners with Vasily. Jack’s background check had to have discovered her true identity, but he hadn’t seen fit to share that important detail. It turns out the sob story she’d given me was partially true. Her birth parents had died, but instead of winding up in a foster home like her older siblings, Ivan and Alena Novikov adopted her.

  According to the social worker assigned to her case, Carla was not an easy child. After her birth parents’ deaths, she suffered from such severe post-traumatic stress that she had to be hospitalized. Extensive counseling followed, but she never fully recovered and was re-hospitalized several times over the years. She was labeled a “special needs” case and considered not likely to be adopted. Although Ivan and Alena were in their late fifties, they’d always wanted a child. The social worker felt they were too old to adopt, but since there weren’t any other candidates willing to take on a child with Carla’s problems, their application was approved.

  I folded the printout and slipped it into my handbag. The information about Carla was interesting and revealing, but I still had questions. Jack said she was a person of interest in her parents’ murders. Was that due to her history of emotional instability or for some other reason? She had to have known Vasily before coming to work at BellaVilla. Did she follow her adoptive parents’ partner to Seattle or did they come together? Did she blame Vasily for her parents’ deaths and kill him? Or was the Russian mob responsible? Had Carla been helping Vasily recruit investors for his Ponzi scheme, or working with a ruined investor for a deadly payback?

  I figured the best place to find the answers would be at the scene of the original crime—the Novikovs’ luxury condominium in Portland. Luckily, I knew the concierge. He was a chatty type who’d worked at the Novikovs’ condo for over ten years and claimed to know everything about everybody. Best of all, he was willing to dish. There’d be no pesky confidentiality problems with Bobby Turner on duty.

  Pacific Tower was located in the Pearl District. I found the condo easily since it wasn’t far from Powell’s Books, the first place I always stopped whenever I visited the city. The Pearl was formerly occupied by warehouses and light industry, but like Belltown in Seattle, the area was now noted for its art galleries, upscale businesses, and residences. When I arrived, the sun was shining as brightly as anything Arizona could offer. Portland gets as bad a rap as Seattle when it comes to weather. Contrary to what you see in the movies and TV shows that supposedly take place in the Northwest, it doesn’t rain here every day. That’s just a myth supported by the natives to discourage a population shift to God’s country.

  I first met Bobby over the telephone when he’d called BellaVilla to inquire whether we had any guest suites available. The two hotel-like rooms were usually reserved months ahead of time for guests of BellaVilla residents, but Bobby’s request was a special circumstance. One of his Pacific Tower residents had a baby daughter undergoing emergency surgery at nearby Overlake Hospital. All the local hotel rooms were unavailable due to a major national conference that had booked everything in town. Even Monty’s Motor Inn, which made Motel Six look high class, was filled. It took some doing, but I was able to juggle the calendar and accommodate his urgent request. We’d traded favors ever since.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” Bobby said as I entered the lobby. I’d given him a brief description of myself, but my fiery red hair is all it usually takes to pick me out in a crowd. Not that the small lobby was crowded. In fact, we had the elegantly furnished place to ourselves. The minimalist décor, with its simple, uncluttered lines and classic Asian furnishings, wasn’t as grandiose as BellaVilla’s Italian-themed splendor, but it still shouted money and power.

  “Hi, Bobby.” This was the first opportunity we’d had to meet in person and he didn’t look anything like I’d pictured. He had a high-pitched, almost feminine-sounding voice over the phone and I expected him to have a slender body to go with it. Instead of Peter Pan, I found Paul Bunyan. He was tall and burly with lumberjack muscles straining the fabric of his uniform. I pegged him at around forty or so.

  He caught me staring at the jaunty red beret atop his blond head. “Not exactly regulation attire, I know.” He fingered the sparkling diamond stud in his right earlobe. “But then, I’m not exactly regulation, either.” I couldn’t tell if he was making some kind of indirect reference to his sexual orientation, or whether he just meant he was an unconventional guy. Other than the wearer’s preference for bling, men’s earrings didn’t signify anything to me, no matter which lobe they were worn on.

  Bobby slipped his laptop into a leather man-bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “I
don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” He steered me toward a side door. “This way to the best beer joint in the Pearl.”

  I didn’t see another concierge reporting for duty. “What about the desk?”

  “It doesn’t drink,” he said, laughing at his own joke. “No worries; Tina has it covered. She usually arrives at the last minute, sans uniform. She’s in the restroom now getting dressed for duty.”

  “How old is Tina?”

  “Nineteen. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I said. But I had to wonder. Maybe my problems with Carla weren’t all that unusual. “It just seems like young people today think work rules like showing up on time are open to interpretation.”

  Bobby chuckled. “I hear ya.” Then he quickly defended his employee. “But Tina’s a really good concierge. So I try to cut her some slack.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, letting the matter drop. I was embarrassed I’d even raised the issue. I was beginning to sound like an old codger. If I wasn’t careful, I’d soon be yelling at the neighbor kids for running across my lawn.

  La Parlour was hardly what I’d call a beer joint. It was a combination lounge and upscale billiard parlor designed to impress—and it did. The place looked nothing like the pool halls Jack used to drag me to when we were in high school. No greasy, smoke-filled room with questionable characters hanging about here. A dress code posted outside the door advised patrons that baggy pants, gym shorts, and sweats were not allowed. Same with hats, visors, and bandannas. My jeans and turtleneck passed muster, but Bobby had to leave his beret with the gal at the hatcheck counter.

  The posh Las Vegas-style lounge was situated on the mezzanine level, overlooking a dozen regulation pool tables on the floor below. Several plasma screen TVs were scattered throughout for catching up on the sports action between shots. The vibe was hip and trendy and, according to Bobby, was what attracted Portland’s mix-and-mingle set. And the beer, of course. Besides a wide selection of lagers, ales, and specialty beers, there was an extensive list of champagne and wine available for sipping and savoring. The bar menu included the usual appetizers and tempting desserts.