“The informant’s.”
“Good, because I’d hate to think you were that stupid.”
“Not stupid, just thorough. I have to check out everything.”
Maybe he was just being cautious. Or maybe he’d been taken for a ride once and vowed never to trust his own judgment again. Molly preferred those theories to the one giving him one more item to add to her own list of motives. “Did some sweet-talking person fool you once? Did she mess up a case for you?”
“Nope, and that’s not going happen if I can help it. When it comes to a case, I don’t trust my parish priest. Now that we’re clear this isn’t personal, let’s stick to the specifics of this case. You’re saying the incident between Allan and Brian never happened?”
“That’s right. It never happened.”
“Could we talk to your son about that?”
“Why? I’ve told you.”
“And I’m trying to cover all the bases.”
She glared at him. His gaze met hers evenly, un-fazed by the scowl. There was enough chemistry in the air to blow up a lab. For once it didn’t have much to do with physical attraction. She was furious, resentful of the fact he wouldn’t take her at her word. He was patient, which only magnified her irritation.
“He’s at school,” she said finally.
“Later, then. I’ll stop by this evening.”
“Whatever,” she said stiffly.
“Thank you,” he said formally, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
She relented. He was just trying to do his job. “By the way, what was the consensus in there this morning?” she asked. “Was Allan loved or hated?”
“Actually, it was odd. Everyone had something to say about the murder, but very little about Allan. Except for the condo, did he pretty much keep to himself?”
“He played tennis, but those guys are already on the courts by now. Other than that I have no idea if he’d involved himself in any of the other island activities. Try the Yacht Club or check with The Islander. Someone at the paper might know if he was active.”
“Maybe I’ll just drop in on his wife, instead.”
There was an unmistakable spark of anticipation in his voice. “You’re hoping she’ll have company, right?”
“I must admit to a certain curiosity about who was expected yesterday. A lover, especially one interested in her husband’s estate, might have a particularly good motive for stabbing Allan.”
If Molly hadn’t had that damned meeting with Paramount, she might very well have begged to tag along. Instead, she drove to work at a daring ten miles an hour above the speed limit. Despite her defiance of the traffic laws, she still had to stay in the slow lane to avoid being run down by everyone else. Where the hell was a cop when you really needed one?
CHAPTER 6
When Molly arrived at the office, Vince and Jeannette were in the midst of a standoff. For the second time that morning she was grateful that the world around her was still so normal.
“What are you two bickering about now?” she asked as she inched between two floor-to-tabletop stacks of Variety, the Hollywood Reporter, tourism brochures, and magazines to reach her desk.
Jeannette, a tall, stately black woman with close-cropped hair, rolled her expressive eyes and launched into a soft but eloquent tirade in Creole. There was just enough English to give Molly the idea that Vince had been behaving in character. Apparently he recognized the phrase that meant son of a bitch as well. He dragged Molly into his office and slammed the door, leaving an indignant Jeannette on the other side.
“I can’t deal with this,” he said. “I’ve had it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“She refuses to do the filing.”
“Did she say that?”
“Well, not in so many words,” he admitted, “but do you see any sign of her doing it? She’s just muttering all that voodoo stuff again.”
“What on earth makes you think she’s invoking some curse?”
“It’s the way she looks at me. Gives me the chills.”
“Perhaps she looks like that because you’re behaving like a jerk. I’ve occasionally felt a need to regard you that way myself. Look, I’ll talk to her. We’ll get caught up on the filing. Maybe if the phone didn’t ring off the hook around here, she’d have time to do it.”
“It’s not my fault that they eliminated a secretarial position.”
“Nobody said it was. We just have to do the best we can. Have a cup of coffee. Go over your notes for the Paramount meeting. Daydream about your golf game. Did you make that birdie, by the way?”
“Now that,” he said with a satisfied sigh, all thoughts of Jeannette banished in a wave of pure nostalgia, “that was perfection. You should have been there, Molly. A fifteen-footer, straight into the cup.”
“Did you win?”
“Naw, but who cares? Came in six over par, the best I’ve played in months. I’m telling you, if I could hit the course every day I could turn pro.”
“Vince, by the time you’re ready for that you’ll have to go on the seniors tour. Stick with the amateur stuff. Now let me go see if I can calm Jeannette down.”
She found the clerk diligently filing. Jeannette glanced up, a twinkle in her dark-brown eyes.
“Okay, tell the truth, what’d you say to him?” Molly asked.
“I wished him many children,” she said innocently.
Molly chuckled. “So he was right. You did put a curse on him.”
A grin spread slowly across Jeannette’s flat features, her white teeth gleaming against a mahogany complexion. “He would see it that way, yes.”
“Jeannette, one of these days he’s going to fire you. Why can’t you just talk to him in plain English? You speak it every bit as well as I do.”
“But what would be the fun in that? Vincent, he has an idea of who I am. Why should I distress him by confusing the matter?”
“I have a pretty good idea of who you are, too, my friend, and you are a fraud. You have more business and political savvy than Vince would if he got an MBA. Don’t let him sell you short.”
“This is a clerk’s job, Molly. If he sees I am over-qualified, it will make him very nervous. I watch the county listings. When a better job comes along, I will apply. Until then I will do this one well, even the filing.” Her grin was back. “And have a little fun, yes?”
Molly chuckled. “Okay, yes.”
Jeannette’s expression sobered. “Now we talk about you. You are okay? I saw in the paper about the murder in your building.”
“I’m okay. I just wish I could figure out who was behind it. It makes me very nervous to think that someone in Ocean Manor is capable of murder. That means they have access to all the apartments.”
As Jeannette went back to her filing, Molly considered the suspects who had surfaced thus far: Drucilla, Manuel Mendoza, perhaps Tyler Jenkins, the fired Enrique Valdez, some unidentified and possibly nonexistent lover of Drucilla’s, some of the others who’d been there last night. She excluded herself for obvious reasons. She knew she hadn’t done it. If the police had a more solid list, weeding out the unlikeliest prospects, she wasn’t aware of it.
She glanced at her watch. She had about ten minutes before the meeting with the Paramount producer. That ought to be just about long enough for a chat with Mendoza. She looked up the number of his development company in Coral Gables.
To reach him she had to convince a receptionist and then a secretary that her business with him was important. Fortunately, dealing with Hollywood office help had given her the necessary skills to bluff her way past the most protective executive secretaries.
“Mr. Mendoza, this is Molly DeWitt. I live at Ocean Manor.”
“Right. Right. You’re the one who discovered Allan’s body, right?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you mi
ght tell me a little bit about condo politics. I’m new to the building and I’m wondering how Allan got elected.”
Although Mendoza had been speaking perfectly fluent, unaccented English, her question brought on a barrage of Spanish.
“You didn’t like him, I take it.”
“He was an interloper.”
“What an odd choice of words. Hadn’t he lived in the building for many years?”
“A few, but only recently did he become interested in power.”
“Perhaps that was because of some of the concerns about mismanagement I’ve heard.”
“You have been misinformed. The building has been run very well,” he said coldly. “I have seen to that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am very busy.”
“Wait,” Molly said, anxious for a more definitive explanation.
“Good-bye, Mrs. DeWitt.”
Manuel Mendoza’s abrupt end to their conversation stayed with her throughout the meeting with the producers from Los Angeles. Had the ex–condo president interpreted her comment as an accusation? Had guilt made him anxious to be rid of her? Mendoza had been president of the board for three terms, and it was during that time that suggestions of impropriety had been raised. If someone had been offering sweetheart deals to contractors, who better to do it than a developer? Allan’s election would have brought an unwanted close to a lucrative side business. Was there enough at stake to justify killing him to pave the way for a new election? And how did Jack Kingsley fit in? Wouldn’t the manager have to know what was going on?
When she got home that afternoon she went straight to the office and asked to see copies of the most recent budgets. Mr. Kingsley emerged from his office just as the reports were being handed to her.
“What brings you in?” he asked, taking the papers from Celia before Molly could get her hands on them. He glanced through them, then passed them on. Reluctantly? Molly couldn’t be sure.
“I thought I’d try to catch up on what goes on around here,” she said, tucking the papers into her briefcase before he could change his mind. “I wasn’t here when the budget was approved. I have no idea how a place like this operates. If I’m going to pay a thousand dollars every quarter for maintenance, I want to see how it’s spent.”
“Very prudent,” he agreed. “Celia, get her the proposed budget as well as last year’s actuals.”
The petite blonde bobbed her head. “Should I get the report that just came in from…”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Which report is that?” Molly asked. “Everything is a matter of public record, isn’t it?”
“Once it’s been presented to the board, naturally.”
“I see. Then this report Celia mentioned hasn’t gone to the board yet?”
“It’s on the agenda for next week. Of course, with all that’s happened, the timetable could be shifted. I imagine most of the meeting will be devoted to replacing Allan.”
“The bylaws call for another election, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. He had most of his term remaining, so there will need to be a new election, rather than an appointment.”
“Any idea who might run?”
“Mendoza’s the most likely candidate. Has all sorts of experience from before. He could move right in and know what needs to be done.”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m sure that’s important.” She stepped to the door. “Well, thanks for these, Celia. Good-bye, Mr. Kingsley.”
He nodded. Before she’d taken two steps down the hall, however, she could hear his raised voice. She got the distinct impression he wasn’t happy with Celia’s generosity with the building’s budget figures.
When Michael showed up a half hour later, she was still going over the two reports. Although in some areas the costs seemed high, she couldn’t find any obvious discrepancies. Not that she knew what to look for. Obviously the figures were going to add up. The only way to find really lousy deals would be to see comparative bids on everything.
“What do you have there?” Michael asked, glancing at the papers she’d spread out on the coffee table. “You bring some work home?”
“No. Actually, it’s the condo budget.”
He groaned. “I don’t suppose it just happened to be in the mail today.”
“No. I asked for it. It seems to me that…”
“Dammit, woman, haven’t you heard a single thing I’ve said to you?”
She gazed at him innocently. “Which things were those?”
“Let me narrow it down to one.” He leaned in close. “Stay out of this case.”
“Hey, you’re the one who put me on the list of suspects.”
“But we both know you don’t belong there.”
Surprised to hear him actually say it, she said, “Thank you. When did you decide that?”
“I’ve never believed you are capable of murder. However, someone is taking great pains to make me believe you are, starting with using your knife, making sure only your prints were on it, and then telling me about a set-to between you and Allan over your boy. Hasn’t it occurred to you that someone, possibly the killer, is very anxious to see you behind bars? If it is the killer and if he or she decides that the tactic isn’t working, it may seem to him or her that more drastic measures are called for.”
With all those hims and hers and someones scattered around, it was tricky, but Molly was relatively certain she understood what he was getting at. In fact, the picture he was painting made her blood run cold. Just in case she’d got it wrong, she asked, “Meaning?”
“Meaning, dammit, that you could be in danger. Now will you just stay the hell out of my way!”
She was ninety-nine percent certain that it wasn’t a question. “Okay, yes. I’ll back off. I still think there might be information I could get for you…”
“As a detective I have access to more information than you could possibly imagine.”
“But people might be more open with me.”
Wiping his hand wearily across his face, he sat down. “Okay, let’s just suppose for a minute that you do get someone to spill his guts. Then you’d have exactly the information the killer is trying to keep us from getting. Talk about a motive for murder.”
“Okay, okay, I get your point.”
“Is Brian home?”
“Yes. He’s in his room.”
“Get him, please.”
His temper appeared to be on a very short leash. Molly went to get Brian. Naturally, he wasn’t in his room. He was standing in the shadows just beyond the living room. He’d obviously heard every word. For the first time since the murder, he looked scared. When she gestured for him to come, he hung back.
“What did he mean, Mom? Is somebody going to hurt you?”
“No, Brian. You and I are going to look out for each other, and we’ll be just fine.”
“Maybe Detective O’Hara ought to look out for us. He has a gun.”
“We’re not going to need a gun. Come on, kiddo. The detective has a couple of questions for you.”
For once the prospect of being a part of the investigation didn’t seem to appeal to him. He stayed right where he was.
“Brian, what on earth is wrong? He just needs to ask you a couple of questions.”
“I don’t know anything, not really.”
The not really worried her. That generally meant he knew something but didn’t deem it important according to his own value system. His system quite often varied considerably from those of such authority figures as his mother and his teachers.
“I want you in the living room right now, and I want you to answer every question Detective O’Hara asks with the truth. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said dutifully, but he didn’t look happy about it. She recognized that stubborn set of his mouth and wondered how the detective
would do at getting past it.
Michael looked up from the budget papers and smiled at Brian. “Hey, amigo, how’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess,” Brian said, leaning against Molly’s knee.
“I need your help.”
“My help?” he said, straightening a little. “What can I do? I’m just a kid.”
“I need to know if you ever saw Mr. Winecroft around the building.”
Apparently Brian thought the question was innocuous enough. He responded readily. “Sure. He was always around.”
“Did you ever talk to him?”
“Not much. I don’t think he liked kids very much.”
“What made you think that?”
“He was always yelling at us.”
“Us? You and who else?”
“Timmy and Kevin. We’d swim every afternoon. Sometimes we’d go to the beach and forget to wash the sand off our feet before we went into the pool or we’d sit on one of the chairs without a towel.”
“Did he yell at you recently?”
Brian glanced at Molly uneasily. “Yeah, I guess.”
“How recently?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“What were you doing then?”
“Nothing, not really. We were in the garage, see, just messing around. We weren’t hurting anything. And he caught us. He said he was going to call the police if he saw us near there again.” His lower lip quivered and Molly could see the sheen of tears welling up in his eyes.
“Near where?”
“I don’t know. That was the really weird part. I mean we were just sort of hiding and stuff.”
“Was he alone or was someone with him?”
“I didn’t see anybody.”
“Could you show me where you were?”
Sensing finally that he wasn’t in any real trouble, Brian’s expression brightened. “Sure.”
Michael nodded. “Let’s go take a look.”
The building’s garage was on a single level, beneath the structure but aboveground. Outside light filtered in, but it was the overhead fluorescent lights that kept it from being gloomy. Unlike some dark, shadowy parking garages that scared Molly to death, she’d never felt anything but safe in this one. Until now. There was something about Brian’s story that suggested that something had been happening in the garage that Allan Winecroft hadn’t wanted anyone to know about.
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