Red Hot

by Dana Dratch

  According to Annie’s directions, you had to wind through a maze of storage lockers and—if you took the correct combination of right and left turns—you were rewarded with the door that accessed the hall that dumped you in the lobby.

  I think Indiana Jones had less trouble finding the Ark. And he wasn’t traveling with a pup who needed to get outside in a hurry.

  “I just use the stairs,” my sister had confided. “It’s easier. Plus, it’s good exercise.”

  I was honestly beginning to miss my black-mold-tainted, all-on-one-floor bungalow. Dodgy wiring or not.

  Turns out the storage area, like the stairs, was definitely lacking in the cosmetics department. I’m guessing it would never be on the home tour for potential buyers. This was the part of the place you’d see only after you signed that mortgage on the dotted line.

  Over our heads, square insulated ducts crisscrossed the ceiling, along with a variety of plastic and metal pipes. Lighting, provided by overhead fluorescent tubes, was sparse. And I noticed about a third of the bulbs were dead—giving the place a dark and shadowy vibe.

  But hey, at least it was air-conditioned.

  Large chain-link cages on each side of the concrete pathway were sectioned off, numbered, and locked. Each resident owned at least one, and they could rent more if they wanted, Annie had explained. It was where they stashed items like holiday decorations, sports equipment, or old files. Things they needed but didn’t use everyday. Or didn’t have space for in their homes.

  The storage area also looked like it hadn’t seen a cleaning service in a long time. Dust bunnies skittered across our path and more dangled from the overhead lights. In the corners, a couple of giant spiderwebs decorated the walls.

  “C’mon, Lucy,” I said, picking up the pace.

  Given the size of the webs, I definitely didn’t want to meet those spiders.

  I rounded a corner and heard footsteps. The whole place was like an echo chamber, with sounds bouncing off the concrete. I couldn’t tell where the steps originated. Was someone in front of us? Or behind us? And who was it?

  I stopped to listen. And I wasn’t the only one. Lucy rotated both of her large satellite-dish ears. In different directions.

  We stood stock-still in the silence.

  Would it kill them to add a few more lights in this place?

  “Anyone there?” I asked.

  “Wuff!” Lucy added for good measure. “Woof wuff!”

  “Good girl!” I whispered.

  Suddenly, a clattering sound. Like something had fallen. Or someone had dropped something.

  I swear I heard a muffled scraping sound. Then, nothing.

  “C’mon,” I whispered to Lucy. “Let’s get the heck out of here.”

  We hustled through Annie’s series of left and right turns, until finally a big steel door labeled “Ground Floor Hall” appeared in front of us.

  I don’t think Indy was half as happy to see that Ark.

  CHAPTER 20

  Later, after the thrills and chills of the storage area, the pool was kind of anticlimactic.

  It was still the cool of the morning. Or at least as cool as Miami gets in July.

  A few of the tables were occupied. Mostly by what appeared to be retirees. A couple of younger residents had brought coffee, tablets, phones, or laptops. The office to-go.

  After a few days here, I recognized some of the faces. Including Ethel and Mrs. Pickles. If Leslie was going to chew me out for bringing Lucy to the pool deck, at least I was in good company.

  I grabbed a small table next to Stan, Ethel, Ernie, and Mrs. Ernie, as Lucy and Mrs. Pickles circled each other excitedly.

  First Lucy sniffed Mrs. Pickles. Then they switched. After that, they started chasing each other in ever-widening circles.

  “Is that your dog?” Ethel asked. “She’s a cutie.”

  “That’s Lucy,” I said, as I raised the sun-colored umbrella over my table and locked it into place. “She actually belongs to my brother. But I’m keeping her for the week.”

  “What kind of dog is she?” Ernie asked. “Never seen one like that.”

  “She’s a Lucy,” I said cheerily. “Mixed breed. The exact formula is a closely guarded secret. Kinda like KFC.”

  That’s when I looked over and noticed that the pool had an odd greenish tinge.

  “Any idea what’s going on with the water?” I asked.

  “We think it’s the filter,” Stan said, sipping from a cardboard coffee cup. “Or it could be algae, if it’s low on chlorine. Wouldn’t swim in it, though.”

  “And they’re not coming to fix it anytime soon,” Ernie added.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The pool company needs to speak with Leslie.”

  Ernie nodded grimly.

  “Don’t they have some kind of agreement for regular maintenance?” I asked.

  Either Leslie McQueen was a total control freak, or this management company was totally lazy.

  “My Marilyn here even called the pool company directly,” Ernie said proudly, pointing to his wife.

  “They claim we’re already three months behind with the bills,” Marilyn added. “They’re not lifting a finger until Leslie cuts them a check.”

  Wow.

  “She’s still not answering her phone, either,” Ernie said. “Everybody and their monkey’s been calling her. Nothing but voice mail. I even went up and knocked on her door this morning.”

  Marilyn smiled. “Knowing you, it was a little louder than a polite knock.”

  “Hey, she could be hard of hearing, for all I know,” he said.

  “My sister tried calling the management company itself last night,” I admitted. “But they refused to tell her anything. They said the only one they can talk to is Leslie.”

  “They told me the same thing this morning,” Ethel said. “Except they said ‘Ms. McQueen or the board’s attorney.’”

  That got my attention. Usually when people started referencing lawyers, it meant a lawsuit was in the offing.

  “That’s odd,” Marilyn said.

  Ethel nodded. “I thought so, too.”

  Finished with their game of chase and tag around the green pool, Lucy and Mrs. Pickles trotted over and settled themselves on the blue-and-yellow beach towel I’d spread out in the shade.

  I reached into my bag and placed a treat carefully in front of each of them.

  Two tails wagged in unison.

  I grabbed the phone out of my tote and snapped a photo. I’d send it to Nick later with the caption “Lucy makes a friend.”

  That way, my brother would have at least one less worry on his mind.

  “So who is the board’s attorney?” I asked.

  “No idea,” Ernie said.

  “I don’t think we have one,” Ethel said. “We have a president, and a secretary, and a treasurer,” she added, ticking them off on her fingers.

  “Yeah, I think that was one of the things the management company was supposed to provide for us,” Stan said. “You know, to save us money and keep everything on the up-and-up.”

  “That swamp sure ain’t on the up-and-up,” Ernie said, waving a paw at the pool. “I don’t care how many champagne parties McQueen throws. She’s crazy if she thinks folks are gonna forget this, come election day.”

  “So it’s a board of three,” I summarized. “Who are the other two board members?”

  I figured if Leslie McQueen was temporarily indisposed, maybe the other two could fill in. Or at least fill in some of the blanks.

  “Secretary’s that guy on six,” Stan said, looking at Ernie. “You know. The one with the green Jag.”

  “Chu,” Ernie said, snapping his fingers. “Dennis Chu.”

  “That’s the one,” Stan said, happily. “British racing green, tan leather interior, all the toys. Must have cost him a mint.”

  I remembered seeing Chu on the tax rolls. Lucy and I might pay him a little visit after five.

  “And who’s the treasurer?” I asked.


  With missing payments and a missing Leslie, I had a sneaking suspicion that money might be the key to unraveling this whole mess.

  “Geoffrey Gallagher,” Ethel said. “He lives in the unit right above me. Nice, quiet boy. Keeps to himself.”

  “I heard he’s an accountant for some big corporation,” Marilyn said, as Ethel nodded.

  Make that two visits this evening. And if I was going to get two corporate types to open their doors to a stranger after a long day at the office, it might pay to invite Annie along for the ride.

  CHAPTER 21

  Late that afternoon, Annie and I held a strategy meeting over tall tumblers of ice cream. Chocolate mint chip for me. Peanut butter fudge for her. Lucy was totally absorbed with a canine version Annie had picked up at the local grocery store. Also peanut butter flavored.

  “Oh, I know Gracie and Dennis,” Annie said between bites. “But I don’t remember Geoffrey Gallagher at all. I wonder if he’s new?”

  “Stan didn’t even mention that Dennis had a wife,” I said. “But I think he’s in love with the guy’s car.”

  “Oh yeah, the Jag,” my sister agreed. “It is nice.”

  “Gallagher lives just upstairs from Ethel, so his apartment should be easy to find. Even if we have to take the stairs.”

  Air-conditioned or not, I wasn’t too anxious to revisit the creepy storage area. I’m guessing that pool maintenance wasn’t the only area where Leslie had been cutting corners.

  Lucy and I had been climbing stairs all day. By the time this vacation was over, we were both going to have legs like mountain goats.

  “So what are we going to ask these people tonight?” Annie inquired.

  “In reporting, this is what we call ‘string gathering,’” I said. “No set list of questions. No pressure. We just want to chat and see what we can learn.”

  “Low-key,” Annie said.

  “Exactly. Instead of squeezing them for Leslie’s whereabouts, we ask if there are any provisions for arranging for repairs and services when the president is indisposed.”

  “Oh, I like that,” she said.

  “As a conversation starter, it beats ‘Where did she go with the dough? ’”

  “Do you really think she took off?” Annie asked. “I mean, she was just so . . . enthusiastic.”

  “More like relentless,” I said. “And there’s no telling at this point. We need a lot more information. Hopefully, if we do it right, we can get some answers this evening. It would also be nice to find out what the relationship is between Leslie and the management company.”

  “What do you mean?” my sister asked.

  “Well, from what Ethel said, it sounds like they lawyered up. Or they think Leslie did. Which means they might just be the former management company.”

  “Oh geez, that would explain a lot,” Annie said. “Including why they won’t come and fix anything.”

  “But it still doesn’t account for why Leslie’s not answering her phone,” I said.

  That’s when something clicked. I jumped up from my empty glass, loped to the sideboard, and fired up my laptop.

  “What?” Annie asked.

  “I’m an idiot. Everyone around here keeps calling the phone number that Leslie shared with them. And she never answers it. But I forgot—Leslie is a real estate agent. And every real estate agent I know is crazy-glued to their work cell. It’s economic survival. Because if you don’t answer your phone, your clients will call someone else. What’s the name of Leslie’s company?”

  “SouthShell Realty.”

  I found the site, hit “About us,” and scrolled through “Our staff.” Almost instantly I was confronted with a grinning mugshot of Leslie McQueen. With the same carnivorous expression that had welcomed us to her party. But the smile never quite reached her eyes.

  I clicked on the photo, and that brought up all of her contact details. Including three different phone numbers—office, mobile, and home.

  “Three phone numbers,” I said, holding up as many fingers. “Which one have you been dialing?”

  “At this point, I know it by heart—(305) 555-0125,” Annie said.

  “That’s the one she lists as ‘home,’” I said. “I’m guessing it’s a landline or maybe the cell she keeps at her place.”

  Annie grabbed her phone and joined me in front of the laptop.

  She dialed the number Leslie listed as her “mobile,” got voice mail, and left a short message. Then she tried the office line.

  “Hi, this is Anastasia Vlodnachek. I’m calling for Leslie McQueen.”

  My sister paused. “Well, it’s rather urgent. Do you know how I might be able to reach her? No, I really need to speak with her personally.”

  She paused again. “Oh my, that is worrisome. Yes, me too. No, no, that’s all right. If you hear from her, just tell her I called. I will. OK, thank you.”

  Annie had an odd expression on her face as she put down the phone.

  “No one at the realty company has heard from Leslie since the night of the party. She had a closing the next afternoon, and she never showed. She’s missed a bunch of appointments. Clients are calling left and right. And no one seems to know where the heck she is.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I didn’t want a repeat of the other night. So this time we arranged a dog sitter. Or, more accurately, a doggie playdate.

  After a nice long walk, we’d dropped off the pup at Ethel’s place for a few hours with Mrs. Pickles. I figured if Lucy was happily occupied, she’d have less time to plot her next escape.

  “By the way, I should have warned you—the sun is pretty intense here,” Annie said, as we headed back to the stairs. “Especially in the summer.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” I said ruefully.

  “What helps is reapplying the sunblock every hour or right after you come out of the water.”

  “OK, that explains a lot.”

  She smiled. “Hey, what’s a big sister for?”

  I had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Do you know what Leslie drives?” I asked.

  “A cute little sky-blue Mercedes convertible,” Annie replied.

  “Do you know where she parks it?”

  “That’s brilliant!” my sister said, catching my drift.

  “Well, we know from Ernie she’s not answering her door. And her office hasn’t heard from her. I just thought it might be interesting to see if her car’s still in the lot.”

  “If it’s there, that doesn’t mean she’s still here, though,” Annie said. “A lot of us use ride shares and cabs. Heck, even when I’m back in Manhattan, my electric Mini’s still in the garage under the building most of the time. And the way this neighborhood’s laid out, you can get pretty far on foot, too.”

  “Nothing’s conclusive. It’s just one more piece of the puzzle.”

  And one more detail for the cops. Because at this point, I was pretty sure we’d be calling them soon. Either to report a missing Leslie or the missing money.

  A few minutes later, we exited the stairs into the garage. I have to say, the lighting was a lot better than the storage area. And it was clean. At least, for a garage.

  I said as much to Annie.

  “Well, this is one of the first things prospective residents see,” she said, as we made our way through the parking lot that housed a virtual fleet of luxury Beemers, Benzes, and Lexuses—peppered with the occasional new economy car here and there. “And most of the homeowners are using it two and three times a day. So if the board made cutbacks here, people would notice. And complain.”

  “I can’t believe the board didn’t pay the pool cleaners,” I countered. “I mean, that’s major.”

  “Maybe they didn’t plan to let it go this long.”

  “That makes more sense,” I reasoned. “You let a couple of payments slide because you can. I mean, this is a big place. They’re probably a major client for the pool service. So the pool company lets it go a few times. But then something happened. I’d love to know wha
t.”

  “We all pay our association dues religiously,” Annie said. “The new board instituted a pretty steep fine schedule for late payments. And a lot of us have it on auto-pay, anyway. We thought the management company was using that money to pay utilities, maintenance, and upkeep on this place. But if that’s not happening, who’s got the money and where is it?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” I said. “And I have a feeling we’ll locate Leslie in the process.”

  “You really do think she ran off with it,” she said, concerned. A statement, not a question.

  “Not necessarily. I just have a strong hunch the two issues are connected. There are a lot of possible explanations at this point.”

  None of them good.

  “Over there,” Annie said, pointing. “Right in front of the elevators.”

  I looked up and saw a shiny, light-blue two-door Benz. The white cloth top was up. As we approached, I reached into my purse, retrieved a Kleenex, and tried the driver’s door. Locked.

  I rested the back of my hand on the hood. It was cool.

  “What?” Annie asked.

  “It hasn’t been driven in the past few hours, that’s all.”

  At this point, I was reasonably certain the police would be dusting this car for prints in the not-so-distant future. And I didn’t want them finding mine. I had enough problems.

  “Good lord, she’s even got the spot marked,” I said, walking around to the back of the car. “ ‘Reserved for the President?’ All she needs is some velvet rope and a security detail.”

  “It is ludicrous,” Annie agreed. “We all have reserved spots anyway. But the board gave her this a couple of months after she was appointed. The story was that she needed to be able to zoom in and out quickly during the day to meet vendors and contractors for condo business. Honestly, I thought it was just a little perk in lieu of a salary.”

  “Whose spot was it before?” I asked.

  “No idea,” my sister admitted, shrugging.

  As she walked around to study the front of the car, I gave the trunk and back bumper area a discreet sniff. Lucy would have been proud.

  Luckily, nothing but gasoline and rubber.