by Dana Dratch
“Really, truly,” I said, nodding. “Leslie had three secret bank accounts. And the balances roughly add up to what Geoffrey figures you should have in the association account.”
“Hot damn, let’s pay some bills!” he said, grinning.
“First we have to move the money back into the board’s account,” I said. “And I think we’re gonna need Geoffrey’s help with that. We’ve got the account numbers and the security codes. But I think there are some rules about moving money. You know, so that we don’t inadvertently call attention to ourselves while we’re trying to return what Leslie stole.”
“Good thinking,” Dennis said. “Oh man, the first thing I’m gonna do when this is over is resign from the board and sleep for a week. And beg Gracie to forgive me. And I mean grovel.”
He looked happier than I’d ever seen him.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Geoffrey had joined us. With his candy-colored chart.
“Yes, this is everything,” he said, studying the account totals. “I mean, to be absolutely sure, we could call for an audit, but . . .”
“Look, is it fairly close to what we’re missing or not?” Dennis asked, exasperated.
“Well, I’d say so. I mean, it’s definitely within five hundred dollars.”
“I’d pay five hundred dollars for all of this to be over,” Dennis said. “I can’t believe I’m finally gonna get my life back.”
“We need to move the money back into the board account,” I said. “That way, Geoffrey, you’ll have the authority to use it to pay the bills. And then you two can turn over what’s left to the new management company.”
Geoffrey stopped, a startled expression on his face. “Hmm, oh yes. But we need to transfer the funds in amounts of less than ten thousand dollars. Otherwise, well, that would be bad.”
“Define ‘bad,’” Dennis said, looking a lot less happy.
“Mandatory government reporting and investigation,” Geoffrey said. “Bad. Very bad.”
“Oh geez,” Dennis said, slapping his forehead.
“But if we keep it under ten thousand, we should be fine,” Geoffrey concluded happily.
“This is a lot of money to move,” I said. “So I’m guessing we’ll make multiple transfers?”
“Exactly,” Geoffrey said, smiling.
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Annie said. “And I was wondering if we should also take a few precautions to cover our tracks electronically. So to speak.”
Geoffrey actually beamed. And Annie was right. He looked exactly like a young space alien. All he needed was a silver suit and some antennae.
“Excellent idea,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”
CHAPTER 48
Let’s just say that Annie’s idea involved a brand-new electronic tablet, some special software and public Wi-Fi.
Even though Geoffrey had the expertise to make the transfers himself, Dennis insisted on keeping him company. Or keeping an eye on him.
After what Leslie had done, trust was in short supply on Oceanside’s HOA board.
Annie went along to help them with logistics. And make sure they didn’t kill each other.
Left to my own devices, my mind kept returning to those blackmail photos. I hated loose ends. And it bothered me that they might still be discovered and made public. It was as if Leslie was still spreading poison from the grave.
So where would she put them?
It was clear from Leslie’s condo that she liked keeping the evidence of her little enterprise close at hand. And, if her slam book and those oak filing cabinets were any indication, she preferred old-school storage methods.
So a storage unit in the building would be the perfect hiding place. But if she had one, where was it? And how would I find it?
I tried working with the facts I had. Leslie wrote down account numbers and passwords. In tiny, neat handwriting. She labeled the keys and the pegs on her resident key pegboard. Everyone who knew her said that she was remarkably efficient and organized.
So, chances are, she’d written it down somewhere.
I retrieved Leslie’s book from my satchel and flipped through the sections. There were only four listings under “contacts,” and we now knew they were the bank accounts. And we’d deciphered all the goodies about various residents in her “profiles.” Unfortunately.
But the columns of condo numbers still didn’t make sense. At least, not to me.
I turned to that section.
Then it struck me: Leslie knew everything there was to know about these people. But she never listed them by name. Instead, they were all numbers. Unit numbers. Easier to depersonalize them that way? Or just concealing evidence?
So if each of the numbers in the column represented a resident of Oceanside, what were the strange words written across the head of each column?
C BOBO
D BOBO
E BOBO
F BOBO
Numbers! Leslie, ace cryptographer, substituted letters for numbers to hide her bank PIN codes. Why not here too? If that was true, BOBO was probably 2020, and the letters in front stood for months. So now I had a handle on how she catalogued her blackmail photos—where was the stash?
In Annie’s kitchen, I grabbed a flashlight and checked the clock. I had at least an hour before Gabby and Lucy were due. Like it or not, I was going to pay another visit to that scuzzy storage area.
CHAPTER 49
I was hoping that maybe, in my haste to get Lucy out for her walk, I’d exaggerated the creepy quotient of the storage area.
No such luck.
If Leslie’s storage locker was anything like Leslie’s parking spot, it would be conveniently located fairly close to the elevator. And, reasoning that Leslie McQueen wouldn’t be caught dead on the service elevator—ironically—this time I started my search just inside the hallway lobby door.
But my sister had warned me that the first-floor storage area wasn’t the only one. There were more storage lockers on three, four, and five. Oh goody.
Annie’s superstrong flashlight lit up the dim pathway. Well enough that I could see evidence that one of the giant spiders had eaten recently.
Too bad they didn’t have a craving for dust bunnies.
Idly, I wondered what was going on at home. Ever since Nick had delivered the good news about my house, I hadn’t heard from him. I’m guessing he was making up for lost time with the bakery. Weirdly, I hadn’t heard from Trip, either. I hoped everything had gone OK with the hotel bigwigs. First thing tomorrow morning, I was calling both of them to catch up.
As I approached the first storage cage, I swung the light in a wide arc, peering through the chain-link. I felt like an archeologist searching for a lost tomb.
Instead of an ancient sarcophagus, I discovered a collection of hockey sticks and roller skates. Along with a set of crutches and a dusty-looking walking cast.
Probably not Leslie’s.
The next one held a lawn mower, an assortment of rakes, and a child’s plastic playhouse. White with blue shutters and a pink roof.
Definitely not Leslie’s.
Something scuttled across my path, and I aimed the light at my feet. A roach scurried by and suddenly took flight.
I jumped back and shuddered.
I waved the light across the pathway. Just to make sure the cigar-sized arthropod wasn’t part of a mass migration. Something shiny shimmered in the edge of the beam. In front of one of the locker doors.
I prayed I hadn’t found its nest.
I stepped back, focused the beam, and realized that it was two tiny bits of confetti. A red piece and a blue one.
Just like someone might use in a campaign balloon.
CHAPTER 50
Lucy bounced through the door with an extra spring in her step. Maybe because she wasn’t wearing the booties.
“No need, sugar,” Gabby drawled. “The ride-share guy let us off right in front of the building. She even took a little comfort break in the
grass, if you know what I mean.”
As Lucy pranced around the living room, Gabby filled me in on their trip. “First, we went to the beach. And hoo boy, this little girl ran me ragged. Then we stopped at this local hamburger joint. And let’s just say that somebody worked up an appetite. Then we hit the doggie spa. Oh, it was the cutest place. And she loved it. She had an oatmeal shampoo, and an egg conditioner and a little clip, and a blow dry. Oh, and a mani-pedi. Or, in her case, I guess it’s a pedi-pedi.”
I tried to get a look at Lucy’s dancing paws. No pink that I could see. Or polish of any kind. Just trimmed and smooth.
“And the collar is Coach,” she said proudly.
“Gabby, she looks great!” I said. She did, too.
My ex-almost-sister-in-law beamed.
“Some good news on the condo front,” I said. “We finally found that money Leslie McQueen stole from this place. Annie and Dennis and Geoffrey are transferring it back as we speak. But that’s strictly on the q.t.”
Gabby mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. “I won’t make a peep, sugar. What about the blackmail stuff?”
I told her about the storage locker. And the confetti. I left out the part about the Jurassic cockroach. Then I uttered eight words I’d never thought I’d hear myself say.
“So, are you up for a field trip?”
CHAPTER 51
I’d been worried because Annie only had one flashlight. But that wasn’t a problem because apparently Gabby never left home without one.
Which made me wonder, not for the first time, why she was really here. A little vacation and romantic meet-up? Or was something bigger a foot?
We’d left Lucy in the comfort of Annie’s penthouse. Bad enough I had to revisit the dusty, insect-infested storage area. No way was I dragging the pup down there.
As we left the lobby and headed down the back hallway, I had a sudden attack of the guilts.
“Gabby, I wasn’t exactly honest with you here,” I started.
“What is it, sugar?” she asked, looking concerned.
“The rest of this building is really nice. Even the garage. But the storage area? It’s kind of a mess. And there are some bugs in there that belong in a museum. Or a sci-fi movie.”
Gabby giggled. “Gotcha, sister girl. Big ol’ bugs and lots of dust. Kind of like someone’s attic.”
I noticed she didn’t say whose.
“Boy, they sure didn’t waste any money on mood lighting,” Gabby observed as we pushed open the heavy metal door and made our way into the storage area.
“Annie says most people only come in here a couple of times a year,” I said, keeping my voice down so it didn’t echo off the cement. “My theory is this is one of the first places Leslie started cutting corners.”
“Looks like,” Gabby agreed. When her flashlight grazed the occupied spider’s web, I swear she shivered. But give her credit, she never stopped moving. Or even slowed.
“It’s right up here,” I said, gesturing with my beam. “That one on the right.”
Gabby handed off her flashlight and reached into her purse.
“OK, sugar, just hold both lights on the padlock, and we’ll be in there in two shakes.”
She wasn’t lying.
The inside of the storage locker was nearly as well organized as Leslie’s office. Against the back of the unit, she’d stacked a handful of moving boxes. All neatly labeled. Campaign supplies—T-shirts. Campaign supplies—balloons. Campaign supplies—buttons. Campaign supplies—bunting.
I folded back the corner of one box. Exactly what the label said. “Leslie McQueen for President” T-shirts. Dozens of them.
A small stepladder rested against the chain-link fencing in one corner. In the center, she had one of those industrial folding tables that reminded me of high school art class. With a battery-powered camping lantern and blue cloth-covered rolling chair, I’m guessing this was her de facto desk when she was sorting through her blackmail stash.
All she needed was a dead plant and a barely there window and she could be a branch manager at Primary Federal.
A rolling stainless clothing rack with six black, zippered hanging bags had been positioned on the opposite side of the unit. I guess the boutique-sized closet wasn’t quite big enough.
Unfortunately, nothing was labeled “blackmail photos.”
Gabby unzipped one of the dress bags. “Sorry, sugar, but I do love her clothes. I’ve just got to see what she has in here.”
“Knock yourself out,” I said, wondering if I’d been totally off the mark in coming here.
“Huh, that’s funny,” she said.
I turned and saw that, except for a couple of bulky hangers, the bag was empty.
I stepped forward and unzipped the next one. Ditto.
And it was the same story for the next three bags we attacked. Hangers only.
But the sixth bag was different. Inside, it had one of those organizers with multiple clear pockets for shoes.
Only there weren’t any shoes. Instead, there were homemade DVDs and dozens of USB sticks.
The first pocket was labeled “D BOBO.” I reached in and pulled out a DVD. The label read “D BOBO,” followed by several apartment numbers. The next DVD was the same. And so were the memory sticks.
A few pockets down, the labels switched to “E BOBO.” Also followed by different unit numbers.
“Gabby, this is it,” I whispered, holding up one of the homemade DVDs. “If I’m right about what I saw in Leslie’s leather book, these are her blackmail files.”
CHAPTER 52
Annie was already home when we arrived. She was stretched out on the sofa, clad in a pink silk T-shirt and black yoga pants, cradling a tall glass of iced tea. Lucy was curled up asleep with her head in my sister’s lap.
“All’s right with the world,” she told us. “We paid the bills straight out of Leslie’s many accounts. And Geoffrey came up with a couple of good work-arounds to put the rest of the cash back without stirring up trouble. The guy really wanted to make things right. I honestly don’t think this could have gone on one more day. Poor Dennis was ready to crack.”
“So how was the odd couple getting along tonight?” I asked, remembering the prickly atmosphere this afternoon.
“Let’s just say I don’t see a buddy movie in their future,” Annie said. “So what have you guys been up to? And by the way, Lucy looks wonderful.”
Gabby grinned. “The little girl deserves some pampering. Especially if she’s going to be a media star.”
“You’ve got to take me to that doggie spa tomorrow,” I said to Gabby. “That place is definitely going in my travel piece.”
“You got it, sugar. They’d love the publicity. Now go on and give your big sis the big news.”
“Big news?” Annie asked.
“We found Leslie’s blackmail stash,” I said.
“You’re kidding! That’s wonderful! Where? And how? Don’t tell me you found more clues in her junk mail?”
“Close. I walked the first-floor storage area with a flashlight. And I found a few pieces of that confetti from her campaign balloons. Once I knew which unit was hers, the rest was just down to Gabby and me searching the thing. Good old-fashioned shoe leather and elbow grease.”
“So what did you do with the stuff?”
“Leslie kept it on DVDs and USB sticks, so it’s going to take a while to destroy,” I explained. “Right now, it’s parked in your hall closet. In a black suit bag.”
“Oh geez,” my sister said. “There’s no telling what’s in there.”
“I don’t want to watch them. I just want to get rid of them. Any suggestions?”
I’d noticed that, where Leslie McQueen was concerned, every solution seemed to present a brand-new problem.
“My shredder will handle the DVDs,” Annie said. “USB sticks? No idea.”
“Water, sugar.”
“Really?” I asked. If that was true, then for the price of a punchbowl full of Mia
mi tap, we could make our neighbors’ lives a lot easier.
“It might not totally get every teensy, little bit,” Gabby said. “But it’ll make them pretty near worthless. Besides, with these nice people, you’re talking about a few little sins and indiscretions, right? Not top secret files.”
“Uh, right,” I said.
Now I was truly itching to know: What the heck was Gabrielle DuBois really doing in Miami?
CHAPTER 53
That night, Annie, Gabby, Lucy, and I had a shredding party.
It’s sort of like a slumber party with doughnuts. And dog treats. And a shredder.
Thanks to Gabby, we even had a bucket of water for the memory sticks. And I dumped in some salt, just to be on the safe side.
One thing I’d learned during my stay in Miami: Salt water corroded everything.
Before I consigned the contents of the leather binder to Annie’s shredder, I was curious about one more thing.
I flipped through it, searching for a specific apartment number: 3517.
Because, while Dennis’s cooperation with Leslie made sense (given what she had on him), I couldn’t fathom how she’d snared Geoffrey.
At first, I thought it might have been one of Leslie’s charm offensives or her alpha-female, authority-figure behavior. Or maybe, like a lot of people around here, Geoffrey just found the prospect of defying her too scary.
But before this blasted book was gone forever, I wanted to know.
#3517: No dog, no sec sys. @ office 9-6 M-F. Home nights, weekends. Stolen software. HO ovrhd lit.
Comp—keylggr.
Leslie had actually put a keylogger on Geoffrey’s home computer! And she’d found something. Or thought she had. Because, try as I might, I couldn’t picture Geoffrey Gallagher stealing anything.
The question was, had she been using it against him? Or just keeping it in reserve for a rainy day?
A few hours later, thanks to Annie’s superpowered shredder, we’d traded the lone suit bag for a neat row of small black trash bags. Which we would dump as soon as the garbage collectors came to call.