Scottsdale Heat: a romantic light-hearted murder mystery (Laura Black Mysteries Book 1)

by B A Trimmer

  I had just started to slow down when we came to a dirt road that branched off the highway and wound down into a narrow gully. The Mercedes gave me a hard push and I was forced onto the side road.

  I managed to keep the Honda straight for a couple of seconds but I was going too fast to keep control. The road turned to the right and the Honda skidded sideways. I hit the brakes and the world spun in circles.

  When it stopped, I was facing back toward the main highway and the Mercedes was coming to a stop thirty yards ahead of me. Through the cloud of dust, I saw I had gone about sixty or seventy yards down the dirt road and was completely out of view of the highway.

  Shit.

  I locked my doors, pulled my 9-mm Baby Glock out of my bag, and chambered a round. My heart pounded as I peered over the dashboard.

  I looked up and saw the two men were now were standing behind their open doors, guns drawn. They started shouting to each other in what sounded like Russian. The driver motioned to the passenger, who then came out from behind his door. He walked toward my car, gun held tightly in his hand.

  I unrolled the window enough to stick my gun out. I aimed as best as I could and fired off a shot. The front windshield of the Mercedes exploded.

  Both men hit the deck. There was more shouting and then an argument as the man slithered back to his car. I guess the idea of an uppity American woman with a gun didn’t fit into their plans.

  As I watched them arguing, I became convinced these were the two Russian bodyguards I had seen on the hotel security tape earlier in Lenny’s office. They were the same size and who else would be shouting in Russian? My only question was what did they want with me?

  Apparently they came up with a new plan, because after a moment the shouting stopped. The driver reached in the car and released the car’s emergency brake. The Mercedes began to slowly roll down the hill, the men using the open doors as shields. They had gone about twenty yards, and were almost to my car, when the driver set the brake to stop their car.

  “Miss Black,” the driver shouted. “Please do not shoot us until you hear what we have to say.” He spoke in a thick Russian accent. He sounded like Boris Badenov from the old Rocky and Bullwinkle show. “We will not harm you. We just wish to discuss certain matters that are of interest to both of us.”

  “Sure, what do you want to talk about?” I shouted back.

  “Please, Miss Black. We are standing in the middle of the American Sonoran desert. Nothing but saguaro cactus, creosote bushes, and mesquite trees surround us here. Why don’t we go to our hotel suite back in Scottsdale? We can be much more comfortable there.”

  “I like the desert,” I said. “It’s a great place to talk.”

  The Russians quietly talked for a moment amongst themselves.

  “As you wish,” Boris said. “We merely wish to know the location of a small black bag. We have reason to believe you know where it is.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I shouted back.

  “Please Miss Black, we can resolve this matter without the use of violence. All we ask is you come with us now and show us the location of the bag.”

  “I don’t know where it is. It seems like you’re the ones who lost it, you find it.”

  “You may know certain friends of ours are helping us recover our property. We know they have hired the services of the lawyer Leonard Shapiro to help them locate it. Now, it seems strange our friends would need to hire a lawyer to find what was stolen from us, no? We also have information they asked that you lead the investigation into the recovery of our bag. We know the methods of our friends. They would not have asked for you specifically unless you already had some association with our property, even if you did not recognize the importance of what you knew.”

  “If by friends, you’re talking about the DiCenzos, then you can forget it. I’m not even on that assignment. Lenny gave it to someone else. You got your facts wrong on this one.”

  “I think not. You will now return to Scottsdale with us and we will question you further.”

  The passenger aimed his gun at me. He was very tall and very broad. If the driver was a Boris, then this guy was an Ivan.

  “I will inform you that we are under strictest orders not to kill you,” Boris said. “But we have been granted permission to freely torture you if you do not voluntarily cooperate. If you again attempt to shoot us, or do not immediately come into our automobile, we will repeatedly shoot you in non-fatal areas of your body. We will then take you with us and question you at our leisure until you tell us what we wish to know. You will decide, now!”

  Boris joined Ivan in sighting his gun on me as I ducked behind the dash. I then heard the slam of car doors and the sound of shoes walking on gravel. I stuck my head up just enough to see both of them slowly walking to my car, their guns still trained on me. I pulled my head back down and held my breath as the sound of the Russian’s footsteps grew louder.

  I really hate it when this happens.

  The footsteps approached the front of my car. Then the footsteps were on either side of my car. I could feel them looking at me through the car windows.

  There was the loud and rapid Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump sound of gunfire and bullets hitting metal. I expected to feel my car buckle as the bullets tore through it. But, to my surprise, my car didn’t move. Instead, it sounded like the Mercedes was taking the hits.

  As the gunfire continued, I stuck my head up in time to see a line of holes appear in the side of the Mercedes. Boris and Ivan were running to the far side of the Mercedes, firing up the hill as they ran. Their rear window shattered, then the side windows. The Russians reached their car and then each fired two or three more shots in the general direction of where the bullets had come from.

  There was a pause, then another Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump as a fresh line of holes streaked from the trunk of the Mercedes, to the front fender, then to the dirt between our cars, and then to my car! I felt my car shudder as a bullet slammed through the side of my trunk.

  “Damn it,” I shouted. “That’s my car!”

  Screaming at each other, both Russians fired shots in the direction of the highway. They scrambled back into their car and slammed the doors. Gravel flew as they whipped their car around and flew back to the highway. The dust cleared and it became very quiet.

  OK, that was weird. Damn, I could use a smoke.

  I stayed low for about five minutes until I was pretty sure nobody else wanted to shoot me. I stuck my head up and looked around to make sure no one else was in sight. I then got out of my car and looked at the damage.

  The paint on the driver’s side was scraped. Streaks of black paint were now ground in with the original brown. Part of the front fender was crumpled, but it still looked drivable. My side mirror was smashed. It dangled against the door, held on by a cable. And I had a bullet hole in my trunk.

  Great, how am I going to explain a bullet hole to my insurance agent?

  ~~~~

  I drove back to the office. Sophie had beaten me there and was filing a stack of papers. She took one look at me and her eyes opened wide.

  “Yikes! What happened to you?”

  “I’m having a shitty day,” I said.

  “Again? What happened?”

  “Two Russians forced my car off the road. They were either going to kidnap me, or shoot me first, then kidnap me.”

  “No shit? Real Russians? I’ve never seen a real Russian. So, what happened? How’d you get away?”

  “Somebody started shooting at them. They got scared and left.”

  “Do you know who the Russians were?”

  “I think they’re the ones from the Blue Palms Gina’s looking for.”

  “No shit? Do you know who shot at them?”

  “No, but I definitely owe someone dinner.”

  “Sounds like you owe someone sloppy doggy sex. You going to call the police this time?”

  “Maybe, but not until I find out more about what’s going on. Ever
y time I bring the police in, things just get muddled.”

  “How bad’s your car?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Scraped paint, crumpled fender, broken mirror, bullet hole.”

  “Damn, I’m glad we drove separately.”

  SIX

  I still didn’t know where Alex was, or where else to look, so I decided to spend the afternoon getting some more background information. I was hoping I could pick up some clues as to what was going on.

  I left the office and headed south. Just west of Scottsdale Road on McDowell is the Scottsdale Motor Mile, a group of a dozen car dealerships, mostly high-end. Within that one mile, you can see over ten thousand new and used cars.

  Nestled between the Ferrari and the Lexus dealerships is Scottsdale Desert Audi. I pulled into a visitor’s space, got out, and was met by a smiling man in a blue plaid suit. He was short and starting to bald, but he had an engaging smile.

  “Hi,” he said, holding out his hand. “My name’s Bob. Let me know if I can answer any questions.”

  He walked over and looked at my car. He grimaced as he ran has finger against the scraped paint. He bent down and examined the crumpled fender. He wiggled the broken mirror, which was still only hanging on by the cable. He walked to the trunk and stuck his finger in the bullet hole. He then turned to me with a big friendly grin.

  “Good thing you live in Arizona and it’s so dry. Bullet holes can rust out pretty quickly. If you lived back East, the rust would rot out the entire side of your fender in a year or two. Maybe you’d like to test drive an Audi A6? They’re the greatest.”

  “Not today,” I said. “I’m just looking for William Martin.”

  “OK, sure,” Bob said, not missing a beat. “He’s probably in his office. There’s a hallway in the back of the showroom. His office is the big one, second door to the right.”

  ~~~~

  I found William Martin’s office and knocked on his open door. William was sitting behind a behemoth of a desk. He was no less of a behemoth himself. He was six two or six three and must have weighed 300 pounds. He had a round face, a full mustache, and a thin comb-over of reddish hair, which only partially covered a large bald patch on the top of his round head. Hanging on the wall behind him were several awards for excellence in sales, outstanding customer satisfaction, and sales manager of the year. When he saw me he came around to the side of his desk and held out a huge hand.

  “I’m William Martin,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I’m Laura Black,” I said while shaking his hand. “I called yesterday.”

  “Sure,” he said. “You’re interested in Alex Sternwood. You’re working for his grandmother, if I recall correctly.”

  I sat down in one of two wooden chairs stationed in front of his massive desk. I noticed the office smelled a lot like a new car.

  “She hasn’t heard from him since he quit. She’s really worried about him.”

  “Well, I’d like to help, but I don’t have a firm grasp on why Alex left. He was one of our best sales associates.”

  “He didn’t give you any indication he was unhappy or was thinking about leaving?”

  “None at all. I was as surprised as anyone when he quit. And, before you ask, no, I haven’t heard from him since. I’ve had other employees who’ve quit, but I thought Alex was going to be here for the long haul.”

  “Is there anyone here who was close to him? Maybe they would know more about this?”

  He thought for a moment. “As far as I know,” he said, “the only person he was close to was Joan. She’s working today. Perhaps you’d like to talk to her?”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “Where can I find her?”

  “She’s working the pre-owned lot. She has on a green coat, you can’t miss her.”

  “Thanks,” I said standing up. I appreciate your help.” I handed him a card. “Would you mind giving me a call if you think of anything else?”

  He took the card then made a gun with his thumb and first finger. His thumb let loose with a couple of rounds, the gunman’s salute. I took this as his way of telling me he would.

  ~~~~

  I left the office, walked through the showroom, and then out to the lot. I spotted a woman I took to be Joan. Her lime green pantsuit shouted the woman’s location like a neon billboard.

  She was a little shorter and a little older than me. She had sort blonde hair that wrapped around her face in a pleasant way. She had a clipboard in her hand and was writing down numbers from a sticker in the window of a small yellow sports car. She finished and looked up to see me. She broke into a smile and walked toward me, her hand extended.

  “Hi,” she said, “I’m Joan. I hope you’re in the mood to buy a car. We just got this Miata in today and I’m itching to test drive it with somebody.”

  She seemed likeable enough and had a great smile. “Sorry,” I said, “I’m not buying today. I’d like to talk to you about Alexander Sternwood.”

  “Sure,” she said, her smile fading. “But I’m afraid Alex doesn’t work here anymore. He quit last week. Didn’t even tell anybody good-bye. He just called in and said he quit.”

  “Do you have any idea why he’d quit like that?”

  “None at all,” she said. “But, I’ve been thinking since his family has money, perhaps he got his inheritance?”

  “This may seem like a strange question,” I said, “but do you know if he had something else going on the side? Something that would give him a better income than he could get here?”

  “Like what?” Joan said. Her tone and body posture switched to being slightly defensive.

  “Could be anything,” I said. “Alex’s grandmother asked me to look into what’s going on. It’s not like somebody to just quit a good job unless they have another source of income.”

  She relaxed and paused for a moment, thinking. “I don’t think Alex is involved in anything outside the dealership. Well, nothing other than his girlfriend, Danica. He talks about her all the time. Alex and I went out a few times when he first started working here. We even had a romantic weekend in Vegas. That was about two years ago, just before he met Danica. But once he started seeing her, he cut it off with me. It sorta pissed me off at the time. But I was just using him for sex and they seem happy together. Maybe it worked out for the best.”

  “Do you know how they got together?”

  “Sure, they met right over there,” she said, pointing to the far side of the lot, the side facing McDowell Road.

  “Danica came in last year looking for a car. I talked to her first, but then she saw Alex and only wanted to deal with him. I suppose she felt an attraction to him from the start. Alex ended up selling her a low-mileage Porsche 911 convertible. They started going out right after that and they’ve been together ever since. They never fight and he’s totally loyal to her. I sometimes wish I’d been a little more serious about him. He turned out to be a real catch.”

  “Do you know if he ever dated anyone else who worked here? Maybe he had another close friend he would have confided to?”

  “No,” she said. “I was the only one he ever showed an interest in. He never went out with any of us after work for drinks or anything like that. He pretty much kept to himself. I know he considered his parole officer a friend, go figure. His name is David Rasmussen.”

  “I know about David. I still need to talk to him. Alex’s parole ended a month ago. Perhaps that had something to do with his quitting?”

  “Sorry,” she said, “I wish I could help, but Alex and I aren’t as close as we were.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate your help,” I said, and handed her a card. “If you can think of anything else, feel free to give me a call.”

  “Sure,” she said. “When you catch up with Alex, tell him to give me a call sometime.”

  “Will do,” I said. With that, I walked back to my car and took off.

  ~~~~

  I took a chance and called Alex’s former parole officer, David Rasmu
ssen. He answered on the second ring. I introduced myself, told him I was looking into Alexander Sternwood, and asked if I could get twenty minutes of his time. He said he had an appointment due in a few minutes, but he would be free for a half hour after that.

  I went into Downtown Scottsdale and drove in circles until I found the Maricopa County Social Services building. I parked in a visitor’s space of the bleak concrete parking structure and walked in.

  I got out of the elevator on the third floor and found David’s office. A small reception area held mismatched chairs, toys, children’s books, and several out-of-date magazines, all of which had had the address labels cut out of the covers. The door to the inner office was closed, which I took to mean David was still in with his client. I took a seat and waited.

  From the inner office I heard a deep voiced man, whom I assumed was David, explaining to someone that leaving the state without permission was a violation of his probation, even if was just for the afternoon. He then went on to explain this was serious and would not be tolerated in the future. Following that was a stream of muffled talking, which I assumed was the guy explaining it would never happen again. Everything apparently worked out for the best and the door to the inner office opened a minute later.

  A man of 55 years walked a man of 20 years out into the reception area. The older man was of medium height and a stocky build. He wore a white-short sleeve shirt with a navy blue tie. He had short blond hair cut in a GI flattop and thick glasses with black frames. He looked sort of like Drew Carey. The younger man left. The older man turned and held his hand out to me.

  “I’m David Rasmussen,” he said.

  “Laura Black,” I said shaking his firm hand. “I appreciate you seeing me.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, ushering me into the inner office. “I need to make a few notes on my last client. Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute.”