The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “Glad you put me in that category,” Phil said. “The paperwork is at my place. I’ll make us coffee.”

  Ten minutes later, Helen settled on Phil’s couch with a stapled pile of paper and a cup of strong coffee.

  “This is a copy of Mark’s 1986 accident report from Sunset Palms.”

  “How did you get that?”

  “It’s public record,” Phil said. “Easy to find once I had the right city. I’ve made copies for both of us.”

  Helen was surprised the report was so thick—twenty pages. The report reduced Mark’s fatal beauty to gray language, neat numbers and checkmark choices. Each small detail added to its chilling weight.

  The report, numbered 86-3866, was signed by Officer Dolan Hayward. His clear writing was back-slanted, if as pointing backward in time.

  “Florida Uniform Accident Report,” it began. “Agency Name: S. P. P. D.” That must be Sunset Palms Police Department, Helen decided. The location was Broward County, the street address 3868 Palmwood Boulevard. Hayward had recorded the accident time as 1:43 p.m. “Time notified” was the same.

  “One injured,” Hayward had written. “Number of vehicles involved—three.” Not just cars were damaged—Mark also had crashed into a building, Ahmet’s Elegant Imports Co.

  Mark had been driving a black ’85 Chevy Monte Carlo, sporty wheels for a single man. Helen could see the car in her mind—shiny, chromed, fast.

  Officer Hayward had used a diagram on the form to show the accident damage to Mark’s Monte Carlo. The front end and fenders had been crushed. He must have hit the building hard.

  Before Mark crashed into the building, he’d also smashed into Ahmet’s car—a parked red ’83 Mercedes registered to Ahmet’s Elegant Imports. After Mark damaged the front end of the Mercedes, he drove into the building. Ahmet’s wounded red Mercedes spun around and collided with a parked white Ford belonging to Lorraine Yavuz.

  Black, white, red—cars the colors of death.

  “Who is Lorraine Yavuz?” Helen asked. “A relative?”

  “Ahmet’s mother,” Phil said. “His father is dead. I found that out myself.”

  Helen went back to reading. Officer Hayward had found Mark in his black car, covered with red blood. His account was less colorful: “Upon arrival I observed Driver No. 1 sitting in the driver’s seat,” Hayward had written. “He was bleeding very heavily from the left side of his head and he appeared unconscious.”

  The dazzling Mark was now dreary Driver No. 1.

  “The Sunset Palms paramedics then arrived at the scene,” the officer reported. “The paramedics began first-aid treatment. As the paramedics were lifting Driver No. 1 from the auto, I observed an automatic pistol on the driver’s side floorboard, a .32 Mauser. The pistol was taken by this officer and given to P. O. Stone, who was assisting at the scene, who later tagged it into evidence.”

  While the paramedics fought to save Mark, Officer Hayward charged him with two felonies: “destruction of private property and unlawful use of a weapon.”

  “How did the officer know the weapon was used?” Helen asked.

  “He could tell the weapon had been discharged,” Phil said. “He’d smell the gun smoke. It’s an overpowering smell. Even on a rifle range the smell is pervasive. You don’t get rid of it.”

  “How did he know that Mark fired it?”

  “He couldn’t know that,” Phil said. “He made an assumption.”

  “And passed it off as fact,” Helen said. She thought the passionless prose provided cover for the police officer’s wild speculation.

  Officer Hayward dutifully recorded that the unconscious Mark was not given a Miranda warning. “At this time, P. O. Stone located several witnesses. Their statements are included in report 86-3867.”

  Hayward’s report was written in soothing, stilted officialese. Helen could almost hear him reciting it to a jury. Mark wasn’t “taken by ambulance,” he was “conveyed.” Officer Hayward did not go with him to the hospital, he “responded” there.

  While at Broward County Hospital, “this officer was advised by Dr. Wiley that Driver No. 1 was being treated for the head injury and would be admitted to the hospital. I then responded to the station, where I contacted Sgt. Clark, who advised me of the following:

  “Sgt. Clark spoke with Ahmet Yavuz (owner of Yavuz Elegant Imports), who stated that he had known Mark B. (Driver No. 1) for about five years. The last time that he saw Mark B. was in September 1985, and at that time Mark B. had suffered a nervous breakdown. Ahmet Yavuz further advised that in speaking with Mark B., he began talking ‘very crazy,’ telling him he could save the world.

  “This officer was advised by the Broward County Hospital staff that Mark B. was being treated for a possible gunshot wound to the head. Dr. Wiley confirmed that the bullet entered the left side and exited the right side. I was further advised that Mark B. was in stable condition; however, he was unable to talk at this time.

  “Sgt. Clark then responded to the tow yard and conducted a search of Vehicle No. 1. Sgt. Clark seized a slug found on the right front seat. Also seized was an empty casing found on the floorboard under the right front seat and a blue cotton blanket found on the floorboard, right front side. NOTE: The blanket appears to have a bullet hole in same.”

  Helen stopped reading. “Why would someone shoot a blanket?”

  “Blankets, couch cushions and pillows can be homemade silencers,” Phil said.

  “But the police said Mark committed suicide,” Helen said. “He wouldn’t need a silencer.” She stopped. “This is more evidence that he was murdered, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” Phil said. “But the cops won’t. They’ll tell you that suicides do strange things. It’s how they dismiss any loose end—and there are always loose ends.”

  Helen read a “property disposition report” for Mark’s “auto accident/suicide attempt.” It said that the “.32-caliber W-W auto casing, copper slug and .32-caliber W-W auto unfired round” were held for evidence in a property cabinet. So was the blanket. A wallet, ID, and thirty dollars were in “safekeeping; pending claim.”

  “What’s a W-W auto casing?” Helen asked.

  “That stands for Winchester-Western,” Phil said.

  Officer Hayward’s report continued, stately, sad and strangely hypnotic: “As the paramedics responded to the scene, P. O. Stone observed and seized a .32 Mauser pistol that was lying on the floorboard of the driver’s side of the vehicle. See attached for a description of the pistol. The same was loaded with one round in the chamber and two rounds in the clip. Above scene was photographed by the undersigned officer. Vehicle No. 1 was then towed from the scene to 104400 Commercial.”

  The weapon was a “.32 automatic Mauser Brand 3 inch pistol #765 steel blue,” also held for evidence.

  “I’m confused,” Helen said. “In the earlier report, Officer Hayward saw the gun, picked it up and gave it to Officer Stone. Now we have Stone seizing the same gun from the floorboards. What’s going on?”

  “Looks like ass covering to me,” Phil said. “I’m guessing Hayward saw the gun during the confusion and kept it, but something interfered with the chain of custody. So he rewrote history here to make it official.”

  “Huh,” Helen said. “Another reason to suspect this report—and the police conclusions.”

  The two witness reports were next, dutifully documented by Officer Hayward:

  “Sgt. Clark also spoke with Witness No. 1, Cleveland Berlin, who stated just prior to the accident he heard a car that sounded like it was traveling south on the driveway at a high rate of speed. Berlin heard the tires squealing and it sounded like the car was coming north and then south again. He then heard the crash.

  “Witness No.2, Lorraine Yavuz, stated she was inside the building that was struck, and that she was the nearest person to the point of impact. Witness No. 2 stated that she was not injured and that no one else was near nor was anyone else injured.”

  Helen stopped reading. “The polic
e don’t say that Witness No. 2 was Ahmet’s mother,” she said.

  “There’s a lot the police don’t say,” Phil said.

  “Both witnesses heard the crash,” Helen said. “But nobody heard the gunshot.”

  “The blanket was a silencer,” Phil said. He handed Helen one more page. “Here’s the final report.” It was dated three days after the accident.

  “On today’s date at about 1400 hours, Sgt. Clark received a phone call from Mr. Harcourt Revill, an investigator with the Sunset Palms Medical Examiner’s Office. He advised that Mark Behr had died at 1230 hours at Broward County Hospital and had been pronounced dead by Dr. Wiley of the staff of the hospital. The medical examiner’s office is investigating the incident and requested a complete copy of the reports be sent to their office. At this time the medical examiner has not released his findings as to cause of death.”

  Helen stared at the single gray typed paragraph. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all I found,” Phil said. “We know the cause of death. We saw the death certificate. The medical examiner said Mark committed suicide.”

  “Did the police test Mark’s hands for gunpowder residue to find out if he actually fired the gun?” Helen asked.

  “No,” Phil said. “They couldn’t. The doctors and paramedics were trying to save his life. That evidence would have been destroyed while they were treating him.”

  “Why didn’t the police check out Ahmet Yavuz?” Helen asked.

  “Did they know he was a drug dealer?”

  “The patrol officer might not have known Ahmet was a dealer,” Phil said. “He was never convicted or arrested. Once Mark died, there was no reason to investigate the accident further. It was closed as a suicide.”

  “So there was a conspiracy,” Helen said.

  “I don’t think so,” Phil said. “Sunset Palms is a small force. A couple of overworked cops were offered an easy answer, and they took it.”

  “Mark was murdered,” Helen said. “This report says he shot himself and he used a silencer.”

  “Not quite,” Phil said. “It says a blanket with a bullet hole was found in his car. I said it could have been a silencer.”

  “And he brought a silencer to commit suicide? I don’t think so,” Helen said. “Where did Mark get the gun? Did he own a Mauser? What happened to it?”

  “More questions we’ll have to answer,” Phil said.

  “Is there paperwork that says what happened to Mark’s gun?” Helen asked.

  “There should be,” Phil said. “I’ll keep searching in the Sunset Palms files. I hope the rest of the paperwork hasn’t been lost after twenty-five years.”

  “Maybe it’s missing for a reason,” Helen said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Peaceful Rest Cemetery was flat, hot and treeless—more like a doormat for hell than a place of remembrance.

  Helen didn’t like South Florida graveyards, especially this one. In her hometown of St. Louis, cemeteries celebrated the drama of death with weeping willows, mournful monuments and mausoleums with stained glass their occupants never saw. St. Louis death was personal. The loss was commemorated with permanent reminders.

  South Florida did not indulge in funereal flights of fancy. Many of its cemeteries didn’t even have tombstones, just flat plaques set flush with the ground so the grass could be easily trimmed. Eternal rest had to be convenient for the endless lawn mowing.

  Helen found Mark’s grave shockingly spare: a flat metal plaque with his name and death dates next to a stingy bunch of artificial flowers.

  “This is depressing,” Helen said as she surveyed the grim plot.

  “It’s supposed to be depressing,” Phil said. “It’s a cemetery.”

  “Some cemeteries have real tombstones that say something,” Helen said. “‘Beloved Husband’ or ‘Resting with Our Savior.’ People put flowers, toys or balloons on the graves. Look at this. I’ve seen more personal markers for water mains. At least Mark could have a granite tombstone.”

  “Helen, we live in a hurricane zone,” Phil said. “Windstorms topple tombstones.”

  “But this flat”—Helen struggled for the right word—“nothing is like Mark never lived.”

  “His brother remembers him,” Phil said. “The memories are still alive. That’s why we’re investigating his death. I’m glad the gym is closed for a few days so we can work on Mark’s case. I wanted to see Mark’s grave to check the death dates. So much information about his case has been wrong or missing. These dates match his death certificate. We’re making progress.”

  “It doesn’t seem like progress,” Helen said. “But I’m in this for better or worse. What’s the next stop on the Behr death tour?”

  “The scene of Mark’s accident,” Phil said. “He was shot in an industrial park in Sunset Palms. That may be more depressing than this cemetery.”

  Federal Highway was a four-lane griddle, and Phil’s Jeep scooted along like it had been scalded.

  “Any leads on finding a car with air-conditioning?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Gus has one he wants to sell—a PT Cruiser.”

  “Those are cute, but they’re not collectibles,” Helen said. “I thought Gus handled luxury cars.”

  “He got it in trade along with a Jaguar,” Phil said. He turned on Broward Boulevard, then waited to make a left onto Third Avenue. They were in the heart of Fort Lauderdale’s downtown, surrounded by expensive cars. Helen watched wistfully as they drove by, remembering the days when she was a high-paid executive with a sleek silver Lexus. That car was long gone, along with her life as a corporate wonk.

  “Could we afford a Jag?” Helen asked. She could almost feel herself sinking into its luxurious leather seats, icy air blasting in her face. The Jeep hit a pothole, and she clutched the door to keep from bouncing out of her seat.

  “We can’t afford a car that’s too noticeable,” Phil said. “We’re private eyes, remember? We have to follow people into all sorts of neighborhoods. A Jaguar would stand out too much.”

  “I could handle the luxury end of our trade,” Helen said, “and try to blend in.”

  “Nice try,” Phil said. “But that’s not our niche. Coronado Investigations does affordable family investigations. Maybe I could get you a nice minivan.”

  “No!” Helen said. “If I drive a minivan I’ll wind up with two preschoolers and Happy Meals on the seats.”

  Phil grinned at her. “We can take a look at the PT Cruiser the next time we see Gus.”

  “Soon, I hope,” Helen said. She fanned herself with Mark’s accident report and succeeded only in stirring up the hot air. “Is the drug dealer—Ahmet what’s-his-name—still working in Sunset Palms?”

  “No,” Phil said. “I checked the street directories while you were dealing with the ’roid rager at the gym. Ahmet closed his import-export business six months after Mark died. He opened a real estate office in Pompano Beach in north Broward County. He outgrew that building ten years ago. Now his office is in downtown Lauderdale. We’ll pass it on our way to Sunset Palms.”

  Helen groaned. “Not more time in this rolling furnace. This summer is so hot, it doesn’t even cool down after sunset.”

  Helen’s dark hair was plastered to her neck. Sweat ran down her face, and her shirt looked like someone had thrown a bucket of water on it. Phil stayed annoyingly cool, from his silver-white hair to his blue T-shirt.

  “Think how cool that minivan will feel,” Phil said, keeping his face straight. “A peek at Ahmet’s office won’t eat up more time—I promise. It’s the other side of the Third Avenue drawbridge.”

  They heard a distant horn, the signal that the drawbridge was going up. The Jeep idled in a long line of traffic waiting for the sailboats and yachts to pass under the bridge. Helen swallowed exhaust fumes and more complaints about the un-air-conditioned Jeep. She could see a gold minivan two cars ahead. The innocuous van looked like a warning.

  “See the dark gray skyscraper?” Phil pointed to a building like an
upended marble shoebox. “That two-story pink stucco building next to it is Yavuz Elegant Homes. Ahmet owns it.”

  “Huge parking lot,” Helen said. “He’s doing well if he can afford a block of downtown real estate. Either that, or he’s still dealing drugs.”

  “Careful,” Phil said. “Save those comments for me. Ahmet and his old girlfriend Bernie Behr are now solid citizens. Neither one was convicted or even charged with any wrongdoing. They won’t like it if they hear a couple of upstart PIs are spreading rumors about their pasts. Rumors we can’t prove are true.”

  “Who am I going to tell?” Helen said. “The muscleheads at the gym? They can’t see past their barbells.”

  Helen felt like she was marinating in oil for the rest of the drive to Sunset Palms but decided silence was the wisest choice for marital harmony.

  Phil noticed her discomfort, kissed her and said, “I’ll see about getting your air-conditioned car by tomorrow night.”

  Phil drove into a rundown industrial park the color of a mustard-stained tie. A rusty fence protected the potholed parking lot. Plastic grocery bags clung to the chain-link.

  “Mark’s accident happened by this building here,” Phil said, parking in front of the fence. A broken plastic sign proclaimed FLORIDA’S BEST MINIBLINDS: MADE TO YOUR SATISFACTION.

  Phil and Helen walked to the padlocked gate and peered inside. “I don’t see any trace of Mark’s accident,” Helen said. “Not even a scrape on the walls where he crashed his car.”

  “Let’s see if we can get a better picture by going through the accident report.” Phil unfolded his copy and started reading.

  “Mark’s black Monte Carlo came in through this gate,” Phil said. He rattled it.

  “Then he crashed into Ahmet’s red Mercedes, parked over there by the building entrance.” He waved his hand to the left.

  “His Mercedes spun and hit the Ford belonging to Ahmet’s mother, damaging it.” Phil twirled his hand. “Sometime during this chaos, Mark shot himself—or was shot—and crashed into the side of the building.”

  “Ahmet and his mother weren’t on the lot at the time of the shooting,” Helen said. “I think that was in the police report.”