The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “I don’t know,” Phil said.

  “Maybe the cops came to the apartment and interviewed her,” Helen said.

  “No, she made an appointment and went to the station,” Phil said. “She gave the police a statement that her brother had mental problems and had threatened suicide. That’s when the police stopped investigating his death.”

  “But what about the red flags we noticed—the gun, the shell casing and the blanket with the bullet hole?”

  “The police ignored them once Mark’s sister gave her statement,” Phil said.

  “Why would Bernie stop the investigation?” Helen said. “Why would she brand her brother a suicide? She was Catholic. Suicide is a serious sin in her religion.”

  “Bernie was trying to save herself,” Phil said. “Her brother was dead. She was mixed up with a drug crowd. She didn’t care if her brother was labeled a suicide. Bernie wasn’t religious anymore.”

  “Where was Mark’s mother?” Helen asked.

  “Gus told us his mother was a ghost. She’d lost her husband and her son. She was dying of cancer.”

  Helen struggled with this information and still failed to grasp it. The conclusions were too distressing. “What Bernie told the police made Mark’s case go away,” she said. “It was closed. Not just closed—exceptionally closed. Gus was right. Someone in law enforcement was paid off.”

  “Not necessarily,” Phil said. “Every case has loose ends. The police know that. This was a small force. Bernie gave them a way out, and they took it.”

  “Gus told us Bernie went to a psychiatric hospital after Mark died. I want to ask him about that incident.”

  “Why?” Phil asked.

  “The hospital visit is a key to this case,” Helen said. “I know it. I want Gus to tell me more about it.”

  “There’s the phone. Call him,” Phil said.

  “No, I’ll see him in person,” Helen said. “The Igloo hesitates when I hit the gas. I’ll take the car to Gus and have him look at it. Then I can ask him what happened when his sister was in the hospital.”

  “Your instincts have been good so far,” Phil said. “I’ll stay here and dig around in the computer for more information about Ahmet. He’s the real mystery in this case.”

  Gus was in his office eating a turkey sandwich when Helen drove the PT Cruiser into the Boy Toys Restoration garage. The office was cool, but Gus’s shirt was soaked with sweat.

  “Heat getting you?” Helen asked.

  “Yeah,” Gus said. “It’s brutal. I’ve got to lose weight. Jeannie has me on a diet. This time I’m sticking to it.”

  Helen wondered how often he’d made that resolution. His sandwich, a thin slice of colorless meat on whole wheat, had three bites out of it. Gus abandoned his low-fat lunch and said, “Do you have news?”

  “Phil will have a report for you shortly. I have a small problem with my car and a question about Bernie.”

  “Car first.” Gus listened to Helen describe the car’s behavior, then said, “Sounds like it needs a new fuel filter, but I’ll look at it. Now, what’s the question?”

  Gus seemed more comfortable working on the car while he talked, so Helen followed him into the repair area. Gus draped the Cruiser’s fenders with the same care as if he were working on a vintage Rolls.

  “After Mark rescued your sister from Ahmet, she came to live with you and Mark,” Helen said.

  “That’s right.”

  “After Mark saved her, did Bernie ever call Ahmet?” Helen asked. “Did the dealer come see her? Ask after her?”

  “Never,” Gus said. “She was frightened. She cut all ties with Ahmet.”

  “Tell me about when your sister had a breakdown and went to the psychiatric hospital.”

  “Mark had been dead a month,” Gus said. “Bernie was still living with me. Bernie quit eating. She lost, like, thirty-some pounds. She stayed in my apartment all day, holding Mark’s old shirt and crying. She wouldn’t get dressed. I got worried and called Mom. Mom wasn’t doing too well herself. We took Bernie to the doctor. I had to carry her to the car in her robe.

  “The doctor said she was depressed and anorexic. He wanted her committed to a psychiatric hospital. Mom hated shrinks, but she didn’t argue with him. She didn’t want to lose another child. Bernie didn’t have the strength to fight anyone.

  “After two weeks, the doc finally let her have visitors. She was lying in her bed like one of those stone figures on a tomb in an old English church—you know the kind I mean?”

  “Yes,” Helen said.

  “She looked half-dead. She was pale and rigid and so thin she hardly made a mound in the covers. Her face was like a skull covered with skin. She was taking heavy drugs—legal, psychiatrist-type drugs—and her eyes were dull. She still had that incredible red hair. It was almost down to her waist, but it was crackly and dry. I couldn’t tell if Bernie was awake or not. I stood there for a long time staring at her. Then I whispered her name.

  “She sat up like she was eighty years old. ‘You came to see me,’ she said in this whiny voice. ‘You didn’t have to do that. I don’t deserve it.’ She started crying. I was afraid I’d upset her again.

  “I said, ‘Hey, it’s okay.’ I gave her a hug. She was so skinny I could feel her spine through her hospital gown. It was like knobs of bone.

  “ ‘ I’m so ugly,’ she cried.

  “ ‘ No, you’re beautiful. You just need to gain a little weight. You’ve got great hair.’

  “She wouldn’t stop crying. She kept saying, ‘It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.’

  “I tried to say it wasn’t, but she wouldn’t listen. I left her there, crying.

  “The doctor said she would get better, and she did. Bernie was released about six months later, and she really straightened herself out. She went to school to become a phlebotomist, then she married a decent guy. Her husband’s an executive. They have a good kid. My nephew’s in college now. Whatever the doctor did to her at that hospital, it was the right thing.”

  Gus was poking around under the Cruiser’s hood. Helen thought it was easier for him to examine the inner workings of a car than his own family. “Ah! Just what I thought,” Gus said. “It was the filter. That’s easy. I’ll fix it in a minute.”

  Gus returned with the new filter, tinkered with the car again, then shut the hood. “That’s it,” he said, smiling. “Ready to go. Did I answer your question?”

  “I still don’t understand,” Helen said. “Why would Bernie say Mark’s death was all her fault?”

  “Guilt,” Gus said. “She felt guilty that she got Mark mixed up with that wild crowd. My sister made some bad decisions when she was young, but Bernie grew up. She’s a good person now. You’re good to go.”

  Gus wanted Helen to leave.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “No charge,” he said.

  It was almost one o’clock. Phil was supposed to get the second page of Mark’s report. Helen hurried home.

  The car was fine, but something was wrong with Gus’s story. Something he couldn’t see no matter how often he looked at it.

  CHAPTER 42

  The fax machine was humming when Helen walked into the Coronado Investigations office shortly after one o’clock.

  “Is that the second sheet from Sunset Palms?” Helen asked.

  “You must be psychic,” Phil said. “Linda sent it right after she saw the latest Channel Seventy-seven breaking-news report. Detective Evarts Redding announced his retirement from the West Hills force. He wants to spend more time with his wife.”

  “We got him!” Helen said. She hugged Phil, then danced around the room.

  “The city of West Hills spokesman said there was no connection between the detective’s retirement and the stories on Channel Seventy-seven.”

  “Of course not,” Helen said. “Enough gloating. Let’s look at the rest of that Sunset Palms police report.”

  “It’s a property sheet,” Phil said. “The police kept Mar
k’s wallet, ID, thirty dollars and a .32 automatic Mauser. The property sheet said a family representative should bring ‘this with you at the time of claim. Property held in excess of six months will be disposed of in the manner prescribed under Section 1-16 of the Municipal Code.’

  “The lower part of this report was a signed receipt. It says Mark’s property was picked up by—” Phil stopped.

  “Don’t be a tease,” Helen said. “Who picked up Mark’s property ?”

  “Bernie,” Phil said.

  Helen sat down. “Bernie picked up Mark’s gun and wallet?”

  “That’s what the report says. It was signed by a police captain.”

  “Bernie has the gun that killed Mark,” Helen said. “If we get it, we can prove Mark was murdered. It can be checked for Ahmet’s fingerprints. The police could do ballistics tests and see if it fired the bullets. Does she still have it?”

  “I don’t know. We can ask Gus,” Phil said. “First, tell me how your visit went. What did Gus say about Bernie? Why does she blame herself?”

  “Gus says she feels guilty about dragging Mark into her wild life,” Helen said. “I think Gus is wrong about her reason. I’ll call him about the gun. We just talked. It will seem more natural.”

  A young mechanic answered at Boy Toys Restoration. He said he’d look for Gus. Helen drummed her desktop impatiently while she waited.

  After several minutes, Gus picked up the phone. “Helen, what’s wrong with your car now?”

  “It’s fine,” Helen said. “I have one more question. After Mark died, your sister went to the police station and picked up his property, including his wallet and his gun.”

  “I told you, that wasn’t Mark’s gun. He owned a .22, not a Mauser.”

  “Okay, she picked up the gun the police said belonged to Mark.”

  “Mom asked her to do that,” Gus said. “The case was closed. Bernie offered to get Mark’s wallet and gun.”

  “Does she still have the gun?”

  “No,” Gus said. “My sister threw it away as soon as she got it. Dumped it in the ocean off Dania Beach. Is my report ready?”

  “Soon,” Helen promised and hung up before he could ask more.

  “The gun’s long gone,” Helen said. “What is the date on that report? When did Bernie claim Mark’s property?”

  “Two weeks after Mark’s shooting,” Phil said. “Gus says two weeks later Bernie was admitted to the psychiatric hospital crying, ‘It’s all my fault.’ ”

  “It was all her fault.” Helen stood up and paced the terrazzo floor. “She did something worse than introduce her brother to her wild life—if that’s even what happened. Bernie was telling the truth. I’m going to Weston to have another run at her.”

  “She threw you out of her house,” Phil said.

  “She won’t this time.”

  “What if she’s at work?” Phil asked.

  “She doesn’t work all day every day. If she had the early shift at the hospital, she’ll be home by the time I get there. If not, I’ll camp out in her driveway until she does get home.”

  Helen drove to Bernie’s house in the distant beige burb. The garage doors were closed on her tastefully bland mansion. Helen hoped Bernie’s car was inside.

  She parked the Igloo on the brownish pavers. Last time, Helen had driven Phil’s black Jeep. If Bernie was peeking out the windows, Helen hoped she wouldn’t connect this white car with the PI pest she’d thrown off her property.

  Helen rang the doorbell. No answer. She thought she saw a curtain flutter upstairs. She definitely saw miniblinds and Roman shades discreetly moving in the nearby houses. The stay-at-home moms were watching, bless them. They’d help Helen get inside.

  “Bernie,” she shouted and rang the doorbell again. “Hey, Bernie, open up! I saw a friend of yours from the good old days. I’m dying to talk to you about him.”

  Up and down the quiet cul-de-sac, Helen detected minuscule movements at the windows. Helen pretended to be drunk, knowing that would attract more attention.

  “Bernie!” Helen pounded on the door and slurred her words. “Wassa matter? Le’s talk. C’mon.”

  Helen heard the clatter of footsteps on the marble entry. Bernie unlocked the door but kept on the security chain. Once again, Helen was shocked by the transformation from femme fatale to frump. Her beige hair matched her beige scrubs. Bernie was wearing brown Crocs.

  Her voice was a witchy hiss. “What do you want? I told you to go away. I’m calling the police if you don’t leave now.”

  Helen lowered her voice to a near whisper. “You can let me in for a talk or we can discuss this on your doorstep where all the neighbors will learn about your interesting past. As you heard, I can shout pretty loud.”

  Bernie held up her cell phone. “I’m calling 911 now.”

  “Go ahead,” Helen said. “I can shout out your history before the cops get here. Bet your neighbors would love to hear about when you were a drug dealer’s girlfriend. How about the time your brother dragged you naked out of Ahmet’s place, wrapped in a bedspread? Go ahead, Bernie. Make that call.”

  Bernie glared at Helen as if she could make her head explode into a red haze. Helen stood her ground. Bernie took off the security chain, and Helen slid into the beige, mirrored hallway. Bernie blocked her from moving past the doormat.

  “Stop right there,” Bernie said. “You’re not going any farther. Say what you have to say and leave.”

  Helen said, “Ahmet killed Mark, didn’t he?”

  Bernie looked shocked but didn’t deny it.

  Helen pulled some papers from her purse. “I have the police report right here. It has your statement that your brother threatened Ahmet’s life. You called the drug dealer and warned him that Mark wanted to kill him. That’s why you said Mark’s death was your fault when you were in the hospital. You tipped off your boyfriend and got your brother killed.” Helen held out the papers.

  “Ex-boyfriend,” Bernie said. She backed away from the papers as if they were poisonous. Bernie recited the dramatic facts in a flat, toneless voice. “I was trying to save Ahmet’s life. He didn’t mean to kill Mark. It was self-defense.”

  “Is that why Ahmet used a silencer? The police found a blanket with a bullet hole in Mark’s car. Blankets, pillows and couch cushions are used as silencers.”

  “It wasn’t a silencer. That’s not how it happened,” Bernie said in that cold, flat voice. “Ahmet told me he had the blanket in his hand because he was moving an old mirror in the stockroom at his business. The blanket protected it. He looked out the window and saw Mark driving erratically into his parking lot. Ahmet grabbed the gun for protection and put the blanket over it. It was broad daylight. He couldn’t go outside waving a gun.”

  “Why didn’t he call the police?”

  “People like Ahmet don’t call the police.”

  “You know what he did for a living,” Bernie said, her voice full of scorn. “Mark had a .22. He said he was going to shoot Ahmet. There was no reasoning with Mark. He was crazy. Bipolar is the name they use now. He said Ahmet was the devil and he would send him to hell.”

  She went back to that flat tone. “Ahmet said he couldn’t get Mark to put down the gun. It was pointed right at Ahmet. Mark had his finger on the trigger. Ahmet fired first. Mark’s foot must have hit the gas pedal then, and he rammed the building and hit a parked car.

  “Ahmet ran over and threw his Mauser on the floorboards of Mark’s car. The casing was already inside. Ahmet got the .22 out of the car, but he must have left the blanket behind. It was too late to pick it up. People were running out of the building.”

  “You believe that story?” Helen asked.

  “Yes, but I knew the police wouldn’t,” Bernie said.

  “You went to the police and closed out the investigation,” Helen said. “You told the cops Mark had been making threats and talking about killing himself and Ahmet. You said your brother was suicidal.”

  “He was. I told the truth!�
�� Bernie said. At last, a surge of feeling—for herself.

  “Nobody tells that much truth about their brother,” Helen said. “They might say their brother had some problems or he was troubled. You branded Mark a crazy man who was going to murder Ahmet.”

  “You’re branding my brother as crazy,” Bernie said. Her voice went flat again. “Saying someone is suicidal isn’t the same. I suggested that Mark was depressed. My brother was ill and needed help.”

  “What was your mother’s part in the cover-up?” Helen said. “She was in on it with you.”

  “Why do you think Mom was involved?” Bernie asked.

  “Because you both told Gus the accident was in the wrong city,” Helen said.

  “My mother’s dead. Leave her out of this.” Another brief flash of anger.

  “If she’s dead, nothing you say can hurt her,” Helen said.

  Bernie took a deep breath, then said, “My mother and I didn’t get along. While we were at the hospital together when Mark was”—she stopped, then said the word as if it hurt to speak it—“dying, Mom told me she had cancer. She said she was going to die. I cried and begged her forgiveness and promised to reform. We were afraid I wouldn’t get a chance at a new life. The police kept coming to the hospital and asking me about Ahmet. They knew he was a dealer, but they hadn’t caught him yet.”

  Bernie returned to reciting the powerful facts in that inhumanly calm voice. “Mom decided I should tell the police that Mark was suicidal. My brother was dead. It wouldn’t make any difference to him. Mom wanted to save my future. I couldn’t work at a hospital if I was mixed up with drugs. I did this with my mother’s blessing. She traded her dead son’s reputation to save her living daughter. We didn’t lie about Mark. We told the truth.”

  “The truth sure set you free,” Helen said. “When Mark’s case was closed as a suicide, you didn’t have to worry about the police looking into your life, either. I understand why your mother tried to save you. But there was more to it. You were still in touch with Ahmet. He wanted Mark’s case closed, too, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Bernie said. “But so did Mom. Closing Mark’s case helped both of them. So what?” She shrugged and tried to sound unconcerned. But Helen thought she saw fear in Bernie’s eyes.