“Hi Valerie, it’s Darren.”
My heart sank. “Oh.”
“You sound pleased to hear from me.”
“No, sorry, I was expecting someone else.”
“Well, this won’t take long. Just wanted to tell you that I talked to a guy over at Forrester Security. They’ve got the tape from Friday night and you’re welcome to go over to their office and watch it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. It’s really important to me that you don’t think that I… Well, anyway, this is their phone number. Ask for Will, he’ll know what it’s about.”
He reeled off a number, and I wrote it down and repeated it back to him.
“I really appreciate this,” I said, just before we hung up. “It’s really good of you.”
“Pure self-interest,” he said. “That vision of you about to attack me with a fry pan still gives me nightmares.”
I smiled and we hung up, promising to talk later.
“That was Darren,” I told Jerry, and explained what was going on.
***
Forrester Security occupied two floors of a four-story office building in Queens. The neighborhood was crowded and depressing, and the building was an old, fifties-style block of concrete.
Inside, the office was carpeted in muted grey, and the décor was clean and crisp with bright abstract artwork hanging on the walls. But it smelled slightly off – like stale smoke and coffee – and the air of gloominess refused to be chased away.
Jerry and I sat on a white fake-leather sofa opposite the reception desk, while we waited for Will to meet us. To our left were a handful of cubicles and beyond those, I could make out about a dozen doors leading to various rooms.
A stocky, dark-haired man emerged from one of the doors and walked toward us. When he reached our sofa, he smiled politely and said, “I’m Will. Glad you guys could make it.”
We shook hands, followed him into a small conference room, and sat down. The middle of the room was occupied by a round chrome-and-glass table, and four chrome-legged chairs with sky-blue fabric seats. A flat-screen monitor hung on one wall.
“I’ll be right back with the Friday night footage,” said Will, leaving me and Jerry alone for a few minutes.
Silence throbbed in the air, and Jerry and I looked at each other and made faces. “I feel like I’m here for a job interview,” Jerry whispered, and I nodded.
“Do you think maybe Darren set this up somehow? Altered the footage?”
“I guess nothing’s impossible. But we’ll know once we see it – it’s pretty hard to fake recordings if they’ve got timestamps imprinted.”
Will came back into the room, and fiddled about with a DVD, pressing buttons until images began to appear.
The view from the camera showed people exiting the elevators. There was a mirror opposite the camera, with the elevator doors toward the left. Thanks to the mirror, the video showed us the faces of people entering the elevators as well as those leaving.
At the bottom right-hand corner there was a timestamp.
“4x speed?” Will suggested, and I nodded.
My previous experience of watching the security tape at The Chemistry Club had taught me to expect a yawn-inducing endeavor, and I steeled myself when I saw that the time-stamp at the beginning of the tape said 3:05.
“I need to get back to work,” Will told us, handing us a wireless keyboard and mouse. “But here are the controls. This button’s play, this is pause, and these speed up, slow down and stop. Give me a buzz using this intercom if you need anything – my number’s 9037.”
He disappeared, closing the door behind him, and Jerry and I settled in for a long, screen-staring session. I expected it to be at least a few hours before I saw Darren appear on the screen.
Fifteen minutes later, Darren’s face popped up.
Jerry and I sat up and looked at each other.
“Did you see that?”
I hit pause, rewound a little, and played it at normal speed.
Darren walked out of the elevator at a few minutes before four. He was with two other men, chatting seriously.
They walked toward the building exit, and disappeared.
I couldn’t believe it.
Jerry said, “You think he’s got an evil twin?”
“No. I think he just left for a meeting. He’ll be back.”
Jerry raised one skeptical eyebrow. “Ok, but if I don’t see him after two hours, I’m leaving.”
I adjusted the settings so the video played at 4x speed again, and this time we focused on the faces reflected back at us via the mirror.
Almost an hour in, we spotted him.
“He’s back!” I said.
“Just like the Terminator.”
I hit pause, rewound the footage and we watched again at regular speed. The time stamp said 8:11, and Darren was getting back into the elevator. I let out a sigh of relief.
“There has to be a quicker way of doing this,” said Jerry. “It’s like playing Where’s Waldo with moving people.” In case I didn’t get it, he added, “Darren’s Waldo.”
We settled back in our seats again, and continued watching people leaving. By this time, the building had mostly emptied out. Once in a rare while, someone would appear on screen, moving at a jerky, abnormally high speed till they disappeared out of shot. But mostly, Jerry and I just stared at the empty lobby.
And then Darren appeared again. I hit pause immediately, and checked the time stamp – 12:13 am. Jerry and I watched as he strolled out, beyond the sight of the camera.
“I guess that settles it,” said Jerry. “Darren really was burning the midnight oil.”
“I guess we’ve got no reason to be suspicious of him anymore.”
I smiled smugly, pleased that my instincts about Darren had been right.
Chapter Thirty-One
By the time we got home and had a late lunch (frozen Jerry-baked casserole slices that he defrosted in minutes) I was ready for a nap.
“You can’t just sleep,” Jerry said in dismay when I told him. “We’re so close! We know that Darren was in the city, and that Edgar’s hiding something. And we know Edgar was probably at the party, too. We need to get in touch with Carly and get the guest list and we need to figure out how to get Edgar to talk to us and we need to–”
“You’re giving me a headache, with all those lists!”
“But we’re so close! And we have so much to do!”
“I need to sleep, Jerry. There’s always work to do. Starting work now won’t make that big a difference, but a nap will. I’ll see you in an hour.”
When I emerged from my room two hours later, Jerry had spread out my index cards on the kitchen table and was poring over them.
“Hey!” I said. “Those are private!”
“Not anymore,” Jerry said. “While you were sleeping, I got some work done.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I read over all your notes.”
I fiddled with the Nespresso machine and took the mug of coffee it offered me. “And what do you think?”
“I gotta admit, I’m impressed.” I felt a rush of pride. Yep, I was so professional that even Jerry had to admit how good I was. “Yeah,” he went on, “I was expecting you to have written out a hundred lines of ‘Mrs. Valerie Lindl.’”
I scowled, feeling an overwhelming urge to throw my coffee over Jerry’s smug face. I put the mug down carefully. On the plus side, now that I knew for sure that Darren wasn’t a suspect, maybe I could consider being Mrs. Valerie Lindl.
“Anyway,” said Jerry, as I sipped my coffee. “I have a plan for talking to Edgar Martinez.”
“Oh?”
“We show up at his office.”
“And Ruth’s just going to show us in?”
“No, we won’t go up. We’ll just hang out in the parking garage. The guy works late, but when he comes out to get into his car, we can go up and talk to him.”
“You know, that plan�
�s kind of brilliant and creepy at the same time.”
“I know. It’s a little bit stalkerish.”
Jerry and I exchanged a guilty look, thinking about our own recent stalking experience. Jerry shrugged, as though to say, “If you can’t beat them, join them.”
I said, “Speaking of – we didn’t get any more creepy notes, did we?”
Jerry shook his head. “I guess we’re being lucky.”
I glanced at the clock – it was almost five o’clock. “What time do you think we should get there?”
“I don’t know – how about six, just to be on the safe side?”
“Perfect. That gives me time to call Carly and see if she’ll give me the guest list from the party.”
***
At a quarter to seven, Jerry and I were sitting in his car.
The parking-lot had been half-empty, so we’d managed to get a spot with a perfect view of the elevators.
“That’s probably Edgar’s car,” Jerry whispered, pointing to a vintage Porsche convertible.
“And you’re sure he doesn’t have a driver?”
“Probably not. This business article said he likes driving vintage cars, so…”
“Right. And you’re sure you’ll know him when you see him? Let’s look at the photos again.”
Jerry pulled out his iPad, and scrolled through numerous photos of Edgar that he’d downloaded from the internet. I spent a few minutes trying to burn the images into my brain, and then I put my headphones on and settled in for a long wait.
I’d done stake-outs when I was first learning to be a PI, and they were tiring, boring and hunger-inducing. I’d brought two bottles of water with me, plus five energy bars. Three of them were meant to be dinner, if Edgar took too long to leave.
As the minutes ticked by, the parking lot grew emptier and emptier, until only our car and the vintage Porsche remained.
I’ve always hated empty parking lots – they remind me of far too many scenes from bad horror movies. To me, they’ll always be places where serial killers and rapists hang out. Except tonight, Jerry and I were the ones lying in wait for our prey.
At a little after nine o’clock, Edgar Martinez stepped out of the elevator.
He was dressed in a dark business suit and was carrying a briefcase. He looked just like the photos I’d seen of him – tall, well-built, with a bald head and a confident stance.
Jerry and I nudged each other, and I ripped off my headphones. We stepped out of the car in a rush, and slammed our doors closed. Edgar looked at us as we took a few steps toward him.
“Stand back!” he yelled. He dropped his briefcase onto the ground and reached into his jacket. When he pulled his hand out, there was a gun in it.
Jerry and I froze.
“I don’t want to shoot you,” Edgar said. “But I will if I have to.”
I raised my hands slowly in the air. “Mr. Martinez, we’d just like to talk to you.”
“Right,” he said, not taking his eyes off us. He picked up his briefcase carefully. “And then maybe you’d like to stuff me into the boot of that car and hold me for ransom?”
“What’re you talking about?” I said.
“I’ve been warned about this,” Edgar said. “Gangs who kidnap businessmen for ransom.”
“We’re not a gang,” said Jerry.
“I’m a private investigator,” I added. “Valerie Inkerman. I called your office this morning.”
Edgar lowered the gun a fraction of an inch. “Valerie? Yeah, my secretary said some PI was calling.”
“That’s me!” I said enthusiastically. “I’m some PI!”
Edgar shook his head and stepped slowly toward his Porsche, his gun still aimed at us. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Please,” I said. “It’s about Esme’s death. I know you were at that party and that you two were dating.”
Edgar shook his head again. He’d reached the Porsche by now. He unlocked it and tossed the briefcase inside. “I don’t want you to follow me,” he said. “If you guys turn up again, I’ll report you to the police.”
“Please don’t do that,” I said. “We just want to talk to you. Five minutes – that’s all.”
Edgar shook his head. He stepped into his Porsche, closed the door, and backed out with a screech.
Jerry and I stood there, frozen, and watched as he drove off.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The next morning, I felt ready to throw in the towel. I hadn’t managed to get Carly on the phone yet, but I was sure Edgar had been at the party. I was sure I’d seen him – he looked so familiar.
When I came into the kitchen to get my cereal, Jerry said, “Maybe that gun Edgar pointed at us was the murder weapon.”
“Don’t you have an audition?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one this afternoon.”
“Ok, then stick to acting. Your brilliant plan scared Edgar off.”
“It did not. We got proof that he has a gun. Trigger-happy, much? And he was ready to shoot, too. He wasn’t joking about that.”
I shook my head. “Even if that gun’s the murder weapon, now what? How do we prove it?”
“Maybe we can break into his house and look for some evidence. He’ll be at work now.”
“Sure. And then we can get ourselves arrested for burglary and I can be stripped of my PI license.”
Jerry made a face, but he let me finish my cereal in silence.
Once I’d rinsed my bowl out, I grabbed the phone. “I’m going to try Ruth again,” I announced to Jerry. “Who knows, maybe I’ll think of something to say.”
Ruth answered on the second ring, like the world’s most efficient secretary. “Edgar Martinez’s office. This is Ruth.”
I affected a girly, flirtatious voice. “Oh, hi there Ruth. Is Edgar in?”
“Who’s this?”
“This is Marla. Edgar gave me his number last night and said to call him.”
“Hang on.” There was a brief chord or two of chamber music, and then Ruth came on again, her voice stern. “He says he doesn’t know any Marla.”
“Oh, no, I–”
She hung up with a click, and I scowled.
Behind me, Jerry laughed. “Like your ideas are so much better than mine. Though I do like that sexy Marla voice, you should do it more often.”
“Ok,” I said. “You try.”
“I’m not really very good at sexy Marla voices.”
I stuck out my tongue, and handed him the phone.
Jerry hit redial and pressed the phone against his ear. After a few seconds, he said, with a thick French accent, “Bonjour, Ruth. I am Jean-Pierre. Would it bee possible to speak with Mr. Martinez, sil v’ous plait? We met at ze business lounge at JFK a few months ago, I theenk he will remember me.”
I rolled my eyes. Jerry’s French accent was as bad as his Italian.
I expected Ruth to hang up on him immediately, but five seconds later, Jerry said, “’Aloo, Mr. Mahtinez? Pliss hold.”
Jerry shoved the phone into my hands, his eyes wide and crazed.
“What do I say?” I hissed at him.
“I don’t know,” he whispered loudly, “Just say something!”
“Er, Hello,” I said. “Mr. Martinez?”
“Who is this? I knew there was no Jean-Pierre!”
“I’m really sorry, please don’t hang up. This is Valerie, the PI? Please don’t hang up, please don’t hang up, please don’t hang up.”
I held my breath, half-expecting him to hang up.
A few seconds later, he said, “What do you want?”
My body sagged with relief. “I just want five minutes. Please. I know there’s something going on…”
“I’m a busy man.”
“I’ll come to your office, or your house. It’s just five minutes.”
There was another pause and then Edgar said, “Ok. Five minutes.”
“Thank you! Thankyouthankyou.”
“Nine o’clock tonight, my office.”
This was incredible and unexpected.
“It worked!” I said finally. “Your stupid French accent worked!”
“What deeed I teelll you?” Jerry said. “Ai have dee really good, really very nice and good accent, no?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
I fished my gun out of the “tampons” box, loaded it and stuffed it into my handbag before we drove off to see Edgar Martinez.
“What’s the plan?” Jerry asked after he parked the car.
A vintage Ferrari Spider was the only other car in the lot. The empty parking spaces gave me the chills – it only took thirty seconds to walk over to the elevator, and the lot was well-lit, but the place was still empty and large and our footsteps echoed creepily.
“I don’t have a plan,” I said. “I’ll try to ask him about Esme and the party and then maybe I’ll say that I know it’s his gun.”
“And what if he pulls a gun on us again? I don’t want to be his next victim.”
“That’s ok.” I tried to sound reassuring, but the truth was, I was worried about the same thing. “I’ve got my gun with me. And I go to the range every week, so I’m a decent shot – you don’t need to worry.”
We took the elevator up and walked over to Edgar’s office. The glass door was locked, but there was a big red button next to it that looked pressable.
Five seconds after pressing it, Edgar walked over to the door and opened it for us.
“There’s no-one else here,” he said. “So I like to lock up for security purposes.”
“I see.” Jerry and I walked behind him to his office, our feet sinking into the plush carpeting. There were cubicles to our right, and a few potted rubber plants placed beside the walls. “Do you have lots of security concerns?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Edgar opened a door, and I was disappointed to see that it was a small conference room, not his office.
“We can talk here,” he said. “After all, you said it’s only five minutes.”
I glanced around the sparsely furnished room – the walls were bare, with a table and eight chairs.
I took a seat and said, “We appreciate you meeting us.”
A.R. Winters - Valerie Inkerman 01 - Don't Be a Stranger Page 12
