by Debbi Mack
“What do think that could have been about?”
“Could have been arguing over his bill, maybe. Seemed funny, though. Don’t know why Tom would have been looking at spreadsheets with Bruce.”
“Maybe it was something that had to be entered into the computer?”
“Maybe, though I thought he was pretty much done with setting up the computer at that point.”
“When was this?”
“Not too long before his, you know.” He looked away. “His death.”
“It bothers you to talk about it?”
He started to say something, but stopped. Finally, he said, “I’ve never known anyone who was murdered.”
“What were Bruce and Tom working on, if it wasn’t the computer?”
Skip shrugged. “Beats me. They were secretive. Always holed up in the office. I couldn’t tell you what they were doing.”
“When you install a new system, there’s bound to be bugs. Maybe they were arguing over how well he did his job?”
“I guess anything’s possible, but I don’t think so. Far as I know, the computer was working fine. You could ask the assistant manager. She’d know more about that. All I know is, they’d go in that office and wouldn’t come out for an hour or more sometimes. Then, one day, Tom stopped showing up.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. I thought maybe he and Bruce were really on the outs or something, because they always hung together.”
Interesting, I thought. Maybe the spreadsheets meant something or maybe not. Maybe Schaeffer’s arguments with Garvey were over something that motivated him to commit murder. Or not. I had so little to go on, I couldn’t really draw any conclusions. “Was that the last time you saw Tom?”
“He came in once more. It was a few days before he died. He looked like a walking hangover. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was greasy. He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept for days.”
This squared with Melanie’s description of Tom when she went to see him for the last time.
“He and Bruce had a little powwow in the office,” Skip said. “A very quiet talk. I couldn’t hear anything.”
“You spend a lot of time by that door, don’t you?”
Skip smiled wanly. “It pays to know what’s going on around here.”
He tossed his cigarette butt away. It bounced off the curb in a brief spray of embers, before it died in the gutter.
“I should get back,” he said. “You might want to talk to the assistant manager. She’s covering the bar now.”
I gave him my card, asking him to call if he could think of anything else, and we walked inside. Walt nursed his drink, staring into space. The assistant manager was bending over to reach something behind the bar. When she popped back up, I recognized her—the woman with Bruce Schaeffer at the gym, the one with the scarred face.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
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“Thanks, Rhonda.” Skip ducked through an opening in the counter to get behind the bar again.
“No problem.” Rhonda didn’t see me until I stopped beside Walt. She did a double take, a look of vague recognition crossing her face.
“Kent’s Gym,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. You’re that lawyer, right?”
“Sam McRae. And your name?”
“Rhonda Jacobi.”
“Right, I remember now. Got a minute?”
“Sure. Let’s go to the office.”
“Just a sec. Hey, Walt.” I spoke close to his ear, so he’d hear me above the din without my shouting. “You don’t have to wait if you don’t want to.”
He eyed me. “You really don’t mind if I go?”
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
“OK, if you’re sure. Overpriced and underboozed drinks. And Blaze Starr, these dancers are not.”
I smiled. “Thanks for coming. Made this a lot easier for me.”
“Hey, I had nothing on my busy social schedule tonight.”
Walt wandered off, and I followed Rhonda past the rest rooms and down a short hall, gloomy in the light of a single, bare bulb struggling to put out sixty watts. There was a cracked red-and-white exit sign at the end.
The office would have been roomy if boxes hadn’t filled most of it. As it was, it could barely hold a wooden desk with an upholstered swivel chair, both of which looked old enough to have been on loan from the Smithsonian, and a folding metal guest chair. Three filing cabinets in mismatched institutional shades of gray and putty lined one wall. Boxes and piles of paperwork filled the rest of the floor space.
Rhonda closed the door, muffling the blaring rock music down to a low throb. She plopped into the swivel chair, which squealed with disapproval. Her somewhat-more-than-zaftig frame wasn’t quite right for the black stretch pants she wore. The top three buttons of her white shirt were undone, and while plastic boobs may have been the norm on stage, I got the feeling her décolletage was real. Minus the extra weight and the facial scarring, she could have been out there dancing.
Rhonda gestured for me to take a seat. “Ever find that client of yours?”
“Yes.”
“She gonna be OK?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Mmm. Good luck with that. What can I help you with?”
“I’m trying to talk to anyone who knew Tom. Maybe get some leads on other suspects the cops might have overlooked.”
“I didn’t know him, though we did talk from time to time when he came in to work on the system.”
“How well do you know Bruce?”
“Not very well. We work different shifts, but we try to touch base every other week or so. More often now, I’d say.”
“I guess I assumed you were friends, since you were with him at the gym that night.”
She nodded, but said, “No. A problem came up with a delivery. Kind of a pain, because I was on duty that night.” An irritable growl edged her voice. “Fortunately, Skip was able to keep an eye on things.”
“Good that you guys look out for each other. This place isn’t exactly crawling with extra help.”
She gave a throaty laugh. “No kidding. That’s the biz for you. Some places are too cheap even to hire a waitress. Bartender does everything.”
The desk had paperwork strewn across it. The computer monitor displayed rows and columns of figures. “Looks like you’re having fun,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Between you, me, and the fence post, I’m trying to straighten out another of Bruce’s fuckups. Pardon me, but that’s what it is. This is one of the reasons I feel like I have to stay in touch with him. This kind of shit’s happening more and more often now.”
“No offense intended, but how the heck did you end up working here?”
“None taken. And, yeah, managing a strip joint is not exactly what I pictured as my life’s work. It’s part-time, and it helps pay the bills.” She leaned forward. “But I guess you didn’t come here to listen to my life story. What can I tell you?”
“Can we keep this confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m interested in finding out more about Bruce’s relationship with Tom, particularly before he was murdered.”
Rhonda nodded. “Well, Tom got his job here because of his friendship with Bruce. I had the impression they’d known each other a long time. They were having problems though, right before Tom died.”
“Can you tell me anything about that?”
“All I know is what Tom told me, and that wasn’t much. Sounded like he and Bruce were fighting over money.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
Rhonda hesitated, looking slightly uncomfortable. “It’s hard to remember. I wasn’t taking notes or anything.”
“It could be important. Also, the timing. Can you remember what he said and when he said it?”
“I’d have to think. I wouldn’t want to pass along bad information.” She frowned, staring in front of her as she apparently pondered my question. “OK, h
ere’s an example. One time, Tom was here, trying to get one of the programs to work right. He wanted to know something about the financials because they looked screwy, and I told him I’d been having trouble figuring them out, too. And he’s like, how do you get your bills paid with a system like this? And I’m like, don’t ask me, ’cause I don’t have all that much to say about it. Then he makes this sarcastic remark about how he’d better get paid what he’s owed. I figure, OK, if Tom hasn’t been getting paid regular, maybe he’s been cutting Bruce some slack, but now it looks like he’s getting pissed off. And, while we’re at it, who else isn’t getting paid? I’m not here all that much, so sometimes I feel like I’m not really in the loop, you know?”
“Who cuts the checks?”
“Bruce. He won’t let me do it.”
“Have you had a problem getting paid?”
“No. Probably knows better than to screw around with me.”
“Could it just be a personal problem between Bruce and Tom? Maybe Tom loaned him money.”
“Well, that occurred to me, but I also know what a mess the books are. So it’s hard to say.”
Rhonda leaned back again, prompting more caterwauls from the chair. “You know, maybe that’s why Tom acted so strange. See, I asked him was there something I could do to help. Well, he got all weird, kind of—I don’t know—closed off, all of a sudden. He didn’t want to talk about it after that. I didn’t pry. I let it drop.”
“How long has Bruce worked here?”
“Years, I think. Can’t tell you exactly.”
“How has he managed, if he’s so terrible?”
“That’s the funny part. I’ve been here less than a year, but when I started, everything was fine. It’s only been in the last few months that things have gone to hell.”
“Would you happen to notice if things fell apart around the time Tom was hired?”
Rhonda looked at me. “You think there’s some kind of connection?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m just fishing.”
She perched her chin in her hand in a thinker’s pose. “You know, now that you mention it, that sounds about right.”
“What is it exactly that Bruce is doing wrong?”
“Things just don’t add up. I compare statements to stuff on the computer, and nothing matches.”
I wouldn’t have minded looking at those records myself, although I wasn’t sure what they would prove.
“Has the owner said anything?”
“He’s hardly ever here. I try to do what I can, but it’s not easy, especially since Bruce don’t like anyone looking over his shoulder.”
“He objects to your reviewing his work?”
“He gets pretty huffy when I ask him about the books, but what am I supposed to do?”
“How often do you work here?”
“Just a couple of nights. Sometimes three.” She paused, then gave me a sly look. “I know what you’re probably thinking. Why the hell does this part-timer care so much about the bookkeeping in this dump?”
“The thought crossed my mind. I’m assuming the pay is not spectacular.”
“You’re too right about that. Still, this place has been a good gig for me. It fits my schedule and the extra money don’t hurt.” She shook her head. “I’d hate to see it go down the tubes, the way Bruce is going.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Bruce is pretty much in charge here. So far, it’s worked out good. The owner shows up once or twice a year, so Bruce feels like he’s king of the castle, such as it is. But let me tell ya something.” She leaned toward me and I unconsciously followed suit, like we were a couple of high school pals exchanging confidences. “He’s really gone off the deep end since Tom died. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be able to handle things. I get the feeling it’s going to be up to me after a while. Mind you, I have no interest in taking his place, but I may have to, at least until they get a new manager.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Yeah?” Rhonda called. Skip poked his head inside.
“Hey, Rhon, can I grab you a sec?”
“Sure.” She took a few moments to close out the computer program she’d been working in, then said, “’Scuse me a moment.”
“No problem.”
Rhonda left, shutting the door. I looked after her, then at the paperwork on her desk. I wondered how long she was going to be. I waited a few seconds, just in case she came back for something, then got up.
Tiptoeing with exaggerated care to the desk, the theme to the Pink Panther running through my mind, I shuffled through the papers. Something caught my attention right off the bat—they were statements for two or three different accounts, issued by First Bank of Laurel.
That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of local businesses banked there. One of the accounts had started the reporting cycle with a five-figure sum, then dropped to almost nothing. Another account picked up a large sum, roughly the same amount the first account had lost. I checked the dates. The statements were recent, same month.
Could the accounts be linked to the identity thefts? Or could Schaeffer have been involved in some other shenanigans?
And what did Rhonda really think of all this? She had to think something was rotten at Aces High when she looked at this stuff, particularly since Schaeffer was so secretive. Maybe she was afraid to speak up about it. Or maybe she chose to ignore it. See no evil, hear no evil.
The accounts had Connie Ash’s name on them. Did that mean he opened the accounts? Maybe he was more involved with the business than he let on.
I thought I heard a noise outside the door and paused, watching the knob. Feeling pressed for time, I shuffled quickly through other papers on the desk, being careful not to move things.
A phone and a wooden inbox sat to one side. The inbox contained a small stack of papers. The one on top had a yellow sticky note, with Bruce, What the hell are these? Rhonda scribbled on it. I took a closer look. It was a printed list of social security numbers with amounts next to them. As I scanned the list, something caught my eye. I thought I saw my social security number.
I heard the rattle of the doorknob.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
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I dropped the paper as if it were contaminated and scurried rabbit-like back to the chair. The door opened. Skip was saying something about a delivery.
“That should be here soon,” Rhonda said. “They usually come early.” She dropped back into her chair and crossed her legs at the knee.
“How about the glassware?” Skip asked.
“Later tonight, probably after we close.”
“Great.” He looked relieved. “Thanks for taking care of that.” He closed the door.
She looked at me and smiled. “Sorry again. Where were we?”
I tore my thoughts from what I thought I’d seen. “Bruce’s personal problems since Tom’s death. You said he might lose his job?”
“Right, that was it. I think the shock of finding Tom dead in his place did a number on him, ’cause he hasn’t been the same since. Always snappin’ at people.”
“Like at the gym that night with me?”
“Yeah,” Rhonda said. “It’s been getting worse, too. Last time I saw him, I think he was drunk. We were supposed to have our usual meeting to catch up on things, and he was late. When we did meet, he didn’t seem to give a damn about anything. He seems to be less and less involved these days.” She sighed. “Someone’s gotta run this place.”
Both Garvey and Schaeffer seemed to have drinking problems. Was Schaeffer upset because Garvey was dead? Did he kill Garvey? Or was there something else that upset them both?
“I was wondering,” I said. “You said the books were screwed up. Would it be possible for me to, you know, take a peek at them?”
She looked guarded. “I don’t know ... why would you need to see that?”
“My client has also been accused of identity theft. If it was actuall
y Tom’s doing, maybe there’s something in those papers,” I said, gesturing toward her desk, “something that could help defend her.”
“Identity theft?” Rhonda’s eyes narrowed. I realized this might be a sensitive subject. She scanned the statements, looking as if she were seeing them for the first time. “Well ... these are business records. I’m not sure Mr. Ash would approve.” She opened a desk drawer, seemingly at random, and stowed the papers as if to protect them from my probing gaze.
“It’s OK,” I said. I had to try, but I couldn’t blame Rhonda for trying to protect her boss. “By the way, who was that girl at the gym? The one who yelled at Bruce.”
Rhonda’s eyes widened, as if the question had knocked her off-balance. “Oh, her? A friend. Knew Tom and Bruce, I guess.”
“She also seemed very upset about Tom’s death.”
“Yeah, she was. I wasn’t paying attention, but yeah, she was definitely upset.”
“You don’t remember anything they said? It seemed like quite a loud conversation.”
“I don’t know. I think she was just blowing off steam. I think maybe they might have been close at one time. Her and Tom, that is.”
“Guess you wouldn’t know her name?”
Rhonda shook her head.
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Maybe about that list of social security numbers, but I didn’t want Rhonda to know I’d been through the stuff on her desk. Of course, based on her note, she didn’t know anything about it either.
As I got up, my gaze drifted toward the boxes on the other side of the room. “You guys still keeping a paper copy of everything?”
Rhonda glanced over. “Some stuff, yeah, though I couldn’t tell you half of what’s in there. I think there’s a lot of junk that didn’t make it into the computer.”
“Like what?”
“Hell if I know. This place has been around a while. Some of that stuff could be 50 years old. Me, I’m staying out of it. I’ve got enough to do.”
