Hot Property

by Sherryl Woods

  “Capable in the sense of being bright enough, maybe,” Molly said. “He had some sort of graduate degree in Cuba, but it took him a long time in this country to learn the language. Whatever his field was, it required some sort of licensing, and I guess he never felt confident enough in his English to try for it.”

  “Even so, he’s not your top suspect, right?”

  “No,” Molly agreed. Drucilla nodded.

  Michael sat back and sighed heavily. “Which brings us right back where we were. We’ve got suspects all over the place, some with motive but no apparent opportunity, some with opportunity but no obvious motive.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help,” Drucilla said.

  She looked as though she couldn’t quite make up her mind whether to go or stay. Molly had the feeling she didn’t really want to return to an empty apartment. “Why don’t I pour you another cup of coffee,” she suggested. “Maybe if we all put our heads together we can narrow things down a little.”

  “Good idea,” Michael said.

  “Are you sure?” Drucilla said.

  “Absolutely,” Molly said, going into the kitchen to make more coffee. Michael was right on her heels. He nudged her aside and took over the coffee-making duty.

  “Yours is too weak,” he said. “Sissy stuff. What did you think in there? For a woman who just lost her husband in a violent murder doesn’t she seem oddly calm to you?”

  “If the man was such a petty tyrant, plus a womanizer, she’s probably relieved, especially if she wants to marry Juan Gonzalez.”

  “But you really don’t think she’s guilty, do you?”

  Molly considered the possibility, trying to separate gut instinct from fact. “God knows she had the motive and the opportunity, but for some reason I just don’t think so—for all those reasons we were discussing right before she came. I’m more convinced than ever we should check out Mendoza. Besides, if Drucilla had done it, I just can’t imagine that she’d want to hang around with you any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  “Maybe it’s my charm.”

  “You may be irresistible to most women, but …”

  “Including you?” he interrupted.

  “Don’t fish for compliments.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “You’re nervous.”

  “I am not.”

  “Then why are you pouring salt into the coffee?”

  Molly’s gaze jerked to the container in her hand. It was sugar. “You really are obnoxious, Detective.”

  “Because I was right?”

  “You weren’t right. It was sugar, not salt.”

  “Ah, but your reaction told me you weren’t one bit certain of that. Only someone who’s already rattled would have needed to look.”

  “Is that some strange police technique for determining guilt or innocence?”

  “It has its uses.”

  She couldn’t imagine that he would look any more smug if he’d just solved the case. Molly decided right then against continuing an argument she couldn’t win. The man did make her nervous. It always made her nervous being attracted to a man who was already spoken for, especially when he was sending out signals that weren’t all that clear-cut. A devoted lover wouldn’t be camping on her doorstep. He’d be home in his own bed with Bianca.

  Or would he? Michael wouldn’t be the first Latin male of her acquaintance to court one woman while living with or married to another. Something told Molly, though, that Michael had more scruples than that, probably because of his own irregular parental situation. And attraction aside, Michael was a damned good cop. He would never let his personal situation get between him and what he considered to be his duty.

  Duty! The thought that he might classify her as no more than that depressed her.

  “As I was saying,” she said firmly, “I doubt murderers would risk revealing their guilt no matter how charming they might find you on a personal level. Drucilla’s not budging, ergo she’s innocent.”

  “I have to admit, my money’s on someone else, too. Damn, I wish the lab would call back. I’d love to get a match on those fingerprints.”

  Just as they started back toward the dining room, where Drucilla was waiting, the front door burst open. Since she’d heard the key in the lock an instant before, Molly knew it was Liza, but Michael couldn’t have guessed that. For the second time that night his body tensed. His hand was within inches of his gun.

  Liza spotted the automatic gesture and skidded to a halt. “You don’t need the damned gun,” she said quietly, “but if you’re any good at CPR, you’d better get out to the pool. There’s a woman floating facedown. From my balcony it looks as though she’s dead.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  The woman found floating facedown in the clear turquoise pool, blond hair streaming, was Ingrid Nielsen. Although security guards had materialized instantly at Liza’s frantic calls for help, by the time Molly and Michael reached the pool it was clearly too late for their energetic attempts at CPR. Michael checked to be sure, as did the doctor from the seventh floor. She was dead, sprawled on the rain-dampened concrete in a revealing bikini. The air was thick with humidity and hushed speculation. Molly kept thinking that someone ought to cover her up.

  Michael tried to clear the scene of the crowd that had gathered, but it was impossible. Because of the condo meeting, more people than usual were out and about at this late hour. They moved back, but not inside. The sad part, Molly observed, was that no one seemed to be mourning Ingrid. They were too busy wondering aloud about how she’d died, which one among them might be a murderer, and the effect this was likely to have on property values. Putting priorities in order and sensing panic, one of the island’s top real estate agents was trying to reassure them that island condos would always bring top dollar. No one seemed to believe her.

  “Mom.” Brian’s voice shook and his lower lip quivered. Molly had told him to stay upstairs. Naturally he hadn’t. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes.” Worried about him, she steered him as far from the scene as she could, until the width of the pool and several people were between them and Ingrid’s body.

  “Did somebody kill her, too?”

  “I’m not sure about that. We’ll have to wait for the police to decide how she died.”

  “The police are lousy,” he said, glaring at Michael on the other side of the pool, where he was organizing the crime scene investigators. “He promised to protect you. If he couldn’t protect her, how can he take care of you?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know she needed protecting,” Molly said slowly. Everyone had assumed that Allan’s death was a single act of passion, that he’d been targeted because of his marital infidelities or his abrasive personality or the discovery of someone’s dirty little secret.

  Who, then, would have wanted Ingrid dead? Certainly at one time, Drucilla might have hated her enough to kill her, but now? With Allan dead, the affair was certainly over and Drucilla already had Juan anyway. For her, murdering Ingrid would be more or less redundant. Besides, Drucilla had been upstairs with them since before the storm ended. Surely that eliminated her as a suspect.

  Molly tried to calculate the time of death to be sure. She hadn’t seen Ingrid at the condo meeting. As a renter, she wouldn’t have needed to be there. That sudden, intense storm had ended about an hour ago. Ingrid wouldn’t have gone for a swim while it was still lightning and thundering. If she’d gone earlier, someone would have noticed the body much sooner. It made more sense that she’d been killed just minutes ago, right after the pool lights went off at ten. With the scudding clouds still overhead, it was unlikely anyone would have seen the murder, especially if she’d been knocked unconscious in the shadows, then tossed in the pool to drown. Liza had seen the body only because a distant flash of lightning had momentarily illuminated it.

  If Molly was right about all that, Drucilla was out as a suspect. It was more likely that Ingrid had known something, the
same something that had gotten Allan stabbed. Or she might have guessed the identity of the killer. Perhaps the two pieces of information went hand in hand. If Allan had known someone’s secret, and if he had shared that information with Ingrid, then it was entirely likely that the killer had figured out that she was a danger to him too. Then, bam, there she was in the pool.

  Not for one single second did Molly consider that it might be an accidental drowning. The odds that this was nothing more than coincidence were probably greater than those of being the only person to pick all six numbers in the Florida lottery. As for suicide, there were easier ways than trying to stay underwater long enough to die.

  “Wait here,” she told Brian. “I need to see Michael for a minute. I’ll send Liza over here to wait with you. Okay?”

  Brian put on a very brave face. “Sure, Mom.”

  She found Liza, then located Michael with the crime scene specialists. “Can I see you for a minute?”

  “Now?”

  “It has to do with the murders.”

  “Murders?”

  “Don’t be coy. You may not have the evidence yet, but you know as well as I do that she didn’t throw herself in here because she was distraught over losing Allan. She thought she’d just struck it rich.”

  “Maybe she found out she wasn’t mentioned in the will.”

  Molly hesitated. “Did she?”

  “I don’t know. I’m speculating, which is what you’re doing.”

  “I like mine better. I think you ought to check her apartment.”

  “We’ll get to it.”

  “Now,” she said.

  His gaze narrowed. “Why?”

  “I think she knew something about Allan’s death, either who killed him or the information he had that got him killed, which is pretty much the same thing.”

  He nodded slowly. “Okay. Could be. What is it you think we’ll find in the apartment?”

  “Okay, let’s say Allan had told her something, late-night pillow talk and all that. Now, I’m still working on this part, but what if she said something to somebody at the pool, something overheard by the killer that let him know she’d figured it out. He couldn’t very well let it go, could he?”

  “No, but what’s in the apartment?”

  “A note, a name, I don’t know. I just think you ought to check it out.”

  “We will.”

  “Now, dammit.”

  “Why the urgency? Shouldn’t you be with Brian?”

  “He’s fine. Liza’s with him. Now let’s go. If I’m right, the killer’s going to be up there looking for whatever she had too.”

  To her relief Michael nodded at last. It was a testament to the fact that he valued her opinion. He turned to one of the uniformed officers. “I’m going to check out her apartment.” He motioned to Nestor. “I’ll need a master key.”

  “Sí, sí.” The security chief pulled a ring with keys of every size and shape from his pocket as he hurried toward the building.

  Upstairs, it took Nestor only two tries to find the right key for Ingrid’s deadbolt lock. Seeing Molly’s astonished expression, he said, “Is master key, sí? Must be on master or provide with copy for emergency. Pipes burst. Fire, maybe. You see?”

  “I see,” Molly agreed as Michael stepped into the apartment. She heard his muttered expletive before she got a good look inside.

  “What?” she said.

  He stepped aside. “See for yourself.”

  The apartment had been ransacked. If she hadn’t seen the taut set of Michael’s lips, she might have been tempted to gloat.

  “Who else has a set of keys like yours?” Michael asked Nestor.

  “The man in charge each shift, the chief engineer, the office.”

  “Michael, they wouldn’t have needed a master key,” Molly said. “She probably had her own keys with her at the pool when she was attacked. The killer could have taken those.”

  Michael radioed down to poolside. “Any sign of her apartment keys down there?”

  “I’ll check,” the officer said. “No. Just a towel, sandals and some sort of T-shirt.”

  “What about pinned to her bathing suit? Sometimes swimmers do that, so they won’t have to leave the key lying around.”

  “I’ll check again, but I don’t think so.”

  “Thanks, Marty. I’ll be in the apartment awhile. When you guys finish down there, I need you up here.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Molly walked slowly around the apartment, paying particular attention to the places where the most damage had been done. It was hard to differentiate, actually. The whole place was a mess. Molly tried to put herself in Ingrid’s shoes. Where would she have hidden something as important as a clue to Allan’s murderer?

  “Don’t touch anything,” Michael warned.

  “I know. I just wish I knew exactly what I was looking for,” she said as she went into the kitchen. By the phone she found a pad with several numbers scribbled on it, all with the island’s 361 prefix. “Michael, do you have a notebook with you?”

  He came to the door. “Sure. What did you find?”

  “Just a bunch of phone numbers. Could be neighbors or stores.”

  “Or one of them could be the killer’s.” He copied the numbers down. “We’ll call from downstairs.”

  Molly was ready to call right then, but didn’t dare touch the phone. She used a corner of her blouse and one finger to pull open drawers and cabinets, but found absolutely nothing except the usual assortment of dishes, glassware, and pots and pans. There were no small kitchen appliances, not even a mixer. The refrigerator was nearly bare. A carton of milk, three containers of yogurt, and a chunk of cheese were on one shelf. Greasy residue from past groceries was on all the rest. There were two apples in the produce drawer. Apparently Ingrid had not been expected to cook for Allan. That made it all the more likely that at least some of those phone numbers were for local carry-out restaurants.

  Molly moved on to the broom closet, which held a surprisingly complete stock of cleansers, polishers, brooms, and mops. Either Ingrid had preferred cleaning to cooking or she’d had a maid who insisted on being well equipped. Molly thought of the petite housekeeper she’d seen at the Winecroft apartment. Surely Allan hadn’t been tacky enough to insist that the two women in his life share a maid. Of course, neither apartment was so outrageously large that one housekeeper couldn’t have managed both as long as no meals were required. She already knew that the Winecrofts always ate out. She resolved to have another chat with Conchita as soon as she finished in here.

  She wrapped a dishcloth around her hand and patted along the top shelf to make sure there was nothing there except dust cloths. Suddenly she felt something flat and hard underneath.

  Uncertain what to do next, she called for Michael. He reappeared in the door at once. “What?”

  “I think I found something. Can I take it out?”

  “Use a cloth.”

  “I’ll just wrap it in the dustcloths, okay?”

  He nodded.

  She folded the cloths around whatever Ingrid had hidden beneath them and pulled it out, then laid it on the counter. Michael used his pen to lift away the layers of cloth. A knife fell out. It was a large, lethal-looking carving knife.

  “Why would she hide a carving knife in the broom closet?” Michael said, but Molly knew. Though the blade wasn’t serrated, this knife came from the same set as the original murder weapon. She had one just like it in her kitchen.

  “Don’t you see,” she said. “She knew the killer. This knife came from the same set. We already know there was a second set, because Drucilla just returned my knife. Ingrid figured it out, too. She must have been in someone’s apartment and seen it.”

  “Or it was hers and she realized it could be incriminating.”

  “She wouldn’t have a knife like this,” Molly said with absolute certainty. “They’re very expensive. She doesn’t even cook.”

  “How can you tell?”

 
; “I checked the refrigerator. The woman lived on dairy products. Her cholesterol was probably awful. Nope, I’m convinced she found the knife in the killer’s apartment.”

  “There could be a dozen sets just like this in this building alone.”

  “Maybe, but only one of them is missing two knives.”

  “The killer could have had them replaced by now.”

  Molly shook her head. “He’d have to buy a complete set. Then he’d have extra knives he couldn’t explain.”