by K. K. Beck
“I found it, fair and square,” said the old man. To Tyler’s relief, the old guy lowered his arm and examined the gun, a snub-nosed revolver, with a happy, toothless smile. The barrel was now pointing away from the girl and from Tyler.
“I was just trying to take it away from him before he kills someone,” said the girl unconvincingly.
The old man laughed. “The cops tried to take it away from me, too, but this coat is top quality. It has an inside pocket.”
He flapped it open to show a pocket in the stained silk lining, and then waved the gun in the girl’s direction.
“Give it to me,” she said.
“Ah, hell,” said the old man. “You just want to sell it for some of that shit you’re strung out on. It’s worth something all right.”
“Let’s see it,” said Tyler, in a friendly tone meant to convey he might be a buyer.
The old drunk handed it to him. The girl turned and said accusingly, “Who the fuck are you anyway?” to Tyler. “Why are you wearing that stupid jacket?”
“I’m in charge of this parking lot,” said Tyler, stepping away and putting the gun in his jacket pocket. He didn’t know enough about guns to know how to open it up and see if it was loaded. He strode purposefully away. The girl scampered back down the alley, and the old man said, “Hey. That’s mine, I found it,” but he didn’t seem to be interested in taking any action to reclaim his possession.
Tyler would turn it over to Alba security, if there was such a thing, as soon as he could. He’d suggest they move that Dumpster closer to the kitchen, where maybe they could get a security camera pointed at it. If people just thought about it a little bit, everything could be better organized around here. Alba might seem slick with that Italian hostess and all, but in some ways it was creepier than Donna’s.
———
MACNAB and Lukowski were in front of Alba. They were showing driver’s license photos of both Smethursts to a valet named James Sorensen. Shift Lead Vic Gelashvili, sporting a swollen lip and a bruise on his cheekbone, stood by. James was drawing a blank.
“What kind of car are we talking about?” he asked.
“Audi S4, gray.”
James perked up and handed back the photos. “Oh. Yeah. It had the XM satellite radio and the GPS was going with a big arrow pointed to here. There was dog hair and that kind of dog funk smell. The transmission was sticky.”
A car pulled up and James grabbed a ticket from the box behind him and bounded toward the passenger door.
“Good evening. Welcome to Alba,” he said with what Lukowski thought looked like a totally fake smile. A woman got out of the passenger side and James zipped around to the driver’s side, where a fat man struggled to get out from behind the wheel. James grabbed the keys with a flourish, handed over half a ticket, and said, “Welcome to Ristorante Alba, sir.” He got into the car and started the engine, but Lukowski yelled, “Hey! Come back here.”
“I gotta park this car,” said James nervously. “If they pile up here, it’s a real problem. ’Cause people want to get out of the car right in front of the door. They get seriously annoyed.”
Lukowski ignored this. “Yes, that sounds like the car. A gray Audi. Do you remember anything else?”
James scrunched his eyes closed to indicate he was trying hard to remember.
“I think there was maybe a Diet Coke can in the beverage holder.”
“What about the people?” Lukowski said.
“I don’t know,” said James. “A man and a lady?” Detective Lukowski sighed. To this kid, all adults were the same.
“Do you remember when you parked the car?”
James said, “Well actually, I didn’t park it. Like I said, it had a sticky trans—”
Vic Gelashvili spoke up. “I parked it for him,” he said. “James has trouble with standard transmissions.” James looked away, clearly humiliated, and Vic said, “I think I parked it around six.”
MacNab rolled his eyes impatiently. “So do you remember these folks?” he flashed the Smethursts’ pictures at Vic.
Vic shrugged. “No. Mostly I remember the bad transmission. James had contact with the customers.”
“Did you go get it when they left?”
“No. Someone else must have got the car when they left.”
“Any idea who?”
James and Vic looked at each other. “Maybe Tyler,” said James.
Lukowski showed James the valet tag he’d gotten from the Smethursts’ key chain. “So you can’t tell from this when he left or anything?” Jessica at the Elite Valet office had already told him that, but experience had told him that people who did the real work often knew more about the details of an operation than their managers. These kids, however, especially James, seemed to grasp very little.
———
WHEN Tyler arrived at the valet station in front of Alba he was startled to see the two detectives he’d seen earlier at Jessica’s office—the tall one with silver hair and the older, barrel-chested one in the orange jacket. They were talking to another valet Tyler knew was called James. The dark-eyed Vic hovered nearby.
The taller detective, the one with the silvery hair, turned toward Tyler. “I remember you,” he said. “From over at the Elite Valet office.” He handed Tyler a business card and said, “Seattle Police. We need to ask you guys a few questions. I’m Detective Lukowski, and this is Detective MacNab. Are you Tyler?”
Tyler was stunned. He’d assumed they were private detectives, working for the gray Audi guy’s wife. But apparently they were actual cops. He felt himself gasp, and he hoped it wasn’t audible. But apparently it was, because the other detective, MacNab, turned and gave him a sharp, kind of mean look.
Tyler nodded.
“Vic here says he parked this couple’s car night before last. A gray Audi,” said Lukowski. He showed Tyler the pictures of the Smethursts. “Did you deliver the car to him?”
“Yes, I did,” said Tyler, who immediately felt himself blushing, probably because he felt weird about the three hundred bucks the guy had given him.
“Do you remember what time they left?” asked Lukowski.
“No, not really.” Why was Tyler so rattled? It was something about the way the detective named MacNab was looking at him.
“Do you remember anything about them? Did they seem nervous or anything?” asked MacNab.
“The guy was complaining, to his wife,” said Tyler. “He said she’d wrecked their dinner, and she said they had no choice. They had to leave early.”
“What do you mean ‘no choice’?” asked MacNab.
“Well, I just heard part of it while I was getting the keys off the board. She was talking to her husband and what sounded like a kid on her cell at the same time. She told her husband they had to leave because the kid’s homework was really important.”
Tyler felt he was babbling—overcompensating because he thought he’d come across as evasive in some way, thus getting the dirty looks the older guy was giving him. But he seemed unable to stop himself. “I’m sorry I don’t remember when they left, but the guy said he’d only had time for their appetizer. But I bet if you talk to the hostess in there, she can figure out how long they were here based on that and when his reservation was for.” Tyler now felt an urge to tell him all about the fact that the guy was a regular at the casino and had been concerned about his wife finding out, but he wasn’t quite sure how to bring this up. Instead, Tyler supplied more detail about the transaction here at Alba. “I remember the guy saying something about a diorama. ‘Can’t the little brat make her own goddamn diorama?’ and ‘I did just fine doing my own damn homework.’ And his wife was all stressed out.”
“And what happened when you got their car back to them?” said Lukowski.
“Not much. They got in and drove off.” Tyler had to stop babbling, but he was also overwhelmed with curiosity. “What happened?” he asked the detectives. “What did the guy do?” Maybe the gray Audi guy went home and punched out the
kid or killed his wife. Or maybe it had something to do with the shooting. But how could that be?
Lukowski said, “These folks found a dead body in the trunk of their car. And they said the vehicle had been out of their hands for just about half an hour, when it was parked here.”
“What?” said Tyler. “There was a body in the gray Audi’s trunk?” Tyler started to tell the cops he’d seen the trunk partially open and had closed it. It might be important.
But before had a chance to bring this up, Lukowski said, “I want you to take me down to the lot and show me where you picked up the car.”
A VW Golf pulled up and Vic interrupted. “Tyler, take this car. I’ll check and see if it’s okay to take them back to the lot.” He turned back to the cops. “I’ll ask the restaurant manager if it’s okay to show you the area.”
“We’re the police,” said MacNab to Vic, stepping forward and getting in his face. “We’re investigating a homicide. We outrank some guy holding a velvet rope.” Now he turned to Tyler. “Any reason you didn’t tell us that you delivered that car to them when we were talking to your boss up at the Elite Valet office? Earlier today. You were sitting right there. You heard us say it was a gray Audi.”
“I don’t know,” stammered Tyler. “There’s lots of gray Audis. I didn’t know you were the police. I thought you were private detectives.”
“Why did you think that?” said MacNab.
Tyler decided he’d better go into all that detail about the three-hundred-dollar tip.
Just then however, he was startled to see his mother pull up in the family PT Cruiser. “Hi sweetie,” she said out the window. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I wondered if you found Daddy’s slipper. The Ugg slippers I got him for Christmas? I know it sounds ridiculous but he said he left it here!”
The two detectives exchanged glances. Lukowski stepped forward.
“What’s your full name, son?” he said. “Can I see some ID?”
Tyler reached into his back pocket for his wallet. As he did so, his jacket pocket gaped open.
Before he knew what had happened, Detective MacNab had pinned one of Tyler’s arms behind his back, grabbed his face, and yanked his head back while Lukowski reached into his pocket and his mother screamed from the window of the PT Cruiser.
“I was just going to hand that over to you,” said Tyler breathlessly. Lukowski had stepped backward and Tyler could see the snub-nosed revolver in his hand.
Chapter Eleven
DEBBIE MYERS, THE SEATTLE DETECTIVE who was investigating the Duckworth shooting at Alba, sat across from Scott Duckworth’s personal assistant, Helene Applegate. Helene was a small, fit woman in her mid-fifties with dyed auburn hair in a short, chic cut and a sweet little face with arching eyebrows.
Helene thought Debbie, with her curly brown hair and pleasant smile looked like a nice, friendly person. Helene also loved watching old “Law & Order” reruns—not the creepy newer ones that had a lot of sex crimes—so she couldn’t resist saying, “Wow! What an interesting job you have! How did you become a detective?”
“Kind of a family thing,” said Debbie. “My dad was a police officer. But I bet people think you have a pretty interesting job, too!” She sat in the guest chair opposite Helene’s tidy desk in the office area of the Duckworth compound, and pointed to a framed picture of a couple of little boys on Helene’s desk. “Cute kids!”
“My nephews,” said Helene, beaming. “They’re a lot bigger now.”
“So, can you think of anyone who would want to harm your boss?” asked Debbie.
“Well, there are a lot of nuts out there,” said Helene. “And even though Scott tries hard to keep a low profile, it’s not always possible. For one thing, there’s his charity work.”
“The Duckworth Foundation?” said Debbie.
“That’s right. Actually, his sister, Carla, really runs that.”
“Is here anything controversial about that?” asked Debbie. “Any causes that might get someone worked up?”
“I doubt it,” said Helene. “I mean, Scott feels strongly that we should go to Mars sooner rather than later. And he’s interested in alternative human habitats. Like underwater.”
What she didn’t tell Debbie was that the things Scott really cared about were a small part of the foundation’s work. Carla tried to focus more on the arts, so that she could hang out with a bunch of old-money people. Helene’s personal opinion was that Carla, a divorcée, was shopping for a new husband, and felt that someone who already had a reasonable amount of money would be more suitable than some fortune hunter after the Duckworth billions.
“How about his business activities?” said Debbie.
Helene said perkily, “Well, he’s always looking for new, interesting things to do. I think he’s considering investing in Alba.” Helene suspected this gourmet stuff was more social climbing by Carla. Scott loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips, stuff like that. Back in the day, she’d made many a PBJ lunch for her boss with a root beer float on the side and brought it to him on a tray at his desk. He’d loved it.
“Oh,” said Debbie. “Is that why he was at Alba?”
“I guess so,” said Helene. Suddenly her face crumpled a little. “I don’t want him to ever go back there! I’m so worried about his security. He could be kidnapped or something! I don’t want it to get around that he hangs out there.”
“Yes. I already put in a call to Mr.…” Debbie looked down at the notebook she held in her lap. “Ott.”
Helene’s lip curled a little. “Yes. Red Ott. He’s in charge of Scott’s security.”
“Has Scott received any threats?” continued Debbie.
“All the time. I keep a complete file of kooky letters and emails. There’s a woman in the U.K. who says she is Scott’s twin separated at birth, and there is some weird Da Vinci Code kind of stuff, too. There are also a lot of marriage proposals.” Helene lowered her voice. “Some of them include very inappropriate pictures of the women.”
“Do you have copies of all this stuff?” said Debbie.
“Oh yes,” said Helene. “Mr. Ott is not exactly computer-literate, and he goes over it as it comes in so I have to make hard copies. There’s a whole box of the stuff.”
“I’ll want to take a look at that,” said Debbie.
“I thought you would,” said Helene. “But Mr. Ott carted it all out of here yesterday. Says he’s conducting his own investigation.” She picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Red, can you bring the nut file in here? Detective Myers wants to see it.” She replaced the phone. “He’s on his way.”
“So was Scott a regular at Alba?” continued Debbie.
“I think he’s been there about four or five times. Like I said, he mentioned he might want to invest in an Italian restaurant with authentic cuisine.”
Red Ott arrived, carrying a cardboard banker’s box. “To be honest,” he said, “I think Scott might be more interested in that little Italian hostess they have there than in the food. He’s determined to go back there, even though I don’t recommend it. But you can kind of understand. She’s a real looker.”
Ott dumped the box on the desk, and turned to Debbie. “Very young and attractive women are interested in Mr. Duckworth,” he said. “It’s to be expected. And he’s only human!” He chuckled.
How typical, thought Helene, of Red Ott to tell two women who were close to Scott’s age that it was natural for him to be interested in twenty-something girls, even if it were true. Annoyed, Helene transferred her gaze to the office window and looked out at the Japanese garden Carla had had installed there. A young woman was carefully raking gravel, and a young man was scrupulously plucking the blossoms off a large rhododendron. Carla had explained that real Japanese gardens weren’t supposed to have any actual flowers.
“Oh!” Helene said suddenly. “I just remembered. Another weird email arrived the night it all happened.” Hearing from Roger Benson after all those years had been strange, but she hadn
’t thought his message was nut-mail material.
She turned to her computer, tapped away until she found the message that had arrived in the inbox of the foundation, then hit Print. As it worked its way out of the printer, she felt a little embarrassed. Roger had actually mentioned her in the email.
“We can review those threatening messages together,” said Ott importantly.
“Nope,” said Debbie. “I’ll just take them with me.”
As Debbie skimmed Roger Benson’s email she asked Helene, “Would you characterize this individual as a disgruntled ex-employee?”
———
“THE reason I had the gun,” said Tyler, sipping at the cardboard-tasting coffee and trying to appear calm in the tiny interrogation room, “is because I took it away from some old drunk guy. I thought it was the right thing to do. He could have killed someone.”
Finally! They were getting around to talking about the gun. Before that, Lukowski had asked him a bunch of pointless questions. Tyler had answered them in calm, measured tones. Yes, he’d managed to stay out of trouble since his conviction. He’d paid restitution and done some community service. He’d gone to college back East earlier. It was a small liberal arts college in New England. Yes, New England was nice but it was pretty cold. He didn’t graduate because of financial issues. He was finishing up his undergraduate requirements at the University of Washington. He only needed a few more credits. He hadn’t been working at Alba for long. In fact the day Scott Duckworth got shot at was his first shift. The detective sounded like a high school guidance counselor instead of a cop.
Lukowski leaned back in his chair. “But it was dangerous to take a loaded gun away from someone.”
“I didn’t know it was loaded,” said Tyler.
“Did you get the old guy’s name?”
“No. I was just concerned that he might kill someone. He was kind of weaving around. And there was this girl there with him. Some pretty marginal people hang around that Dumpster. You guys should check it out. It’s in the alley, right next to the lot where we park the cars.”
