Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  But I was an engineer. By any measure, my skills would be much better utilized as facility manager. Since I was project engineer when the entire complex was built, I knew BellaVilla inside and out. That knowledge would be a definite advantage. And I’d earn a better paycheck to boot. You’d think the choice would be easy, but I was more conflicted than excited about the opportunity Billy had presented.

  Then there was Peter. Was I willing to deal with the drama if I snatched the position away from him? The position he thought was rightfully his? Make no mistake: the loss would make managing him a nightmare. Our Friday morning meeting, though, might force my decision. If it came down to a choice between unemployment and a job, you can bet which one I’d choose. In any event, I needed time to process the idea. Grandma used to say “to delay is to deny.” But the old saying “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread” kept running through my head.

  As long as I had use of a cell phone, I made a couple of other calls. Not having my own wheels was practically un-American, but not having a cell phone was technological sacrilege. I reported the “accident” to my insurance agent and got a claim started. Then I contacted Enterprise and made arrangements to have a rental car delivered to my home. When I handed the phone back to Sam, I apologized for using up so many of his minutes.

  “No problem,” he said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it sounds like you’ve had a run of bad luck lately.”

  “You could say that. My car was totaled and I lost my phone in the accident.”

  “Ouch. That explains your banged-up face.”

  “It looks worse than it is. By the way,” I said, to avoid discussing it further, “I saw Tom Lamont the other day. He told me to tell you hello. I think he misses all of us.”

  “What a wimp!”

  First Jack and now Sam. What was it about the kid that generated such vitriol? Defending the guy was becoming a habit. “Tom’s not so bad,” I said. “A little geeky, but he means well. He wants you to call him.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  I let the matter drop and Sam didn’t say anything further until a construction project on the 405 forced him to ease up on the pedal. “Damn. The traffic is bad enough. Now we got this mess.”

  A woman wearing a bright orange vest waved a sign to slow traffic as we passed a worker operating a bulldozer. I wondered what Sam thought when he saw them. He’d complained many times about the lack of work available in construction. “Have you ever considered highway work?” I asked.

  “Hah! Those are state jobs. Cush state jobs. No one quits work in this economy. And it takes an act of Congress to fire a state worker. So there ain’t no jobs to be had with the state.”

  The topic had hit a nerve with Sam. The slower the traffic got, the more he revved up the ranting. “Now you take private industry,” he said. “You can lose your job overnight on a project there. Especially if it’s run by the idiots I worked for. We had plenty of work to go around, but the boss was a piss-poor manager and the funding went away. No money. No job.”

  It occurred to me then that Sam’s experience in the construction trade might be helpful to the investigation. “Did you know that Vasily Petrov was a partner in a firm that went belly up under similar circumstances?”

  Sam eyed me through the rearview mirror. “I heard something like that. Why do you ask?”

  “Because of your industry experience. Do you know anyone who lives in the Seattle area who used to work construction in Portland?”

  He honked and cursed at a driver who almost cut us off when he changed lanes. “I can’t think of anyone offhand,” he said after the near miss. “Why?”

  “There might be a connection between the murders of Vasily’s partner and his wife in Portland, and the murders at BellaVilla. It’s possible the killer is someone who worked on their construction project and got burned when it folded. He could have followed Vasily here to finish what he started.”

  Sam frowned. “I thought you were above gossiping about the murders.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Not when the gossip involves me.”

  “Yeah, there’s that. The latest rumor going around is that you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. From all your questions, it sounds like there’s some truth to that one.”

  “I guess there is,” I admitted. “So, how ’bout it? If you think of anyone, will you let me know?”

  Sam laughed. “Man, you’re worse than the cops. Yeah, I’ll tell you if any names come to mind. I’d much rather face you than Detective Doyle. He’s a real pissant.”

  “Really?” I said, smiling. “Somehow I think he’d like that label.”

  Once we wound our way through all the construction and commuter traffic to Woodinville, I spent what was left of the day restoring my home to livability. I thought I’d sleep well since I was worn out from the effort, but I was too agitated. The crash and break-in had destroyed my sense of security, especially given Jack’s insistence that they were both related to the murders. I’d checked and double-checked all the windows and doors and made sure my Colt was loaded, but I still felt nervous. I hoped if I had to brandish the gun, it wouldn’t be necessary to fire it. Accuracy wasn’t something I could count on.

  When I got up at three o’clock to check on things for the umpteenth time, I spotted a familiar car parked in front of my house. Jack saw me part the living room drapes to look out and lifted his thermos in a cheery salute. Detective Doyle might be a pissant, but he was exactly the pissant I wanted around right then.

  Later that morning, we shared a bagel-and-coffee breakfast in the kitchen. Judging by Jack’s appearance, the all-night-with-no-sleep guard detail had taken a toll. His rumpled suit was to be expected, but the dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes gave me pause. It was a look that usually followed one of his drinking binges. Jack was either a tired and haggard forty-five-year-old who needed some sleep, or he was hung over.

  I spread some cream cheese on a bagel and handed it to him. “You don’t look so good this morning. Are you sure there was only coffee in your thermos?”

  “Jeez. Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “That was memory lane talking.”

  He set his bagel on the serving plate. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve been sober for over a year now.”

  “Except for the beer in your fridge, the wine at dinner, the Guinness at—”

  “Okay, okay. Not completely sober, but trying. Doesn’t that count?”

  He seemed sincere, but I’d heard the same line many times before. Still, I wanted to believe he meant it. “Trying does count,” I said. “It was wrong of me to—”

  “Hey,” he said, grinning. “It’s okay. We both know I haven’t always been the good little boy you see before you now.”

  “Still, I’m sorry. I should also thank you for watching over me last night.” His worn-out expression made me feel even guiltier. “You could’ve come inside, you know.”

  “What makes you think I didn’t?”

  “Because the doors and windows were all locked.”

  “But I have a key.”

  “What?”

  “Relax. It’s just a temporary thing. As soon as this case is over and I know you’re safe, I’ll hand it back to you.”

  I didn’t like the idea and let him know it. “Just when did you get a key to my house?”

  “I had it made while you were at my apartment. Wouldn’t have had to if you’d stayed there instead of insisting on returning home.”

  We sparred about it a bit longer, but truthfully, I didn’t feel like making a big issue out of it. Jack was going to do what Jack was going to do. After I conceded the argument, he brought me up to date on the case. He’d reinterviewed several residents and examined their financials, but so far couldn’t find any evidence that they’d invested with Vasily before he came to BellaVilla. Jack planned to keep checking. He’d received a fax late yesterday from the union with the names
of all the employees at the Petrov and Novikov project in Portland, but he hadn’t had time to go over it yet.

  When I told him about my conversation with Sam, he said, “I should get him to look at the list. Maybe he’ll recognize one of the names.”

  “You better let me show it to him,” I said. “Sam thinks I’m easier to talk to.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” He grabbed the last bagel off the plate and asked, “So, Miss Easy Talker, what about Carla? How’d it go with her?”

  “It didn’t. I was too busy putting out fires, but I’ll make sure it happens today.”

  “Let me know what she says. If I need to haul her in to headquarters, I will.”

  Jack left shortly after Enterprise delivered my rental car. I’d requested whatever vehicle had the best safety record and the winner was a Chevy Avalanche.

  “What? No sports car?” Jack quipped.

  The accident—intentional or not—had made me cautious about driving something similar to a Miata again. The four-door sport utility truck was quite a change from my Little Green Bomber, but I liked it a lot. That didn’t mean I could afford it unless…hmm, Billy’s job offer did have certain advantages.

  I’d promised Jack that I’d talk to Carla in public view. I knew that wasn’t going to happen while we were at work—too many interruptions and distractions to get us off track—and I wanted her full attention. My solution was to catch her before she reported for her shift. I called Fiona and she agreed to cover the desk so I could leave a couple hours early. I told Peter I had a doctor’s appointment. Naturally, he fussed about the short notice, but calmed right down when I told him Fiona would sub for me.

  “She’s the best,” he enthused. “Turning the concierge staffing decisions over to me was the right thing to do. Bill Matthews should’ve given me that responsibility from the beginning.” Fiona was Peter’s first hire since assuming his new duties and he sang her praises like a teenager who’d fallen hard for the new girl at school.

  Moze told me that Carla had begun to hang out at the corner Starbucks an hour or so before her shift. The place was crowded, but I spotted her as soon as I walked in. She sat by herself at a round corner table, reading a book with a large coffee nearby. I’d slipped the Colt .45 into my handbag before leaving home, but I doubted I would need it. Latteland wasn’t exactly a danger zone. Carla was a liar through and through, but a killer? I didn’t think so. Unless she suddenly went berserk from caffeine overload, I was probably safe.

  I ordered a latte for myself and carried it to her table. “Hi, Carla,” I said amiably.

  She looked up and frowned. “What do you want?”

  “Good book?”

  She turned it over so that I could see the cover: Fundamentals of Massage Therapy. “I’m studying for a final. So if you don’t mind…”

  I sat down at the table. “Actually, I do mind. We need to talk.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  “Oh, but I think you do. And this time I want the truth. No more lies.”

  She slammed the textbook shut. “I don’t have time for this shit.” She grabbed her backpack off the floor and stuffed her book and belongings inside. “I’m outta here,” she said, standing upright.

  “Sit down,” I said firmly.

  “I don’t have to talk to you. You’re not a cop.”

  “True, but you’d be better off talking to me than Detective Doyle.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He hasn’t fallen for your lies. Your innocent act may have fooled Detective Gleason, but you’re still on Doyle’s suspects list.”

  “That’s so bogus. Kevin told me I wasn’t a suspect. I couldn’t be. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  So it’s Kevin now? “I haven’t done anything wrong, either. But thanks to your lies, the police, Peter, and a growing number of residents think I have.”

  “So what?” she snarled. “I have to protect myself any way I can. My life’s in danger!”

  Despite the tough-girl attitude, I believed her fear was real. “You know what? I agree.”

  “You do?”

  “I think the car that killed Marcus was meant for you.”

  That’s all it took. A simple affirmation that she was a target and her defiant it’s me-against-the-world look collapsed. She heaved a weary sigh and sank into her chair. “If I tell you what you want to know,” she said softly, “will you make sure it gets back to Detective Doyle? Kevin said he’s your husband.”

  “Ex-husband. And yes, I’ll pass on whatever you want.”

  “Mostly I want the killing to stop. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved to murder.”

  “Losing your whole family has got to be tough.”

  “It’s worse than that. I lost a brother I didn’t even know was still alive until recently.”

  “You’re talking about Vasily Petrov?”

  Carla’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard the story?”

  “Some of it, but I’d like to hear it from you. The real story this time.”

  She downed the last of her coffee and then began. “Our birth parents were dirt poor. They’d emigrated from Russia with nothing but the proverbial clothes on their back and a lot of hope. But the land of freedom and all that didn’t work out exactly as they’d planned. Father was a trained dentist in Moscow, but he couldn’t get licensed here. He worked odd jobs and provided occasional dental services to other ex-pats to make ends meet. One day he performed a root canal on a young boy and something went horribly wrong. The truck driver father retaliated for his son’s death by killing my parents. I would’ve been killed along with them if I hadn’t been staying overnight at a friend’s house at the time of the murders.”

  “What about Vasily? How did he escape?”

  “He didn’t. The truck driver took him. Vasily was the same age as the son he lost.”

  “A son for a son,” I said.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Did the trucker ever get caught?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. He was a big deal in the Russian mafia. He knew how to make my parents’ deaths look like a family squabble turned tragic. The authorities closed the case right away as a murder/suicide.”

  “And Vasily never said anything?”

  “He was just a kid. Who would believe him?”

  “There’s no statute of limitation on murder. Vasily could’ve reported what happened when he got older.”

  “By then it was too late. The trucker died a few years after the abduction. Vasily landed in a series of foster homes.”

  “And you were adopted by the Novikovs.”

  “Not that my life was any better than Vasily’s.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Carla looked into her empty coffee cup. “I need a refill.”

  “What’re you drinking?” I asked. “I’ll get another round for us.”

  “A single shot mocha latte.” She grimaced and added, “On second thought, make it a double shot. Reliving all this shit isn’t easy. And I haven’t even gotten to the nasty part.”

  CONFESSION #24

  When family is no longer a haven in a heartless world, all bets are off.

  Love, money, and revenge. That was Carla’s family saga in a nutshell. But it took over an hour for the full story to emerge. We nursed our coffee and ignored the critical looks from newly arrived customers who couldn’t find a table. “No worries,” the barista assured me when I apologized for our lengthy stay. “Take your time.” Just to make sure we didn’t wear out our welcome, I ordered some blueberry scones to go with our drinks.

  Carla nibbled on a scone as she talked. “I was totally messed up after my birth parents died. I was only five years old but I blamed myself for everything. If only I hadn’t back talked to my mother, she’d still be alive. I thought my father killed her because she couldn’t make me behave. Then he killed himself because he felt so bad over what he’d done. Even Vasily’s disappearance was my fault. He ran away becau
se he hated me for destroying our family.”

  “Your reaction wasn’t all that unusual. When something bad happens that kids don’t understand, they often blame themselves. My daughter thought she was the reason I divorced her father. Over an ice cream cone, no less. I said it would spoil her dinner, but Jack gave it to her anyway when she put up a fuss. It was years before Erin understood our divorce had nothing to do with her.”

  “I get that now, but back then I felt responsible. I eventually wound up in the hospital; severe posttraumatic stress was the diagnosis. It didn’t matter what they called it. I knew better. I was just a really bad kid.”

  “You got counseling, right?”

  “It didn’t help. I was still a basket case when Ivan and Alena adopted me. They liked the idea that I was Russian, but they were too old and set in their ways to take in a mixed-up kid like me. They were rich and all, but they didn’t have much of a marriage, even before I arrived on the scene.” Carla took a deep breath. “And then it got worse.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sex. Alena wouldn’t give Ivan any or maybe not enough. For whatever reason, Ivan the Terrible turned to me, a nine-year-old child!”

  “I’m so sorry, Carla. No child should have to endure something like that. Did Alena know?”

  “Of course. But she was too browbeaten to come to my defense.”

  “I understand Vasily was abused, too. In foster care.”

  She nodded. “We hardly knew each other when he finally found me. But we soon discovered we had a lot in common besides abuse.”

  “Such as?”

  “Payback. I wanted to kill my parents, but Vasily persuaded me there was a better way to make them pay.”

  “Let me guess. Vasily had a scheme to get at their money.”

  Carla smiled for the first time since her story began. “Yeah, he did.”

  The conversations I’d had in Portland helped explain what happened next. Vasily began working for Ivan on several of his projects and impressed him enough to eventually become his business partner. The idea was to destroy Carla’s abuser by destroying his real estate empire. The downturn in the economy helped things along, but I figured there had to have been something else at play. “All his money didn’t come from real estate, did it?” I said.