Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “That was our big mistake. Ivan had a reputation as a successful real estate developer, but it was just a front. His real business was smuggling—on a grand scale. Vasily and I found out too late that Ivan had ties to Bratva, an arm of the mafia in the Ukraine. He smuggled drugs, weapons, currency, and even aluminum for them.”

  “So when you stole from Ivan, you were actually stealing from Bratva.”

  “Exactly. The Bratva goons got that message across loud and clear. We had to pay them back or suffer the same fate as Ivan and Alena.”

  “And that’s when you came to BellaVilla.”

  Our scones were long gone, but Carla scooped up a few of the crumbs and took a last sip of coffee. “There was too much heat on us to stay in Portland. The cops were calling me a person of interest in the case and dodging my every move. But the main problem was money. Then we heard about BellaVilla. Vasily said the luxury condo with its rich residents would be a gold mine.”

  “As investors in his pyramid scheme?”

  “Right. But we couldn’t get enough money together before—” Carla had turned her cell phone to vibrate mode when we began our talk, but the buzzing was hard to ignore. She looked at the caller ID and frowned. “Tom Lamont again,” she said, flipping the phone shut. “He’s such a pest.”

  It was the third time he’d called. “He seems anxious to talk to you.”

  “It’s not me he’s trying to reach. Sam won’t call him back, so Tom calls everyone else to pass his apology along.”

  “Apology?”

  “Can you believe it? Like Sam really cared that Tom couldn’t go to Portland with him. Sam probably just felt sorry for the guy. Why else would he want that pest tagging along?”

  I sat up straighter in my chair. “Sam went to Portland recently?”

  “Yeah. Something about a job. He used to work for my father, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I flashed on my conversation with him in the town car. Sam had said nothing about working in Portland when I broached the subject. “When you say he worked for your father, do you mean in real estate or the smuggling operation?”

  “Oh, Sam would never do anything illegal. He comes across kind of gruff at times, but he’s one of the good guys. He’s a carpenter who lost his job after Ivan’s mall project closed down. Vasily felt responsible for the closure, so he put in a good word for Sam when the town car driver job came up.”

  She might as well have been waving a red flag in my face. “Could I borrow your cell phone?” When I called Jack at the station, Gleason answered.

  “He’s in a meeting with the lieutenant,” Gleason said. “Could I take a message?”

  “Yes. Tell Jack I need to talk to him about Sam Caldwell and that union list. It’s very important.”

  “Does he have your number?”

  “I can’t be reached by phone. Tell him I’m on my way over to the station now.”

  I couldn’t get out of Starbucks fast enough. Carla looked somewhat confused by my abrupt departure, but I felt a strong sense of urgency to get my car and go see Jack.

  There was limited staff parking available at BellaVilla, and it was a daily competition (and hassle) to see who could be the first to claim one of the scarce spots. The loser usually wound up feeding a meter all day or parking at a nearby retail lot. Sometimes we cheated and parked in a visitor space, which was a major employee no-no. Since dealing with the rental car paperwork had delayed my arrival that morning, I’d lost any chance of finding a parking space and chose the metered option.

  Unlike our table at Starbucks, the meter had a two-hour time limit and ignoring it had consequences. I fully expected to find a ticket on the windshield when I returned. It would’ve been costly, but preferable to a flat tire. Make that four flat tires. I couldn’t believe it—the super safe Chevy’s tires were as flat as my wallet. But like the crash, this was no accident. The valve stem on each tire had been broken off.

  “Looks like you’re gonna need a ride again,” said a familiar voice behind me.

  I turned around as Sam gestured to the town car parked nearby. “Hop in,” he said. “She’s all gassed up and ready to go.”

  No way, no how. I backed away a step. “Thanks,” I said, slinging my handbag onto my shoulder. “But I’ll call a taxi. The residents come first.”

  “What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” he said, sidling in closer.

  “I appreciate your offer, but I’d prefer not to break the rules again.”

  Sam grabbed my arm. “You’re such a righteous bitch,” he growled. “I should’ve known you’d be a problem.”

  Talk about a red flag. It was wrapped around my throat, tighter than Sam’s grip. “Let me go!” I shouted. I twisted and punched him with my free hand, but I couldn’t break his hold.

  Jack always said a woman’s best weapon was her voice. I’d have preferred the bullet method, but my Colt .45 was still tucked inside my handbag. As we continued our struggle, I pumped up the volume. “Help! Fire!”

  Jack’s self-defense tip number two: yelling fire was a better attention getter than yelling rape or murder. I screamed for attention so hard my throat ached. Where was a cop when you needed one? A concerned citizen? Teen with a cell phone? Anybody?

  I’d certainly gotten Sam’s attention. He smacked my face. Hard. “Shut the fuck up!”

  The slap stunned me for a moment, but I retaliated with a swift kick to his southern anatomy. The jab didn’t exactly even the score. I’d aimed for his balls, but hit his shin instead. In the process, my handbag slipped off my shoulder and fell to the pavement, scattering its contents at our feet.

  My bungled attack seemed to amuse Sam in a mean sort of way. “You’re a little spitfire, aren’t you?” he sneered. Then he picked up the Colt. “But thanks for the weapon.”

  He aimed it at me. My own gun! Jack always said that gun owners were more likely to have their own weapon turned on them than used defensively. He even cited a study by the King County coroner who examined deaths resulting from firearms in the home. Out of 398 cases studied, only two were victims of intruders. The rest were suicides, accidents, or the result of family member disputes. Those statistics, coupled with my lack of skill, was why Jack didn’t want me anywhere near a gun. But I thought he was just trying to scare me. I was scared all right.

  “Now,” Sam said, “let’s stop with the foolishness and take that ride.”

  With the gun firmly pressed against my back, he marched me to the town car across the street. “Don’t even think about screaming again,” he warned.

  I’d moved beyond screaming as a viable tactic at that point. It was Jack’s final tip that was uppermost in my mind: never, ever get inside an assailant’s vehicle. But what was my alternative? Let him shoot me? I decided to pass on that choice.

  Sam opened the driver’s side door and roughly pushed me inside. I scrambled across the seat to the passenger’s side as he climbed in after me. I grabbed the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” Sam mocked. “Remote door lock,” he said, waving the key chain with the device attached. He seemed proud that he’d had the foresight to anticipate an escape attempt. “That bitch Amy tried the same stunt. Didn’t work then and it won’t work now.” He kept the Colt aimed at me as he fired up the engine.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Just don’t try anything foolish again or you’ll never make it there.” He pulled the seatbelt toward me. “Buckle up for safety.”

  He’d lain in wait and disabled the SUV’s tires, but it was my Colt he used to subdue me. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t brought a knife or any other type of deadly weapon with him. I took a quick inventory of the car’s interior to see if I’d missed anything. Except for a few coins, gum wrappers, a half empty plastic water bottle, and a notepad and pencil stashed in the console between the seats, the car was neat, clean, and w
eaponless.

  “If you won’t tell me where we’re headed, then how ’bout telling me why you’ve snatched me off the street.”

  Sam grunted. “You can’t possibly be that dense. Even Amy figured it out.”

  Maybe acting thickheaded could work to my advantage somehow. It wouldn’t take much acting. I was so scared that I couldn’t get my muddled brain to think clearly. All I knew for sure was that I had to make Sam believe I wasn’t a threat. If I could get him to let his guard down, I might have a chance of surviving this ordeal. The key was to distract him enough to get the upper hand. Negotiating through the heavy I-90 traffic while holding a gun on someone required concentration. Talking might make it even more difficult.

  “Please,” I said. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”

  “Poking your nose where it doesn’t belong gets people killed.”

  “Was that what Amy did?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then why did you kill her?”

  “She saw me follow Vasily into the massage room.”

  “But her mother said Amy couldn’t identify who she saw.”

  “Where do you think I drove her every day? She was going to have that goddamn psychiatrist hypnotize her. I couldn’t take the chance she’d eventually remember me.”

  “What about Marcus? How’d you get access to the Weinsteins’ car?”

  “The old fart gave me a key! He never drove his car anywhere so he had me start the Seville up every once in a while to keep it running. That’s what I was doing when I spotted Marcus and Carla in the garage. Lucky for me Weinstein’s memory was so faulty. He must have Alzheimer’s or something. He couldn’t even remember he’d given me a spare key—or that he’d hired me in the first place.”

  “But why kill Marcus?”

  “That was his own fault. If the little fucker hadn’t played hero, he’d be alive today.”

  “So it was Carla you were after?”

  When he looked in the driver’s sideview mirror to change lanes, I inched a little closer to the steering wheel. If I could grab the wheel or step on the gas pedal, I’d cause a crash. There was no guarantee I’d survive another accident, but there was zero chance I’d survive whatever Sam had in mind for me. One way or another, our little journey was speeding closer and closer to death with every mile.

  “Carla was a pain in the neck,” he said. “She and her brother were just like all the other rich assholes at BellaVilla—only looking out for themselves. And their precious dividend checks.”

  “I thought Vasily made sure you got hired after you lost your job in Portland.”

  Sam snorted. “You call driving a town car all over hell and gone for a bunch of thankless snobs a job?”

  “I think there’re plenty of people who’d call it a good job. They’d jump at the chance to have steady employment right now.”

  “Cry me a river. I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s all because of the bad economy?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “The recession is what happened when too many rich people got too greedy and everyone else suffered for it. Dying was too good for them.”

  “But Carla and Vasily weren’t rich. Carla told me that she and Vasily were just trying to get enough money together so they could pay back the money they stole from the Russian mob.”

  “That’s the stupidest part of this whole thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The mob didn’t kill her parents. I did.” He pressed the Colt against my rib cage. “Now, back the hell away from the steering wheel. You sneak your bony ass any closer and I’ll do you right now.”

  CONFESSION #25

  Beware the concierge with a weapon.

  I had to give Sam credit. He was one of those rare men who could multitask with ease. He was able to drive in heavy freeway traffic, hold his passenger hostage with a gun, brag about his crimes, anticipate my clumsy attempt to save myself, stop me from gaining control of the steering wheel, and ridicule me for trying—all at the same time.

  “It’s okay if you want to commit suicide,” he snarled. “But you’re not going to take me with you.” He waved the Colt in the air as if he were showing off a trophy. “Don’t forget. Whoever has the gun makes the rules.”

  Only if you know what you’re doing. Jack had lectured me enough about the Colt’s attributes to recognize a few things. Sam held the Colt in his left hand, and rested his arm across his lap as he steered the car with his right hand. The position looked a little awkward, but it actually made for a better aim. But you couldn’t just point and shoot. You had to grip the Colt .45 automatic properly, which made me wonder if Sam knew much about the handgun. Based on the BellaVilla killings, a gun didn’t seem to be his weapon of choice. He’d stabbed Vasily, strangled Amy, and killed Marcus with a vehicle. I didn’t know how the Novikovs were murdered, but I had a feeling it wasn’t with a handgun.

  I settled into the false comfort of the leather seat and considered my options. Short of attempting another suicide mission, I came up empty. But Sam seemed willing—even eager—to talk. If I had to die, at least I’d die knowing some answers. “Tell me more about Carla’s parents,” I said. “Why’d you kill them?”

  He snorted again. “Isn’t it obvious? They ruined my life!”

  “I assume you’re talking about the loss of your job?”

  “It wasn’t just my job. When the project closed down, I tried to get other work. I’m a good carpenter, but construction was a nonstarter in this recession. I wound up losing everything—my savings, my house, my wife, and the respect of my kids.”

  “How was that Ivan and Alena’s fault? They didn’t cause the mall project to fail. Vasily and Carla were responsible for squandering the development funds. They wanted to ruin her parents because of the abuse Carla had suffered.”

  “If you know so much about people’s motives, tell me this: If you were offered a way to get back on your feet and even the score at the same time, what would you do?”

  “Nothing illegal, that’s for sure.”

  “Ha! Revenge—illegal or otherwise—is sweeter than wine.”

  “This offer you got—did it come from the Russian mob?”

  Sam frowned. “Did Carla tell you about Bratva?”

  “Some. But I’d already heard about the mob from my contacts in Portland.”

  “Portland!” He spit out the word like it was milk gone sour. “As soon as I discovered that’s where you were headed, I knew you had to be stopped. The crash didn’t work out as planned, but don’t you worry none,” he said. He glanced down at the Colt cradled in his hand. “Thanks to this little baby, there’ll be no more second chances.”

  Oh, to prove him wrong. “Back to the Russian mob,” I said. “How’d you know about Ivan and Bratva?” I asked.

  “Everyone on the mall project knew Ivan was connected. When I discovered what Vasily and Carla had been up to, it was only a matter of time before Ivan’s comrades would exact their own brand of revenge. I volunteered my services first and they paid me well for the job.”

  “How did you kill the Novikovs?”

  “Bratva didn’t want the murders to look like a professional hit. No problem there. I’m a carpenter, not a hit man. I stabbed them both with a knife from their own kitchen.”

  “And then you came after Vasily and Carla?”

  “That was the deal.”

  “So you killed Vasily like you killed the Novikovs?”

  “I tried poisoning, but thanks to your meddling it didn’t do the trick. Stabbing worked well the first time, so why not? I got a knife from the ballroom kitchen while the party was in full swing and cornered Vasily in the massage room.”

  “He was naked when Carla found him. What was that all about?”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter,” he said, scowling. “It was just a little twist I threw in. I wanted him to feel exposed and defenseless—like I felt when he ruined my life.”

  “I get that killing V
asily fulfilled your contract with Bratva, but what about Amy and Marcus? They weren’t part of the deal.”

  “Collateral damage,” he said dismissively. “And I haven’t finished the contract. Carla is still running around. She’s next on the agenda.”

  “How can you be so callous?”

  He laughed as if I’d made some kind of joke. It was a chilling burst of levity, but what he said next shook me to the core. “Murder is fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Maybe powerful is a better word. I like what power brings to the party. It’s a high that comes whenever you’re in control. And murder is the ultimate high.”

  I’d heard enough. Scared and sick to my stomach, I looked out the car window. It wasn’t just an effort to distract myself from Sam’s twisted bravado. I wanted to get a bead on where we were. The town car had plenty of extras, but a built-in GPS system wasn’t one of them. We’d left I-90 some time ago and had been traveling on Highway 18 for several miles. I wasn’t too familiar with this area of King County, but I didn’t like the rural feel. The secluded nature of the surroundings would make killing and dumping my body way too easy. I might not be found for months. Even years, if he chose the spot well. But I guess that was the point. He’d dumped Amy at Gas Works Park and her body had been discovered the very next day. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Traffic was light as we zipped past the exits to Maple Valley, Covington, and Enumclaw, and turned onto a pothole-filled dirt road off Highway 18. The old logging road hugged the sixty-five-mile-long Green River, once favored by Seattle’s most notorious serial killer as a disposal site for his victims. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Gary Ridgway is believed to have murdered at least seventy-one women and discarded their bodies in or near the river. That Sam had chosen the same general area to end my life caused bile to rise up in my throat. I choked it back down, but the bitter taste lingered.