Teeny stopped pacing. “But why would Vlad kill Charles if Charles still owed him that kind of money?”
“That’s true,” I said. “The ledger could be wrong. Vlad’s room was a mess. I doubt the guy kept meticulous records.”
Miss May looked back at the big $500,000.00 on the screen. “Good point. But then, if Charles had paid Vlad the five hundred thousand, why would Vlad bother killing him? Better yet, why would Vlad stay in town after doing something like that?”
“And who killed Vlad?” I asked.
“There's the five hundred-thousand-dollar question,” Teeny said.
Miss May bit her cuticles. “This is a step in the right direction. But this case is far from solved.”
I leaned back in the desk chair. “What now?”
“Hold on a sec.” Miss May zoomed out, and the photo got larger. At that point we could see ‘Ernest Flamingo’s’ full name, the amount he owed, and his address. “Do you have those passports you stole?”
“‘Stole’ is a strong word.”
“Do you have them or not?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I dug in my purse and pulled out the passports for Mr. and Mrs. Flamingo. “Why do you want them?”
“You tell me.” Miss May swiveled her chair over to look at me. She was grinning. I did not know why.
“Uh...” Then I spotted something on the ledger and it hit me. “The address! The address on the passport is the same address Vlad has on file for Ernest Flamingo in his ledger! 221 Allen Street, Apartment 5C, New York City!”
Miss May tapped her nose. “You got it, girlie!”
Teeny squealed with delight and gave me a hi-five. But I pulled my hand back, confused.
“Wait,” I said. “What does this mean?”
Miss May unplugged her phone and stood up. “It means we’ve got a new lead.”
Teeny pumped her fists. “I knew it! I knew this was good! So tomorrow we go to the city?”
Miss May nodded. “Tomorrow we go to the city.”
Ugh. The city.
I hadn’t been back there since stupid Mike had left me at the altar. Returning to search a dead guy’s secret apartment wasn’t exactly something I was in the mood for.
I wasn’t keen on spending more time in the Big Apple. At least not yet.
“You wanna come with us, right, Chels?” Teeny asked, like she was talking to a little girl. My hesitation must have been written all over my face in big, fat letters.
I didn’t want to go, not at all. But I wasn’t about to give up on this case either, so I sucked it up and said the two little words that I had never gotten to say to Mike: “I do.”
16
Elevators and Assassins
THE NEXT MORNING, TEENY insisted on driving me and Miss May down to the city in her convertible. In case you were wondering, yes, I begged to take the train. I begged hard. Teeny’s driving had been wild enough in Pine Grove, where there were few other cars in the mix. But Teeny was dying to drive — poor choice of words, I'm aware — so I didn’t have much say in the matter.
When we first got on the highway, I thought maybe everything was going to be OK. Teeny used her blinkers, and she went the speed limit. She was considerate of other vehicles, and she managed to make it all the way from Pine Grove to the Bronx without any close calls.
But the closer we got to New York City, the more Teeny drove like a New York City native. She leaned forward over the steering wheel so far that her forehead was practically on the windshield. She honked an average of six times per minute. And she toggled between lanes like she was in a game of Frogger.
Teeny even suggested putting the top down so we could enjoy the wind in our hair. Miss May opposed the idea on the grounds that it was twenty-eight degrees outside. Teeny said it would be like cryotherapy. Miss May said that was “hocus-pocus.”
I focused on the beautiful scenery out the window to distract myself from the bickering in the front seat.
We were on the West Side Drive headed south along the Hudson River into Manhattan. To my right, the midnight blue waters of the river ebbed and flowed around massive hunks of ice. To my left, the big brown buildings of upper Manhattan loomed like sentinels. In front of me, an eighteen-wheeler merged into our lane.
“Watch out for the semi!” I yelped.
“I see it.” Teeny laid on the horn, sped up, and cut the semi off. “Take that, Truckboy.”
Miss May laughed. “Truckboy?”
I tightened my seatbelt as Teeny turned off the highway and into the city. That's when the true mayhem began.
Seconds later, we were in the heart of midtown Manhattan...the part near Times Square. With the giant buildings. And the cabbies. And the people scurrying like ants. And the worst traffic you’ve ever seen.
Miss May let out a satisfied sigh. “Ah, the city! Doesn’t it just make you glad to be alive?”
“It makes me scared for my life,” I said. Especially with Teeny’s driving. “Watch out! Person!”
“I see her.” Teeny slammed on her breaks. A delivery guy darted across the road, not even bothering to wave thanks. “Stupid jaybirds!”
“Jaywalkers,” I muttered under my breath. The correction slipped out, but I did not want Teeny to hear me sass her while she was driving. “And why are we in midtown, anyway? Flamingo’s address is all the way down in the village.”
“I’m jumping out for a slice of white!” Teeny pulled over right beneath a giant “No Parking” sign, put on her hazards, and jumped out of the convertible. “See you in five!”
Teeny darted towards a spot called “John’s Pizza” about a block down the road. I knew the place. I had gone there with Mike on one of our first dates. Long before he became the runaway-fiancé.
As I watched Teeny hustle inside John’s, my stomach contracted like over-kneaded dough. “Mike loved the meatball calzone at that place,” I whined. “And the sauce. He used to ask for a gallon of sauce to take home, but they would only bring him a little container. They thought he was exaggerating but he wasn’t.”
“It’s a good spot.” Miss May said. She didn’t like to engage on the topic of Mike or the shipwreck of my relationship. “But that guy was a rotten apple.”
“Orchard humor. Nice.”
“I do what I can.”
I gnawed at the jagged cuticle by my thumbnail. “What if I see him in the city?” That thought hadn’t occurred to me! “Oh no, what if I run into Mike?!”
“Ten million people. Not likely. Besides, you like nice today. He’d be kicking himself if he saw you walk by. ”
I scoffed, “Yeah, right.”
“Give yourself some credit, Chels.”
A young couple strolled by my window, holding hands and laughing so hard they were almost crying. They stopped walking and hugged, still shaking with laughter. “Look at those two,” I said, pointing to the couple. “Mike and I never laughed like that.” My words hung in the air. Huh. Mike and I never laughed like that. Who cared whether or not he liked the meatballs? Mike didn’t deserve a gallon of sauce! He didn’t deserve any sauce. Not even a spoonful.
MISS MAY WAS RIGHT. I should give myself some credit. I wasn’t the same girl Mike had abandoned at the altar. I was growing. Slow-growing, but it still counted.
Teeny shuffled back to the car, empty-handed.
“Where’s your slice of white?” I asked.
“Already ate it!” Teeny boasted.
“What about our slices?” Miss May said.
Teeny slumped over. “I forgot to get you anything! I guess I’ll go back, if I absolutely, positively have to.”
Miss May grinned, enjoying Teeny’s act. “I’ll take a slice of Sicilian, please.”
Teeny huffed and hurried back towards the restaurant.
“I’ll take plain cheese!” I yelled after her.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Teeny parallel parked right in front of Ernest Flamingo's secret apartment, and scoped it out from the street.
The building was six stories
tall and brick. Bright graffiti decorated the top level. And a Chinese barbershop occupied the first floor, signage written in Cantonese. An elderly Asian man sat on a stool out front, sleeping.
Miss May tried the door to the apartment building, but it didn't budge. “It's locked,” she said.
Teeny craned her neck up at the building. “Then how are we going to get up there?”
The sleeping man stirred and grumbled, “Just buzz numbers! Someone let you in.” Then he went right back to sleep.
“Buzz numbers,” Miss May said. “Not sure what that means.”
“I think I know,” I said. “Can I try something? My friends used to do this when they got locked out of a party.”
Miss May stepped aside. “Have at it.”
There was an intercom system mounted on the wall beside the entrance. I opened the metal flap and pressed the buzzer for every apartment in the building at the same time. Just buzz numbers.
“Ohhhhh,” Teeny said. “Smart. But no one will let you in just because you—”
BZZZ. The door unlocked. I held it open, and Miss May and Teeny walked through, smiling. For once, I was the one who knew how to do something, and I beamed with pride.
I looked around as we entered the building. A bearded hipster wrestled with his overflowing mailbox. An old lady in pajamas shuffled out to the dumpsters with a bag of trash. The building and its occupants felt exceptionally normal.
I glanced at Miss May. “This building seems...standard. Is it possible Charles just had an apartment in the city, and there's nothing more to it than that?”
Miss May crossed to the rickety elevator bank and pressed the call button. “You mean Ernest Flamingo? Doubt it.”
“I bet this is where he hid the bodies,” Teeny said.
Ding. The elevator arrived. I stepped on and held the door open for Teeny and Miss May. “I doubt Charles had any bodies.”
“But if he did, I bet he kept them here!” Teeny's eyes widened.
“Why would he rent out an apartment to stash bodies?” I asked. “These apartments are tiny. The whole place would reek in a matter of days.”
“Oh,” Teeny hung her head. “I hadn't considered that.”
Miss May hit the number five on the elevator and it creaked to life. As it rattled upwards, we all tensed and held onto the small side railing. The elevator was terrifying. Someone had scratched their graffiti tags into the walls and onto the ceiling. Bars protected a little window in the door. And the light flickered every time we passed a new floor. It was like a bad amusement park ride.
Miss May, Teeny and I exchanged creeped-out looks as we rode up to the fifth floor. Then, when the elevator dinged again, we tripped over one another in a race to make it out into the hall. Teeny opened her mouth to complain about the elevator, but Miss May held up a finger.
“Shh.” Miss May pointed toward the end of the hall. “There’s the apartment. End of the hall.”
Teeny and I swiveled our heads toward Miss May. She was right. There was apartment 5C. And the door was already open a crack. “Is it me, or is that door open a—”
Miss May pressed her finger to her lips to make sure Teeny and I stayed quiet. Then she moved towards the apartment, like she was tip-toeing past a sleeping guard. Each careful footstep echoed in the empty hall, and the street sounds outside faded to a muted din.
I wanted to follow Miss May. To be her backup. But my nerves had seized control of my body. What if someone was hiding in that apartment? What if there really were dead bodies in there? What if the place was haunted?
Miss May arrived at the door. Reached out. Nudged it open with her pointer finger. She turned back to us and whispered, “I hear something. Inside.”
Teeny and I took a step forward and listened. Miss May was right. A faint scratching noise rose from inside the apartment.
Almost like someone was clawing at the wood floors.
Scritch-scritch-scritch. Scritch-scritch-scritch.
I tapped Miss May on the shoulder. “We should turn back.”
Miss May shook her head and smoothed her shirt. “We can’t do that. Not now.”
“Then let’s call the cops.”
Miss May stared at me. “How would you explain our presence here to an officer of the law?”
She had me there. Miss May nudged the door open further and stepped toward the door.
We stepped into the foyer and whoosh!
Something darted out of the apartment and into the hall.
I shrieked. Teeny grabbed her chest. Miss May thudded back against the wall.
“What was that!?” I peered out into the hall and what I saw made me laugh so hard I almost cried. Teeny and Miss May poked their heads out beside mine.
“What was it!?” Miss May asked. “Why are you laughing?”
“Look!” I pointed at the stairwell. A squirrel perched on the railing, big round eyes trained on us. He squeaked in his chirpy squirrel voice and flicked his bushy tail.
“A squirrel in an apartment!” Miss May chuckled. “I thought we were in the city, not the country!”
Teeny approached the squirrel with an outstretched hand. “Awww, he’s so cute! Look at him!”
Teeny took one more step, and the squirrel leapt off the banister, right at her face. Teeny stumbled back, swatting at the squirrel. “May! Get if off me! Help!”
The squirrel scampered over Teeny’s shoulder, tail wiggling, then it paused on her shoulder before diving off her back and disappearing down the stairs. Teeny yelled after the squirrel, “And don’t come back!”
The three of us stood in the hallway, hunched over and holding our stomachs as we tried to recover from our laughter. It took over a minute, but once we calmed down, we remembered the scary apartment and the fact that we were there to investigate a murder.
Miss May nudged the door open again.
Teeny hesitated. “Hold on now. There could be a whole family of bushy-tailed assassins in there.”
Miss May stepped into the apartment. “I think we’ll survive.”
Miss May flicked the light on. Teeny and I entered behind Miss May, and we all inspected our surroundings.
The place was like the apartment version of the elevator we had enjoyed on the way up.
A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Electrician’s tape held together a ratty couch. An inflatable bed oozed air when I stepped on it. And papers littered the floor.
Teeny took another step inside. “Looks like he could have used your interior decorating services, Chels.”
“This place needs a demolition man, not a decorator,” I said.
Miss May nodded. “Someone ransacked this apartment. Just like Jennifer’s house.” She moved some papers aside with her foot. “Must have been our good friend Vlad. He did have the address in his file.”
I walked into the kitchen. A half-eaten can of mushy spaghetti was open on the counter. “But this whole apartment just makes me more confused,” I said as I strolled back out to the living room. “Why would Charles live like this, if he had stolen money from everyone in town?”
Miss May turned up her palms. “Maybe he crashed here when he came to the city to gamble.”
Teeny picked up a piece of paper off the floor. “Do you think perhaps these bank records will help us figure it out?” Teeny squatted and sorted through more papers. “Or these records? Or these!?”
Teeny handed me the papers, and I checked them out. Sure enough, these were bank records. I shook my head. “Who gets printed bank records anymore?”
“That’s a good point.” Teeny stepped closer to get a look at the document. “Even I do my banking online, and I’m older than sand.” She waited a few seconds, then threw up her arms. “Really? No objections to me being older than sand?”
Miss May and I talked over each other, scrambling to soothe Teeny’s ego. “You look very young!” “Sand is way older than you.” “How old are you again? In your thirties right?” “You could play a twenty-something on TV.”
Miss May picked up a bank record and took a close look. “Hmmm. I have an idea why someone might have printed records. If you print them out, they're easier to fake.”
I scanned the page I was holding. It looked like an official document from the Bank of Pine Grove. The account belonged to Fitz & Son Wealth Management, and the balance was big. $1,345,534.00 big. “This looks real,” I said. “Man, Charles was looking after a lot of money.”
“Look closer,” Miss May stepped toward me. “There’s a mistake on the balance report.”
I held the statement up by the window, so I could get a better look. “I don’t see it.”
“Yes, you do. Look on top. See the address of the bank?”
I scanned for the address and found it. “Yeah. What's wrong with it?”
Miss May pointed at the paper I held. “ZIP code says 10596.”
I shrugged. “So what? That’s the ZIP code in Pine Grove.”
Miss May shook her head. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? And ninety-nine percent of town is in that ZIP. But the bank? The bank is in 10958.”
“But—”
“Small town. I know. That’s why most people assume we’ve only got one ZIP,” Miss May seemed pleased with her intimate knowledge of the mail. “But when they rezoned us in the eighties... It doesn’t matter. Point is: wrong ZIP.”
Teeny came over and peered over my shoulder. “She’s right. He slipped on the ZIP. That little sneak was a forger, too!”
I still didn’t understand. “But why would Fitz fake bank records that show he has all that money?”
“Why do you think?” Miss May said. “What did Charles have to gain by pretending he still had the money?”
I gasped. “Everyone would leave him alone. And leave their money alone too!” My mouth hung open. “Do you think these records are what Charles showed to the cops when he wanted to prove he still had everyone’s money?”
Cooking the Books Page 10
