Death at a Fixer-Upper (22 page)

Shit!
I bounded out of my chair with a start and hustled over to the window. The woman behind the counter was on the phone. She held up one finger, bidding me wait. She giggled into the receiver, turning her back to me slightly to share something intimate and breathy. She touched her cheek and then her hair, winding a lock of frizzy dark curls around her fingers coquettishly. Her shoulders were rounded by clerical stooping and set atop a thick waist. She shot a look at me and edged away to create the illusion of privacy, displaying generous hips barely contained by leopard-patterned Spandex stretched to the brink of extinction. I sent a little finger wave her way.

“Just a moment.” She went through a series of good-byes, each one more sexually charged than the last, then set the receiver down and looked over my left shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

For the third time, I explained my dilemma. Before I'd finished, she was thrusting a sheaf of paperwork in my direction.

“Fill out Section 2, lines D through L,” she said. “Then come back up to the window.” She started to turn away.

“Wait. Why all the paperwork? Can't you just grab my plate?”

“No, ma'am. The paperwork's for your new plates. Fifty-five dollars.”

“I don't need new plates. I just want my old one back.”

She was shaking her head no. “Ma'am, our policy is to issue replacement plates in the event the originals are lost or stolen. Fill out the form and come back up to the window when you're done.”

“Just a sec,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “My old plate was, well, special. One of the blue ones with yellow lettering. A classic. I'd really prefer to have it back. Can't you just check to see if it's lying around somewhere?”

A gleam of pure enjoyment came into her eyes. She leaned forward slightly, her lips parted. “Ma'am, anytime a plate is delivered to our offices our policy is to immediately crush it and recycle it. We don't run a lost-and-found here. This is the DMV.”

“You
crush
them?”

“We have a machine made for us special. You feed a plate in, and it comes out the size of a sugar cube. That's our policy. Anybody could say they've lost a plate and pick up one they're not entitled to. Sometimes they go on to use it for illicit purposes.” She gave me a look that suggested I fit that profile to a tee.

I gritted my teeth. “But it was just turned in this morning. Can't you check and see if it's sitting in a box somewhere?”

Her eyes strayed to a spot near her left buttock, then swung back sharply to me. “It's been crushed,” she snapped. “Fill out lines D through L and come back to the window.” She turned her backside on me. Her hips were like feedbags overfilled to bursting with oats.

I pinned my arms by my sides in case they made wildly obscene gestures of their own volition and walked stiffly to my seat. It was still warm. I sat down and began to work my way through the form.

By the time I got through line L, I felt a tad calmer. I tucked the pen into the clipboard and rose to my feet. She must have been biding her time, because just as I reached the window she whipped out a
WINDOW CLOSED
sign and plunked it on the counter.

“We're closing,” she said. “Come back first thing tomorrow.” She turned off the video monitor and made her way toward the back, picking a judicious route between cubicles so the voluptuous sway of her ass in its tight stretch fabric didn't upset anyone's potted plants.

My vision dimmed to a dark tunnel. I yanked the form off the clip and stuffed it in my bag, then slammed the clipboard on the counter so hard the pen skittered across the Formica and dropped out of sight.

Suddenly there was a commotion across the room. A man with a shaved head as glossy as a billiard ball leaned against the counter over at window C, waving his tattooed arms. Furious words filled the building.

“I been waiting an hour and forty-five goddamn minutes!” he yelled. “I'm not leaving here without my fucking registration!”

The receptionist by the door swiveled around to stare, then reached under the counter and pressed a button. All eyes were across the room. In a flash, I hiked my body up and over the high counter so that I was dangling from my waist. There was an industrial-grade desk below me covered in food wrappers, the crust of what looked like a ham sandwich, and a framed photograph of the big-bottomed clerk with her arms around a guy I thought I recognized from
America's Most Wanted
. To my right was a metal shelf. A brown cardboard box was tucked into the middle level. Stretching as far as I could without tumbling over the counter, I managed to hook it with a fingertip and pull it toward me. It was full of dented plates. Something blue and yellow caught my eye and I snatched it up, then wriggled my way back to the floor, slipping my prize under my jacket. I braced for shouts of outrage, but nobody so much as glanced my way as they took in the spectacle at window C. Speed-stepping past the front desk, I burst through the double doors to the relative safety of the parking area, expecting the heavy hand of authority to come down on my shoulder at any moment. It never did.

When I got to the VW, I unlocked it and slid into the driver's seat. Only then did I dare look at the plate. It was mine. I gave a whoop of relief, then drove a block and a half and pulled over to the curb, where I secured the plate to my bumper. In the context of all that had happened over the last few days, this was a modest victory, but I savored it nonetheless. It was sweet—very, very sweet.

I drove home on the 101, checking my rearview mirror occasionally for truck headlights. Dusk had dragged away the last of the light from the west, and the bus couldn't generate enough heat to drive away the chill that had settled into my bones. I took the Arlinda exit and headed east toward Arlinda Corners, skirting the roundabout and bouncing over a couple of speed humps designed to slow down traffic by wrecking your shock absorbers.

The hardware store was closed; only the security lights lit up the parking lot. I rumbled around to the back of the building. A single low-wattage bulb cast a wedge of yellow light on the door to the upstairs units. Our apartment was dark. There were no lights on at Unit 2, either, which was disheartening. Estelle Fenner wasn't what you'd call a friendly neighbor; she had, in fact, been instrumental in getting us evicted. But somehow I didn't fancy climbing those stairs alone.

I drove past the Dumpster, made a six-point turn, and exited the lot. I wanted to feel safe. For a brief moment I considered calling Bernie. I'd told him we could be friends. Didn't friends help each other out in times like this? But in my heart I knew I'd pushed him away. Besides, he might have questions for me I wasn't ready to answer.

Seemingly of its own volition, the VW rolled west, past the university and onto Eleventh Street. A few cars passed, an aureola of soft light around their low beams. The rain was done, but the mist lingered; the effect was like looking through the lens of an out-of-focus camera.

I parked the bus near the hidden gate. Merrit and I had sat in this very spot just a few hours earlier, discussing flowers, sugar cookies, life, and death. I pictured her emerging from the branches, her slicker glistening with rain, a baseball cap pulled over her eyes—

A sensation like ice water started trickling down my spine. Merrit in a baseball cap. She had a distinctive lock of white hair growing back from her forehead. But in a ball cap she'd appear to be dark-haired.

What had Louis Klinghoffer said? “Don't take everything you hear—or are told—at face value, even if the source seems trustworthy. Even sympathetic.”

I shifted uneasily in my seat. I'd bought into Merrit's disclosures completely. Suppose she'd told me some partial truths and, like a dope, I'd swallowed them. She was a woman with a troubled past and no place to go, devoted to her daughter. Eliminating buyers was one way to maintain the status quo. She had no motive for luring Edsel Harrington to his death; everything to lose, in fact. But I had only her word for it that he'd died anywhere other than his own bed.

The inside of the window had fogged over, and I polished it with my sleeve. Darkness hung like a cloak over the estate. I stared out the window, and after a minute or two my eyes adjusted. Over the tangled growth that topped the fence line, I could just make out the crown of that odd redwood. What had Merrit called it? Dawn redwood. One of the three trees protected by the old man's will. I could picture the other two, the black walnut and the beech, planted in a rough half circle around the house, the three of them forming a triangle of sorts—

I sat bolt upright, my heart beating wildly. I'd seen that triangle of trees before. I knew where. And finally,
finally,
I knew why.

I idled for a minute across the street from SmithBuilt Construction. The building was dark, with a couple of security floods illuminating the front door and parking area. I drove a hundred yards farther and parked in the lot of Arlinda Electrical Supplies. Switching off the engine, I stared back at SmithBuilt. The expanse of glass on the front façade reflected back the light, giving away nothing.

The street was deserted. What could I hope to learn sitting here? I needed to tell someone my theory, preferably someone with a badge and a gun. I was reaching for my keys when a set of headlights swept over me and then flashed against the black glass as the car turned into the SmithBuilt lot. I strained my eyes. Two people got out of the vehicle. I heard the
chirp
of a car alarm being set before the pair disappeared around the side of the building.

“Sam, don't be stupid,” I said. But I was already out of the VW, nudging the door shut instead of slamming it in my usual fashion. I checked up and down the boulevard, then scampered across. Staying in the shadows as much as possible, I speed-walked past the building, then cut across the grass, dodging under a leafy rhododendron. The car was twenty feet away, its engine still making little cooling noises. It was a Mercedes convertible.

I hugged the building and edged my way around the corner. There was a short length of concrete sidewalk that led to a single door set into the shingles. The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I inched over to the door. More dark glass. By pressing my face against it, I could make out a faint glow of light coming from the stairwell. There was a fixed handle and a deadbolt set into the door. I gave the handle a tentative pull. It was unlocked.

I was turning to leave when I heard the
swoosh
of the front door opening. Footsteps scratched toward me across the concrete. In five seconds flat I would be discovered, in a place I didn't belong, testing a door at a business after hours. Panic overtook me. Without thinking, I pulled open the door and ducked inside.

Immediately, I knew I'd made a huge mistake. In the dim light, I stumbled forward. The bulky rectangle of a desk loomed on my right. I felt my way behind it and rolled back the office chair, crouching in the foot well.

I heard the jangle of keys outside the door. Then footsteps again, receding. I strained my ears until I heard the sound of a car starting up. The rumble of the engine faded, then died out completely. Surely the car had left. All was still, except for the blood pounding in my ears.

After a minute or two of frozen immobility, I unfolded myself from under the desk and cautiously worked my way to the exit. The handle turned, but the door wouldn't open. I felt my way up the doorframe and found a keyed deadbolt protruding around shoulder level. I was locked in.

I muttered under my breath. I'd put myself in stupid situations before, but this was the prizewinner. I'd be stripped of my license—and possibly my freedom—if I was found here. There had to be another way out.

I took short, careful steps across the carpet, making for the stairs. I didn't dare use the penlight I always carried in my bag. There was a wash of light spilling from the second-floor landing, but I still managed to crack my knee on a desk. The pain was excruciating. As I hopped up and down, the faintest of noises registered. I stopped and listened. Dead silence now. Instinct told me I was alone in the building. Then again, my instincts hadn't been all that reliable lately.

I skirted the stairs and shuffled down the hall toward the back of the building. Here I found another door, leading to the equipment yard. Locked.

I backtracked and started up the stairs. The light was coming from a round fixture mounted at the landing, casting a ghostly light over Betsy's desk. I turned toward Fletcher Smith's office, tripped over a wastebasket, righted myself, and slipped through the door.

I took a moment to catch my breath. I was almost hyperventilating from anxiety. Unfamiliar shapes loomed in the darkness, and I thought back to my previous visit. The wall of windows was straight ahead, Fletcher's desk to the right. My usual curiosity began to assert itself. I fished through my bag and found the penlight. Flicking on the switch, I moved around the Green Hammer award and toward the corner where the model community was laid out. My beam traveled over the mock-up. The parcel was a rough rectangle, like a brownie with a bite taken out. The gray-painted entrance road passed between two dark green plastic shrubs. Yews, perhaps? I traced my finger down the winding drive toward the cluster of cardboard buildings. Three plastic trees were glued in the corners of the grassy common, forming a triangle. The walnut, the dawn redwood, the beech—they were all there.

“What are you doing here?”

I shrieked, jumping about a foot and clapping a hand over my mouth. The lights came on and I found myself looking at the elegant blonde from the photograph above Fletcher's desk. She wore a pale green linen jacket and matching pants, her hair artfully mussed in a 'do that probably cost more than my weekly grocery bill.

I said the first words that popped into my mind. “Your husband is a murderer.”

She stared at me, her lips slightly parted. Her teeth were white and even. “He's a good man. People resent his success, that's all.”

“They resent him because he
kills
people!”

“Don't be silly.” She eased into the room, still staring at me. Her eyebrows had been plucked so much they looked as though they'd been drawn with an Etch A Sketch. “I should call the police.”

“Go ahead.”

Confusion washed over her face, and it occurred to me the heavenly contractor who'd put together the outside of her lovely head had really cut corners on the inside.

“Barbara, listen to me,” I said. “Fletcher's out of control. You must have known he was up to something.”

She shook her head stubbornly.

I decided it was time to change direction. “He's screwing his project manager.”

That
brought her to life in a hurry. “Don't be a bitch.”

“Fine. Have it your way.” I edged toward the door. “I'll just be going now.”

“Stop right there.” She blocked the doorway with her body, her feet braced in either corner, her hands against the frame. What, were we suddenly in the third grade?

“You'd better move,” I said.

Instead, she twisted her head over her shoulder and hollered, “Fletcher?
Fletch!
”

Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. Fletcher Smith appeared, breathing hard. He pushed his wife aside, his eyes traveling from the model on the table to the flashlight still clutched in my hand.

“Barbara, wait for me in the car,” he said.

“Shouldn't I call the police?”

“I'll take care of it. Go on.”

She took a hesitant step back.

“Now, goddammit,” he said.

“Don't leave me here with him!” I yelled.

With a rustle of fabric, she was gone. I heard the front door close behind her.

“Does she always do what you say?” I asked him.

“I have that effect on women. Look how I got you to carry me through physics.”

“I didn't
carry
you.”

“You didn't have to. I boosted your notes.”

My mouth dropped open. His words took me back to the papers I'd peeked at in Lois's office, and the name on the buyer's line. Was it
Elizabeth
?

“What?” he said.

“Betsy. Your right-hand man. She's your straw buyer, isn't she? You used her name on the contract.” And had her deliver a gift basket to my client.

“She's a team player. Loyal, too.” He appraised me with eyes that were curiously empty, and suddenly I knew his was the face in the silver pickup.

“Why'd you run me off the road?” I said.

He grinned. “Just for kicks. A little warning in case you had more buyers up your sleeve. Anyone ever tell you you're a tad overzealous? Made a lot of extra work for me. But no harm done.”

“My auto rates will go up.”

“I don't think you need to worry about that.”

I took a careful step back. The layout of the office afforded no cover. If I put the desk between me and Fletcher, I'd be trapped in the corner, no way out. There was a wall of glass behind me. The door to the executive potty was open, but it was another dead end.

Without taking his eyes off me, Fletcher reached behind him and picked up the green hammer from its display. “I suppose I should figure out how much you know. Not that it really matters. But maybe you've talked to some people. Have you?”

My heart grew cold, thinking of Max. “I haven't said anything to anyone.”

His laugh was humorless. “Of course you're going to say that.”

He lunged at me suddenly, swinging the hammer. I screamed and jumped back. The hammer bit into the wall next to his desk and a big chunk of drywall fell to the floor. We both stared at it.

“Quarter inch?” I said. “I'm pretty sure that's not up to code.”

“It saves the company seven percent per job. Gotta watch your bottom line in this business. Now hold still.” He swung the hammer again, overshot the mark, and took down the model community.

“Look what you've done,” he said petulantly. “It took me a long time to build that.”

I eased back another step. “How long have you had your eye on the Harrington property?”

“All my life. My dad used to talk about it when I was a kid. He was one of Harrington's poker buddies. Almost three acres in the heart of town. A gold mine. I knew it would come on the market someday.” He feinted left and I dodged right.

“Guess it was a bit of a shock when Vito showed up fifteen years ago.”

“That goddamned loser. In and out of juvie as a kid. Petty theft, vandalism, you name it. He stole a car when he was fourteen, and that's when his mom packed him off to the East Coast. I figured we'd seen the last of him. And then he turns up like the prodigal grandson. The guy never worked a day in his life and he was going to be handed the property on a silver plate. I couldn't let that happen.” He was slowly herding me into a corner, blocking my path to the door.

“So you made him disappear.”

“Believe me, nobody missed him. I knew about the back gate, so I paid him a visit on one of Harrington's poker nights. Then I just had to sit back and wait for the old man's heart to give out. At least that's what I thought, until the old fool up and decides to marry his nurse. Hell. Everything was slipping away.”

“I don't get it,” I said, watching him. “Was this project really so important to you?”

His eyes lit up. “Don't you see? This
means
something. The Whispering Trees Interactive Community for Mature Adults is gonna show the world I can build something more than a strip mall or a goddamned crackerbox in a subdivision. All those fuckers who've been whining about shoddy workmanship will be lining up to kiss my ass. I've worked my whole life for this and dammit, I won't be denied!”

He smacked the wall with his palm for emphasis and the lights went out.

“Fuck,” he said.

I only had an instant to act, and I acted. I darted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, punching the button to lock it.

Fletcher pounded on the door. “Sam, open up! I won't hurt you, I promise!”

I took two seconds to explore the dark washroom, and the window caught my eye. It was a two-pane slider of frosted glass set in the wall to the right of the toilet. I ran my hands over it until I found the catch, then flipped it up, unlocking the sliding pane.

The doorknob rattled and I heard Fletcher muttering. I yanked at the slider and it didn't budge. I pulled harder, leaning back on my heels. It was jammed.

Fletcher's voice was playful. “Sam? Are you decent? I'm coming in. Got the key right here.”

The head of the hammer came crashing through the door, spraying me with splinters. I sang out in fear. Fletcher worked the hammer around, enlarging the hole. In another second he'd be able to reach through and unlock the door. And then what? An image of Vito's crushed skull danced in front of me.

I climbed on the toilet and kicked at the glass with all my might. The entire window unit, frame and all, came loose with a grinding wrench and fell outward, landing below with a
crash
.

I didn't wait. I was over the sill in a flash, maneuvering my feet under me until I was dangling feet-first from the window opening. God only knew what was underneath me, but it had to be an improvement on a killer with a big hammer. I squeezed my eyes shut and let go.

The ground hit me hard, knocking the air out of my lungs with a
whoof.
I rolled onto my side, narrowly avoiding the shattered glass from the window unit. Climbing shakily to my feet, I looked around and realized I was in the equipment yard. Not my first choice, but it was pitch-dark, with the hulking shapes of heavy equipment providing plenty of cover.

Heart pounding, I began to follow the chain-link clockwise, my hand just touching the fence so I wouldn't lose my bearings. My brain was on overdrive. It was all connected. The race sabotage? Fletcher Smith, with his background in appliance repair, trying to put Fenton Ziegler out of the picture before he could push through the vote preserving the old estate. That wouldn't have suited Fletcher's plans at all. But how had he tracked down my clients? I thought back to the beeping smoke detector in Lois's office and almost smacked my forehead. Her new building had all the shoddy workmanship SmithBuilt Construction was famous for. Smith must have built the place, probably still had the keys. I glanced up at his office. There was no light and no sign of activity. Either he'd decided not to pursue me or he felt he had all the time in the world. I devoutly hoped it was the former.

I was about thirty feet from the back door when I bumped into a small structure. It wasn't any higher than my waist, a small house of sorts with a peaked roof. Uneasiness washed over me. There was an arched opening with a rectangle of wood above it. I ran my fingers over the rectangle and made out five letters that spelled B-R-U-N-O. Oh, no, I thought; please let Bruno be a little Shih Tzu.