Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (19 page)

Deming stopped at an outdoor kiosk and input a pin number. An unseen, all-knowing system identified him and directed us to a private staging area inside the hulking structure. After swiping an identity card, he submitted to a biometric scan.

“This is creepy.” I shivered. “Futuristic nonsense. Besides, how come it acknowledged you? I thought this was Horty’s secret place.”

“We made arrangements following Phaedra’s murder. After all, I am his attorney.”

“Now what?” I asked. “Will some disembodied voice summon us?”

He made a brusque comment and ignored me. Suddenly, an unseen metal hand unloaded a self-storage pod in front of us. It was large, at least five feet by ten feet, and looked heavy.

“What does a gold bar go for these days?” I asked.

Deming wrinkled his brow. “A kilo bar is roughly $45,000 in today’s market. That means that Phaedra delivered over one hundred of those babies. No easy task for a woman alone.”

He nodded when I mentioned Phaedra’s partner. Horton had already discussed that with Deming as well as his theory that Phaedra herself had been duped.

“Too bad your client couldn’t play with hotels or high-end autos like a good little scion. Harder to lose sight of or falsify.”

“Just be patient,” Deming said. “This place will pique your imagination. The selling point is robotics. Untouched by human hands.” He opened the module with Horton’s electronic key. “I’m sure you get the implication.”

A child of ten could understand. This high-tech setup demolished Horty’s tale of thwarted virtue. Phaedra Jones knew about the fraud—she had to. No one could slip into this facility and spin gold into iron, not even Rumpelstiltskin.

“She and her partner conned Horton,” Deming said. “Look inside.” He pointed to the hundred or so faux gold bars that were neatly stacked in the module. “No one could substitute these babies for the original. As the Great Detective said, when you eliminate all other factors the one that remains is the solution.”

“I love a man who quotes Conan Doyle,” I said, blowing him a kiss. “So sexy. Has Lieutenant Bates been over this?”

Deming’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Count on it. Her crew tested every one of those kilo bars. All phony. By the way, Euphemia Bates reached the same conclusion that we just did. Either Phaedra conned Horton, or her partner deceived Phaedra. Since she has a rather extensive police record under her real name, I trust the first explanation.”

“Darn,” I said. “You mean her name wasn’t Phaedra? I love that name.”

“You are such a romantic,” Deming said. “Her real name was Enid. Enid Jones.”

“No wonder she turned to crime,” I said. “Classic case of parental indifference.”

“I’ll bear that in mind when we have kids,” Deming said, pinching my cheek.

He followed directions, pressing the touch screen to his left. We watched as the door closed, and the robotic system retrieved and stored the module. Only then did the exit door open, allowing us to escape.

I held my breath until we were back on the highway, speeding toward Back Bay. The cloying, claustrophobic air of Sumo-Tek had drained my energy and left me shaken. The joyless, depersonalized future was here, and it was sobering.

“Where do we go from here, partner?” I asked. “How do we find Phaedra’s confederate?”

Deming gripped the steering wheel and said nothing. He shot me a look that melded outrage with chagrin. “There’s no more ‘we’ in this, Eja. Lucky thing you weren’t murdered by that crazy bitch Heather. Do I have to remind you that this is reality, not one of your manuscripts? You and my mom are permanently benched.”

I knew better than to argue. It was far easier to ignore Deming’s lectures and plow ahead. “Horton lives in a dream world,” I said. “He’s absolutely useless. The person that absconded with five million bucks must have left an audit trail. Find him—or her—and you’ll nab the murderer.”

Deming swore under his breath as he swung into the driveway of my condo and parked the Panamera. He ignored my comments as easily as I did his, a trade-off that suited us both.

“Come along, Nancy Drew,” he said. “Your dog awaits you.”

Cato! I tried not to leave the little rascal unattended for more than a few hours. He has a vindictive streak five miles wide and no compunction about showing it. I strolled up the driveway and into the lobby, two strides ahead of Deming. In a stirring example of vigilance, the concierge waved us through without glancing up from his iPad. “Are you staying the night,” I asked Deming, “or does Pamela need you?”

He pushed the elevator button and stared down at me. “I might be persuaded to stay for the right inducement.”

I fanned myself and batted my eyelashes in Scarlett O’Hara fashion. The effort was spectacularly unsuccessful.

Deming finger-combed his thick hair and sighed. “You should ramp up your seduction techniques.”

“Really?” As we exited on two, I undid my dress and stepped half-naked into the hallway. My very proper fiancé gulped and ran after me like a man on fire.

“For God’s sake, Eja, someone might see you.”

“Just what I’m hoping for, big boy.” I sashayed to my doorstep and hesitated. “Did you send me flowers?” I asked, seeing a box from one of Boston’s premier florists.

“Nope. Must be one of your many admirers. Should I be jealous?”

I ripped open the box and gasped. “Maybe not.”

My gift was no love offering—it contained a dozen decapitated black roses. A plain white card amplified the message.
Deadheads
, it read. Someone had sent me a clear and unambiguous threat that sent chills from my head to toes.

“Step aside,” Deming said. “Is there a message?”

My voice sounded strange, even to my ears. “Oh, yeah. They call this kind of pruning ‘deadheading.’ It eliminates problem stems but doesn’t do much for the roses.”

Needless to say, Deming stayed at my side for the balance of the night. Cato got an abbreviated nightly stroll, although both of us stayed on high alert. Our attempts to quiz the concierge were wasted words. He checked his log, pointed to the flower delivery at 8 p.m., and shrugged helplessly.

“Look at your security tapes,” Deming growled. “Ms. Kane could be in danger.”

I shook my head and whispered, “Forget it. This guy is new and hasn’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about. We’ll tackle Jaime tomorrow. He’s supposed to be up on this stuff.”

“I pay him enough,” Deming said. “That guy should be right on top of it.”

That made no sense. “What do you mean? You pay Jaime?”

Deming pulled me to him and kissed my forehead. “Yep. Call it insurance, bribery—I don’t care. That little whelp gets a sizable bonus to keep you extra safe. I’m not taking any chances. Not with your life. It’s precious to me.”

“I’M GOING TO SEE Lieutenant Bates,” I said the next morning. “She needs to know about those flowers and Heather Exley too.”

Deming had the look of a man suffused with deep sleep and great sex. He sipped his espresso with only one eye open. “Be careful what you say. Remember, Horton is my client. Heather has arranged other counsel, but she’s still family. That makes things tricky.”

“Not for me,” I said. “Besides, your mother will be there, and you know how tactful she is.”

He rolled his eyes and gulped more latte. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t charge both of you. By the way, I’ll deal with Jaime this morning. Remind him of our arrangement.”

“Don’t scare him. He’s afraid of you.” I’d seen Jaime cringe when the imperious Mr. Swann strode his way. Deming had a habit of prowling a room like a hungry tiger stalking prey. Not comfortable for the tethered goat.

“One more thing, I spoke with my dad last night about those roses.” Deming’s nostrils flared. “We’ll contact the florist today. Swann Industries has a corporate account with the firm.”

“That’s client information,” I said. “Isn’t it confidential?”

He shook his head as if I were a simpleton. “They’re business people, Eja. Think about it. Besides, Dad can be very persuasive, especially when his family’s at risk.”

I patted his cheek and was out the door before he could stop me. Fortunately, the red Mercedes with Anika at the wheel was parked at the curb, ready for action. She waved merrily at me and flung open the passenger side door.

“Come on! We don’t want to keep Euphemia waiting.” Anika defined elegance in a trim, tailored pantsuit. I chose the safe road by wearing a nondescript beige suit designed to avoid attention.

“Does Dem know what we’re up to?” Anika asked. “I’m so glad he was with you last night. Creeps who send dead flowers are nasty customers.” She peered into the flower box and shuddered. “Terrible waste of roses.”

Anika pulled into a parking lot adjacent to Roxbury Community College. Boston police headquarters sprawled across Tremont Street, an uninvited guest or strong sentinel, depending on your point of view. The futuristic design was jarring to me, inconsistent with the historical landscapes that made Boston unique. I’d been here a number of times, but familiarity brought me no comfort. I was an alien in a harsh, efficient universe where death was a constant visitor.

We entered through the middle door, cleared security, and stated our business to the desk sergeant, a sharp-eyed veteran with an Old Testament face. He verified our appointment and grunted as if life held few surprises.

As the elevator sped to her floor, I reviewed my presentations for the lieutenant. I admired Mia Bates, but she intimidated me. My moist palms attested to that. She was always courteous and professional, even when she knew I was hiding something. Maybe that was the answer—the wisdom and cynicism radiating from her cop’s eyes activated every inch of my guilty conscience.

“Are you okay?” Anika asked. “You really have to report this before things escalate.”

I nodded, licking desert dry lips. “She’ll wonder why I’m the target. Remember, we were warned about getting involved.”

Anika shrugged. “So what. Euphemia knows you. She never thought you’d do what she said anyway.” She strolled off the elevator and into the lion’s den without any hesitation.

Several detectives were in the bullpen, hunched over their computers or flipping through case files. They said nothing, yet I knew by their expressions that they didn’t miss a thing.

“Help you, ladies?” asked a tall, swarthy man with a lanyard dangling from his neck. He raised his eyebrows when we said we were expected and pointed toward Mia’s office. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one in awe of the lieutenant.

As soon as we entered, she looked up and left her desk to greet us. Euphemia Bates was a long, lean column of teal wearing an ensemble only ectomorphs can manage. A hint of turquoise shadowed her lids, giving her the regal look of a potentate. She motioned toward the sofa and sat directly opposite us.

“Tell me what happened,” she said. “Quite frankly, at this point, we’re still collecting evidence.”

I gulped and launched into a fairly coherent account of yesterday’s excitement. Anika supplemented my comments with her own observations.

“You’re saying that Heather Exley threatened you with a gun?” Mia bit her lip and turned her head to the side as if to suppress laughter. “It seems so out of character.”

“Right on Boylston Street,” I said. “It had pearl handles. A derringer, I think.”

“In front of La Perla. Can you believe how brazen she was?” Anika, a devotee of fine French intimate apparel, was outraged by such desecration.

“Shocking,” Mia said. “Did she confess to Phaedra’s murder while she was waving that gun?”

“Not really. She seemed more focused on separating me from Justin Ming. She’s crazy about him.”

“Besotted,” Anika added. “The woman even lent him money. That’s bad business.”

Mia nodded at that. “I hear you. No good comes from mixing love and money.” She leaned forward and stirred her mug of tea. “Didn’t you tell me that Phaedra was also in love with this Ming?”

“That’s his story,” I said, “but I don’t doubt it. He has that impact on women.”

Anika nodded sagely. “My son affected women the same way, but he wanted only Eja.” She leaned across the couch and patted my arm.

Mia Bates looked up from her iPad. “What about the flowers? I presume these are the ones.” She opened the box with a pencil tip and stared. “Hmm. Is this Mrs. Exley’s work too?”

I paused and gave that question some thought. “No. Heather wouldn’t waste the money. Besides, I think she’s too dense to devise something that cool.”

“Cool, is it?” Mia’s jaw clenched tighter than a vault. “The message is rather pointed, Eja. You’ve been rattling someone’s cage, and that could be dangerous. I’ll have the lab look at this, but I doubt that we’ll find anything other than the florist and delivery guy’s prints.”

“Bolin’s checking out the florist,” Anika said. “He and Dem are doing that personally.”

A momentary cloud flitted over Mia’s face. “Oh, joy. Someone else doing my job. Guess we public servants need all the help we can get.”

Mia was distracted, and I saw an opportunity. “Have you found Phaedra’s partner yet? She had to have one. Those gold bars were heavy.”

Her eyes narrowed into fiery slits. “Seems like you went on an excursion, Ms. Kane.”

“Deming has permission,” I said. “Isn’t Sumo-Tek the creepiest place ever?”

She ignored my comment and stared at her tablet. “Tell me again. I’m still puzzled. Why are you involved in the murder of someone you didn’t even know or like?”