Killer Cuts: A Dead-End Job Mystery (33 page)

M
ireya!” Helen called.”Are you home?”

She knocked loudly on the town house’s red

painted door and rang the bell.

No sound of footsteps. No flick of the mini blinds. Helen wondered if Mireya could hear her over “Stairway to Heaven” blasting from the place next door.

Mireya had moved into a narrow pinkish-beige town house at a develop ment called Three Palms.The entrance was flanked by three royal palm trees, trunks straight as concrete columns. One was alive and lush with greenery. Two were topless trunks, their fronds probably blown away in a hurricane.

“They ought to change the name,” Helen said.

“They could buy two new palm trees,” Phil said,”but it looks like they’re cutting corners.”

0% DOWN! FIRST MONTH FREE! U CAN’T LOSE! screamed a banner strung between two of the dead trees.

“Yep, Palm Beach County is really exclusive,” Helen shouted over the neighbor’s blaring music.

Mireya’s front yard was the size of a bath mat and landscaped with brown pebbles. Her front steps were cracked. A pot of pink impatiens was dying in the searing sun. The crowded parking lot’s flower beds were filled with beer cans and sun-blasted boulders.

Three Palms was near the railroad tracks and the Dixie Highway— not a prestigious location. But Mireya could say she lived in Palm Beach County.

Helen rang the doorbell. Phil beat on the door and kept one eye on his Jeep, parked illegally by the Dumpster.

Small, dented cars were crammed into every spot in the parking lot. Stenciled on the white concrete barriers were the town house numbers. A black Neon with a broken trunk was in spot 117 in front of Mireya’s town house.

“She has to be here,” Helen said.”That’s her car.”

“Maybe,” Phil said.”But these people don’t seem to respect parking rules.” Vehicles were parked haphazardly in the fire zone.

The lot’s exit was partially blocked by a yellow pickup stuffed with a mattress, a table, and a fat plaid couch.

“I’m guessing these are investment properties,” Phil said.”The own ers buy them cheap, then rent to anyone who scrapes together enough money to cover the loan payments. The average renter is mid-to-late twenties with an entry-level job. Four to six people are packed into two bedrooms.There’s no homeowners’ association to complain about the noise, the renters or the parking violations.”

Helen pounded on the door again and rang the bell. No answer. Phil joined her.”Mireya!” they screamed.”Are you there?”

Silence. At least from inside Mireya’s town house. Next door, the music was cranked another notch to rap-concert level.

“Now what?” Helen said.

“It’s only three o’clock,” Phil said.”Maybe she’s at work.”

“Her neighbor said she doesn’t need a job anymore,” Helen said. “Mireya struck it rich.”

“The blinds are shut on the front windows,” Phil said. He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and tried the front door. “Locked. Let’s go around to the back. Maybe we can see inside.”

“What if the neighbors call the cops?” Helen asked.

“At this place? I could kick in the door and carry out everything she owns, and nobody would notice.”

“Hey, assholes! Watch it!”

Helen and Phil turned and saw a big-bellied guy yelling at three sweating men hauling a huge television. Big Belly’s face was stroke red. “You drop that flat-screen TV, and I’ll kill you,” he screeched.

“How do we know those guys carrying out that monster TV aren’t stealing it?” Phil asked.

Helen nodded at an upstairs window two doors down. A ruffled curtain fluttered slightly. “How do we know whoever is watching be hind that curtain isn’t writing down their license plate number—or our description?”

“We don’t,” Phil said.”But if you’re worried, I’ve got just the thing.” He ran back to the Jeep, reached inside and pulled out a clipboard with a yellow legal pad.

“This looks official,” he said.”I can say I’m a city inspector. Nobody ever challenges that excuse.”

“I smell smoke,” Helen said.

Phil sniffed the air.”Barbecue,” he said.”Probably ribs. Let’s go.”

Helen started tiptoeing toward the sidewalk that led around the back.

“Helen!” Phil whispered. “Don’t walk like that. You look like a housebreaker. Act like you live here.”

He walked boldly around the privacy fence, armed only with his confidence and his clipboard. Helen followed. The air was thick with chlorine and coconut oil as they passed the pool. Helen peered through the fence slats. Bikinied bodies were roasting on chaise longues, iPods plugged into their ears. The sun worshipers looked like greased corpses.

A chunky man used a long-handled barbecue fork to poke at a rack of ribs on a grill. He splashed beer on the ribs, then chugged the rest and tossed the bottle on the ground. Phil waved and smiled. The rib poker waved back.

“See? That’s how you do it,” Phil said.”People move in and out of this place every week. He has no idea if we live here or not.”

“You’re good at this,” Helen said.”That makes me nervous.”

“I have to be,” Phil said.”It’s my job.”

Mireya had a small concrete slab behind her town house. More plants roasted in the sun, along with plastic patio furniture.”No curtains on the sliding glass doors,” Helen said, as she stepped around a chair.

“Sliding glass doors on the ground floor.The burglar’s friend.” Phil used his handkerchief to tug on the door handle. It slid open.”Careful,” he said.”Try not to touch anything.”

“Mireya!” he called once more, but there was no sound.The walls seemed to throb with the neighbor’s music.

“Brrr. It’s cold in here,” Helen said, when she stepped inside. Her heart was pounding. She was now officially guilty of trespassing.”Mireya keeps the air conditioner high. Was this place ransacked, or is she just moving in?”

“Hard to tell,” Phil said.”It’s a mess.”

The living room was a maze of upended cardboard boxes. Towels, clothes and kitchenware spilled out of them.A fat brown recliner lay on its side next to a smashed end table.

“I don’t like this,” Helen said.

“The kitchen was definitely ransacked,” Phil said.

Broken cups and glassware were thrown on the beige kitchen tile. Sugar and flour were dumped on the floor, and cooking oil poured over the white mounds.The refrigerator door hung open, and an overturned milk jug dripped on the floor.The stink of spoiled milk was overpow ering.

Phil used the handkerchief to flip on the kitchen light. A fat roach scuttled away.

“Ohmigod, is that blood dripping off the counter?” Helen said, her voice shaky.

Phil stuck his finger in the red goo, tasted it, and said, “Ketchup. Brooks, I think.”

“How do you know?” Helen asked.

He pointed to an overturned Brooks ketchup bottle in the corner. Phil wiped away the spot of ketchup he’d touched with a dishtowel on the counter. “Don’t go in any farther. We’ll leave footprints in this mess.”

“I hope Mireya wasn’t hurt,” Helen said.

“Maybe she spent the night with friends, and someone broke in,” Phil said, but Helen could tell he didn’t believe that. “Let’s check the rooms upstairs.”

They sprinted up a short flight of steps to a bathroom. Phil turned on the bathroom light with his handkerchief.

Helen screamed. “That’s blood in the sink,” she said. “Real blood. That’s not ketchup.”

Red-black lines had dripped and dried on the blue sink. A bloody towel had been dropped on the toilet lid. A large red shoe print was stamped in the pale throw rug.There were more blood spots on the tile.

“Looks like someone tried to wash up,” Phil said.”Don’t come in.”

Helen backed away from the bathroom door, hoping she wouldn’t throw up. “Hurry, Phil. We have to get out of here. Something is wrong.”

“One more room to check, after I look behind that shower curtain.” He used the handkerchief to pick up a long-handled bath brush and moved the blue plastic curtain.”Tub is clean,” he said.

Helen sighed with relief and ran to the bedroom.The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. Helen nearly flipped on the light when Phil called,”Stop!”

He turned on the light with his handkerchief. A king-sized brass bed with a flowered spread and a maroon pillowcase took up nearly the whole room. Mountains of clothes, costume jewelry and underwear were tossed on it. A teddy bear wearing a Marlins cap topped the pile. The only other furniture was a bedside table and a mirrored dresser.All the drawers were open and their contents were dumped on the floor.

“Somebody has already searched this room,” Phil said.

“Papers are scattered on the dresser top,” Helen said.”That’s a check register.”

Phil used the handkerchief and a pen from his pocket to open the check register and flip through the recent pages.”Mireya deposits $623.43 every two weeks, like clockwork,” Phil said.”There are small withdrawals for checks to Publix, the utilities, Marshalls.Then the deposits stop and whoa— what’s this? A deposit for twenty thousand dollars.”

“That’s major money for a young woman making minimum wage,” Helen said.”When was the money deposited?”

“Last Monday.The day before that video ran on Channel Fifteen.”

“It smells funny in here,” Helen said.”Smells like—”

She saw Phil’s jaw go rigid and his mouth tighten into a thin line.

“Does Mireya have a poodle?” Helen asked. She was talking too fast, trying to stave off the inevitable awful discovery. “I see curly dark hair on the pillow.” She edged closer to the bed and realized the spread wasn’t covered with flowers. Blood, bone and brain matter were spat tered on the powder blue spread.The pillowcase wasn’t maroon. That was blood.

“No,” she said.”No, no, no!”

She started to pull back the spread when Phil grabbed her arms. “Helen,” he said.”That poor woman is dead.”

“Was she shot?”

“She was beaten with a baseball bat. It’s beside the bed.You can’t help Mireya.We need to leave.”

“But what about the police?” Helen asked.

“You’ve already been interviewed in connection with one murder. If you’re involved in two, they’ll lock you up—and I’ll lose my PI li cense.”

“But you’ve used your handkerchief on all the light switches and doors,” Helen said.

“I’ve still tampered with a crime scene. I’ve left hairs, fibers and probably shoe prints all over this place.”

“Shouldn’t we search for the wedding video?” Helen asked.

“It’s either at the TV station or the killer has it,” Phil said.”Let’s go.”

“How long has Mireya been dead?”

“The air-conditioning was turned down to sixty, but the body is pretty bloated. My guess is she’s been dead about a week.”

“We can’t just leave her here,” Helen said.

“We won’t.” Phil steered Helen toward the hallway.”We’ll make an anonymous call to the police from a big shopping mall north of here.”

“If you get the Jeep,” Helen said,”I’ll search her car trunk.”

“You don’t have a key,” Phil said.

“The trunk is broken and held shut with a bungee cord,” Helen said.

“Someone will see you,” Phil said.

“They may see a person, but they won’t see me,” Helen said.”Give me your shirt.”

“My shirt? Why?”

“I need a man’s shirt.” She picked an oversized T-shirt off the pile of clothes on the bed and said,”Put this on.”

“It’s pink,” Phil said.

“Good.You didn’t come in wearing a pink shirt.”

Phil unbuttoned his blue shirt, and Helen put it on over her white blouse. She looked heavier wearing two shirts. For once, she was glad she looked fatter. She pulled her long brown hair into a knot on top her head, plucked the Marlins cap off the bear and put it on. Then Helen reached into her purse and pulled out a dark brown eyeliner pencil.

“We don’t have time for you to put on makeup,” Phil said.

“This isn’t makeup. It’s a mustache.” Helen drew a heavy, dark han dlebar mustache on her face.

“It looks fake,” Phil said.

“No one’s going to get close to see,” Helen said.”I’m tall enough to pass as a man, and I’m wearing jeans and running shoes.”

“Not many men carry purses, even in Florida,” Phil said.

“Good point,” Helen said. She shoved her purse down her blouse. “That should hide my chest. Now I have a manly beer gut. I’ll carry your clipboard. Phil, you get the Jeep. Park it outside the town house complex. I’ll join you as soon as I can. Let me borrow your handker chief to close the sliding door.”

Phil left the town house first by the back door. Helen counted to thirty and followed, pulling the door shut with her hand wrapped in the handkerchief. She tried to walk macho. Helen was relieved that the chunky guy was no longer torturing ribs on the grill. The pool was deserted, except for a single, sleeping sunbather.

Helen marched briskly to parking spot 117. Phil’s Jeep was gone from the illegal spot by the Dumpster.

She saw the curtain flutter in the town house two doors down. With her hand wrapped in the white handkerchief like a bandage, she unhooked the bungee cord. The trunk sprang open with a haunted house creak.

Inside was a rusty beach chair and an empty canvas tote, but no tape, CD, or MiniDV. Helen quickly ran her hand around inside the trunk and came up with stray hairs, threads and bits of rust.

She heard a car honking on the other side of the complex fence and suspected it was Phil, growing impatient. One more quick swipe around the trunk, and she saw the spare tire. She ran her hand inside the wheel well.The MiniDV was taped to the tire, out of sight. Helen pried it loose and stashed it in her purse, hoping Phil didn’t see it.

She was securing the trunk’s bungee cord when Phil roared into the parking lot.