Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 3) (4 page)

Chapter 5

I walked down the hall from the penthouse and called Carter while I waited for the elevator.

“Hey,” Carter said in his usual gruff tone when he answered. “I thought you were on vacation,”

“Well, it's turned into a working vacation. Are you interested in a free trip to Palm Beach, expenses paid? Your split is ten grand.”

“Who's the client?” he asked.

“Brook Foster. A wealthy widow. She thinks her dead husband's daughter blackmailed her, and she wants proof. It's probably a two-day job, three tops.”

“Why do you need me?”

“Because this job will most likely involve breaking and entering. That's your specialty, isn't it?”

I could picture Carter's taut expression as he ran a hand through his thick grey hair, mulling over the possibility. A fifty-something, ex-cop from Boston, he broke the law as often as he could get away with. Of course, it was all for the greater good – or at least the greater good according to Carter.

“What's the plan?” he asked.

“Book yourself on the next flight. And bring whatever equipment you can fit in the suitcase.”

“What does Max think about this?”

“I'm going to tell him in a few minutes. But I'm pretty sure he'll understand. So, are you in?”

It took him all of five seconds to make up his mind. “Sure.”

When I ended the call, I knew I could count on Carter being in Florida that evening.

When I got back to the room, Max and Jennifer had migrated from the kitchen table to the couch, each on separate ends, but facing each other. By their serious and thoughtful expressions, I got the sense they'd been having a heart to heart conversation.

“So?” Max jumped up to greet me. “How'd it go with Brook?”

“She wants to hire me to look into something for her. Nothing serious. Should only take a few days.”

Max eyed me cautiously. “She wants you to work on your vacation?”

“I don't mind. It'll give me something to do while you're working.”

“When do you start?”

“Carter is flying down tonight and we should have the job done within a few days.”

He gave me a sideward glance. “Carter is getting involved, too? Where is he gonna stay?”

“Another empty unit on the sixth floor.”

Max shook his head in disbelief. “Brook
is
paying you, I hope.”

“Yeah,” I said, deciding not to divulge the amount.

Jennifer collected her purse and stood up. “Hey guys? I'm gonna head out. You two need to discuss things in private. And besides, I should try and get a nap in.”

Max and I both walked her to the door. She hugged each of us and said, “I really appreciate you guys letting me hang out here. I feel much better.”

“Everything is gonna be all right,” Max told her. “Just hang in there, okay? And, if you need a reference for a new job, feel free to use me.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, by the way,” I said, before she made her exit. “Have you ever met Dennis's daughter, Angela?”

She stopped to look at me with raised eyebrows. “No, I never have. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Brook just happened to mention that Dennis had a daughter. Did he ever talk about her?”

“No. Andrew was the one who told me that she lives in town, but doesn't come around much. She and Dennis had a falling out. Sorry, wish I could tell you more.”

“No, no,” I said. “That's okay. Not a big deal.”

After Jennifer left, Max kissed me on the cheek and retired to the bedroom for a nap.

I checked my watch. I only had an hour until I was scheduled to meet Brook at her penthouse. There was still much to do in preparation. I opened my laptop and took residence on the balcony lounge chair. It was a beautiful, sunny day with a refreshing breeze. The waves on the beach were enormous, crashing down with such velocity that the sound carried up to the 15th floor. I should have been lounging next to the pool with an umbrella drink in my hand. Instead, I was hunched over a computer, conducting research on Brook Foster.

Her maiden name was Morris. She was born in 1978 in Atlanta, Georgia. Her parents were working class folks; her mother was a teacher, and her father worked for a candy manufacturer. Brook graduated high school, but seemed to have had no further education. She had odd jobs throughout her twenties working as a waitress, a receptionist at a spa, and even a telemarketer. Then in 2011, she got a job with the Fosters as a live-in maid, where she worked for two and a half years, until Mrs. Foster passed away.

There wasn't much else I could find on Brook. No arrests, no prior marriages, not even a Facebook page. However, I did find a newspaper article about her engagement to Dennis.

At quarter to four I closed up the laptop, went down to the lobby to print out some papers, then headed back up to the penthouse.

Chapter 6

Brook ushered me into her apartment and locked the door behind us. She offered me a drink, but I kindly declined. I noticed a fat envelope on the counter, where she invited me to have a seat. She must have assumed I'd take the job, and she was right.

“I spoke with Carter and he'll be here by this evening,” I said.

Brook let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Sarah. This means a lot to me.” She handed over the envelope. “Here's your money. If you need more for expenses, please let me know.”

I placed the envelope in my purse and held up my cell phone. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? I'm terrible at taking notes.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “Um, I don't know. That seems risky to me.”

“I won't share this information with anyone except Carter.”

Brook sat down at the counter opposite me. “Okay, fine. What information do you need to get started?”

I made sure the phone was recording, then placed it on the counter. “First, let's talk about the blackmail letter. How was it delivered to you?”

She glanced at the phone in front of her like it was a bomb about to explode. She folded her hands on the counter. “Certified mail. I had to sign for it. The name of the sender was phony and so was the address.”

“What was the name?”

“Lindsay Bolt. According to my online search, the only Lindsay Bolt I could find in Florida is eighty-six years old.”

“Was the letter hand-written?”

“No, it was typed on plain white paper. I memorized every word.
One hundred thousand dollars cash or I'll send your husband a copy of this photo. Bring the cash to West Palm Beach Airport at ten o'clock Monday morning and go to gate 3 baggage claim at United Airlines. Go into the ladies restroom and leave the cash inside the trash bin and then leave immediately. If you contact the police or tell anyone, I will expose you.”

“Very clever,” I said. “A busy place. People have suitcases and luggage. Someone could have easily taken the money out of there without raising an eyebrow. Did you stick around to see if you recognized anyone coming or going?”

“I was too paranoid,” she said, shaking her head. “I got the hell out of there.”

“At least we can assume it’s a woman. A man walking into the ladies room would certainly draw attention.”

She nodded. “I figured the same thing.”

“I can go to the airport and check for surveillance cameras,” I said. “We might be able to catch the person on video. Do you happen to have a photo of Angela? How about her home and work address?”

“I don't know her current address. I think she moves around a lot. And I doubt she has a job. Like I said before, she was living off of her father's handouts. Dennis has a photo of her on his desk. I'll go get it.”

When she returned and handed me the photo, she said, “This was probably taken a few years ago. I have no idea if she's grown her hair out since.”

The photo was taken on a yacht of some kind. Dennis stood in the middle of Andrew and Angela. They had their arms around each other, obviously posing for the picture. Dennis's face beamed as sunlight reflected off his balding head. Andrew wore dark sunglasses and a polo shirt. And then there was Angela, squinting at the camera. She had short, blonde hair with plain features, but it was hard to get a proper sense of her from the photo. “Thanks,” I said. “I'll return this to you.”

“Don't bother,” she said. “I have no use for it.”

“I should be able to get a current address from the DMV records, but I might need to ask Andrew if he knows where his sister is staying.” I tucked the photo inside my purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I need you to sign this. It's a contract for the job.”

Brook signed the contract without reading it then slid it across the counter to me. “So when will you start working on this?”

“I'll do a preliminary background check on Angela to see what comes up. Do you know if she's ever been arrested?”

“Not to my knowledge, although it wouldn't surprise me.”

“Why would it not surprise you?” I asked.

“Because she has a temper. When Dennis told her he was cutting her off, she threw a stapler at him. Knocked him right in the forehead.” Brook slapped the side of her head as if to demonstrate the violence. “Can you imagine your own child throwing something at you? He should have called the cops. He had a goose egg the size of a gold ball for a week after that.” Brook crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head as if it was the most despicable thing anyone had ever done. “That happened about four or five months ago. I wasn't around that day, thank God. I would have kicked her ass.”

I tried to picture this petite woman of a hundred pounds, kicking
anyone's
ass. “So why do you think Angela would have a key to the Realty office downstairs if she didn't work there?”

“Who knows. She could have made a copy somehow. Or maybe Dennis had given her one at some point.”

“And why would she just show up at the office after hours?”

Brook shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe she was looking for cash.”

“Dennis kept cash lying around his office?” I asked.

“I don't know. Maybe Angela thought he did. The point is, she must have shown up that night. She's the only person I know who is crazy and desperate enough to blackmail someone.”

“What about Vivian? I know you said that she left work, but maybe she'd come back to the office later that night because she forgot something. Have you considered that maybe she's the blackmailer?”

Brook laughed. “Not a chance. Vivian doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. Besides, we're friends.”

“Sometimes, friends make the best enemies because they know your weaknesses. Are you sure she didn't know about your affair?”

“Trust me,” Brook said. “Vivian is not involved in this.”

“I could look into her financials and see what turns up, just to be thorough.”

“Waste of time.” Brook stood up from the counter and started pacing the room. “I need you to focus on Angela. She's behind all this. I'm positive.”

“Where was Dennis that night?”

She paused to think. “Dennis was out of town at a convention in Miami. He didn't come back until the next morning. Andrew went with him.”

“Would Dennis have given an office key to anyone else? How about Jennifer?”

Brook gave me a funny look. “She was his personal assistant, not a secretary. I don't think she had a key but I can't be sure. In fact, I don't think she Jennifer had ever set foot inside the office.”

“Tell me about Dennis friends and family.”

“Well, Dennis didn't have time for friends. I mean, he socialized a lot with clients, but I don't think he actually had any close friends. He wasn't a very trusting person, and I think it was easier for him to keep people at arm's length.”

“Does he have any other kids from previous marriages?”

“No. Dennis was only married to Barbara before me, and like I said, she died over a year ago. Dennis had no other family, besides a sister who lives in California. Kathy hasn't been to Florida in years. Which reminds me, I need to call her and give her the news about her brother.”

“Have you met his sister?” I asked.

“No. She didn't come to the wedding either. She and Dennis weren't close.”

“Okay,” I said, putting my phone away. “I guess that's all I need for now. I'll get started this afternoon, and I'll be in touch as soon as I have any information about Angela.”

Brook escorted me to the door. “Thank you, Sarah. It will be such a relief to get this business settled so I can put it behind me. It's going to be a hectic week, with planning a funeral and all. I just want it to be over.”

Brook said the words as if attending her husband's funeral was akin to going to the gynecologist for a routine pap smear.

“Well,” I said. “Good luck with that.”