Into The Heat (Sandy Reid Mystery Series Book 6) (11 page)

N
igel was busy most of that remaining afternoon setting up the new office computer, a powerful one he had always dreamed of using but could never afford to buy for himself. He would then recover all the office files, which he had backed up on a cloud for safe keeping for just such a contingency. He did take time to call Charlene at her job to let her know he’d be a little late getting to her place after work, as he needed to stop by his apartment to pick up a few more of his clothes.

A severe interruption to his joyful day happened mid-afternoon with a call for Sandy. He put the caller on hold and hurried down the hall. “A weird-sounding caller. At first, I thought he was joking putting on a gruff voice. Wouldn’t give his name, but I guess you should take it.”

She took the call. Nigel had not exaggerated. The guy sounded weird. He would identify himself only as Leo, and would give no personal information. She didn’t need the aggravation and was about ready to brush him off as a crank, when he said he had critical information about the Lester Bardner case. His secrecy didn’t bother her at that point as she knew that Nigel had software on his computer that displayed the number, name and address of every caller, preliminary publicly available information, whether they were using a mobile device, and a log of previous calls, if they had ever before called the office.

She thought about hanging up, but said, “So what’s the critical information? I’m listening.”

“I know the reason your client killed Benny Coleman.” The caller rapidly gave her instructions and hung up before she could reply.

“Screw you, buddy,” was her initial reaction to the brusque orders she had just been given.

He had instructed her to go to the Ocean Palms Hotel and call him from the hotel lobby. She was hesitant about taking the time and leaving the office to accommodate some ill-mannered boor. Nigel felt bad, as his software wasn’t yet fully installed on the new computer and had brought up no listing at all for the caller, which meant he was using an untraceable throwaway—one more reason not to trust this caller.

When she told Martin about the planned meeting at the hotel, he said, “I’d better come with you. You know nothing about this guy.”

“I must talk with him. He said he knows the motive for Lester shooting Coleman. He specifically said to come alone.”

“Why is he making the rules? Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous. Do not go to his room. Be certain you meet in the lobby, or some other public area in the hotel. You know how I worry.”

“We need all the info we can get, I’m going. You know, it’s interesting he referred to the victim as Benny Coleman, not Benjamin Coleman or just Coleman. I promise I’ll be back for a drink with you after work.”

Within the hour, she was calling the man from the lobby of the hotel.

The same raspy voice informed her, “You’re being watched. Come up to 404. Talk to no one.”

“Wrong, we’re meeting down here in the lobby, or not at all.”

“If you want the information, you’ll get your ass up here in the next five minutes.”

She held the phone away for a second deciding. She took a deep breath. The investigation was going nowhere. The police knew only that the victim was a minor criminal from Miami Beach. It did sound as if the man had some information for her. She needed to get things moving and maybe this was the break she needed. In any case, it would be nice to know the occupant of Room 404, before blindly walking in.

She doubted she was in fact being watched and hurried over to the front desk where some loud woman was insisting to the desk clerk that the poodle she was holding wasn’t an ordinary pet, but was a Comfort Companion. A highly-trained service dog that should be permitted to stay in the room to calm the woman or else the establishment would be in violation of the Americans With Disabilities Act. The desk clerk wasn’t buying it. Sandy stood at the counter alternating between looking at her watch and trying to get the clerk’s attention. She understood why hotels don’t give out a name for a room number, but it was worth a try. Finally, she interrupted, “Excuse me, I just have a quick question.”

The desk clerk ignored her and continued arguing.

Five minutes passed before the desk clerk stepped over and offered her a pained smile. Sandy said, “I’m sending flowers up to my girlfriend’s grandmother in Room 404, and I don’t know how to spell the name. I recall it’s Schneider or something like that. Could you please check?”

“I could. But I’m not going to.” The desk clerk pointed. “Use the house phone over there.”

“But she’s sick. I don’t want to disturb her.”

The desk clerk shook her head and turned to the next customer. Sandy checked her watch. She was late—ten minutes had passed. She stepped over to the house phone and dialed Room Service, “This is Room 404, I’d like to order a service of coffee for four… no, no Danish, just coffee. Please have it there in one-half hour. Thank you.”

She hurried to the bank of elevators.

There was no answer to her knock at Room 404. She checked up and down the hallway and knocked harder. Then again. She started to take out her phone.

A flat chilling voice startled her, “Pretty girls need to be careful being alone in hotel hallways. Lot of crazy people around.”

She swiveled and saw a large man in a wrinkled jacket holding open the door to the room across the hall behind her. He’d been watching her.

“Thanks for your concern,” she said. “Now just go back in your room, mister, and I’ll go about my business.”

“I said on the phone you were being watched. I guess you didn’t believe me, sister.”

She stiffened and stood where she was. Years ago, a Philadelphia detective had warned her about that hotel room number trick. Too bad she forgot and was caught by surprise.

“Oh, did I say Room 404?” the man said. “My mistake I meant 405.” He shot a quick glance up and down the hallway. “Just wanted to be sure no men in suits wearing sunglasses tagged along.” He held the door wider. “Well, we having a meeting or what?”

Not good, he had her on the defensive at the start. Without taking her eyes off him, she slipped her hand around her phone and her thumb hovered over the 911 button. She stepped into the room. Looking around, she saw no luggage, no clothing and nothing placed on the desk. No personal items anywhere and the beds were still tightly undisturbed.

He closed the door and faced her. A beefy man, dark and swarthy, the type who should shave twice a day but didn’t. A lighted cigarette was wedged between his thick lips. Even a better tailoring job wouldn’t have hidden the bulge in his jacket near his left shoulder; an observation she hadn’t made until after she was already in the room with the door closed behind her. Strangely, the gun didn’t bother her as much as the menacing look of his small dull eyes. His eyelids drooped halfway down, giving him a squinting look as though concealing himself while continuously scrutinizing all others. The guy took the cigarette out of his mouth long enough to say, “Leo’s in the other room. Stand where you are.” He took a step toward her. “You carrying?”

She waved the smoke away from her face, at least it wasn’t a cigar. She stepped back. “Stop right there, I’m clean, no gun.”

“Leo has some sensitive information for you.” He fixed the cigarette back in the corner of his mouth to free his hands. “No one sees Leo unless they’re frisked.” He stretched his yucky hands out toward her with his thick fingers spread.

“No touching. I told you I’m not carrying.”

“I don’t take chances.” He dropped his arms to his side in exaggerated frustration. “Look sister, you want the information from Leo or not?”

“What is this, 1950? You’re not touching me!”

His gaze lingered around her breasts, then down her black skinny Capri pants to her two-inch black pumps and back up unhurriedly. She was wearing more than that, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he was eyeing her. “All right, so turn around.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.” She threw him a fierce stare.

“Either you let me frisk you, or you let me look. I'm not touching you, sister. Just turn around for a second.”

She put her hands on her hips with annoyance and turned around. After a long ten seconds, she wondered what he was doing and swirled back to face him. “What?”

He had those squinty eyes on her as if she was a candy store. “Why don’t you bend over?”

“Tell your boss to go to hell.” She took a step toward the door.

He stepped sideways into her way. “Just doing my job. Sit over there on the bed.” He looked around. “Would you believe no fucking ashtrays in this dump?”

She remained standing. “Does your boss know you’re a creepy bastard?”

He grinned. “Oh, don’t be so sensitive, just joking about you bending over. Just wanted to see who I was dealing with. You never know with women. Didn’t cost you nothing, you probably liked me looking at you.”

“Go tell Leo I’m waiting to hear his valuable information.”

He sat in the desk chair between her and the door. “I’m Leo.”

She winced at being suckered. “Cute. You’re still a creepy bastard.”

He motioned for her to sit. “I get the feeling I know you from somewhere.”

“On the phone, you said you could tell me why Coleman was shot. Or was that another trick?”

“Sort of, got you up here didn’t I. What I want is my money back.”

“And that concerns me because—?”

“You look familiar. You’re from Miami Beach, aren’t you? Can’t quite place you, but you were in the rackets down there, weren’t you?” He casually flicked ashes onto the carpet.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Same difference. You weren’t always a lawyer. You had a life somewhere. You don’t act small town.” He leaned forward. “So you broke away and gave up the bright lights. Sort of dull up here in the sticks, isn’t it?”

“You’re confusing me with someone else.”

“I know you have to say that. A lawyer, huh. You see what happens when you get religion and go straight—you come to no good.”

“Let’s talk about you. What’s your name, Leo what?”

“Leo Nothing.”

“And you want your money back from someone.”

He balanced the burning cigarette on the edge of the desk next to him, slumped back and crossed his legs. “Story goes like this. Your boy robbed and plugged Ben Coleman. Now Benny was a worthless bastard, but that’s beside the point. Was carrying my money. Your boy probably even paid your retainer with my money. In fact, you might be sitting on the money for him right now. And if you’re any good as an attorney, you’ve already figured out how to shyster him and walk away with all of it.”

She couldn’t help flinching when she heard all that. She quickly closed her mouth which had slipped open. So far, no one had come up any connection between Lester and the murder victim—no connection and no motive. Now she had both. It didn’t sound farfetched at all coming from this rough-looking guy packing a gun. “Start again. Beginning with who the hell you are. And geez, I certainly hope you don’t live around here.” The police had already determined the victim was from Miami Beach. This thug talked as if he was from down there as well.

“Where I’m from isn’t important. Talk about the money.”

“How’d you find out he’d been shot up here in Park Beach?”

“Hadn’t heard from him, then the cops up here located his ex-wife in Miami trying to get the word on him. She played dumb with them, but called me. He had two hundred fifty large on him when he came up here.”

“You mean he had a check, surely not actual cash.”

“Actual cash, in his suitcase with his clothes.”

“Are we talking real money or crooked money?” she said, still thinking about the gun bulging under his coat.

“A smart girl wouldn’t want to know the answer to that. Any money what belongs to me is real money. Not real enough to declare on my income tax, but real. Coleman was up here looking for an investment on the island.”

To launder crime money she assumed. “Two hundred and fifty grand wouldn’t paint a house on the island. That money was just to seal some deal or buy off someone, right? How did Lester Bardner get involved?”

“Don’t know. You tell me. What kind of operator is he anyway? What kind of chisel does he usually run?”

She couldn’t picture Lester running a chisel on anyone not wearing a skirt. A cream puff as far as she could tell. She ignored the questions, and asked, “What makes you think my client shot your buddy?”

“That’s what the cops think. Good enough for me. They think it so much he’s now sitting in a jail cell.”

“The cops don’t have an airtight case.” Yet this guy’s thinking was right on. Obviously, Bardner was arrested because the cops tagged him for the murder. “Assuming my client is guilty, how on earth would they have met?”

“That’s what I’m asking, Babycakes. Maybe gambling. He had a habit. Maybe Bardner was a player and Coleman laid some action on him. He’d bet the Atlantic was wetter than the Pacific if you gave him odds.”

“This is a sleepy little town. Don’t have much gambling here,” she said it with a straight face, still wondering if
Babycakes
was vulgar.