Scottsdale Heat: a romantic light-hearted murder mystery (Laura Black Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

“Actually,” I said to Suzie. “I just wanted to know if you could help me with a project I’m working on. I have a disk with a computer file on it. My problem is when I try to open the file, a message comes up saying I need a password. Is that something you can get around?”

“It depends on the software they used to encrypt the file. Some are simple and some are tough. But sure, give me the disk and I’ll have one of my graduate students work on it. I’ll give you a call when I find something out.”

With the extra weight of Mrs. Nottingham’s feet on his back, the man had begun to fidget again. Suzie gave him a warning kick in the ribs. This produced another giggling fit from the man. Suzie shook her head and again picked up the paddle.

“Dear,” Mrs. Nottingham said to Suzie. “He’s getting a little out of hand. Would you mind if I punished your slave?”

“Please, be my guest,” Suzie said.

Mrs. Nottingham slowly got to her feet and Suzie handed her the paddle. She shuffled into position next to the man and clasped the paddle in a two handed grip. Lifting the paddle over her head, as if it were a golf club, she brought it down with surprising force on the man’s ass.

Slap!

He cried out in pain and flew forward a good five feet, smashed his head against a chair leg, then skidded to a stop on the carpet.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then all three of us went and bent over his unmoving body.

“I wonder if I killed him.” Mrs. Nottingham said.

Suzie used the toe of her boot to roll the man over. As she did, he let out a low moan.

“Wow,” said Suzie, her face had broken out in a big smile. She turned to Mrs. Nottingham. “That was great! You know, sometimes my clients want some two-on-one action. I might give you a call sometime.”

“Any time, dear. If you’d like, I’ll be glad show you how to properly train your bitches. I’ve watched you, and to be honest, you’re a little soft on them.”

With this, I’d seen enough and got up to go.

“Umm, thanks Suzie,” I said, handing her the disk and one of my cards. “My cell phone number is on the card. I appreciate your help.”

“Sure, glad to help,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

As I walked away, I heard a feeble voice moan: “Mistress McNasty, I’m so not worthy.”

~~~~

I walked up to my apartment and opened a Diet Pepsi. I then sat at my kitchen table and spread out all the notes and information I had on Alex. The police had been looking for him all day in the obvious places. My only hope of finding Alex was to look somewhere that wouldn’t be obvious. I had just started sorting through the piles, when my cell phone rang.

“Hey girlfriend. Mrs. Sternwood wants to see you as soon as possible. She’s at the Barrett-Jackson auto auction over at Westworld. She’ll be there until about 11:00 tonight. She’ll have a ticket for you at the will-call window.”

“Why does she want to see me? I thought Lenny already told her everything we knew?”

“Well, he did,” Sophie’s voice was now dropped to a whisper. “But I don’t think Mrs. Sternwood was very impressed with Lenny’s explanations. She called him a useless little twerp. She also said she didn’t think he could find his own ass, even if he used both hands and was given a map.”

“So, she wants me to go over and tell her exactly the same thing as Lenny did?”

“That’s about the size of it. Although I imagine you’ll do it in a nicer way. You know how Lenny gets when he gets worked up.”

“I know. He tends to spit when he talks. It always grosses me out too. Is Lenny OK with me talking to her?”

“He
told
me to call you. Mrs. Sternwood just about chewed him a new butt-hole today. I think he wants to spread the pain around.”

I went to my closet and found a silky white blouse and a nice navy blue pants suit. I put on a pair of navy flats and touched up the make-up. I took the elevator down to the atrium floor and then walked out to my car.

The Barrett-Jackson auto auction is held once a year at Westworld, a big indoor arena in north Scottsdale. Each year, 1600 of the rarest and most collectable cars in the world are sold at auction during the weeklong event. People fly in from all over the world to buy expensive cars with their friends, outbid their enemies, and to parade their wealth in front of anybody who will watch.

I drove north on the Loop 101 freeway until I found a flashing traffic sign that said all Barrett-Jackson traffic had to exit at Hayden. Traffic wasn’t bad until I got a quarter-mile from the exit. At this point traffic came almost to a dead stop. It took me ten minutes to go the last half-mile to the lot.

Once in the lot, I was directed to a parking space. From there, it was another five-minute wait for the shuttle bus to take me to the arena. I got off the bus and walked to the line at the will-call ticket window. After showing the woman my driver’s license, she gave me a ticket and a VIP pass to a seat on the bidding floor.

I walked into the main building then past several hundred beautiful cars. Once in the huge arena I walked down to the auction floor. Here there were 8,000 seats, all full of people talking loudly to each other. There were telephones ringing as phone bids came in and the sound of motors as the cars drove on and off the stage. Over this noise was the amplified voice of the auctioneer shouting out the bids.

I showed my pass to an usher and he escorted me to the front row. Muffy Sternwood was there and beside her was an empty seat. She saw me and invited me to sit down.

“I’m glad you could make it. This business with Alexander has me so unnerved. I talked with Leonard this afternoon, but he’s such a jackass. I know he’s the best lawyer in the city, but I find it hard to even speak with him on the phone without wanting to choke him.”

“He has that effect on a lot of people.”

“Is there any word on Alexander?

“Nobody’s heard a thing. But, there are a lot of people looking for him, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

“I just hope you‘re right. I also hope you don’t think I’m callous being at an auction while Alexander is missing. My late husband and I would come here every year to buy and sell cars. I know it makes him happy that I keep the tradition alive. Hey, what do you think about that one? I’ve been waiting for it to come up.”

I looked at the stage, where they had just driven a small silver car. The announcer said it was a 1953 Ford Vega Roadster, one of a kind. The bidding started out at $50,000 and went up quickly from there.

“It’s cute, I said.”

“I think so too,” Muffy said. She then waved a young woman over to her side. The woman had on a blue suit and was holding a bright yellow square of cloth. From her badge, I saw her name was Amy. Muffy nodded her head to Amy, who then waved her yellow cloth and shouted at the auctioneer. The auctioneer pointed at Muffy, then talked for a minute and pointed at someone else.

“Did you get it?” I asked.

“No, I’m being outbid. What have you found out about Alexander so far?”

“It appears he’s been selling things to dealers around town. I don’t know what he’s selling, but they seem to get him some good money. Unfortunately, they also may have brought on this trouble. Not all of the people who he has been dealing with are legitimate.”

“Leonard alluded to that, but he was vague about the details. He frustrated me into losing my temper and cursing at him. He can be such a jerk.”

The bidding was now at $250,000. Muffy nodded to Amy, who again waved her yellow cloth and shouted at the auctioneer. The auctioneer pointed at her, talked for a minute, and then pointed at someone else.

“Leonard confirmed Alexander has a girlfriend. What do you know about her?”

“I’ve talked to her a couple of times. Her name is Danica and she’s all right. She seems to really care about Alex and from what I can tell he feels the same way about her. She’s as worried as you are.”

“Please be honest with me,” Muffy said. “Do you think Alexander had anything to do with the dead man they found in his apartment?”

“According to the police, the man was killed somewhere else and brought to his apartment. Most killers don’t commit murder elsewhere and then drag the bodies back to their home. I also can’t see Alex tearing up his apartment like that. I think it is more likely Alex happened to walk in on whoever killed the man and was ransacking his apartment. I think they then took him somewhere.”

The bidding was now at $300,000. Muffy nodded to Amy, who waved the cloth again. The auctioneer pointed to Muffy, talked for a moment, and then pointed to someone else.

“The police apparently think the same thing,” Muffy said. “There is a man monitoring both the house phone and my cell phone. From what the police say, if somebody calls they will be able to trace the call instantaneously. They say that these days most kidnappers use e-mail because it is harder to trace. Of course, I don’t have a computer or use e-mail, so it will be hard for them to use that in my case.”

“It would be my guess they’re looking for information from Alex. I’d be surprised if they called in a ransom request.”

“I think so too,” Muffy said. “I think if they wanted money, they would have stolen property from his apartment. If what you say is true about Alexander selling things, then he is probably in serious trouble with these people.”

“I’m afraid that’s probably true.”

The auctioneer had moved the bidding to $340,000 and was asking for $350,000. He held his gavel over his head. He shouted, “Going once!” then “Going twice!” I heard Muffy mutter
“Oh, fuck it,”
under her breath. She nodded to Amy who shouted and waved again. The auctioneer pointed at Muffy and shouted “$350,000!” He then tried to move the bidding up to $360,000. There weren’t any takers. He shouted, “Gong once!” then “Going twice!” He gave a fair warning, and then brought his gavel down shouting, “
Sold! Sold! Sold!
”

There was scattered applause and a man in the row behind us patted Muffy on the shoulder. Amy bent over to shake Muffy’s hand, but Muffy stood up and instead gave her a hug. A man in a blue suit hustled over to Muffy. He was holding a clipboard with several papers on it.

I got up leave. Muffy looked at me.

“I know you’re doing your best. If you find out anything, call me directly so I don’t have to speak to that idiot Leonard.”

I told her I would.

~~~~

I made my way back to my car and drove home. It was getting late and I was beat. I took off my clothes and tossed them into a pile on the floor. I went to the back of a drawer and found Reno’s old tee-shirt, one I had borrowed from him back when we were dating. I hadn’t worn it for months, but putting it on gave me a warm feeling. I crawled into bed and was asleep within seconds.

~~~~

I woke up to the sun streaming in my bedroom window. I looked at the clock and it was almost 7:30. I had run out of leads and I wasn’t sure where to go next. I put on a pot of coffee and spent an hour going over my notes, but that didn’t give me any brilliant new ideas.

I then took a long shower and that helped me perk up, but didn’t do a lot for my mood. I put on a pair of white shorts and a comfortable blue scoop-neck T-shirt. That didn’t help either. I decided it was time for the heavy mood enhancing drugs.

What I needed was Bar-B-Que. I needed Honey Bear’s. I needed a pulled pork sandwich and a side of beans and cornbread. I wanted to lick the spicy sauce as it dripped down my chin. I didn’t care about calories or trans-fats. I just wanted to gorge on Bar-B-Que.

I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. Honey Bear’s was on Van Buren down by the airport. Somewhat of a long drive for most things on a Saturday morning, but not too far a drive for my favorite Bar-B-Que.

I walked out to my car in the parking lot. I had the key in the door and had just unlocked it when I heard a voice behind me: “Miss Black, please do not make any sudden moves. It would be a shame to have to shoot you.”

Oh shit.

I took my key out of the lock and turned. The man with the gun was tall and dark with broad shoulders and an angular face. His dark hair was cut short. His face was clean-shaven except for a full black mustache. He was dressed in cream-colored linen slacks and jacket over a black shirt. Only his eyes gave away he was cruel and wouldn’t hesitate hurting me. His eyes showed he might even enjoy it.

It was only then I noticed the gun in his hand. It was a cheap chrome plated semi-automatic, a .25 or a .32. It struck me as ironic a man his size had such a small gun. It looked like a toy in his hand.

“Miss Black, you will please come with us.” He spoke with an educated British accent with deep undertones of some accent I didn’t know.

“Sorry,” I said, holding my hands up and backing up. “You’ve got the wrong girl. My name’s Susan and I’m just on my way back to the cathedral. Father O’Brien is saying mass in half an hour and I need get there early to help light the candles.”

I had taken half a dozen steps backwards towards my building when I bumped into something solid. I felt a hand grab a fistful of my hair and pull up hard.

“Look,” the voice behind me said with the same strange accent. “This American slut doesn’t want to talk with us. Shall we teach her manners by now forcing her to pleasure us upstairs in her very own bed?”

“Perhaps later, my brother” the first man said. “Before that, I will talk to her. If her answers displease me, then you may use her in any way you wish.”

The guy behind me must have liked this answer because he started chuckling to himself, even as his grip on my hair tightened. He took my purse from where it was hanging on my shoulder and tossed it to the guy with the gun.

Holding my purse in one hand, he used his gun to wave me to a white Chrysler 300M. I saw the car was parked behind a yellow rental truck on the far side of the lot, out of sight of my apartment. He opened the rear door and followed me in, the gun never wavering. The other man got into the driver’s seat. Only then did I get a good look at him.

He wasn’t as tall as the man next to me and he had an ugly scar that went down the right side of his face. His hair had also been cut short; just a half-inch of curly dark stubble remained. His face was square with a full black mustache and the same cruel eyes. I saw he was about ten years younger than the first man, maybe around twenty-four or twenty-five.

He must have seen me looking at him in the mirror, because he turned to look at me. He broke out in a nasty little grimace and chuckled. He then grabbed his crotch and gave his package a hard squeeze. My stomach knotted up as the implications of the conversation and his actions started to sink in.

“To make things simpler for you,” the first man said. “You may call me Mr. Smith. My brother you may call Mr. Jones. I suggest you use the next few minutes to decide if you want to live.”

The car took off and we headed south. I was hoping these guys would get careless. Each time we slowed for a stop sign or a red light, I glanced sideways at Smith and the gun he was holding. The driver hadn’t locked the doors so I knew I could make a run for it. If he became distracted or took the gun off me, I’d go for it. Of course, my plan rested on the assumption they wouldn’t shoot me as I ran down a crowded city street. I suppose that’s a lot to bet your life on. Unfortunately, each time I glanced over, Smith had his eyes locked onto mine and the gun was pointed squarely at my chest. I was forced to remain still and just go along for the ride.

Damn, I could use a smoke.

We drove down into the manufacturing and warehouse district of south Scottsdale, just south of Curry Road. The driver turned down a side street, then another, then another. This street, which was more dirt than pavement, dead-ended at a group of shabby one and two story block buildings. As close as I could tell, we were just north of the Salt River.

The driver pulled into a dirt-and-gravel parking lot, next to one of the larger buildings. I looked at the parking lot through the car’s window. It was a depressing sight, full of rusted machinery, broken cinder blocks, and trash. A high chain link fence topped with rusted barbed wire surrounded the entire lot.

The driver stopped the car and opened my door. Smith waved his gun as an invitation for me to get out. The three of us entered the building, going into what had been the office reception area. It was empty now, nothing but trash and broken plastic chairs remained.

With Jones leading and Smith following, we went through a battered wooden door. Past the door was a short hallway, which then opened up into a large room.

The room appeared to be the manufacturing area for the former business. It was apparent that at one time this had been a commercial printing shop. The place smelled like a cross between a meth lab and a hot day in a public restroom. Broken glass crunched under our shoes as we walked.

A weak light came in from two dirty skylights. The light showed splotches of dark colors on the otherwise bare concrete floor. A partially disassembled printing press sat in a corner of the room next to a broken-out window. Tall shelves against the wall contained dozens of battered cans of ink. The bright reds, yellows, and blues had dripped over the sides of the cans and seemed out of place when compared to the dead feeling of the rest of the room.