First Kill: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 3

  “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “If it helps find Joe. But you’ll be discreet with this?”

  “As discreet as I can be,” I said.

  She took a deep breath, sighed.

  “OK. You didn’t get this from me. I’m not a gossip, and I can’t afford to get a reputation for being one. And I don’t even know how much of this is true.”

  “I already can’t remember where I heard this.”

  Aahna nodded slowly, three times. “Rumor is Joe and Joanne are swingers.”

  “I see. And you don’t mean fashionable and trendy.”

  “I mean sleeping with other couples.”

  The mess I worried about stepping in just got messier. “Any idea who they swing with?”

  “You thinking of a lifestyle change, Quinn?”

  “Nope. I’ve got Sam Marcos, remember?”

  “I keeel her.”

  “Jeff Dunham,” I said. “Achmed.”

  “Very good.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “No. Not planning to swing. But maybe I’ll need to go check them out, at least.”

  “Should be fun,” she said. She tapped her desk with the fingers of both hands, stalling. Finally she said, “Some people talk more than they should.” She nodded toward the reception room where Becca Jones was filing things.

  I looked over my shoulder at the young woman in the purple ponytail. “And what’s she talk about?”

  “Nothing I’ve heard that would help you. I just get the drift of things from one side of her phone conversations.”

  “So she talks to swingers on the phone at work.”

  “Millennials have a different sense of the workplace than our generation.”

  “You think they use email, too?”

  “Maybe,” Aahna said.

  “You think she’d be dumb enough to use her work email for this?”

  Aahna sighed, shrugged.

  “And you, being the owner of this place, you could access her email.”

  “You mean hack it.”

  “Technically it wouldn’t be hacking. You’re within your rights to monitor her work email.”

  “She’s a good kid. I’d hate to get her in trouble. And anyway, there’s no law against swinging.”

  “If I promise to keep her out of it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For Joe’s sake? For Madison?”

  Aahna sat forward, put her elbows on her desk, hands together in a prayer-like gesture, fingers pressed against her lips. She stared at me a moment, then nodded.

  “Call me?”

  She nodded, and I left.

  Chapter 5

  Solo snored in the corner of my office, curled up on his dog bed. The air conditioner in the front window fought mightily against the heat and humidity. I made coffee, poured a cup, and sat behind my old oak desk in the world’s most comfortable chair, put my running shoes up on the desk, and spent the rest of the afternoon mulling the case.

  There was almost nothing to go on. I had one suspect in Jimmy Mendoza. I ran a background check on him—it’s remarkable what you can find about a person via the internet—and didn’t turn up anything to suggest he was a murderer or a kidnapper. There were dozens of other potential suspects among the many real estate agents in Pleasant who might have a grudge against Joe Mack. And for all I knew, Joe had simply skipped town.

  Meanwhile, my client had lied to me before she was even my client. Madison was an arm-folder, one of those people who always seems to be on guard. Who knows what else she might be hiding. And now the swinging lifestyle had been thrown into the mix. I considered the likelihood that Madison knew her parents were swingers. That’d be another lie, or at least an interesting omission.

  “Why the hell did I take this case?”

  Solo stopped snoring long enough to open one eye and sneeze, shaking his head, then he went back to sleep. Solo was really good at finding and attacking bad guys. And sleeping. Not much of a conversationalist.

  I knew why I’d taken the case, though. Despite her tough exterior, Madison Mack was genuinely worried about her father. I knew what it was like to lose someone important. Plus, from everything I knew, Joe Mack was a good guy, an upstanding businessman, a father whose daughter loved him. I looked over the stack of bills on the edge of my desk. The reasons to take the case outweighed the reasons not to.

  ***

  I answered my iPhone on the first ring. “Hey, Aahna.”

  “I feel dirty, Quinn.”

  “You got into her email.”

  “First I’m a gossip. Now I’m a hacker. Remind me why I’m helping you?”

  “Because you love the Macks?”

  Aahna forced a cough.

  “Because you’re a good person, and this is the right thing to do?”

  “Eh.”

  “Because I’m a hunk?”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “What’d you learn?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Becca doesn’t use her work email for anything inappropriate.”

  That was no surprise. Email was to a millennial what the written letter was to a baby boomer. “She text a lot?”

  “Constantly,” Aahna said.

  I thought about that. The outlines of an idea formed quickly.

  “Quinn?”

  “I’m here,” I said. Then I told her what I had in mind.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Aahna. You don’t want to drag Becca into this mess. I understand. But from where I sit, it looks like she might be in the middle of it already. I could just go talk to her, but then she’d be involved for sure, and she might do something stupid, I don’t know, even put herself in danger. I need to know what’s going on, and if she hasn’t done anything wrong, then I’ll keep her out of it.”

  “And your plan will do all that.”

  “Might.”

  She hesitated just a moment. “When?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I hung up and called Sam, explained the scheme to her. Then I woke Solo up and we headed out to the Jeep.

  ***

  I drove back to Aahna Chaudhari’s office, left Solo in the Jeep with the top down in the shade, and walked back into the office with the perpetual sunset.

  “Me again,” I said to Becca. “To see Aahna again.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “That’s OK. I’ll wait.”

  “She might be awhile. You can have a seat if you like.” She gestured to the guest chairs.

  “Thank you,” I said, polite as could be. I took a seat and, without letting her see my phone, sent the prewritten group text to Sam and Aahna to let them know I was ready, then I slipped the phone into my back pocket.

  Becca’s cell phone rang. She answered, said hello, and frowned.

  “It’s for you,” she said. “Someone named Samantha. She said it’s an emergency and you’re not answering your phone.”

  I reached to the holster on my hip. “Ah, crap. I left it at the office. How’d Sam get your number?”

  “She called Aahna.” Becca handed me her phone. “Here.”

  “Hey Sam, what’s up?”

  “You’re welcome,” Sam said. “Good luck.” And she hung up.

  I uttered some words of concern. “Yeah … Uh-huh … You’re sure? … Oh, no.” I was running out of words when Aahna came through the door, the day’s heat billowing in around her.

  “Quinn,” she said.

  I held up a finger to show I was busy. “Uh-huh … OK … Sure I can.”

  Aahna spoke to Becca: “C’mere, I need to show you something.” She led Becca into her office to look at who knows what.

  While Becca was in Aahna’s office, her back to me, I flipped through her text messages. There were several just from today. I scrolled down, found one that started “It’ll be fun” and opened the thread, an exchange with someone named Donovan Fisk. Didn’t take long to get the gist. “Just a t
oga … they r open-minded … u will love the lifestyle … tonite at 9.”

  I scrolled back further and found a text from Jimmy Mendoza. “U, donovan if he’s game, me n rachael, bo n his wife.”

  I closed the messaging app and opened the phone app, then hit the off button, walked into Aahna’s office and gave Becca her phone. “Thank you,” I said. “Emergency resolved. All is well.”

  Aahna handed Becca a folder. “The list is in here,” she said. “Go ahead and start now.” Becca took the folder, with whatever made-up work was in it, excused herself around me and went back to her desk.

  I closed the door and sat in the client chair facing Aahna. She was paler than usual.

  “It’s a dirty job,” I said.

  “It’s your dirty job.” She curled a lip in disgust. “Don’t ask me to do that again.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “And thank you.”

  She nodded. “What’d you find?”

  “I’m going to try and go swinging tonight.”

  “Who with?”

  “You won’t believe it,” I said.

  “I’ll believe just about anything at this point.”

  “Jimmy Mendoza and his wife.”

  “Rachael.” Aahna smirked, but didn’t look too surprised. The color was back in her face.

  “I thought Jimmy and Joe Mack don’t get along.”

  “They’ve had their disagreements,” Aahna said. “Jimmy’s a loudmouth, real hothead.”

  “I’ve seen.”

  “Just about every agent in town has been on the receiving end of one of his tirades at some point. He actually punched one of my agents once.”

  “Real estate’s a tough business, I hear.”

  “Jimmy had an offer on a house, my agent swooped in with a cash offer from a Canadian buyer. It was two grand less than Jimmy’s offer, but the buyer took the cash. Jimmy was so mad, he just lost it.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Nothing broken. Jimmy apologized. He’s not a bad guy. Just can’t control his temper. Anyway, Jimmy and Joe both have good-looking wives, and I suppose men will see past business for one thing.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Anyone else?” Aahna sounded interested now. I might’ve kept the names to myself, but I trusted her, and she was giving me good insights in return.

  “Someone named Bo,” I said. “I assume that’s Bo Rollins, the former Mets pitcher.”

  “Probably a good guess. Bo works for Park Realtors. I’ve seen him hanging out socially with Jimmy before. Bo sells a few houses, but he’s a minor leaguer in real estate. Moves maybe one a month.”

  “I used to live in New York,” I said. “Wasn’t exactly a fan of Rollins, but…”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a Mets fan.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Poor thing,” she said.

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s cocky. You know, a former ballplayer, tall and good-looking. He thinks the world owes him something.”

  “Hell, his lifetime ERA was 4.52,” I said. “He owes Mets fans something.”

  “I don’t know much about that. But he’s got a sexy wife, too. Bleach-blonde hair, gym body, fake, um, assets, like the others. Hasn’t worked a day in her life.”

  “So these three real estate agents have their wives on the market, as it were.”

  “I don’t know how it works,” Aahna said. “But from the rumors I’ve heard, the men are on the market, too.”

  “And someone named Donovan Fisk. He’s your secretary’s current squeeze, it seems.”

  “Don’t recognize the name. Becca’s love life is a revolving door. And apparently swingers are always seeking new recruits. Rumor is they leave the garage door partway open as a signal. Other swingers cruise around Pleasant looking for the signal.”

  “Lotta rumors,” I said.

  “Lotta crazy stuff.”

  I nodded at that. “Thanks, Aahna,” I said. “You’ve helped.”

  “I hope you’ll return the favor someday.”

  “If it weren’t for Sam Marcos, I’d certainly consider it.”

  Chapter 6

  As darkness fell the next day, the tall man went out to the shed, unlocked it, snipped the zip ties from the real estate agent’s ankles, and yanked him to his feet. He left the man’s wrists tied, mouth duct taped. The agent would be hungry and dehydrated, more than a day in the shed. No energy, no resistance. Quiet. Unseen. Easy.

  He would’ve done this last night, but he had to wait for an opportunity when he wouldn’t be seen. Now it was time, and it would be over quickly. He was looking forward to it.

  The man twisted fruitlessly, tried to kick his captor and stumbled as he was pushed out of the shed, then around the side of the house, and down a trail out back.

  Failed thunderclouds collapsed for the day, their hot wind rushing across the dark mesa. The tall man removed his black baseball cap, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, put the cap back on and pulled it down over his eyes.

  They were nearly a quarter mile out behind the back of the rundown house.

  The agent tried to run, and the tall man was on him in three steps, simply tripped him and let him fall face-first onto the hard desert dirt. He grabbed an elbow and pulled the man to his feet, said don’t do that again, and pushed him on.

  The trail narrowed. No other people were in sight. No buildings. Just parched earth, a black night with stars above, ringed by the failing clouds that had promised rain but refused to deliver.

  They stopped at the edge of a small gully, under a giant, dense mesquite. The tall man pulled a switchblade from his pocket, came up from behind and slit the agent’s throat. He gave the dying man a quick shove into the gully and returned to the rundown house to wash the knife.

  Chapter 7

  Like any good swinger, I waited until after ten o’clock, then cruised Pleasant looking for a garage door partway open. It wasn’t a random search. I had three addresses to check: The Mack residence, Bo Rollins’ house, and Jimmy Mendoza’s. The first two were in the country club, where the richer half, and those that wanted to seem that way, lived.

  The logic was simple: Among real estate agents in a small town, sparks sometimes fly. When they cross paths socially, the sparks sometimes become flames. When they start sharing lovers, well, I could only imagine. I didn’t have many leads to follow on this case, so a lover’s den seemed like a good place to start.

  The night was sticky. Thunderheads had built all day, teasing the possibility of rain, then flattened out and dissipated in the evening, leaving their moisture hanging in the air like a small bathroom after a hot shower.

  I turned the red Jeep Wrangler off Pleasant Way at the gated entrance. A guy named Mike Martinson, who’d helped me zero in on the Bernstein murder a few weeks back, manned the guard shack. Mike and other guards made sure everyone coming in and out of the gated portion of Pleasant was a resident or an invited guest. He came out with his big smile, big teeth, lanky frame and the slight stoop that made him seem older than the twenty-something he was.

  “Hey, Mr. Quinn,” he said, his hair flopping across his forehead. “Another murder?”

  “Not sure yet,” I said. “For now I’m just looking for romance. Let me in?”

  “You know the rules,” he said. “Gotta have permission from a homeowner to get in.”

  “You heard about Joe Mack?”

  “Sure. That realtor who disappeared yesterday. Everybody’s talking about it.”

  “I think he’d say it’s OK to let me in.” Mike and I had developed trust on the Bernstein case. I had little doubt he’d help me out.

  “So you’re on the case.”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me more than I need to know.”

  “Mike, who’s the detective here?”

  Mike smiled his goofy smile. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Yeah, actually. And you’ll keep it between us?”<
br />
  “You know me,” Mike said.

  “The Macks throw a lot of parties?”

  “Now and then, sure.”

  “And anyone who comes to the party has to sign in here at the gate.”

  “Yep. Unless they live in the country club.”

  “A list of who comes to his parties would be interesting to me.”

  “I can’t do that, Mr. Quinn. It’d get me fired.”

  “But if I guessed a name on the list, you could confirm it.”

  Mike looked both ways. Nobody was around. “No way, Mr. Quinn. Can’t do it. Nope. Sorry.”

  “Jimmy Mendoza?”

  Mike looked up at the sky, looked around, grinned a little.

  “Thanks Mike. The other thing you can do is let me in.”

  “If I do, you won’t tell anyone?”

  “Pinky swear.”

  “And you won’t shoot anybody?”

  “I don’t carry a gun, remember?”

  “And you won’t start any fights?” Mike crossed his arms.

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “I read what you did to that drone guy the other day. He’s barely alive. Looks like he clocked you a couple times, too.” Mike pointed at my face.

  “But I’m fully alive,” I said.

  Mike Martinson grinned and the gate went up. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Quinn.”

  ***

  My iPhone guided me to the Mack house, the route meandering around two golf courses. There were no cars in the driveway, none at the curb, and the garage door was closed. The lights in the house were on but there was no evidence of a party. I considered knocking on the door, but wanted to learn more about who was swinging with whom before approaching Joanne Mack alone, and before confronting Madison about how much she really knew.

  I pulled away and followed the phone’s GPS to Bo Rollins’ place. The lights were all off and the garage door closed.

  I wound my way out of the country club, thanked Mike Martinson at the gate, and headed to Jimmy Mendoza’s house.

  Right on Inspiration Way, left on Opportunity Trail, wondering who the hell named the streets of Pleasant. Ahead, a red BMW and a white Infinity were parked across the street and halfway down the block from Jimmy Mendoza’s place. The rest of the street was empty. The driveway was empty. Swingers probably didn’t want to make it obvious where they were swinging.