Closure: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 8

  Lulu left us to wait on the Harley riders.

  “Beach,” I said. “Need a favor.”

  “Glory hallelujah, I finally get to do something for you. What is it this time?”

  “May have kicked a hornet’s nest or two. Hoping you could keep an eye on Delores Bernstein. Just in case. Until I see what shakes out.”

  “Tell me about the hornet.”

  I told him about J.D. Fish, how he’d recently done a bunch of work on the Bernstein’s house, and how I didn’t think he was a hornet but anyway.

  “Don’t think Delores mentioned that to the deputies,” Beach said.

  “She said J.D.’s a nice guy, didn’t occur to her to mention it.”

  “Hmmph. Well, I know of Fish. Don’t know much about him.”

  “Run a background on him?”

  “What, I’m your damn assistant now?”

  I looked straight ahead, sipped my coffee.

  “Will do.”

  Then I told him about Bobby G and the feeling I got this morning. Left out most of the detail on how I came to suspect Bobby G. Didn’t want Beach to know about Sam’s FBI connection. Didn’t feel good about concealing information from my friend, especially since my friend was a posse member, and one who helped me with so much inside information. But it was how it was. Usually most people didn’t need to know everything, sometimes didn’t want to, and I was pretty good at deciding how much they needed to know.

  “What made you suspect this Bobby G?” Beach asked, speaking quiet enough that nobody else could hear. He glanced over his shoulder, squeezing the red rubber ball with his left hand. He drank coffee with his right.

  “If I tell you that, I’d have to kill you.”

  “Good luck with that, pardner. I’m still pretty quick at the draw.”

  “Let’s just say I have a source.”

  Beach nodded, seemed OK with that. I was relieved.

  “And you think Bobby G gonna go kill Delores Bernstein for the same reason he killed Tinker Bernstein.

  “Don’t know what Bobby G is going to do. Don’t know who killed Bernstein. Don’t know why. Don’t know if Delores is in danger at all, or if maybe she’s involved.

  “That’s a lot of things you don’t know.”

  “Yeah, that’s how this detective business works. It’s how you know you have a case.”

  “By not knowing a lot of things.”

  “Exactly. Thing is, I just had a bad guy slam his door in my face, so I know he’s not happy with me, and if I’m right, Bobby G—or someone—is going to make some noise.”

  “And you hope he does.”

  “Yep.”

  “Cause then you’ll know who to suspect.”

  “Yep.”

  “You just might be a detective some day.”

  “Thanks, Beach.”

  The lawman glanced over his shoulder again.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t like my back to the door. Any cowboy’ll tell you not to sit with your back to the door.

  “You afraid Doc Holliday gonna come backshoot you?”

  “Or some Bobby G. There’s always somebody out there got shootin’ on his mind, and a lawman’s as good a target as any.”

  “That’s why you always try to take the same table outside.”

  “Yep. With my back against the building, I can see the front door, see the street up and down.”

  “You crack me up, Beach. This ain’t the Wild West anymore.”

  “It ain’t? Whose house I gonna be watching day and night while you’re out chasin’ outlaws?”

  “Touché. So you’ll keep an eye on Delores?”

  “We’ll watch her house twenty-four-seven, follow her she goes anywhere. How ’bout you. You need backup?”

  “I’ve got Solo.”

  “Solo got a gun?”

  “Nope. Just big teeth.”

  “What about you?”

  “My teeth aren’t so big.”

  “A gun, I mean.”

  “Not gonna carry one.”

  “You should. The outlaws do.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You can’t karate-chop your way out of every tight spot. It almost got you killed last time.”

  “Taekwondo.”

  “Same thing,” Beach said.

  “Quite a bit different, actually.”

  “All the same at the end of a 9 millimeter.”

  “Got no choice,” I said. “You know that.”

  “I know. You think the world would be safer if there were fewer guns. If people had to kill someone with their hands, they’d think twice.”

  “Or fail more when they do try,” I said.

  “And maybe if there were fewer guns, Jess would be alive,” Beach said. We were both staring forward, at the orders up from the kitchen, under the heat lamps. “The world ain’t perfect, Quinn. Not even in Pleasant.”

  “You’ll watch Delores.”

  “Nobody gonna get near her.”

  “Thanks Beach. I owe you.”

  I put a twenty and a five on the counter, said goodbye to Lulu, and left.

  Chapter 14

  Fully breakfasted, I drove north up Pleasant Way. Pinnacle Peak loomed, centered by buildings on either side. The morning sun cast sharp shadows, making the mountain all lights and darks. I turned at the entrance to the country club and parked by the gate shack. It was just after eight o’clock.

  I poked my head into the shack. A guard was sitting in a swivel chair, tapping on a keyboard, playing a computer game. Magazines were fanned on the desk, along with manila folders neatly stacked, a stapler, and the tablet computer they used to record license numbers. The guard was young, maybe twenty-three. Thin with pronounced, bony shoulders. A mop of curly brown hair. Not sure he knew I was standing there.

  “What can I help you with?” he said, turning in his chair. His nametag said Martinson. He had a perpetual smile that showed large teeth. He stood up. He was lanky, maybe just under six feet tall, but looked taller than me at first glance. He had a slight stoop you’d expect from an older man.

  “Eli Quinn.” I stuck my hand out. Martinson shook it, not very firmly. “I’m looking into the murder of Tinker Bernstein. Hoping you could help me understand a few things.”

  “My name’s Mike. Mike Martinson. You a cop?”

  Seems everyone was asking me that lately. I had decided to answer it honestly. Whenever that seemed like the best approach. “Private detective. Delores Bernstein hired me.”

  “All right, well. Mr. Bernstein. Yeah, he was a nice guy. Some of the country club people just drive through here, never look at me. Like they’re too good to be seen talking to a security guard. Or maybe they’re pissed to have to wait for me to open the gate that they wanted to live behind. Anyway, Mr. Bernstein always stopped to chat. Wife’s real nice, too.”

  “What did you and Mr. Bernstein talk about?”

  “Nothing in particular. He’d ask how I was. Ask about my son. My wife. He liked to tell me about his projects. I’m building a gaming computer, and he was helping me. He knows a lot about computers.”

  “I hear he was kind of a recluse.”

  Mike Martinson pondered a bit. “Well, now that you mention it, I don’t know that much about him. Usually it was just him asking me about my life. He had a way of getting you into a conversation without ever getting around to talking about himself much. But when I told him I was building a computer, he got real interested. He gave me all kinds of advice, told me he used to work at GE. Engineer or something. Said he’d built several computers himself and actually built motherboards and other parts that go inside.”

  “Let me ask you something else,” I said. “Could someone get in here without you knowing it?”

  “Not unless they walked in, hopped a fence somewhere. This is the only place you can drive in, and we get every license plate number, take down a name, and if you aren’t invited in by a guest or aren’t on the
contractor list, we don’t let you through.”

  “I hear the camera was broken when Tinker Bernstein was killed.”

  “You’re not supposed to know that.”

  “I’m a detective. I know lots of stuff. I also know you’re still taking plates manually, just as backup.”

  “Yep, that’s right. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  I pretended to zip my lips. “So conceivably someone could come through, and if whoever was working the gate wanted to, they could just not write it down.”

  “We can’t do that. Against policy.”

  “Right. And nobody would ever go against policy. You guys split what, three shifts daily?”

  “Yep. It gets complicated with the rotations, but basically we’re on four days, off three, so our days off don’t always line up with the regular weekends. Kinda sucks, but we work less than forty hours a week and get paid like we were full-time, so that’s not so bad.”

  “Can you tell me who was working the night Bernstein was killed?”

  “I’m not supposed to.”

  “It’s against policy.”

  “Totally.”

  “But can you?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Martinson closed the shack door. I had to back off the threshold so it would close. He got on the phone, made a call. I hoped he wasn’t calling his boss. People on the front lines of a company were often better sources of information than their bosses. I could see him and could hear that he was talking, but couldn’t hear the words. Martinson hung up and opened the door.

  “I called Delores Bernstein. She says you’re who you say you are. She said the sheriff hasn’t been able to solve the case, and you think you can. She says you’re good at what you do, and that you’re a good person. That all true?”

  “I have a ton of flaws. But I suppose otherwise that’s mostly true. I’m just trying to solve a murder, and the sheriff has pretty much stopped looking into it.”

  Mike Martinson looked at me a moment. Nodded a couple times. “I tell you, you don’t tell anyone I told you.”

  “Scout’s honor.” I held up three fingers. Changed it to two. Wasn’t sure.

  “Let me look at the log just to make sure.” He pulled a large binder off a shelf and thumbed through it. Pointed at the middle of one page. Yep, that’s what I thought. “Earl was working that night, 3:30 p.m. to midnight.”

  “Earl have a last name?”

  “Johnson.”

  Johnson. The gatemaster who’d stared at Sam.

  “Heavy-set guy, pink-faced?”

  “Yep, that’s Earl.”

  “And what do you think of Earl Johnson?”

  “Don’t like him much. He comes off friendly when he wants to, you know? But he’s the senior guy here, and he’s on a power trip. Treats me like a kid. Treats visitors like they’re lucky to get in under his watch.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. You think he’s the honest, straight-up sort?”

  “Eh, I don’t know. Not sure what it is. Just a feeling. The guy kinda creeps me out, you know? I wouldn’t trust him with something or someone I cared about, I guess.”

  I had run out of questions, so I looked around the guard shack, stalling. “That your magazine?” I pointed at the issue of Make sitting on the office desk.

  “That’s Earl’s. He’s a hobbyist. You know, drones, 3D printing, all that stuff. Kinda like Mr. Bernstein, only not as smart.”

  “They talk much?”

  “Oh, yeah. Our shifts cross over by thirty minutes, gives us time to finish up paperwork or whatever, and one time I listened to Earl and Mr. Bernstein talk up a storm about 3D printing. Sounded like they’d discussed it before, picked up in the middle of a conversation, you know? Like I said, you get Mr. Bernstein going, he’d talk your leg off.”

  “Thanks Mike. You’ve been helpful.”

  “You think Earl Johnson killed him?”

  “No, I don’t. But things are starting to point in certain directions. For now, you could really help me if you don’t mention our conversation to anyone.”

  “You think Earl was involved somehow.”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t rule it out. And until I know more, I’d rather he not know I know anything.”

  “You’re being straightforward with me, but you’re not telling me everything.”

  “Yep.”

  “And if I talk around, I put you and me in danger.”

  “You’ve been reading too many detective novels,” I said. “But yes, that’s possible.”

  “I’ll keep it to myself. You need any more help, let me know. Mr. Bernstein was a good guy, you know? And none of us likes knowing there’s a killer running loose in Pleasant.”

  “Thanks, Mike.” We shook hands. I would’ve given Mike Martinson a business card, but I didn’t have any yet. Made a mental note to get some made. Went back to the Jeep and drove off.

  Chapter 15

  With the ban on retail chain stores, there was no supermarket in Pleasant. There was a small grocery where you could buy milk and other basics, but the selections, particularly of fruits, vegetables and meats, weren’t inspiring. Then there was the farmer’s market on Saturdays, with great local produce seasonally. With all that, I left town about once a week for groceries.

  I had two bags from Whole Foods down off Mayo Boulevard in Scottsdale. It was late and dark when I pulled onto Resolution Way. Across the street and half a block beyond my house was a small sedan, no lights on. A streetlight shone through the back window, so I could see the silhouette of a man sitting in the driver’s seat. Since street parking wasn’t allowed in the residential areas of Pleasant, you didn’t have to be an Einstein to call the car suspicious. And you didn’t have to be a Sherlock to deduce that the driver wasn’t too bright—it would’ve been easy to not park near a streetlight.

  I pulled into my driveway and stopped. I watched the sedan without looking at it. The headlights came on and I heard the engine start. The car moved quickly and swerved over to my side of the street, blocked the driveway. I pulled my iPhone from the holster, opened an app so it’d be ready, then I stepped out of the Jeep.

  The driver got out and came toward me, not fast, not slow. He was taller than me, maybe six-three, with a ridiculously thick neck and weightlifter’s arms bulging from a tight t-shirt. He had a large red scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His nose looked like it had been broken a time or two. A bulge in his right pants pocket looked suspiciously like a small gun.

  “You Quinn?”

  “I am. You the big guy with strong arms come to beat me up?”

  “Don’t fuck with me. I hear you been poking around in business of friend. I come to reason. You stop, I leave you alone. You don’t stop, I break bones. I don’t care which.”

  He had a thick Slavic accent of some sort.

  “There’s a third option,” I said.

  “Is no third option.”

  “I could not stop and you could not hurt me.” I had the iPhone in my left hand. Both arms at my sides. My voice was casual. I wasn’t one to taunt. Never let the opponent suspect what you’re capable of. Reserve the element of surprise. My breathing was even, but I felt the blood pumping through me, felt my muscles tighten like coiled springs.

  The Slav’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. Too many words to digest, apparently. “No third option,” he said. “You been warned.”

  “Please tell me you’re not going to hit me.”

  Predictably, the Slav came at me with a giant roundhouse right hand. I blocked it easily with my left, a high block in which my forearm redirected the punch off to the side. It was the simplest block in the business, and I was able to hang on to the phone. The brute’s momentum carried him into my right fist, which came from belt high like a whip to meet his nose, which broke.

  I jumped quickly backward. Never stay close to a big strong guy. Blood poured from the nose, and he spat some that had trickled into his mouth. If it had been
the first time his nose were broken, the fight might’ve been over. But this guy seemed used to broken noses. He didn’t even reach up to hold it. Instead he reached for his pocket. I used a quick sidekick to smash his hand against his hip. He grunted in pain but didn’t back off. The gun stayed in the pocket.

  I heard Solo bark once in the garage, having come through the doggie door from the house, as I knew he would.

  The Slav moved in, more cautiously this time, with his hands up in classic boxing position. I pushed the button on the app to open the garage door, and a nanosecond later I jumped into the air and smacked the left side of the Slav’s head with my right foot. The big guy was flat on his back just as Solo arrived. The dog dug his front paws into the Slav’s chest, bared his teeth and growled, just loud enough to terrify any human being without alerting the neighbors. I reached around and removed the gun from his pocket. A .38 Special – not a big gun, but plenty effective at close range. Not the gun used in the crime, I knew. Caliber was wrong. He probably wasn’t planning on killing me. Was sent just to break a bone or two. The gun was for just in case.

  I used a detective line I’d learned on TV. “Who sent you?”

  “Fuck you,” he replied. Not a bad comeback. But he didn’t sound as menacing as before, his voice up an octave now as Solo’s teeth hovered a few inches above his nose.

  I used the iPhone to snap a picture of his face.

  “I think you’re the one who’s fucked right now,” I said. “Tell me who sent you or I tell Solo here to go to the next phase of this drill.”