A Deadly Business (16 page)
Newsweek
was no more. Same for the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
. And the
Seattle Times
seemed awfully light these days. Even books had been turned into ones and zeroes.
Everything was online, but only when he was actively working a crime was Charlie allowed to search the law enforcement databases. Requests were audited, and if anyone saw activity that didn’t look like it belonged, they’d contact Internal Affairs in a heartbeat. He could get days off, maybe even fired. Technically he shouldn’t even have requested the reports about Scott’s accident. At least he had done that over the phone, so he hadn’t left any electronic footprints.
But luckily the Seattle PD also subscribed to LexisNexis. And since it was available to anyone willing to pay the subscription fee, requests to it weren’t audited. Charlie typed
Betty Eastman
into the search box. Up popped several choices, but only one in Seattle. Five seconds later he had more than enough information on Betty to track her down. Phone numbers, addresses past and present, education, marriage records, licenses, criminal records—even death records. Twenty-two years old, Elizabeth Eastman had never been married, and she hadn’t died. She had a Washington State driver’s license and had lived at a string of addresses. She had one criminal conviction, for drunk driving a year earlier.
With his personal cell, Charlie tried the phone number listed, but all he got was a message saying it had been disconnected. He went back to the computer.
Under education it showed that Betty had been an accounting student at the University of Washington. That might explain where Scott had met her. But it didn’t explain where she was now. Because the most recent term she had attended was last spring, and she hadn’t finished.
Betty’s job history was even older, a patchwork of various fast-food jobs ranging from McDonald’s to Pizza Hut and Taco Time. The last had been about a year ago, and the work she had done for Scott didn’t show up.
So, if Betty wasn’t working and she wasn’t going to school, what was she doing now?
All he was left with was her address. Because it included a unit number, Charlie assumed it belonged to an apartment. He clicked on it, which brought up other names associated with it.
There was just one. Jared Johannsen. Another U-Dub student, only he was majoring in marketing. He had lived in the apartment about three months longer than Betty. She had moved in about a year ago, about the same time she stopped working at Taco Time.
If Betty wasn’t working and she wasn’t at school, she might be at home.
Charlie pulled his keys from his pocket. It was time to take a little jaunt.
Was he stupid to be chasing after a theory he might never be able to prove, let alone arrest anyone for? But someone had left two children without a father, a good woman without a husband. Someone had wanted Scott Quinn dead and then made sure he was. A lot of murders were personal, stemmed from relationships gone wrong. And any relationship between a married man and a girl about half his age was sure to go wrong.
And there was Mia. Lately Charlie found himself thinking of
her far more than he should. Of the way she nodded her head. The little humming sound she made when she was thinking. He had seen her angry, intent, questioning. What he most wanted was to see her happy.
The building where Betty and Jared lived had all the charm of a complex that catered to students. Low-slung, it was made of cement blocks and painted in various shades of beige that probably reflected an ongoing effort to cover up tags. A Hispanic guy dressed in a silvery-gray coat and with a leaf blower on his back was determinedly blowing approximately half a dozen leaves across a strip of muddy grass in the center of the courtyard.
Charlie knocked on the door of unit 103. The young man who opened it was tall, six two or six three. Straight black hair parted on the side. Piercing blue eyes. With his square, cleft chin, he looked kind of like Superman.
“I’m looking for Betty Eastman,” Charlie said. “Is she here?”
The kid tilted his head. “You’re him, aren’t you?”
Charlie decided to go with it. He nodded.
The last thing he saw was the kid’s fist.
Heading straight for his face.
M
ia had never been in Oleg’s Gems and Jewels before, even though the shop was only a few blocks from her office. She must have driven or walked past it hundreds of times, but all that was visible from the street were two heavy wooden doors with no windows, just the name of the store spelled out in ornate gold script. The
O
in Oleg had been replaced with the drawing of a diamond.
Now Mia pushed open one of the doors and caught her breath. Inside it was so light and airy it felt like stepping into a sunlit meadow. The carpet was a pale gold. Rows of recessed spotlights lit up the long display cases. Adding to the open feeling, the bottoms of the cabinets weren’t made of wood but mirrors. At the back of the room, a large white globe lamp glowed like the sun itself.
But what really drew the eye were the golden cutouts of butterflies and birds strung on clear filaments that ran from ceiling to floor along the sides of the room. As she moved they fluttered in the air, catching the light.
Mia was the only customer. She hadn’t heard any bell or buzzer, but a few seconds later a girl glided in from a door set flush with the wall and painted the same color. Her dark hair was pulled back into
an elaborate low bun that showed off her long neck and dangling earrings. Her tall black sandals were held in place by two thin straps, and she wore a black, formfitting, cap-sleeved dress slivered with black lace inserts.
“Are you looking for something in particular, madam?” Her accent sounded Eastern European, the
l
coming from the back of the throat. Her skin was so smooth and poreless that Mia felt desiccated by comparison.
“Is Oleg Popov available?”
“Whom shall I say is inquiring?”
“Mia Quinn. You can tell him that my husband was Scott Quinn.”
Not a flicker marred the girl’s face. She simply nodded and turned away. While she waited, Mia leaned over one of the glass cases. Inside were necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. They ranged from large stones in simple settings to elaborate pieces covered with dozens of glittering diamonds. A king’s ransom in a single glass case. Scanning the room, she spotted three cameras, and guessed there must be more that were hidden.
A stocky man entered through the same door the girl had used. His cheeks were red and round, and his hairline had receded into a perfect M, leaving a prominent widow’s peak. He wore a pale turquoise shirt open-necked under a black wool suit. When he walked around the counter, Mia saw the red Prada stripe on the heel counter of his shoes.
“Mrs. Quinn,” he said, stretching out a square hand that bore rings on every finger. “My heart broke for you when I heard about Scott’s accident. I am so sorry for your loss.” The syllables fell out of his mouth one by one in a low, slow monotone.
“Thank you.” She glanced over her shoulder. Even though they were ostensibly alone, she couldn’t help feeling they had an audience. “Is there a place we could talk in private?”
“Of course.” If he was curious, his still-smiling face didn’t show it.
He led her back through the same door. Mia was reminded of
being backstage. Behind the scenes, the glamour fell away. Here the lights were fluorescent, the painted walls marred with scuff marks. Two old desks that didn’t match faced each other. A plump older woman sat at one of them, talking on the phone in a low voice. No one sat at the other desk, where the computer screen showed rotating scenes of the shop from a half dozen camera angles. It reminded Mia of the shopping cart case and the decisions she needed to make.
A second dark-haired young woman was signing for a delivery, but it wasn’t from UPS or FedEx. The driver was dressed all in black and wore a gun on his hip. Oleg paused to murmur something in the woman’s ear. The woman looked up at him with heavily lined dark eyes and nodded.
Oleg led Mia to the end of the hall, past a bathroom and a tiny kitchen area. His big office was cluttered and windowless. On top of the desk sat both a microscope and a magnifying lamp. The wing-back leather chair behind the desk looked like it belonged in a home, not an office. The leather was scarred from hard use, although there was a shiny spot in the middle where Oleg must rest his head.
A black-and-chrome chair faced the desk, but a woman’s black leather jacket was draped across it. “So sorry,” Oleg said as he picked it up and hung it on the back of the door. “My girlfriend can be very careless with her things.”
Mia nodded. What was the best way to approach this? “It’s actually Scott I wanted to talk to you about,” she ventured.
“He was my accountant for two years. A very good one. I put everything into his hands and I trusted his advice.” Oleg smiled, one side of his mouth moving higher than the other.
Mia thought of the IRS letter. Was he saying that any errors had been Scott’s and Scott’s alone?
She took a deep breath. “After Scott died I cleaned out his office, but I didn’t have time to go through the paperwork until a few days ago. I found some papers I think are yours.”
She had sorted through it all a second time, setting aside anything with Oleg’s name or the name of his business. She had gathered ledger sheets, receipts for various bills, utility statements, and bills of lading for shipments of jewelry from all over the world: Belgium, Columbia, South Africa.
And before she had come here, she had photocopied them all.
Mia handed over the file. “I know it’s not really my business, but I couldn’t help but notice that the IRS sent you an audit notice about two weeks before Scott died. I hope he was able to get things resolved before, um, before the accident.”
Oleg waved one hand. “Yes, yes, we had a meeting, but it was all a simple mistake. Once your husband went over the paperwork with the IRS agent, he realized they were in error.”
She nodded. Had Scott told the IRS the truth? She remembered what Charlie had said, about how easy it would be to hide profits in Oleg’s line of work.
“There’s something else I wanted to ask you about,” she said slowly, reaching into her purse. She brought out the black jeweler’s box and handed it to him. “Can you tell me how much this is worth?”
Oleg snapped it open. His face betrayed nothing. He turned on the light on the magnifying mirror and began to examine the ring, turning it back and forth.
“I know this ring,” he said, turning off the light. “It is very well made. For what it is.”
“What do you mean, for what it is?” Mia’s stomach started to churn.
“The band is eighteen-karat white gold, but the stones—I am afraid they are cubic zirconia.” He slipped the ring back into its box and snapped it shut.
“You mean they’re fake?”
“I am so sorry.” He looked at her pityingly, and Mia realized he thought that Scott had given her the ring, told her it was real.
“Scott bought it from me a few months before the accident. We have another store that sells well-made costume jewelry. Not everyone wants or appreciates the real thing.” He made a face. “But as I said, for what it is, it is well-made. Often you will see these types of rings made with cheap silver and flimsy settings, but I will not carry those. Even if it is costume, it is high-quality costume. Of course, if it were real, with that cut and clarity, it would be worth about thirty.”
“Thirty what?” Mia asked incredulously.
“Thirty thousand.”
She started to laugh. It all seemed so ironic. Ironic and stupid. Scott had bought his girlfriend a fake ring to commemorate their equally false relationship.
Oleg pushed back the magnifying mirror. “Are you all right?”
Mia was still laughing. But when she put her hand to her cheek, it came away wet with tears.
Oleg looked alarmed. “If there is a problem with money, I could buy it back. It cost seven or eight hundred.”
Mia knew that this time he meant dollars. “No, no. I’ll keep it.” And every time she was tempted to feel sorry for Scott, she would take it out and look at it. Remember how he had cheated on her. And how he had planned to cheat his stupid, starry-eyed girlfriend with a ring that only looked like the real thing.
Oleg cleared his throat. “Is there anything else I could help you with today?” He appeared anxious for her to leave.
“No. I guess that’s it.”
They got to their feet, and he ushered her out into the corridor. The young woman had opened the top box of the delivery she had signed for. Inside were large rhinestone-encrusted pendants in bright yellows and blues, so gaudy they could qualify as bling.
Oleg barked a few words in Russian, and the woman hurriedly closed the box and set it aside. He turned to Mia. “For our other shop. Costume jewelry. No one dresses up anymore. Women do not
want the cocktail rings, the tennis bracelets, the statement necklaces. They don’t understand the value of having something real. It’s all disposable these days.”
Mia raised an eyebrow. “Yes. It certainly seems that way.”
W
ith a groan Charlie opened his eyes. He was on the ground, and someone was leaning over him. An astronaut? He blinked, and the figure resolved into the gardener in his silvery-gray coat, the air tank his leaf blower. He was dabbing at Charlie’s nose with a crumpled tissue, now spotted with bright red blood.
“You want I should call the police?” the gardener asked.
“I am the police.” Charlie put his hand to his nose and gingerly moved it from side to side. He didn’t think it was broken. When that happened, it felt crunchier. He was just lucky that he had landed next to the walkway instead of on it.
Jared was leaning against the concrete wall with his head in his hands. Now he stared at Charlie. “Wait. You’re not Scott?” If he was acting, he was doing a good job of it.
“No.” He slowly got to his feet, ignoring how the world swayed and righted itself. The gardener stretched out his arms as if he were either going to catch Charlie or prevent him from hitting Jared in turn. Charlie pinched just below the bridge of his nose, but when he swiped the fingers from his other hand underneath, the blood already seemed to have stopped.