Time on the Wire (18 page)
Authors: Jay Giles
“Bob got rich before I met him,” Harry Costella said. He got out a big white handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, looked carefully at the results, stuck the handkerchief back in the pocket of his shorts. “While I knew him he only got richer,” he added with a grin.
“Doing what?” Hanna asked.
“Well, a little of this, little of that. He had his hand in a lot of pots, you see. He was in import/export, land development, manufacturing, even movies. Bob had the touch. Everything, and I do mean everything, he touched turned to gold.”
“Any idea of his net worth?”
Harry nodded several times, “Somewhere above $300 million.”
“Wow.”
“After he retired, he doubled his money in the stock market. Every now and then, he’d say to me, ‘Harry, buy this or that.’ I always did it, always made money on his tips.”
“Mr. Smith said you two were good friends.”
“The best. We had good time, Bob and me.”
“What did the two of you do together?”
“Golf. We’d play at the drop of a hat. We played all the famous courses, too. Bob would charter a plane. We’d fly off, play Firestone, Pebble Beach. Of course, that was before Bob’s troubles started.”
“His troubles?”
“Well, he was a smoker all his life. One of his businesses had something to do with tobacco. I’m not sure what, but I do know Bob liked to smoke. Lit one cigarette from the last. Don’t think I ever saw him without a cigarette in his hand. Then the breathing problems started.”
“Emphysema?”
“Yeah. Oh, it was bad, too. Bob went through hell trying to quit. Finally, had to. They took out half a lung, put him on oxygen.”
“He had lung cancer?”
“Spot on his lung, yeah.” He nodded, got a far away look in his eyes. “When he got his strength back—after he had the operation—we palled around again, did things. When we went out, he’d use this little portable oxygen tank. I was with him when the thing conked out. Just quit giving him air. Bob couldn’t breath. I rushed him to the hospital. Got him there in time. But it scared him something terrible. Wouldn’t trust those portable oxygen outfits ever again. Started staying in his condo.” He shook his head. “He hasn’t left his place in, gosh, five years. Maybe longer.”
“What did he do cooped up in there all day?”
Harry got out his handkerchief, blew his nose again, wadded up the handkerchief, stuck it back in his pocket. “Books and movies, at first. Some cards. Then he discovered the internet, spent all day at the computer.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing everything, that’s what. He founded two computer companies, had sixty people working for him at one point. Pretty impressive, huh?”
Hanna smiled encouragingly, nodded.
“He started collecting over the internet. I remember, there for a while it was fountain pens. Then he wanted something more challenging and he got into relics. He was buying these ancient statues and crosses from all over the world. I told him some of that stuff was from robbed graves, probably illegal. Hell, he didn’t care. It was the chase, the acquisition that turned him on.”
“Did he make financial transactions over the internet?”
“Sure. Handled banking and brokerage that way. One of those big computers up there?”
“Yes.”
“Strictly to handle his financial stuff. Needed a whole computer just for that.”
“What did he do on the other computers?”
“The other big one he used to buy and sell stuff. The little one was his computer game.”
“Computer game? What kind of computer game?”
“Couldn’t tell you. But I know that little computer was where he played his games, competed with other people on other computers. He’d play a game for days at a time. He really got into it. Loved it.”
“When was the last time you two were together?”
Harry screwed up his face. “Well, we talked on the phone every day. Last time I was up to his place was, maybe, a week ago.”
“Was he in good spirits? Anything troubling him?”
“You mean other than getting old?”
Hanna smiled.
“Nah, he was feeling good.”
“Tell me about his son Tom. Did you know him, well?”
“Tommy, sure. Apple of his father’s eye. He lives in Europe, Paris, I think, running his Dad’s import/export company. I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, but I know he and his Dad talked on the phone a lot. Close relationship those two.”
“Did Bob have any other children?”
“No. Just Tommy.”
“What about Mrs. Ruhl? What can you tell me about her?”
“Not a hell of a lot. Bob didn’t talk about her. She died years ago, before I met him.”
“Was there another lady in his life?”
Harry wheezed. Only later did Hanna realize he was laughing. “With his money, are you kidding. In the old days, women were always trying to get at him. But that all stopped. Bob didn’t like them seeing him on oxygen. I don’t think he’d seen a woman since the operation.”
“Who did he see on a regular basis?”
“Well, just the people in the building, the people who worked for him—a cook, cleaning lady, guy who got him things.”
“Anybody you know who might wish him harm?”
“Bob? No. I mean, there might have been people jealous of his money, but I don’t think anybody had a legitimate ax to grind with him.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Costella. I appreciate you talking with me.”
Harry’s eyes suddenly turned hard, his lower lip quivered. “Find the bastard who killed him. Find the bastard who killed my best friend.”
“Mayfield Clinic,” the female voice said.
“Maggie, it is Dieter. I trust doctor is available.”
“Yes, Mr. Albrecht. As you requested, he is ready to receive your call.”
“Thank you, Maggie, “Albrecht had time to say before he was placed on hold.
“Mr. Albrecht,” the doctor’s deep voice was tinged with annoyance, “Maggie said it was urgent we speak.”
“I apologize for drawing you away from your patients,” Albrecht said in a deferential tone, “but this may be our last conversation, and I wanted you to hear these things directly from me.”
“Oh?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news. I have not felt well for some time. My condition has been misdiagnosed until now but has been identified as pancreatic cancer.”
“My, God.”
“I am in the final stages. The doctors here have told me I don’t have much longer, a week or two at the most.”
“You must come here to the clinic, Mr. Albrecht. Let us look at you.”
“Thank you for that kind offer, doctor, but I no longer have the strength to travel. My final days will be here by the sea, my ashes scattered from the boat that has given me so much enjoyment.”
“There are treatments—”
“It has progressed too far. The important thing now is that Alma’s care continue uninterrupted. I have made financial arrangements for that, and I want you to know what they are.”
“Mr. Albrecht, you know Alma’s care—”
“Is expensive. I have made Mayfield Clinic the beneficiary of a $10,000,000 life insurance trust and I have named you, doctor, and Alma’s brother, Wilhelm, co-executors. Once I pass, that money will be deposited in a Swiss bank. A representative from the bank will contact you and make arrangements for meeting the costs of Alma’s care. Is this arrangement satisfactory with you?”
“Of course. It is more than satisfactory. I am not concerned about money,” the doctor said insincerely, “I am concerned about you. Is there nothing that can be done?”
“The doctors say not, and I believe them. My death is for the best. The cost of Alma’s care has taken all my assets. All I have left is the house. I would have had to put that up for sale. Soon that money would be gone, too. This way, the insurance will take care of Alma. She can continue in your excellent care, doctor.”
“Her care is important. She is in a very productive phase right now, making notable progress.”
“I am glad to receive such a glowing final report. This will be my last call to you. There are no phones at the hospice where I will be saying. Know that the banker will be contacting you shortly, and watch over Alma in my absence, doctor. She is a good woman. Good night.”
Albrecht replaced the receiver in the cradle, made himself a Scotch, took it up on deck to enjoy the harbor’s evening air.
He would miss this boat after he turned it in tomorrow. He would have a view of the sea from the house in which he would be staying, but it wasn’t as satisfying as viewing it from the wheel of a sailboat.
Hanna left Harry’s apartment, rode the elevator to the penthouse level. As she doors opened, she saw a black body bag on a gurney, the M.E., an attendant, standing on either side.
“Hello, Hanna,” said Doc C., as the attendant pushed the gurney on. “I’ve done all I can here. Preliminary cause of death is asphyxiation, time of death—20-to-24 hours ago. I’ll have more for you tomorrow.” The doors closed, they were gone.
Hanna walked in the living room, found the crime scene team dusting and bagging.
Milt raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Learn anything interesting?”
“That he had emphysema, hadn’t left the apartment in years, was loved by everyone.”
Milt pushed his glasses up on his nose. “That clears everything up for me,” he said sarcastically.
Hanna wasn’t misled by his tone of voice. She knew he was processing puzzle pieces of information, trying to find a fit. “Milt, my gut tells me the answer to the whole thing—the kidnapping, the deaths—is here in this condo.”
Milt’s gaze danced around the room. “No doubt. The trouble will be finding it in all this stuff.”
“Is Sean here? Has he started on the computers?”
“You’d think he’d died and gone to heaven.”
Hanna found him sitting in front of one of the Cray computers, munching from a bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. “Hey, Hanna, pretty cool, huh? Cray X1 supercomputers. These babies fly.”
“It that the one with the financial information?”
“Yeah.” He pulled a cookie out of the bag, popped it in his mouth.
“Have you gone upscale, Sean? Since when have you eaten Pepperidge Farm cookies?”
“It was all I could find in the kitchen—”
“Sean.” Hanna smacked him on the shoulder. “You’re not supposed to raid the kitchen at a crime scene.”
“Had to. They hustled me out of the office before I could gather up a stash.” He looked at her, grinned. “You know I suffer from low blood sugar.”
“I’ll believe it when I see the note from your doctor.” She pointed him back to the monitor. “Keep at it. I need to know everything on that computer—every account, every amount.” This was Hanna’s forte. She was looking forward to analyzing Ruhl’s financial data.
“I’m going to need snacks to keep me going, like a two-litter of Dew. Dude had nothing to drink.”
“This is a crime scene, Sean. I’m not catering in Twinkies and Little Debbie’s so you can maintain a good sugar buzz. Get your work done, pig out on your own time.”
“Harsh, Hanna. Harsh.”
“Print everything out for me, Sean. Let Milt or me know when you’ve finished with this computer, then start on the Mac. You’ll like that one even better. I understand it’s strictly for online gaming.”
Sean eyed the Mac. “I’m all over it.”
“I’m going to want an analysis of what types of games he played, which specific games he played the most. In terms I can understand, Sean.”
“Might take me a while.”
“Remember, you’re an investigator, not a player.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Hanna. I am such a player.” He grinned, reached for another cookie.
Hanna was about to answer when her cell vibrated. She looked at caller ID. Miles. Hanna put the phone to her ear as she walked out of the study. “Hi.”
“It’s Miles, just calling to see what you’re doing.”
Hanna smiled, opened the sliding doors to the terrace, walked outside. She had a panoramic view of the Gulf. “Your friend, Ms. Silber has been busy. I’m at the scene of her latest victim.”
“Oh.”
“Multi-millionaire Robert Ruhl—he may have been the mastermind behind all this.”
“Ruhl? Why does that name sound familiar?’
Hanna watched two white speedboats race across the water. “The dead man we found with Beck on Lido was his son, Tom Ruhl.”
“Interesting. A father, son team. That has to be unusual?”
“You run across them from time to time, but it’s not common, no.”
“This is probably not a good time to ask—while you’re dealing with a murder—but I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner tomorrow night.”
She’d be swamped for the next 48-hours. Still, she had to eat. “Dinner sounds great. Let me call you tomorrow afternoon, if that’s okay, and we’ll figure out a time.” From behind her, Hanna heard someone calling her name. “Listen, Miles, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. She rang off, opened the sliding door, stepped into the living room.
“Hanna,” the voice called out in agony, “you can’t keep me here without nourishment.”
“Hate to say I told you so,” Milt Walger said as he lifted a fingerprint off the doorframe leading into the office.
Hanna watched him label the print, file it. “Sugar withdrawal is never pretty.”
Sean was oblivious to the sarcasm. “I’m dying here, people.”
“Milt, any reason Sean can’t take the computers back to the Bureau?”
Walger looked up from what he was doing, pushed his glasses back on his nose, shook his head. “I don’t have any problem releasing them now. We printed them before he got here. I was going to take them back to the shop, anyway, when we finished up.”
“Yes.” A yell emerged from the study. Sean waltzed into the living room playing air guitar and singing the opening from Stairway to Heaven: “Hanna’s a lady who shows all that glitters is gold. And she’s buying a stairway to heaven. When Hanna gets there she knows—”
Hanna silenced him with a look. “Sean, you’re not going anywhere until I have those printouts. All of them.”
He scurried back to the study, returned with a foot-high stack of paper, bowed as he presented it to Hanna. “For you, my lady.”
Hanna looked the stack suspiciously. “Take that back with you. Put it on Amy’s desk.”
“Your wish is my command.” He straightened up, looked around at the other techs in the room. “All the rest of you back to work, show’s over.”
It was four hours later, 2:15 in the morning, when Hanna unlocked her office door, moved the stack of printouts from Amy’s desk to her own. Much as she wanted to delve into them, she needed to be sharp. Ruhl knew his way around money. What he was hiding wouldn’t be found easily or quickly.