The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (25 page)

“It just goes to show, crime
doesn’t
pay.” I clutched my back as I staggered from the MINI Cooper. The air smelled of dead fish and soot and possibly urine.

“It just goes to show how much you don’t know about real estate,” she retorted. “That’s a million-dollar view of the bridge and the bay.”

“Yeah, but you still have to live
here
.” We gave wide berth to one of Ladas’ neighbors, a wino clutching his bottle, huddled in the entranceway of the adjoining condemned warehouse.

Ingrid ignored me and the mutterings of the bum both, heading straight to Ladas’ industrial-looking front door, punching a series of numbers into the access pad.

The door unlocked, Ingrid pushed it open and we stepped into an entrance of concrete walls and concrete floors and an old-fashioned cage elevator. Ingrid keyed another code into another access pad and then unlocked the elevator. Ladas had taken his security seriously.

We stepped into the elevator and Ingrid shivered as we began to rise through the gloom.

“What exactly attracted you to Ladas?” I asked curiously.

She lifted her chin defiantly. “We were kindred spirits.”

“He was like, thirty years older than you. And a crook.”

“He was the most charming man I ever met.” She said it like she was throwing it in my face, but I was not—and never had been—under the illusion that I was a charming man. Not unkind and occasionally witty, sure. Charming? No.

I shrugged. “Okay. That’s nice for going out to dinner a couple of times, but what did you have in common? Besides the desire to rip off your grandpa?”

She said as though this should settle the matter, “Elijah said we were a perfect match.”

“Really?” Well, Ingrid was pretty in a vapidly All-American way and her moral compass was not what one would call tightly wound. She seemed to be a girl in search of a savior, and maybe Ladas had liked thinking of himself as her white knight. From what I’d read of him, he had a tendency to romanticize.

I couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t exactly prostrate with grief. Sad, yes. Disappointed, certainly. But she wasn’t dying inside. If something happened to J.X.… Well, I didn’t want to even let the picture form, lest the gods start taking notes on new things to do that would really ruin my life.

“So after the heat died down, you were going to move in with him?”

“We were going to go to Cuba.”

“Cuba?”

“Hemingway lived in Cuba.”

“Well, I know. But—”

The elevator reached the top level. The doors opened. Ingrid stepped out and punched more numbers into the keypad. I looked around myself and I had to admit the view really was something. In fact, it was everything.

Personally, I’d have opted for blinds, but if you didn’t mind living front and center stage, it was an amazing space. Space being the keyword. Space and light were my immediate impression. There were a few brick walls, some furniture, of course, and some striking McCauley Conner crime fiction illustrations. Possibly originals, given Ladas’ day job.

“See?” Ingrid said.

What was I supposed to be seeing? That this really
was
a nice place to live? That there weren’t many possibilities for hiding Viking treasure?

“Well…” I wandered around the central rooms, stopping to examine various pieces of furniture or art. I figured he’d probably hired a professional decorator, so we had to take the hints regarding his personal interests and passions with a grain of salt.

The kitchen was all stainless steel and self-consciously utilitarian. “Did he cook?”

“He was a wonderful cook,” Ingrid said. “He was a wine connoisseur too.”

Of course he was. It was all part of the gentleman thief image.

“Did he do much entertaining?”

“Not a lot. He went out all the time. He loved to party. But he didn’t like to have people over.”

Okay. That was interesting. Probably not germane, but interesting.

“The police have his laptop,” Ingrid volunteered.

“I figured.”

“He always burned all his mail. Not that he got a lot. But he burned everything. He said he never kept any papers.”

“He can’t have burned everything,” I objected. “Pink slips, property titles…he didn’t burn that stuff.”

“He said he burned everything.”

“Yeah. Well.”

Saying and doing were two different things. As I could vouch for. Somewhere Ladas had a safety deposit box, but we were unlikely to gain access to that. He couldn’t have hidden his ill-gotten gains in a bank, but the key to the hiding place might be there.

Or maybe not. I had a feeling Ladas liked games. He liked puzzles. He was a romantic.

Which meant what? I wasn’t sure.

I wandered back to the long main room and examined a giant, surprisingly elegant metal shelving unit that contained, among other things, the complete Lazlo Ender series co-written with Richard Cortez. Cortez had been Cuban, come to think of it.

I glanced at Ingrid. She was watching me intently, apparently waiting for an epiphany à la that other Holmes chap.

I pointed to the Lazlo books. “Thumb through those and see if Ladas happened to tuck any papers or notes away between the pages. Or if he wrote any notes in the margins.”

Her eyes widened at the brilliance of this idea. At once she began to go through the books, meticulously examining the pages. I didn’t think she was going to find anything, but she had made me nervous, watching my every move and waiting for me to say
Ah ha!

I went back to studying the collection of art, artifacts and books on the shelf.

With the exception of his own work, Ladas’ taste seemed to mostly run to non-fiction. There were a couple of books on art and Cuba and the Vikings. Nothing that related to coin collecting or where to hide valuable objects from the cops.

“He did those.” Ingrid pointed to the framed pencil sketch I was holding.

“Really?”

“He was very artistic.”

So was Hitler. But…Ladas did have a good eye and a sure hand. Useful in his trade, no doubt. These little pencil and ink cartoons were very well done. There was a touch of humor in glimpses of a cat sleeping on a fire escape, an old bag lady with a shopping cart, and a younger version of Beck showing off a tattoo on his bicep.

I studied that tattoo unhappily. I hoped this wasn’t going to turn into some weird escapade where the secret to everything lay in Beck’s body art. That kind of thing worked great in fiction, but in real life? No. Especially if Beck was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

“What about Beck?” I asked.

“What about him?”

“Was he going to Cuba too?”

“If he wanted.”

“Did he know about Cuba?”

“No.” No hesitation there. I glanced at Ingrid. She said defensively, “Elijah was going to tell him once everything was ready. He didn’t think Beck would want to go.”

Beck would be a liability. But there was that funny little sketch, so I thought Elijah was probably fond of his little brother, liability or not. And Ingrid or not.

“You were hoping Beck wouldn’t go, right?”

“He creeps me out.” She frowned down at the book she held. “Elijah had a wonderful singing voice.” It seemed like a non sequitur, but maybe she was mentally comparing the Ladas brothers. “He really was a special man.”

Understatement. I moved on to the framed photos. Unlike J.X., Ladas hadn’t worried about visitors seeing who mattered most to him. Probably because, judging by the photos, the person who mattered most to Ladas was Ladas. And, in fairness, he’d been a handsome guy. He looked good-humored too. Like a man who laughed easily—or at least he was laughing in most of the photos.

I moved on down the shelf. There were a couple of small bronzes and a large model of a Viking
drakkar
. One of those expensive models you pay a grand or more for, not something plastic that came in a kit.

I went back to examine the photographs of Ladas. In a couple of them the background looked like sails or rigging or ocean.

“Did Ladas own a boat?” I asked.

“Yes,” Ingrid said. “That was the first thing we thought of. We’ve been over it plank by plank. There’s nothing there.”

“Hmm.”

I had reached the end of the shelving unit. I glanced out the nearest window. The summer sun threw gold dust on the tree tops and a gauzy haze hung over the bay. I spotted a man crossing the street below, walking with swift purpose toward this building. A big, blond man. My heart jumped. Not dead in a ditch after all.

“Shit.”
I turned to Ingrid. “Beck is on his way up here!”

Chapter Seventeen

I
ngrid went white and dropped the book she was holding.
“W-w-what?”

“How do we get out of here?”

“We don’t! There’s only one way in and out.”

We both stared aghast at the elevator.

Beck wasn’t the shiniest doubloon in the treasure chest, but even he was probably capable of deducing that if the elevator was up here, so were uninvited guests.

“We have to hide!” Ingrid darted down the room, grabbed open a door and jumped into what appeared to be a coat closet. She closed the door firmly after her.

I spread my hands in supplication and looked ceilingward. I’m not sure if I was talking to the Almighty or Ladas.

From downstairs I heard a door slam.

Maybe Beck didn’t know all the security codes. That was possible, right?

The elevator suddenly rumbled into life and began to sink.

Okay. So Beck did know the codes. Or Ingrid hadn’t bothered to reset them while we were still in the building. Which would be another clue to Beck that he wasn’t alone here.

I ran after Ingrid, yanking open the closet. At least, I tried to yank it open. She was hanging onto the inside handle. It opened a crack and then jerked shut.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I hissed. “Come out of there.”

“Go away! Go away!” her smothered voice shot back.

“Ingrid, this is the first place he’ll look.”

“Go away! Leave me alone! Find your own place!”

Did she think we were playing hide and seek?

Someone whistled sharply from behind me. I spun around. There was no one there. The elevator was still rumbling as it sank to the ground floor.

The whistle came again. I looked about wildly, then realized the whistle was coming from the pocket of my Levi’s. My phone.

I fumbled it out and saw I had a text from J.X.

Where r u?

Oh for chrissake. Like it all wasn’t bad enough, his final words to me were going to be in textspeak?

From below I heard the rattle and clang of the elevator door opening and closing.

I shoved my phone away and dragged open the closet door again, Ingrid still clinging stubbornly to it.

“Leave me alone!” she whispered frantically. She clawed at me like a cat.

Cat…

“Ingrid, is there a fire escape?” I demanded.

“Go away!” Another effort to scratch my face.

Hastily, I closed her back into the closet and leaned against it, thinking. A building this old, yes. There had to be a fire escape.

Beneath my feet came a grinding of gears and then that telltale rumble of the returning elevator. I left Ingrid in the closet and went looking for the bedroom. I found it behind an arched brick doorway.

The room was unexpectedly small and the bed—mountains of jewel-colored silk pillows and gold satin brocade coverlet—took up most of the floor. There was a pale wheat-colored rug and a small amber chandelier. Another door led to a walk-in closet.

The only window was in a small alcove at the head of the bed.

I jumped onto the bed and went to the window, unlatching the shutters and raising the sash. Sure enough, in the most inconvenient place possible, was the fire escape. Funny how small and flimsy it looked up close. I started to climb out onto the platform. But the thought of Ingrid cowering in that closet, waiting for Beck to do whatever he was liable to do to her, stopped me.

I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t leave the little lemming to her fate.

I turned around, jumped off the bed and stepped out of the bedroom just in time to see Beck getting off the elevator. He looked straight at me, and his preoccupied expression—and God only knew what preoccupied that slab of raw meat—turned to one of rage.

“You!” he roared.

I don’t think until he saw me it had dawned on him that someone else was in the building. Hell, Ingrid and I could both have probably safely hid in that damned closet.

I whirled and ran for the bed and the window beyond. I jumped onto the mattress, bounced to the alcove and scrambled awkwardly out the window. I dropped onto the metal platform, which seemed to wobble alarmingly. I clung to the railing and started down the steps.

It was no use, of course. Beck would take the elevator and reach streetside long before me.

Except he didn’t.

The staircase jumped beneath me. I looked up and Beck was coming down after me.

“You think so?” he yelled.

Had we been having a conversation when I wasn’t looking?

I ignored him, focusing on not losing my footing as I fled down the next section of fire escape. The narrow rungs reverberated beneath my feet as Beck stomped and banged after me.

It was like some urban version of
Jack and the Beanstalk
.

My phone whistled again.

Not now, honey…

“You’re dead,” Beck shouted.

I didn’t have breath to waste and I wasn’t about to look behind me. If he wasn’t close enough to grab me, I wasn’t going to worry about it. There was nothing I could do anyway. I was moving as fast as I could, concentrating on not slipping, not stepping wrong, not missing a handhold.

I wasn’t thinking any further than getting safely to the ground. I didn’t have the keys to the car and I couldn’t leave without Ingrid anyway.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

Where the hell was the ground? I was on Mt. Everest. I was in fucking outer space.

On and on.

But then suddenly I was out of rungs. The sidewalk was right below me. I jumped to the pavement, ignoring the pain flashing up my shins, and hobbled up the alley, looking for…anywhere. Anywhere there were people.