Twisted: A Tracy Turner Murder Mystery Novel (The Tracy Turner Mystery Series Book 1) (20 page)

A woman on a mission, I tiptoed down the hallway. After entering the code into the device on the wall, I heard a couple of beeps indicating success. I waved the card over the scanner, it beeped twice, and the green light went on. The handle opened easily, and once I was in I felt my luck was changing. Now it was time to find out who Douglas Mitchell truly was.

I made sure that the door was shut and went over to the interior room. Thankfully it was not locked. Stepping inside, I was mesmerized by the busy hive of electronics. The screens featured clips from various locations across the resort. It was a hub that tracked its every movement, every heartbeat.

On one screen I caught Catalina entering a room on the third floor and smiled to myself. Catalina was a creature of habit following a similar pattern every day, which was what I counted on. The last thing that I wanted was for her to come back into Brett’s room. Third time around I wouldn’t be as lucky.

The same screen cut across to another visual, this time of Imogen at the main reception. With a mirror in hand, she threw back her head of golden hair and ran her tongue over freshly applied lipstick. It felt powerful to be able to watch people like this and would be a disastrous weapon in the wrong hands.

The shots displayed in a synchronized loop. I wondered if everything was being recorded. Were the recordings activated by movement or selected at random? I made a metal note to ask Brett when I met him next.

I looked over the different controls and tried to recall what Mike did when I was here the last time. Locating the master switch that displayed the visuals, I turned it off. They were too much of a distraction. The footage would continue to be captured and stored despite this, possibly in a cloud repository in cyberspace.

The playbacks ran through a computer that was different to the setup for the recordings. Brett had said that he was working on the clips, so when I switched on the device the screen was paused on a still. I looked through the footage moving them at high speed backwards and forwards, making a note of the time and listening to sound bites.

I added a few notes to my iPad, but there was nothing that really helped. Continuing to search through the footage, I looked specifically for the clips that Mike attempted to conceal from me. I sighed when I noticed the stack of six DVDs that were marked WALTERS.

It had been about half an hour, but it felt like two. Most of the recordings were of mundane staff activity and guest check-ins. I felt frustration bubbling and rising up inside, but I didn’t want to give up. I was certain that these DVDs held the answer to what I was looking for so I ploughed on.

A few minutes after, I found the first clip worth mentioning. It was the one in which Frank and Doug fought over the letter. Frank threatened to tell Mike the truth about who he really was. Doug begged him not to do that and said that it would ruin whatever family that he had left.

Frank was adamant when the argument took a new twist. It seemed that Katherine had been to see Doug, looking for dirt on Frank, something that she could use to help her with her case. Doug said he had not said anything, but now he threatened to give her the letter.

Frank changed his tune and offered Doug money. The bartender laughed off his suggestion and insisted he couldn’t be bought. It looked like Doug had Frank where he wanted him. At this point, Frank grabbed the letter, And Doug pulled Frank’s arm over the bar, twisting it with a smirk and grabbing the letter back.

Frank spat at Doug and walked out of the bar. The rotund man said nothing. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, laughed, and continued with his duties. After going over the clip for the third time, the details were embedded in my memory. I also noticed something I had not seen before. It was a thin figure lurking in the back room of the bar.

I noted the time stamp: 10:57 p.m. Glad that I took a video editing course in college, I went back to the location and watched the clip in slow motion. This time I was certain it was Mike standing there. He had probably taken in all that had been said. Yesterday, when I had asked him specifically about the incident, he feigned ignorance, but why?

According to Brett, when Doug was questioned about his whereabouts at the time of Frank’s death he had said he was at home with his son. What if this was not true? Doug was an insomniac; he left the bar in the wee hours of morning and was back to work a couple of hours later. He was known as a dedicated and exemplary employee for his diligence and some even questioned whether he slept at all.

I knew that Frank had been killed sometime during the morning and began to work through the footage looking for Doug during those early hours. Then a scratching sound startled me. Was Brett back? Should I hide? I looked around the room, but where? I went to the door and peered inside his room. No one and the door was shut fast.

I heard the sound again. Now it came from beyond the door that was opposite this one. Was it Mike? If he came back in, he would stop me like he did before, assuming the previous time was not an accident as he made out. I had a strong hunch and needed to find out if there was evidence to back it.

With my ear to the door, I listened again. Someone was in that room. I heard the sound of footsteps heading for the door. Grabbing one of the computer chairs, I wedged it under the handle of the door and dragged a smaller filing cupboard pushing it against the chair to add some weight behind it. I locked the cupboard’s wheels in place.

The handle began to turn, but the door didn’t budge. I knew it would hold for a while, but I had to work fast. I heard a loud curse from the other end. It sounded like Mike, but his voice was muffled so I couldn’t say for sure.

I worked through the next set of clips. The handle turned again. This time it was followed by a soft blow on to the door and a grunt. In the next selection of clips I found Doug at the bar—the time when he told the investigators that he was home with his son. I went back in time and using the auto-forward function sped forward. He had been at the bar the entire time before and after Frank was killed. So he had lied, the question was why?

The handle jangled and then a heftier weight rammed against the door. The chair began to give. I spotted a thin white hand inside the room. From the corner of my eye I noticed someone entering the bar at 7:54 a.m. It was Mike, frazzled and wide eyed, carrying a golf bag, and ran into the back room.

His father, red faced and puffed out, ran behind him wringing his hands and calling, “What happened?” The barricade gave way a bit more. There was no footage of the back room.

The door was now a quarter way open and I spied Mikes’ profile in the other room. Did he see me? I couldn’t be sure. I froze the recordings and ran out.

I had seen all that I needed to see.

Once I was outside Brett’s door, I heaved a long sigh of relief. I was safe and found what I was looking for. Doug couldn’t have killed Frank. According to the footage, he was at the bar at the time, so Frank must have been killed by someone else. What about Katherine? The same gun had killed them both. It was safe to assume that it was the same killer.

Doug was also illiterate, so he couldn’t have sent me the threatening text. He was innocent. Then why did he lie about his whereabouts at the time Frank was killed? Could he be covering up for Mike?

The cameras didn't put Mike in the bar with Doug at the time of Frank’s murder. He was upset when he ran in so there was a strong likelihood that he had done it.

I needed more than a possibility though. I needed to find concrete evidence. That’s what Brett had told me. What about that bag he was carrying when he came into the bar? What if he carried the gun in that bag?

If I found the bag, I would find the gun, and I would have my guy.

At the elevator I realized that I had not keyed in the code. I also should have checked out the framed photograph on Brett’s table. Should I turn back or carry on? I decided to go back and key the code in. It would take me a couple of minutes and save me the trouble of Brett finding out that somebody had been snooping about in his office. I couldn't stand the thought of getting another lecture from him. The photograph would have to wait for another day.

As I punched in the code, a dark silhouette emerged from down the hall. I flattened my back against Brett’s door. It was Mike, gaze trained on the carpeting, muttering to himself. He carried a sleek briefcase in his clenched fist. I was relieved that I followed my instinct and had come back to lock the door.

I waited till he turned the corner at the corridor, and with the stealth of a tigress slinked in his direction. I stopped behind one of the pillars and watched. He was on his way down but had to wait for the elevator parked on the twelfth level. Glancing at the time, he tapped his foot on the floor.

He looked at his watch again and then banged his hand on the elevator door. Red faced, he dropped the briefcase and hopped about as he nursed his hand. The case had a rounded leather handle and its edges were reinforced with gold rivets. It was complete with two shiny gold locks. There was no mistaking its brown monogrammed canvas fabric; it was a Louis Vuitton and it was a beauty. Not something that Mike would be able to afford on an intern’s salary. So where did he get it and what did it hold?

The ringing of a phone broke the silence in the corridor. Instinctively, I reached into my bag. My heart stopped beating. Had he heard it? I clicked the phone into silent-mode and waited. There was a second ring. This time it was a louder. He cursed and put his injured hand into his pocket and gingerly pulled out his phone.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he said. He transferred the phone to his other hand and waved the injured one about.

“Give me a few minutes. I know I said half past eleven. I got held up. There was something I had to do.”

“No, it’s not an excuse. I’ve got it.” He grimaced and held the case close to his body.

“Yeah, the boardwalk. That’s what I said. I thought you knew. There’s only the one.”

I waited till the elevator indicated he was on the ground floor. Then I took the service elevator down too. I didn’t mind him getting a head start; I knew where he was going and I had been there many times before. The adrenaline began to pump. What was in his briefcase and who was the mysterious stranger Mike was going to meet?

The Butterfly Room was a sanctuary for winged wonders. Located on the border of the resort, it was a popular tourist attraction that was open to the public all year around.

Room was a misnomer; the reservation spanned several hundred acres. There were a number of designated areas for butterflies enclosed by fiberglass mesh netting that rose over the tree line and up into the sky. It was the perfect tropical paradise setting—a lush haven for the creatures to freely flit about. Its visitors enjoyed the outdoors that included picnic spots and campsites amongst pops of color.

There was a paved walking trail that followed its perimeter and an old boardwalk that ran across. In the last month it had been closed to the public for repairs. At first I was surprised they had agreed to meet there. Then I realized not everyone worked on a Saturday. Most people had a two-day weekend. The isolated location in the dense foliage would be the perfect place for a secret rendezvous.

Were they meeting at the north end or south? Had he mentioned it in their conversation? I racked my brains and tried to recall what I had overheard. It was not coming to me, but I couldn’t let him out of my sight. The area was too vast.

We entered through a little known gate closest to the resort. The gate was unmanned and we slipped in without being questioned. As he approached the bridge, he began to take longer strides. I hurried to keep close and stumbled on some loose gravel. He stopped and looked behind. I ducked under a giant leather fern. Did he hear me or did he sense that he was being followed? It was hard to tell from where I was.

Reaching the south side of the bridge there was no sign of construction except for a five-foot wide caution notice. Work must have begun from the other end. It would be a couple of months before they moved through on to this side. He glanced at the sign mounted across the walkway. He bent over and through as smoothly as an elastic band. I watched through the thicket impressed by his flexibility.