Homicide for the Holidays Read online

  The table also held an empty glass, a half-full gallon jug of vodka, and a large plastic bottle of seltzer tablets, standing open with the lid beside it. Hacker diet.

  Noticeably absent were work-related items such as notebooks, CDs, and DVDs. Ditto for cell phones and tablet computers.

  A video cable used to connect one of the screens to a computer snaked across the tabletop from under the center screen. A black power adapter for a laptop PC also sat on the table, the plug connected to nothing. A laptop had to be missing.

  Mindful of fingerprints, I used a paper napkin from the kitchen as I examined the power adapter. It was for a Lenovo.

  A sudden noise from the kitchen startled me. Someone there? I knocked over the seltzer tablet bottle and dove under the table. Silence. Not a person, I realized, but ice cubes dumping into the automatic icemaker’s tray in the refrigerator’s freezer.

  I took a deep breath. As I returned the tablets to the bottle, I noticed that something else had fallen out — a small computer thumb drive. I dropped it in my pocket.

  At one-twenty a.m., the flashing lights of a police cruiser leaked through the blinds.

  Corporal D’Amato strode into the room, obviously in charge. A short bantam rooster with black eyes, olive skin, and black hair cut in a squared-off flattop, his clipped speech was augmented by forceful gestures. After a cursory examination of Red’s corpse, he radioed for an ambulance.

  His partner, Patrolman Wishard, was tall and skinny, with a pink complexion and light brown hair. He looked vintage Hoosier and freshly minted out of the IMPD Training Academy. His serious brown eyes seldom left D’Amato. His demeanor resembled a puppy trying to please its master.

  I gave D’Amato my driver’s license and Wolf Ruger Associates business card.

  He glanced at them and shoved them in Wishard’s direction. “Here, copy this info.”

  Wishard’s face brightened as he pulled out a tablet computer.

  “Why are you here?” asked D’Amato.

  I was careful with my answer. “One of my computer consulting clients asked me to locate this guy.” I didn’t mention that I was also a licensed private investigator using the business name of Wolf Investigations.

  More flashing lights announced the arrival of the ambulance. Close behind was an unmarked car.

  As D’Amato left the condo, he said, “Stay put.”

  He spoke briefly with the EMTs, pointing out the condo. He and the plainclothes officer from the car conferred briefly, then invited me out to the unmarked car. Both got in the back seat, one on each side of me.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Simpson,” D’Amato said. “He’s taking over.”

  Simpson had the blocky build of a linebacker mutated by doughnuts. Thinning blond hair and eyes the color of muddy water set off a broad face with a sheen of perspiration.

  “Start again from the top,” he said.

  “The company I’m doing computer consulting for sent me here looking for Mr. Nicholas.”

  “What company is that?”

  “Maltrack.”

  “Racing outfit?”

  The question took me by surprise for a second. I grinned, realizing he thought it was one of the numerous racing-related companies in Indy. “No. Cybersecurity.”

  After running through my narrative, Simpson said, “Let’s go inside.” Back in the condo, he said, “Walk me through what you did. Don’t leave anything out.”

  After hearing my tale again, he said, “Looks like suicide. But we have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. For now, it’s being listed as death under suspicious circumstances.”

  He’d seen the blue screen. I kept my mouth shut. I needed to talk with Tito.

  “You finished with me?” I asked.

  Simpson glanced at his notes, then at D’Amato. “Anything else for him?”

  D’Amato shook his head, then looked at me. “You’ll get a call from IMPD if they have any questions.”

  It was almost two a.m. when I called Pat Acton at home. I gave him a brief rundown.

  “Anything you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Yes. If I’m right about what I find when I pull some information together, Maltrack needs your assistance. Be at my office at eight-thirty.”

  My hand shaking, I punched in Tito’s number.

  A groggy voice answered. It was Carmen, his wife. I asked for Tito. Bed springs creaked.

  “Wolf?”

  “Yeah. Rough spot.” ‘Rough spot’ was our code to indicate we’d had a PTSD episode.

  “I’m going where I can talk. Iraq nightmare?”

  “No, found a body.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I launched into an explanation, blurting out words until my tongue stopped working.

  “Take it slow and easy. Breathe deeply. Wait a little, then try again.”

  Finally, after a few false starts, I made it through describing what occurred, trembling and perspiring.

  “Is it related to your work for Maltrack?”

  “Yeah, a missing persons case. Looks like suicide.” My words were clearer, my voice stronger.

  “Feeling better now? Think you’ll be able to sleep okay tonight?”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll call you again after I think about a few things.”

  We were both quiet for a while. We always gave each other space at the end of a support call.

  Tito broke the silence. “We’re looking forward to seeing you at our holiday party.”

  “Thanks for inviting me. I’m looking forward to Carmen’s Christmas cornbake.”

  “You’re welcome, and I’ll tell her.”

  The next morning, I called Tito at seven-forty, on his way to work.

  “You doing all right? How’d it go with IMPD?” he asked.

  “Yes, and okay, I guess.”

  “What do you mean by ‘okay’?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Detective Sergeant Simpson seems convinced that Nicholas’ death was suicide. Something doesn’t smell right to me.”

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  “Let me know how IMPD is handling it, and any details you’re able to share.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  Maltrack was an international corporation with local offices on the north side of Ninety-Sixth Street, a half-mile east of Meridian. Julie, Maltrack’s receptionist, had a visitor’s badge waiting for me when I rang the buzzer next to the glass double doors.

  After we shook hands, Pat gave me a Maltrack coffee mug and guided me into the break room. I chose a strong, black brew from the coffee machine that ground the beans and served a variety of beverages. Pat picked a cappuccino, then led me to his office.

  “Wolf, we have a problem,” Pat said. He settled into his chair and motioned me into a chair beside his desk.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s related to the insurance policies we carry on our senior employees.” He paused. “You said last night, or, I should say, early this morning, that the police were tentatively ruling his death a suicide.”

  “That’s right. It’s officially listed as ‘death under suspicious circumstances’ just to keep their options open, but the guy in charge, Sergeant Simpson, made no bones about his opinion that Red killed himself.”

  Pat sipped his coffee. “That’s the problem. Let me explain.” He cleared his throat. “We carry life and long-term disability insurance on our key people. That’s to compensate Maltrack, and our investors, if we have to recruit and train a replacement. The amount is two-and-a-half times annual salary plus benefits, which in Red’s case comes to just over three hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Red’s been here quite a while, right?” I asked.

  “Almost five years,” Pat replied.

  I had experience with cases involving suicide. “So, what’s the problem? The benefit will be paid regardless of whether his death was accidental, homicide, or suicide, unless your policies are unusual. Almost all insura
nce policies have a two-year suicide window. If suicide occurs after two years, full payment is made.”

  Pat sighed. “As you know, our group in Indy was operating under a different name until last May, when we were acquired by Maltrack. At that time, life and disability policies for our Indy team shifted to Maltrack’s insurance carrier. Each time you change insurance, the two-year window resets. If Red’s death was suicide, our team is out three hundred grand.”

  I tried to look helpful. “IMPD is investigating the death as occurring under suspicious circumstances. That could mean anything.”

  “Exactly,” Pat said. “That’s why you’re here. We want you to make sure that the insurance company plays fair. If it’s clearly suicide, it is what it is. We need to know, regardless. We’d like to employ your services as a private investigator.”

  “Why me?”

  “Several reasons.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “We’re aware of your role in recent murder investigations. You have connections at IMPD. Your references are excellent. You’re familiar with Maltrack, and you’re technically competent.”

  I shifted in my seat. Because of the holidays, my calendar was empty except for being on the hook to serve subpoenas, and my checking account was pretty thin.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “What other information can we provide that’ll help you?”

  “Was he married? Kids?”

  “No to both questions. But he went through a nasty divorce. His ex, Bonnie, is a computer analyst. I don’t know where she’s employed, but she’s a piece of work.”

  “Did Maltrack provide Red with a laptop?”

  “Yes, each of our employees has one. A Lenovo.”

  “Well, it appears to be missing.”

  “That’s troubling, but not devastating. The contents of all laptops are heavily encrypted.”

  “I’ll let IMPD know about it, though. I’m not sure they noticed it was missing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I found this.” I dropped the thumb drive from the seltzer tablet jar into Pat’s hand, noticing for the first time Maltrack’s logo imprinted on it.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay, I won’t. It’s almost certainly a backup of his laptop. We’ll decrypt it and let you know if we find anything interesting.”

  “Who were Red’s friends? Anyone at Maltrack he hung out with? Women friends?”

  Pat thought for a minute. “His best buddy was probably Ed Burberry. He’s head of cybersecurity for First Hoosier Bank and Trust. Red didn’t socialize with anyone I know of and said that he was finished with women.”

  “Okay, I’ll start with Burberry. I assume you’re distributing an email on Red’s death?”

  Pat nodded. “Yeah, it’s already known via the grapevine, but I need to send something out.”

  “Please put my name and email in whatever you send. Say that anyone can contact me confidentially, okay?”

  Pat knitted his brows and frowned. “Will do.”

  He sat back. “By the way, we just got a new piece of software we’re installing today that might help us locate the missing laptop, but only if the thieves put it onto a network.”

  “So, if they keep it disconnected from a network, we’re out of luck.”

  “I’m afraid so. But if they connect it, say, to use analysis equipment to try to crack the encryption, we might be able to trace it through its media access control address. We know them for all the computers we own.”

  “I don’t know much about MAC addresses.” I knew almost nothing but didn’t want to admit it.

  “A computer’s MAC address is a unique identifier, like a serial number, assigned to the network communications hardware in a machine. No two MACs are the same, and they don’t change with location like the internet protocol address.”

  “You said you ‘might be able.’ Please explain.”

  “Sure. Maltrack can locate a machine if we either know what internet service provider they use, or we know what computer server is managing their local network. The new application not only finds the IP address, but the physical street address. It’ll be operational later this morning. It’s pretty cool.”

  “But you don’t know either the ISP or the server, so right now you’re up the creek.”

  “Right. See if you can find us a paddle,” he concluded, smiling.

  I served subpoenas the rest of the day and scheduled a meeting with Ed Burberry for ten the next morning. His office was on the eighteenth floor of the First Hoosier Tower, a thirty-story high-rise on the canal in downtown Indy.

  When people ask me what I do as a private investigator, I often answer that I poke around. Poking around Red’s neighborhood to find out if anyone had seen anything seemed logical.

  His condominium was in the Butler Tarkington neighborhood, and I hadn’t had lunch or dinner yet, so I decided on carry-out from the Illinois Street Food Emporium. It’s only a five-minute drive west of my Broad Ripple office, and I sometimes go there for lunch. I ordered a turkey wrap and a Diet Coke and used their restroom while I waited. I’d be good for a couple of hours until the soda hit me.

  I parked a few spaces down from Red’s condo in a good place to watch the nearby units and ate my takeout dinner.

  About five-thirty a woman with bobbed salt-and-pepper hair emerged from a townhouse across from Red’s condo, propelled by a black Labrador retriever. They passed me on the other side of the street.

  After a few minutes I got out and started across the street, then stopped and straightened my tie. The wind and freezing temperature prompted me to put on my jacket. I might as well look official and be warm. I had my PI identification and Wolf Investigations card out as she and her dog came back.

  The sun was just setting, and Christmas decorations were lighting up in the neighborhood, adding a festive note. I didn’t feel festive.

  She approached me warily. Her dog was utterly useless as a bodyguard since it was wagging its tail so hard it almost fell over.

  “Hello. My name is Wolf Ruger. I’m investigating the death of Mr. Nicholas, across the street.”

  She fleetingly looked at me, then her eyes scanned furtively from me to her front door, as if looking for an escape route.

  I handed her my card and backed up a step. “Were you home when the police arrived?”

  She nodded while looking at my card. I wondered if she was mute until her dog gave me a friendly greeting bark, tail still wagging.

  “Elsa, be quiet. Down, girl.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I said. “I like the name Elsa.”

  The woman briefly smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Jane Hadsall. Yes, I was here. The police cars came in with lights and sirens and woke me up.”

  I prompted her to keep talking. “That was really late.”

  “Yes, after one.”

  “Had you seen or heard anything unusual earlier?”

  She looked at my card once more, brows knotted, again glancing at her front door. “Who did you say you work for?”

  “It’s a private investigation related to insurance.” Close enough.

  Her face cleared. “Oh. Well. No, I don’t remember anything strange. I walked Elsa a little after nine. Del and I’d gone out to dinner. It was later than she usually gets walked, and she was whining at the door when we came in. I remember that all the lights in his place were on.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes. I guess so. I don’t remember seeing them all on like that before unless he had guests.”

  “Did he have guests very often?”

  Just then a man stuck his head out of her front door. Slicked back dark hair complemented horn-rimmed glasses out of the fifties. He wore a checkered shirt and jeans.

  Fear flickered across her face. “Hardly ever. He seemed to be a private person.”

  The man threw the door open, lumbered up and stood unsteadily between us, reek
ing of beer and arching his back. “Who’re you? Why’re you talkin’ to m’wife?”

  Ms. Hadsall said, “It’s all right, Del. He’s an insurance investigator looking into our neighbor’s death.”

  “Well, we din’ have nuthin’ ta do with it. Git the hell off m’propity.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “Now, honey.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, shrugging off her hand. “Don’ ‘now honey’ me.” He clenched his fists at his sides and stepped forward until our chests were almost touching. His breath made my eyes water. “Git outta here.”

  We were standing on a public sidewalk. I didn’t want to fuel the anger I felt rising in me, so I put my hands up, palms out. Backing away, I said to Ms. Hadsall, “Thanks. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else,” then turned and walked to my car with Del muttering obscenities all the way.

  I had intended to talk with other neighbors, too, but I figured Del wouldn’t go back indoors until I left, and I didn’t feel like being attacked by a jealous drunk.

  Next morning’s Indy Star identified Nicholas by name and mentioned his place of employment in a small article buried in the Metro Section. As soon as I was on the road at a quarter to eight, I phoned Tito.

  “Hi, Wolf. Doing okay?”

  “Yeah. The Star had a blurb on Nicholas’ death this morning. Any news on that?”

  “There are details that haven’t been released to the public.”

  “Like what?”

  “Come on. You know I can’t answer that. But you might ask me a couple of specific questions and I may answer them, especially if you have information that’s related.”

  “OK. What was the time of death?”

  “You have related information?”

  “I believe so.”

  “All right, time of death was seven-thirty, plus or minus an hour. Now, whatcha got?”

  “Still trying to rule out suicide?”

  “Could be. Why?”

  “Because a neighbor said that every light in the condo was on when she walked her dog after nine. When I got there, the place was totally dark.”

  “So?”

  “Think, Tito. If Red committed suicide, how could he turn off the lights after he was dead?”