Homicide for the Holidays Read online

  Tito was silent for a while. “Well, the only way would be if they were on a timer. We’ll check that out.”

  “Do that. I’ll bet you don’t find one, especially one that controls every light in the condo. That’ll rule out suicide, right?”

  “Looks like it.”

  I paused to let that sink in. “You going to start a homicide investigation?”

  “I don’t make that decision, but, yeah, probably.”

  Now it was clear that Red Nicholas was murdered. I called Pat Acton and gave him the news. My task for him and Maltrack was complete.

  But who had killed him? What was the motive? What did the missing laptop mean?

  My bulldog personality wouldn’t let go of the case. The meeting with Burberry might shed some light, so I decided to stay on the case on my own dime.

  I parked in the underground garage at First Hoosier Tower and rode an elevator that moved so fast my ears popped. I could still hear the background Christmas music, but I didn’t feel jolly.

  The receptionist buzzed me in and confirmed that I was expected, then directed me to Burberry’s office. We settled into chairs at a small conference table with a view of the downtown canal.

  “Pat Acton called me yesterday,” he said. “Told me about Red’s death, and that you might want to see me. I read about it in this morning’s paper.”

  “What the Star didn’t say was that his death now appears to be murder. IMPD homicide guys will interview you, but I wonder if you could give me any idea of someone who might have wanted to see him dead. Did he have enemies?”

  Burberry smiled thinly. “I’ve been thinking about that. He and I were fairly close, and since we’ve both been working in the cybersecurity area, there are a couple of things that might be relevant.”

  I nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “His full-time job with Maltrack was what paid the bills. But he was more excited about, you could even say passionate about, computer privacy. He had recently discovered a nasty piece of malware being developed to access personal information by a local ISP.”

  “How?”

  “A Christmas promotion would offer each of their subscribers a discount to extend their contract a year. When they click the attachment to provide payment information, malware is installed on their computer that records every keystroke they make and then downloads them every night.”

  “So, they would lose account IDs, passwords, credit card info—the works. You think that provided a reason to neutralize him?”

  “That’s an interesting question. The answer is complicated by his messy divorce that Pat probably told you about.”

  “How so?”

  “His ex-wife—goes by her maiden name Bonnie Walton—works for the ISP as a systems analyst. She’s a contractor. Works about half-time from home, half at the office.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s not all. She also stands to benefit financially from his death. The two of them still co-owned the house she’s living in. Their divorce settlement about three years ago required that he take out an insurance policy that would pay off the mortgage in case of his death.”

  “Did he say how much?”

  “He said a few months ago they still owed almost two hundred grand on the house.”

  I thanked Burberry for his time and left without mentioning the missing laptop. Nicholas’ ex-wife and the ISP organization each stood to gain by his death.

  I was convinced that the laptop would lead to the guilty party or parties. I called Pat Acton as I drove to the offices of the ISP.

  When he came on the line, I told him about the Christmas hacking scam.

  “I know the ISP,” I said. “How soon can you get on this?”

  “We can start looking right away, but it’s a fishing expedition. The fish has to be swimming where we’re fishing.”

  Stirring up Bonnie Walton was a logical next step. I arrived unannounced at the ISP offices in an office building near Keystone and 86th. I told the receptionist I wanted to see Ms. Walton.

  “Why do you wish to speak with her?” she asked.

  “Regarding insurance.”

  “Who do you represent?”

  “Wolf Ruger Associates.” As I expected, she only glanced at the card I shoved under her nose.

  After a brief conversation, the receptionist said, “She’s very busy today, but she’ll see you here in the lobby for a few minutes.”

  Ms. Walton blew in like a cyclone, her skinny four-foot-eleven frame sporting a sweatshirt, jeans, and spiked hair. Her too-tapered face was accentuated by a sharp chin and wide eyes. Dark circles under her eyes suggested sleep deprivation.

  “Who are you? I’m not interested in buying insurance,” she said, never looking me in the eye.

  “Wolf Ruger. It’s about the homeowner’s policy your ex-husband had with us. There seem to be a few expensive items missing from his residence.”

  “So?”

  “We’re checking with people who might know where they’re located.”

  “Why me? I haven’t seen him for three frickin’ years.” Her eyes narrowed and flickered briefly, as she turned on her heel, clearly agitated.

  “Sorry, Ms. Walton. I’m just interviewing people on the list I was given,” I said to her retreating back.

  I called Pat from my car. “Any luck with the MAC address trace?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Keep monitoring. Call me if you get anything.”

  Back in Broad Ripple, I picked up a bold coffee at Java Joe’s, and went upstairs to my office overlooking the corner of Broad Ripple and Guilford. If Maltrack was successful, my hunch was the laptop would be at the ISP’s labs.

  An hour later, while I was inspecting my Marilyn Monroe calendar, Pat Acton called.

  “We’ve located the laptop. Its location is interesting,” he said.

  “Great. Where is it, and what’s so interesting?” I asked.

  He gave me the address. It wasn’t the ISP’s.

  “Someone there is linked via fiber to analysis equipment at the ISP,” he said. “The interesting part is that it’s Red Nicholas’ old address. Pretty sure his ex is living there.”

  The house was in the Meridian Kessler neighborhood, less than ten minutes from my office in Broad Ripple. I slipped my Smith and Wesson into its holster under my jacket and called Tito.

  The address belonged to a small limestone dwelling with green and white metal awnings. The empty front porch and barren lawn contrasted with the festively-decorated porches and lawns of the adjacent bungalows. Whoever lived here wasn’t feeling the holiday spirit.

  I used the tarnished brass knocker. Bonnie Walton opened the door almost immediately. Barefoot, she had a letter opener in her hand. She’d apparently been opening mail piled on the side table I saw behind her in the hall.

  “Get the hell out of here,” she sneered, attempting to close the door.

  PIs wear sturdy shoes for several reasons, one of which is for keeping doors open. I pushed my way inside. Computer equipment was visible through a door into a room being used as an office. Quickly moving around her, I blocked the door.

  She lunged at me with the letter opener. I caught her wrist and pushed her down onto an easy chair, drew my revolver, and waited for Tito.

  The holiday party at Tito and Carmen Rodriguez’s home in Speedway was a gala affair. After gorging myself on Tito’s carne asada, and Carmen’s Christmas cornbake made from an old family recipe, Tito and I retreated to his study.

  “So, how’s the Nicholas case coming?” I asked.

  “Red’s ex-wife confessed to killing him. She’s being arraigned on second-degree murder charges tomorrow,” Tito answered.

  “What was her motive?”

  “She says that Red’s discovery of the malware she helped develop would destroy her career. And she hated him, anyway.”

  “Nothing to do with the mortgage insurance?”

  “She didn’t mention it, but money’s always a motivator.�
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  “I’m guessing she was at his place for so long after she shot him because she was trying to destroy every shred of evidence about the malware.”

  “That’s my take on it, too. We recovered a lot of material from her house in addition to Red’s laptop. She was reprogramming remote access to the ISP analysis equipment when you saw her at work.”

  “Had she decrypted any information?”

  “Only routine info like credit card statements that had a single encryption layer. She claims she was very close to getting the rest of it, though.”

  “What are you doing with the laptop and other stuff?”

  “IMPD turned it over to the FBI special agent leading the Regional Cybercrime Taskforce. He said to thank you. Stopping her from destroying the evidence means that lots of people will have a greener Christmas.”

  “Let him know he’s welcome,” I said with a grin. The Maltrack thumb drive had all the data backed up.

  But I didn’t mention that.

  Carmen Rodriguez’s Christmas Cornbake

  1 box Jiffy Corn Bread Mix

  2 eggs beaten

  1 Tablespoon sugar

  1.5 sticks butter or margarine

  1 cup sour cream

  1 16-oz can whole corn (not drained)

  1 16-oz can creamed corn

  Mix together all ingredients.

  Pour into ungreased pan.

  Bake at 350 degrees for about an hour, or until toothpick inserted in center comes out dry.

  Santa Slayer

  By T. C. Winters

  My bridesmaid dress screamed, poor unfortunate Cassandra. The yellow lace would’ve looked better on Bo Peep than me, a natural redhead. On the bright side, I loved the pearl-white shoes the bride, my college roommate, had chosen to finish the ensemble. Too bad I resembled a two-day-old corpse wrapped in a gunnysack. I hoped the dearly beloved gathered in Saint John the Evangelist Catholic Church in downtown Indianapolis remembered we were there for wedding vows, not last rights for my dress.

  After the ceremony, open carriages—meant to offer a festive ride under the Christmas lights—provided no protection against the biting December wind. We circled the arctic block-by-block, for the sole purpose of viewing the holiday splendor of costumed characters, dancing elves, and decorations, before being saved from frostbite by our epic entrance into the Grand Hall at historic Union Station for the reception. While impressed with the grandeur of the stately marble floors, original woodwork, and stained glass, I positioned myself on the backside of the massive bar, drinking ginger ale. Given my foul mood, refraining from socializing was a public service.

  About two hours into the celebration, the best man sidled up beside me, his gaze never leaving my boobs as he sloshed red wine on my hideous three-hundred-dollar dress—the third bridesmaid dress I’d been forced to wear this year. My popularity as an attendant was due less to friendship and more to pity because last year, my own December wedding had ended with the groom taking a pass.

  Frowning, I dabbed at the stain spreading across my bodice as the bride rushed to my side, her white-blonde hair escaping from the elegant updo.

  Grabbing a bar towel, she pressed it against the bright red blotch blooming over my chest. “Cassandra, you poor thing. December hasn’t been a good month for you, has it?”

  The question was rhetorical, and I only grunted my reply.

  The bride patted my arm as she left, and my desire to evaporate into thin air intensified.

  A bozo duo sauntered beside me, one short, one tall. The tall one lurched forward, smelling of whiskey and sweat. Using his glass to punctuate, he said, “If I told you that you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me?”

  Not charmed, I slid my ginger ale farther down the bar and repositioned myself. In unison, they moved closer, the smaller one attached to the hip of the taller one as if a ventriloquist dummy. The dummy surprised me by speaking.

  “You’re over here by yourself acting like you’re too good for the rest of us because you’re some big shot investigative reporter on TV.” His hand flashed forward and caught my nipple through the stained yellow lace, twisting until pain burst.

  I jacked his male bits with the pointy tip of my pearl-white shoe.

  He went down hard, screaming and grabbing his crotch.

  With a roar, his companion lunged, swaying off balance, but the best man intercepted him. Two groomsmen swept in, followed by friends of the two clowns. The alcohol fueled fight that ensued was YouTube worthy.

  I thought everything had been handled, but the cops showed up anyway. I didn’t do cops—at least not anymore. Darting for my coat, I sprinted across the gleaming marble floors and exited through the heavy brass doors onto the sidewalk. Making a right at the Omni Severin Hotel on Jackson Place, I headed for the Ike and Jonesy’s iconic Marilyn Monroe sign, my mouth watering at the scent of fried foods. The narrow lane, awash with the joys of Christmas, was nearly deserted except for Santa Claus ringing a brass bell over a kettle. Having spent a minimal amount of money at the cash bar, I approached and opened my evening bag, dumping the change into the red bucket. Before he uttered a word, the rat-a-tat-tat of what I thought was a snare drum bounced off the surrounding buildings.

  Santa melted into a red velvet heap—a black hole adorning his forehead.

  I froze, but a sound similar to that of a congested cat drew my attention toward McCrea Street where a bulky outline transformed into a man—overweight, hunched over, and limping. He huffed and glanced over his shoulder in my direction before disappearing into the pall of a poorly lit parking lot.

  My mouth opened but no sound escaped. As I fought the urge to vomit, a woman exiting Ike and Jonesy’s nightclub screamed, returning my attention to Dead Santa. The woman back-peddled and disappeared into the quirky nightclub, leaving me to stare at my blood-spattered pearl-white shoes. Unable to process, I froze, even as the hammer of footsteps running on the sidewalk grew closer.

  A two-hundred-pound Rudolph plowed into me, sandwiching my body to the icy concrete, grinding my face into the salty Icy Melt, and cracking at least one rib. Pain seared and warm blood trailed down my neck. Not from a hole in my head, but from my lip kissing the stony sidewalk.

  Rudolph’s head flew off, revealing none other than my cold-footed former fiancé; only there was nothing cold about him.

  “What the…?” I eyed the gun angled above my head as every muscle in his body met mine like a memory foam mattress.

  He slapped a large paw over my face, forcing my head down. “Stop struggling.”

  I clamped down on the fear and concentrated on my hatred stemming from the humiliation he’d caused almost one year ago. “Get off of me, you filthy caribou.” I rolled to one side, trying to dislodge him, but ended up on my back with his big body between my legs. His fur smelled of knock-you-on-your-ass-BO, and I averted my head to keep from gagging.

  He rewarded my efforts by leaping upward and dragging my limp body across the sidewalk. Once safely behind the brick wall of a neighboring building, he patted at the wine and blood stains on my dress. “Blood. Where were you hit?”

  “Not…no…just my lip…wine stain…his blood.” I glanced at the abandoned Rudolph head lying near the dead Santa. “If this is some kind of an elaborate hoax to get my attention, you can peddle your reindeer games somewhere else, buddy.”

  Detective Mac Muldoon had once been all I’d wanted for Christmas. Mac was my polar opposite, with his dark hair and eyes a wicked shade of blue. We would have made beautiful babies. We’d met when I was assigned to the crime beat for the local news station. My boss believed tossing a greenhorn investigative reporter into the rancid cesspool thriving in the city’s underbelly was a just reward for being forced to hire me because my on-air presence boosted ratings. Not only had the viewers embraced my fair-skinned Irish appearance, so had the members of the Indianapolis Metro Police Department.

  All thoughts of a hoax evaporated as SWAT swarmed the alley, securing the area. M
ac pulled me to my feet, and under cover of a riot shield, hustled me to the east side of Union Station where the downtown district of IMPD was located. Shedding his reindeer costume and the Kevlar hidden underneath, Mac morphed from woodland critter to calm professional. Hauling me along, he barked orders to the uniformed officers who huddled around folding tables overflowing with maps.

  The downtown branch of IMPD consisted primarily of the bike and horse patrol officers, most of whom dealt with drunk and disorderly conduct and an occasional shooting, so the amount of activity surprised me. Curiosity was one of my fatal flaws, and I craned my neck to see what had absorbed their attention, but Mac found an empty office and nudged me inside.

  “How badly are you hurt?” His tone would have been no less harsh if he’d asked where I’d hidden the body.

  Instinctively, I pressed a hand to my ribs and took an exploratory inhale. Fishing hooks grappled in my lungs, but I exhaled slowly and met his gaze. “I’m fine. Looks like a command center has been set up. What’s happening? Why are you dressed like Rudolph?”

  In answer, he marched toward me and manhandled my ribcage with a probing finger. “Did you see the shooter?”

  I flinched and batted at his hand. “Not very well. The shot came from behind me, and when I turned, he popped out of the shadows.” I stepped away from the funky fusion of masculine and caribou scent.

  “You saw the shooter and you’re injured.” Using his six-feet-four height as leverage, he frowned down at me. “You’re going to the hospital under a protective detail.” His hostile stare was no doubt meant to reduce me to a blubbering mass.

  I had an urge to spit in his face, but I’d just had the spit scared out of me, leaving me unable to perform. My annoyance ratcheted and my mouth was in motion before my brain reacted. “Obviously with someone other than you since your idea of protection was pulling out early.”

  With a remarkably gentle touch, he redirected me to the main concourse. “Sawyer, take Miss Flynn to the emergency room. No lights, but don’t leave her side.”