Murder with Strings Attached Read online

  “Like myself. To put it bluntly, if Martin is some kind of petty crook, he just might be known to other petty crooks.”

  “Then by all means get in touch with your crooked—sorry, I mean petty crooked—friends.”

  I took out my phone, checked the “contacts” list, and started calling. Surprisingly, it took only two phone calls to find Donny Martin’s address. Or, as my friend Rolf put it, “That’s assuming Donny ain’t back in the slammer.” There was always that possibility. I wonder whether they let you keep your priceless violin with you in your cell.

  Rolf added that Martin lived with a roommate named Fred Ballard. He knew Ballard only casually, but from his tone he didn’t think much of him.

  “I think Ballard’s been doin’ time recently, attempted murder if I’m not mistaken, so he maybe ain’t around. Or maybe he’s out by now. Why’d you wanna know? I can assure you it ain’t worth breakin’ into that apartment—neither Martin or Ballard’s got anythin’ worth stealin’.”

  I laughed, both at Rolf’s joke and the fact that if we were right, he was so wrong!

  I thanked Rolf, promising to buy him a drink sometime.

  Aaron said he would pick me up the next morning for step one in Operation Violin Recovery.

  ****

  At eight a.m. the next morning we arrived at the apartment building where, according to my friend Rolf, Donny Martin and his roommate lived. I say “apartment building,” but that probably dignifies the hovel a bit too much. Its tenants seemed to prefer bedsheets as curtains and its owner, perhaps too embarrassed to be seen there, apparently kept himself and any of his employees—such as painters and repairmen—far away.

  But we weren’t there to rent an apartment, and probably the rundown condition of the building meant there were unsophisticated locks (if any locks at all) and no security cameras or burglar alarms. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were no doors, but that at least proved to be incorrect.

  Aaron got out of the rented car and came around to open my door, a gesture, like his pulling out that chair for me in the restaurant, that I had seldom experienced and found quite charming. I’m sure when my mother was my age, it was still standard procedure. But I digress.

  Martin’s apartment was 2B, presumably on the second floor, and that’s where we headed. This was only reconnaissance, so we merely strolled in through the (unlocked) front door, took the stairs to the second floor (there was an elevator, but I doubted it could be trusted), and walked down the corridor until we found 2B.

  As I’d suspected, the apartment door had a lock set only one step above the antique skeleton keys you see made into jewelry these days. Of course, there might be a secondary night latch on the inside, and that could be dealt with if necessary, but I thought it unlikely given the state of the visible hardware.

  Back downstairs, we left the way we’d entered and walked around to the back of the building, which faced an alley. A dilapidated fence, with several boards missing or leaning precariously, enclosed a mixture of trash cans and un-canned trash. Through the fence we could see two back doors, neither of which appeared to offer much resistance to a determined, or even an apathetic, burglar. There was also a fire escape outside each apartment’s back window, which might serve just as well to escape from the law, should that become necessary.

  Satisfied with the layout, Aaron and I made our way back to his car and returned to the hotel to plan our little escapade. I was still very nervous about letting Aaron come along, but I’d agreed to it and couldn’t back out now. I wondered whether later, in retrospect, I would regret that decision.

  Chapter 9

  “Getting in won’t be a problem,” I told Aaron when we had settled into the Royal Suite’s comfortable chairs again. “The trick will be making our move when Martin isn’t there and isn’t likely to walk in on us, as I’ve heard happened to an intimate acquaintance of mine just recently. Funny, she was also looking for a Guarneri.” I gave Aaron a meaningful look.

  Aaron laughed. “I doubt this fellow Martin would have as poor manners as the person you’re referring to,” he said. “But just in case, let’s pick a time when that’s not likely to happen. So just how do we determine when that is?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “There are at least two ways to handle that. Either we find out when he goes to work—if he goes to work—or otherwise leaves his apartment each day, or we find a way to lure him out for the length of time we’ll need for the job. The first way may take a little longer, but it’s more certain than the second.”

  “Okay, so how do we find out when he leaves?”

  “The only sure way is to spend a day or two observing his movements. If it’s a regular pattern, we can plan around it. If not . . .”

  “If not what?”

  “If not, I’ll think of something else,” I said.

  At least I hoped I would.

  ****

  Bright and early the next morning, Aaron and I found ourselves parked across the street from Donny Martin’s apartment building, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. There was a small park on that side of the street, and from time to time we got out of the car and strolled in the park, always keeping an eye on the front entrance of the building. Rolf, the friend who told me where Martin lived, had also described him in some detail, so I was pretty sure I’d know him when I saw him. How many men living in that building could be over six feet tall with red hair, a red beard, and a penchant for flashy clothes? Only one, I hoped.

  At about nine a.m., a tall man with red hair and beard, wearing a very smart but very loud track suit, left the apartment building and set off down the street. That had to be our man. We had expected Martin would drive away in his car, and we were prepared to follow, but instead he just kept walking. So we got out and walked too, on the opposite side of the street.

  Martin walked quickly and it was all we could do to keep up. About six blocks later, he entered the local branch of one of those fitness chains. Apparently he wasn’t going to work; he was going to work out.

  After about an hour and a half, during which Aaron and I strolled back and forth several times, shared an ice cream cone from a nearby creamery, and looked at our watches innumerable times, Donny Martin finally emerged from the gym, no doubt even more buff than when he arrived.

  Once again we followed behind at a discreet distance until Martin disappeared inside his apartment building and, presumably, inside Apartment 2B.

  From the lobby of Aaron’s hotel, I telephoned Donny Martinʼs gym. A man answered with an enthusiasm reserved for the young and extremely healthy.

  “Hi,” I began in the sexiest voice I could summon. “I understand my friend Donny Martin is a regular at your gym.”

  “Yeah,” Young and Healthy answered. “He’s here most every day. Why d’ya wanna know?”

  “I have something I want to give him and I’m wondering whether you can tell me if he’s likely to be there tomorrow morning, so I can deliver it. I just missed him today.”

  There was a slight pause, perhaps as Young and Healthy briefly considered whether he was authorized to give out this sensitive information. If so, he apparently decided he was, because he said, “Yeah, he usually comes in a little after nine, so if you’re here about then, you should catch him.”

  “Thanks so much,” I breathed in my best Marilyn Monroe voice. “I really appreciate your assistance. I’ll be there in the morning.”

  And that was that.

  ****

  Having established that Mr. Martin would likely be at the gym after nine a.m. the next morning, that’s when we decided to make our move.

  “Getting into Martin’s apartment should be a simple operation,” I told Aaron, “as should finding the violin. So I’ll take on that part of the job.”

  “Wait a minute,” Aaron protested. “I thought we had a deal that we’d do this together. I won’t…”

  “Don’t get your shorts in a twist. You’ll have a very important job, in
some ways more important than mine.”

  “Which is?” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Which is lookout, to be sure Martin doesn’t come home before I’m finished and out of the apartment. Just about the worst nightmare for any burglar is being caught in the act by the rightful owner of the merchandise she’s about to make off with. And having that happen twice in succession might be more than my system can take.”

  “Fair enough. So you want me to stand outside the building and let you know if Martin comes back early?”

  “Not exactly. I want you to drop me off, then go back and park across from the gym, so you can give me a warning when and if he leaves early. If you phone me and say he’s on his way, I’ll make sure I’m outta there within three or four minutes, regardless whether I’ve got the violin or not. Better to run away and live to burgle another day.”

  “And do I sit there and wait for you?”

  “Hell no. You get your ass back here as fast as the speed limit allows, passing Martin on the way I assume, and pick me up at the back of the building. In other words, you keep me, and maybe you, out of the pokey. Is that important enough?”

  Aaron looked appropriately contrite. “Yeah, I guess so. If someone has to be the lookout and someone the burglar, I suppose I’m the logical lookout. I was hoping to be in on the actual heist, but…”

  “But you’ve been watching too much TV. Crime is like any other business. It takes good planning, trained personnel, and everyone doing their assigned job. To go back to my example of our playing a violin duet, that would work fine so long as you were doing the playing and I was turning the pages.

  “Now let’s go get some sleep. We have an early performance to play.”

  ****

  Since we had a tight schedule to keep, Aaron and I both slept in his suite, him in the king-size bed in the bedroom and me on the pull-out sofa in the front room. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but this was strictly business, whatever either of us might otherwise have had in mind.

  The alarm clock went off the next morning at six a.m. I won’t say I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but I did manage to pry my eyes open and get my tail into my black-on-black work outfit.

  Aaron was a different story. This man was clearly used to working late in the day—few concerts begin at nine in the morning—and therefore getting out of bed well after six. So I had to resort to the tried and true method of persuasion: I poured a glass of cold water over his head.

  It did the trick.

  I won’t repeat here the manner in which Aaron thanked me for my assistance in getting him up and ready for action, but you can be certain it was both colorful and heartfelt.

  “You’re welcome,” I said when he had come up for air. “You’ve hired a full service burglar.”

  I’m not sure Aaron was terribly appreciative of the service, but I just ignored him and checked that I had all necessary paraphernalia: lock picks, screwdriver, flashlight, cell phone. When Aaron was finally alert and dressed, I made sure he had his necessary kit: car keys and cell phone.

  We were ready to roll.

  ****

  One thing you can’t predict with accuracy is traffic, especially in Seattle. I had made sure we started out with plenty of extra time—half an hour—to arrive before nine at Martin’s apartment. As it happened, it wasn’t enough.

  My mistake was getting on the freeway instead of relying on the slower city streets. Just our luck, there was an accident ahead of us, and we were stuck with nowhere to go, no way to get off the freeway, until it cleared enough for a single lane of traffic to get by. So we arrived at the apartment building about 9:10. We waited in front for several minutes, but no Martin came out the door. A couple of men left the building and one woman, but no one meeting Martin’s description.

  “Shall we just wait and hope he’s running late, like us?” Aaron asked as the minutes ticked by.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s twenty after already. I assume we missed him. He was on time and we weren’t. Drop me off and head for the gym for your lookout duties. I’ll go and get the violin.”

  Aaron dropped me off at the back of the building. I found the rear entrance door, which was conveniently unlocked. Who would want to break into this dump?

  Upstairs to apartment 2B. Since we weren’t absolutely certain Martin had left for the gym—maybe he overslept and was just getting into his workout togs—I rapped on the door loudly enough for someone inside to hear, hoping not to arouse the neighbors. Had he answered the door, I was prepared with Plan B, a “Sorry, wrong floor” excuse, although I would have regretted his having seen me, should I later show up in a police lineup. This was unlikely, as thieves don’t generally go to the police to report that their stolen property had been stolen from them. Anyway, there was no response, so I proceeded with Plan A.

  I had no trouble at all picking the old, outdated lock in the doorknob. There was no dead bolt.

  There was, however, a dead body.

  Chapter 10

  I won’t say I’ve never seen a dead person before, but then it had only been at funerals. In those circumstances, not only is seeing the deceased to be expected, but pains have been taken to present him (or her) looking their very best—well scrubbed, dignified dress, the works. That is not what Donny Martin looked like, sprawled face down on the floor of his apartment, blood covering most of his back and a good part of what once passed for carpet. The last time I’d seen him, his most noticeable features were his red hair and beard. Red was still the dominant color, but this time it created a hideous clash between the electric blue shirt he was wearing and the ugly patch of blood on his back. The flashy dresser in him would never have approved.

  The first thing I did was sit down heavily on the nearest chair. This was no time to be either sick or panicky, no matter how I was feeling.

  The violin. That was what I’d come for. Was it here?

  I looked up and surveyed the apartment, avoiding looking in the direction of the deceased. The room I was in seemed to be a combination living room and kitchen. The former was a misnomer, as the tenant wasn’t living. And while there was a small sink and appliances in one corner, the entire area was so piled with what appeared to be pizza boxes and empty beer bottles, I doubt anything had been cooked there since Martin moved in.

  There were no pictures on the walls, and what passed for carpets were threadbare. The overriding atmosphere, wholly apart from the corpse in front of me, was gloom, and I wanted out of there ASAP. I could see that the only window in the room was wide open, probably because whoever shot Martin had exited that way. I was sorely tempted to do the same. Nevertheless, I dutifully arose and walked around, giving Donny a wide berth, checking every shelf and opening every door, looking for the violin. One door led to a bedroom, with an unmade bed and the acrid aroma of unwashed linens. I held my breath and checked under the bed and in the closet. No violin.

  Hadn’t I gone through this once before, quite recently, in a very different kind of apartment?

  Back in the living room, I made one more look around, but still no violin.

  So was it the violin that was behind the murder? Had Donny Martin gambled he could squeeze more money out of Sanders for the violin he stole from Aaron? If so, someone was playing for much higher stakes.

  ****

  Obviously, there was no longer a need for a lookout, and I immediately took out my cell phone and called Aaron. Before he could get beyond “Hello,” I blurted out, “Get here as fast as you can. Pick me up in back. Don’t ask questions.” That last was because he was about to say something, and conversation I didn’t need right then.

  Just as I hit “end call” on my phone, someone began knocking on the apartment door—knocking very loudly, followed by the words “police” and “open up.” Caught by surprise and in a situation I’d never been in before, I did what any red-blooded American lady burglar would do: I panicked.

  I rushed for the open window—there had to be a fire e
scape under it, right?—but in my haste I dropped my phone near Martin’s body. I reversed course and retrieved it. When I bent down, I saw lying next to the phone what appeared to be a man’s ring. For some reason I picked it up. It was quite heavy and had the initials “BJD” on it. Obviously not Donny Martin’s. I wiped the blood off it, getting some on my hands, and put it in my pocket.

  By that time, two men in blue had burst through the unlocked door and there I was, literally caught red-handed.

  I surrendered without a fight.

  ****

  I’m usually pretty good at coming up with innocent explanations for guilty circumstances, right from when my mother would catch me with my hand in the cookie jar. (“Just putting back the cookie I found on the counter, Mom.”) But I admit this one had me at a total loss. All I could think to say was, “I didn’t do it.”

  Apparently that wasn’t a sufficient explanation for the officer who seemed to be in charge. While his partner checked to confirm Martin was indeed deceased and phoned in a request for medical backup, he wanted a few more details. Such as:

  Him: “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Me: “This man seems to have been shot, officer.”

  Him: “I can see that. Who are you?”

  Me: “Well, I’m a…a friend. No, not exactly a friend, more like a stranger.”

  Him: “What’re you doing here?”

  Me: “I wish I knew. I guess the door was open and I just walked in and . . .”

  Needless to say, I was not making a very good impression. After several minutes, as the officers waited for their backup and I waited to be executed, Aaron appeared outside the open door. He’d come back for me and, not finding me waiting in the alley, he’d come upstairs to look for me. Fortunately, when he saw through the open door the body in dappled red, the police in blue, and the idiot in black, he quickly figured out that was no place for him, and he kept on walking down the corridor.

  I was glad to see him go.

  I figured he’d be back.