Fatal Fortune by Victoria Laurie
So why had she given me the file? I reached for my purse and pulled it close, digging out the file. I opened it again and sorted through the contents. The DNA test was what was throwing me. It was the part of the story that made absolutely no sense.
I set the DNA test down and rubbed my temple. Then again, not much about this case made any sense either.
Frustrated, I closed my eyes and flipped on my radar. Sometimes, when the mood is right, I can use my intuition a bit like a Magic 8 Ball. It comes in handy when I need a simple yes or no to a question, but I can’t overuse the technique because things start to get cloudy and if I ask more than just a few simple questions, I’ll start to feel that “Ask later” sensation.
“Is Candice my friend?” I asked aloud for my first question.
I felt a light, airy sensation in my solar plexus. My sign for yes.
“Is she guilty of murder?”
The light airy feeling turned to a heavy, weighed-down sensation. My symbol for no.
I thought about my next question carefully. “Is she working for the mob?”
The light, airy feeling returned, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as when I’d asked if Candice was my friend.
I knew I was likely good for only one more question, so I said, “Will I find her?”
My solar plexus lit up with such a light feeling that it was undeniable. I’d find Candice. What would happen next was anybody’s guess. I could only hope she wouldn’t shoot me.
A bit later, after thoroughly searching the rest of the apartment for any sign of where Candice might be, I put everything back exactly as I’d found it. Before locking up, I returned to the mailboxes and put all the mail back except for the large manila envelope—I decided to keep that for now. Once I was done, I put the mail key back, locked the door, then went over to sit in my car for a good hour watching the apartment, hoping Candice would make it easy on me and simply show up, but no one even drove past.
Finally I headed out and, using my phone’s GPS, looked up the next address on my list.
It took almost an hour to make it across town in the opposite direction, but eventually I arrived at a set of upscale condos overlooking a beautifully well-groomed golf course. The complex was gated, but there wasn’t a guard posted, so I simply drove up and down the street a few times until I saw someone pull in and insert their card. They didn’t even notice when I tucked in behind them after the gate had opened.
Making my way around the complex, I drove slowly, looking for the right address, and finally found it. There was an elderly man watering some potted plants on a deck jutting out from a condo two down from the one I was interested in. “Good,” I muttered, pulling into an empty space. Getting out of the car, I went around to the trunk and took out my luggage, then strolled toward the condo in front of me, making sure to smile up at the man watering his plants. He nodded and returned my smile, but I could tell he was interested in what I was doing there. When I got to the door, I knocked loudly, so that the old man on the porch could hear. Of course there was no answer, so I knocked again, making a good show of it.
“Excuse me,” the man on the deck called.
I leaned back from the door and put a hand up to shield my eyes from the sun. “Yes?”
“You looking for Dr. Robinowitz?”
“Yes,” I said, pushing up a big old smile onto my lips. “I’m his niece, Kara. Uncle Dave was supposed to pick me up from the airport this morning, but I think he forgot. I finally got a rental car and came here. Do you know if he’s maybe out golfing?”
The man on the balcony blanched. “Oh, my, young lady,” he said. “Didn’t the police call you?”
I put a hand to my chest, feigning surprise. “The police? No. Why? What’s happened?”
The elderly gentleman set down his hose and held up a finger. “Wait there, miss. I’ll be right over.”
He disappeared inside his condo and appeared just a minute later looking like he couldn’t wait to share the terrible, tragic news with me. He was exactly the kind of neighbor I’d been hoping to run into. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said. “But your uncle is dead.”
“What?” I cried. “No! No, no, no! That can’t be!”
The old guy nodded. “I’m really sorry.”
I buried my face in my hands and began making sobbing sounds. I even managed to make my eyes water too, something I was a little proud of. I felt the old guy pat me on the back a couple of times, and after what seemed like a good amount of time, I lifted my chin and said, “How? When? Ohmigod, was it his heart? Uncle Dave never did eat right. I should’ve insisted that he take better care of himself! Oh, why didn’t I push him to eat right? Why? Why?” I buried my face in my hands again. “It’s all my fault!” I wailed. “He’s dead and it’s because I didn’t push him to take care of himself!”
I made a few more sobbing sounds and the old guy continued to pat me on the back and say, “Hey, please don’t cry, miss. It wasn’t your fault, okay? It wasn’t.”
I sniffled and lifted my chin again. “Did it . . . did it happen here? Were you with him when it happened? Please don’t tell me he died alone!”
The old guy was looking increasingly uncomfortable. I could tell that he knew exactly what’d happened to Robinowitz, and I was hoping he’d also be my ticket inside the condo. He was just the type of neighbor you’d leave your key with in case you got locked out.
“I wasn’t with him,” the man said. “And it wasn’t his heart. Say, maybe you should call the police, miss. They can tell you what happened.”
I scrunched up my face again and made my lip quiver. “Was it . . . was it a car accident? Was Uncle Dave drinking and driving again?”
Finally the old guy sighed and said, “Your uncle was murdered, honey.”
“Wha . . . what?!” I gasped, then pretended to let my knees buckle.
The old guy caught my arm and helped me stand up. “Let’s get you inside where you can sit down,” he said. Still holding on to my arm, he bent over to reach for a potted plant on Robinowitz’s balcony and moved it aside. There was a key there and he took that and moved to the door to unlock it. Behind his back I smiled in triumph.
He led me inside and as we entered a tile-covered foyer, I allowed the kind gentleman to lead me to the living room just off the foyer. “Here,” he said. “Take a seat and I’ll get you a glass of water.”
I sat there trying to look stunned and when he came back with the water and a box of tissues, I made another big show of covering my face and crying. “I can’t believe it!” I said. “Uncle Dave was the nicest man on the planet! He heard I was coming back from Europe after losing my job at the art museum, and he told me I could stay with him for as long as I wanted. Until I got back on my feet. I mean, you knew him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly! Who would want to kill him?”
Robinowitz’s neighbor ran a hand through his feathery white hair. “I don’t know, miss. But you’re right. Dave was a good guy. I only knew him for a few months, but he was always very nice to me and the other owners around here.”
I dabbed at my eyes. “I’m Kara,” I repeated, holding out my free hand.
“Bill. Bill Cox.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Cox.”
“Call me Bill,” he said, offering me the tissue box again. I was doing a great job at getting my eyes to water. Of course, I’d had a lot of practice at it lately.
After wiping my cheeks with a tissue, I looked around the condo. It was nice but predictable. Lots of tans and olive greens and not much in the way of personal touches. “It didn’t happen here, did it?” I whispered.
“No, Kara. The police said it happened in Texas. Austin, I think.”
I furrowed my brow. “Austin? What the heck was Uncle Dave doing in Austin?”
Bill shrugged. “He told me a few days ago that he had to go out of town to help a frien
I put a hand on his arm. “You’re a good neighbor.”
He blushed and smiled. “I’m retired and home a lot. Everybody asks me to watch their place when they’re out of town.”
“What did the police say?” I asked next.
Bill grimaced. “They said that Dave had been murdered in a parking garage in Texas. They thought they knew who did it, and they showed me a picture of some woman, asked if I’d ever seen her before.”
Alarm bells went off in my head like crazy. “A woman?” I asked carefully. “A woman killed my uncle?”
Bill nodded. “That’s what the cops said. Your uncle didn’t tell you about his girlfriend?”
I blinked. “His what, now?”
“His lady friend,” Bill said. “She was the one in the picture the cops showed me.”
“Uncle Dave was dating a woman who killed him in Texas?” I said. What the heck was this old man talking about? Candice wouldn’t have . . . She couldn’t have . . . Could she have been having an affair with Robinowitz?
Bill was still nodding. “Your uncle took up with this really pretty blonde,” he said. “She was young too, maybe your age. I only saw her a few times, but she’s not someone you forget, you know? Anyway, when the cops showed me her picture, I told them that she’d been here a couple of times and then I didn’t see her again.”
A sudden thought came to me and I wondered if perhaps Bill could be talking about Saline. She was blond, and she came from Vegas—maybe there was a connection? And then another thought occurred to me: I had seen Saline only after the accident, when she was unrecognizable. What if she and Candice looked similar enough for Saline to have posed as Candice and she was the one who shot Robinowitz? My heart leaped a little at the idea. I had to find out whose photo they’d shown Bill. “Hold on, Bill,” I said. “You’re saying they showed you this woman’s photo? How’d they get her picture?”
“Well,” he explained, “first they showed me a still of her they said came from surveillance video of a parking garage right before she shot your uncle, and then they showed me her mug shot.”
“Her mug shot?” Candice had never been arrested in Las Vegas to my knowledge.
“Okay, so maybe not her mug shot, just a blowup of her driver’s license. They said her name was Cathy Frisco, or something like that.”
My heart sank. They’d shown Bill a photo of Candice’s driver’s license. He seemed quite certain that he recognized her. I knew it hadn’t been Saline who’d come here and befriended Robinowitz, and then later posed as Candice in the parking garage. My hopeful theory of an alternative scenario went out the window.
I couldn’t deny it any longer; Candice knew Robinowitz. That smile he’d worn in the parking garage as he approached her had been one of recognition.
But then, why had Candice needed the contents of the manila envelope in my car? If she’d already known the doctor, why would she need a picture of him to identify him? And if they’d been friendly, why wouldn’t she just ask him for his flight information? Why would someone send her his itinerary and photo if she already knew it? Also, Robinowitz was hardly the kind of guy Candice would go for. I couldn’t imagine her cuddling up next to some retired doctor with a paunch and liver spots.
“You’re sure Uncle Dave was dating this woman?” I asked Bill. “As in, they were really having a physical relationship?” He seemed surprised by my question, and I realized it wasn’t exactly the type of question Robinowitz’s niece would ask. “Uncle Dave didn’t seem interested in anybody since my aunt died,” I added quickly.
Cox shrugged. “I only saw them together twice. They didn’t make out in front of me, but they seemed to like each other okay.”
“Got it,” I said, my mind filling with even more unanswered questions about Candice and her secret life. An awkward silence followed and I felt like I should probably try to get Bill out of the house so that I could snoop around. I didn’t know if he completely bought my story about being Robinowitz’s niece, so I knew I’d need to act fast before he started to ask me questions.
Standing up, I extended my hand and said, “Thank you so much for telling me about Uncle Dave. I think I’m going to have a good cry now. Then I’ll call the police and my family. I don’t even know if any of them have been contacted yet.”
Bill stood and handed me the key to the condo before putting his hand in mine. “You take care, now, Kara. And if you need anything, I’m right over in number three-C.”
After Bill left, I made sure all the blinds were closed and began searching out the place. Robinowitz was a neat and organized man. He had files for his utility bills, mortgage payments, and bank statements, but nothing for anything else that might be of interest. I looked all through the filing cabinet in his den, hunting for anything that might mark him as a bad guy, but there was nothing.
Even his bank statements weren’t very interesting. I scrolled through the printouts and saw that he only kept about fifteen grand in checking, but got regular monthly checks from his retirement account. Considering his expenses, they weren’t for much, a total of about fifteen thousand a month, and after payments for his credit cards, utilities, two mortgages, and a hefty five-thousand-dollar payment to the IRS each month, he just about broke even.
There was nothing to suggest that the good doctor had been anything but a regular guy, trying to live out his golden years in a Vegas condo. It was actually sad when I thought about it.
As I was putting things back together, there was a knock at the door. I stiffened before creeping to the front door and peering through the peephole. I saw that Bill was standing there expectantly.
“Crap,” I whispered. I figured he wanted to nose around a little more. “Who is it?” I asked, trying to sound sad. I was supposed to be in mourning after all.
“Kara, it’s Bill. I’ve got your uncle’s mail here. He asked me to collect it for him while he was out of town, and I forgot about it until just now.”
I opened the door a crack. “Oh,” I said, getting my eyes to tear up again. “Thank you so much, Bill. You’re so kind. Uncle Dave was lucky to have you for a neighbor.”
Bill nodded, and seemed to get choked up himself; then without another word he handed me the mail and left.
“That was easy,” I said after shutting the door.
I sorted through Robinowitz’s mail. There wasn’t much in the way of excitement: a cable bill, a bank statement, two credit card statements, an electric bill, and a coupon for a free car wash.
With a sigh I put the mail on the credenza in the foyer and moved to gather up my purse and carry-on bag. I had another address to check out and I wanted to go there before it got too dark, and I certainly wasn’t going to leave my luggage behind.
As I was passing through the foyer on my way out the door, however, my radar pinged and my attention was drawn back to the credenza. Moving to it, I looked down at the small stack of mail. “What is it?” I muttered, picking up the envelopes while I tried to find out what my radar was working to pinpoint.
I sorted through the stack, reading them off one by one. “AT&T, Nevada Energy, Discover, AmEx, Chase Bank, Oasis Car Wash. What’s here other than bills?”
As if on cue one of the envelopes slipped out of my hands and fell to the floor. Bending over, I picked it up and read, “Chase Bank. Hmmm.”
Opening someone else’s mail is a federal offense, but that didn’t stop me or even give me pause. Tugging open the envelope, I pulled out Robinowitz’s bank statement and studied it curiously. My eyes bugged at the available balance listed on the first page. “One hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars? What the hell?”
Holding tight to the bank statement, I went back to the filing cabinet in the den and pulled open the drawers, digging out the previous month’s statement. That ending balance had been a little over twent
I sat down at the desk and studied the statement, finding a series of deposits all during the previous four weeks. Each deposit was made in cash and none of them totaled more than $9,900. I knew after working with law enforcement all these years that any deposit of $10,000 or more would immediately be reported to the IRS, which would’ve raised a red flag with them and the Feds.
I traced my finger up and down the page, looking at the dates of the deposits. “Every Wednesday at four forty, like clockwork, then on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, all at random times.” I tapped my lip, thinking. “So whoever gave you this cash probably gave it to you between four and four thirty p.m. on Wednesday, because you never missed that four forty deposit, and had to wait a few days to put in the rest and spread it out. But, Dave, where’d the money come from?”
I searched the statement again for clues and discovered that on a few of those Wednesdays, there was a charge at a place called Lucky Lou’s and that charge was almost always at three thirty in the afternoon. The charges from Lucky Lou’s were never more than fifty dollars, and sometimes considerably less; one charge was only for ten dollars and ninety-five cents.
I knew from my public records search that Robinowitz had once had a drinking problem, and because the charges were fairly small, I doubted that he was drinking again. Lucky Lou’s sounded familiar for some reason, but my mind was a little muddled with events and facts, and I couldn’t place it. I suspected Lou’s might be a casino, but I didn’t think Robinowitz was a gambler. If he’d been sober the past few years, he knew how tempting any compulsive hobby could be. I doubted he’d risk his sobriety by taking up gambling. “No,” I muttered, “these look like small meals. A late lunch, or a midafternoon snack.” That led me to think that he probably frequented a restaurant or diner called Lucky Lou’s, and because of the time stamp of the charges and the time stamp of the subsequent deposits every Wednesday, I concluded that whoever was giving Robinowitz the money, he or she probably met him at Lou’s, shared a snack with him, and left him with the cash.