Roomer Has It

Chapter 1

Liberty Airline’s plush executive offices in Chicago occupied the top five floors of a deco-era building on East Wacker Drive. The soaring structure had opened in 1930 as the city’s tallest at thirty stories, and like other skyscrapers of the era its design included deep setbacks that emphasized its height and enhanced its decorative nighttime lighting.

And like many of its steel and brick kin, it had windows that could be opened, albeit with some effort.

The CEO’s suite was on the top floor with spectacular views of the city and Lake Michigan beyond. From that vantage point its current occupant had, during his twelve-year tenure, presided over an industry-changing mega-merger, several smaller acquisitions, a handful of ugly labor disputes and one modest crash.

The latter had taken the lives of all forty-seven passengers and three crew members aboard a twin turboprop commuter airliner belonging to Liberty, including that of the wife of a cold-hearted bastard from Arizona.

It was this event that had inspired him, a builder by trade, to don a gray janitor’s uniform and battered White Sox cap and join the building’s cleaning crew on a chilly April night. Most of them had taken the L to Clinton or gotten off a CTA bus a few blocks closer to their destination, and they talked and laughed as they sauntered in small groups toward the building where they would spend the overnight hours. The builder had walked from his hotel, discarding his long raincoat at a bus shelter and joining the two dozen men and women carrying the shabby tools of their trade not far from the building’s entrance. He slouched and kept his head down as he entered the building and waited with the suddenly more subdued group in the lobby for the elevators that would carry them to their assigned floors.

The builder was the last off car number three when it finally reached the summit five minutes later. He carried with him a large plastic tool caddie from which bottles and brushes and rags protruded as he padded slowly down the carpeted hall to the CEO’s suite. Once inside he closed the heavy oak door behind him and walked across the office. There was a locked closet next to the man’s private washroom but its lock was the kind designed more to keep out the curious than thwart the serious and it took little time to defeat. The builder pushed aside the jackets, suit, pants and shirts that hung on shiny wooden hangers in the generous locker, piled the three pair of wingtip shoes into a corner and slipped off his janitor’s uniform, along with the clothes he had worn under it, and his disreputable looking sneakers. He placed them on a shelf, closed the door from the inside and sat down on the carpeted floor in boxers and an undershirt, his knees up and his back resting against a black leather Ping golf bag.

A bona fide member of the cleaning crew entered the office an hour later and spent ninety minutes diligently dusting and cleaning every surface and every nook and cranny, vacuuming the thickly-carpeted floors and scouring the marble-lined washroom. He bypassed only the CEO’s private closet, where the builder sat quietly and where he would spend the rest of the night.

When the janitor left, he set the alarm on his Blackberry for five A.M. and curled up on his side. The gentle tone woke him at the appointed hour and he opened the closet door, stretched and used the CEO’s taj-like washroom to perform his morning rituals. By six he was dressed in the gray wool pants and blue Oxford shirt he had worn beneath the uniform and had slipped into the black Bally loafers that were hidden in his tool caddie. He tried on one of the CEO’s Navy blue blazers, which fit him well enough, closed the closet door, shrugged out of the jacket and draped it over the back of one of the leather visitor’s chairs that faced the man’s monstrous desk.

As expected, the CEO bustled into the office at six-thirty, his cashmere coat unbuttoned and a Tod’s briefcase held firmly in his right hand. He closed the door behind him and took several paces toward his desk but stopped suddenly at the sight of the out of place blazer.

It’s one of yours, the builder said, getting up from his perch on the arm of a sofa across the large room.

A Pneu-Dart X-2 pistol, which had been wrapped in a handkerchief at the bottom of his tool caddie, was now held firmly in his right hand. He had checked the CO2 gauge, rotated open the port at the rear of the gun and loaded it with a disposable transmitter dart before taking up his position to wait.

And who the hell are you? the CEO demanded, putting down his briefcase and turning to face his uninvited guest.

Instead of answering, the builder wrapped his finger around the trigger of the pistol and raised its fourteen inch barrel until it was pointed at the CEO’s chest.

Unlike in the movies or on TV he knew there was no point in having a discussion, even a brief one, in a situation like this. He simply pulled the trigger. The shot went off in near silence and he watched as, wide-eyed, the CEO crumpled slowly to the floor, all the while grabbing at the dart that now lodged in the left side of his chest, having barely missed his red, silk tie.

The builder walked across the room and removed the dart, then rolled the CEO onto his stomach. He stripped off the man’s winter coat and his suit jacket, bound his wrists together behind him with a plastic zip tie, rolled him onto his back and used another zip tie for his ankles. He tore off and pressed a large piece of duct tape over the CEO’s mouth and unrolled the rest of the tape around the CEO’s knees, firmly binding them together. He then dragged the man to the exterior wall, not far from his desk and pulled him into a sitting position, his back against the wall underneath an expanse of windows.

After rolling up the uniform and pushing it, the gun and the spent dart, as well as the spent roll of duct tape into his tool caddie, the builder locked the office door and sat down in the CEO’s chair, swiveling around to face him. The builder kept his gaze above the man, watching clouds roll across an otherwise blue sky for ten minutes until the animal tranquilizer wore off.

The CEO’s face remained expressionless as he returned to consciousness, but he began to follow the builder warily with his eyes.

You’re probably wondering what this is all about, Mr. Elgin, the builder began. Well, I’m going to tell you a story. It won’t take long. Then I’m going to throw you out that window.

Elgin’s expression finally changed and the builder could see the dread in his eyes.

You killed my wife, the builder continued, last December, on that commuter flight from Green Bay to O’Hare. You remember it, I’m sure? The one where the young Florida-based pilots who were totally inexperienced in winter flying let too much ice accumulate on the wings? Pilots that you personally cleared to fly up here so you wouldn’t have to cancel a bunch of flights around the holidays? The so-called accident your lawyers are still arguing about in court? I’ll bet you’ve made lots of other decisions like that one over the years, Mr. Elgin, to cut corners and save a few dollars. But there’s lots of redundancy in the system, right, so you’ve always figured it’s safe to take a few risks. And you’ve been lucky and come out okay, until now.

The builder sighed and stood up. The CEO’s eyes continued to follow him as he fished a screwdriver and a heavy rubber mallet from the tool caddie and went about getting one of the wide windows open, looking down at the CEO occasionally as the man struggled unsuccessfully to break his bindings or to yell for help.

Elgin was not a terribly large man and the builder kept himself in pretty decent shape, but Elgin fought and wriggled and the builder struggled to get him up and positioned the way he wanted on the broad window sill, on his stomach, his head out in the cold, morning breeze, his eyes facing thirty stories straight down.

A taller building would have better simulated what Karen, that was my wife’s name, what Karen went through better than this but, hey, it’s the best I could do, the builder said, leaning out the open window so that Elgin would be sure to hear him. I’m afraid you won’t quite reach terminal velocity before you hit Wacker Drive and you’re not going to be terrified for nearly as long as Karen was when that plane went down. Oh, and there’s no structure to crush around you so it might not hurt quite as much when the impact comes. Of course it’s still gonna hurt like nothing you can imagine, brief as it may be. And after all, dead is dead, right?

With that the builder smiled and pulled his head and shoulders back inside. He took hold of Elgin’s calves and pushed the still struggling CEO the rest of the way out the window.

Chapter 2

Rich or poor, it’s good to have money.

Carina’s father had said it from time to time while she was growing up without much money in the run down, crime addled Miami Beach of the 1980s. It had not failed to make the desired impression, especially after he died and left her and her mother closer to poor than to rich. Things were a good deal better now but Carina was unsure how her father would have felt about her recent ill-gotten gains, as she thought of it, although she preferred to imagine that he would be more impressed with the sum than troubled by its source.

On the other hand, although the money in question had, in fact, been ill-gotten, it had not been ill-gotten by her. It was drug money, true, but at least it was not the get-the kids-addicted kind. Hector Diaz, her former partner from her first stint on the Miami Beach police force, together with a handful of colleagues, had earned it mainly selling Oxycodone to adults who should have known better.

Carina had turned down his offer to join their little enterprise.

It had been a good decision. Hector and his buddies had gotten caught. Carina had been complicit in that she had never reported the discussion about joining in, but perhaps because of her loyalty Hector had made sure she was not drawn into the ensuing investigation and she had been cleared of any wrongdoing. Still, she had been wise enough to know that it was time to leave Miami Beach, at least for a while.

It had meant giving up an almost certain promotion to lieutenant in exchange for a detective second class badge in New York City and leaving a two-bedroom apartment a block from the beach for a tiny one-bedroom on a noisy street in Chelsea. A year into it she got a FedEx from Hector. His final appeal had failed and a lengthy jail sentence loomed. The unmarried, childless former cop had sent Carina instructions on how to access the Cayman Islands bank account that held his share of those ill-gotten gains, along with a strict warning to never contact him again.

That had come in the midst of the toughest case Carina had ever worked, tracking a serial killer of wealthy, middle aged men, and the guilt and shame of Hector’s gift had, for a short while, nearly crippled her. But as always she managed to go on and she and her partner finally succeeded in identifying and capturing the killer. The resulting accolades and increased visibility had made her the leading candidate when the police chief’s job suddenly opened up in Miami Beach and she jumped at the chance to go back home. The seventy-five percent bump in pay was frosting on the cake.

Her father would have shaken his head and said that she had stepped in it and come up huele como una rosa, smelling like a rose.

The tanning butler did not seem to care one way or another, though, as he slathered more SPF 40 onto Carina’s back and the backs of her legs. The Ritz-Carlton was like that. It did not matter where your money came from as long as you could pay your bill. They were not alone in that viewpoint, especially in Grand Cayman.

Is there anything else I can do for you, Laurita, the handsome young man asked Carina suggestively, as he got up from the edge of her chaise.

She turned her head just enough to gaze up at him and smile.

You could ask one of the servers to stop by, William, she said, although I have a feeling that wasn’t the answer you were hoping for.

The name on Carina’s Bahamian passport, the one she had spent some of Hector’s money to obtain for travel between the Bahamas or Jamaica and Grand Cayman, was Laura Garcia. The rest of the hotel staff always called her Miss Garcia, although her favorite concierge called her Laura. But William, as Guillermo Gomez Paz, a Mexican by birth who preferred the Anglicized version of his own name, took it a step further, using the Spanish-language diminutive.

William smiled, shrugged and said, My pleasure, in perfect Ritz-Carlton style, before walking off down the beach and up to the poolside bar. A few minutes later a polite young woman came to Carina and handed her a bar menu. She looked it over, ordered a mahi-mahi sandwich and a Cuban Bucanero beer, and turned back onto her stomach.

Halfway through her sandwich, while she was waiting for a second bottle of the forbidden-in-the-U.S. beer to arrive, her iPhone vibrated. The screen said Simpson. Carina frowned, wondering why her former NYPD partner would be trying to reach her, but answered the call.

Long time, no see, or hear, she said. What’s on your mind, Pete?

Can’t your old partner just say hello? What’s it been, a year?

More or less, she replied.

Which should be enough time to figure out whether you made a good move or not, he said. So, what is it? You having fun or hating life?

It’s a little more complicated than that, she replied, but closer to the fun side. How about you? You must be having fun working flexible hours for the biggest PI firm in New York and collecting an NYPD pension.

It has its moments, Simpson replied, mostly around payday.

Carina looked down at her half-eaten sandwich.

Okay, she said, now tell me why you’re really calling, and don’t tell me you’re lonely and you miss me.

Simpson cleared his throat.

I need to speak with you, he said.

I thought that’s what you were doing.

Still a wise-ass, I see. I meant in person, Quintana. And don’t say make an appointment.

What’s so important we can’t discuss it on the phone? she asked.

It’s a case I’m working on.

Someone lose a dog?

I’d say fuck you, Quintana, but you’d probably just hang up on me.

I still might.

Someone killed the CEO of Liberty Airways about a month ago, beginning of April, in Chicago, Simpson told her.

Sorry, outside my jurisdiction, she said.

Carina could almost hear his blood pressure going up and smiled.

Then two days ago, Simpson went on, someone killed the partner at some big, white shoe law firm up here who’s representing the airline in a negligence case resulting from a plane crash last December.

I’m still not hearing--

I think the killer’s headed your way, Simpson told her.

And the New York cops haven’t called me because?

Because they don’t agree, he said.

But you’re convinced anyway?

When have you known me to be wrong, Quintana?

Let me think.

Funny, he said. I can be on the first flight out of LaGuardia in the morning.

Carina sighed. It was Thursday and she had not planned on returning to Miami until Saturday or Sunday.

Tell you what, she said. Sleep in, take an afternoon flight instead and I’ll meet you for dinner tomorrow night, your treat.

Chapter 3

The builder had made it through high school and managed to survive his late teenage years despite frequent high-speed midnight runs on Route 65 in an old souped-up Mustang and sensation-heightening gifts from a friend who sold the best cocaine in Allegheny County, maybe even all of Pennsylvania.

There had been lots of drinking, as well, and a variety of petty crimes and nasty fights. The last of those fights had ended with the high school quarterback on the wrong side of a shattered plate glass window and the builder in the back seat of a county trooper’s Ford. The builder had always wanted out of Moon Run anyway, with its shabby bars, disconsolate denizens and dismal winter weather, although Iraq was further than he had in mind. But it beat the hell out of a pod in the Allegheny County jail.

So he spent a year either bored to death or scared to death while Operation Desert Storm was going on around him. When it was over they shipped him back to Fort Huachuca, an Army base in Arizona not far from the Mexican border, for a stint in Intelligence. It was a move that turned out to be less boneheaded than he had thought. He excelled at the work and his commanding officer pushed hard to get him to re-up, but good at the job or not, the builder did not see himself as the career military type.

After an honorable discharge he considered using Uncle Sam’s dollars to try to turn his high school diploma into something more valuable. But within weeks he was lured away by the boom in residential construction that so consumed the Phoenix-Scottsdale area. Working construction agreed with him and the money was good, especially if you were young and single, and he never looked back.

And then he built a house for Karen Alvarez, or at least the company he was working for at the time did. It was in Gainey Ranch, not far off North Scottsdale Road, on a half-acre of rolling scrub and dirt that would eventually be rife with ornamental grasses, purple sage, lantana and a few smallish saguaros. He was a construction manager by then, wearing more expensive jeans and clean tee-shirts and she could not have been more right than when she told him that her house would never have been finished if he had not been there to see it through.

They had dinner together when the city issued a certificate of occupancy, at a very nice Italian place in the Borgata that closed a few years later, and they made love afterwards on a new bed with the CO taped to the wall above them.

He was thirty and she was pushing forty, but she was tall and beautiful, with long dark hair and eyes that could make him lose his balance. He moved into Karen’s new house a week later and they were married three months after that. He cleaned up well but not well enough to fool Karen’s family and friends, so it was a very private ceremony, held on a Friday afternoon in early December at St. Anthony on the Desert Episcopal. Karen knew the Rector.

The builder suspected that she had always dreamed of a honeymoon in the South of France or maybe Saint Barth’s, but Karen was not fooled, either. She knew what she had gotten into. They went to Vegas for a week and had a ball. Karen’s parents were not amused. The last straw was learning that their daughter had put up the money for her new husband to start his own construction firm.

The builder was convinced that he knew more about running a construction business than any of the people he had worked for. Karen was convinced, as well. And while she may have been head over heels in love, she was also what the builder called a moderatrix. He used to kid her about it. She believed in balance, not in extremes, even when it came to things like money, sex or politics. And she moderated him, which Lord knows he needed. In the end her decision to back him had not been an emotional one but rather was driven by balancing the pros and cons and realizing that the pros came out way ahead.

And the decision turned out to be right. The builder was tough and smart and he worked hard and the business grew quickly. It did not hurt that Karen was a lawyer. And with her as his lawyer, her universe of financial gurus, high-end accountants and business advisors became his.

Timing is everything in life, he knew, and eight years later, just before the housing slump hit, the builder sold his company to one of the national builders looking for a foothold in Arizona for twenty million dollars. He stayed on as General Manager for a while but it did not take long for him to figure out that working for them was not any better than working for any other company had been.

He quit and starting doing some consulting.

A week before Christmas Karen had gone to the Midwest on business. On her way home from closing the deal, connecting through O’Hare, the turboprop commuter plane she was on went down with a load of ice on its wings. There were, the airline said when they called the builder, no survivors, a public relations way of saying that all the wonderful human beings on board were now dead due to the airline’s stupidity and negligence.

With Karen suddenly gone the builder might have become himself again, drinking too much and driving that way, gambling, getting into fights. But she had named him executor of her considerable estate, much of it passed down from her grandparents, and he felt he owed it to her to do things right.

But more than anything he knew that to truly make things right he would need to deal with those who had caused her needless death and