Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)
Murder is a Family Business
Book One
In
The Alvarez Family
Murder Mystery Series
Heather Haven
Murder is a Family Business © 2005 by Heather Haven
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Wives of Bath Press
223 Vincent Drive
Mountain View, CA 94041
http:// www.thewivesofbath.com
Cover Art © 2013 by Heather Haven/Jeff Monaghan
Edited by Baird Nuckolls
Layout and book production by
Heather Haven and Baird Nuckolls
Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9884086-9-2
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-9892265-0-9
First eBook edition Jan 1, 2011
Testimonials
“Heather Haven makes a stellar debut in Murder is a Family Business.” Highly recommended. Sheldon Siegel. New York Times Best Selling Author of Perfect Alibi.
“The writing was clever and I couldn’t stop laughing. This is the perfect beach book.” Laura from The 100 Romances Project
“Ms. Haven has found a new fan.” Dishin’ It Out, Ginger Simpson
“Wonderful! Charming! Fun.” Dr. Cynthia Lea Clark, Psy.D
“It is a thoroughly enjoyable reading experience. I look forward to the next book in this series.” Candy Bezner, Single Titles
"Wonderfully fresh and funny!" - Meg Waite Clayton, author of The Wednesday Sisters and The Four Ms. Bradwells
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The Alvarez Family Murder Mystery Series:
Murder is a Family Business – Book One
A Wedding to Die For – Book Two
Death Runs in the Family – Book Three
DEAD….If Only – Book Four
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge the United States Coast Guard for their invaluable help and information.
Dedication
I would like to dedicate this book to my Cafe Bee writing buddies, to Ellen Sussman and my fellow participants in her writing classes, especially Baird Nuckolls, friend and writing/business partner, to my supportive husband, Norman Meister, to families everywhere, and to my mother, Mary Lee, who is more like daughter, Lee, than Lila, just in case anyone asks.
Murder is a Family Business
Chapter One
The Not-So-Perfect Storm
“God, surveillance sucks,” I griped aloud to a seagull languishing on a nearby, worm-eaten post, he being my only companion for the past few hours. He cocked his head and stared at me. I cocked my head and stared at him. It might have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but a nearby car backfired, and he took off in a huff. Watching him climb, graceful and white against the gray sky, I let out a deep sigh, feeling enormously sorry for myself. I eyeballed the dilapidated warehouse across the parking lot hanging onto the edge of the pier for any signs of life. I didn’t find any.
I knew I was in trouble earlier when I discovered this was the only vantage point from which I could stay hidden and still see the “perpetrator’s place of entrance,” as I once heard on Law and Order. That meant I couldn’t stay in my nice warm car listening to a Fats Waller tribute on the radio but had to be out in the elements, hunkered down next to a useless seawall.
For three lousy hours, rambunctious waves from the San Francisco Bay made a break for freedom over this wall and won. Salty foam and spray pummeled my face, mixed with mascara, and stung my eyes like nobody’s business. Then the wind picked up, and the temperature dropped faster than the Dow Jones on a bad day.
Speeding up Highway 101 toward Fisherman’s Wharf, I’d heard on the car radio that a storm was moving in. When I arrived, I got to experience it first-hand. Yes, it was just winter and me on the San Francisco Bay. Even Jonathan Livingston Seagull had taken a powder.
I concentrated on one of two warehouses, mirrors of each other, sitting at either side of a square parking lot containing about twenty cars and trucks. “Dios mio, do something,” I muttered to the building, which housed the man who had caused me to age about twenty years in one afternoon.
I struggled to stay in a crouched position, gave up and sat down, thinking about the man I’d been following. I was sure he was a lot more comfortable than I, and I resented him for it. Two seconds later, I realized the cement was wet, as well as cold. Cursing my stupidity, I jumped up and stretched my cramped legs while trying to keep an eye on the door he had entered, lo those many hours before. With me being the only one on the job, I couldn’t keep an eye on the cargo bay on the other side of the warehouse, but I felt pretty safe about it being a non-exit. Without a boat or a ship tied there, it emptied into the briny bay. The perp, thankfully, didn’t look like much of a swimmer, even on a nice day.
I tried to focus my mind on Mr. Portor Wyler, said perpetrator, and the singular reason for all my misery. I kept coming back to this burning question:
Why the hell is a Palo Alto real estate mogul driving 42-miles roundtrip two to three times a week to a beat-up, San Francisco warehouse on the waterfront?
After that, I had an even better one:
What the hell am I doing here? Oh, yeah. Thanks, Mom.
My name is Liana Alvarez. It’s Lee to my friends, but never to my mother. I am a thirty-four year old half-Latina and half-WASP PI. The latter, aforesaid relatives, drip with blue blood and blue chips and have been Bay Area fixtures for generations. Regarding the kindred Mexican half of me, they either immigrated to the good old US of A or still live in Vera Cruz, where they fish the sea. How my mother and father ever got together is something I’ve been meaning to ask Cupid for some time.
However, I digress. Back to Portor Wyler or, rather, his wife, Yvette Wyler. It was because of her I was in possession of a cold, wet butt, although I’m not supposed to use language like that because Mom would be scandalized. She has this idea she raised me to be a lady and swears her big mistake was letting me read Dashiell Hammett when I was an impressionable thirteen year-old.
My mother is Lila Hamilton Alvarez, of the blue blood part of the family, and CEO of Discretionary Inquiries, Inc. She’s my boss. Yvette Wyler has been a friend of my mother’s since Hector was a pup, so when Mrs. Wyler came crying to her, Mom thought we should be the ones to find out what was going on. That didn’t seem
like a good enough reason for me to be where I was, assigned to a job so distasteful no self-respecting gumshoe I hung out with would touch it, but there you have it. Leave it to my mother to lay a guilt trip on me at one of my more vulnerable times. I don’t know who I was more annoyed with, Mom or me.
Furthermore, I had no idea what my intelligent, savvy, and glamorous mother had in common with this former school buddy, who had the personality of ragweed and a face reminiscent of a Shar-Pei dog wearing lipstick.
Whenever I brought the subject up to Mom, I got claptrap about “loyalty” and “friends being friends.” So naturally, my reaction to the woman made me aware of possible character flaws on my part. I mean, here Mrs. Wyler was, one of my mot
her’s life-long chums, and I was just waiting for her to bark.
But the long and short of it was pals they were. Discretionary Inquiries, Inc. was on the job, and I was currently freezing my aforementioned butt off because of it; thank you so much.
Computer espionage in Silicon Valley is D.I.’s milieu, if you’ll pardon my French. The Who, What, Where, When, and How of computer thievery is our livelihood. To elucidate, high tech companies don't appreciate staff making off with new hardware or software ideas, potentially worth millions of dollars, either to sell to the highest bidder or to use as bribery for a better, high-powered job with the competition. If you haven’t heard about any of this, it’s because this kind of pilfering keeps a pretty low profile in Silicon Valley. Upper management of most companies feel it’s important not to give investors the shakes nor the techies any ideas. Ideas, however, are what techies are all about, and it’s a rare day when somebody isn’t stealing something from someone and using it for a six-figured trip to the bank, whether upper management likes it or not.
Until the recent change in copyright law, each individual company dealt with the problem by filing civil lawsuits against suspected counterfeiters. It was a long and arduous process often resulting in nothing more than a slap on the wrist for the guilty parties. Now that there are federal statutes with teeth, which include prison sentences, these companies are anxious to see the guilty parties pay to the fullest extent of the law. It's at this point that Discretionary Inquiries, Inc. is brought into the act.
D.I. is the Rolls Royce of high-tech investigation, if I must say so myself, with a success rate of over 94 percent. To say business at D.I. is brisk is an understatement. D.I. often turns away work. For me, it's exciting and challenging; I love working with the FBI's counter-intelligence division, the IRS, the U.S. Customs Service, and the "hi-tech units" of police departments.
My particular specialty is being a ferret, and I hope I’m not being too technical here. I sniff out means and opportunity after the fact until I have enough evidence that will stand up in court. Yes, I am a perfumed ferret, resplendent in Charles
Jordan heels, Bulgari jewelry, and Versace dresses. I sit in cushioned office chairs and have high-powered lunches drilling stricken staff members who "can't believe what happened,” until I enlighten them as to how it can and did. Then everybody’s happy, and I receive a nice, fat bonus when the job is done. Sometimes I’m allowed to throw a bone to the local newspapers or one of the television stations, depending on how spiteful the wounded company wants to be, so everyone loves me. And, it is my dream job.
This was my nightmare. I closed my eyes and willed it all to go away. It didn’t. Just then, the sky darkened, and a gust of wind whipped up at least half the water contained in the Bay. This water joined forces with a maverick wave with a nasty disposition and impeccable timing. They both came at me like a blast from a fireman’s hose. I lost my balance, and found myself flat on my back in a very unladylike position, as my mother would say.
I gurgled and spit out about a half-gallon of salt water hoping the Bay was as clean as the mayor boasted. My hair was plastered to my scalp and face in long, wet, strands that went nicely with the quivering blue lips and streaked mascara.
I got to my feet and tried to zip up my black leather jacket. The teeth caught in the fabric of my sweater and refused to budge despite any amount of coercion from numb fingers. My wool slacks clung to my legs and lost whatever shape they previously had. To finish it off, my new suede boots bled their color in puddles around my feet.
“Well, at least it isn’t raining yet,” I said aloud, trying to remember what I’d learned about positive thinking the previous month. I had attended a three-day seminar at the Malaysian Institute of Advanced Studies in "Self-Excellence and Positive Thinking" sponsored by the Ministry of Culture. I’m not sure what I got out of it, other than great food, but the Institute has a rather unique approach to carrying out daily tasks with “dedication and integrity,” as stated in their brochures.
This approach is being written up on about a billion dollars worth of software right here in Silicon Valley. D.I. is their very own personal firewall against thievery, so I wanted to give these Malaysian theories a chance.
I saw the lights go out from under the door of the warehouse and wondered if it was a power outage, or was Wyler preparing to leave? Whatever, my body tensed with renewed alertness or as much alertness as I could renew. At that moment, of course, a bolt of lightning struck. Its point zero was so close by my soggy hair stood on end, and my nose twitched from the electrical charge. The flash of light illuminated everything, including the white-capped waves of the Bay hurtling in my direction. The lightning was followed by a clap of thunder, which sounded like a herd of longhorns stampeding over a tin bridge.
As if that wasn’t enough, the walkway I stood on began to quiver, and I knew it was going to do something Really Big at any moment. That’s when the heavens opened up. Sheets of rain, driven by the wind, hammered at my skin, and I could barely open my eyes.
“That’s it! Stick a fork in me, I’m done,” I yelled to the world at large. I reached inside my drenched shoulder bag for my cellphone and prayed it would work. It had been acting up lately, like everything else in my life, but I hit speed dial and ran to a nearby Plexiglas phone booth. The booth no longer contained a phone, only sodden newspapers littering the floor. Fighting the assaulting rain, I pushed the door closed and heard someone pick up on the first ring. Things were looking up. My cell phone was working.
“This is Lila,” said a well-modulated voice.
My mother annoys me when she is well modulated, but now that she sounded dry on top of it, I found it maddening.
“It's me, and I feel like Noah without the ark. Get the dove ready. Find me an olive branch. The rains have come, and I am gone.”
“Yes, dear. Ha ha. Now what is the matter?”
“What isn’t the matter?” I wailed, forgetting I was annoyed with her. “I’m cold; I’m soaked through, and I was almost hit by a bolt of lightning.”
“Where are you, Liana? Try to be more succinct.”
“Where am I?” I was so stunned by the question that I took a deep breath and decided not to have a tantrum. Lowering my voice several octaves, I enunciated each word. “I am where I have been for three miserable, boring, useless hours, in accordance with your wishes. Succinctly, I'm in a phone booth catty-corner to the warehouse. The lights went out maybe thirty seconds ago just as a storm hit full force. It's raining too hard to see anything more than a foot away. I’m drenched; I’m tired, and I’m freezing.” The octaves began to climb again because while I was wiping the water from my face, I poked a finger in my right eye. “Son of a bitch!”
“Watch your language,” Lila rebuked, ever the lady. “And don’t be petulant, Liana. It doesn’t become you. So, what you are saying is, you don't know whether or not Wyler is still inside the warehouse,” she said, getting to the issue at hand.
“Exactamente. What I do I know, is it’s a monsoon out here, and I’m going to catch pneumonia if I stay out in it much longer.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic, Liana. It’s just a little water,” the woman who gave birth to me chided. So much for mother love. “It’s too bad you’ve lost him so late in the proceedings, though. We were doing so well,” she added.
I loved the way she included herself in all of this. “Well, don’t tell me you want me to go into the warehouse and look for him,” I said, with an edge to my voice. An involuntary shiver ran through me, as I felt a movement of the wet papers at my feet. This wind even comes through Plexiglas, I thought.
“Absolutely not! We agreed to follow him from a safe distance, not to make contact. If we lost him, we lost him. Go on home.”
“Oh.” I felt the air go out of my balloon of martyrdom. “Sorry about this,” I added. This may have been my third tedious day following a man who made Danny DeVito look tall, dark and handsome, but I was a professional and trained to do t
he job. Although, to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure what that job was. His wife thought he was cheating on her. Okay, that’s understandable given who she was, but once she caught him in flagrante delecto, what then? California has a no-fault divorce law with a fifty-fifty property split, pants up or pants down.
As far as I could see, this wasn’t quite the same scenario as demanding the return of stolen property, intellectual or otherwise. I mean, what was he going to “return” here? If Wyler dropped his drawers elsewhere, literally, could he just return his private parts, figuratively, to the little wifey with a vow to never do it again?
When I thought about it that way, I guess you could make a case for it. However, if Lila considered a philandering husband in the same category as computer espionage, and if D.I. was heading in that direction, I was going to get out of the business and become a nun.
“It can't be helped,” Lila replied, interrupting my mental wanderings.
“What can’t be helped?” I said, still lost in my own thoughts.
“Pay attention, Liana. I’m telling you to go home. Make sure you log all the information you’ve got on the computer when you get to the office in the morning.” She added, “We'll go over it tomorrow with Richard. By the way, have you been able to come up with the owner of the warehouse?”
“You mean in my spare time?” I retorted. “No, I’ve done some digging, but I can’t find a company name yet. I think we’re going to have to bring in the Big Guns.”
“Hmmm, strange,” Lila pondered. “By ‘big guns,’ as you‘ve put it, I assume you mean Richard.” Mom has an irritating way of underlining certain words of a sentence with her voice. I don’t mean to complain, but it can be almost as exasperating as her modulations. And then there’s her overall aversion to the use of slang words, which is too bad, because I use them all the time. Dad’s side of the family.