Interpreter for the Dead Read online

  Audiophile Magazine had claimed there was an alleged loss in clarity at the upper end in the Mazerati. There it was, just barely audible. He pushed his foot against the roof support and the buzz went away.

  How in the hell a whole team of Italian engineers had missed something so rudimentary was-

  "Dude!"

  Michael pulled his foot down and sat upright. A pockmarked teenage valet glared at him, hands on his hips like an angry parent.

  "Hey Pete, what's up?"

  The kid advanced quickly. He reached past Dane and started randomly punching buttons until the radio went dead and the top came back up.

  "You're screwing around with a hundred thousand dollar car, man!" The kid shouted at him through the narrowing space between the roof and the top of the driver's window, just pulling his head back in time to save it from being pinned by the advancing soft top.

  "What the hell were you thinking?"

  Dane rolled down the window as the top latched into place.

  "I'm thinking somebody got ripped off. Have you heard the sound system in this thing with the roof down?"

  "Everybody in Vail Valley just heard it," The kid screamed, yanking open the door and holding out his hand. "Give me the keys and un-ass the car."

  Dane handed over the keys, flinching dramatically as the kid slammed the door shut behind him. Pete stomped past him, chirping the car alarm with the remote.

  Dane caught up to him, stifling a laugh as they passed by the front of the restaurant.

  The aroma of roasted garlic and grilled steak drifted on the breeze, and his stomach rumbled loudly in response. Philippe's was desperately trying to evoke an old world feel with the mustard-yellow, simulated stucco walls and fake plants trailing over the rail of the patio.

  A line of perfectly suntanned women and men wrapped halfway around the building. Most of them chatted on cell phones rather than resort to talking to each other. Sad.

  Dane hated cell phones with a passion. For him, they served one purpose - to assist in whatever scam he was running at the moment. If he had to guess, he'd say for most of these people it served the exact same purpose. Scamming your spouse, scamming your investors, or scamming your business partner. How different were they from him? Not much. At least he only ripped off those who could afford it. Could the Enron executives say the same thing?

  Nobody so much as glanced in their direction as they walked past.

  It was only half-past eleven and the place was already overflowing. It had shitty food, but it was the place to see and be seen. Even in the off-season. During ski season, you could count on waiting two hours or more just to get seated.

  "I was just taking a little break kid, relax."

  Pete turned on him.

  "It's not funny. What would you've done if I'd been the owner? Huh?"

  "Well, I'd say you need to spend less money on cars and more money on clothes." He flicked Pete's purple bowtie for emphasis.

  The kid slapped at his hand and turned away, his neck turning crimson.

  "Maybe you don't give a shit about getting fired, but I do. I've got my whole career to think about."

  He couldn't hold the laughter back any longer.

  "Don't worry. As long as there are rich assholes with expensive cars to park you'll always have a job."

  "That's not what I'm talking about and you know it," Pete shot back, turning toward the storage shed they worked from. "Any one of these guys could be connected."

  "Connected?" said Dane, unable to stop himself. "I didn't know Vail was a destination spot for the Mafia."

  Pete stopped and turned on him, poking him in the chest even though Dane had at least five inches on him.

  "Hey, don't fuck me over just because you don't have anything better to do. I'm not going to be parking cars for a living like you when I'm twenty-seven years old."

  Pete kept rambling. "I just don't get you. If anybody should be worried about keeping their job it should be you."

  Dane looked down at the fake wedding ring on his finger and sighed. The skin beneath had already started to turn green, the gold about as real as the name and references he'd given to get this job.

  "You're right. I guess I just wasn't thinking," he did his best to look remorseful.

  A car cruised into the lot. The glare from the summer sun bounced off the windshield, momentarily blinding them.

  "What is it?" Pete asked, not getting up.

  "Lexus."

  It had Colorado plates - a local car. At this time of year most of them were local. The LFA was worth about 375k, so it wasn't a working stiff stopping by for a cup of coffee.

  "It's all yours," he waved Dane in the direction of the Lexus.

  Dane jogged out, more than happy to take it.

  The driver was well dressed, sporting a pair of Eddie Bauer chinos and a Welton button-up, cuffs rolled back to reveal a pricey Rolex.

  The woman was even better. She had to be at least 20 years younger. High-heeled red Jimmy Choo stilettos were followed by a pair of legs that didn't stop until they disappeared beneath the bottom half of a short-skirted sundress. It was a body sculpted by Pilates and enhanced by Beverly Hills, her diamond pendant necklace buried in cleavage.

  Dane got to the car just in time to catch the scent of $300 dollar a bottle Chanel No. 5, not sure if his sudden lightheadedness was from it or the altitude.

  Between the plastic surgery, clothes and perfume she probably cost the guy as much as the car.

  "Welcome to Philippe's."

  "I was wondering if somebody actually worked here," said the guy as he slammed the car door to drive the point home, and tossed Dane the keys. Grabbing the woman by the elbow, he forcibly steered her toward the sidewalk. She grimaced a little, and Dane could see beneath her tan a slight trail of bruises. Apparently, he was forcible on a regular basis.

  He had to keep his anger in check. This was not the place for chivalry. Plus he knew what the standard response was anyway, undoubtedly something about her being a 'klutz'.

  Dane ignored the guy's outstretched hand, so he arched an eyebrow disdainfully. "Are you going to give me a ticket or are you just going to guess which car's mine when I get back?"

  "Oh, that's okay. I'm sure I'll remember you."

  The woman put her hand on the guy's arm, sensing the tension. "Come on honey, it's no big deal. Let's go eat."

  "Yeah, let's hurry and buy you a fifty dollar steak so you can throw it up five minutes later."

  Extracting a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, the guy tore it in half and tucked one of the pieces into Dane's vest pocket.

  "Make sure nothing happens to my car and you'll get the other half."

  "You can count on it," said Dane, smiling as he got into the car and drove away. The smile faded as the sound of the Backstreet Boys oozed from the CD player. He flipped it off, the blasphemy of playing boy-band music over the Mark Levinson sound system just too much to take.

  This guy was just begging for it.

  He circled around and waited until they went into the restaurant before he parked and took out the keys, reaching over and unlocking the glove box.

  It used to be so much easier, he thought. Not anymore. Now he had to dig through the rat's nest of crap most people felt compelled to keep inside their glove boxes before he could find what he was looking for.

  He dug through napkins, ketchup packets and credit card receipts, looking at the addresses, encouraged. A horde of ballpoint pens from nearby banks gave cause for further celebration. But it wasn't until he found the registration and insurance cards tucked inside a small vinyl holder, that he allowed himself to send up a silent hallelujah.

  The asshole's name was Donald Neufelt and he lived at 1414 Montverde Drive, Golden Peak, Vail, Colorado.

  Dane fished the iPhone from his pants pocket and browsed to the MapQuest website, punching in the address. He took a quick look around as he waited for it to plot. Still clear.

  Ping. He looked down at the screen and smile
d. He could be there in ten minutes.

  Shoving everything back into the glove box, he flipped down the visors.

  He retrieved the garage door opener from the passenger side visor and unscrewed the back using his Leatherman, recording the code numbers into his iPhone before reassembling it.

  Examining the lot to make sure he was still in the clear, he slid the seat back. He ducked down and popped open the fuse boxes, once again using the trusty Leatherman to pull out the fuse for the starter.

  Finished, he moved the seat back to its original position, pocketed his tools, and surveyed the interior to insure he hadn't forgotten anything.

  Nothing could be out of place. That was crucial.

  He jogged back to the valet shack, checking the time on his cell phone as he dialed '0'.

  "Thanks for using AT&T. How may I help you?"

  "Hi, I don't think my phone is working. I was wondering if you could call me back after I hang up to test it." The operator assured him that would be no problem.

  A tortured version of Stairway to Heaven greeted his ears as he entered the valet shack.

  "Get a tip?" Pete asked. He was a budding guitar player and spent every extra moment practicing. He needed it.

  He'd stopped his audio assault to adjust the F string.

  "Half of one," said Dane, hanging up the keys. "I'll get the other half if I return his baby to him unharmed."

  Pete laughed and shook his head, tapping his foot as he fell into a three-bar blues progression, the mistuned strings actually helping him out.

  "Got pennies in my pocket, got holes in my shoes, I might not have much, but I sure got the blues. The parking valet blues..."

  There might still be hope, thought Dane, his cell phone ringing.

  His expression changed to worry as he took the call.

  "Are you sure? Okay, okay! I'll be right there. Yes, Pete's right here. Amy says Hi."

  "Tell her to have the damned kid already. It better not be false labor again," Pete said.

  "Did you hear that? She heard that. What? Yeah, I'm leaving right now. Love you, too!"

  "Pete?"

  "Yeah I know, just go. I'll clock you out."

  On the other end of the line the startled AT&T operator was speechless.

  Hanging up, Dane sprinted to the back of the restaurant and into a white panel van. Tossing the snowboard from his passenger seat into the back, he replaced it with a black gym bag - filled with garage door openers.

  He found a matching garage door remote, and reset the internal code to match Donald Neufelt's.

  He shot through the parking lot past the valet shack and gave the other valet a thumbs up. Dane regretted conning him, but it'd been necessary. The last thing he needed was to get promoted.

  Chapter 3

  The exit for Golden Peaks came and went, and Michael Dane took the next one instead. The Five Star Car Wash appeared to his left, the only self-service wash in town.

  Not exactly where Vail's finest went to wash their cars. There was a whole invisible society of worker bees that serviced Vail's elite. This was the only place they could afford to wash their cars. Usually Subarus or Volkswagens. Not Porsches.

  Dane eased the van into the center bay. He was glad to see only one other vehicle there. He clambered back into the cargo hold. It was like an oven. Three large storage boxes lined the wall of the van. He flipped the middle one open and pulled out a bright green windbreaker the found baseball cap. Both were emblazoned with the logo for BugBusters.

  He slipped them on and went to the next box, quickly locating the matching vehicle magnetics. He got out and slapped them on the outside of the van. For a finishing touch, he stuck a vehicle identification number over each front fender.

  Done, he got back in the van and got back on the highway.

  Two minutes later he had hit the Golden Peaks exit and headed east. His heart rate climbed as the speed limit got progressively lower. He forced himself to keep his foot off the gas as he entered the neighborhood. He nodded and smiled at passing joggers and bicyclists.

  The houses were bigger than some hotels he'd stayed in, lawns as large and empty as football fields, driveways as long as landing strips. He finally reached Montverde and turned. He found 1414 near the end.

  The place had to be worth a couple million, easy.

  It was a tired variation on the exposed-timber and tiled-roof theme, distinguishable from its neighbors only by the number on the mailbox and a darker shade of beige. He parked in the driveway at the front of the house but left the engine running.

  Here was where things had the potential to get messy.

  In an effort to draw any unknown occupants out of the house, he rolled down his window and took his time filling out the BugBusters Standard Release Form. This would give anyone, or anything, who might be home plenty of time to make their presence known.

  The curtains remained still. The only sounds were the chirping of the birds and the neighbor's sprinkler system.

  Dane got out and did a thorough visual recon as he strolled to the front door. He noted the woman two houses down loading kids into a canary yellow Hummer H3.

  What ever happened to minivans?

  He pressed the doorbell and waited, rocking on his heels. Like all security conscious wealthy Americans, the Neufelts had a little sticker on the door proclaiming the house was protected twenty-four/seven - this one by the good folks at Lockharte Security, Inc.

  And like any good thief, Dane had a Lockharte Security jacket in the van. He would have worn it had Vail Estates been a gated community, happily handing over his fake ID to a bored, underpaid guard.

  But Vail Estates wasn't gated and he'd already known that, having spent a week jogging and cycling through all of the wealthier developments around Vail.

  He'd made a list and checked it twice before applying as a valet at several of Vail's better restaurants. He'd got the job at Philippe's by providing nothing more than a driver's license and a DMV record - both made the day before. It amazed him that employer's wouldn't spend the money to get their own copies of applicants' driving records.

  No one answered the door.

  Showtime.

  Dane went back to the van, pulled out a BugBusters yard sign and sunk it into the manicured lawn. Next, he strung yellow caution tape between the brick pillars to either side of the drive:

  WARNING!

  FUMIGATION IN PROGRESS

  STAY CLEAR

  He got in the van and backed it up to the garage. He'd learned the value of having a getaway car pointed in the right direction, should the need arise.

  Happily, he noted the departure of the yellow Hummer down the block.

  He killed the engine. He climbed into the back of the van.

  A portable, cardboard file holder held manuals for every alarm system available on the market. He located the 'L's, yanked out the files for 'Lockharte' and then located his toolbox.

  He looked out the window to confirm the coast was still clear, then hit the button on the remote. The garage door opened with a satisfying hum.

  He nowhad one minute to turn off the alarm.

  He peered warily out the back window before actually getting out.

  The scars on his left leg were a permanent reminder to ALWAYS CHECK FOR DOGS.

  Seeing none, he got out and hurried over to the alarm box.

  After the run-in with the Rottweiler, he'd considered carrying a Taser or pepper-spray. His always-on-retainer lawyer, though, told him he could do five years if he got caught carrying either one. So, he settled for just being extremely careful.

  He hit the button to close the garage door and it hummed shut behind him.

  The digital readout on the keypad told him he had fifty seconds leftto shut it off. He found the model number on the alarm box, the opened the file folder and muttered to himself as he flipped through the photocopies of Lockharte's wiring diagrams.

  "7A. 7B. Where the hell is 7C?"

  He looked at the model nu
mber and checked again.

  Shit. He didn't have a 7C. It must be newer.

  He flipped out his Leatherman andpried off the cover.

  How different could it be?

  He opened the manual for 7B to the wiring diagram then taped it to the wall and compared the two.

  Okay, more different than he thought.

  Figuring that he'd shut down enough Lockhartes in the past that he ought to be able to logic it out, Dane grabbed a circuit testerand a handful of jumper leads.

  He tried to reset the access code first - nothing.

  Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven...

  He tried to make the alarm think this was just a test. Again, nothing.

  Twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six...

  He tried to trick it into believing the power had gone out. It wasn't buying it. He began to sweat.

  Twenty-one. Twenty, nineteen...

  Dane began to go over his exit strategy. Then the lights went out.

  Damn.

  He'd forgotten to turn on the overhead interior light in the garage. He felt for the penlight inside his toolbox. The superglue he'd coated his hands with made it hard to tell what was what.

  Green numbers floated ominously in the air above him.

  Seventeen. Sixteen.

  He found the penlight and flicked it on, holding it between his teeth. He probed the circuit board and raced to decipher the metal hieroglyphics.

  Ten. Nine. Eight.

  He found the magic wire. He kept a probe pressed against it, flicked open his Leatherman with the other hand and brought it down on the tiny silver thread from which everything seemed to hang.

  An unblinking three let him know he'd been successful.

  Dane let out his breath and rotated the tension out of his neck and shoulders.

  He tucked his tools away nice and neat and went to the door leading inside the house. Not locked.

  It opened onto an oversized laundry room, which led into a very expensive looking maple and granite kitchen. A thin layer of dust coated the stove. Apparently, Mrs. Neufeldt identified more with Cosmo than Betty Crocker.