‘Good to know. What about numbers; you got any idea how many of them they’ll be?’
Monroe whistles. ‘That’s a piece-of-string question. It depends how much of the threat they think is out there. But seeing as your guy is a mob insider, I’m thinking they’ll be cautious. Oftentimes two agents would be the charm, but there could be more. It’s—’
‘As long as a piece of string?’ I shake my head. He doesn’t know, that’s real clear. ‘I guess I’ll learn that when I find them.’
‘That’s all I can give you, Lori. You’re on your own now.’
He’s right, but that don’t make no difference. ‘I always am.’
13
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 07:43
As I fire up the Jeep’s engine, I think on what Monroe’s told me. I need to get to Missingdon and work out which of the three places he’s told me about the field agents with Carlton North have chosen. Then I need to break North out. I glance at the clock on the dash – it’s almost a quarter of eight. That means I’ve got a little over twenty-four hours to get this done.
On the freeway, I stick to the speed limit and finish the coffee from the rest-stop store. The traffic’s pretty clear at this time, and I make the drive in just over an hour, arriving into Missingdon a little before nine.
As I drive on in, I pass a wooden sign to my right bearing the words Welcome to Missingdon – Home to the Wild. It’s faded and weather-worn, but the grass has been cut around it, and wildflowers bloom pink and blue around its posts. Keeping my foot gently nudging the gas, I coast into town.
Like I thought when I looked at it on the map, it’s a real ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ kind of place. Nestled into the side of the Aucilla Wildlife Management Area, vacationers here are most likely looking to get back to nature – going hiking and exploring rather than partying. I think on what Monroe said about the Feds and their fondness for suits; if they keep them on in this place, they’ll stick out like a steer in a herd of mustangs.
The main street takes me towards downtown. I see a few homes dotted along the way, a sign for Zed’s Autos that points along a dusty dirt track appearing just inside the town boundary, in a gap between the trees lining the highway, and another sign for Zimmer’s which gives no clue to the nature of their business.
Rather than continuing straight downtown, I hang a left along the imaginatively called Boundary Road at the corner of Sixth, to circle around and get the lay of the land. A full circuit of the town takes me all of twenty minutes. What I learn is that the homes here are well kept – lawns neat, driveways tidy – but none are new builds. Their white and cream stucco façades gleam cleanly in the morning sunshine, the areas around their front porches filled with plants and flowers. Over medium-height fences I can see that some back yards have swing sets. But nothing about this place stands out or looks out of place; it’s too everyman, too vanilla.
Places like this, they make me feel uneasy.
I head back downtown. There’s a little more street traffic here and a few people on the sidewalks. Most of the businesses are positioned on the roads flanking a square of neat-kept grass, with a few benches and a large paved area where twenty or so fountain jets are firing water ten feet into the air in a synchronised display like a budget version of the dancing fountains at the Bellagio. A couple of young kids are playing chicken with the jets, their moms watching from the safety of the grass.
Slowing the Jeep to twenty miles an hour, I scan the shop fronts closest to me: there are a couple of grocery places, a hardware store, a laundromat and a bar. On the opposite side of the square I spot real-estate offices, a beauty salon and a diner. My cellphone’s battery is dying, so I park the Jeep in a space outside Joe’s Diner and head inside.
It’s a basic set-up: no booths, and the wooden tables and chairs blend in with the cream, marble-effect linoleum floor, the pale-cream walls and brown wooden blinds.
A fifty-something lady in a checked yellow dress and white apron steps out from behind the greeter’s desk and approaches me, a broad smile on her pink-lipsticked mouth. ‘Welcome to Joe’s, table for one?’
Her name badge says Cherie. I return her smile. ‘Yes please.’
She leads me across the diner, past a family group – two parents and two kids, who are fighting about pancake toppings, and a guy on his own reading a newspaper – and gestures towards the empty tables at the window. ‘Any preference?’
I pick one with an uninterrupted view of the door and the window, and a power outlet beside it. I hold up my cell. ‘Is it okay if I charge this?’
Cherie smiles again. ‘Sure, no problem. Menus are on the table. I’ll be back once you’re settled to take your order. Would you like some coffee while you’re deciding?’
‘That’d be great.’
As I sit down she moves across to the service counter and collects a pot of coffee. Returning, she fills my mug. ‘Just holler when you’d like a refill.’
‘You can count on it,’ I say. Taking the menu from behind the little china vase of yellow gerberas, I scan the food for something that’ll give me energy for my hunt. I’ve been lucky getting food so far, but once I’m back on the road I can’t guarantee when the next opportunity will come. So, although I’m not massively hungry, I order pancakes and bacon.
As Cherie tells me I’ve made a good choice and bustles off to put my order in I scan the diner. Less than a third of the tables are occupied – by a mix of vacationers and people who look like office workers getting in a good breakfast before starting the day.
Pulling the charger from my go bag, I plug it in and set my cell to charge. There’s a sign on the wall giving the wi-fi password, so I log in and open the internet browser. Googling each of the places on the FBI’s list of accommodation options for this town – Hampton Lodge, Korda Motel, and the Missingdon Suites – I check out their websites. Like Monroe said, they all seem to be mid-range, non-chain places. It’s hard to tell whether they fulfil the other criteria, though, which means I’m going to have to visit each one.
According to its website, the Hampton Lodge check-in opens at noon, the others both at two. I glance at my watch; it’s almost nine-thirty. Realistically that gives me just over two hours to recon the three places and make a decision about which I think is the most likely candidate for housing Carlton North.
Cherie comes over. ‘You all done here?’
I nod.
She nods towards my half-empty coffee mug. ‘Want a refill?’
‘No, thanks, I’m good.’
I think about how Monroe said the Feds like a place with a good occupation level, to allow them to come and go without standing out. I figure that, in a town like this, that’ll more likely than not be the most popular place.
I look up at Cherie as she’s turning away. ‘I’m looking for a place to stay. Where would you recommend?’
She thinks for a moment, head cocked to one side, her hand on her hip. ‘Hampton Lodge. Out-of-towners seem to like it and they have smoking rooms as well as non-smoking.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘Can I get the check please?’
As I watch her stride away I decide Hampton Lodge will be the first place on my list to visit. Smoking rooms aren’t the norm these days, but I know someone who might well appreciate one.
Back when I knew him, Carlton North smoked thirty Camels a day.
14
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 09:54
I find Hampton Lodge on the edge of town closest to the wildlife management area. Set back from the road, with the parking lot in the front, it’s a two-storey motel set-up. Pulling into the lot, I park a little ways along from the lobby and get out.
The place seems pretty quiet. In the lobby there’s a couple of people in line waiting to check out, but there’s no bustle about the place and the ageing guy in the black wife-beater and chinos behind the desk seems in no kind of hurry.
I wait in line until he’s dealt with the two in front of me, then step up to the desk. ‘I
hear you’ve got smoking rooms?’
He gives me a half-hearted smile. Although his tone is friendly enough it’s obvious he’s just going through the motions; hired help rather than owner. ‘We do. How many nights are you looking to stay?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I’m going hiking today and I’ll decide after that.’ I point outside, towards the forest. ‘You got any good trails around here?’
‘Yes ma’am, we do. Silver Point Trail starts right behind us and takes you all the way along to Carter Lake.’
Interesting. ‘I didn’t see that on the map.’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s not on there. Man-made, less than a year ago. Good place for camping. Popular with out-of-towners.’
‘Thanks, I’ll check it out.’
He gestures towards the map in my pocket. ‘I can draw it on there for you if you like?’
Figuring it could come in useful, I hand him the map. ‘Sure.’
Leaving the lobby, I walk around the white stucco building, counting the numbers on the green doors of the rooms. There are twelve at ground level and another twelve above; twenty-four in the front, twenty-four out back. On the corner there’s a laundry room and a vending machine with soft drinks and snacks. The place seems basic but well maintained, and I’ll bet the rooms are clean enough.
The smoking rooms are around back on the upper level, four in a row at the furthest end. Each one has an ashtray outside it and a notice below the room number that says Smoking Room. I think back to the list of criteria that the FBI field agents use. This place is good for multiple exits and vantage points, but it’s pretty quiet. It’d be hard for the Feds to blend in here.
My second stop is the Missingdon Suites. Housed in a square, cream stucco building, this is a hotel rather than a motel, and looks in a league above Hampton Lodge. I park in the lot around back and stride round to the lobby. There are two well-groomed ladies behind the tall marble-clad counter, both wearing matching brown uniforms and orange neckerchiefs. The lobby’s full of people checking out and the receptionists are busy with customers, allowing me to move unnoticed to the elevators. This place certainly fits the FBI’s ‘busy’ requirement, and it’s mid-range for sure.
Stepping inside the nearest one, I press the button for the eighth floor and wait for the doors to close. My own image stares back at me in the mirrored wall. I look neat enough, especially for someone who spent the night in their vehicle, but there are dark circles beneath my eyes, giving away my lack of sleep, and the mottled bruise on the side of my forehead has turned a darker grey.
On the eighth floor I step out. To the left of the elevators the external wall is floor-to-ceiling glass, giving a great view of the town and the landscape beyond: trees and lakes, grassland and orange groves. At eight storeys this must be one of the tallest buildings in the town; from this angle it certainly looks that way. But although the Feds need a good vantage point, I’m thinking this is too high for a fast getaway. I walk around the floor, passing wooden door after wooden door, lining the cream-walled and beige-carpeted hallway. There’s a fire escape in the farthest corner, and the sign on the door says it’s alarmed and for emergency use only. I shake my head. Depending on where their rooms are, they would have a minute or two to run to the nearest exit. Not ideal. I figure that if the FBI used this place they’d want a lower floor.
I check out the Korda Motel last, and from the moment I pull up outside I know it’s not a goer. There’s only one other car in the parking lot, and it’s so quiet there might as well be tumbleweed drifting through the lobby. Even the older woman wearing reading glasses behind the counter seems surprised to see me. There’s no way the Feds could blend in here. I smile to the woman and turn on my heel. As I do she returns to reading her romance novel.
Back in the Jeep I take a gulp of water. It’s almost eleven-thirty, and check-in for Hampton Lodge opens in thirty minutes. I figure I should stake out the place until two o’clock, when check-in at the Missingdon Suites starts. If there’s been no action at Hampton Lodge by then, I’ll have to decide whether to stay or go.
As I fire up the Jeep’s engine I hear my cellphone beep. Looking down, I see I’ve got a message from Dakota. My heart lurches as a wave of guilt crashes over me.
Momma. I miss you :-* :-* :-* :-*
15
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 12:03
I wait, parked up on the far side of the Hampton Lodge lot – reversed into the space, so I have a clear view of those coming and going. I message Dakota, tell her the job’s going well, that I hope she’s having fun with JT and that I love her. As I press send the guilt of separation twists in my stomach, mingling with sadness at the way I left things with JT. I know he’s worried, but I have to do this for us, for Dakota; and I need him to believe that I’m capable of looking after myself … of us.
Putting my cell back into my pocket, I force myself to focus on the job. It’s getting hot inside the Jeep without the air conditioning, but this is the optimum vantage point. With the sun high and directly behind me, it’ll be tricky for anyone glancing this way to see me hunkered down in the driver’s seat.
But no one comes. Correction, no Feds come, although I count five other groups checking in: three couples and two family groups. It’s a quarter of two and I need to decide: stay or go, watch or relocate.
I decide to change locations.
Making the short, eight-minute journey to the Missingdon Suites, I park up and head inside. There’s no sense observing from the parking lot here as it’s spread out around the building with no spaces out front. The only option is to wait inside. Lucky for me there’s a seating area to the side of the lobby. Taking a newspaper from the table, I settle down in one of the big armchairs facing the entrance.
My cell rings. The number on the screen isn’t one I recognise. ‘This is Lori Anderson.’
The voice is packed with menace. ‘You got North?’
Luciano Bonchese. Shit. ‘I’m working on it.’
‘You got less than twenty-four hours to get him away from the Feds.’
‘I’m real clear on the time frame.’
‘Best make it happen then or—’
I end the call. Don’t need threats from the Old Man’s son.
Moments later my cell buzzes; a message. It’s from Luciano’s number. I open it. Inhale sharply and bite my lip. It’s a photo of JT taken through the front window of my apartment. He’s in sweatpants and bare-chested, looking good, but that’s not what’s caused my reaction. The photo has been taken at medium range and there’s something blurred in the foreground; it’s dark, and rounded like a pipe. I stare at it, trying to make out what it is.
My breath catches in my throat as I realise: the picture was taken looking down the barrel of a gun.
I message back: Stay away from my family. I’m doing the goddamn job.
Luciano’s reply is almost instant: Then get it done. Tick tock.
I pretend to read the paper for more than an hour. Force myself to stay focused on my task every time my mind starts to wonder towards thoughts of the photo of JT. I want to call him, tell him about the messages, but there’s no point; I told him the mob were watching, that they had pictures of him and Dakota – it’s old news. I just have get the job done. It’s the only way.
Over the top of my paper I watch people check in; singles, couples and families. None of them look like Feds. None of them are Carlton North.
It’s just gone three o’clock and there’s been no sign of them. It doesn’t feel right. Monroe said they’d arrive just after check-in started. It’s then I realise I’ve been made. The receptionist with dark hair is staring at me, frowning. I look down fast, pretend to read the paper some more, but when I look up a minute later she’s still got her gaze fixed on me. I watch as she moves over to her colleague and nods in my direction. Damn. Her blonde colleague is nodding, moving towards the phone on the counter. I can’t stay here.
Getting up, I put the paper back on the table and stride acro
ss the lobby to the door. The receptionists don’t call out or try to stop me, but I reckon if I go back, they’ll challenge me for loitering or call security. I don’t need that kind of hassle, especially when I’m trying to keep a low profile, so I keep walking.
I’m heading back towards the Jeep when my cell rings. Pulling it from my jacket pocket, I glance at the screen and see Monroe’s name on the caller ID. I press answer. ‘You got something for me?’
‘Just wanted to check you’d found them.’
I frown. ‘Not yet.’
‘You didn’t see them? Word is they checked into their accommodation twenty minutes ago.’
I think back on all the folks I’ve seen come and go in the past hour; twenty minutes ago the only people in the lobby where a frazzled looking couple with twin girls and a baby that’d vomited down the front of its sleep suit. Wherever the Feds and Carlton North are, it isn’t the Missingdon Suites. ‘Which place?’
‘I don’t know. I just know they’re there now.’
Cussing under my breath, I break into a run.
I slow my speed to forty miles an hour before reaching the turn into the Hampton Lodge’s parking lot. I can’t afford to attract attention, for all I know the Feds have a lookout installed.
I reverse the Jeep into a space at the far side of the lot and wait for a moment, watching. The place looks pretty much how it did just over an hour ago, when I was last here. The only changes are that there are a few more vehicles in the lot, and a group of gawky teens are hanging around the vending machine on the corner of the building.
I saunter towards the Lodge, taking my time so I can scan the vehicles around me for occupants who could be a Fed lookout. There’s nothing, no one. All the vehicles look empty. Then I notice a black Crown Victoria parked in the corner, closest to the back of the building and the trees behind. The car wasn’t here before.
Deep Dirty Truth Page 5
