The Great Game

by D. R. Bell

  As Maggie and David walked into the coffee shop, she said, “Small latte, please,” and went to grab the only open table.

  David was again annoyed by her bossing him around, but he obediently went to the counter and ordered a small latte for her and a green tea for himself. While waiting for the beverages, he remembered what he thought was a line from an old Jason Bourne movie: “When you walk into a room, check where the exits are.” Having been here before, he knew that the place had an exit in the back, into the alley that bordered the parking structure next to where Maggie had left her car. Jason Bourne would have known what to do in this confusing mess.

  The latte and the tea arrived. David grabbed them and went to the table, where he sat facing the front door, feeling smart and resourceful.

  Maggie thanked him for the latte and said, “OK, enlighten me. What’s going on?”

  “I was on my way from the airport—”

  “Why were you at the airport?”

  “I was coming back from Seattle.”

  “What were you doing in Seattle?”

  “Attending engineering meetings. I’m working on a project creating higher-speed Internet connections to airplanes—”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, you know how these new 5G phones download from the web at a hundred megabits a second?”

  Maggie said nothing, but the look on her face was an unmistakable what the hell are you talking about?

  David stepped back. “In other words, you can download an ultra-high definition movie in about twenty minutes. Even your 4G phone”—he nodded to her bag with the iPhone 8 in it— “can download such a movie in an hour. But the airplane Internet connections are ten times slower, and with the Web 3.0 full of videos this is not enough even for browsing. We are trying to at least get it closer to the 4G technology.”

  Maggie said without enthusiasm, “OK, I understand.”

  “So, I was driving from the airport and decided to stop at Big 5 on Sepulveda—”

  “Why?”

  Jeez, she is an interrupting kind, David thought. “Let me continue for a couple of minutes, OK? I was planning to play tennis with my friend Jim, so I stopped to get some tennis balls. When I got out, there was a car blocking my way. These people pushed me into their car, stuck a gun in my side—”

  “Why did you tell me that you got into a fight?”

  “Well, I couldn’t really go into the whole story.”

  “So you lied to me.”

  “Give me a break, did you want me to say ‘I was kidnapped, now I want some nalezhniki’?” David hissed.

  “It’s nalesniki.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So what did they want?”

  “They wanted to know what someone named Julius told me and whether I had Shulman’s file. But I don’t know anyone by these names.”

  “What about the people you met in Seattle?”

  “I don’t recall anyone like that, but there were a lot of people there.”

  She sipped her latte, her eyes on David. “So what happened then?”

  “They crashed the car, and I escaped and ran to your restaurant. I called Jim from your phone, he said that some people found my phone, dialed the last number, and were bringing it to the tennis court.” He felt an urge to shock her. “Next thing I know, your phone rings and it’s the kidnappers calling from Jim’s phone!” David leaned forward delivering this, both hands pressing at the table, trying to convey see, I told you this is serious.

  But instead of acting concerned, Maggie tapped her lip with her forefinger and said, “Hmm … I read a book recently about industrial espionage being a lot more prevalent than people realize. Do you think this is related to this Internet project you were working on?”

  David shrugged, somewhat deflated by the lack of dramatic effect. “Probably. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “Maybe one of your company’s competitors trying to steal the technology?”

  She didn’t seem to take this too seriously. Sensing her indifferent tone, David himself started wondering if it was just a case of overzealous industrial espionage and his life would return to normal soon, with something interesting to talk about for years to come.

  Having nothing else to add, he turned the conversation to Maggie. When David asked if waitressing was her main job, she bristled a bit, saying, “Not every waitress is an aspiring actress.” But then she explained that she was in graduate school at UCLA and waitressing part-time to support herself. The accent in Maggie’s throaty voice sounded more pronounced, if somewhat uneven: sometimes “th” came across as “zzz” and “w” would come out as a “v.” David thought that she must have been in the country for a long time and worked on her pronunciation, but the learned muscle memory was not always complying. He was just about to ask where she was from, when a woman’s rising voice from the next table interrupted their conversation.

  “I can’t believe they kill people for a cell phone now!”

  David turned to the woman and asked, “What are you talking about?”

  She pointed to the TV screen hanging in the corner. The news was muted, but captions were running along the bottom of the screen: “Murder on Santa Monica tennis courts. According to eyewitnesses, the victim was killed for his cell phone.”

  Maggie followed his gaze to the screen and grew silent. David’s insides turned into a block of ice again. After almost convincing himself that he had overreacted, David was back in the nightmare.

  Maggie said, “Maybe it’s someone else.” But her strained voice betrayed that she didn’t quite believe that.

  They sat in silence, following the TV screen even as it switched to other topics. David lowered his eyes to look at the street where Friday night crowds were gathering and a mime started performing to a small group. His body tensed at the sight of the Navigator driver in a beige jacket peering into a restaurant’s windows across the street.

  “He is here,” David whispered to Maggie.

  “Who?”

  “One of the kidnappers. He is wearing a beige jacket.” He saw Maggie’s eyes grow frightened. “Let’s quietly get up and go through the back door.”

  Maggie slowly picked up her purse from floor, and they rose to leave. She looked back at the window. David followed her glance and realized that the man in the beige jacket was now standing there, looking straight at him.

  Things happened fast after that. The man rushed to the front door. David grabbed Maggie’s hand, and they started running to the back. A chair tipped over and fell to the floor. One of the people waiting for a table moved forward and collided with their pursuer. David and Maggie rushed into the alley. The coffee shop door slammed shut with a bang. They ducked into the parking structure, and the door was pushed open behind them. They ran through the cavernous parking building and out to the street where the Leaf was parked. Maggie fumbled for her keys for a couple panicky seconds. Then they were in the car driving north on Second Avenue. As they passed the entrance to the parking structure, David saw the man in the beige jacket standing by the arm-gate looking at the cars leaving. Luckily, they drove past without being seen.

  In silence, Maggie turned left on California Avenue, caught a green light across Ocean Avenue, and went down the Incline to Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH as everyone called it. Maggie was gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead, as if to tune out everything else.

  Friday, 4/22/2022, 5:37 p.m. PDT

  They drove north on PCH, past a small homeless tent city that had grown up on the hills adjacent to the road. After crossing Temescal Canyon, Maggie finally spoke, her voice hoarse. “There are a couple of chargers at the supermarket on the corner of Sunset and PCH.” One of the charging stations was available. They parked and plugged in the Leaf. Maggie marched off into the market. David meekly followed. She stopped at the apples stand and started rearranging the stack of Granny Smith’s. When David said, “Hey,” she snapped at him.

  “Couldn’t yo
u find some other restaurant to walk into?”

  After a couple of minutes, one of the supermarket workers came over and in an unfriendly voice asked, “Can I help you?”

  Maggie walked away to the frozen foods section. There she abruptly turned to David and said, “How did he find us?”

  David shrugged. “Luck?”

  “Don’t be an idiot! They knew you were on the Promenade and nobody could have told them that because you did not know you were going there. They tracked you.”

  David checked his pockets and the front of his pants. Nothing except for his wallet, Honda keys, and a comb. “What about my shirt?” They went back to the car, got the dirty shirt from the trunk. Nothing but the boarding pass.

  Maggie asked, “Why are you pulling on your ear? Something wrong with it?”

  David shook his head. “No, just a nervous habit.” Then he got it: “They’re not tracking me; they’re tracking you!”

  “How?”

  “Your phone.”

  Maggie stared at him for a moment, grabbed the phone from her purse and turned it off. She then leaned with her back against the car, covered face with her hands, and rocked back and forth. “Oh, sheet, oh, sheet.” Her accent grew more pronounced. David awkwardly shifted from one foot to another.

  Maggie abruptly withdrew her hands and said, “If that’s what they were doing, they might already have this location. We have to get out of here.” They unplugged the Leaf, and headed east on Sunset, away from PCH. When they came to Pacific Palisades, she pulled into one of the side streets and parked.

  “I didn’t really believe you at first,” Maggie said. “I thought you did get into a fight and then made up a story to pick me up or get a ride.” When David didn’t say anything, she continued. “We have to go to the police.”

  David agreed. Since the murder took place in Santa Monica, they figured they should go to SMPD. Neither of them had ever been there (or to any other police department for that matter), and they were afraid to turn on the phone to find directions. Fortunately, the Leaf had a navigation system. It would have been easiest to get back on PCH, but they avoided it and went up to Lincoln Boulevard and then down Pico, where there was a line of people stretching for two blocks.

  Maggie explained. “There is a soup kitchen on Pico.”

  Maggie—who, David was figuring out, maintained her practical streak no matter what—parked at an electrical charger, and they walked over to the police headquarters. David would have preferred to park right next to the entrance, even if it was illegal. But he steeled himself with a manly motto: “If she’s not afraid, neither am I.”

  Maggie told the man at the reception desk that they may have information about the murder on the tennis courts and would like to speak to detectives handling the case. They were told to sit in the waiting area. David watched Maggie out of the corner of his eye. She reached for her phone but then must have remembered that she dare not turn it on. He guessed she must be wondering how she got involved in this bizarre situation.

  David could see that her knee was shaking nervously. It made him feel better. He tried to focus on his breathing, calm himself down. Only a few people were waiting; there were no screams; nobody was cuffed to a chair. It could have been a reception room in a doctor's office. He caught himself pulling on his ear and wished he’d gotten into that cab, gone back to his car, and then home.

  They waited for a few minutes in silence. Then a man appeared at the reception desk and was directed to them. He walked over and asked whether they were the ones with the information about the tennis court murder. When they said yes, he introduced himself as Detective Megrano and asked them to follow him. They went to a small room with a table. He sat at one side and pointed to chairs on the other.

  Detective Megrano looked to be in his fifties. Slightly overweight, gray hair, neatly dressed in dark slacks, short-sleeved light blue shirt, and a black-and-gray tie. He held himself very straight, which made him appear almost as tall as David, even though he was at least a couple of inches shorter. Megrano opened a small notebook and asked them their names.

  “David Ferguson.”

  “Margarita Sappin.”

  “So what can you tell us?” Megrano asked, his tone skeptical.

  David sat forward. “Was the victim’s name Jim Plasche?”

  Megrano’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Please stay here. I’ll be right back.” He left the room and returned a minute later with a large thirty-something African-American man with a shaved head. He introduced himself as Detective Chander.

  Upon hearing David’s and Maggie’s names, Chander said, “A call came in just a few minutes ago, saying that you”—he pointed at Maggie—“did not show up for a meeting but texted his name”—and he pointed at David.

  Maggie blushed. “Yes, I forgot about that.”

  Chander nodded. “OK, I guess it’ll be a part of the story.”

  Megrano sat down. Chander leaned against the wall and remained standing. Megrano asked, “How do you know the victim’s name when it hasn’t been made public yet?”

  Maggie exhaled as if saying Oh shit, this is indeed connected.

  “It’s a long story,” David said. He wiped sweaty palms on his pants. “I was speaking to Jim right before the murder, and I was called from Jim’s phone right after that conversation.”

  The detectives remained silent, so David launched into the story. Maggie added how awful David looked when he showed up at the restaurant, and how they had figured out that they were being tracked. Megrano was taking notes. Chander interrupted a few times asking for additional details.

  When David finished, Megrano continued his note-taking for a while and said, “So you think they want engineering design documents from your meeting in Seattle?”

  “I’m not sure,” David said. “But that’s my best guess. Either that or they have mistaken me for someone else.”

  Megrano shook his head. “People rarely kill for technical documents.”

  David swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and asked softly, “How did Jim die?”

  Megrano paused, studying David, then replied, “Knife to the heart. It was quick.”

  Everyone went quiet for a minute. I led them right to Jim, David thought, the guilt threatening to paralyze him. He looked off to the side to pull himself together.

  Chander asked, “Could you identify the men?”

  “I could identify the two kidnappers in front, but probably not the ones in the back seat. Except the one on the right had a snake tattoo stretching along his neck. Also, the voice of the front passenger sounded familiar, but I’m not sure why.”

  Maggie added, “I saw the man in the beige jacket briefly. I might be able to recognize him.”

  Megrano said, “You probably want some water,” and both detectives left the room. Megrano came back a minute later with two plastic cups. Maggie and David drank in silence, as Megrano went over his notes.

  When Chander returned, he said, “I confirmed an accident on Lincoln and Washington around three thirty today. Five people ran away from the car; four of them were picked up by a black Mercedes sedan. By the time LAPD arrived, there were no witnesses who could identify people or give them the license of the car they left in. It was noted in the report that people who left in the Mercedes came back to the crash to get some things. The Navigator was reported stolen from a driveway in Playa Del Rey sometime after one in the afternoon.”

  “Let’s go look at some pictures,” Megrano said. They went to another room that was dark with a flat-screen TV connected to a computer.

  Chander turned on the TV, sat at the computer and asked, “Could you tell whether the Asian kidnappers were Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Thai?”

  “I don’t think they were Japanese or Thai,” David said, “but I can’t really be sure.”

  Chander nodded. “See if you can recognize anyone.” For the next thirty minutes the TV screen flashed hundreds of faces. A couple of times David asked Chander to pause but kep
t shaking his head no.

  Chander finally said, “I think we’ve had enough for today.”

  Megrano looked at David. “Is your Accord still in Big 5’s parking lot?”

  “Should be,” David replied. “I’m planning to call a cab and go get it.”

  Megrano said to both of them, “It might not be safe. I’ll arrange to have it towed to the police yard. There might be some clues in the car. You’ll be able retrieve it from the yard tomorrow. It’s entirely possible they are tracking you via cell phone, so it’s best you continue to keep it off. You can use it for a quick call as long as you move to a different location after that. Be careful in how you use computers, limit use of social networks, especially the ones that track your location. Also, it’s probably best if you don’t go home yet. These guys are clearly willing to kill, and they have some sophistication. Do you need a place to stay tonight?”

  Maggie said she could crash at her friend’s place near UCLA. David mumbled that he was OK. The detectives took David’s and Maggie’s contact information and handed them their cards. Megrano arranged to meet them at noon tomorrow at Maria’s Italian Kitchen diner on Pico.

  Friday, 4/22/2022, 8:29 p.m. PDT

  Chander walked them over to Maggie’s Leaf and watched them drive away. When he came back, Megrano was still sitting in the same room going over his notes. Chander said, “I wish we had someone to send with them, but the department staffed up on glorified security guards, not detectives. At least they weren’t followed. Do you believe their story?”

  “I do,” Megrano said. “But they’re still suspects for now. They are probably OK as long as they don’t do anything stupid, like go home. I think the people who tried to kidnap Ferguson are the same ones that killed Jim Plasche. People on the adjacent court said two burly men—one wearing a Lakers T-shirt—approached Plasche as he was leaving the court. There was an argument, Plasche fell, and they took his phone and ran to a black Mercedes sedan.”

  “No license plate?”

  “No such luck.”

  “Well, the Lakers T-shirt worn by a large Mexican guy narrows it down to about fifty thousand people in LA.”