Dead Wrong

by Patricia Stoltey

  “You have everything you need,” Mr. O had told him during one of his phone calls. “You have the cell phone I gave you. Use only that phone when you call me. I gave you a laptop and a case. You have the code to get inside the security gate. I’ve informed Mrs. Ortega that you’ll pick up my package Wednesday morning. Your ticket from Miami to Los Angeles is reserved. Go to the ticket counter for your boarding pass. I can’t afford any delays. Do you understand that, Sammy?”

  Like I’m deaf and dumb.

  Sammy figured out who the real fuckup was when he got to the ritzy house in that ritzy neighborhood called Pelican Cove and discovered Mrs. O wasn’t home. Then the safe combination Mr. O gave him didn’t work. He was fiddling with the numbers for the fourth time when he heard a door close somewhere in the house.

  Mrs. O walked into the bedroom in a white terry-cloth robe, her hair wrapped in a blue towel. Sammy nearly had a heart attack on the spot.

  “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?” she screamed.

  Sammy gasped. She stood on the other side of the bed, too far away to grab. His heart pounded as he sputtered, trying to come up with a good answer. “I rang the doorbell and you didn’t answer.”

  Mrs. O dashed to the bedside table and yanked the drawer open. The next thing Sammy knew, she had a Luger pointed at his head.

  “Put that old thing down before it goes off!”

  “Benny told you how to get in, didn’t he? That son of a bitch.”

  “Mrs. O, I’m supposed to pick up a package here. Mr. O said you were expecting me at ten o’clock.” He glanced at his watch. “I was right on time.”

  Sammy wasn’t the fastest thinker in the world, and he didn’t always see the big picture when he made his plans, but he did notice details. The manual safety was still engaged on the Luger, and he could tell Mrs. O didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. He put his hand out and took a step in her direction.

  She tried to fire as soon as he moved, glanced at the safety, released it, and raised the gun again.

  Charging around the bed with amazing speed for his size, Sammy bulldozed into the woman and knocked her off her feet. The Luger flew out of her hand and skidded under the bed as he took her down.

  Sammy landed on top of her hard enough to break her ribs. He lay there and tried to catch his breath, squashing the life from Mrs. O’s body while she beat at his sides and made gurgling noises that irritated the hell out of him. He bounced his bulk against her chest to shut her up. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her jaw sagged. He felt for a pulse in her throat. Nothing.

  His right knee hurt like hell and the smell of Mrs. O’s soap was strong enough to jam up his sinuses. He shifted to one side and rolled off her body.

  Stupid broad. I told her to put the gun down.

  After struggling to his feet, he pulled up his pant leg and dabbed at his scraped knee with his handkerchief. That made it sting worse. He half-heartedly nudged her head with his foot. The sight of her, sprawled like a rag doll, her eyelids wide open with nothing showing but the white parts, freaked him out. The towel had fallen to the floor, and her wet hair stuck out on all sides, making her look like that broad with the snakes on her head. He shivered and turned his back. The bitch should have answered the door. She had screwed up his job and maybe his life. She had no one to blame but herself.

  He returned to the wall safe and tried three more times, studying the numbers on the slip of paper before he spun the dial. No luck. He sat on the edge of the bed to think. After a few minutes, he pulled the laptop case to his side, retrieved the cell phone, and made another call.

  “Mr. O, I got a problem.”

  Sammy heard his boss draw in a deep breath before asking in his heavy Cuban accent, “What’s wrong now, Sammy?”

  “It’s this combination you gave me. It don’t work. Are you sure you gave me the right numbers?”

  “Shit. Maria probably changed it and didn’t tell me. Look on her desk. She keeps a copy of the combination taped to the inside back cover of her day calendar.”

  A minute later, Sammy picked up the phone he’d placed on the desk. “Got it, Mr. O.” He carried the phone to the safe and held it to his ear while he tried the combination with his free hand. “Okay. It’s okay. I got it open.”

  “Is there an envelope inside?”

  “Yeah, one of those flat brown ones, and other stuff. There’s a big pile of cash, too.”

  “Open the envelope and tell me what’s inside.”

  “Uh, looks like some checks.”

  “That’s what I need. Take the envelope and leave everything else where it is. Don’t forget to shut the safe and spin the dial.” Mr. O paused, but before Sammy could say anything else, he added, “You better get out of there before she comes home. She’ll go nuts if she finds out I told you how to get inside.”

  Sammy didn’t know what to say. Should he tell Mr. O what he’d done? Wait until he got to L.A.? Never mention it? He was pretty sure Mr. O would shit coconuts when he found out his wife was dead.

  “Is something wrong, Sammy?”

  “Look, Mr. O, I’m sorry. What happened isn’t my fault—”

  “What do you mean? That she didn’t show up? Don’t worry about it.”

  “No. It’s—”

  “Tell me about it when you get to L.A.,” Mr. Ortega said. “Go to the airport. Take the envelope and guard it with your life. Make sure you have the phone with you. When you get here, come straight to the hotel and call me. I’ll be waiting.”

  “I’ll—”

  “Sammy. Don’t mess with the envelope. Put it in your briefcase and don’t let anyone else see it. Don’t even look at it again. Understood?”

  “Yeah, understood.”

  “I mean it. Don’t open the envelope again.”

  “Got it. I got it.” Sammy said, ending the call.

  Damn, the checks must be a real big deal.

  He should have taken a better look when he had the chance.

  As he transferred the brown envelope to his laptop case, he noticed a slim box and peered at the pieces of jewelry inside. Red stones, looking expensive against the red velvet lining. If he took them, Mr. O would figure it out.

  He thumbed through the huge stack of cash and decided Mr. O couldn’t possibly know exactly how much was there. The handful of hundreds pulled from the middle, just in case Mr. O marked the top and bottom, fit nicely into one of the inside pockets of the case. Afraid he’d lose the cell phone if he carried it in his pocket, Sammy stuffed it in the case as well.

  He checked his watch after he closed and locked the safe. Plenty of time. All the stuff he had snatched rested safely in the case he was to deliver to Mr. Ortega. He’d move the cash to his own pocket before he landed. No doubt Mr. O had a good reason for not taking the goods with him when he left home. Probably had his wife steal something while he did business out of town so he couldn’t be blamed.

  Mr. O was a crook and a mean son of a bitch. A big-time, rich-as-sin, vicious slimeball. Sammy didn’t understand why his boss had never been caught, had never served even one night of jail time as far as Sammy knew.

  He pushed Mrs. O’s body aside and braced himself against the bed as he knelt to look for the Luger. It lay within easy reach. He pulled it out. Older than he’d thought, like a World War II souvenir. Probably worth something. The gun would be safe stashed in the trunk of his car at the Miami airport until he returned from L.A. He’d figure out what to do with it later.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  Glades, Florida

  Wednesday, January 22

  Lynnette checked her watch. Eleven-thirty. Carl’s appointment was scheduled for one o’clock. She wondered if he planned to come back to the house before his appointment, then decided to wait until noon before she made her move.

  She returned to the kitchen and opened the bottle of red wine she’d bought for their one-week anniversary dinner. Carl’s lunch sat on the table, untouched. She dumped the
food, plate and all, into the trash. What the hell’s the difference? I won’t be here.

  Using a short water glass, she poured a small amount of wine. It tasted good, but she needed a clear head. She corked the bottle and left it on the counter. She carried a can of diet root beer and a glass to the patio and thought about the last two months, trying to figure out the exact moment she’d lost her common sense.

  She had left her Indianapolis home and her friends behind and flown to Miami only a few weeks before, thinking she had a job in advertising sales with The Miami Herald. But the job no longer existed by the time she arrived. Budget cuts. The only job she found right away was in an oceanfront bar in Fort Lauderdale. The need to defend herself from intoxicated jerks while she took orders and served drinks led her to a self-defense class in nearby Glades, and to Carl.

  Never in a million years would she have suspected him of being the kind of person who’d hit women. He’d been her instructor at the class. No one would expect a stealth attack from the very person who teaches you how to defend yourself!

  She hadn’t been in Florida long enough to make new friends. The women in her self-defense class seemed nice enough, but she only knew their first names. It was hard to bond while they visualized each other as attackers to be fended off using elbow thrusts, thumbs to the eyeballs, and toe stomps.

  The waitresses and bartenders where she worked came and went as fast as the weather changed. None of them had been around long enough to become more than a passing acquaintance.

  Carl was a cop. That had seemed like a good thing. Now she remembered things she’d learned in her former job as a reporter for The Indy Reporter. She had covered two stories in different Indiana towns where a cop regularly beat the crap out of his wife.

  If she called the cops on Carl, would it bring even more trouble into her life? Wouldn’t they all stick together?

  Her new mother-in-law, a lawyer in West Palm Beach, wouldn’t help. Carl’s mother thought he could do no wrong.

  Domestic abuse hotline? Shelter for battered women? Those organizations took care of victims. She refused to think of herself as a victim.

  What then? She could try the old light-a-fire-in-his-bed alternative, of course. Or a bit of rat poison in his salad dressing. She chuffed at her inappropriate thoughts. She could imagine the prosecuting attorney’s question: “Why didn’t you just leave, Mrs. Foster?”

  Her answer: “Because I was pissed off!”

  Nah, that won’t fly.

  It would have been nice if she’d come from a larger family. Her only living relative, if she didn’t count her soon-to-be ex-husband, was her stepmother. Ramona had moved back to her condo in a Southern California retirement community after Lynnette’s father died. They hadn’t been in touch since just before Lynnette and Carl tied the knot.

  She glanced at her watch. A little after noon. She carried the can and her glass inside, shoving the patio door closed with her foot. Before packing her carry-on bag and her laptop, she changed into black jeans, a sweater and running shoes. Called a cab. Wrote a note and tossed it on the kitchen table.

  Carl, I’m not coming back. I’ll get my finances in order and file for divorce as soon as I’m settled. I don’t want to talk to you. L.

  While she waited for her cab, Lynnette went through the motions, doing the things she’d do on an ordinary day before leaving the house. She closed the blinds and pulled the drapes across the patio door, unplugged the coffee pot, dumped the grounds and rinsed the decanter.

  A car horn honked. Before she got to the door, the cab driver honked again. As she placed her purse strap over her shoulder, she automatically checked the thermostat. The house would be hot and stuffy when Carl returned if she didn’t adjust the temperature. She didn’t give a rat’s ass. She shut off the air conditioner and fan, grabbed her bags, set the lock, and pulled the door shut.

  Hollywood, California

  Wednesday, January 22

  Albert Getz studied the reference books in To Die or Not to Die, the newly opened mystery bookstore in Hollywood. All the new releases on forensics, police procedure, weapons, and poisons were there. He pulled down a copy of an older, well-known reference, Murder and Mayhem by D. P. Lyle, M.D., and opened it to the Table of Contents.

  “Can I help you find anything?”

  Albert looked over his shoulder, saw the man who earlier had manned the cash register at the front of the now empty store and answered, “I think I found it.”

  “Just got that in yesterday. You a mystery writer?”

  “No, but I wrote a book mystery writers use for research. I’m a retired professor. Used to teach criminal justice classes in the sociology department at Central CU.” Albert took off his reading glasses and tucked them in the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. He held the book next to his chest with his left hand and, with his right, fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. He pulled it out, stuck the stem into one corner of his mouth, and sucked in the sweet taste of cherry tobacco.

  The shop owner raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s not lit,” Albert said between his clenched teeth. “It’s never lit.” He took the pipe out of his mouth. “I quit smoking five years ago.” He tapped on the book he’d selected and added, “I’m going to do a website and a blog to help market my book. Need to see how this guy does it.”

  “You’re going to buy that one?”

  “Yes.” Albert’s cell phone rang. He stuck the pipe stem in his mouth and grabbed the phone out of his pocket. “Yes?”

  Ortega the Cuban again. God, he hated that man. Getz turned his back on the bookstore employee and walked away.

  “I have a job for you, Getz. You know Sammy Grick from Miami?”

  “Fat Ass Sammy Grick? Sure. Doesn’t he work for you?”

  “He does, but just for a few more hours. I need him killed.”

  “When?”

  “He’s on his way to L.A. with a package for me. I’d like you to be here, waiting for him. Where are you now?”

  “Hollywood.”

  “Call me when you get to Century City and I’ll give you the hotel name and room number.”

  “Payment today?”

  “As soon as the job’s done.”

  After replacing the phone and pipe in his pocket, Albert strode to the front of the store, paid for the book, and headed toward the parking garage where he’d left his car.

  Miami, Florida

  Wednesday, January 22

  It took nearly two hours for Lynnette’s cab to get to the departure ramp at Miami International. After she drew the daily limit of cash from one of the airport ATMs, she worked her way through the maze toward the Overland Airlines ticket counter.

  Scooting her laptop bag along the floor and rolling her carry-on forward, Lynnette finally neared the front of the line. As she reached for her case, she brushed against the prominent rear end of the short, fat man in front of her. He turned and glared, studying her face with no change of expression.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  The fat man turned away. The line shuffled forward. He waddled to the counter, leaving his own case to block Lynnette’s path. She maneuvered around the obstacle. He gathered his driver’s license and boarding pass and turned, nearly bowling Lynnette over as he lunged for his case and hurried away.

  “Butthead,” she whispered as she stepped to the counter. The ticket agent stared at Lynnette’s face, trying to compare it to the photo on her driver’s license. “Ma’am, would you remove your sunglasses?”

  She did. “Car accident,” she said. “Sitting too close to the air bag. Won’t do that again.”

  The agent nodded, regarded her face a little longer, then placed the license next to his keyboard.

  “What’s the next flight out of Miami?” she asked.

  “Where to?”

  “Oh. LAX.” He had already begun to type when she added, “Or Burbank. John Wayne.”

  The agent stared at Lynnette, then turned to his monitor as his fingers move
d across the keyboard. “We’ll start with Los Angeles.” He tapped on the keys for a few seconds, then studied his screen. “I can get you on the 5:30 flight, but the only seats left are first class.”

  “Direct flight?”

  He shook his head. “One stop. Denver. Same plane takes you on to L.A.”

  “How long is the layover?”

  “Ummm. Looks like an hour.”

  Lynnette said okay without asking the price. She booked the ticket with her Indiana driver’s license and her own credit card, both in her maiden name. The clerk barely raised an eyebrow, and the exorbitant charge slipped through the system without question. Too bad she and Carl hadn’t received the new joint credit cards they’d ordered. Her ticket would have been a small price for Carl to pay for her bloody nose and black eye. He shouldn’t get off this easy.

  It took her almost thirty minutes to get through security. The short bank of seats for travelers to put on their shoes and reorganize their possessions was almost full. Lynnette set her case on one seat while she replaced her laptop and zipped it closed. Before she had a chance to move it, the fat man charged forward, grabbed her case and set it on the floor, put his own case and shoes next to it, and dropped into the seat with a grunt.

  Lynnette shifted to one side when she felt the guy’s meaty thigh rub against her leg.

  Taking the extra seconds to replace her identification in her billfold and zip her boarding pass into the outside compartment of her purse, she was still tying her shoes when the fat man left. When she arrived at the gate area, she saw him disappear into the men’s room. She shuddered and said a silent prayer he wouldn’t be on her plane.

  With more than two hours to wait until her flight boarded, she needed something to do. At the newsstand she bought a paper and a bottle of water and settled down to read.

  As soon as she could, she followed the line into first class, found her seat, stowed her carry-on in the overhead compartment and put her computer and purse under the seat in front of her.

  The fat man she’d seen at the ticket counter and again at security entered the cabin. Without apology, he bumped the arms and shoulders of seated passengers with his case and bulky body. He stopped at Lynnette’s row, which caused her a moment of panic. She relaxed when he dropped his belongings into the seat across the aisle and struggled to remove his jacket. He threw it into the window seat, then leaned over and raised the armrest. With a grunt, he heaved his case to the floor and shoved it out of sight with his foot. From where Lynnette sat, it appeared the fat man’s butt spread into the window seat, even though he clearly intended to sit on the aisle.