Dead Wrong

by Patricia Stoltey

  The car began a slow skid sideways. Albert returned his attention to the road and tried to steer into the slide. The front right fender of his car scraped against a concrete barrier and sent him careening across two lanes of traffic to the median. Spinning and bouncing like a bumper car, he watched several vehicles go off the road ahead of him. His car slid to a stop against a snow bank. Another car crunched into his driver’s-side door. A third car rammed into his rear. Albert let out a long, slow breath and reached to unfasten his seatbelt.

  Before he could do so, he heard the fast-approaching roar of a huge engine from behind, heard the grate of metal on metal. The airbag exploded into his upper body. He felt nothing, but for one brief instant, he hoped he had not been decapitated.

  CHAPTER 27

  * * *

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Friday, January 24

  Lynnette frowned at Grace while Thomas and Blue looked on with puzzled expressions on their faces. “Grace, what did you mean when you said it was worth a try?”

  Grace plopped into one of the kitchen chairs. “When I said that about my dad being dead. He isn’t. I’m sorry, Lynnette, but I want to be there when he comes home, before he gets a chance to talk to my mom and—”

  “What? I thought your mom was dead,” Thomas said.

  “She’s not dead. She’s just . . . she doesn’t want me to live with her anymore.”

  “What in the world ever possessed you to tell a story like that?” Thomas asked. “I believed you.”

  “I knew it,” said Blue. “I knew you were lying. Do you have any idea how much time my dad spent trying to figure out a way to get you to California in time to meet your dad’s coffin? Shame on you, Grace.”

  Lynnette could understand Grace’s frustration with everything that had happened. From the rough flight and the weird fat guy on the plane to the confrontation with the guy in the tweed jacket at the Denver library, Grace had been involved in several uncomfortable if not terrifying situations. And on top of that, she might actually have a very un-motherly mother.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said. “Really sorry. What will you do with me now?”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas said. “We’ll work something out.”

  “Not Social Services, okay?”

  Thomas sighed. “We’ll work something out. Don’t worry. We can’t do much right now, so we might as well take it easy, eat breakfast, check on the weather reports.”

  Later in the day, Lynnette, Thomas, Blue and Grace put dinner on the table while they listened to one of the cable news channels on the TV in the living room. Occasionally Blue leaned through the doorway and used the remote control to change the channel.

  While they let the spaghetti sauce simmer, Lynnette pulled her laptop from its case, set it up on the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area, and plugged it in. After it powered on, Blue signed Lynnette in to the wireless network.

  Thomas set a pot of water to boil for the pasta and spread garlic butter on slices of French bread. After opening a can of peas, he dumped them in a small saucepan. “Not the fanciest fare, but it’s the best we can do at the moment. And there’s ice cream for dessert.”

  No one argued. The thought of going out in freezing winds and deep snow on slick streets to find a restaurant or grocery store hadn’t appealed to anyone. They had napped instead.

  For the first time since Grace had grabbed Lynnette’s laptop case away from the man in the tweed jacket, Lynnette checked her email. Grace asked Blue if she could use the remote, then took it with her to one of the armchairs and began to flip through the channels. Blue sat beside Grace and stared at the television. Thomas continued to bustle about the kitchen. A couple of minutes later, he placed a glass of red wine on the counter in front of Lynnette.

  “You could probably use this,” he said.

  “Definitely. Thanks.”

  Lynnette opened her Inbox to find two hundred and seventy unopened messages. She began by deleting the newsletters and advertisements. Even then, it appeared every email friend she ever had was trying to contact her. She counted over a dozen from her former boss at The Indy Reporter.

  Her eyes focused on one address she didn’t recognize. She scanned her Inbox and found one more recent email from the same sender. MGutierrez@cityofglades.gov. She moved her cursor to the first MGutierrez email and—

  “Lynnette, you’re on TV,” Grace said, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

  Lynnette looked over her shoulder. A news conference was in progress on one-half of a split screen, a photo of Lynnette on the other. As Grace turned up the volume, Lynnette slid off her chair and moved closer to hear the police spokesman.

  “Originally, Lynnette Foster was considered missing and a possible victim of the same person or persons who killed her husband, Carl Foster,” the police spokesman said. “At this time, however, we know Mrs. Foster left South Florida around the time of her husband’s murder. We know she flew to Denver, traveling under her maiden name, Lynnette Hudson. We have since learned that during that flight, Mrs. Foster had contact with a known criminal, Sammy Grick. Authorities are investigating the possibility that Grick recently participated in the murder of a Miami woman. While Mrs. Foster and Grick were in Denver, Grick died of an apparent heart attack. When spotted on the 16th Street Mall, Mrs. Foster eluded the police. Her whereabouts are currently unknown.

  “Under the circumstances, we have no choice but to consider Lynnette Foster a fugitive. Anyone who sees Mrs. Foster or knows where she is should contact Glades Crime Watch. The number and website is at the bottom of your screen. It is not known whether Mrs. Foster is armed, but she is considered dangerous.”

  Lynnette felt her cheeks flush as she stared at the screen. She glanced at Grace and found the girl watching her. “I’m not dangerous, Grace. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Instead of answering, Grace changed the channel. She tried to change it again, but Lynnette stopped her. A huge blue and white cloud on the weather map covered the southern half of Wyoming, the western part of Nebraska, and the upper half of Colorado from the continental divide to the eastern plains and on into Kansas. The numbers in the high mountains indicated a possible 26 to 34 inches of snow. Below 9,000 feet, the accumulation would be 12 to 15 inches with winds up to forty miles per hour creating treacherous driving conditions with zero visibility. Denver International Airport was shut down and would not reopen for at least six hours.

  Los Angeles, California

  Friday, January 24

  Benny was still holding the phone to his ear when the bangs and screeches of metal impacting metal replaced Getz’s voice. He yelled the hit man’s name a couple of times, but realized he shouted into a dead connection. He redialed frequently in the next thirty minutes, but it was wasted effort. Getz’s number had been declared Out of Service.

  Benny’s tracker enlightened him about the worsening weather conditions in Colorado. “I could triangulate if I detected a signal coming from Getz’s phone,” he told his boss. “But no signal, no trace.”

  “What would cause that?” Benny asked.

  “These new phones should send a signal as long as they’re operative and the battery is charged, even when they’re turned off. If the phone is dead, your man either forgot to charge the phone or he completely destroyed it. Would he do that?”

  “No. He wouldn’t do that.” Benny shook his head as he accepted the significance of the loud noises he’d heard at the end of his last conversation with Getz. “Something’s happened. Maybe he had an accident. Make some calls. Denver and north. See what you can find out.”

  “I’m on it . . . wait a minute . . . hang on . . . something’s going on in the front office. I’ll be right back.”

  Annoyed, Benny paced the floor of his hotel room as he waited for the tracker to come to the phone. Ready to ream the man out for leaving him hanging, he bit his tongue when the next voice he heard on the telephone identified himself as a detective from the Miam
i Police Department.

  “Mr. Ortega, I’m very sorry to tell you that your housekeeper found your wife’s body in your home today. She was murdered.”

  Benny’s knees felt wobbly. He grabbed the edge of the desk and lowered himself into the chair. “When did this happen? She was fine when I left for L.A. on Tuesday.”

  “You’re in Los Angeles?”

  “Yes, on business. What happened to my wife?”

  “We’re not sure. The medical examiner is trying to establish the cause and time of death but we don’t have his report yet. Where are you staying?”

  “What?”

  “In L.A. Where are you staying?”

  “Century City Plaza. Oh, my God. This is not possible. I’ll come right back to Florida.”

  “That would be best. I’ll have LAPD give you an escort to the airport.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Detective. I’ll be on my way in minutes.”

  “Let me know when you’re scheduled to arrive. I’ll have a car waiting for you.”

  “I have a car and a driver. I’m sure we can manage. I’ll need to get off the phone—”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I need your cooperation here. I have a couple more questions. Your wife’s body was found on the floor in a bedroom. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Did you or your wife keep anything of value in that room?”

  “Excuse me, Detective . . . I need to catch my breath.” Benny held the phone away from his face, but did not put his hand over the receiver. He cleared his throat a couple of times, coughed, then put the phone to his ear. “We had cash, a few stock certificates and bonds my wife owned . . . not much. We kept it in a locked wall safe.”

  “We spotted the safe. It seems secure. Did you have any weapons? Passports?”

  “My wife kept a gun in the bedside table. Our passports are in a safety deposit box.”

  “Any idea who would have given instructions to a known criminal on how to access your home?”

  “A known criminal? No, of course not. What the hell happened?”

  “We don’t know too much yet, Mr. Ortega. We’re waiting for word from the medical examiner.”

  “Wait a minute! Known criminal? You already know who broke into my house?”

  “We need to talk to you as soon as you arrive,” the detective said, ignoring Benny’s question. “Do we need to send someone to help you with flight arrangements?”

  “I have my own plane. I’ll take care of it.”

  “My condolences, Mr. Ortega. I’ll turn the phone over to your man here. Remember, call me as soon as you arrive in Miami. I can send a car for you.”

  Ortega ground his teeth as he waited for his tracker to return.

  “Mr. O? They’re gone. I’m so sorry about Mrs. Ortega. Is there something you want me to do from here? Schedule your flight? Contact—”

  “Just get the information I asked for. I need to know what happened to Albert Getz, and I need to know if there’s an airport near Fort Collins, Colorado.” Benny threw the cell phone on the bed. He began to pace from one side of his hotel room to the other while he considered his options. Finally, he turned on the television and clicked through the channels to find a weather report. He paused when he spotted the news conference and the picture of Foster.

  As far as he knew, Foster still had the checks. Now she’d been declared a fugitive and appeared to be running from the police, so it was even more unlikely she would turn the envelope over to the FBI.

  How in hell could this be happening? It should have been so easy.

  But even when Sammy lost the case, whoever found it could have either turned it over to the cops or the FBI, assuming there existed even one person honest enough to do that. Or the finder could have stolen the money and tried to sell the checks to the highest bidder. Since nothing on the checks or the cash tied the items to Benny or his wife, and since the items were not in Sammy’s possession at the time of his death, the cops couldn’t connect Sammy to the crimes. Did they know Sammy Grick had entered his house? Is that what Sammy had tried to tell him, that he killed Maria?

  His thoughts were interrupted as he heard Sammy’s name on the TV. The police spokeswoman talked about a possible connection between Grick and Foster. Ortega’s heart seemed to skip beats and then catch up, the sound pounding in his ears. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He set the television remote on the bed and rubbed his clammy hands on his shirt. There’s no way out of this, he thought. Unless I get to Foster and retrieve everything Sammy was bringing to L.A.

  CHAPTER 28

  * * *

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Friday, January 24

  “Let me have it, Grace,” Lynnette said. “I want to see what else they’re saying.”

  She took the remote from Grace and flipped through the channels. One news channel was showing a commercial, but within seconds the television anchors returned with a “News Alert” banner flashing at the bottom of the screen. Even though the news conference had concluded, the anchors continued to talk about South Florida, this time discussing the murder of a wealthy woman in Miami.

  “We have breaking news about the murdered woman. She has been identified as Maria Ortega, the wife of prominent Cuban businessman and financier, Benito Ortega, owner of Miami-based Ortega Enterprises.”

  Lynnette gasped and placed her hand over her mouth.

  “What?” Grace whispered.

  “Nothing. Shhh.” Lynnette leaned closer to the television.

  “. . . and has been tied to fugitive Lynnette Foster, whose husband, a Glades police officer, was brutally murdered in his home about the same time Mrs. Foster disappeared. It has now been established that Mrs. Ortega was likely murdered between ten a.m. and two p.m. on Wednesday, January 22. Officer Foster’s time of death has not been confirmed, but reports indicate he may have died as early as Wednesday morning. Mrs. Foster’s flight left Miami late Wednesday afternoon.

  “It’s not clear what the connection is between the murders of Maria Ortega and Carl Foster, but police say a suspect in the Ortega case, Sammy Grick, may have flown to Denver with Mrs. Foster and may have been in touch with her in that city.”

  They couldn’t say Carl also might have died long after I left?

  Grace tugged at Lynnette’s sleeve. “What’s going on? What does that mean?”

  Lynnette didn’t answer.

  “Lynnette,” Grace said, much louder than she’d spoken before. “What’s going on?”

  “Shhh.”

  Even louder this time, Grace said, “If you don’t tell me—”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “You might as well tell all of us,” Thomas said.

  He and Blue stood at the entrance to the kitchen, watching the TV. Then they sat in chairs across from Lynnette.

  It took her almost an hour to bring everyone up to date. First she talked about the threatening cell phone messages from the man in the tweed jacket and The Cuban and then described the most recent news reports. She retrieved Sammy’s cell phone from her jacket pocket and laid it on the desk. “There are more messages,” she said, “but I haven’t listened to them yet.”

  She pointed to the screen on her laptop. “I also have a bunch of emails, including two from someone at the City of Glades, probably the police department. There are a few from my stepmother, some from my friends. And the guy I used to work for at The Indy Reporter has sent at least a dozen.”

  “Lynnette, I don’t know what to say.” Thomas looked at her as if she had grown fangs. “You should never have dragged my daughter and Grace into this mess.”

  “We need to know everything,” Blue said. “Especially what’s on the voice mail. Do you want me to go through them?”

  Thomas jerked his head to stare at his daughter. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Lynnette took a deep breath. “No, I’ll do it. I’ll do that first, before I read my email.”

  Los Angeles, California

  Friday, January 24

>   By the time Benny’s tracker called with the report of an earlier massive collision involving seven cars, a dump truck, and two semis on I-25 on the south side of Fort Collins, Benny was ready to fly into the northern Colorado blizzard, parachute over Fort Collins, and hike to Foster’s location. He set his phone gently on the desk and turned toward the sliding glass door that opened onto a tiny balcony.

  Benny’s plane had returned from Denver after delivering Getz. Refueled, it now waited at LAX. The tracker had already pinpointed Foster’s position in Fort Collins. Benny still had questions. How close could his pilot get to that city? How could they make the trip without filing a flight plan that would place him anywhere near Colorado? How could he travel through a snowstorm from wherever they landed to his target’s location? He stared through the glass door and cringed at the nicotine-stained haze between his hotel and the ocean. Who could survive breathing air that color? He felt like throwing up.

  He focused on his current situation. In spite of all the deals he’d made, all the projects he’d planned, he had never had so many things go wrong in such a short amount of time.

  He picked up his cell phone and called Sammy’s number.

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Friday, January 24

  Seconds after Lynnette turned on the phone, it rang. Startled, she dropped it on the desk and shook her fingers as though they’d received a shock. Then she grabbed it again and listened to the call.

  “You have things that belong to me, Mrs. Foster. Things Sammy Grick should have delivered two days ago. I know where you are. Stay there. Wait for me.”

  It was the man with the Cuban accent. She thought back, trying to remember the name on the news. Benito Ortega. “Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Ortega. I’m sorry to hear about your wife.”

  Why did I say that? Lynnette waited through the long silence that followed her words.