Dead Wrong

by Patricia Stoltey

  Lynnette handed her cell to Blue, who took one look at the display and asked, “Do you have the charger? It’s almost dead.”

  “Yeah. In my purse.” Lynnette tossed her purse on the counter.

  Blue plugged in the phone and accessed Sammy Grick’s voice mail as Lynnette opened her emails, beginning with the oldest ones first and dealing with one correspondent at a time. Dave Buchanan, her former boss at The Indy Reporter, had tried to contact her as soon as he found out about Carl’s death and her disappearance. His most recent attempt had been sent Friday night: You’re scaring me. No matter what you’ve done, I’ll help you. Call me.

  Thomas was reading Dave’s emails over her shoulder. Lynnette checked her watch. It was four o’clock Saturday morning in Indiana. Dave probably wouldn’t see the message for three or four hours. She hit Reply and typed: I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ll call later today.

  After scanning the rest of the emails, including those from her stepmother, Lynnette had the two emails from MGutierrez left. She opened the first one, from Maggie Gutierrez of the Glades Police Department. It read:It’s in your best interest to contact me and no one else, Mrs. Foster. Email me and I’ll send you my phone number. We need to talk.

  Lynnette hadn’t expected an email from the cops, especially a female cop. Would she be sympathetic? Or would she be one of those women who had to out-tough the men to prove her worth? Lynnette hit the Reply key and hesitated.

  “What are you going to do?” Thomas asked.

  “Get the number. I’m not telling her where I am, if that’s what you mean.” She glanced at the wireless connection icon. It was now covered by a red X. “Nuts, I’ve lost the connection.”

  “Lynnette,” Blue said. “All of the calls are really scary. These guys want their stuff real bad. The guy with the accent, the one who says he’s on his way—”

  “Ortega,” Lynnette said.

  “Yeah. He’s called before. But think about it. First it was the fat guy, and you saw him in person. Then there was the guy at the library. We saw him in person. This other guy, Ortega, seems to be the one in charge. Like maybe the other two are working for him. He says he knows where you are, he’s coming to pick up his stuff, and he’ll help you get away. Dad’s got to be right. They’re tracking you through this phone. They found out you’re here before Dad removed the battery. You should have dumped it a long time ago.”

  “I know. I was afraid to. I kept thinking I’d make the trade when I got somewhere safe. I needed the phone so they could contact me.”

  “They won’t need to contact you by phone if you stay here,” Thomas said. “Whoever these men are, one or more of them will show up as soon as the roads are cleared. This Ortega might do exactly as he promised. On the other hand, he might kill you. He might kill all of us. We don’t know what these checks mean, and we don’t know what Ortega plans to do with them. We need to involve the authorities, for your safety and for ours.”

  He was right. She couldn’t put Grace and Blue in more danger. Still, she had every intention of talking to Dave before she did anything else. “Okay. As soon as I can get online, I’ll email the Glades cop and get her number.”

  Glades, Florida

  Saturday, January 25

  Maggie saw Detective Prince walk in the door and felt an immediate urge to duck under her desk. Her worst fears were realized when he stood in the doorway and shouted across the room. “Gutierrez! Have you been sending emails to Lynnette Foster?”

  He’s such a jerk. Maggie walked across the room to Prince. “Sorry, Detective. I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

  Prince looked at his watch. “You’ve been working on the Foster case since Thursday against my explicit orders. You are in deep trouble . . . unless you can tell me where she is.”

  Ouch. That does not sound like he gave me unspoken permission to work this case. “I haven’t been able to catch any movement since she disappeared from the mall in Denver. Hasn’t used her credit cards, no ATM withdrawal, no contact with her friends or her relatives. She has a stepmother in Southern California who’s been trying to email her and call her on her cell phone, but Foster isn’t answering. I think something happened to her.”

  “Something like what?”

  “Car accident? In the hospital? They’re having a blizzard out there. Maybe she’s holed up in a motel.” How the hell do I know?

  “Bullshit. Somebody’s helping her. You talked to the stepmother?”

  “Yes. She says she hasn’t talked to her stepdaughter since she married that ‘damned son-of-a-bitch cop.’ ”

  Prince raised his eyebrows. “Does this stepmother have an alibi for Wednesday?”

  “She says she’d love to claim responsibility but she played in a bridge tournament in Laguna Beach and has a hundred witnesses.”

  “What about the Denver P.D. You talked to them?”

  “Yes. And I asked all the right questions. They don’t know any more than they already told us. You want me to check the hospitals?”

  “No, I’ll have someone else do it. Anything else I ought to know before I ask your supervisor to put you on report for emailing a suspect?”

  Maggie glanced across the room toward the computer monitor on her desk before looking at Prince. Do all of my emails get screened? “Can’t think of anything offhand, sir. I’m sorry, I misunderstood your orders. I’ll back off.”

  “You do that.”

  “Did you get any word from Miami P.D. about that Ortega killing, sir? Did they locate the husband?”

  “He was in L.A. on business. He’s on his way back.”

  Maggie returned to her desk. Prince wouldn’t report her. He’d used her to save himself a little time but now he wanted to make sure he controlled his case. She refreshed her screen. Still nothing from Lynnette Foster. Maggie couldn’t send any more emails to Foster, but she would sure as hell open anything she received from her.

  CHAPTER 32

  * * *

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  It was seven fifteen in the morning when Lynnette woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. A bright sun reflected off the snow and streamed in the living room windows on the east side of the house. She rose from the couch, drew the afghan around her shoulders, and walked to the windows facing the hills and mountains to the west, where the glare was less intense. She sucked in her breath as she saw the view. A steep hill plunged from the wide deck toward a body of water that stretched to the north and south. Beyond the hill, a notched rock jutted skyward. Snow covered most of the terrain surrounding the water. The edges of the lake were frozen, the water in the center placid. The wind had died. A rabbit hopped along the edge of the ridge by the deck.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Thomas stood at the entryway between the dining room and kitchen.

  “Where are we?”

  “West of Fort Collins on the eastern ridge that borders Horsetooth Reservoir. That’s Horsetooth Mountain.” He pointed toward the rocky growth to the west.

  “Yes, it’s beautiful.” She gestured toward the table where she’d left her laptop open and plugged in. “Is it working?”

  “Afraid not,” he said. “Not sure why we’ve lost the connection.”

  “And the television?”

  “Too much snow on the dish. Unfortunately, the south side of the house is where the drifts are the worst. I can’t do anything about it now. We shouldn’t waste any more time. Let’s have breakfast and hit the road. The plows won’t make it up here until this afternoon, but I have a blade on my truck, so we’ll take that. No one’s going to get up here in a rental car, but I don’t feel comfortable keeping you and Grace here any longer. I’m willing to see you back to Florida and help you sort out your problems there.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. I should call my stepmother,” Lynnette said. “And my friend in Indianapolis.”

  “Our landline is out, same as our Internet connection. My cell couldn’t even pic
k up a signal this morning.”

  Lynnette’s own phone showed no signal, though the battery was fully charged. “What would cause that?”

  “Ice on the tower? Wind damage? I’m not sure.”

  Lynnette met Thomas’s gaze and wondered what he thought about as he studied her face. Without saying anything, he returned to the kitchen. She heard plates and glasses clinking against each other, followed by the sound of bacon sizzling in a frypan.

  Grace wandered into the living room from the hall. She stopped when she saw Lynnette, then turned away and went into the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Lynnette heard Thomas say. “Bacon? Toast? I’m out of eggs.”

  She could not decipher Grace’s mumbled reply. Thomas handed Lynnette a new toothbrush, still in its store packaging. “Blue’s using my shower so you can use the bathroom in the hall. Blue pulled together some clean clothes for you, including a couple of my black T-shirts. She also put a few things in there she thought Grace could use.”

  When Lynnette returned, her breakfast was on the table. She sat opposite Grace, who had nearly finished.

  “Grace and I had a talk,” Thomas said. “I’m going to escort her back to Florida and stay there until we’ve found someone to represent her and help sever her connection with her foster family.”

  “That’s very generous,” Lynnette said.

  “You would have done the same. The simple fact that you tried to help Grace along the way, even while you were struggling with your own problems, proves the point.”

  He put four strips of bacon and two pieces of toast on the table seconds before Blue walked in and sat down. “Grace now has a better understanding of the situation,” he said. “Don’t you, kiddo?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sorry I yelled at you before, Lynnette. And I’m really sorry I told all those lies. It’s just, you were nice and all, but I couldn’t be sure—”

  “I get it, Grace. It’s okay.” Lynnette leaned back in her chair and watched as Thomas stacked dirty dishes in the sink. He seemed so much like her own father. She felt the empty feeling in her stomach that always accompanied thoughts of her dad and his death. Blue was a lucky young woman to have a father like Thomas. And Grace was a lucky kid to have him willing to advocate on her behalf. She was too old to look to Thomas as a father figure, but that’s what she wanted to do. “What now?” she asked. “We need to get ready. How can I help?”

  “If you and Grace grab bottled water and something to snack on in case we get stuck in a snowdrift, Teresa and I will pack the truck.”

  “Where are we going?” Grace asked as she and Lynnette bagged the supplies. “I mean, I know you’re going to fly to Fort Lauderdale, but are we going to Denver to the airport? Is Thomas going to take me on the same plane with you?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see what Thomas has in mind.”

  It was almost eight before they’d loaded the truck and warmed it up. They squeezed in the oversized interior with Thomas in the driver’s seat and Blue beside him. Grace sat behind Thomas. Since Thomas had to lower the blade and plow a path through the snow drifts, it was slow going.

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  It was after eight when Albert left the western edge of Fort Collins and started up the road toward Horsetooth Reservoir on a new snowmobile equipped with a GPS. When he first left the Ski-Ride lot, he had tried to steer the vehicle with his right hand, but found his one-armed approach didn’t work. He removed the sling and stuffed it in a pocket, slid his left arm into the sleeve of his jacket, and yelped as he lifted his left hand to the vibrating handlebar.

  He knew he would suffer excruciating pain every moment of his ride to the top of the ridge. It was stupid to keep going. He could turn around and walk away from this job, tell Ortega that Foster and her friends were already gone.

  But after all he’d been through, he wanted that payoff. He cursed Ortega with every jolt and every bump. As he approached the steep road, he accelerated to avoid stalling at the bottom of the hill.

  The sun rose above the storm clouds now menacing the plains to the east. Any other time, Albert would have stopped to admire the scene. Today he focused on the white landscape before him. He moved his left arm about, trying to relieve the strain on his elbow. Moving only made it worse. He replaced his hand on the grip and accelerated a bit more. The snowmobile stayed on track, no skid, no slide.

  Halfway up the hill, the outside of the right ski caught the edge of a rock poking up through the snow. The impact sent the front of the snowmobile skidding to the left. The rear end slid to the right toward the hillside. Albert killed the engine and slid backward, slowly picking up speed. The snowmobile’s rear end rammed into the hill, spinning the front end outward toward the road and the steep downhill drop beyond.

  He held his breath as he tried but failed to restart the engine, then glanced at the back end of the skis. One ski stuck in a small leafless bush barely larger than a football. Climbing off the snowmobile might send it careening down the hill, dragging him along with it. He tried to start the engine again. Nothing happened.

  He sat still, listening. Another engine. He checked to the left, downhill, and then to the right. The sound came from above. The vibration could dislodge the snowmobile from the bush. He had no choice. He had to climb off the machine. Slow movements, no jerking, no bumping. He slowly lifted his right leg. The snowmobile shifted. The ski broke loose from the bush as if in slow motion. He jumped. The snowmobile slid a few feet and plowed into a snowdrift.

  The vehicle drew closer. There was no place for Albert to hide. He tried to scramble toward the snowmobile, thinking he’d have an excuse to fiddle with the machine with his back to the road. The snow was too deep. He was ten feet away when he heard the vehicle behind him.

  He could tell when it slowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver roll down the window. A girl’s voice shrieked from inside. The driver rolled up his window and drove on past, shoving snow to the sides and into Albert, pushing him backward and knocking him off his feet. As the truck passed, the plow completely buried the snowmobile.

  CHAPTER 33

  * * *

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  “That was definitely the same guy,” Blue said. “It’s a good thing Grace was paying attention.”

  “No kidding.” Lynnette rubbed the fog from the window and tried to see the man and his snowmobile. He was no longer visible. She looked out her own window and saw the pink and orange sun and cloud display to the east. The city of Fort Collins spread out below. In good weather it would only take a few minutes for the Youngs to drive from their house to town. In the deep snow, with the blade down, they crept. Lynnette sighed with relief when Thomas reached Overland Trail and found two lanes had already been plowed. Thomas lifted the blade, drove past Overland, and headed east.

  “There’s a coffee shop in the truck stop out by the interstate,” said Thomas. “Has free Internet access. I’ll stop there. If everything is working, we’ll make our calls. You can send your email to the cop and tell her you’re coming in.”

  Lynnette nodded, but didn’t answer. Thomas was a lawyer and an officer of the court. Harboring a person of interest in a murder case and a runaway kid would land him in big trouble. If the police pulled him over, no matter how hard he tried to convince them otherwise, it would appear that he’d helped Grace run away from foster care and Lynnette run from the cops.

  If she didn’t turn herself in, what would she do? Her first instinct, as always, was to run. She had always dealt with uncomfortable situations that way. She’d handled her attraction to a very married Dave Buchanan at The Indy Reporter by running to a new job in Florida. She’d escaped the grief and overwhelming burden of her father’s death by marrying the first guy who seemed protective and safe. It’s how she avoided conflict and dealt with fear.

  Now she wanted to escape again, escape to the safety of Ramona’s home
in the middle of Orange County, California. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself of her concern for Thomas and Blue, the truth niggled at her mind and raised a blush of guilt. She hadn’t locked the patio door! What if, somehow, the police knew she’d left the door unlocked and turned off the air conditioner? What if they thought her negligence was intentional? Would she be considered an accessory to murder? Or, even worse, a cold-blooded killer?

  Lynnette wasn’t sure Thomas could help. She couldn’t guarantee that any of them could help Grace.

  Once on his feet, Albert looked at the buried snowmobile and gave up without trying to dig out.

  Now that one lane of the road was plowed, he could walk uphill without a struggle. The snow crunched under his boots, his hands grew numb in spite of the heavy gloves, and his whole body ached, the left elbow worst of all. He pulled the sling from his pocket, fitted it over his head, and maneuvered his left arm into a more comfortable position. The puffy lining of his jacket made the arrangement awkward, but his arm ached less than when it dangled at his side.

  He finally made it up the hill and went first to the garage door where he peered through the glass panes. The little black car he’d seen in Denver was there, parked beside a larger sedan. The steps up to the front door had not been shoveled. Neither had the walkway to the back of the house, although the snow had been packed down in a narrow path around the side of the garage. He tried to raise the garage door, but it was locked.

  He waded through the snow and knocked at the front door, in case someone had been left behind. No one answered. He rang the bell three times to be sure. He tried to kick the door in.

  “Aw, shit!” He dropped to his knees and leaned his head against the door, tried to take a deep breath but failed. When the pain in his ribs eased, he stood. One of the clay pots near the front door lay on its side, the dirt and dried plant spilling onto the walkway. He heaved it through the nearest window and used his gloved fist to knock the remaining shards of glass free from the pane before climbing through the space.