Dead Wrong

by Patricia Stoltey

  For the next few minutes he owned the house. He took a hot shower with the drain stopper engaged so his feet would warm up as the tub filled. A search through the closets and bureau drawers produced underwear and socks, jeans, two flannel shirts, and another pair of gloves. At least he’d be dry and warm when he hit the road again. He figured out how to use the fancy coffeemaker on the counter and drank two cups of dark roast while he took a few cold puffs from his pipe. Grabbing ham and cheese from the refrigerator, he slapped together two sandwiches to take with him.

  A careful search of the medicine cabinets in all three bathrooms led to the discovery of an expired pill bottle half full of Vicodin. He stuffed the container in his pocket.

  Car keys hung from hooks by the door that led from the kitchen into the garage. He grabbed the set that had a key chain logo matching the burgundy sedan. Lights flashed and the car beeped when he pressed the unlock button. He raised the garage door and backed the car into the drive, leaving it there to warm up. Inside, he found a travel mug and filled it with coffee.

  He pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. No signal. He left the phone on and shoved it in his pocket.

  It took him less than ten minutes to drive down the hill on the plowed road.

  As soon as he found a place to pull over, he tried to call Ortega. This time the phone worked fine. “They were gone by the time I got there,” he reported. He did not describe his own meeting with the truck and the condition of the new snowmobile. “They live on a big hill, but they have a snowplow. That’s how they got out. Where are they now?”

  “I can’t stand it,” Ortega said. “Is there no one in this goddamned country who can carry out a job without screwing it up?”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “The tracker lost the signal,” Ortega said.

  “How will I find them?”

  “How the fuck do I know?” Ortega paused. “Look, I’m on my way to the airport. I have to go to Miami. I’ll call the tracker again before the plane leaves.”

  Albert rubbed his neck, then stretched his head toward each shoulder. He didn’t say anything. He had hoped to finish this job and meet with Ortega while he remained in L.A. Flying to Miami meant he’d be on the rich man’s turf, surrounded by Ortega’s goons.

  “I want you to keep looking for Foster,” Ortega said, “until I tell you to stop. Understand?”

  “She’s got people helping her. They could be on the interstate already. They could be heading north to Wyoming, or south to Denver. Without the tracker, it’s impossible.”

  “I’ll call you back,” Ortega said.

  Albert remained by the side of the road, the engine running, and thought about Foster, tried to guess what her next move would be. Would she go to California? Denver? Return to Florida? Whatever she decided, she would most likely start out on I-25. The closer he was to the interstate when Ortega called, the better off he’d be. He remembered the big truck stop on the edge of town, close to the north and south ramps.

  Thomas drove around to the back of the station restaurant where he could park the truck in a wide space near the eighteen-wheelers. “Stick together,” he said. “No wandering off alone.”

  Lynnette glanced at him, saw he watched her as he spoke. Her eye felt twitchy and her mouth dry. What was he thinking? Did he expect her to run? Or was he concerned the guy in the tweed jacket would be hot on their trail?

  “Better bring your laptop, Lynnette,” he said. “You need to get that email off to the police officer in Florida.”

  She retrieved her laptop, placed the envelope containing the checks into her case, then stowed the case under the dash and followed Thomas into the building. As she slid into the booth next to Grace, she noted that Thomas had elected to sit in an alcove not visible from the front door. She placed her laptop on the table.

  “I’ll be right back,” Thomas said. He headed to the back of the room where a Restrooms sign hung over a swinging door.

  “I gotta go, too,” Grace said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Blue said.

  Grace put her hands on her hips. “Blue, I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

  “Dad said we were supposed to stick together.”

  “What about Lynnette? Who’s going to watch her?”

  “It’s not to watch anybody, Grace, it’s to protect you.”

  “I can pee by myself. I’ve been doing it forever, you know.”

  “Blue, it’s okay,” said Lynnette. “Let her be. Go on, Grace. Hurry up.”

  Lynnette pulled out her own phone and dialed Dave Buchanan’s number. The call went to voice mail. She didn’t leave a message. She started to punch in the numbers to call Ramona, then changed her mind and hung up.

  “You better put my number in there,” Blue said. “Dad’s, too.”

  Lynnette decided to check for new messages on the fat man’s phone, hoping she’d get some idea where Ortega was. She replaced the battery and accessed the voice mail. There were no new messages, both a relief and a concern. She shut off the phone and removed the battery.

  The laptop’s charge level was dangerously low. She logged on to her email, opened the most recent communication from the female cop, hit reply, and typed her message:

  I didn’t kill Carl. I want to come in, but I’m in trouble. A scary guy named Sammy Grick switched our laptop cases in Miami and he was chasing me. Grick had stuff that belonged to a man named Benny Ortega. These two men, and another one who showed up yesterday, threatened to kill me. I’m almost out of—

  “Lynnette, Thomas called the FBI and told them where we are!”

  Lynnette stared at Grace, unable to clear her mind of the message she was typing. “What?”

  “I walked out of the restroom, and he was by a door at the end of the hall with his back turned. I heard him talking to someone he called Agent.”

  Blue jumped up and started toward the restrooms.

  Lynnette hit the Send key and powered off. She grabbed her jacket, purse, and laptop and followed Grace toward the door. Just as Grace reached out to open it, a burgundy sedan cruised past the front of the building. The man in the driver’s seat leaned forward, seemed to peer through the windshield at the parking lot beyond, then slowed and drove on. Lynnette grabbed Grace’s shoulder and jerked her back. “Wait,” she said. “That car that went by looks like the other car in Blue’s garage. Her dad’s car.”

  CHAPTER 34

  * * *

  Glades, Florida

  Saturday, January 25

  Officer Maggie Gutierrez’s email pinged. She opened her mail tab and saw the reply she’d been waiting for. Her excitement quickly changed to disappointment and then to anxiety when she saw that Lynnette had stopped mid-message. She snatched the phone and punched in the extension for computer support.

  “Bill, can you tell where an email came from if I give you the email address?”

  He typed then said, “It comes up as Sunnyvale, California. Silicon Valley. It could have originated there, but it’s more likely the email carries the host IP. Doesn’t mean she’s in California.”

  Maggie printed out the email and went to find Detective Prince.

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Albert steered into the lot of the truck stop, cruised slowly past the gas pumps and the front of the restaurant. As he rounded the side of the building, he spotted the tail end of a truck that resembled the one he’d seen on the hill. He stopped, backed up, and parked around the corner, halfway between the front and back doors.

  He left the car running while he called Ortega.

  “They got a fix on her five or ten minutes ago,” Ortega said. “She’s at the southwest corner of I-25 and—”

  “I know. I’m here.”

  “Do not let her get away,” Ortega said.

  “She’s in a public place. Lots of witnesses.”

  “Get my stuff, Getz. If you get my stuff, you can let her go.”

  “Then i
t’s time you told me what she has.”

  “The most important thing is a mailing envelope with checks inside. Even if you don’t get anything else, you must get those checks. And Sammy Grick’s phone. I’ll call you as soon as my flight lands in Miami.”

  Los Angeles, California

  Saturday, January 25

  Benny boarded his plane moments after his conversation with Getz and made one more call to his tracker. Nothing had changed. The cell phone no longer emitted a signal. He retrieved a bottle of scotch and a glass from the galley cupboard. Once buckled in, he poured a generous amount in his glass.

  When did everything start to go wrong? Benny leaned his head back and stared out the window. When the Foster woman got in the way. No. Before that. When Sammy killed Maria. He paused to think about Maria and pressed his cold glass to his forehead. He wouldn’t miss her all that much, but now he had to worry about Sammy being connected to her death. Lots of people knew Sammy did jobs for him all the time. It would look as though he’d hired Sammy to kill his wife. Considering her life insurance payoff, the cops would consider Benny the prime suspect.

  Getting the checks posed a completely different problem. If they were ever tied to Sammy or to Benny, the Feds would have his balls in a vise. He couldn’t cash the checks now anyway, but even if he’d recovered them sooner, he couldn’t have used them while Foster was still alive. What had she seen and how much had she figured out? He had to assume she snooped through his belongings. If the thefts hit the news, she would know he was responsible. Unless he had her killed, and the others with her, he would be exposed. He had to face facts. All their work stealing these checks had been wasted effort. The only reason he needed them now was to shred them.

  He was in enough trouble already without inviting the Feds to join the party. Because of his wife’s death, everything he’d done in the last month, every trip he’d taken, every shithead he’d ever hired, everything and everyone would be scrutinized. Even if he claimed Sammy Grick had never been in his employ, the cops would still do their best to tie Ortega to his wife’s death. Truth was, they already hated his guts because he was Cuban and he was filthy rich. He’d been questioned about his various business interests several times in the past.

  He poured himself another drink as he considered the possibility Foster would take the rap for her husband’s murder. He wondered if she did it.

  He thought about the checks again. The combined forces of the IRS, the FBI, plus every other agency involved with interstate commerce and banking would investigate every nook and cranny of Ortega Enterprises.

  His business would bite the dust, and he would go to prison.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. He wiped it off with his sleeve.

  CHAPTER 35

  * * *

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Thomas walked toward Lynnette with Blue at his side, gesturing and waving her arms. Thomas glanced past Lynnette toward the door, then quickly strode to a side window and peered through the glass. He pointed through the window and Blue placed her hand over her mouth. Lynnette grabbed Grace’s hand and ran to the window.

  “Is that your car? Do you have another set of keys?”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “On the same ring as the truck keys.”

  Lynnette stuck her hand out. “Give me the keys to the truck. Is there a back door in this place?”

  “Yes, but you can’t handle the truck—”

  “Don’t be stupid. When he comes in the front, you take Blue and Grace out the back and make a run for it in the car. He doesn’t care about any of you, only me and the stuff Grick stole. I need the truck keys to get my laptop case. That’s where I put the checks.”

  “I think it’s better if we all wait in here together.”

  “Why? Because you called the FBI? What did you tell them?”

  “I told them you were being pursued by a couple of thugs because you accidentally came into possession of checks that might expose a major crime. I thought our safety was more important than—”

  “You’re right. You three should never have become involved in my mess. But you have no right to make decisions for me. You can take the girls and walk away, or you can take your chances and wait for the Feds, but you can’t tell me what to do.”

  “I don’t see that you have a choice. I’m not giving you the keys to the car or the truck. It’s too crowded in here for this guy to try anything funny. A dozen truck drivers would jump him if he threatened any of us.”

  “He might have a gun,” Grace said.

  “That’s right, Dad. He could hurt a lot of people before anyone could catch him.” Blue held out her hand. “Let me have the keys. I’ll help Lynnette get this guy’s stuff out of the truck and we’ll—”

  “No.” Thomas stuffed his hands in his pockets and widened his stance. “Sit down in the booth. Everything is going to be okay.” He reached for Grace’s hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” she yelled. “If you hurt me or my mom again, I’m telling.”

  Thomas jerked his hand away and took a step back and stared at Grace. Two burly truck drivers stopped in their tracks and glared at Thomas. They took a few steps in his direction, but Blue held up her hand and smiled. “It’s okay,” she said. “My little sister has a mental problem.”

  “I do not!” Grace yelled. “And I’m not your sister!”

  “Grace, come on,” Blue said. “Don’t do this.”

  Lynnette held out her hand. “Blue, unless you want me to start screaming bloody murder, you’d better make your dad give us the keys.”

  Thomas fumbled in his pocket for his keychain, removed one key and placed it in her hand.

  Grace tugged on Lynnette’s jacket sleeve and tried to pull her toward the hallway. Before she could move, she saw Thomas and Blue look toward the front door of the restaurant.

  “Mrs. Foster, hello.”

  The guy from the library edged in her direction. His left arm hung in a sling, and his puffy jacket made him look chubby and off balance.

  Her first thought was that he’d walk up to her, they’d chat, and she’d retrieve what Ortega wanted and hand it over.

  As soon as the guy began to fish around in his pocket, Lynnette panicked. Maybe Grace was right. Maybe he had a gun. She yanked Grace out of the way, thrust her laptop and purse into Grace’s hands, and shoved her toward Blue. Thomas pulled Grace and Blue behind him. He reached for Lynnette, but she jumped away and turned to face Ortega’s man. Two steps took her close enough to his left arm to grab hold of the sling and jerk it toward his elbow. As he yelped and jumped away, he clutched his arm closer to his body.

  Lynnette plunged her hand into his right pocket, grabbed his middle finger and jerked it upward.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled as he pulled free from her grip. “Why the fuck did you do that?”

  A tall man wearing a Caterpillar baseball cap stomped his feet on the floor mat to loosen the snow from his boots. “Hey, buddy, there’s ladies and kids in here. Watch your mouth.”

  Grace pulled away from Thomas and pointed. “He’s got a gun in his pocket.”

  “I don’t have a gun.” The guy from the library reached into his pocket, pulled out his pipe and cell phone. “I need a word with Mrs. Foster. She’s in no danger from me.”

  “He has a gun somewhere,” Grace said. “Frisk him.”

  “Damn it, kid, shut the fuck up.”

  “Hey! What’d I tell ya?” the trucker yelled.

  “Right. Sorry. Mrs. Foster, all I need is the contents of the laptop case Sammy Grick had when yours got switched with his. I have a list. If I get everything, Mr. Ortega says that you all walk away and there’s no more trouble.”

  “Lynnette, be careful,” Thomas said. He had grabbed hold of Grace’s wrist and yanked her behind him. “Let me handle this.”

  Lynnette ignored him. She didn’t know whether to believe Ortega’s man or not, but she had to be the one to decide, the one to
take a chance. It seemed too simple, especially considering the terror she’d felt when Sammy Grick was after her. Was it any different now? What had changed? Maybe Ortega just wanted his checks and cash. And the checks? Perhaps they were intended for Ortega’s companies. If so, she was a thief.

  “Okay,” Lynnette said. “My case is in the truck. I’ll get it. You wait here.”

  “Not a chance,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Grick’s phone is in my purse.” She took her purse from Grace, pulled the phone and its battery from an outside pocket, and handed them over.

  “We’ll go out the rear door,” Lynnette told Thomas. “Take care of Grace.” She handed her purse to Grace as she passed.

  “Are you coming back?” Grace asked.

  “She’s coming back, kid,” the man said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  When Lynnette reached the door leading to the parking lot, she glanced over her shoulder. Ortega’s thug followed right on her heels, replacing the battery in Grick’s phone as he walked. Grace watched from the other end of the hallway, her pack in place on her back, Lynnette’s purse strap over her shoulder and the laptop tucked under one arm. Lynnette smiled, then turned and walked out the door.

  Glades, Florida

  Saturday, January 25

  “This is all we have,” Maggie told Detective Prince. “I checked with the techies. It’s nothing. She could be anywhere.”

  “I don’t believe this crap she sent you. It’s a smoke screen. She’s trying to cover her ass because she knows we’ll catch up with her sooner or later. Making it sound like she’s running because the boogey man scared her. This woman ran because she killed her husband or she hired Grick to kill him.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Follow up. Same stuff. Send her another email that sounds sympathetic. Offer protection.”