Dead Wrong

by Patricia Stoltey

  Maggie returned to her desk and leaned back in her chair with her feet propped on the partially opened bottom drawer. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Prince wasn’t looking at anyone else for Carl Foster’s murder. He’d already decided Foster’s wife was guilty.

  When Maggie opened her eyes, a teenage girl with long, dark hair stood in front of her desk. She wore a white peasant blouse and jeans. Maggie jerked her feet off the drawer and sat up straight. “What can I do for you?”

  The girl blushed and shook her head.

  Maggie switched to Spanish. “You don’t speak English?”

  The girl shook her head again.

  “Sit there.” Maggie motioned toward a chair. She grabbed her clipboard and a pen.

  “What’s your name?” she asked in Spanish.

  “Laura.”

  “And your last name?”

  “It’s better if I don’t say.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “That cop who was murdered. They’re saying his wife did it.”

  “Who’s saying that?”

  “A guy I know. Said he saw it on TV.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know who did it, but if I tell you, they’ll kill me.”

  “They?”

  “They’re crazy. Make us all look bad.”

  “Gangs?”

  “Yes. That’s all I can say.” Laura stood up and started to walk away.

  “If you can’t tell me who did it, why did you come here?”

  “I don’t want that woman to get blamed for something she didn’t do.”

  Holy shit, what do I do if this girl disappears? “Wait,” Maggie said. “If you leave, there’s no way I can help Mrs. Foster. I need you to tell my boss what you told me.”

  Laura shook her head and kept going.

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Lynnette led Ortega’s henchman to the truck. “You got a name?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Al.”

  “Okay, Al. Everything else that belongs to your creepy boss is in my laptop case. You said you had a list, so you’ll know you have everything. There’s cash. It’s all there. You have the phone already. The charger for the phone . . .”

  Lynnette paused when she got to the truck and inserted the key. As she opened the door, Al said, “There’s also an envelope. It has checks inside.”

  Damn. She had hoped he didn’t know about the checks. “Yep, got those too.” She climbed into the truck’s cabin and pulled the door partially closed. Al reached up and grabbed the top of the door so it wouldn’t close all the way. Lynnette reached for the laptop case and unzipped one side. Her hand reached for the cash. She hesitated.

  With one fast movement, she grabbed the door with her left hand, jerked it shut on Al’s fingers, then kicked it open, slamming it hard against the man’s chest.

  With his left arm in the sling and his right hand bleeding across the knuckles, he had no way to break his fall without hurting himself even more. His feet slipped out from under him as he fell, and the back of his head smacked against the hard-packed snow.

  Lynnette tried to fit the truck key into the ignition, but quickly realized she held only a door key. It wouldn’t start the engine. She stepped out of the truck with her laptop case. Al lay on the ground. He didn’t move. Blood trickled from his nose.

  She set the case on the snow and dug through his pockets until she found the keys to Thomas’s car. As she ran toward the sedan, parked several yards on the other side of the truck, Grace burst through the back door, the laptop clutched to her chest with one hand and dragging Lynnette’s purse across the snow with the other.

  “What are you doing out here? Where’s your coat?” Lynnette yelled.

  “It’s in the booth. I didn’t have time to get it.”

  Lynnette grabbed her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder. “Okay, kid, let’s get out of here. Might as well add car theft to my list of offenses.” Lynnette stripped off her jacket and tossed it on the passenger seat. “Put that jacket on before you fasten your seatbelt.” Seconds later, Lynnette drove past the restaurant. Blue stood at one of the windows.

  “I’m sorry, Blue,” Grace called out, even though Blue could not hear.

  Lynnette glanced at Grace as they cruised around the front of the building, past the gas pumps, and onto the frontage road, which led to the interstate’s on-ramp. Grace had never looked sadder than she did at that moment.

  CHAPTER 36

  * * *

  Near Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Albert opened his eyes and stared at the sky. What the hell happened? He shook from the cold. His face ached, his elbow joint felt as though it had been twisted out of alignment, and he couldn’t take a deep breath. The pain in his head was so intense he wanted to puke. As he became more aware, he heard voices. He started to turn his head, but it made him dizzy. He shut his eyes again.

  “This is the guy,” a man said. “The woman told us he had chased her and she feared for her life. We brought her here and I called you. Then she disappeared.”

  “You didn’t see her leave?”

  “Dad didn’t.” A woman’s voice. “But I saw her talking to a trucker and then she walked out with him. They headed over there where the semis are parked.”

  Albert tried to take a deep breath and moaned. The voices stopped. He felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

  “Hey, you okay? We called an ambulance. Should be here any minute.”

  Oh, hell no. Not again. “No, I’m not okay,” Albert said. His voice sounded tinny.

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Albert grunted.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s your vehicle, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Your vehicle. How did you get here?”

  Albert shivered and moaned. “I’m cold. I’m really cold.”

  “Sir, may I check your pockets for a wallet? We need to know your name.”

  “Who are you?” Albert asked.

  “Can you open your eyes, sir? I’m Agent Bailey of the FBI. This is my badge.”

  Albert opened his eyes a slit, focused on the badge, thought about the contents of his wallet, and decided he had no choice. “Okay.”

  He closed his eyes again and let the agent check his pockets.

  “I have it, sir. It says your name is Albert Getz and you live in Los Angeles. Is that true?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you don’t know how you got here?”

  “No. Can you get me a blanket or something?”

  “What about you?” the officer said, speaking over Albert’s head. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Thomas Young. This is my daughter, Teresa.”

  “And you say this man slipped on the ice and hit his head on your truck?”

  “That’s what it looks like to me. I didn’t actually see it happen.”

  “Did you see this happen, Miss?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone else witness the accident?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  An ambulance siren wailed in the distance, getting closer and closer. Albert felt a sinking feeling in his chest. This job had turned into a disaster. He quit. He no longer wanted Ortega’s money. Ortega’s crime against Albert’s brother would not be avenged. Albert wanted only one thing.

  He wanted to go home.

  “Where are we going?” Grace asked.

  Lynnette pulled onto southbound I-25. “I haven’t decided.”

  “We could go to California. My dad will be back tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean? I thought we were past that story about your dad’s body. Didn’t you admit you’re a runaway from a foster home?”

  Grace sighed.
“I didn’t say that part. Blue did. I got tired of lying and being accused of more lying, so I didn’t say anything.”

  Lynnette kept her eyes on the road. I can’t deal with this and drive at the same time.

  “So we’re going to Denver? To the airport?” Grace asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want the FBI hauling me away in handcuffs without me knowing where you were or if Thomas would look out for you. I didn’t have time to finish my email to the lady cop in Florida. Maybe she can help me. Maybe she can help both of us.”

  “A lady cop in Florida isn’t going to help me get to my dad’s house. She’ll call my mom and this whole mess will start all over again.”

  “I know. But at least you won’t have to worry about me and my dumb mistakes. I thought if we found a motel where I could put the car out of sight, I could get on the Internet, make contact with this cop, you know, work something out.”

  “Lynnette, my dad will get home from Afghanistan tomorrow. He’ll call as soon as he arrives in the U.S. Then he’ll want to come get me. It would be easier if we were already in L.A. Dad could pick me up at the airport and you could catch a flight to Florida from there. I’ll be out of your hair, and you can straighten out your own problems. I know you went to a lot of trouble to help me, and I’m glad you did. If you could do this one more thing, I know my dad would appreciate it.”

  Grace was telling her story as though talking about someone else. What the hell? Now she says her dad is alive? It was obvious Grace had a whole repertoire of alternative life stories to fit the situation.

  “So your mom does exist? You’re back to the original story?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. I thought the story about my dad being dead would convince you to take me straight to L.A.”

  “Is your mom really out of town with her boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. She’ll get home tomorrow. Then she’ll try to call Dad and explain that I’m incorra . . . incorrig—”

  “Incorrigible?”

  “Yeah. She wants me to live with Dad. She doesn’t want me around anymore.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  Grace fingered an X on her chest as she said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  CHAPTER 37

  * * *

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Albert opened his eyes. Fuzzy white ceiling tiles floated overhead. A needle poked out of his arm. Clear liquid dripped through the attached line. He lay on a hospital bed in a curtained cubicle.

  From somewhere close by, a phone rang four times. A minute later, it rang again. Four times.

  He’d put the battery in Grick’s phone and stuffed it in his pocket while he followed the Foster woman to the truck. His fingers closed around something cold and solid. He held it up and found the remote control for the bed. With his thumb on the up button, he raised the head a little at a time. His jacket lay across the end of the bed. He reached for it, but a blinding pain shot through his skull. A wave of nausea turned his stomach upside down.

  As soon as he lay still, he felt better. He inched his hand toward his jacket, retrieved the phone, and checked the voice mail. Ortega had left a message for Foster. He sounded drunk.

  In the air

  Saturday, January 25

  Benny downed his third scotch before his co-pilot walked out of the cockpit and handed him a piece of paper. “Your office said it’s urgent.”

  Benny looked at his watch. “Where are we?”

  “Almost to the Kansas–Missouri state line.”

  The note said: The signal is active. Current location is a trauma center just south of Fort Collins, Colorado.

  “Wait,” Benny said as the co-pilot walked away. “Is it okay to use my cell phone?”

  “It’s better to use the flight phone. I’ll get it.”

  When the co-pilot returned to the cockpit, Benny made two calls to Sammy Grick’s phone and left a brief message each time. “I will not leave you alone until you have returned everything that belongs to me.”

  Denver, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  One of the exits off I-70 east of Denver listed a dozen motels on the exit sign. Lynnette took the off-ramp and drove through several of the parking lots until she found a motel advertising free high-speed Internet connection. “We need to get cash,” she told Grace. “But not around here.”

  She took the on ramp to I-70 and drove two exits east, then cruised along the main road until she saw a bank with a walk-up ATM. She parked the car on the far side of a nearby fast-food restaurant lot and left Grace in the car with the doors locked so she could approach the ATM on foot. Hopefully, there would be no camera at the restaurant to document her license plate. Fearing the cops might have closed her account, she held her breath until the machine spit out the requested three hundred dollars and ejected her card. She wasn’t so worried about being tracked anymore. By the time they sent someone to the ATM, she’d be long gone.

  After they’d returned to the motel, Grace said, “Can we get food now?”

  “Sure. Can you handle burgers and fries? I want to use the drive-through.”

  “Fine. Get lots. And milkshakes, too. One chocolate and one vanilla.”

  “Okay. We aren’t going out again tonight, so this will be lunch and supper.”

  Lynnette bought more than she thought they could possibly eat and handed the bags to Grace. Less than ten minutes later, with the car parked behind the motel, she and Grace settled into their room and watched cable news.

  There was no mention of a missing child from Florida or a person of interest named Lynnette Foster, aka Hudson.

  Lynnette set her food on the coffee table and plugged in her laptop and phone charger.

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Albert awoke to the annoying sensation of a woman shaking his shoulder.

  “The doctor says you can go home, Mr. Getz. Do you have someone to drive you?”

  “Home?”

  “You might be a little shaky for a couple of days, but you’re fine. A slight concussion. You’ll have a few bruises and a headache. I’ll be back in a minute to remove that needle for you. You need someone to drive you home and stay with you overnight.” She left the cubicle and whipped the curtain closed.

  Albert sighed. Until this trip, he’d only been in a hospital two times in his life. Suddenly he was accident-prone. He thought about Sammy Grick. Grick had died on this job.

  He was superstitious, but he wondered if Benny Ortega was jinxed. Or maybe the Foster broad was jinxed. Whatever the problem, he’d never had this much bad luck in his whole life.

  Thinking about Foster pissed him off. If it turned out she’d murdered her husband, he was going to wish he’d taken her out when he had the chance.

  He rubbed his forehead, then felt the sore spot on the back of his head. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the hospital on his own. What if he blacked out while driving? Hey, he didn’t even have a car. He’d have to rent one.

  He’d take a cab to a motel and hole up for a day or two, make sure he could drive safely. He was fed up with Ortega’s job. Fed up with the Foster woman. Sammy’s laptop was the only thing he’d retrieved so far, and he didn’t know where the hell it was. He dialed Ortega’s number and left a message that he’d retrieved Sammy Grick’s phone but nothing else because he’d had another accident and got sent to the hospital.

  In the air

  Saturday, January 25

  Benny redialed every half hour and left messages for Lynnette Foster on Sammy’s phone. After three hours, he staggered to the restroom, peed a river of scotch, and returned to his seat. He rang for the co-pilot and demanded a meal and a bottle of wine.

  Glades, Florida

  Saturday, January 25

  Detective Prince looked around the room, even stepped aside and peered behind Maggie’s back. “Where is she?” he said.

  “She left. I
asked her to stay and talk to you, but she walked out.”

  “You got her name, right? Send a car to pick her up.”

  “She just gave me her first name. She’s scared.”

  “Not good enough, Gutierrez. I like Foster’s wife for this killing. If you want to get her off the hook, you’ll have to do a lot more than come up with a flimsy story you can’t prove. Think about it. You’re saying a police officer let a bunch of punks inside his house, no sign of forced entry. If she didn’t do it herself, she set it up.”

  “What about the Internal Affairs investigation? Carl Foster was in trouble. That’s the reason my partner and I went to Foster’s house in the first place. We were supposed to pick him up because he blew off the preliminary hearing. Couldn’t that have something to do with his murder?”

  Prince’s jaw clenched and unclenched.

  “Didn’t you read my report?” Maggie tried to keep a straight face, tried not to let her expression show her shock and dismay that Prince had set himself up as judge and jury.

  He glared at her. “Stick to the tasks I give you and leave the rest of the case to me. See if you can find that girl. Check mug shots, the surveillance recording, you know the drill.”

  After he’d left, Maggie checked her email. Still nothing new from Foster. She grabbed a notebook and pen and headed downstairs to the reception desk.

  CHAPTER 38

  * * *

  Denver, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Lynnette needed to make a decision before she and Grace left Denver the next morning. Were they going to L.A. or Florida? A lot would depend on what Maggie Gutierrez had to say.

  First, however, Lynnette had to let Ramona know she was okay. She’d contact her by email again to save time. If she called, she would be forced to tell her stepmother the whole story. That would only make matters worse. And she still couldn’t tell Ramona her exact location or that she had a young girl with her. That would put Ramona in the bad position of keeping information from the police or the FBI.

  Lynnette sighed at the hundreds of unread emails. She looked for mail from Ramona. There were two, both referring to phone calls from the Glades Police Department. Lynnette hit Reply on the most recent message and wrote that she was okay and would be in touch with Officer Maggie Gutierrez about returning to Florida.