Dead Wrong

by Patricia Stoltey

  Wanting a person out of your life didn’t necessarily mean you wanted the person dead. Detective Prince, for instance. It wouldn’t break Maggie’s heart if she never had to work with Prince again. But if he were killed, it would be a tragedy.

  Foster explained why her husband had been called to an Internal Affairs hearing. Beating up an unarmed kid for loitering, even if the kid belonged to a gang, was frowned upon by the public as well as the IAD. Bad press for the cops.

  “How long had you been married?” Maggie asked.

  “Just a few days.”

  “And you didn’t know he liked to beat up people?”

  “I thought I knew him. I was wrong.”

  Another good lesson learned. Don’t marry a guy unless you’ve known him so long he couldn’t possibly have any secrets left. Maggie figured ten years would do it. Better yet, don’t get married. If you must have company, get a cat.

  The references Foster made to Sammy Grick, Benito Ortega, the guy in Denver, and the switched laptop cases were inconclusive, but clearly the men were after Foster for a reason. Whatever she had was important. “Mrs. Foster . . . Lynnette . . . what was in the laptop case you found in your possession after the switch?”

  “A cell phone and a laptop. The guy in the tweed jacket has those now.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. A big wad of cash. I still have all of it.”

  Foster hesitated, then said, “There was also an unsealed brown envelope. I looked inside. It contained six checks drawn on South Florida companies. Big checks. I’m sure that’s what Ortega wants back the most.”

  “Maybe the checks belonged to Ortega and he thought you were stealing them.”

  “All he had to do was tell me that. Instead, he threatened to kill me. He clearly did not want me to turn the case over to the cops—”

  “Which is exactly what you should have done.”

  “That fat man screamed at me and said he’d kill me. I think the checks were stolen and Sammy Grick was a courier.”

  “Where did you get an idea like that?”

  “I’m a reporter. I keep up on the news. I read a lot. I know. More than one business has been tripped up by a check theft ring and had to sue a bank or the bank’s insurance company to get their money back.”

  Lynnette Foster told Maggie everything she’d learned about the death of Ortega’s wife, the relationship between Grick and Ortega, Grick’s death, and what little she knew about the third man—the one who’d shown up at the library, the snowbound road to the house on the hill, and the truck stop.

  “A man and his daughter helped you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are their names?” When Lynnette didn’t reply, Maggie said, “It doesn’t matter. Ortega isn’t my case. Miami P.D. is working it. I’ll tell them about the connection between you and Grick—the laptop case and its contents. They’ll want whatever you still have in your possession. It might help make a case against Ortega. We need you to return to Florida so we can clear this up. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to come in on your own. After that, you’ll be the target of a nationwide manhunt.”

  “I’m in Denver. Will I be able to use my driver’s license and credit card at the airport without getting arrested?”

  “We have a watch on your credit cards, but that only results in an alert to our email here in Florida. We’ll know when you buy your ticket, but the Denver police won’t have that information unless we call them.”

  Maggie waited through another long silence. Finally, Foster agreed to come in on her own. When Maggie hung up, she felt a mixture of relief and anxiety. If Foster came in as she’d promised to do, Maggie would meet her at the airport and take her into custody. She’d find out for sure if Foster was guilty or not.

  On the other hand, if Detective Prince found out about Maggie’s actions and Foster reneged on her promise, Maggie’s career in law enforcement would probably be over.

  Denver, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  “I have to go to Florida within twenty-four hours or the Florida cops will alert Denver’s police department,” Lynnette told Grace. “State police too. I can’t leave you here, and I can’t put you on a plane to L.A. unless I talk to your dad first. It would be better if you’d go to Miami with me. I’ll work it out so Thomas can come down to Florida and help you like he said.”

  Grace nodded, although she kept her eyes on the television.

  Lynnette let her thoughts drift to the stolen checks. It was interesting that Sammy Grick had been taking those checks from Florida to California, especially since Ortega’s home and business were in Miami. She wondered if Ortega had been in L.A. all along, perhaps to establish an alibi for the time his wife was murdered and to oversee transfer of the stolen funds. It wouldn’t take the cops long to figure it out. She had a feeling Benny Ortega would be in the news again real soon.

  She turned to her computer and booked an early-morning flight to Fort Lauderdale for herself and for Grace.

  After that, she wrote a long email to Ramona, explaining everything that had happened with Carl and the two thugs who had chased her around Denver, the unexpected appearance of Grace, and the help they had received from Blue and her father. She added a postscript to her message: If I could do one thing over in my life, Ramona, I’d listen to you and not marry Carl.

  Miami, Florida

  Saturday, January 25

  Benny sat on the plane, waiting. It had been thirty minutes since they’d landed, and they still had received no communication from the tower or the police. He called his tracker.

  “Did you get another signal?”

  “Hang on, I haven’t checked since your plane took off.”

  Benny sighed. Nobody had any initiative anymore. If you didn’t tell the help to do something, it didn’t get done. If you didn’t tell them exactly how to do it, it might get done but it wouldn’t get done right. And if the going got tough, they quit.

  “Hey!” Benny yelled into the phone. “I don’t have all day, you stupid asshole.”

  The co-pilot appeared in the cabin doorway, his eyebrows raised. “Sir?”

  Benny pointed to his cell phone and waved him away.

  “Mr. Ortega,” the tracker said, “the phone has been reactivated.”

  “Where is she? Is she still in Denver?”

  “The phone’s in Denver, sir.”

  Maybe Getz has it. Maybe Getz has it all. Is it possible he has my checks and is going into business for himself?

  “Do you have a fix on the phone’s location?” Benny asked.

  “Yeah, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “Just tell me where the phone is!”

  “Downtown Denver. FBI Building.”

  Benny’s vision blurred. He dropped the phone in his lap. It’s over. I might as well be dead. He picked up the phone and dialed his lawyer.

  When Benny exited the plane, two Miami police detectives stood at the bottom of the steps. One said, “Mr. Ortega, we’re taking you in for questioning in the murder of your wife, Maria Ortega.”

  “I have nothing to say. I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”

  Shoved into an interrogation room in a downtown Miami station, Benny tried not to cringe when two FBI agents appeared.

  Where was his damned lawyer?

  One agent sat in a chair on the other side of the table. The second leaned against the wall near the door, out of Benny’s sight. Benny didn’t like anyone standing behind him. He liked to sit with his back to the wall.

  Where was his fucking lawyer?

  The room was too cold. He was accustomed to tropical heat and humidity. He rubbed his arms, then blew warm breath on his hands. Walking around the room would have helped, but his ankle was chained to a table leg.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been in the room. The cops had taken his watch along with his belt and shoelaces. He jiggled his legs, tapped his fingers, blew on his hands again.

  The Fed across the t
able was staring at him. Sweat broke out on Benny’s forehead.

  “Mr. Ortega,” the Fed said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Getz talked. When I get out of this mess, I’ll find him and rip him apart. Benny crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the table.

  “Two of our agents had an interesting conversation with a Mr. Albert Getz in Denver,” the Fed continued. “Do you know Mr. Getz?”

  Benny shook his head.

  “Mr. Getz spoke of you, also a Mr. Sammy Grick. Do you know Mr. Grick?”

  Benny shook his head again.

  “What about a woman named Lynnette Foster? Do you know Mrs. Foster?”

  Holy shit, did Getz tell them everything? “No,” Benny said.

  “Mr. Getz told our agents that Mrs. Foster had an envelope full of checks he wanted to recover on your behalf. Is that true?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who is this Getz guy, anyway?”

  Hours later Benny was locked in a holding cell with half a dozen low-life crooks. The cops hadn’t charged him with one single crime, nor had the Feds. It was Saturday. They didn’t have to do anything with him until Monday. Even his lawyer couldn’t do anything before Monday. Benny sat down in the corner of the cell, his back pressed against the wall. He pulled up his knees and, with an occasional quick glance around the room, checked out his cellmates.

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Saturday, January 25

  Albert felt pretty damned smug as he closed the door behind the two FBI agents. In exchange for Grick’s phone, Ortega’s phone number, and the name of the car rental company where he’d rented the now demolished car that might still contain Grick’s laptop, the agents let Albert go. He had been ordered to return to his home in California and remain there in case the FBI had further questions.

  He knew they wouldn’t. They had bigger fish to fry. They thought he was a courier, at worst an enforcer. He didn’t think it had crossed their mind that he was a hit man. The word would get around, though. He’d screwed up, and no one would hire him. If the FBI did nail Ortega, they’d probably subpoena Albert and make him testify about his involvement. After that exposure, his anonymity would be down the toilet.

  He’d have to live on his savings. At least he had the $250,000 down payment. He wouldn’t collect anything else from Ortega. He had no more jobs lined up. If Benny Ortega had been in the room at that moment, Albert would have crushed his windpipe and happily watched him struggle for the breath that would never come.

  CHAPTER 41

  * * *

  Denver, Colorado

  Sunday, January 26

  As soon as Lynnette and Grace had passed through Security at the Denver airport, Lynnette called Thomas and told him where she’d parked his car. She listened with growing anxiety as Thomas told her about the two FBI agents who’d questioned him and Blue again. He cautioned her to treat them with respect if they stopped her at the airport, to tell the truth and to turn over the checks immediately. With fifty minutes left before they needed to board their flight, Lynnette took Grace to a restaurant on the edge of the food court and picked a table that gave her a good view of the concourse.

  “What am I supposed to do when we get to Florida?” Grace asked as she poked at her scrambled eggs with her fork.

  “We’re going to take a chance on the lady cop from Glades.”

  “If I don’t like her looks, I’m taking off.”

  “Grace, don’t do that. Please.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like living with my mom, Lynnette. And if the cops have to call her back from her vacation, she’s going to be so pissed off at me.”

  “That’s true. I don’t know what it’s like. I want to make your life better, honest. It’s just that I can’t do much until I get my own problems straightened out.”

  “I should have stayed with Blue and her dad.”

  “It wouldn’t have been fair to them. They could get in big trouble. I know you’re worried. So am I. But we’ll do our best to work it out.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me, the cops, and I’m sure your mom—”

  “Wait!” Grace grabbed her backpack and unzipped the side pocket. The muted melody of “Oh, My Papa” came from inside Grace’s pack. Lynnette watched with confusion as Grace pulled her cell phone from the pocket and said, “Daddy?”

  Grace listened for a couple of minutes, then said, “She’s not dangerous, Daddy. But she’s making me go to Florida with her.”

  Lynnette’s mind raced as she watched Grace listen to whatever her dad told her, assuming Grace’s father really was on the other end of the call.

  “Yes, we’re at the airport. How did you know?” Grace pulled the phone away from her ear and said, “This phone has a GPS tracker too, Lynnette. Daddy already knows where I am.” She put the phone to her ear. “You can spy on me?” She listened then said, “We’re in Terminal A, in a restaurant right by the escalators.” Grace handed the phone to Lynnette. “My dad wants to talk to you.”

  Lynnette took the phone. “This is Lynnette Foster, Mr. McCoy. I’m so—”

  “I can’t even imagine what kind of explanation my ex-wife, my daughter, and you have for this bizarre situation. Right now, I don’t care. I want Grace to be safe, and I think the best way to insure that is to get her into the custody of the FBI in Denver. They’ll take care of her until I arrive . . . which should be in about three hours. The agents will arrive within thirty minutes. They’ll come directly to the restaurant, so you’re to wait there with Grace. Do not leave. Do you understand?”

  “I can’t miss my flight.”

  “Don’t worry about your flight.”

  Grace’s father ended the call before Lynnette could explain.

  Grace bounced up and down in her chair and grinned at Lynnette. “You didn’t believe me, did you? That I even had a dad and that he’s an FBI agent? You should have called him Agent McCoy, not Mr. McCoy. He’s going to be here in three hours and then take me home.”

  “Home to Florida?”

  Grace stopped bouncing and sat still, her face suddenly less animated.

  “Don’t worry, honey. I could tell your dad loves you a lot, so I’m sure he’s going to do what’s best for you.”

  Lynnette felt she had no choice but to follow Agent McCoy’s orders and wait. She tried to relax, rolling her shoulders to relieve the tension in her neck. As she sipped her coffee, she looked through the window and focused on the concourse traffic.

  Albert stood in the center of Terminal A’s food court and studied his options. He had a full hour before his flight to L.A. He needed coffee. Good coffee. The one sit-down restaurant appeared far more comfortable than the packed seating area in the midst of the fast-food counters. As he took a step toward the restaurant, he glanced inside. Lynnette Foster and the kid were seated at a high table by the front window. Both were looking in his direction. The girl pointed. Foster nodded. The girl slid off her chair and turned toward the door, but Foster grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her back to the table. Albert made eye contact with Foster. She shook her head.

  It was an odd feeling, but Albert had the impression she was warning him off. From what? He glanced around, uneasy, now certain he should leave the area as fast as possible. His foot slipped on the marble floor as he turned away. Struggling to recover, he tried to stop his backward momentum. His knee struck a woman’s wheeled carry-on as he fell to the side, jerking her off balance. Unable to break his own fall with one arm still confined by the sling, he landed on his left arm and hip. The woman tumbled hard, the full weight of her body on Albert’s right knee. He screeched in pain, shoved her to the side, and grabbed his knee with both hands, whimpering when new pain seized his injured elbow.

  “Mr. Getz, airport medics are on their way.”

  The voice sounded familiar. Albert opened his eye and found FBI Agent Bailey kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder. The other agent knelt by the lady who had land
ed on his knee.

  “What are you two doing here?” Albert glanced toward the restaurant window where Foster and the kid were watching everything that had happened. If the woman still had Ortega’s checks, she was about to get busted. Albert sighed. Was there any reason he shouldn’t rat out the Foster woman? Did she know that her goose was cooked if she told even the tiniest lie to the FBI? What about the kid? Maybe the FBI didn’t know about her. The last thing he wanted to do was make trouble for a little kid.

  He grabbed Bailey’s hand and held on. “Just get me some help,” he said. “And don’t leave me.” He moaned and closed his eyes, but maintained his iron grip on Bailey’s hand.

  “We can’t stay here and wait for the FBI,” Lynnette said. “If those guys work for Ortega—”

  “But Dad said to wait.”

  Lynnette grabbed Grace’s hand. “He wouldn’t want me to keep you here if you might get hurt. Get your pack.”

  “But, Lynnette, I—”

  “Wait until we get on the plane. You can call him before we take off.”

  They hurried past the gurney and EMTs while everyone’s attention was focused on the passengers still sprawled on the floor. Lynnette glanced back and saw the two men stand up and head toward the restaurant. It seemed too soon for them to be the agents McCoy had sent for Grace, but they could have talked to Thomas and already been on their way. On the other hand, they had clearly recognized the guy in the tweed jacket and talked to him as though they knew him. No way could she take a chance, not after seeing Ortega’s man right here at the airport.

  The plane was already boarding when they arrived at the gate. Shortly after Lynnette and Grace were in their seats, the flight attendants closed the door. Grace did not have time to call her father before the attendant instructed passengers to turn off their phones.