by Darin Gibby
Addy turned on her phone. Still no reply from Perry. She quickly tapped out another message to him, saying that they urgently needed to meet. Then she switched off the phone, scooted across the crosswalk, and ventured into the emergency room entrance. It was filled with half a dozen people either milling around or fast asleep on one of the several couches. Addy found one with split vinyl and plopped herself down. She let herself doze a few more minutes, then turned her phone back on. No messages.
She again wondered whether Perry might not answer because it was from a different phone. Since time was running out, she didn’t have a choice. She had to know about the arrangements for the Super Bowl. She tapped out another message saying she had a new phone, then waited. Still nothing.
Addy found a bathroom and splashed water on her face. She inspected her hand, which was now bulging and severely discolored, a sickly black and blue. She wiggled her fingers. It was painful, but at least she still had the full use of her hand. She wondered whether she should admit herself to the ER, but knew they would have to enter her name into their computer system. And she didn’t have time to wait for a doctor.
Instead, she put on her game face and walked to the law offices of Wyckoff & Schechter. Until she found Perry, she couldn’t do anything. She was almost certain the place was staked out, but she didn’t have a choice.
She walked down University, peering into the shop windows until she came to another coffee shop. She ordered another cup of coffee and a cream cheese-covered bagel. She wasn’t hungry, but knew she had to eat to keep up her energy.
An older couple who were in line behind her were speaking in hushed tones. When she overheard the words “patent examiner,” she paid attention. The woman was horrified by what they had done to his body, cutting off body parts and reassembling them in grotesque positions.
Addy couldn’t listen any longer. She turned and left the shop.
When she was within a block of Wyckoff, she turned off and went around the block. While visitors entered through the front door on Waverly, she remembered she could get into the parking lot from Lytton, then take the back staircase to the second floor, where Perry had his office.
She hurried into the parking lot and crouched behind a Chevy Tahoe. When she flipped on her phone, she noticed it was almost eight o’clock. Most of the parking stalls were empty, and it would be nearly eleven before they were filled. Perry had not returned her message, and there was no sign of his car. He was usually in well before the sun rose.
Addy peeked over the hood. If she’d been followed, she couldn’t tell. Maybe they’d wait until after she left.
She zipped across the garage, jogged up three flights of stairs, and opened the door into the front lobby. On a Sunday morning, the receptionist’s desk was obviously empty, so she made her way down the hall to Perry’s corner office.
“Is that you Addy?” came a voice from behind just as she was ready to slip inside.
Janice—who never clocked in until nearly ten in the morning and never worked a weekend. What’s she doing here on the day of the Super Bowl?
Addy slowly turned. “Oh, hello, Janice. I had an appointment with Perry. Nobody was at the front desk, so I let myself in.”
Janice looked her up and down. “Dressed like that?”
“He said he had something for me. It shouldn’t take long. I just came from the gym.”
“Well he’s not in yet. He left early yesterday. Said he had some business to attend to,” she said with a smirk. Janice tapped her lips. “I think he’s got tickets to the game.”
“He might have left me a folder. Do you mind if I look?”
“I guess that would be okay, but you know Perry. He never leaves anything on his desk.”
Addy didn’t wait for an escort, but hurried into Perry’s office and flipped on the lights. His desk was barren. If he’d intended to leave her a note, it wasn’t there.
“Told you,” Janice said, swaying her hips as she entered.
“I really need to get him a message.”
“Did you try to call his cell?”
Addy nodded. It was strange Perry hadn’t replied. He was always glued to his phone, constantly checking his messages. When they fled from the impound lot, she told him she’d find him so they could work out a new plan. He had to be expecting a text or some kind of communication.
She also worried about the money he’d put down for the commercial. If Quinn didn’t come through, the funds would be forfeited. That could happen at any moment. Maybe Quinn couldn’t get the money, and that’s why Perry wasn’t answering. Perhaps he was upset that Addy didn’t have a workable vehicle and that he’d lost his money. That would explain why he wouldn’t answer her.
“Well I can’t just let you hang around here all day. You know, firm policy. Perhaps you want to leave him a message.”
“Did he say anything to you about a commercial he was working on?”
“A commercial? Like on television? Why would he do something like that?”
“Long story. Anyway, he was supposed to leave me some information.”
Janice’s eyes went round. “Now that you mention it, I was in his office when he was talking to someone about wiring money. That must have been for your commercial. Tell you what, I’ll ask him next time I see him, then have him email you. Will that work?”
“Text is better,” Addy said. She pulled out the desk drawer and scribbled a number on a yellow note pad. “Here, use this number.”
Janice took the paper, noticing the bulge on Addy’s hand.
“Are you okay Addy?”
“Fine, just a lot going on right now.”
Janice looked deep into Addy’s eyes. “Look, I know we didn’t part on the best of terms. I was upset about what happened at WTG and said some things I shouldn’t have. Can we put that behind us? I know you’re in a lot of trouble, and I want to help.”
Addy smoothed back her hair. If she hadn’t recruited Janice, they’d probably have still been friends. “Sure. I’ll give you a call. And please let me know as soon as you hear from Perry.”
Addy’s spirits soared. It sounded like Quinn really was going to send the money. Their plan was going to work. But where was Perry and why wasn’t he answering her texts? Addy knew she couldn’t simply wait for him to come to the office. Something wasn’t adding up. While she could ask Janice to use her phone, she didn’t want Janice eavesdropping on their conversation. She decided that she needed to find a hot spot and send Perry another message. She could also try Quinn, to see if he’d wired the money and located his hidden car.
The Four Seasons hotel was about a ten-minute walk, and she could freshen up there and check her messages. If Perry hadn’t responded, she’d catch a taxi to his home.
She’d barely gone a block when she spun around to make sure she wasn’t being followed, and saw a figure dart behind a large oak tree two blocks down. She continued walking backwards, keeping her eyes on the dark brown trunk.
Then she noticed a car door open, a black sedan less than fifty yards away. A dark-skinned man wearing a 49ers cap and sunglasses stepped out and began striding down the sidewalk toward her. He was carrying a newspaper under his arm and was constantly adjusting it with his free hand, which probably meant it concealed a gun. When she peered further down the street to the oak tree, she saw another man slip on the concrete, hurrying to catch up to the man with the baseball cap.
They were gaining on her. She didn’t hesitate, sprinting in the direction of the hotel. She veered to the right, turning toward University Avenue. There was always a stream of cars venturing along that boulevard. Maybe even a cab.
At a full sprint, Addy looked back over her shoulder. There were now two men and a woman, all in hot pursuit. Just then, directly in front of her, the door of a truck opened and a heavyset man in a black ski mask bolted out and pointed a gun right at her head.
“Stop!” he said in a deep voice.
If they wanted the catalyst, she figured they would
n’t kill her. Perhaps capture and torture her, but not shoot her on the street. University, with its line of cars, was within sight, but she had to get around this hulking man. Instead of trying to cross the street to avoid him, she continued straight at him, increasing her speed.
The man was so astonished he didn’t have time to react. She barreled into him like she was a running back taking on a linebacker. She knocked him on his back, falling to her knees as she catapulted him backward. When she jumped back up to run away, she noticed that he’d left the engine running.
She darted inside and slammed the door shut. The glass in the passenger door shattered, and she felt a bullet whiz past her head. She ducked behind the dashboard, turned sideways, and ignoring the pain, ripped the gearshift down with her injured hand while steering with her left hand, and floored the pedal. She couldn’t see where she was going, but knew the truck was pointed toward University.
Two more shots ripped through the cab, and then the steering wheel pulled to the right. One of her tires had sideswiped the curb. She turned the wheel, only to hear the screech of metal scraping metal as she clipped another car.
She kept her foot glued to the accelerator, gaining speed. When she reached the intersection, she looked up. A school bus was directly in front of her, and she spun the wheel to avoid a collision, sending the truck over the curb and across the front lawn of a colonial mansion. After crossing the lawn, she weaved in front of the bus and ducked into the line of cars streaming along University. At her first chance, she hung a hard left, then roared through quaint bungalows into the heart of Palo Alto.
She had no way of knowing if she’d shaken her pursuers. There was only one way to be absolutely sure, but it would cost her valuable time. She headed west, into the hills. She wound her way along Page Mill Road until she found a gravel turnout sheltered by two giant redwoods. She pulled in and cut the engine.
They would never find her here, but she also couldn’t get a signal for her phone. With kickoff just hours away, she couldn’t stay here.
She considered her options, debating whether to ditch her freshly stolen vehicle, but decided against it. Whoever she’d stolen it from couldn’t exactly report it to the police. And she needed transportation. Still, the entire Bay Area was going to be crawling with spies hunting for it.
Her next problem was communication. She’d planned to get an internet connection at the Four Seasons. Here she had none and needed to know if Quinn was going to make good on his promise to deliver the car and the money. By now, Perry would have figured some way to communicate with her, even if he was busy working on the logistics behind her commercial.
Her eyes began to droop, the urge to sleep almost overwhelming, and she realized she was functioning on only two hours’ sleep in forty-eight hours. Even the constant nagging pain in her injured right hand wasn’t enough to keep her head from bobbing, then falling on her chest.
She dimly remembered she needed to access Quinn’s geo site, but she couldn’t do that without a signal to her phone. Her eyelids felt like concrete.
She jerked herself awake and switched on her phone. It was nearly nine o’clock, and she was out of time. She needed a signal.
Addy retraced her steps, heading back down Page Mill Road and into Palo Alto. After she’d gone several miles, she veered onto El Camino Real, found a McDonald’s restaurant and parked the truck. She hustled inside and switched on her phone while standing in line. While she waited for the Wi-Fi connection to register, she ordered a burger and fries along with a large cup of coffee.
The moment her phone detected a signal, an alert popped up. She recognized the phone number. Janice had sent her a message. It was the only one. Nothing from Perry, even though she was sure he had her number. She clicked on the notification and read the text. There were a series of numbers along with wiring instructions.
“Six fifty-three,” said the cashier.
Ravenous, she toted her meal to a back corner table and gobbled it down while sipping coffee in between bites.
Why was Janice sending her the wiring instructions—and with no explanation? Janice had said Addy would know what to do with them. Did Perry instruct Janice to send them to her so she could forward them to Quinn? But what wouldn’t Perry just give them to Quinn himself? Where was Perry? Was this a trick, some kind of scam?
How much? Addy texted back, trying to figure out if Janice was trying to get the money wired into her own account.
Addy read the reply: 4.5
There were only two people who knew the amount—Perry and Quinn. Her stomach sank. Was Quinn going to give her the money in exchange for the catalyst, only to have it wired back into his own account? Was Janice still working for WTG? She began to wish she’d never trusted Quinn. But there was a chance Perry had asked Janice to send the instructions. Perhaps he was so busy setting up her campaign that he didn’t have time to type it in?
Addy shot back another text. When will I make my appearance?
She waited for the reply.
Perry is working on it.
Addy was confused. Janice had always been reliable, and Addy had no reason not to trust her. But why would Perry tell her the details of the wire transfer and nothing else? Perry could simply be overwhelmed, but that didn’t ring true. Addy switched off her phone, worried that she’d had it on too long already.
34
ADDY KEPT AN eye on her rearview mirror as she barreled down El Camino, but all she saw was the usual steady stream of vehicles.
Time was running out. The Super Bowl was less than six hours away, and if the money wasn’t wired now, there would be no Hindy on the 50-yard line.
She regretted not forwarding Janice’s text to Quinn while she had an internet connection at McDonald’s. But something in her gut told her not to trust Janice. It still didn’t make sense that Perry wanted her to give wiring instructions to Quinn. She wanted to do some research on the account, to see if it was a legitimate bank, one that a major network would have used. But there was no way she could connect to the internet.
Addy rolled her phone in her injured hand, ignoring the pain, too worried that she still hadn’t heard from Quinn with the geocache message. She slammed her good hand against the dashboard. “No!” she shouted. “Why is this happening to me? Can’t I trust anyone?”
At the next intersection, she cranked on the wheel and made a U-turn, heading back to Palo Alto. Perry lived just a few miles from the office. She didn’t care if an army of assassins had his place staked out. She had to find him. Even if he was overwhelmed with her publicity campaign, he would never have gone this long without an update.
Feeling an increasing sense of urgency, she pressed down harder on the accelerator, weaving through the traffic, cutting off a Lexus sedan. A horn sounded, but Addy pressed on.
When she reached Frost Avenue, she let her foot off the gas, momentarily debating whether she should try to remain incognito. But it was probably a waste of time. If Perry’s place was being watched, they’d spot her even if she tried to sneak in.
So she whipped into the driveway and marched to the front porch. She didn’t bother knocking and was surprised to find it wasn’t locked. She half expected the furniture to be overturned and the carpet torn up. She found the sofa upright and a half filled glass next to an opened Coke can on the coffee table; a John Grisham thriller was face down next to it.
“Perry, are you home?” she called out.
Perry’s Persian cat wandered in from the kitchen and rubbed against her leg. She reached down and scratched between her ears.
She thought she heard a noise from the back of the house where Perry had his bedroom.
“Perry?” she repeated as she walked down the hallway.
The familiar chatter of ESPN’s Sports Center emanated from the master suite.
“Are you in there?” she said, pausing to listen. A vignette on one of the Super Bowl pieces shouted back at her.
Slowly, she pushed the door ajar, then craned her neck
to peek inside.
“God, no!” she screamed and flung herself back, crashing into the sheetrock behind her. Addy buried her face in her hands. She slid down the wall, curled into a ball and began shaking.
“I’m so sorry,” she began sobbing. “I never meant any of this to happen.”
Perry’s rigid body dangled from a cord, chin down, black tongue protruding from between his lifeless lips. Her insides churned with the vision of Perry’s eyes bulging out of their sockets.
She clutched her stomach, but it was no use. The hamburger and fries she just inhaled came rocketing up. On hands and knees, she kept vomiting until she had the dry heaves.
Addy took a deep breath and reached her hand out, then jerked it back. Suicide? Murder? She wanted clues before calling the police. Careful not to leave more fingerprints, she nudged the door open and studied her surroundings.
The bed was still unmade, with several throw pillows scattered in front of the footboard. Perry’s open laptop sat on his maple writing desk. Addy leaned over and listened. She could hear a faint humming. His computer was in sleep mode. With the corner of her phone, she tapped the space bar, and the screen came to life. The only application running was Microsoft Word, and she studied the document. It was an outline of her advertising campaign, mostly bullet points of what they’d discussed. Whoever killed Perry saw this, she thought.
She quickly scanned the details, hoping to discover any updates on the Super Bowl commercial. She saw the name of a woman he’d spoken to—a Claire Charnes—and that they’d agreed on terms. But there was nothing about where to send the money, or even the name of the agency.
Addy debated about whether to check Perry’s email, but since the program wasn’t already running, she decided against it.
A few papers were strewn on the desk. She scanned their contents, using the knuckle of her index finger to move the sheets around—notes to the web master running her website, and the names of several local reporters and their contact information. Another note had the phone number for a local pizza joint and the price for a small Hawaiian pizza. She wondered if he’d even made the call.
