Fatal Chances (The Red Lake Series Book 5)

by Rich Foster

  Lawrence seemed pleased announcing this.

  "Proust worked for the Port of Miami?"

  "Yeah. Probably doing some smuggling angle while working as a longshoreman."

  This news excited Harry and it showed in the cadence of his voice "That's why he had to fly down to the Cayman Islands to catch the cruise. He probably spotted Stockman boarding the Sterling Princess!"

  Lawrence shook his head. "You poor sorry son-of-a-bitch, you just don't you get it. I don't give a damn about Proust and your silly speculations."

  Harry let out a weary sigh. "Just what is it going to take to get you to go crawl back under the rock you slithered out from, Special Agent Lawrence?"

  The dig failed to rile Lawrence.

  "Give me Rico Marcelli, Vito Donatello, and Salvador Montoya and we'll give you immunity."

  Harry feigned more nonchalance than he felt. He knew the government could make his life hell.

  "I thought that was your job."

  Drew Lawrence set his cup down. "This offer has an expiration date Grim. You'd best take it. You'll be better off if you call me before I come for you."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The wing tip rocked upward on a cross wind then dipped hard. As the plane rolled the passengers let out a collective gasp excepting Barton who watched the turquoise, red, white, and green salinity ponds at the south end of San Francisco bay slide beneath him. This gave way to green open water, turbulent with wind driven waves that were frosted by foam as the cross breeze ripped at their tops. The Dumbarton bridge appeared below the wing, a ribbon of concrete cluttered with cars that inched over the bay during the morning commute. Gradual the waters of the bay came closer and closer. Those uninitiated to San Francisco airport stirred restlessly as they saw ships and small sailboats where they felt land should be. Barton's flying sense told him they were coming in hot because of the crosswind. At the last moment the rocky seawall flashed past. The plane hit hard and after a small hop the wheels grabbed the asphalt of runway 28-Left. The thrust reversers deployed and amidst their roar the plane rapidly slowed leaving the passengers pulling forward in their seats.

  "Please remain seated until we are at the terminal."

  Despite this plea people were already out of their seats either fearful of missing a connection or holding an exaggerated sense of their own importance. Of course if that were the case they would be in first class or aboard a private jet. Barton tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and waited. The passenger on his right stirred impatiently but something about Barton caused the man to stop fidgeting, hold his silence, and wait.

  Traffic on the 101 south was heavy. Dirk eased his rental car into the flow and drove south. Fifty minutes later he took the Menlo Park exit and then followed the GPS navigator into the hills where the prestigious but not widely known Menlo Van Bren University was nestled on a secluded campus, buffered by stone walls, coastal oaks and green lawns from the multi-million dollar homes that dotted the area. The young entrepreneurs and programmers who possessed swift brains and large paychecks chose the city when they were single, but those who married and had children settled around places like Menlo Van Bren.

  Dirk passed through an ornate set of wrought iron gates that were more ceremonial than security in their function. The drive curved around through a cluster of sprawling oaks and then turned into a broad open space from which the administrative hall rose. It was an edifice that would be at home on a baronial estate in Cornwall. Barton pulled into the parking lot The visitor's space was demarcated by a brass plaque.

  Salvador Montoya had provided Barton with a list of Carmen's classes. He told Dirk that Austin Philips whose office was in the administration building would assist him with any help he might need. Assuming Philips was some under assistant to the Dean of Students Barton asked for directions from the receptionist,

  "Probably an undergraduate doing menial duty to pay for the exorbitant cost of her education." he correctly thought. "If she is as smart as she is attractive she excel in business, if not she'll do okay for herself anyway."

  "Mr. Philips is on the second floor. Turn left at the top of the stairs."

  Barton took the curving marble steps that wrapped around the wall of the entry hall, low steps that required to much work and were too broad to take two at a time. They were designed to remind one of their unimportance. At the top of the staircase a broad carpeted hallway transected the building. The oak door of the President's office faced him. He turned right expecting to walk the length of the hall but was surprised that the second door which was oak with a full length pane of glass was labeled in gold lettering, 'Mr. Austin Philips, Provost.'

  Within the office a diminutive administrative assistant greeted him with an aging and reedy voice, "Yes, yes Mr. Dirk, we have been expecting you. Mr. Philips is in conference with our school's President but should be out shortly. Could I get you some water, tea ,or coffee?"

  There was an obsequiousness to her tone, as if Barton Dirk was a man to be deferred to. This was unusual for him, feared, perhaps respected, but the air here was something else, it was as if he smelled of money!

  The coffee proved to be rich like the school and as dark as Barton's skin. He was halfway through the cup when the office door swung open and Philips entered. The suit was finely crafted, his hair might have been trimmed fifteen minutes ago and the nails on his extended hand were glossy from a manicure.

  "Please come in. I regret this event but I assure you we do everything possible from the standpoint of our duties under in loco parentis but one can only exert so much control over young adults."

  Barton shook the hand, perhaps a bit more firmly than etiquette required simply because he disliked him. Philips hastily retracted his shiny nails as soon as his guest let go.

  "Please come into my office, Mr. Dirk."

  They settled themselves on a leather sofa, in fraternal proximity like members of a men's club.

  "Mr. Montoya asked me to meet you. I know he is extremely concerned about his daughter Carmen's absence but students do choose to leave at times. I have asked and no one seems to know why she chose to do so. Miss Montoya was a fairly private person and was only here for the past year. Why she would leave just before finals is most confusing for her grades and her course work were excellent all year." He held his hands up in confusion, "We are at a loss to know why she has left."

  "Is anyone else missing?"

  Philips' eyes grew wide as if Barton had insinuated some impropriety.

  "Absolutely not, Miss Montoya did not have a boy friend and she did have a chaperone who lived in her apartment near the campus."

  "That's a bit unusual is it not?"

  "A bit but, not rare, we have many students from extremely wealthy families. Such people often take precautions."

  "Did she have a body guard, too?"

  "I suppose the man who drove her to campus may have filled that capacity. He was large enough to be formidable."

  Barton paused. Silence invariably made the nervous, more so. "I'd like to speak to her professors."

  "Is that really necessary? I don't know what they could possibly tell you."

  Barton stood up, "Fine, I shall tell Mr. Montoya that you felt unable to accommodate my request." he said in cool drawn out words, mimicking Austin Philips snobbish English. The Provost's sycophant manner told Dirk that Montoya was of importance to the school. He assumed that meant money, big money, money with six or seven digits behind it.

  "No, really it is no problem. I will arrange my schedule to go with you." The Provost almost tripped on his words as he rushed to assure Barton of his usefulness.

  "That's okay. Just give me a list of her schedule, the names of her instructors, and their office numbers, I can find them. I should prefer to look around alone."

  God, I'm starting to talk like this fop, he thought.

  Philips lent him a tight smile and rang for his secretary.

  *

  Despite the school's brochure that boasted
of a instructor to student ratio as low as any other top ten academic institution, Barton found Carmen's English professor barely cognizant of her name.

  "Montoya?" he paused in thought, "I guess that would be the Hispanic girl?" He looked to Barton with doubtful eyes for confirmation.

  Barton nodded. "She is a very attractive girl," Not that you are likely to notice a woman, he mentally added.

  "How was she as a student?"

  "I don't know that I can discuss her records with you... Privacy laws and all that you know?"

  "Perhaps, you should call the Provost, maybe he failed to make himself clear, Mr..." Dirk paused, "...whatever your name is." Barton felt he was on safe ground in his insolence, Philips would not want to offend Mr. Montoya's representative nor would he brook it on the part of the Menlo Van Bren staff.

  "No, that's not necessary, let me see, hmm..."

  "Why don't you look in your grade book, it's obvious that you recall nothing of her academic work."

  The man opened an old fashioned grade book and ran his finger down the page, passing over a dozen names until he came to Montoya, Carmen. The grades for the past semester ran across the page. The first four or five had been crudely changed by a pen into A's. After that she had perfectly neat A's.

  "I find it rather remarkable you don't recall an student with straight A's."

  "We have many excellent students, Mr. Dirk. I assure you that at MVB that is far from unique in fact it is rather normative."

  Dr. Hollingsworth in the econ department was more forthcoming.

  "Call me Chad, Mr. Dirk. The Provost called to say you were coming."

  "Barton is fine," Dirk replied as they shook hands. The Prof's grip was firm, for Dirk it implied internal confidence.

  The professor gestured toward a chair as he settled into the one behind his desk. He leaned back. "Carmen is in my Econ 101 class, at best she belongs in Econ 50 and a half."

  Barton arched his brows.

  "The girl is no great brain, although, to look at her work you might think so, or if you reviewed one of her essays, but she is not.""

  "Plagiarism?"

  "No her work is original but I doubt any of it was written by her."

  "So, is she failing?"

  "Absolutely not. It was made very clear to me that my consideration for tenure might suffer if it appeared I was incapable of successfully educating a poor foreign girl from Mexico. So, she will receive an A and I will achieve tenure, after which I may be able to retain my dignity when grading."

  "And the reason for the Provost's interest's in her welfare is money?"

  For a moment the man hesitated, "Look you're working for the Montoya's so you obviously know, of course it's the money. Fifty million dollars buys a lot of consideration."

  Barton felt an urge to distance himself from the Montoya's employ but chose to ignore the impulse. Instead he asked, "What did it buy for the school?

  "A year and a half ago, before she enrolled, an anonymous donor gave thirty million dollars to our graduate school for the development of a computer simulated economic war game. At the time, I was on the admissions committee and saw Miss Montoya's record, she does not belong here. The admissions committee voted her down, and yet last fall she matriculated into the freshman class."

  "What does an economic war game do?"

  "Punch in an economic factor and the games simulates what happens. If the Gulf of Hormuz was blocked, what happens to the price of oil in the United States? If the Panama canal is shut down, how long before that would alter the unemployment rate on the East Coast? Or enter multiple factors. It is an amazing research tool and predictive program. I have heard there is interest from a number of governmental agencies."

  "But what does this have to do with Carmen? She's not in grad school."

  "This past fall, another twenty million anonymous dollars went into the pot, with the curious proviso that one of MVB's freshman econ classes be given access to it. I assume you can guess which class received that honor?"

  "Carmen Montoya's?"

  "Bingo! Her first use of the system was to ask what happens to street drug prices if the Afghan poppy fields shut down. Her second paper was on what occurs if all fifty states legalized marijuana. And her third paper was on what a decline in the manufacture of over the counter cold medicines that contain pseudoephedrine might do to the street price of speed. Please don't break my legs, but your boss' daughter has an inordinate interest in the field of illegal pharmacology."

  "Why would you think I might break your legs?"

  "Montoya is not a name that shows up in the Who's Who. But I've noticed the name in the newspaper with regards to the Cuerpos Cartel of Juarez, Mexico. Fifty million dollars is a lot of money. Perhaps I am wrong but I do not believe even a doting father would invest such an amount merely so his daughter received high academic marks."

  "Then why?"

  "I think we have been duped into being the research arm of the cartel."

  Barton smiled. "I would keep those opinions to yourself. There are some people who might find them dangerous, if not also offensive."

  Hollingsworth pushed back and perhaps his luck; Dirk liked him for it. "And would you be one of those to be offended?"

  Dirk shook his head, "No, but if want tenure to be followed some day by retirement, I wouldn't repeat what you think to others today."

  *

  Dirk learned very little from the other instructors, their reticence spoke volumes. Without bidding good-bye to the Provost he went to the Carmen Montoya's residence. The Provost referred to it as an apartment but it was actually an upscale condo development about three quarters of a mile from campus.

  A broad shoulder swarthy man answered his knock.

  "Barton Dirk, Mr. Montoya sent me."

  The man sneered, "I told him I didn't need help. I sure don't need it from a street nigger!"

  Barton's hands flashed and the man was on his knees, clutching at his throat, and gagging for air.

  Barton wiped the edge of his hand on his pants leg, as if touching the man left something filthy behind. When he spoke his soft voice betrayed no anger.

  "I'll forget what you said. When you can talk again you can tell me where Consuela is, meanwhile I will take a look around."

  The living room, kitchen and one of the two bedrooms were immaculately neat. Barton opened the bedroom closet, it was empty, so was the dresser, as was the bathroom's medicine chest. It might have been a guest room but there were enough out of place items to give Dirk the impression someone lived there but not anymore. He assumed it was Consuela's room.

  Across the hall the second bedroom was a chaotic mess. Drawers hung open, clothes littered the floor. On the glass top desk a stack of school books remained open where they were abandoned. There was a printer but no computer. The cable from the router lay unplugged on the desk. He dumped the contents of the waste basket onto the bed. Mostly it held discarded school papers, each emblazoned with an A or A+. At the bottom he found a cell phone, the kind people get mugged for and most teenagers dream of having. He also found the packaging for a prepay phone.

  "The girl's done a runner? But to where?"

  Barton tried the closet. Many shops carried less inventory than Carmen's closet but there were still numerous empty hangers, several vacant spots on the shoe rack, and a space on the top shelf between two carry on bags where a large suitcase would fit. In the desk's top drawer he found a stash of credit cards and her check book. The balance was surprising even to Dirk who was accustomed to large paydays. The last entry was for the first of the month when she received $5k, neatly marked in female cursive'Allowance'',but the next blank check number was not in sequence with the last check drawn. Inside the checkbook sleeve was a withdrawal slip dated three days before, Carmen drained her account, wherever she was, the girl was traveling with close to fifty thousand dollars in cash.

  Evidentially, she doesn't want to be found!

  Barton went back into the living room. Car
men's body guard glared at him from the sofa. His mouth began to move, but Dirk raised one finger of warning.

  "Don't say it. Don't say something you will regret."

  The man's mouth stopped moving.

  "Where is Consuela?"

  "Gone." The word came out raspy and harsh.

  "Could she be with Carmen?"

  The man shrugged, "Possibly, but I doubt it. Miss Montoya didn't like her. She complained that Consuela was too strict." The man rubbed his throat as he spoke and he watched Barton with wary eyes.

  "Was she?"

  "No more so, than Mr. Montoya would wish."

  "Any ideas where I might find her? She seems to have packed and left."

  "You would too if the Boss was angry with you."

  "No ideas where she might be?"

  He shrugged again, "If you lost five kilo's of product what do you think would happen? His daughter meant more to Señor Montoya than fifty keys!"

  The words came out sharp and harsh, as if he resented his boss' attachment.

  "You liked her, didn't you?"

  The man shook his head, "No, she was a spoiled little bitch."

  "I meant Consuela."

  The man nodded his head. "I did but now it is too late. Nothing will save her, someone must pay."

  He suddenly appeared overcome with grief. Barton feigned not to notice. He closed the door behind himself on the way out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Paula discovered June was an off month in the islands, fewer crowds than at Christmas and more families who wanted to go on vacation to the Tropics but for less money. The hotel also had salesmen who's sales bonus was a junket to Maui, men whose voice's carried and reminded her of an unending infomercial. There was also a contingent of businessmen who were taking part in an Agricultural Convention. They wore large hats and carried beefy bellies.

  She found the people in Hawaii to be friendly, especially the sales and business men who thought she might need company between their meetings and rounds of golf. Or perhaps while their wife was off shopping. While lying on a chaise lounge beside the swimming pool, more than one umbrella capped cocktail arrived, having been bourn over to her by a cabana boy in a floral shirt holding out a banana leaf platter, who politely said it was sent by the gentleman at the bar, or across the way, or in the Jacuzzi. She dismissed them all.