by Mary Mead
“Again, you can make all the arrangements with him. And thank you again. We appreciate your cooperation. Here’s my card,” he said, extending it to me. “If you think of anything else please give me a call. If you have any other problems, please don’t hesitate to call. Again, the local police will also contact you.”
Standing up, I offered my hand. “Thank you, sir. Believe me, I appreciate your efforts. The last thing I want is drugs here. I worked too hard to clean this place up.”
I followed them to the door, shook hands, and watched them get into their car and leave.
I managed not to dance a jig.
Until they were out of sight.
I wrote up a quick email for the owner, explaining the new guy on the premises and fired it off. Once the gates locked up for the night I headed for the grocery store. I needed more coffee.
Home was the apartment above the office.
The original building had the office upstairs, above the units, with a staircase climbing up the outside. At some point, an addition to the building enclosed the staircase, creating a tunnel between the two halves. Upstairs became the new living quarters while the office was relocated at the bottom of the stairs.
Makes for an easy commute to work.
The enclosed stairs are nice when it’s raining.
Not so good when you forget to the turn on the porch light and it’s dark. Then you’re faced with an ominous black cavern that depends on reflected light from the parking lot.
With all the drug business I forgot to turn on the porch light at the top of the stairs.
Carrying two bags of groceries I started up that long, dark void.
I was half way up when I realized there was something at the top. Something hunkered against my front door. I have seen cats, dogs, possums and a raccoon mistake my stairs for a nice place to live. Twice bats have dive bombed me.
Whatever or whoever was up there was large enough to cover the bottom third of the door. Not a bat. Using the trick of looking to the side of the object I couldn’t identify it, just a darker shade of dark.
It wasn’t moving.
I backed up carefully and made it to the bottom stair.
Setting the grocery bags on the bench at the foot of the stairs I tried to make out what was against the door.
I hoped it wasn’t a bear.
I pulled my keys from my pocket. There is a mini mag light on my key chain, one of those little ones that come free in advertisements. I shined it up the stairs at the door. It was a feeble light but better than nothing.
Something black hung from my doorknob.
Something with a zipper.
Easing up the stairs I reached out and touched it. Lifted it off the doorknob and carried it back down to the light.
My sweatshirt.
Last seen around the torso of the guy at the beach.
Somehow, he had found me.
I went back up and unlocked the door, turned on the porch light and retrieved my groceries. Back inside, I locked the door behind me.
With the lights on I felt better.
I put the groceries away and started some water for tea. While that was heating I picked up the sweatshirt.
It smelled fresh and clean, that distinct, unique scent of laundry dried outdoors. This guy either lived with his mom or in a campground. Checking the pockets I found nothing.
Just a freshly laundered sweatshirt returned.
With the lights on I opened the front door and checked the stairs again. Still nothing. I double locked the door.
I still didn’t sleep well that night.
Bright sunshine the next morning put things in a better perspective.
I had my sweatshirt back. While not a fortress my apartment was secure. More so than many places because of the facility’s gates and camera system. The security software was also loaded on my home computer so I could check the grounds from home without having to go back to the office.
How he found me I had no clue. The only possibility I could think of was something left in the pocket of the sweatshirt, something with my address on it.
When I opened the office I backed up the cameras and checked last night’s footage. There is no camera on the stairs or that corner of the building. The other cameras yielded nothing out of the ordinary.
My late visitor avoided all the cameras.
Everyone who works with the public understands what a pain in the fanny it is to have someone come in five minutes before closing. One more reason I don’t own a gun.
I had already closed out the computer for the day when a beach god wandered in. Being a beach community we’re used to the slim hipped, heavy shouldered great looking guys with the sun tipped hair and the warm golden tan no spray booth ever gets right.
This one had thick rust colored hair with gold highlights, just a little long, touching the collar of his sweatshirt. He flipped his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head.
Launching my standard ‘sorry, we’re closed, come back tomorrow speech’ I was cut off mid-sentence when he lifted the bottom of his sweatshirt and displayed the gold badge clipped to his waistband.
“I assume you’re not here to rent a unit,” I said.
“No, ma’am. I’m John Kincaid, with Monarch PD. I’m the local liaison officer with the county drug force. I believe Detective Miller told you I would be contacting you. Just wanted to drop by, introduce myself and see if you have anything to add to the report you filled out.”
“No, sir, sorry. That was everything I had.”
“And very thorough, I might add. Believe me, we appreciate it.”
He had dark eyes, like chocolate, warm and melting.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He folded his arms and leaned on top of the counter. “I understand DEA is going to put a guy in here. Undercover.”
I thought we were supposed to keep that under wraps but what the heck, not my job. “Yes, sir. That’s what they told me.”
“He’s not in place yet?”
“No, sir, he hasn’t checked in with me.”
Kincaid reached over and ran a forefinger through the bowl of peppermints on the counter.
“My father is sir,” he smiled. “You can call me John.”
“Fine, John,” I said. “I still haven’t seen the other guy.”
The detective straightened up, giving the counter a pat with both hands. “All right, then. I’ll check back with you in a few days. If anything should come up, give me a call.” He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a card that he slid across to me. “My cell number is on the back, if I’m not at the station. Call any time.”
He somehow managed to make that sound like an invitation.
“Will do,” I said, moving around the counter to escort him out and lock up behind him.
He took the hint and went to the door, which I held open for him.
“You take care now, Mrs. ?”
“Miss,” I corrected, and stuck out my hand. “Montoya. Marlena Montoya.”
He shook my hand, his own firm and a little callused. “Miss Montoya, then.”
“Marlena is fine,” I said.
“Okay, Marlena, nice to meet you. I’ll check in with you from time to time. I don’t think we’ll see them again. Once they’ve been spotted they’ll shift the trail. If you have any questions or if I can be of any assistance, just call.”
“Sure thing,” I said, and opened the door a little wider.
With a nod, he finally stepped outside and I closed and locked the door. I closed out the register, printed the deposit slip and closed the office, putting the gate on automatic. Shutting off the lights and closing the blinds, I finished the evening routine, picked up my keys and the deposit bag.
There was something familiar about Detective Kincaid, something I couldn’t quite place. Not unusual in a small town. I had probably seen him at Kelly’s, the local diner or the grocery store over the ridge in Monarch Beach. It would come to me, or in all probability, I wou
ld run into him again.
Jade Beach and Monarch Beach are both small towns separated by a ridge that runs from the hills into the ocean, breaking into steep cliffs where it meets the water. Jade is home port for a small fishing fleet as well as larger boats that put in for supplies and repairs. The twin docks there are always busy. Monarch is smaller and has no industry. However, it does have town amenities, such as a post office, police station, hardware store and two grocery stores among others. It was a safe bet I’d run into Detective Kincaid again.
On the way to the bank I wondered if I should have mentioned the sweatshirt left on my door, then decided it had no bearing on the case. My adventure with the guy on the beach had nothing to do with cases of drugs in my storage units. I had never reported the beach incident.
With a shrug I forgot about it and made the deposit.
Saturday was pretty busy, customers in and out all day. Being a weekend Steve was on duty in the office leaving me free to get some weeding, a chore I was eager to pass on to the undercover guy.
I knocked off and went upstairs before the office closed. Steve was a talker. If he caught me I would be hung up in conversation for another hour. I went upstairs and ordered a pizza. I deserved it having put in a good day in the flowerbeds.
I jumped into the shower while I waited for the delivery.
I pulled on sweats after I dried off, checked the television guide for movies and found an old Thin Man classic starring William Powell and Myrna Loy. I love the old flicks, prefer them to most of the regular programming, films that depended on writing and acting instead of special effects.
I grabbed a beer and some napkins, made myself a nice little set up on the coffee table and settled in to wait for dinner. I love the old movies but love the pause feature on the new televisions.
When I heard someone on the stairs, I used that feature to stop the movie so I could pay the delivery guy. The money was already laid out on the table.
Opening the door, I froze.
Money in hand, hand extended to pay, I stood there with my mouth open.
The delivery guy was familiar.
Very familiar.
From the blond hair to the dark eyes.
The borrower of the sweatshirt stood on the third step down, balancing a pizza box in one hand. In the other he was holding up a folding wallet with an ID card and a gold badge.
“Before you scream, or kick me down the stairs,” he said, “I can explain.” Even the voice was familiar, warm and seductive.
“You have one minute.” I kept my hand on the door in case I needed to slam it.
“Whoa, gonna take longer than that, ma’am. Here, can you take this?”
“Is this your official job?” I asked, taking the pizza from him. I had to let go of the door to do so. It was a large pizza. “Or did you just threaten him with your comb?”
“No, ma’am, we got here at the same time. I volunteered to bring it up.”
“I hope you paid him,” I said, turning to set the box on the table.
“Yes, I did,” he said, stepping up to the open door. “I even tipped him.”
I stepped back a few steps.
He moved on into the entry, shutting the door behind him.
I grabbed my phone and stepped back closer to the table, keeping some distance between us.
“My ID,” he said, handing over the wallet.
According to the information in my hand, this was Detective Declan Burke of the California Criminal Investigation Division. If it wasn’t real it was the best counterfeit I ever saw. Even the picture was good.
I handed it back to him.
“May I come in?”
“You appear to be in, Mr. Burke.”
“Please, call me Declan,” he said. “After all, we do know each other.”
“Do you want to explain? My dinner is getting cold.”
I waited, folding my arms.
“Okay. I can do that. It’s going to take a few minutes. How about sharing your dinner?”
“You sure are pushy,” I said.
What the heck, he was a cop. “Come on in, grab a plate. The napkins are on the coffee table. Do you want a beer? Soda?”
“What are you having?” He stepped over and slid two slices on to a plate, then moved into the living room and set it on the coffee table.
I went into the kitchen, tucked a beer under my arm, picked up another plate and joined him.
He had pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “This is great,” he said, looking at the television screen. “Are you watching this?”
“I was,” I said.
“The Thin Man?” I love these movies! Which one is this?”
Terrific. I pushed the record button and set the remote on the arm of the couch.
“Hate to disappoint you,” I said. “Explanation?”
He seriously looked disappointed. With a sigh, he sat down. “Can we eat first?”
“I can,” I said, picking up a slice and grabbing a napkin.
“You’re not gonna give me a break, are you?”
“Not on purpose,” I said.
He actually grinned at me. “Okay, tough girl. I’m part of a state wide drug enforcement task force. I’ve been undercover for over a year.” He paused to take a swallow of beer. “Those guys at the beach were bad guys. I was running from them, obviously. If they had caught me it would have blown the whole operation. I had to get clear. You were there. You know the rest.”
I chewed pizza and thought for a minute. Seemed possible.
“Is that an apology?”
He chuckled and reached for his beer. “No, this is,” he said, pointing at his plate. “I am sorry. I thought I said that before. Sorry I scared you.” With a twinkle in his dark eyes he added, “I’m still not sorry about that kiss.”
I felt the blush creeping up my neck.
“Apology accepted,” I said. “Eat your pizza.”
He leaned to pick up his plate and grab a napkin. “Do I get the movie, too?”
“Anyone ever tell you no?”
“Often,” he chuckled. “Come on, toughie. I’m hungry and I love this movie, one of my all-time favorites. We don’t have to talk.”
He won. I pushed the play button and ate pizza.
On the plus side, he did seem to enjoy the movie. When he finished eating, he carried his plate and used napkin to the kitchen. He was even nice enough to offer me another of my own beers.
When the movie ended I turned off the set, stood and led the way to the front door.
“Thanks, Miss Montoya,” he said, at the door. “That was fun. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
“Are you out of your mind, Burke? I don’t know you. I don’t think I want to know you.” I opened the door and stood to the side. “At least I know how you found me, being a cop. Thanks for returning the sweatshirt. Adios.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “We got off on the wrong foot. Seriously. I would like to take you to dinner.” Holding up a hand, he added, “or breakfast, and I know how that sounds. That’s not what I meant.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, swinging the door open a little more. “I don’t go out.”
“Well, you do go to the beach once in a while,” he corrected with another grin.
“Rarely,” I said. “And probably not again. Bad experience at the beach.”
“Then we have a slight problem, Miss Montoya.”
“And that would be?”
“I’m the undercover cop assigned to your facility.”
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, ma’am.” At least he tried to look sheepish, although his eyes laughed. “Detective John Kincaid with the Monarch Beach Police Department can verify it for you. Or you can contact one of the other guys on the case. They’re all gonna tell you the same thing. Agent Miller told you I was coming.”
I closed my eyes, took in a gallon of air and sighed it back out. Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’r
e the bug. I was definitely doing bug time.
Opening my eyes I saw Burke patiently waiting for me to say something. With yet another sigh, I motioned him out the door.
“Come in the office tomorrow and I’ll give you a code.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he smiled. “Thanks again for dinner. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You paid for dinner,” I countered.
I shut the door behind him and clicked the dead bolt as loudly as possible. I was pretty sure I heard him laugh as he went down the stairs.
Sundays are usually slow, unless it’s the tenth. A good day to set up Burke. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this whole situation. His story sounded plausible although his methods left a lot to be desired. A whole lot.
Being smarter than the average bear, I called Agent Miller and verified Burke’s story the first thing in the morning. He told the truth. Unless I filed a formal complaint, I was working with Declan Burke. My second call was to Steve, giving him an impromptu day off. If Burke was going to be incognito the fewer involved the better. Especially since Steve loved to talk.
Burke was waiting when I went downstairs. He climbed down from a big, shiny black pickup while I opened the office.
Today he was wearing the uniform – local that is – of sweat shirt, jeans and sneakers. Unless it’s hot, then it’s a tee shirt and cargo shorts. Both require sneakers. He fit right in, could easily pass for a surfer or a fisherman. At least he wouldn’t stick out like a neon sign flashing “COP”.
I had him fill out an application like any other applicant while I made a pot of coffee. When it was ready I carried two cups out, setting one next to him on the counter. I went around and took my place at the computer.
“What should I fill in for employment history?” He pulled his coffee over and took a sip. “You want the truth or a polite lie?”
“With you, Burke, who knows the difference? I don’t care what you put down.”
“Are you going to be like that? Come on, lady, I’m trying here. I’ve explained, I’ve apologized and I’m trying to make this work.”
With a sigh I leaned forward and looked at his application.
“This is fine,” I said. “This is your code for access to the property,” I added, handing him a slip of paper. “The gates are open from seven to seven for the regular customers, closed on all holidays. Your code is twenty four hours, so you can come in when you want. The only thing I ask is that you park out of sight if you’re in after hours. I don’t want to have to explain to the other customers. My official story is that you’re the maintenance guy. The hired help. Most facilities hire couples so it’s pretty common to have two people around.”
