by Ben Rehder
“Me and you,” I said.
“I know that’s not grammatically correct,” she said.
“Is that what we were going for?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. So what are our plans for tomorrow?”
“For finding Boz Gentry? I don’t know. How about we figure that out in the morning?”
She started to answer, but instead let out a long, open-mouthed yawn.
“Apparently a conversation with me is stronger than Lunesta,” I said.
“Sorry. It’s almost my bedtime. Oh, before I forget...” She jumped up off the couch. “Let me show you something. Stand up.”
I stood. We were about four feet apart.
“I want you to grab me,” she said.
“Grab you?”
“Yep.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “No, really. Grab me.”
“Any particular, uh, part of you?” I asked. “Because if it’s up to me, there are a couple of—”
“Imagine you’re in a dark alley and you’re about to attack me. Do whatever you’d do in that situation.”
“I’d start by asking for your phone number.”
“Would you be serious for a minute?” she said.
“Okay. Sorry. Just don’t hurt me, okay?”
“I won’t.”
I took a deep breath. “This is weird.”
She waited.
I stepped forward and grabbed her around the throat with both hands—gently.
Her response was amazingly quick and effective. She brought both of her hands up and over my forearms, inside my wrists, then swept them outward, breaking my chokehold—and at the same time, she brought her knee up toward my groin, stopping just short of anything important. I instinctively doubled over, even though she hadn’t done any damage.
“Whoa,” I said.
“Not bad, huh?”
I straightened up. “You took a class?”
“Yep. At the YMCA this morning. I’ll be going every Sunday for eight weeks. There’s an advanced course after that.”
“That was really good,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re a natural athlete anyway. Once you start learning some techniques, look out.”
“You should go with me,” she said.
“Maybe I will.”
“That would be cool.”
I looked over at the TV. I don’t know why. I wasn’t sure what else to do.
“Okay, well, I’ve got to hit the hay,” Mia said. “I’m beat.”
“Will it keep you awake if I stay in here and watch TV for a few minutes?” I asked.
“Not at all. I could sleep through a tornado. Thanks again for letting me stay here.”
“What are partners for?”
She turned, went into the guest bathroom, and closed the door. I turned off the living room lights and got settled on the couch again. Wanted to catch the news before bedtime.
Then I glanced toward the guest bathroom and noticed that the door wasn’t closed all the way. There was still a long sliver of light showing, and I could see Mia in quarter-profile, standing in front of the vanity. She took off her earrings. Took off her necklace. Removed a bracelet.
I knew I should stop watching her.
She leaned over the sink and brushed her teeth. Two full minutes, just as the dentists recommend. Then she scrubbed her face with a washcloth.
The news anchor launched into a story about the Tyler Lutz murder. It included the fact that Lutz was the insurance agent for Boz Gentry, who was suspected of faking his own death for the insurance money. And now there was a quick cutaway to Hays County homicide detective Victor Dunn, who said Boz Gentry was certainly a person of interest in this case.
I was still listening, but my eyes had wandered back to Mia. What kind of voyeuristic creep watches this sort of thing?
Mia patted her face dry. I couldn’t move.
The news anchor moved on to a different story.
Mia placed the hand towel back on the ring.
Then she began to unbutton her chambray shirt. I should have said something or made a joke or coughed—somehow made it clear that she didn’t have as much privacy as she thought. But I didn’t. I’m not proud to admit it, but I watched. I felt like a pre-teen trying to sneak a peek down a girl’s blouse, but I couldn’t help myself.
Mia slipped her shirt off, revealing a navy-blue bra with tiny rhinestones stitched along the tops of the cups. My palms were actually sweating. I could feel my heart beating heavily. She reached one hand behind her back, unclasped the bra—
I stood up. Some part of my brain forced me to stand up and walk immediately into my bedroom, flicking the TV off as I went. I shut the bedroom door behind me and sat on the edge of my bed, wondering if I’d just made a mistake, because a question finally occurred to me.
What if Mia had left the door open on purpose?
23
The nice thing about a low tolerance for alcohol is that you can get a buzz from three beers and not have a hangover in the morning. I woke at seven o’clock feeling unusually energetic and ready to dive back into the Boz Gentry case. There was also the fact that, based on what Mia had told me about Laura’s phone call, that I only had six days remaining before Hannah would arrive for her visit. Assuming Laura didn’t flake out again.
I found Mia in the kitchen, her wet hair wrapped in a towel. A long terrycloth robe was covering the lovely torso I had seen last night. I still felt some lingering guilt for watching her as long as I had, but I’d stopped before she’d totally undressed, and that meant I wasn’t a total sleazeball—right?
“Morning,” Mia said. “Orange juice?”
“We have orange juice?” I asked. I remained on the other side of the pass-through bar.
“We do. I bought some things when I was running errands yesterday. We also have blueberry muffins and some fresh fruit.”
“I’ve heard of fruit,” I said. “It’s sort of like bacon, but without all the meaty goodness.”
She raised the orange juice bottle. “Yes or no?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
She poured a glass full and handed it to me.
“Muffin and fruit?” she said.
“Sure,” I said.
She placed a very large muffin on a small plate, then used a fork to pull some chunks of cantaloupe out of a plastic tub. She pulled a handful of strawberries from another tub, then slid the plate across the bar.
“Thanks,” I said. “This is nice.”
“Least I can do. I’m thinking I should probably get a hotel room for tonight.”
“Mia, why? Just stay here as long as you need to.”
“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” she said.
“Nonsense,” I said. “Poppycock. Piffle.”
“Piffle?”
“I’m stretching the limits of my vocabulary to show how silly it would be for you to get a hotel. Rubbish. Blarney. Codswallop.”
“Hooey?” she said.
“Exactly. Stay here. I insist.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not even a little,” I said.
“I’m hoping to hear from the fire investigator soon, so I can get back into my house.”
“You need a good security system,” I said. “Some cameras outside.”
“I know, I know. I’ve been thinking about that for awhile.”
“Maybe put a fence around your property.”
“All of that gets expensive real quick.”
“I’ll help with any of it. I’m cheap labor. I run on orange juice and fresh fruit, apparently.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Far as I’m concerned, it’s incumbent on our partnership that both of us remain as safe as possible. These things are a cost of doing business. We can even write it off.”
“Incumbent?” she said. “Have you been reading a thesaur
us?”
“Impressive, huh?”
“Exemplary,” she said. “Even laudable.”
“Nice,” I said.
“So. Any ideas on how we proceed with Boz Gentry?”
“None whatsoever. You?”
“Hire a psychic?” she said.
“I knew you were going to say that.”
Mia and I spent the next hour brainstorming, and eventually we came up with a couple of actions we could take to possibly propel the case forward. Both were risky, but we had more or less hit a wall, so we agreed to do them both anyway. We nailed down the details and tested the equipment we’d need.
Then I took a shower, and when I was done, Mia informed me that Alex Albeck’s SUV had left his house fifteen minutes earlier, and it was now parked at an office building in west Austin. Perfect. Gotta love the GPS tracker. Thirty minutes after that, we were in the van, heading west on Bee Caves Road with Mia at the wheel. Traffic wasn’t too bad, since rush hour had passed.
We were wearing turquoise-colored polo shirts sporting an embroidered logo on the left breast. The same logo was featured on a magnetic sign on either side of the van.
As cliché as it sounds, we use this type of ruse on occasion—and the amazing thing is that it works. We have a range of uniforms and corresponding magnetic signs that identify us as couriers, plumbers, caterers, or HVAC service technicians. That last one is perfect in the summer, when air conditioning units break down all over town.
In this particular scenario, we were facing a couple of unique challenges. The first was the guard at the gate. What would prevent him from calling ahead to see if we were expected? Our cover would be blown. We had a way around that—we hoped.
The second also involved the guard—and Mia. We had learned from past experience that Mia, unlike me, could only push this kind of scam so far. For instance, it was fine for Mia to conduct surveillance by parking at a curb in an unguarded neighborhood and pretending to be waiting on a homeowner. But pretending to actually unclog drains or chase down Freon leaks for a living? We found that people simply didn’t believe that. Not a woman who looked like Mia. It might work in an old episode of Charlie’s Angels or a soft-porn movie, but not in real life. We knew this because there had been a couple of occasions when Mia, in uniform, had been subjected to such suspicion and disbelief, she’d had to abandon the operation altogether. Then Mia suggested the obvious—that we should go along with gender stereotypes. She should present herself as a delivery person—from a florist. That people would believe.
And she was right. She had used the florist uniform only once, but it had worked like a charm. There was, however, one fairly major drawback. Whereas it was normal and even expected to see a plumber’s van parked along a curb for several hours, people naturally expected a florist van to come and go in minutes. No problem. That would work for what we had planned today.
Mia turned left on Barton Creek Boulevard.
“Better get ready,” she said.
I unbuckled my seat belt and slipped between the two front seats toward the rear of the van. Normally, there would be two more individual seats immediately behind the front seats, but I had removed them long ago and put them in storage, creating a cargo area.
I carefully stepped over the flowers—nearly a dozen arrangements riding on the floorboard in a stabilizer, a large delivery tray with holes for holding vases that we had bought from a real floral supply company. Most of the flowers, on the other hand, were artificial, although realistic enough to withstand all but the closest scrutiny. After all, we couldn’t afford to go out and buy a bunch of fresh flowers every time we pulled this stunt. Two of the arrangements were real, and we would deliver both of them, along with cards that read: Just wanted to brighten your day. No signature. An anonymous sender. Everyone loved receiving flowers from an anonymous sender. Even guys, although they might not be willing to admit it.
We also kept a can of floral-scented spray in the glove compartment, and Mia gave the air a few short blasts. Amazing how long it took to find a spray that actually smelled like flowers, rather than like some chemist’s notion of what flowers should smell like.
Just behind the flower stabilizer was a bench seat, which I climbed over, into the rearmost cargo area. A small space, but I fit in it just fine. Nobody would see me back here.
I peeked over the top of the bench seat as Mia drove at a leisurely pace for another sixty seconds, then turned left onto Chalk Knoll Drive. Twenty yards ahead was the closed iron gate, with the little guard house situated on a landscaped median. Mia pulled right up with no hesitation. I ducked back down into the cargo space.
“Good morning,” said a youngish male voice. “Can I help you?”
“I have a delivery on Portofino Ridge. Last name is Williamson.”
The Williamsons lived next door to Alex Albeck.
“R and M Flowers,” the man said. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“We’re a small shop. Just opened late last year.” Mia sounded so friendly and cheerful.
“Oh, yeah? How’s business?” The guy was already flirting.
“Great, so far. You ever need an arrangement for a special occasion, you let me know, okay? I’ll cut you a deal.”
“Got a card?” the guard asked.
We did have cards. We also had a website, and a phone number that would lead to voicemail. Because this guard would almost certainly call the number as soon as we pulled away, to verify our authenticity.
“Here you go,” Mia said. “That has my direct line on there. I’m Mia. Give me a buzz when you want to do something nice for your wife.”
“No wife,” the guard said.
“Girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Really?” Mia said. “Huh.” The tone of her voice was intended to convey surprise, or even interest.
“How about you?” the guard asked.
“I don’t have a wife or girlfriend either,” Mia said.
“You’re funny,” the guard said. “You know what I mean.”
“I am currently unattached, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mia said.
My God. Did two flirting adults normally sound this cheesy?
“In that case,” the guard said, “would you, uh, like to go out sometime?”
This guy didn’t waste any time. Got to give him credit for that.
“Tell you what,” Mia said, “why don’t I stop on my way out and we can talk about it?”
“Cool. Let me just buzz the Williamsons real quick.”
Not good, because if they didn’t answer, the guard would probably ask Mia to leave the flowers with him, and he’d deliver them later.
Mia was quick on her feet. “Oh, you know what?” she said. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“Oh, yeah? Her birthday or something?” the guard asked.
“I’m not sure what the occasion is, but do you mind if I just go ahead? I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“Well, I’m supposed to buzz beforehand,” the guard said, “so I’ll just say it’s a delivery, without saying it’s flowers. That way we won’t ruin the surprise.”
“That’s true, but if it were your grandmother, wouldn’t you rather she not know there was a delivery at all until the flowers arrived?”
There was a pause. I’d been in this guy’s shoes. When Mia wanted something, it was almost impossible to say no. Sure enough, he said, “Yeah, okay. I don’t want to be a party-pooper. You know how to get to the Williamsons’ house?”
“Just follow Chalk Knoll and take the first left,” Mia said.
“Exactly. I’m Brett, by the way.”
“Good to meet you, Brett. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“And we’ll talk again?”
“You bet. Back in a sec.”
Mia pulled forward, and after a moment, I said, “I think I threw up in my mouth a little.”
“Got us through the gate, didn’t it?”
“Poor Brett thinks he di
ed and went to heaven. Won’t he be in for a letdown.”
“Or maybe not,” Mia said. “He’s pretty cute.”
“He sounded about sixteen years old,” I said.
“Twenty-five, twenty-six. Somewhere in there.”
“So he’d be scoring with an older woman,” I said.
“Who said anything about scoring?” Mia said. “And I’m not that much older.”
I could feel the van taking a slow left. I lifted my head above the bench seat and saw that we were turning onto Portofino Ridge.
“You can do better than a security guard,” I said as I climbed over the bench seat to wait in the cargo area, alongside the flower delivery tray. There was also a canvas tote bag featuring the same R&M Flowers logo as our polo shirts and the magnetic signs on the van. The bag was filled with the items I’d need to complete my task. I was getting nervous. What I was about to do was a felony. The good news was, I hadn’t seen a single person yet. No walkers. No joggers. No kids playing in the street.
“Yeah? What could be better than a security guard?” Mia asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “A handsome, witty, intelligent legal videographer, perhaps.”
“Maybe I’ll meet one someday,” Mia said.
“Ouch,” I said, just as she pulled up to the curb in front of the Williamsons’ house.
24
There are all kinds of useful high-tech gizmos that make our job easier. There were, of course, many brands and models of live and passive GPS tracking devices, like the one I’d attached to Erin Gentry’s car. How about a voice-activated audio recorder that looks like a common USB flash drive, a key fob, or a ballpoint pen? Handy as hell.
Covert video cameras were built into all types of common household items: alarm clocks, teddy bears, electrical outlets and adapters, eyeglasses, wristwatches, picture frames, hats (like the one I’d been wearing during my encounter with Shane Moyer), and fake rocks (like the one that had broken open the Tracy Turner case for us last year).
In this instance, I’d be using a camera/DVR combo that looked like a small electrical box you’d find mounted on the side of a house. In fact, it was an actual electrical box, minus the guts. It even featured a black-and-red warning sticker that read: DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE. The camera inside was motion activated, with a three-year battery standby period. Sixty hours of recording time per charge. High-resolution video. Infrared capabilities for shooting in total darkness. It had a 0.00 Lux low-light rating, but I don’t really understand what that means, nor do I care. It works. That’s the important thing.
