High Stakes

by Fern Michaels

  Mia then did something Avery Snowden had warned her never to do. She sent a text while driving. Immediately after she hit SEND, a call came through. She listened as her boss berated her, then told her there was a small remote in the glove box that would allow her to trick the security gate at the complex where Pilar and Gabe Sanders lived. He then sent a text saying, Do that again and you’ll be on the unemployment line.

  Properly chastised, Mia kept her eyes on the road and the car she was following. She tried not to think about Snowden’s comment. She was jolted from her thoughts when she saw the Sanderses’ car’s blinker start to flash. She slowed to a crawl to allow the car in front of her to speed past the Sanderses’ car, then slowed even more as she let the Sanderses’ car move forward behind the other car. A car cut in front of her, blew its horn, then sped past her, by which time the Sanderses’ car had turned off the street. If nothing else, it gave Mia a few seconds’ reprieve before she swiped Avery’s remote to raise the black-and-white-striped bar blocking the entrance to the Sanderses’ complex. She crawled forward, keeping her eyes on the Sanderses’ car’s red taillights. She parked in the first empty slot she saw, though she knew full well it belonged to one of the tenants. She cut her headlights, turned off the engine, and slowly eased her way out of the car. She could hear the sound of the other car’s engine clearly. Three aisles over, four cars down. She quickly moved through the two aisles, crouching low. Her gut instinct told her the couple were totally unaware they were being followed. She felt safe.

  Mia could see them now. They were talking, but the words were indistinct. She inched closer and was able to see the man holding Pilar Sanders up. In the end, they strode toward the elevator. The woman was crying. It didn’t sound to Mia like the man was consoling her, just the opposite. She caught a glimpse of his face, and he looked . . . damn angry. Hmmmm.

  Mia made her way back to her car and called Avery Snowden to report in. She ended with, “What do you want me to do?”

  “We haven’t been on this case long enough to have viable patterns when it comes to these two. What we do know from Toby is they never miss a night with the clubs. One or the other visits each one. Usually, they split it, with each one covering half. The evening is still young, so my thinking would be that the husband brought the wife home because she was traumatized, and he will be going back out. Follow him if he does. Give it an hour, worst case ninety minutes. If there’s no movement, call me, and we’ll decide what to do at that point.

  “Oh, one other thing. It might be a good idea to leave the garage and find a parking spot on the street, in case he does leave. This time, he might be more aware if he sees a car following him out of the garage. Carnegie is a one-way street, so you’re good in that respect. Double-park if you have to. Does that work for you?”

  “It works for me, Mr. Snowden.”

  “Call me if anything happens. Call me even if nothing happens. We need to be on top of this all the way. Something here is not sitting right. According to Toby, that woman is rock hard, and it’s the husband who is the pussycat.”

  “You’re wondering if it’s all an act, right? I wondered the same thing. I guess she was unsteady but able to walk, because the husband and she went to the elevator. He did not look happy, I can tell you that. I got one real good quick look at him. Let’s see how this all plays out and go from there.” Mia blinked, then blinked again when there was no response other than the signal that the connection had ended.

  Mia got out of the car and walked around to where Gabe Sanders had parked his car—a champagne Lexus sedan. She memorized the license-plate number and looked in all the windows, but there was nothing to see other than that Gabe Sanders kept a tidy car. There wasn’t so much as a gum wrapper to be seen.

  She walked back to her car, jotted down the number of the license plate in a little notebook she kept in her rucksack. Then she turned on the engine and backed out of the parking space she had borrowed, relieved that the tenant hadn’t come to claim it. She headed up the ramp and out to the street. She hated the idea that she was going to have to drive around the block and back to get a parking spot, if one was available, but she did it, anyway, and was rewarded when a young bearded guy pulled his Jeep Cherokee out onto the road. She expertly backed in and settled down to wait. Her side-view mirror gave her a full view of the garage exit. She knew she could end up sitting here for a very long time.

  Stakeouts were one of the few things she didn’t like about the business she was in. But even with that, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else with her life at this point in time.

  Mia tried to clear her mind, to shelve Snowden’s rebuke, a rebuke she deserved, but it still smarted. She turned her thoughts to Toby and found herself smiling. She liked the guy. Really liked him. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise,” she whispered to herself. The smile turned into a grin as she tried to picture Toby on the stage, gyrating in front of a bunch of lusting women trying to stuff bills into his G-string. The grin turned to outright laughter when she realized that tomorrow night she would be doing the same exact thing and probably enjoying every minute of it.

  From that point on, Mia let her thoughts drift every which way as she waited for some sign of activity at the garage across the street. Twice she saw cars leave, but neither one belonged to the Sanderses. An hour into the stakeout, she debated all of a minute whether she should get out to stretch her legs. She decided against doing so almost immediately. Instead, she rolled down her window and the one on the passenger side. Cold, fresh air blew into the car. She inhaled deeply just as she saw a set of headlights at the top of the ramp. Bingo!

  Mia had the engine turned on and the car in DRIVE in a nanosecond. She pulled out into traffic one car behind the Sanderses’ car. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought there was only one person in the car. The car in front of her was a VW Jetta and low to the ground, allowing her a full view of the Sanderses’ car, but with the high headrests, she still couldn’t tell for sure if another person was in the car. She thought not. She fished around on the passenger seat for her phone and hit the number one, which would automatically dial Avery Snowden.

  “He’s on the move. I’m a car length behind. I can’t tell if there is anyone else in the car or not. Call me crazy, but I think this guy is headed to the airport.”

  “Where are you exactly?” Snowden asked.

  Mia told him.

  “Okay. I’m headed your way. Right now, I’m closer to the airport than you are, so I’ll get there first. Watch for me. I’ll take over, and you go home and get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “He’s on his cell phone. I think he got a call, or he made one. My gut is telling me that once he identified the caller, he just tossed the phone on the seat. I’m thinking this guy is upset. Who is watching Ms. Sanders?”

  “Consuela. Go home now, Mia,” Snowden said, using her operative name to keep in character. Mia heard the rebuke that was still in his voice.

  “I’m on my way. Good night, Mr. Snowden.” There was no response, and she hadn’t really expected one. Mia wished she could run and hide somewhere. There was nothing worse in her mind than to disappoint your boss, the man who signed your paycheck.

  Avery Snowden grinned in the darkness. He knew the hard-ass reputation he had among his operatives.

  When you broke the rules, you endangered your fellow operatives. All he allowed was one screwup, and after that, you were toast. Mia was one of his best, if not the best. He would hate to lose her, but he would cut her loose in a nanosecond if she failed to follow orders a second time. He sighed as he wondered what it would be like to retire to some private island where it was sunny all day, balmy at night, and a hundred people were waiting to shower you with whatever your heart desired. He let loose with a belly laugh that literally shook the car he was driving. He’d last in that kind of environment twenty-four hours. If that.

  Retirement thoughts stayed with him as he finally picked up and followed Gabe Sa
nders. Mia was right; her instincts were spot on. Sanders was indeed headed for the airport. Retirement was for people who wanted to sit on their asses and eat themselves into oblivion while watching game shows on a giant television screen. He’d read that somewhere on the Internet. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to him. His DNA wouldn’t allow it.

  Snowden slowed to follow Sanders to the long-term parking lot. Three cars were behind him. That was good. There would be a parade of travelers into the terminal, and he wouldn’t look out of place. Luck was on his side, so much so that he was able to park two cars away from Sanders. He had enough time to exit his car and walk around the two cars parked next to Sanders, allowing him to look into the car. The first thing he saw was the cell phone Mia said he’d tossed on the passenger seat. No one these days left their cell phone unattended. Parking lots, even those as well lit as this one was, were a haven for carjackers. His gut told him Sanders had left the phone behind on purpose. Why? Because once he got inside the airport, he’d buy a burner, charge it probably in the first-class lounge, and be good to go in thirty minutes.

  Sanders leaving the cell phone behind told Snowden that the tiff, or whatever it was that he’d had with his wife, was dead serious. So serious it looked like it was a parting of the ways.

  Surprisingly, the airport was crowded at this time of the evening, so it allowed Snowden to follow Sanders easily. He felt like patting himself on the back when the man entered a store and immediately headed to the back, where he picked up a burner phone for eighty-nine dollars. He headed straight to the cashier, where Snowden himself was in line with a copy of Field & Stream and a pack of cherry-flavored Life Savers in his hand. He paid for his purchases and walked out to the concourse, where he stood next to a plate-glass display case to fiddle with the wrapper on the Life Savers. He again felt like patting himself on the back when he followed Sanders to the private Delta lounge. He took a moment to wonder if Sanders had a destination in mind, since he hadn’t bothered even to look at the wall-mounted arrivals and departures boards. He told himself Sanders would probably take whatever flight was leaving when he was ready, no matter where it was going.

  He waited.

  Forty-one minutes later, Sanders walked out of the lounge and headed straight for the Delta ticket counter. By quickening his stride, Snowden was able to jockey into position right behind him, close enough to hear that he was booking a flight to Atlanta and paying cash. He also heard the words “You’re lucky, sir. This is the last available seat on tonight’s flight.”

  Hearing that, Snowden spun on his heel and raced out of the airport. In the long-term parking lot, he sent off a text to Abner Tookus, asking him to hack into Delta’s flight manifest to see where Sanders’s ultimate destination was. Certainly not Atlanta. That was too close to home. His next text was to Tom Fazio, a retired Navy SEAL on his payroll who lived in Dunwoody, Georgia.

  Be at the airport when he deplanes. Follow him. I don’t care where he goes. Stay with him, and whatever you do, don’t lose him. I’m going to upload a picture when I go off, so be aware. Also, be aware that once he deplanes, he might try to alter his appearance in small ways, just enough to confuse anyone he thinks might be watching and, of course, the cameras. He was carrying a small carry-on bag, so it is a distinct possibility. Check back with me as often as necessary.

  Snowden fumbled around inside his backpack and withdrew a small remote, similar to the one Mia had taken from the glove box. He looked around, sauntered over to the champagne-colored Lexus, and pressed numbers until he heard a soft chirp. He opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and immediately reached for the cell phone on the passenger seat. He deftly palmed it and exited as fast as he’d entered. He didn’t lock the car, simply because he couldn’t. The gizmo in his hand allowed only for breaking and entering, not for securing the safety of the vehicle.

  Back in the racy Ferrari, Snowden powered up Sanders’s phone. He scrolled through the texts first. Whoa! Sixteen from the little woman. Nine phone messages. The first ones were of the “poor me” variety and went from there to How could you do this to me? to If I knew what a disloyal rat you were going to turn out to be, I never would have married you to the final one, which pretty much said it all: Go ahead, you chickenshit. Run like the rat you are. I don’t need you. I never needed you. So there, Gabe Sanders! Oh, and one other thing. I never loved you. I just married you to get out of that stinking trailer in Alabama.

  “Ouch!” Snowden said to the empty car. “That had to sting a bit. No wonder the guy left the phone on the seat.”

  Snowden pocketed the cell phone, slipped the Ferrari into gear, and drove out of the parking lot. His destination was the BOLO Building in Georgetown, so he could set everything up for the boys in the morning. He corrected that thought. The boys and one girl: Maggie Spritzer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pilar sat at the round table in the breakfast nook, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes on the wilted flowers in the center. She remembered how she used to sit like this when she was a little girl in school. She worked her fingers the way she had back then, kneading them, twisting them one way, then the other, cracking her knuckles simply to hear a sound in the quiet kitchen. A small sigh escaped her lips when she saw that the bloodred polish on her thumbnail was chipped. She wondered how and when that had happened. Then she looked down at her feet and noticed she was barefoot. She frowned as she struggled with her memory. What happened to her shoes? Did she lose them? Obviously, she had, since she wasn’t wearing them. She made a mental note to file a complaint with her insurance company, since she’d paid twelve hundred dollars for the designer stilettos. Way too much money to throw away. She hated insurance companies for the way they bilked people. Finally, she would get something back on all those outrageous premiums she paid out year after year. She loved those shoes.

  Pilar looked around, her eyes half glazed, her stomach in knots. Her gaze finally settled on the digital clock on the range. She grimaced. Gabe should be back by now. That was the precise moment when she realized Gabe wasn’t coming back. Ever. She had just refused to believe it at first, so she had sat here and waited. And waited. And then waited some more.

  She’d sent texts. She’d called. Not one had been answered. She vaguely remembered crying, pleading, then, to her horror, begging. When that didn’t work, and there was no response, she’d gotten downright ugly, saying things she didn’t mean. Nothing had worked. Gabe was gone, and she knew it. She had had her chance, and she’d blown it. Now she was alone, with the devil’s own disciples hot on her trail.

  Her eyes wandered to the digital clock again. So much time had gone by. It was almost midnight. The witching hour. What did that mean? Was something supposed to happen at the witching hour? Ha! It had already happened. Her husband was gone. He’d left her. Coward that he was. She’d called him that, too. And his response had been that he’d rather be a coward than a fool who was going to go to prison for the rest of his life. He’d stalked off, saying he was a smart coward. It was true, she supposed. The thought left her numb.

  Pilar’s chipped thumbnail drew her attention again. She wondered if she would be able to get an emergency appointment at the Nail Emporium in the morning. Maybe if she came up with some outrageous story, like she was going to a luncheon at the White House, they would take her in. What was one more lie on her chart of life?

  Pilar had to literally pull her hands apart, because they were clenched so tight. Her knuckles ached. She had to do something before the witching hour struck. All manner of crazy thoughts swirled and raced through her brain. Maybe she should hide in the shower. Maybe she should crawl into bed, on Gabe’s side, and pull the covers up and over her head. Or, maybe, she should just lie down and die right now. Or . . . She brightened momentarily at the thought of opening the safe, taking her envelope, and walking out of this place the way Gabe had.

  But the greedy core of her being nixed that thought immediately. How could she leave the shelves of Chan
el handbags behind? The rows and rows of Louboutin and Jimmy Choo shoes? No way could she do that. Nor could she leave all the Armani and Chanel suits, plus accessories, behind. She’d need a truck to take all her belongings. Only an idiot would leave everything behind. What, she wondered, was the difference between an idiot and a fool? She rather thought an idiot could be forgiven, but a fool deserved no mercy. A fool was stupid. An idiot was just plain dumb.

  The phone on the table chirped that a call was coming in. Pilar grabbed it so fast it slid from her hand onto the table. At last Gabe was getting back to her. She cursed when she saw the name Bert Navarro. The man from Hong Kong. She’d totally forgotten about him. This was simply no time to make any kind of decision concerning Hong Kong. Morning would be soon enough. If the offer fell through, then it fell through and was not meant to be.

  Pilar made her way to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the king-size bed and howled her misery. When she couldn’t cry any more, she got up and trudged into the bathroom, where she avoided looking into the mirror. She washed her face and brushed her teeth before she changed into her favorite granny flannel nightgown. Maybe she would sleep, and maybe she wouldn’t. Either way, she’d get up early and make a plan.

  And maybe when she woke up, Gabe would have had second thoughts about his departure and returned. And cows leap over the moon, was Pilar’s last conscious thought before falling asleep, into dreams of moving to a palatial mansion somewhere and having a conveyor belt installed that would hold her many purses and beloved shoes. She’d read in one of the tabloids that the only person who had one was Candy Spelling in Hollywood. She remembered how envious she’d been when she read that article. If it was good enough for Spelling, then it was certainly good enough for her.

  * * *

  Pilar Sanders woke slowly. She was cold, and she was shivering, even wearing the flannel nightgown that Gabe always made fun of. She’d forgotten to turn on her bed warmer before she went to sleep, and she’d also kicked the covers off during her fitful sleep. She reached out, tapped the button that would turn on the heated mattress pad, something Gabe hated but he tolerated because the warmer had dual controls. He must have told her a thousand times if she’d put more meat on her bones, she wouldn’t need a bed warmer or a granny flannel nightgown. As with most of his advice, she’d ignored it.