“What? You should have called.” I grabbed her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
But she just glared hard at me and turned back to the stove and a burbling roux which she vigorously whisked into a velouté sauce.
And then even more understanding dawned. Tiny birds twittered in my brain. The diversionary ploy. She’d sacrificed her beloved station wagon — maybe not intentionally, but that appeared to be the end result.
“Details,” I demanded and lifted a stack of plates out of the cupboard.
“Slid off the driveway just before the gate,” Clarice said. “It’s a sheet of ice out there.”
I squinched my eyes shut and pictured the private-property side of our motion sensor controlled gate. The few meters of driveway before the opening were lined with saplings and other medium-sized trees as a sort of natural barrier. I had a hunch there was nothing accidental about the sliding.
“Hit something else,” Gus added. “Had a chunk of metal and plastic stuck in her grill. Looked like a camera lens. With some wires attached.” He rinsed his hands at the sink, looked around for a dish towel and, not finding one, wiped his big paws on the edge of Clarice’s ruffled apron.
I was pretty sure her flush had to do with more than just the steam rising from the pot on the stovetop.
“You took out one of their posts.” I tried to hide my smirk. I knew it was there, of course, but I hadn’t actually seen it for all the leafy, needled greenness that a forest entails.
“Post? Nope. Definitely electronic equipment,” Gus said. “Although I do think there’s an old fence on your property line along the county road. Buried in the trees now. Maybe what Clarice collected was leftover from a previous gate contraption. Strange, though.” He chuckled, and his merry eyes had me thinking that he knew exactly what I was referring to.
“Tow truck dragged out more wires. They were all over the place. Destroying our natural beauty,” Clarice sniffed. “What were they thinking?”
“Coup d'état,” I whispered. “Seems it’s French immersion night.”
“What’s a coup?” Emmie asked from where she was folding paper napkins into airplanes to adorn the table service. She’s so quiet that sometimes I forget her ears don’t turn off.
“Just a little skirmish, sweetheart,” Gus answered, but he pitched a furry eyebrow at me. “If you need French, I might be able to help. Spent most of my Green Beret years in Southeast Asia. Know enough of the language to get into trouble and probably out of it, too.”
“Will wonders never cease?” I murmured.
“Not while out-of-towners spend the few pennies they have on basic canned goods at the general store.” Gus released a deep belly laugh and wiped the corners of his eyes. “Even though Etherea only encountered one, she figured there were a bunch of them and that they were out here. You’re certainly the nexus for our excitement these days.”
“What’s a nexus?” Emmie asked.
I pulled her in for a tight hug. “You. You’re my nexus.” I nuzzled her ear.
She giggled and squirmed out of my grasp.
“I’m sorry about your Subaru,” I said, straightening.
“’Bout time I blended in, looked like one of the locals,” Clarice grunted. “Needed dents for that.” But her wrinkled mouth was unsuccessfully pinching back a satisfied smile.
I also thought that there was no way on God’s green earth that Clarice was going to let Loretta have all the fun. She’d cashed in her rain check for a Harley ride with Gus. It was the only way I could account for their combined presence in the kitchen if the Subaru was incapacitated.
I also happened to know that Clarice had a thing for men in uniform. I didn’t know if the current coveralls complete with name patch counted in Gus’s favor, but his previous tours in camouflage sure did. And now she was on the verge of actually feeding a multi-lingual veteran in her very own kitchen, and she’d put an FBI surveillance post out of commission. I’d call that a productive day.
oOo
Gus held a position of honor. He was the first outsider we allowed into the basement. Our sacrosanct refuge of dubious dealings — hidden money and hidden people. Of course, we didn’t show him the money. We trooped straight to the infirmary with trays laden with the yummy creamy chicken and pasta dish Clarice had prepared.
The food put everyone at ease. From the way our refugees devoured their portions and requested seconds, it was clear they hadn’t eaten anything that didn’t come straight out of a can or box in a very long time, and that they hadn’t eaten sufficiently in even longer.
And then the conversation flowed — a clunky conglomeration of English, French and Laotian that put my head on a swivel. It was like watching a ping pong match with twenty balls in the air.
Very quickly, it became apparent that Emmie shouldn’t be present for even the snips of English that were cropping up. She was far too astute, and she’d be able to put enough together that she’d ask difficult questions later. Clarice and I engaged in a set of rapid eyes-only communiqués over her head, then Clarice led her off for another early bath and bedtime.
Poor kid. She was probably the cleanest little girl in the state for the number of times lately that she’d been removed from scenes to spare her innocence. Good thing she liked to read under the covers. I didn’t want her to think it was a punishment.
The two Laotian children in our group had lived through much of what was being discussed, and they nestled quietly against the oldest woman, their eyes drooping sleepily.
Gus translated for me, murmuring softly near my ear so as not to interrupt the rapid exchange. Each refugee had opinions, input, details to share, but Chet was clearly their leader, and he worked hard to synthesize and lay out a sequence of events for me.
“So you were a courier for Skip? That’s how you met him?” I asked.
“He kept the transactions very clean, cash only, but he couldn’t control who made the smaller drops which I sometimes picked up. From the mannerisms of those men, it was easy to tell they were handing me drug profits.” Chet shook his head. “Guns. Bravado. Dumb. They didn’t know I’d grown up seeing the same on the street corners in my neighborhood in Vientiane. They couldn’t intimidate me.”
So much for protecting my husband’s reputation in the eyes of my neighbors. I glanced at Gus, but he seemed completely absorbed in Chet’s tale. I plunged ahead. “Why were you working for Skip? You said you had a visa.”
“For an internship with an architect firm in Palo Alto. Very posh. A huge opportunity, an international exchange program through my university. But it paid very little. The stipend sounded like an outrageous amount of money until I tried to find a place to rent. I needed several roommates to make it work, but none were forthcoming. So I answered an ad for a second job. Moonlighting, I think they call it here?” Chet shrugged. “I was always working several jobs even when in school at home, to help support my family. No big deal.”
“Except for the nature of the work. Guaranteed to land you in jail and then get you deported if you were caught. A disappointment to your family.” I pressed on that monumental cultural trigger, and it hit home.
Chet’s narrow shoulders sagged. “It doesn’t matter now. My sister’s actions, her ignorance, her bull-headedness. Our reputation is already destroyed. She didn’t realize the consequences, of course, but still—” His eyes filled with tears. “We’re desperate to find her.”
“And Skip offered to help?”
Chet nodded eagerly. “He said he knew of these — these dealings. Knew who controlled the business. He didn’t know of Kamala specifically, but maybe he could find where she was, who might be holding her. He said he would try. She’s seventeen, but she’s the baby. My mother is sick with worry.”
“And the others?” I gestured toward the sleeping forms of his family members. They’d quickly slipped from active participation in our conversation to gently snoring. I hoped it was because they felt completely safe, although they must have been utterly exhausted
and finally had full bellies.
“My uncle’s family. He also paid a broker to come here, an exorbitant fee for his whole family and the children of my auntie’s sister. They thought they would be able to work off their debt together — the old ones and young ones side by side — the way we all work at home. Instead, the bosses only deemed my uncle fit to work, and he has to pay off for everyone else by himself. They were not given a place to live as they were promised, and they don’t know where he is now, either. They were unable to warn us before my sister got it in her head to also run away and sign with a broker. When the San Francisco internship opportunity arrived, it was like a godsend. I am the family’s emissary. I must find them.”
I sucked in a staggering deep breath. The weight of Chet’s story — and his responsibility — it was almost more than I could fathom. He was so young, a college student — more like a child himself.
Gus was still a rapt observer, his hands braced on his knees, leaning slightly forward on the edge of the bed next to me. The warmth from his large body seemed to envelop me in a sort of surreal cocoon, but I shivered anyway. Time to switch the subject.
“Tell me about the paintings,” I said.
“Skip said he could use them as leverage. He knew the firm I was interning for had developed the plans for the construction of this boss’s houses. Even the brand new houses he bought had to be remodeled before he would sleep there, some kind of rich man’s neurosis. The architect firm — it is a good one, for the wealthy people, fancy, expensive, prestigious. They only want the best, and they pay for it.”
Chet tucked up his legs, sitting cross-legged on the bed across from us, unknowingly turning himself into an even smaller figure, like a turtle pulling into his shell. “I examined all the plans, found the one place a man like that would hide his most prized valuables — in a vacation home in Tahoe. A small room with extra thick walls, extra wiring for sensors and electronic locks, a vault. Which happened to be positioned very near the kitchen.”
My breath caught in my throat, and I coughed. Gus whacked my back.
This crime boss’s house sounded a lot like mine with a beefed-up strong room located next to the most heavily-trafficked section of the residence. Who would have thought? I motioned for Chet to continue.
“Skip knew about a party to be held at the house, a skiing vacation the man was organizing for his friends, so he made some calls, found out the catering company this man had hired for the banquet dinner. I took a job as a waiter.”
Now I was leaning forward right alongside Gus. Chet’s narrative was heading into action flick territory. I knew he’d been successful because I’d seen the paintings myself.
“You just walked in?” I squeaked.
Chet shrugged. “I am small, dark, and I was wearing a black jacket. What’s to notice? He didn’t know me, and I suspect the only time he saw people like me was when we were serving at his parties. Nothing unusual.”
“But the vault,” Gus found his tongue. “It was open?”
A smile crept over Chet’s face. “Men like this, they must show off, brag to their friends. The weekend was unfruitful because the weather was too warm for good skiing, so he had to find other ways to exhibit. We were cleaning up after the meal, and three men came through the kitchen, with cigar smoke and loud voices. They went straight through, and I crept after them with a load of dirty tablecloths in my arms. They were in the vault only a few minutes — not to appreciate, just to boast. I caught the door before it closed and blocked the motion sensor with the tablecloths. Just a few more minutes to pull the paintings out of the frames and roll them into the cloths. The security was not good, or not hooked up yet, no triggers on the individual paintings. They went to the laundry.” He straightened with a satisfied nod. “But so did I.”
Chet said all this with such nonchalance, it took me a moment to realize I had forgotten to breathe. I wondered if he had any idea of the value of the four paintings he’d stolen.
Gus whistled softly.
“When was this?” I asked.
“The last Saturday in November. Just after your Thanksgiving holiday.”
And just days before my wedding. “The paintings are very dirty,” I said.
Chet winced. “It’s not easy. To carry such things carefully when—”
“It’s okay,” I rushed to interrupt him. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just surprised.”
“He’s not the type of man to care for them. They were also dirty from before,” Chet asserted. “When I saw the food box — the kind of person who would bundle our food like that and not throw it away — I hoped it was you, and that you had also found the paintings. I put them in the safest place I could think of.”
“That wasn’t your original plan, was it?” I asked.
“Skip said there should be a cooling off period.” A short vertical wrinkle appeared between Chet’s brows, marring his otherwise smooth face. “But then I didn’t hear from him in the specified time. I tried calling his office a few times, but I couldn’t leave messages. Nothing. The backup plan was to come here. But with my family, the children, it took longer than allotted. I didn’t know if you would still be here.” Then his face creased into a wide, bright-toothed grin, all worries gone. “But you are. Mission accomplished.”
I swallowed. It was my mission now. I’d just as soon toss it back. “This boss man — what’s his name?” I thought I knew, but I wanted the sickening confirmation.
“Viktor Lutsenko.”
Numero Dos. And I knew from Skip’s recording that he was into far more than the international trade in drugs and people.
CHAPTER 13
I suspected Skip’s plans had been bigger than rescuing one impetuous Laotian girl and her uncle, but I didn’t have the heart to dampen Chet’s enthusiasm and visible relief that I was now on the job.
Me.
Yeah.
You can’t to go school for this kind of stuff, can’t earn a certificate in the approved method for bringing down a crime syndicate. Skip’s entire — and now disrupted — plot seemed ambitiously and terrifyingly harebrained to me, a ginormous risk.
Gus and I left Chet to get some much-needed rest, and we slowly climbed the stairs up to the kitchen.
“Punkin,” Gus said, his words as measured as his footsteps, “I’m not going to ask questions. Although my brain is burning up with them. I know how to keep my mouth shut. But I want you to know that I’m here for you, if you ever need help or need to talk or run ideas by somebody or cry. Okay?”
I’d been too stunned by Chet’s tale to even think about crying until Gus mentioned it. I sniffed and reached back to place a hand on his chest. “Thank you.” My tears were threatening to spill over, so I turned and finished chugging up the stairs.
As we were bundling into our coats, Gus patted a pocket and frowned. “Forgot this earlier. A package arrived for you at general delivery.” He handed me a small, padded envelope.
I tucked the discreetly marked, mail order purchase into my tote bag. Now, more than ever, those little gadgets were going to come in handy.
I drove Gus out to the gate where his Harley was parked in the small indentation in the shrubbery that signaled our turnout. Lentil’s headlights swept over the damage Clarice had accomplished with her Subaru — snapped branches and flattened underbrush. I chuckled under my breath at the consternation she’d undoubtedly caused in Violet’s carefully controlled realm.
Snafus. Clarice and I were learning to master the fine art of snafu escalation. If for no other reason than self-preservation. Run around like a chicken with its head cut off, and you just might confuse the enemy for a few more precious minutes.
As if he could read my thoughts, Gus rumbled a deep chuckle too. “Clarice is a mighty fine, peppy lady. I’ve known that tow truck driver since he was in diapers, works at his daddy’s gas station in Woodland. He couldn’t skedaddle out of my shop fast enough once he’d unloaded both her and the station wagon.” Gus smoothed the prickly h
air around his mouth as though he was trying to wipe off the smile underneath. “My offer stands for her too.”
“You’re a lifeline,” I murmured.
He patted my hand and pushed open the door, letting a whoosh of frozen fog droplets into the cab. “That’s what neighbors are for, punkin.” Then he was gone, sidling his bulk around the gate. The roar of his big bike firing up broke my reverie, and I backed over the jarring potholes until it was safe to turn around.
Once parked in my designated, and now lonely, spot outside the mansion, I fished through my tote for my assortment of phones. I’d forgotten to flip on the outside light over the kitchen door, but I identified each phone by touch and lined them up on the seat beside me. The message icon flashed on three of them. It’d been a busy day.
“Darling, everything’s fine here,” Loretta’s girlish voice claimed. I snorted softy and bit back a smile. I didn’t know how she managed living with a testy, cancer-ridden old attorney, but I wasn’t going to complain.
“I’ve been thinking,” she continued, “about what you said. About Skip and what’s going on in his mind and why he was in San Antonio. As his mother, with what little insight that might include, there is one thing I know for sure. He’s coming for you. That’s why he’s traveling north. You’re the one stable thing in his life, and he’s homing in on you. I know it.”
But Loretta didn’t know about the Polaroid taken in that town with the watermelon water tower. I’d have to look at a map to see if it was true north of San Antonio. But, according to Matt, she was right about Skip’s being on the move. Maybe, like me, he was scrambling, creating chaos as a survival tactic.
If, in his scramblings, he was trying to join up with me — well, I’d appreciate some answers. In person, where I could pin him down, sit on him if necessary, until he satisfied my curiosity. Yeah, that’d be good. And then I could strangle him. Or turn him over to Matt. Then cry my heart out on Gus’s shoulder.
I fumbled with the next phone, stabbing the buttons with frigid fingers. There hadn’t been time on the drive to the gate and back for Lentil’s rusty heater to fulfill its purpose.
Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 10
