At the Avis counter I handed them the prepaid voucher Monroe had given me, took the keys they offered and signed for receipt of the vehicle. The cars were housed in the lower level of the parking garage. I took the elevator down.
The garage was huge, but with its low ceiling and spaced-out strip lighting it felt gloomy and claustrophobic. I stepped out of the elevator and, as it rose back up, I headed towards the rows of vehicles in their numbered bays, searching for 384.
I’d reached bay 229 when I heard the elevator descend again and the doors open. I kept walking, still looking for my bay. Then I heard footsteps.
I turned. The footsteps stopped. No one was there, or no one I could see anyways. Was I being shadowed? Had the man tailing me in Florida followed me to San Diego?
I hurried along the row, crossed to the next one, and then the next. I’d reached bay 304 before I heard the footsteps again. It sounded as if they were a little ways behind me, to my right.
Halting, I spun round. Heard a scuffle, like a shoe skidding to a stop on the concrete. Then silence. The garage looked deserted, but I wasn’t convinced.
Putting a growl in my tone I said, ‘Show yourself.’
My words echoed in the gloomy space. There was no reply. No sign of movement. Whoever was there didn’t want to be seen. To me that meant things would go one of two ways; either they’d follow me from a distance, or they’d make a move as I got to my vehicle, and most likely try to snatch me. I couldn’t let that happen.
Crouching down behind a dark-blue Merc, I unzipped my carryall and felt inside for my Taser. But I couldn’t feel it. The footsteps started up again, getting closer. I had to move. By my calculation, bay 384 would be two rows over and across to my left. I flung the strap of my carryall over my shoulder, and readied the rental vehicle keys. I’d need to do this fast.
Keeping low, I ran along the line, then swerved left, cutting through to the next row. The footsteps started again. Further away now, but still closing. I kept focused on bay 384, pumped my arms, sprinting hard, gulping in the warm, gasoline-scented air.
In bay 384 was a red Jeep Wrangler Sport. I accelerated towards it, pressing the key fob. The lights flashed as it unlocked. Behind me, the footsteps quickened. I wanted to look behind, but that would slow me down. I leaped for the driver’s door.
It was stuck. Wouldn’t open.
I pressed the key fob again. The lights flashed and I heard the door unlock. Then, clunk, it immediately relocked.
Shit.
The footsteps were closing fast.
My mouth was dry. I had to get out of there. I tried again. Stabbing my finger against the key fob and, as the doors unlocked, yanking the door handle. This time it worked. I threw open the door. Jumped inside. Chucking my carryall onto the passenger seat, I fired up the engine. Heard the clunk as the doors locked again. Safe.
I jumped at a banging on the driver’s side window, loud and angry. A man’s voice shouted, ‘Get the fuck out.’
I shoved the gear into drive. Turned. The man – medium build, around six foot, blond hair – yelled again at me to stop. He pulled a Glock from beneath his jacket.
Flooring the gas, I gunned the Jeep out of the bay. In the rear-view mirror I saw the guy raise his gun. I accelerated harder, scooching down in the seat to make myself a harder target. Kept looking for the exit.
He opened fire.
The first shot hit a corvette to the right of me. The second hit a pillar on my left.
I pushed the Jeep faster, fishtailing it around the end of the row. Exhaled in relief as I spotted the exit. And hightailed it out of there.
That had been too close for comfort.
The man tailing me in Florida had dark hair, not blond. Who the hell was this guy?
*
Carlsbad North Inn was an easy ride along Palomar Airport Road. As I drove I kept checking my mirror, looking for a tail, but there were no vehicles behind me. At first I felt relief, but it came with a chaser of suspicion. I’d expected the guy from the parking garage to pursue me. That he hadn’t seemed wrong. I inhaled sharply as a thought hit me – maybe he’d got a tracker on the Jeep.
Pulling over, I opened the glove compartment. I took out the paperwork and ran my hand around the nooks and crannies, did the same around the dash and underneath, checking all the places a GPS tracker could be hidden. Found nothing.
I checked my rear-view again, got out of the Jeep and checked each wheel arch, then used the torchlight app on my cell to search around the lower trim of the fairings. Still nothing. As far as I could tell, the Jeep was clean.
Still feeling uneasy, I climbed back inside and continued to the inn.
It looked welcoming enough – a boxy new build, its yellow-stucco façade illuminated by ground-level spotlights, and the Stars & Stripes flying from the flagpole beside the lobby. I parked around back and headed inside.
It was a fancier kind of place than the motels I usually stayed in, for sure. Pale-coloured walls with black-and-white framed prints, cream stone floor tiles, and a wood-panelled checkin counter. The lobby was quiet, the couches and easy chairs empty, which was standard for this time of night I guessed.
The glossy-haired woman behind the counter looked up as I approached, a well-practised smile on her face. ‘Good evening, ma’am, and welcome to the Carlsbad North Inn.’
I forced a smile and handed her my ID. ‘You have a reservation in the name of Anderson for me?’
She took my driver’s licence and tapped my details into her computer. Looked up at me. ‘You’re all set. Your room is seventy-four. Take the elevator to the second floor, then you’re all the way along the hall to the left. Breakfast is served between six and ten. Enjoy your stay.’
Taking the keycard she was holding out, I thanked her. As I headed to the elevator, I tried to push the tiredness away and figure out what the hell was going on.
*
Inside room seventy-four I threw my carryall onto the bed closest the door and took a look around. Everything seemed just fine. The room was clean and adequate, the colour scheme all inoffensive beiges. Could have been orange and silver for all I cared. Form and function was what mattered. The room had a bed and a lock – right then, everything else was incidental.
As always, I planned to sleep in the bed furthest from the door – more chance to react to an intruder that way – and to fix the sturdy-looking desk chair up against the door handle when I turned in. It wouldn’t stop someone real determined from forcing their way into the room, but it was a more effective warning than relying on the weakassed security chain. Given what had happened in the parking garage I figured I needed all the security precautions I could get.
Fatigue had started to dog me, the adrenaline of earlier turning into a heavy ache in my legs. Still, I paced the layout of the room, memorising the number of steps from the bed to the door, from the bathroom to the desk, making a blueprint in my mind, just as JT had taught me way back when I was a rookie and he was my mentor. I waited a minute, then walked the room again, eyes closed this time, just to be sure.
Old habits die hard.
I glanced at my watch. It was well past one in the morning. That meant it’d be gone four am in Florida, what with them being three hours ahead. My checkin with Monroe was at eight am, so whether I went by my time or his, it was too early for that. It was too early for calling Dakota, too, yet the urge to speak to her was as strong as hell. Either I’d been followed from Florida to San Diego or someone other than Monroe and Red knew I was heading here on that specific flight. Neither option was a comfortable thought. It made me wonder what else these people knew about me and my life, and whether Dakota really would be safe at camp.
I switched my personal cell phone back on, dialled the camp number. As I’d suspected I would, I got the office answer service. I left a message: ‘Hi, this is Lori Anderson, Dakota’s mom. I’m calling to check that Dakota is doing okay? You’re aware of the, erm … situation that happened the week before Dakota joi
ned you. Please call me if you have any concerns, or see anything out of the ordinary, no matter how small. Thank you.’
I wanted them to know they could call me, anytime. I needed to know Dakota was safe. The fact that I’d taken her to camp – away from our home and the normal routine that anyone watching us would have observed – made me feel a little less twitchy about leaving her. But still I hated being apart from her. I needed to get this job done fast and then hurry home. Every minute away from her felt like an age.
With nothing else to be done right then, I wedged the desk chair beneath the door handle, stripped off and stepped into the shower. Let the water cascade over me, washing away the grime of my travels.
*
As I shut the water off, I heard a beep from my cell. Wrapping a towel around me, I padded back into the room and checked the screen. The voicemail had sent a notification. But the time on it showed it was delayed by a few hours … while I’d been travelling I’d had a voicemail from a withheld number.
My heart pounded against my ribs. Was Dakota okay? Had something happened at the camp?
With trembling hands, I dialled the answer service.
I breathed out hard, smiling in relief as I heard the deep voice of the man who’d left the message and imagined him sitting out on the deck of his boat in the dusk as he called me. Red said he’d found something of interest about Fletcher. He said he hoped my flight had been good, and asked me to get in touch when I could. He left his cell number.
It was two o’clock my time. Five am in Florida; too early to call Red back, given he’d not said that it was urgent. So I saved his number into my contacts, took my Taser from my carryall, put it on the nightstand, and got into bed.
The mattress was comfortable, but my ribs were still bruised from where the butt of a gun had been jabbed between them during the fight to get Dakota safe. The pain was a constant reminder of how lucky I’d been to get her back in one piece. It made getting settled real awkward and sleep ever more elusive.
Turning off the lamp, I lay on my side, a pillow cushioning my ribs. I closed my eyes, and hoped that sleep would claim me. But the events of the day swirled in my mind – Monroe, Red, Donald Fletcher; being followed in Florida; the man who’d chased me in the airport parking garage. I needed to think through the facts, figure out my next move, but first I needed sleep.
But as I tried to clear my mind, a person I had no control over appeared in my head and straight up refused to fade away again.
JT.
No matter how I tried to ignore them, all those feelings I’d got so good at keeping buried were back, jabbing at my heart. The physical damage inflicted over those three days on the road from West Virginia to Florida was already starting to heal. But it seemed the hurt of letting JT back into my life again, and of maybe losing him a second time, had opened a wound that would take a whole lot longer to fix.
9
It was there when JT returned to his cell after exercise.
Whoever did the drop had been real bold – propped the photograph against his pillow, tucking the bottom edge into the fold of his blanket. Taken time. Wanted to make an impression, get his attention.
They succeeded.
He snatched up the photo and stared at the image. Lori was outside, leaving an apartment – hers he assumed – with Dakota walking alongside her. He traced the outline of his daughter’s face with his finger. The bruises that had been deep purple and black when he’d last seen her had faded to green and yellow. She was wearing a Taylor Swift T-shirt. He wondered if Swift was her favourite singer. Hated he’d missed so much of her life, her growing up. Wished he’d got to know her better. Wanted to keep her safe.
He clenched his jaw. This photo wasn’t left for him as a keepsake of his daughter. It was a message.
Lori’s face was angled towards the camera. She had her go bag with her, and he guessed the photo had been taken before she came to see him, sometime in the last day or so, before she headed out on the job to find Gibson ‘The Fish’ Fletcher. Whoever had taken the picture must have been waiting for her outside her apartment. JT wondered if she knew she was being watched. Thought most likely she did. He’d been impressed with her skills, and her tenacity, as they’d tracked Emerson – getting back Dakota and putting a stop to Emerson’s sick sideline. Lori had always been smart, but in the years they’d been apart she’d developed a resilience and strength that put her up there, at top of her game. He hoped it was enough.
The two goons, String and Bulky, had asked about her. They’d said the Old Man suspected she was involved in the Miami Mob deaths, but what did they really know for sure?
JT tightened his grip on the picture. The paper buckled beneath his fingers.
He needed them to focus on him. Blame him. That was the way to keep Lori and Dakota safe. If he failed, the gamble he’d taken would be shot to shit; he’d have made himself a fish-in-a-barrel target in the detention facility and left them exposed on the outside. He hadn’t warned Lori about the threat. He hadn’t told her of the mutterings, of his suspicions. Instead he’d let her walk away. Again.
JT shook his head. Cursed himself for not saying more.
The photo was more than a message. It was a threat, no doubt.
Across the top of the picture they’d written one word: ‘REVENGE.’
Lori’s eyes had been scratched out.
10
I woke suddenly. Heart banging. Disorientated by the unfamiliar surroundings. My hand reaching instinctively for my Taser.
Then the noise came again. Three raps on the door.
A woman’s voice: ‘Housekeeping.’
Taser in hand, I slid out of bed and padded silently to the door. Checked through the spyhole. Through the slightly distorted lens I spotted the woman. She looked like housekeeping, with her navy tunic dress and pissed expression. The cart stacked with supplies for the room seemed authentic. Still, I left the door closed, and said, ‘No thanks.’
Through the spyhole I saw her smile. Glad to skip a room, no doubt.
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘Have a good day.’
I waited by the door until she moved along down the hall, just to be sure. Heard her knock on the next door, wait, then use a keycard to open the room and go inside. A few moments later I heard the vacuum start. It seemed she was genuine, so I was thankful she’d knocked on my door rather than just letting herself in. If I had woken to find a stranger in my room I would have acted on impulse. It would not have been cool to Taser the maid.
I checked the time: a quarter after ten. It seemed the blackout blinds had stopped me from waking with the dawn. Whether I worked on my time or Monroe’s, I had missed my first checkin. Damn. I hurried to my purse, grabbed the burner and switched it on.
Missed Call (11)
Double damn.
I dialled the only number programmed into the contacts list and waited.
‘You’re late,’ Monroe said, irritation mingled in with his usual Kentucky drawl.
I figured I should probably apologise. ‘Sorry about that. Late night, you know.’
‘Where are you at with Fletcher?’
‘Nowhere as yet.’
‘What’s your next move?’
‘I’m going to head back to the airport – visit the storage depot he was spotted at, and see if I can get a fix on where he headed from there. Do you have the details of the flight he arrived on?’
‘No. All I have is the eyes on sighting.’
Seemed strange to me that Monroe hadn’t checked the flights. ‘Can you get me the passenger manifests for the flights that came in that day? If I know how he got here, it could help me figure out where he headed.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good. In the meantime, I need you to message me the details of your contact. I need to speak with them, find out exactly what they saw.’
There was a short pause, then Monroe said, ‘Yeah, okay, I’ll do it now. Keep me posted on your progress.’
‘Sure. W
ill do,’ I said, ready to hang up.
‘How’s the hotel? You like it okay?’
The questions surprised me. For Monroe I was a means to an end; I couldn’t imagine my comfort was real high on his priority list. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Good. Okay, check in later. Don’t forget.’
‘Yep.’ I ended the call, swapped the burner for my own smartphone and dialled the number for Dakota’s summer camp. Needed to hear my baby’s voice. Check she was okay. Feel less guilty.
The call connected but no one answered. I stayed on the line, waiting. Eleven rings, twelve, thirteen. Finally a girl picked up: ‘Camp Gilyhinde. This is Sasha. How can I help you today?’
‘This is Dakota Anderson’s mom—’
‘We got your message, thank you. Camp Director said to let you know we’ll be vigilant, and there’s no need to worry, we have the best security.’
‘Okay. Thanks. Can I speak to Dakota please?’
Pause. Then Sasha’s sing-song voice said, ‘I’m sorry, Ms Anderson, but she’s out day-trekking. She’ll be back just before sundown.’
I felt a pang of sadness deep in my chest. It was more than twenty-four hours since I’d last heard my baby’s voice. I hated that. I cleared my throat, tried to make my tone normal. ‘Could you tell her I called, and that I love her, and that I’ll call her later?’
‘No problem, ma’am.’
The line went dead. I stood holding my cell, staring at the screen as it faded to black. It felt like my connection to Dakota was fading too. I swallowed hard. Bit my lip to stop it quivering. Told myself to get on with the job.
On the bed, the burner phone beeped. I glanced at the screen and read the message from Monroe:
Clint Norsen. Twenties. Dark hair. Warehousing Team B. Southside Storage. Be gentle, this is his first gig.
*
Forty-five minutes later I was sitting in my Jeep out front of a grey building – all metal struts and concrete blockwork – with ‘Southside Storage: Warehouse B’ on the sign above the entrance. It’d been easy enough to get to, not being airside, just a case of finding it among the rabbit warren of warehouses that populated the space south of the airfield. I’d doubled back on myself a good few times, made sure I wasn’t being tailed. Seemed I’d managed to shake off the blond-haired guy from the previous night, but it didn’t stop me wondering who he was and what the hell he wanted. Still, for now I needed to remain focused on the job.
Deep Blue Trouble Page 5
