Monroe had told me his contact worked cargo. That seemed to be exaggerating the situation a little. I’d watched the place twenty minutes and seen several transits and the occasional truck drive up to the floor-to-ceiling doors and get unloaded or loaded. This was a storage depot of sorts; a place for items in transit to be deposited and collected. I wondered how the guy had managed to spot Gibson Fletcher; if Gibson had flown in he’d have been on a passenger plane, not cargo. I also wondered if the ID was genuine, or whether Monroe’s contact was a little too eager to help. Hoped to hell I hadn’t been sent out to San Diego on hearsay rather than fact.
Thinking back to the last conversation I’d had with Monroe I recalled him saying his guy had taken a photograph of Gibson. I’d asked him to send it to me, but he never had. Was that tardiness on his part, a deliberate evasion, or something else? Figuring there was only one way to find out what his contact knew for sure, I climbed out of the Jeep and strode across the blacktop to the warehouse.
I bypassed the reception. They’d stall me, no doubt – I didn’t have a legitimate reason for being there, no licence as a bounty hunter in California, and I could hardly use the FBI name to gain access. So I undid an extra button on my shirt, put a little extra wiggle in my walk, and headed for the open loading-bay doors around the side – the place I’d seen the transits back up into.
Inside was a huge, cavernous space – as tall as a three-storey house and then some. With no windows it was strangely gloomy, even in the midday Californian sunshine. A group of guys in blue coveralls were unloading boxes from the back of a white flatbed truck. The nearest one, wearing a dusty-blue ball cap pulled low over his eyes, nodded at me. ‘You looking for someone?’
‘Clint Norsen. He about?’
‘Who wants to know?’
The guy’s tone wasn’t hostile, but not exactly friendly either. I decided to play the stereotypical dumb-blonde card, and use the irritating way some folks judge us women to my advantage. I tilted my head to one side, curled a lock of my hair around my finger and looked at him all seductive. ‘I’m Lori. I’m a … friend of his.’ I lingered over the word ‘friend’, figured the guy would get my meaning. ‘Just wondered if Clint might fancy a bit of … lunch.’
From the ball-cap guy’s leer I reckoned he’d caught my meaning clear enough. ‘Lucky Clint,’ he said, nodding towards the rear of the warehouse. ‘He’s down in row Q44. Doing inventory.’ He gave me a wink. ‘You go on back and have some “lunch”. I won’t tell.’
I thanked him, and hurried across the loading bay and into the main body of the warehouse, the heels of my pink-suede cowboy boots clonking loudly on the concrete floor as I made my way between the metal racks holding boxes of who-knows-what towards Q44.
Monroe’s contact was halfway along the row, standing on a ladder, checking things off on a clipboard. He wore the same blue coveralls as the team who’d been unloading the truck, and a blue ball cap turned backwards. A tuft of dark-brown hair poked through the gap between the strap and the main body of the cap. It made him look kind of comical.
I hid my amusement. Kept my tone friendly but businesslike. ‘Clint Norsen?’
He flinched. Looked down at me. ‘Erm, yeah, who wants to know?’
‘I need to speak with you.’
He frowned. ‘What about? Who are you?’
‘It’s official business. Urgent business.’ I glanced around – for show; I’d already checked we couldn’t be overheard – and kept my voice low. ‘I work with Special Agent Monroe.’
I’d never seen someone shift so fast down a ladder. He pulled off his cap as he reached the bottom, face flushed, eyes searching mine. He was nervous, for sure. ‘Is this about—’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the lead guy from the unloading team peering around the far end of the stack; checking up on us. I met Clint’s gaze and gave a quick glance towards the guy, then I put my hands against Clint’s chest and pushed him against the racks. Rubbed myself up against him and whispered in his ear, ‘Your co-workers are watching. They think I’m here for some lunchtime fun. Make it look real.’
He kissed me harder than I’d expected. Slid his hands around my ass and grabbed a feel. I tried not to recoil. Had to make it look convincing so his buddies didn’t suspect.
I let it continue twenty seconds, twenty-five tops. When I glanced towards the end of the stack the team leader was gone. I pulled away from Clint. ‘Okay, now we need to talk.’
He nodded. His face was more flushed now. ‘Yes ma’am.’
Courteous; I liked that. ‘I’m here to find Gibson Fletcher. Monroe says you ID-ed him three days ago, getting off an airplane. I need for you to tell me the details.’
‘It was late, after ten o’clock at night; three days ago, like you said, but I didn’t see him getting off a plane.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I was on retrieval duty that night, and a request came in for an item in our vault.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We don’t hold so many things in there. Mostly folks store bulky items with us. It gets ticketed and stowed here on the racks. This was different, stood out from the norm. The guy did, too.’
‘How so?’
‘Kind of twitchy looking. Not just in a rush. Most people are rushing when they come here – on their way for a flight, or on their way home from one. This guy looked worried. He kept looking around like he thought someone was following him or something. When Chad came into the office and let the door slam, the guy almost leaped clean out of his skin. Seemed strange, especially given he looked like a man who could handle himself, if you get my meaning.’
I nodded. ‘Monroe said you took a photo?’
‘Sure.’ Clint pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his coveralls. Swiped through some pictures before holding the cell out to me. ‘This guy, yeah?’
The picture quality was a little grainy, but it was Gibson Fletcher for sure. I looked back at Clint. ‘What was the item he collected?’
Clint shook his head. ‘Don’t know. It was packed in a cardboard box. About the size of a shoebox I guess. He signed for it and left.’
I remembered what Monroe had said about Gibson’s little sideline – stealing high-value items to order. Could be the missing chess pieces had been in that box. ‘Do you know how long it’d been in your vault?’
‘No ma’am.’
‘Do you know who checked it in?’
Clint shrugged. ‘I don’t.’
I took a scrap of paper from my purse and jotted my cell number on it. ‘I’m going to need to know, okay?’
He nodded.
I handed him my number. ‘You’ve done great so far, Monroe will be pleased. Find out the details, then call me. Message me that photo of Fletcher, too.’
Using my fingers, I messed up my hair, pulled my shirt a little to the side and wiped off what was left of my lipstick. I smiled at Clint, gestured back towards the loading bay. ‘Remember to tell the guys you had a nice lunch.’
His cheeks flushed red as I turned and walked away.
11
Lunch was coffee and grilled cheese, eaten alone in a diner by the airport. The air-conditioning was up high, making goosebumps rise on my arms. But what made me so jittery was not that, it was the frustrations of the job, the start-stop nature of the thing.
I checked my watch: almost two-thirty. Dakota would be back from her hike now surely? I pulled out my cell and dialled Camp Gilyhinde. Sasha and her sing-song voice answered on the third ring.
‘Hey, Sasha. This is Dakota Anderson’s mom again. Is she back from her hike?’
‘Mrs Anderson, hello. Yes she is, and she’s waiting right here in the office for your call. Let me put her on for you.’
The joy I felt that my baby was there stopped me picking Sasha up on adding ‘Mrs’ to my name. I wasn’t anyone’s missus, and I never would be. I’d learned that lesson the hard way, punch by punch. I’d never again let myself get tied to a man.
‘Momma?’
&n
bsp; Tears filled my eyes. I wiped them away, determined to keep the smile in my voice. ‘How are you? How’s camp?’
‘I love it! It’s so fun, Momma.
‘And you’re sure you’re okay?’
Dakota laughed. It sounded genuine. ‘I’m good. I was nervous at first, but everyone is nice. I’m in cabin six and I’ve got a top bunk. Jenna is on the bottom. She’s my best friend now.’
She sounded excited. I was relieved – happy that she was happy. But it didn’t make being apart any easier. ‘How was your hike?’
‘Totally amazing. Counsellor Megan was our guide. We sang songs as we hiked, and I saw a turkey buzzard and its babies real close, and there was this…’
As she was talking, I heard a double buzz from my purse – a message alert on the burner from Monroe. I ignored it. Focused on my baby.
‘…and tonight they’re showing us how to make a camp fire and light it by rubbing two sticks together, just like JT does, and we’re going to cook marshmallows and make s’mores.’
I remembered JT showing her how to make a fire when we were stuck outside overnight in the mountains after crashing the truck in West Virginia. ‘That sounds a lot of fun.’
‘And tomorrow I’ve got my first horseback riding lesson.’
She’d always wanted to go riding, but what with her illness and my money problems it hadn’t been possible until now. Now I’d got the money to pay for it, I couldn’t be there with her. I felt a pang of disappointment. I was missing so much. Tried not to let it show in my voice. ‘I’m so glad you’re having such a great time.’
‘Are you okay, Momma?’ She sounded worried, and I hoped she hadn’t picked up on my sadness.
‘I’m doing just fine. The job is going well. I just miss you is all.’
‘I miss you, too.’
I heard the tremble in her voice. Hoped that her enthusiasm for camp life was true and not put on for my benefit. Knew I had to stay upbeat, for her sake. ‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying camp. I’m very proud of you. Have all the fun.’
‘I will, Momma. I love you.’
‘I love you too, baby. So very much.’
I heard a voice in the background calling her name.
‘I’ve got to go now. Jenna’s waiting. We need to go to the fire circle.’
‘Of course. You have fun y’hear. Love you.’
‘Bye Momma.’
The call ended. It had been good to speak with Dakota, but my cheeks ached from the effort of forcing a smile and faking happiness. I put the phone back in my pocket and drained the last of my coffee. The faster I got this job finished, the faster I could be back in Florida with her.
The waitress came over. Nodded at my empty cup. ‘You want a refill?’
I shook my head. ‘Just the check please.’
As I watched her walk over to the register, I remembered the buzz from the burner phone. I pulled it from my purse.
New Message (1).
It was from Monroe. Short and specific, the words knocked the breath from me like a sucker punch to the chest.
JT stabbed. Call immediately.
12
A shank. A makeshift weapon, fashioned from an old toothbrush sharpened to a point at one end. Eighteen stab wounds. Some shallow, some deep. According to the prison, no one saw anything – not the inmates, not the guards, not even the CCTV.
He almost bled out, right there on the bathroom floor.
‘And now?’ My voice sounded tight, half strangled. I felt as if I could hardly breathe. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s in the detention facility’s infirmary. Biggest worry is the punctured lung, but they’re saying he’s stable.’ Monroe was matter-of-fact. His Kentucky drawl made him sound unconcerned that JT had almost died.
‘Is he safe?’
‘As safe as anywhere.’
‘So not safe.’ I clenched my fingers tighter around the burner. ‘He’s unconscious, lying in an infirmary bed, and he’s not safe? That’s no way near good enough. I’m out here in San Diego because of you. You want me to keep working, I need to know he’s going to survive long enough for you to be able to uphold your end of the deal.’
‘Steady. Look, I—’
‘Don’t you go telling me to be goddamn steady!’ I hissed. ‘He nearly died, and you don’t seem to think it matters a damn. Well it matters to me and I need for you to ensure his safety.’
Monroe sighed. ‘It’s a prison, these things happen.’
‘Not to JT they don’t. For them to stab him eighteen times there would have had to be a bunch of them – a big bunch of them. It was a planned attack. They meant to kill him.’ I remembered the price on his head put there by Old Man Bonchese. It’d become active as soon as he’d crossed the state line onto the Miami Mob’s Florida turf. I reckoned someone had tried to collect on it. ‘They’ll try again. I need you to make sure they don’t succeed.’
Monroe was silent. I waited, heart banging, mouth dry, my whole body feeling like it was on fire. If JT died, so did Dakota’s best chance of a bone-marrow donor. If she got sick again her chances wouldn’t be good. ‘You need to—’
Monroe exhaled hard. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Get him into a private room in the infirmary. Have one of your guys stand guard.’
‘Lori, it’s a prison. I can’t put an FBI—’
‘Do it, or I’m walking away.’
‘Fuck, Lori. I—’
‘Do it. Or, believe me, I’m done. Only reason I’m on this job is to get JT safe. You can’t keep him safe, we have no deal.’
Silence.
‘Guess you don’t need me to do your dirty work for you after all.’
Still nothing.
‘Okay, I’m hanging up and I’m heading straight to the airport.’
‘Lori, wait. Look, I’ll talk to the prison. Try and get a protection detail on JT. But, Jesus, you need to deliver Fletcher for me fast.’
‘I’ve got a couple of leads. I’m doing all I can.’
‘Good. I need—’
‘Message me when the protection is in place,’ I said, and ended the call. I couldn’t stop the fear flooding through me from distorting my voice any longer. Never show weakness, JT had always told me, not unless it’s a part of your play. Well, what I was feeling wasn’t a play; it was full-throttle real.
JT had been stabbed.
He almost died.
I felt sick, light-headed. As I put the burner down beside my coffee cup, its image blurred as tears distorted my vision. Fighting back nausea, I gripped the edge of the table and tried to stop my hands from shaking.
It didn’t work.
There were nearly six thousand miles between JT and me, and I hated it. Hated being apart from him. Hated the feeling of helplessness; that we were divided by circumstance and there was nothing I could do. Hated that I wanted to drop the case and go sit by his side in the infirmary. I felt afraid of what that meant, of what I had allowed myself to feel for him … again. Knew for sure that me loving him was the biggest damn fool move of my life.
13
Coffee can be a cure for many things, but it couldn’t change the distance between me, JT and Dakota. When you’re that many states apart, moping and wishing on things being different are pretty much a waste of time, and I didn’t have the time to go wasting. The only thing that could get me back to Florida and JT out of danger was my finding Gibson ‘The Fish’ Fletcher. So that was what I turned my attention to.
But on that front my options were still limited. Clint Norsen – Monroe’s contact at Southside Storage – had been eager to help but, until he got back to me with the details of the package Fletcher picked up, I couldn’t move that particular line of enquiry forward.
I needed another lead. By my reckoning, one of the reasons Fletcher had been drawn to San Diego had to be the woman he’d been secretly seeing: Mia Searle. As far as I knew their relationship was still on, so I figured if he’d come into town he’d have made contact with her. I nee
ded to speak with her fast. Maybe Red had gotten her address by now.
I checked the time. Just gone three-thirty in California – meant it was a little after six-thirty in Florida: a reasonable time to call. Taking my cell from my pocket, I dialled Red’s number. It rang nine times before he picked up. When he did, he sounded a little breathless.
I noted a slight wheeze in his voice as he said, ‘Miss Lori? Y’all doing okay?’
‘JT got attacked.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious I hope?’
‘Serious enough, but stable.’
‘Well, that’s a blessing.’ He sounded genuinely concerned.
I appreciated that, especially after Monroe’s indifference. But I didn’t want to dwell on JT’s situation. Couldn’t trust myself to stay strong if I did. ‘Red, I’m keen to get moving out here. I wondered if you’d had any luck getting that address for Mia Searle?’
He chuckled. ‘As it happens I have.’ He paused a moment and I thought I heard a woman’s voice speaking in hushed tones in the background. It didn’t surprise me none. A man like Red, he liked his own space for sure, but he didn’t strike me as the kind who often slept alone. There was a rustle that sounded like paper, then he spoke again. ‘You got yourself a pen?’
I pulled a notebook and pencil from my purse. ‘I do.’
‘Okay, so Marco and Mia Searle live at 1147 Ocean View Boulevard. It’s a fancy piece of real estate from what I’ve heard – impressive house, big yard, with its own jetty out onto the water. Mr Searle moors a yacht there.’
Interesting – another person with a yacht. ‘I’ll pay them a visit.’
Deep Blue Trouble Page 6
