by Gina Cresse
I nodded. “I seemed to have acquired it quite by accident. I would like to know a little more about it—if you think you can help me.”
Tony inspected each piece carefully. He was quiet for a long time. Then he looked at me and asked, “Does anyone else know you have this?”
“No. Just you and Joe,” I answered.
“May I ask how you came to acquire it?”
I didn’t know this man well enough to trust him, even though Joe did. I wondered how much I should tell him. “It’s not important how I got it. Is it?”
“Miss Lace. This is a nine millimeter Spectre, equipped with a nine inch barrel for superior accuracy. It’s an extremely lethal weapon. It’s the same kind the Italian Police Special Operations Unit uses.”
Then he picked up the scope and turned it in his hands a couple of times. “This is a laser sighting scope. It shoots a laser beam at your target and tells you exactly where your bullet will hit—and I mean exactly. And finally, this is a silencer—an EM-F2 if I’m not mistaken—designed to make the firing as quiet as possible.”
Tony gave me a very serious look, as if he were a doctor telling me I had stage four cancer. “In my opinion, the only kind of people who would use a setup like this would be hired killers. Those kind of people don’t generally leave their tools of the trade lying around for just anyone to pick up. I would guess that somewhere, someone is looking for this. The kind of people I’m talking about would stop at nothing to get back something they’ve lost. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Miss Lace?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. I knew exactly what he was talking about. “I think I’ll just put this thing in a safe place for now and not tell anyone about it. I’m sure I can trust the two of you to keep my secret until I decide what to do with it?”
“Of course you can trust me,” Joe said.
“That’s a wise decision, Devonie. I could probably find a buyer for it, if you were so inclined. I mean, if you want to get if off your hands,” Tony offered.
“I’ll keep that in mind, but for the moment, I would prefer we keep this just between the three of us.”
I closed the case and tried to retape it, but the tape had lost is stick. “Joe, have you got some more tape?”
“I think so. Let me take a look in the supply closet,” he said as he left the room.
“I could teach you how to pick those locks—so you don’t have to destroy perfectly good brief cases,” Tony said, his voice cracking with laughter.
“I just might take you up on that, Mr. Marino. The very next time I need to pick a lock, I’ll give you a call.”
Tony pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. “I certainly hope you will. It would be my pleasure to assist you.”
Just then, Joe came back with a roll of tape. “Here you go,” he said as he handed it to me.
“Well, Joe. It appears my work here is done. I’d better get back to the office before they all rob me blind,” Tony said as he headed for the door. “It was very nice to meet you, Devonie. Please don’t hesitate to call if you decide you want to get rid of that thing. I’m sure I can get you a pretty penny for it.”
“Thanks, Tony. I’ll let you know.”
Joe walked his old friend out of the shop, then returned to the office while I was securing the case.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s your check for the ring,” Joe said as he handed me an envelope with my name scrawled on it. Most people wouldn’t cut a check for a consignee the very day of a sale, but Joe knew how tight finances were for me.
“Thanks, Joe. You’ve been a big help.”
Before I slipped the envelope and Tony’s business card into my purse, I took a moment to read the card:
Anthony Marino
Importer and Exporter of Fine Goods
I wondered exactly what “Fine Goods” referred to, but decided not to pursue it just yet. I gave Joe a hug and headed back to the Jeep. Something told me I had a big day ahead of me.
Chapter Six
I waved to Jason as I pulled into the parking lot in front of his shop. He was busy helping a customer load a refrigerator into the back of a pickup. He paused long enough to wave back to me. Quickly, I made my way to the warehouse. Sitting down in front of the first safe, I removed the pages of the small address book from my purse. I tried the first combination of numbers. Nothing. I tried them a second time. Again—nothing. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer before I tried the next combination. Very carefully, I turned the dial, being sure to stop exactly on the specified numbers. I grasped the handle and pulled. The door silently swung open. “Thank you, God,” I said as I peered inside the dark vault.
Anxiety kept my stomach feeling a little upset. I had visions of finding hand grenades or sticks of dynamite inside the heavy metal box. Last night I dreamed that I opened it and found a coiled two-headed King Cobra inside. In my dream, it chased me all over the warehouse—then it chased me all over San Diego. I ran until I was waist deep in the Pacific, hoping it couldn’t swim. It didn’t come in after me but just stayed on the beach, coiled, waiting for me to come out of the water.
Jason walked in, just in time to witness the opening of the safe. “Way to go, Dev. What’s in there?”
“I don’t know, yet. I just got it open,” I answered. I reached in and pulled out a box about six inches by ten inches. “What’s this?” I asked.
He took it from me and inspected it carefully. “I don’t know? It’s some sort of electronic device, but I don’t know what it’s for.”
There was nothing else in the safe. “Let’s see what’s in your safe,” I said. I worked the combination and it opened just as smoothly as the first one. Jason couldn’t hide the disappointment on his face. The safe was empty—a black hole.
“Sorry, Jason. At least now you have the combination. The safe is worth something,” I consoled.
“Thanks, Dev. You’re right. I can sell the safe in the shop—or maybe I’ll keep it for myself.”
The bell rang from the shop, letting Jason know he had a customer. “I’ll be right back. I want to talk to you about what’s going on with this stuff you picked up yesterday,” he said as he headed for the door.
I pulled a long thin steel pin from my purse and started probing the lock on the file cabinet. I jiggled it and wiggled it back and forth. Finally, it clicked and the small metal button popped out, just as if I had used a key.
I pulled the drawer open. The files were labeled by year. They started with 1980, with the last file dated 1995.
I lifted out a thin folder from the 1980 section. It contained a brief newspaper clipping about a federal judge who had been shot to death in his home. The story went on to say that burglary seemed to be the motive, but there were no suspects in the case.
Each file contained similar accounts of important individuals who were killed, either by questionable means, or apparent accidents. Most were shootings in supposed robberies, or car accidents, a couple of suspected suicides, and one drowning.
As I read the accounts, my stomach began to feel a little queasy. I could sense small beads of sweat forming on my forehead and upper lip. I patted my face dry with a tissue and read the last file. There was something different about this one. It wasn’t about a single individual being killed. This article described an airliner crash that happened a year ago—on a flight returning to Los Angeles from Mexico. The plane had somehow gotten off course and flew into the side of a mountain. Everyone on board was killed. A thorough investigation performed by the FAA and the National Transportation Safety Board turned up nothing—at least nothing as far as a bomb or mechanical malfunction. Eventually, the authorities determined pilot error to be the cause of the crash and the case was closed. Also in the file, I found the passenger list for flight 9602. There were two names highlighted in yellow. David Powers and Michael Norris. Who were they?
I’d figured out that Robert Kephart was some sort of hired assassin, and I’d just stumbled upon a rec
ording of his achievements. Apparently, he’d been in business since 1980 and performed anywhere from one to four of those “services” a year. David Powers and Michael Norris must have been his last assignment. Why would he kill all those people on the plane if he was just after those two? It didn’t make any sense—unless he had no moral compass, which of course, he wouldn’t, being a hired assassin. I put the files back into the cabinet and locked it, then picked up the electronic box and stowed it under my arm. Joe could probably help me identify it.
As I passed through the shop, I waved to Jason, who was busy helping a customer. “I’ve got to go, Jason. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait a minute, Dev. I want to talk to you.” He turned and excused himself from his customer.
“I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later.”
“Devonie, wait. Is everything all right?”
“I don’t know, Jason. I’ll call you when I know more,” I called back as I hurried out of the shop.
I laid the box on the seat next to me and started the Jeep, then drove a short distance to a small public park that was usually pretty quiet. After parking just in front of a payphone situated near the corner of the block, I removed the pages of Robert Kephart’s phone book from my purse and made the call.
The phone rang many times before anyone answered. I wasn’t sure what the time difference between San Diego and Geneva was, but I got a bit of a clue when she answered. A woman’s raspy voice, barely audible, spoke into the receiver. I had obviously woke her up. “Hello,” she repeated, trying to project a little more volume.
“Is this Kerstin Weibel?” I asked.
“Yes. This is Kerstin. Who am I speaking with?” the woman whispered.
“Do you know Robert Kephart?”
There was a long silence. Finally, she spoke. “Who is this? How do you know Robert?” she demanded. Her voice echoed louder with each word spoken.
“I don’t know him, but I think I’ve found something that belongs to him. Do you know how I can reach him?” I asked.
Again, she was silent. “Miss Weibel? Are you there?” I asked.
“Yes. I am here. What is it you’ve found?” she responded, finally.
“I’d rather not say until I can speak with Mr. Kephart. Is he there?” I asked.
“No. He is not here. I don’t think you really want to have any contact with him. Won’t you please tell me what this is about? You may be in danger.”
“What kind of danger?” I asked.
“Tell me what it is you’ve found. For all I know, you may have just located his lost dry cleaning claim ticket, and I have startled you for nothing.”
“No. It’s definitely not his laundry. Let’s just say I stumbled on some equipment he had in storage. This stuff I found would hint that Mr. Kephart is no angel.”
“I see,” she replied. “I have a pretty good idea what it is you’ve found. You’re right. Robert’s no angel. He’s extremely dangerous. If anyone in his circle finds out you have his belongings, you’re in serious danger.”
“Who are these people in his ‘circle’?” I asked.
“They are all very bad people. Listen. What did you say your name was, again?”
“I didn’t,” I replied.
“You can trust no one. People you think you can trust will turn out to be your worst enemy. Believe me, I know. I’ve spent the last year on the run, hiding from these people. I’ve found only one person I can trust to keep me safe, and that’s me. I can help you, too, if you’ll let me.”
“How can you help me?” I asked.
“I can hide you, for a time. Most importantly, I can give you names and show you pictures of the people you need to fear the most—the ones who will stop at nothing to get to you—and what you have.”
A chill ran up my spine. I quickly scanned the area around the phone booth to see who might be watching me. There was an older man walking his dog through the park, but he paid no attention to me.
“I have to think about this, Kerstin. If I find I need your help, can I reach you at this number?”
“Most any time—but during the waking hours would be preferable.”
“I’m sorry for waking you,” I said.
A young man on a bicycle peddled up to my Jeep and stopped. I scrutinized his every move.
“I’ve got to go now. I’ll be in touch.” I hung up the phone and scurried back to the Jeep. The boy peddled away as soon as he noticed me coming. I folded the pages in the address book and slipped it into my jeans pocket.
I got in the Jeep and drove back to Joe’s shop. I wanted to see if he could help me identify the box I found in the safe. When I got there, I was shocked to see police cars blocking the front of the shop and yellow tape strung up all along the store front. After parking as close as I could, I jogged across the street. Sarah was outside, sobbing as she talked to one of the policemen.
I caught the attention of one of the detectives, Jeffrey McNight, according to his badge. “Excuse me. I’m a friend of Joe and Sarah. What’s happened?”
“Your name?” he asked as he took a small notebook and pencil from his pocket.
“Devonie Lace. I do business with Joe here in the shop. Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry. Joe Barnes was killed in what appears to be an attempted robbery,” he said.
My jaw dropped. I staggered back against the police car, bracing myself so my knees wouldn’t give out. Joe couldn’t be dead. I must still be dreaming that crazy dream about the snakes. I felt a little dizzy and the smell of exhaust from passing cars made me feel nauseous.
“Are you okay, miss?” he asked as he took my arm and helped me to a bench.
“When did this happen? I was just here, talking to Joe this morning. Everything was fine when I left.”
“We arrived twenty minutes ago. The call came in about five minutes before that. Can I ask what your business with Mr. Barnes was about?”
I didn’t hear his question. A myriad of voices were harping at me in my head. I pictured a thousand scenarios of what might have happened to Joe, sure that I must somehow be responsible for his death. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” I asked.
“What was your business with Mr. Barnes this morning?” he repeated.
“He sold a ring for me. I came by to pick up the check.”
“I see. Did you notice anyone or anything unusual when you left?” he asked as he scribbled in his notebook.
“No. I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary.” I tried to remember if there were any customers in the shop when I left.
“What time was it when you left here?”
“I think it was about ten forty-five, maybe eleven o’clock. I’m not exactly sure.”
Detective McNight noted what I told him. “Mrs. Lace—”
“Miss,” I replied.
“Miss Lace. Is there a number where we can reach you in case we have any more questions?”
“Yes. Of course,” I said, and gave him my number.
Then he handed me a card with his name and number on it. “If you think of anything that might be of relevance, please call me.”
“I will,” I said as I took the card and placed it in my purse.
I walked over to Sarah and put my arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Sarah. I just can’t believe this has happened.”
“Oh, Devonie,” she sobbed.
“If you need anything, just let me know. I have lots of free time, and I can help you make arrangements, or contact relatives—whatever you need. Okay?”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” she said, then blew her nose into an already overextended tissue. I reached into my purse and took out a small pack of Kleenex.
“Here.” I handed them to her. “Did they take anything from the store?”
“No. Margo was in the back, writing up the bank deposit slip when she heard a shot. She ran out to see what it was, and found Joe lying on the floor behind the counter. Whoever did it must’ve gotten scared and ra
n, because Margo said the place was empty.”
“I just can’t believe this is happening. Do you have someone to stay with you? You don’t want to be alone right now.”
“Yes. My sister is driving down from Los Angeles this afternoon, and my son is flying in tonight from San Antonio.” She started crying again. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do without Joe.”
“I know Sarah—he was a good man. But you’ll be fine. We’ll all see to that. Anything you need, I want you to let me know. Okay?”
She nodded as she sobbed into a fresh tissue.
Detective McNight walked over and put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Mrs. Barnes. We just have a few more questions for you, then I’ll have one of the officers take you home. Will you please excuse us, Miss Lace?”
“Sure,” I replied as I gave Sarah a hug. My heart ached as I watched her leave with the detective.
It finally struck me that my dear friend was gone—forever. Tears began to well up and run down my cheeks as I crossed the street. A car horn blared at me as I hurried to get out of its way. Visions of the two-headed snake flashed back into my head.
Chapter Seven
Guadalajara—1995
Frank Eastwood, the first FAA inspector to arrive at the crash site, walked stiffly around the rubble. The location was so remote, he had to be brought in on horseback—a form of transportation he wasn’t accustomed to. The twenty-year veteran had earned the respect of every official in the FAA.
By the time the others arrived, he had already sifted through much of the wreckage. He had located the black box and was arranging to have it transported as soon as possible so it could be evaluated.
Dozens of people were working to locate and remove the charred bodies of the passengers and crew. That was always the first priority. Frank never got involved in the removal of the dead. As many crashes as he had seen throughout the years, he could never get used to seeing the victims. His sole responsibility would be to determine the cause of the crash. Was it pilot error? Mechanical failure? Was it an act of terrorism? Those were the questions Frank struggled to answer.
