by Gina Cresse
“That circuit breaker must have blown again. I’ve been meaning to have an electrician come look at it,” Doug said. “The lucky thing is that you’re alive. It sounds like you’d be safer if everyone else thinks you went up with your boat, though.”
“Exactly. But I’ve got to move fast. I can’t use my Jeep because I don’t have the keys.” Then I remembered something. “Wait. The spare set Jason used to bring it to me. I think I left those on the desk in your study.”
“You may have, but you shouldn’t use your Jeep. They probably know it’s yours and they might be looking for it. You can use one of my company cars in the meantime. I’ve got a company credit card for a new salesman who’s starting next week. You can use it, and no one will be able to trace it back to you. I’ll let everyone believe that you were on the boat. Of course, I imagine when they start searching for your remains and can’t find them, they’ll come to some conclusions.”
“You’re probably right, but at least it may buy me some time. I’ve been in contact with the FBI. As soon as I get relocated, I’ll call the agent I talked to today. I’m sure they’ll offer me some protection.”
“That’s a good idea. Just give me a minute to get that credit card from my desk. I’ll meet you at the big garage.”
I spotted Craig jogging across the immense grassy area that separated his home from Doug and Arlene’s. I quickly ducked into the shadows of some large decorative bushes. I wanted to avoid being spotted by him, or anyone else who might recognize me as the nice young woman who owned the boat that just blew up. I quietly made my way along the wall to the corner of the house. The “big” garage, as Uncle Doug called it, was a meticulously kept storage building for his impressive collection of classic and sports cars. The everyday automobiles were kept in a standard two-car garage attached to the house, but the big garage was a detached building about one hundred feet away, on the other side of the driveway. I couldn’t see a way to get from the house to the garage without being totally exposed. I briefly scanned the area, checking for anyone who might be looking in my direction. Once he realized it was my boat on fire, Craig broke into a full run toward the dock. He was obviously concerned and part of me wanted to call out to him to let him know I was all right. But I thought better of it. It was no time to let my heart take control over my head. I made a mad dash across the brick driveway and back into the shadows of the impressive building, designed to match the stately home it accompanied.
Uncle Doug was opening the last of three automatic garage doors. “Take your pick,” he said as he motioned to his collection of company cars. Parked there in the meticulously attired garage was a red Ferrari Testerosa, a metallic silver-blue BMW Z3 roadster, and a deep forest green Jaguar E-type convertible.
“Gee, Uncle Doug. Which one do you think will be the least conspicuous?”
“I’d go for the Ferrari myself, but I believe the BMW would suit you better.”
“ Then the BMW it is,” I said as he handed me the keys.
“Now, the tank is full and there’s a car phone in the jockey box. Here’s a credit card for gas and lodging and whatever else you might need. You be careful and call us as soon as you can.”
“I will, Uncle Doug. Thank you so much.”
I put the computer on the passenger seat next to me and started the engine. Easing down the long dark driveway, I kept the headlights off until I pulled onto the main thoroughfare. I passed a parade of fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance. The flashing red lights blinded me as they passed. I cringed at the blaring sound of the sirens as they hurled past my little roadster. Watching in the rear view mirror as they all turned onto the drive I had just come from, I went through the gears and sped off into the darkness, not sure where I was going. I finally decided to head north. I found a small, out of the way motel in San Clemente and checked in. Exhausted, I decided to try to get some sleep before the sun came up.
Morning came too soon. I tried to focus my eyes on the small blue numbers on the digital clock next to the bed. I think it said seven thirty, but everything was still a little fuzzy. After dragging myself into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. I decided to call Jason first—to let him know what happened. I didn’t want him to see it on the five o’clock news and think I was dead. I picked up the phone and dialed his number. A woman answered.
“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry it’s so early. I think I have the wrong number,” I apologized, ready to hang up.
“Are you calling for Jason?” the woman asked.
I hesitated. Jason hadn’t told me about any relationships he was in at the moment, and I wondered who that woman was. “Well, yes, actually. Is he there?”
The woman’s weak voice cracked and wavered. She sounded as though she hadn’t slept in days. “Jason was in a car accident last night. He’s in the hospital. Are you a friend of his?” she asked.
“Yes. Is he okay?” I asked, shocked at the news.
“He’s in a coma. The doctors aren’t sure… aren’t sure he’s going to make it,” she bawled. Once she regained her composure, she continued. “I’m his sister, Jennifer. My mother and I just came over to get a few of his things, in case he wakes up.”
“What hospital is he in?” I asked.
“He’s at San Diego General. He’s still in intensive care, so there’s no room number yet.”
“Do you know how the accident happened?” I asked.
“The highway patrolman said it was a single car accident. Apparently, he was speeding when he lost control and drove off the embankment. It was quite a drop. He’s lucky to be alive.” She sniffed and excused herself momentarily so she could blow her nose. “If he wakes up, who can I tell him called?”
“I’m just a friend from his shop. You have enough to worry about without having to keep track of messages for him. I’ll keep checking with the hospital to see how he’s doing. You just take care of him… and make sure they’re doing everything possible.”
“Oh, believe me. We are.”
I set the receiver back in its cradle and stared at the phone. Then I picked it up again and started to dial the FBI. I got the first four digits dialed when I stopped and hung up. Jason was not a radical driver. If anything, he was too cautious behind the wheel. I used to call him Grandpa whenever I rode with him because he drove so slow. I knew that he didn’t just lose control and drive off a cliff without some help. My mind raced through a dozen possible scenarios. The only people who knew anything about Jason’s involvement with me—and the assassin’s belongings—were the FBI agents we talked to. Unless someone followed him from the marina when he brought me the Jeep? How could I be sure?
I powered up the computer again. I’d never had a chance to check it out before the explosion. There were the usual shortcuts on the desktop. There were also a couple of items I didn’t recognize. There was an icon for something called VideoService. It sounded like some sort of movie club. I wondered if Mr. Kephart was into some sort of kinky stuff. I decided it wasn’t worth investigating. I navigated to the My Documents folder to search for anything useful. The folder was totally empty. I checked other folders, in case he had decided to use his own filing conventions, but found nothing. I started to think there was nothing on the machine that would help me at all. I opened up his E-mail and browsed the in-box. It was empty. Mr. Kephart was very careful about cleaning up after himself. Or at least he thought he was careful. I navigated to his deleted items directory. Pay dirt. Apparently, nobody ever explained to him that deleted items weren’t truly deleted until they were physically removed—unless the defaults were set to automatically removed them upon leaving the system. I opened the first file. The screen came up with the photos of two men—David Powers and Michael Norris. They were the two men killed in the plane crash. The text of the document read:
Mr. Kephart,
These two men are agents for the DEA. They are currently involved in an investigation that will take them to Guadalajara City in Mexico during the first weeks of July.
They are working in cooperation with Mexico’s Federal Judicial Police. It is vital that they do not return to the United States and continue with this investigation. Do whatever is necessary to prevent their return and stop them from having any contact with any officials anywhere in the world. In other words, Mr. Kephart, these two men must be eliminated. It is vital that whatever happens to them appears accidental. We do not want any speculation into the cause of their deaths. Per your instructions, we have deposited $500,000 into the specified account in Geneva. The remainder of the payment will be delivered to you after the assignment is completed. Your reputation precedes you, and I am sure that I can count on your complete and total discretion in this matter.
C.H.
The sender of the document was identified only as CH. Could that be the “Carl H” name I tried to read on the notepad from the brief case? Who was “Carl H” and what reason could he have for wanting the two men dead? What could his connection be with the Mexican drug operation?
The next file was also from CH. The first page looked like an excerpt from an official FAA report on the plane crash that killed the two DEA agents. It described an unidentified electronic box found in the wreckage that was apparently stowed in the baggage compartment of the plane. The report was signed by the official FAA investigator, and a copy of his card, with his office address and phone number, appeared in the corner. The next page was brief and to the point:
Mr. Kephart,
This would appear to be a messy detail. I thought I made it clear that there should be no reason for speculation into this matter. I have been forced to use my own resources to take care of this potentially disastrous mistake. Consider this your final assignment from my office.
C.H.
There were no other items of importance in the deleted items directory. I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the FAA investigator identified on the report.
“Hello. May I speak with Mr. Frank Eastwood, please?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Eastwood is no longer with us,” came the reply.
“He isn’t? May I ask how I can reach him?”
“I guess you could try a séance—Frank passed away about a year ago.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. How did it happen?”
“He and his wife were killed in a plane crash—very tragic.”
How ironic, I thought to myself. “Was it a commercial flight?” I asked.
“No. His own private plane. Both Frank and his wife were killed.” The woman sounded distressed.
“I’m sorry I had to bring it all up again. Thank you for your time.”
I made one more call to Uncle Doug. I didn’t want to be too specific over the phone—in case anyone was listening in on the conversation. “Can you meet me for lunch at that place you and Arlene took me to for my thirteenth birthday?”
He hesitated for a moment—trying to remember back that far, I guess. “Oh. Sure. I’ll meet you out front at noon. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ll see you at twelve.”
I stopped to pick up a battery for the laptop and a box of CDs on my way back to San Diego. I sat in the car in the parking lot and made several backup copies of the E-mail documents Robert Kephart had left on his computer. A man’s voice startled me while I waited for the last copy to be made.
“Nice car,” he said as he leaned over the passenger side door, admiring the sports car. He hid his face behind a pair of dark reflective sunglasses that looked as if they came right out of the seventies. He wore a pair of jeans about as tight as the casing of an overstuffed Polish sausage. His dark shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, exposing a collection of gold chains that would put Mr. T to shame. On his right hand was a hideously gaudy piece of oversized gold jewelry. On his other hand, he wore a mood ring. I hadn’t seen one of those since high school. He also sported a pair of pointy, high-heeled alligator-skin cowboy boots, complete with sterling-silver toe caps. To top off the entire ensemble, he wore a black mohair cowboy hat with a confederate flag pinned to the front of it. He reeked of Calvin Klein’s Eternity for Men, a scent that I used to find very appealing—at least up until that moment.
“Thank you,” I said, not offering any other words to encourage a conversation. He gave me the creeps and I wanted him to be on his way.
“BMW?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Like the one in the James Bond movie.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Cool,” he said as he stepped back to admire the car. “Think I could take her for a spin?”
I laughed. “You’re kidding. Right?”
“I’d be careful. Just once around the block?”
“I don’t think so. I’m late for an appointment,” I said and started the engine. As I backed out of the parking spot, I watched him walk to his car—an older model bright-yellow Porsche Targa. He followed me out of the parking lot and tailgated me all the way to the highway.
“Great,” I said to myself. All I needed was for this guy to pester me all the way to San Diego.
I made several turns to try to lose him, but he kept right on my tail. Picking up speed, I started weaving in and out of traffic. When I thought I had lost him, I quickly darted into the parking lot of a small restaurant. I parked in the back so the car wouldn’t be visible from the road and went inside for a few minutes to give the jerk time to get out of the vicinity.
Sitting in a booth with my iced tea, I watched a brother and sister torment each other in the booth next to mine. He would pull her hair, and she would punch him in the arm. The parents would make promises of punishment, but never followed through. The mother left the booth to make a phone call, and the father went to the rest room. Then I watched in amazement as the boy took the wad of gum he was chewing and dropped it in the fresh bottle of ketchup the waitress had placed on their table. He used a straw to push it just beneath the surface so it wasn’t visible. The two little snots squealed with delight at the ingenious act. Suddenly, they were the best of friends. When their parents returned, the happy family went to their minivan and left.
It wasn’t until then that I noticed the jerk in the yellow Porsche. He had somehow slithered in and taken the booth behind me without me noticing him. He must have checked every parking lot on the street, looking for the Z3. This guy was some sort of crazy stalker. When I turned and noticed him, he smiled and waved, like we were old friends. He ordered a burger and fries, and rudely interrupted the busy waitress, demanding ketchup.
I smiled, got up from my table and picked up the bottle of Heinz from the rotten kids’ booth, then strolled over to his table and placed it in front of him. “Here you go,” I said, politely. Turning to walk away, I whispered, “Bozo,” to myself.
After paying my bill, I quickly left. As much as I wanted to stick around and watch the expression on his face when he bit into the big wad of Bazooka bubble gum in his hamburger, I decided it would be wiser for me to be on my way. As I pulled out of the parking lot, he came running out of the restaurant, cursing at me.
I stuck my foot into the accelerator and squealed around the corner. That darn little yellow Porsche was on my tail before I knew it. I was speeding dangerously through traffic, trying to locate a freeway on-ramp. He just stuck to me like Velcro. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could change lanes. No open spot. I swerved into the oncoming traffic lane and checked my speedometer—seventy-five miles per hour. The speed limit sign read thirty-five. I dashed back into my own lane just in time to escape a head-on with a Cadillac. A short break in the oncoming traffic gave me an opportunity to get off the Pacific Coast Highway. I squealed left, through a red light, and onto a small side street. My yellow shadow haunted me. I couldn’t seem to lose him. Racing through a quiet residential area, we must have looked like a couple of Grand Prix wanna-bes.
Suddenly, a small calico cat, carrying a kitten in her mouth, trotted out in front of me. I slammed the brakes on. The Porsche squealed to a halt behind me, coming within in
ches of my bumper. Mama kitty, startled by the commotion, stopped dead in her tracks, panicked. She dashed left, then right, then left again. I watched in my rearview mirror as the driver-side door of the Porsche opened. Finally, the feline got her senses and carried her baby to the safety of a large planter box in the next yard. Just as my pursuer reached the rear fender, I punched the accelerator and sped off. He jumped back into his little bumble bee car and resumed the chase.
Somehow, I found myself back on the main highway, only this time, heading north. I just couldn’t seem to lose him. Then, all of a sudden, he disappeared. Soon enough, I realized why.
When I saw the flashing red lights and heard the siren, my heart sank. I pulled over and sat helpless, as I waited for my fate to be dished out to me. The little yellow Porsche raced by and honked his horn as he passed. What a jerk.
“May I see your license and registration, please?” the officer asked.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have my license with me. I seem to have lost it,” I confessed. “But here’s the registration,” I said as I rummaged through the glove box, searching for the certificate.
He inspected the registration certificate. “Are you an employee of Douglas Lace Yacht Brokerage?” he asked.
“No. Douglas Lace is my uncle. He loaned me this car.”
“I see. What’s your name?” he asked.
“Devonie Lace.”
“Do you have any identification?”
“Well, not actually, officer.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “May I ask why you don’t have any ID?”
I bit my lip and hesitated, trying to think of a good excuse. Sympathy seemed to be my best shot in a situation like this. “Well, you see. I had this fight with my boyfriend last night. He took me out to dinner at the Pier Restaurant. After dinner, we walked out to the end of the pier, and he said he had something very important to ask me. I thought for sure he was going to propose, since we’ve been dating for nearly seven years now. I had told him that I wasn’t going to wait much longer for him to make up his mind. Anyhow, he didn’t propose. He asked if I could loan him twelve hundred dollars for one of his crazy, get-rich-quick schemes—that never materialize. I told him no, and that I never wanted to see him again. After all, he never repaid me from all the other times I loaned him money and he promised to pay me back.” I mustered up all the emotion I could, and even managed a tear or two. “Anyhow, he grabbed my purse and we struggled over it.” I paused to wipe the tears from my face.
