by Gina Cresse
The officer seemed sympathetic. “So, he stole your purse?” he asked.
“Not exactly. I wouldn’t let that little weasel have it. I grabbed it back and swung it at him but I missed and it slipped out of my hands—flew right out into the water.”
He shook his head and smiled. “I see,” he said.
“Hello. Uncle Doug?”
“Devonie? Where are you?”
“There’s been a slight change in our lunch plans. Can you meet me at the San Clemente Police station instead?”
Chapter Eleven
The police station was a pretty quiet place. Apparently, there was not a lot of crime going on there. I sat in an overstuffed chair that swiveled and rocked while I waited for Uncle Doug to arrive to verify my identity. The officers were very nice, offering me pastries and cappuccino. I fidgeted with a puzzle sitting on the desk nearest me. Finally, a familiar face came through the automatic sliding glass doors.
“Uncle Doug. Am I glad to see you. I was afraid they were going to lock me up pretty soon.”
“No way I’d let that happen. Now, where’s the idiot I need to see to straighten out this mess?”
“He’s right over there,” I said as I pointed to the officer who brought me in. “Hey, Bruce. My uncle is here.”
The officer put down a file he was reading, and walked over to us. “How do you do, sir? I’m officer Mahoney. I understand you may be able to clear up a little confusion for us regarding your niece.”
“What’s the confusion? My name is Douglas Lace, and this is my niece, Devonie Lace. I loaned her one of my company cars, and the next thing I know, some bozo has hauled her in here for some ridiculously lame reason.”
“Now, take it easy Uncle Doug. They’ve been very nice to me. Don’t get so excited,” I said, trying to keep things from heating up.
“Nice? You think hauling you in here and towing my car is a nice thing to do?”
Officer Mahoney interrupted. “Now, Mr. Lace. You have to look at the situation objectively. Your niece was speeding when I stopped her. She had no identification at all, and she was driving a very expensive sports car that didn’t belong to her. Under the circumstances, I had no choice but to bring her down to the station, until we could contact the owner of the car to verify it wasn’t stolen. I’m sure if the situation were different, and your car had been stolen, you would appreciate our caution.”
Uncle Doug thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head in agreement. “I suppose you’re right. Anyhow, what do we need to do to get her out of here? She has important appointments to keep.”
“As long as you can show proof that you own the car, then your niece is free to go.”
After clearing everything up, I thanked Bruce for the pastries and walked with Uncle Doug out to the corridor. “I’m going to use the ladies room. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” I said.
“Okay.”
I washed and dried my hands and inspected my face in the mirror. I could use some makeup, I thought to myself as I tried to fluff some life into my exhausted hair, and pinch some color into my pale cheeks. The next chance I got, I would have to stop and get some basic toiletries. I pushed through the restroom door and made my way through the maze of hallways toward the exit.
I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the two men and quickly ducked around a corner to avoid being seen. It was Cooper and Willis, the FBI agents I had spoken to before my boat blew up. What were they doing there? Could they be looking for me? How could they have found me so quickly? What a stupid question. They were the FBI. Their resources were probably unlimited when it came to getting information about everyday citizens like me. I waited very quietly and tried to listen to their conversation, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then I heard their footsteps behind me. They got closer. I panicked. There was nowhere to hide. I backed up tightly against the wall and didn’t make a move. My heart pounded so loudly, I thought everyone in the building could hear it. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of my face. My knees weakened, and I felt certain I was going to slide right down the wall onto the floor. Holding my breath, I waited until they passed the corridor. They never even turned a glance at me. I breathed a sigh of relief as they disappeared around the corner, out of sight. I collected myself as best I could, hurried out of the building and found Uncle Doug waiting by his car.
“I’ve got to get out of here right away. I don’t have time to explain. Can you meet me at my bank in an hour? Do you remember where it is? Where we signed all the papers when I bought the Plan B?”
“I remember. I’ll see you in an hour. Now, get going.”
The BMW was parked in a small lot next to the police station. I started the engine and carefully pulled onto the main street. I kept checking my rear view mirror. The only car following me was Uncle Doug’s, as far as I could tell. I made my way to the freeway and headed south—back toward San Diego. The traffic was heavy—typical for that time of day. I was careful to maintain the posted speed limit. I didn’t need any more complications.
After parking in front of the bank, Uncle Doug pulled in right next to me. “I’ve got to get into my safe-deposit box. Do you have any idea how I can do that without the key, or any identification to prove who I am?” I asked him.
“The manager here is a friend of mine. I just let him beat me at a game of golf Saturday. My company brings a lot of business to him. He should be able to do me a favor.”
“I hope so. I’ve got to get into that box,” I said.
“Let’s go inside and see if he’s even here today.”
We walked into the bank. “Is Harvey Champion in today?” Uncle Doug asked the woman at the counter.
“He is,” she answered.
“I wonder if you could tell him Doug Lace is here to see him? It’s rather urgent.”
“Certainly. Please wait here, Mr. Lace,” she said, then disappeared through a door marked PRIVATE.
She returned a few moments later with the bank manager following her. “Doug. How are you? Still recovering from that beating I gave you on the course, Saturday?”
“You bet, Harv. You’ll have to give me some pointers on my game before we play again.” Uncle Doug gave me a wink. He once told me he never allowed himself to beat a prospective client—or banker—at golf. It was one of his business rules. It wasn’t until then that I understood why he made that rule.
“Anytime, buddy. Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“This is my niece, Devonie. Can we go into your office? We have a favor to ask.”
“Sure thing. Come right around here and follow me,” he said as he motioned to a small gate at the end of the counter. We followed him to his office and sat in some very unattractive, contemporary-styled chairs that were about as uncomfortable as they were ugly.
Uncle Doug explained that all my belongings had been destroyed in a fire, and that I needed to get into my safe-deposit box.
Harvey peered at me over his glasses. “You don’t have the key?” he asked.
“No. It was lost in the explosion,” I explained.
“And you don’t have any ID at all?”
“My passport is in the safe-deposit box. I could show it to you, if you can let me into it.”
A very cautious man, Harvey carefully contemplated what we asked of him. With the recent trend in downsizing, he would not likely take any risks that would jeopardize his position. But on the other hand, Uncle Doug had brought millions of dollars worth of business to this bank, and Harvey knew that he could just as easily do business elsewhere.
“I’m going to do it for you, Doug, but it is highly irregular. Please keep this to yourselves. Okay?”
“Thanks, Harv. I owe you one,” Uncle Doug said.
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Champion. You may just be saving my life.”
He smiled at me, not realizing I was totally serious. “Okay. Let’s go get you into that box.”
I rummaged through my personal papers and found the owner
ship documents for the Plan B and the pink slip for my Jeep. There were insurance policies, and my birth certificate. Finally, I found my passport and laid it on the table. Then I got the brief case out and untaped it. I gazed at the rows of money and thought for a moment. I reached in and took out one bundle, then taped the case up again. I tucked the bundle of money inside my waistband and hoped it didn’t look too conspicuous.
After showing Harvey my passport, he seemed relieved. He must’ve been comforted by the fact that he had helped another human being, and that he would probably still have a job in the morning.
Uncle Doug and I walked back to the parking lot. I pulled the bundle out from my waistband, then I extracted about half of the bills from the wad and handed them to my uncle. “I want you to take this. I know you lost half of your dock when my boat blew up. I don’t know if this is enough to rebuild it, but there’s more if it isn’t.”
He gaped at the cash. “Where’d—“
“Don’t ask. Just take it,” I said.
“You know I have insurance to cover that. You don’t need to do this,” he insisted as he tried to force the money back into my hand.
“No. Now, I know your insurance company will balk when they discover the boat was intentionally destroyed, and you may have trouble getting them to pay. Just take this and use it. The money is probably from the people who destroyed the dock in the first place. It’s only fair that they pay to repair it.”
He could see I was not going to give in, so he reluctantly put the money into his jacket pocket. “You are just as hardheaded as my brother. I’m sure glad I didn’t inherit that trait.”
I laughed.
“Now, what’s going on? Who are you running from?”
“The FBI.”
“What?”
“Uncle Doug. This thing goes way deeper than I ever imagined. I think my little escapade at the San Clemente Police Station probably tipped off the FBI that I wasn’t on the boat when she went up.” I opened the glove box of the BMW and took out one of the CD copies I had made earlier and handed it to him. “Do you still have that friend who works at the Los Angeles Times?” I asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Take a look at what’s on this CD. It may explain some of what’s going on. Then, send it to your friend. He probably won’t do anything with it without any substantiation, but if something happens to me, someone down there may decide to do some investigating.”
“Devonie. I don’t like this. It’s looking way too dangerous.”
“I don’t like it either, but I don’t know who I can turn to. I have something of a plan, but I need you to take me to the airport. Can you do that?”
“That might not be a bad idea for you to get away from here. Where are you going?”
“I can’t say just yet. Anyway, you’ll be safer if you don’t know.”
I grabbed the laptop and we left the BMW parked in front of the bank. Uncle Doug would pick it up later—after I was safely off. I made him drop me at the unloading zone and wouldn’t let him come in with me.
There were no direct flights from San Diego to where I was headed, so I bought a ticket to LAX to avoid a layover in Dallas. The flight from San Diego to Los Angeles was short, and about as pleasant as a ride on an overcrowded school bus. I sat in coach, in the middle of a class of sixth- or seventh-grade kids, on their way to some sort of soccer camp. They were all keyed up and very excited about wherever it was they were headed. I was knocked in the head no less than three times when the boys seated next to and behind me exchanged sports equipment. Obviously, there wasn’t enough adult supervision to keep them under control. When we landed at Los Angeles International, the pilot actually stopped the plane just off the runway and announced that he would not move the plane another inch until someone got them to sit down and behave.
I presented my passport at the ticket counter and paid for my ticket with cash. Suddenly, I flashed back to the flight I had just come in on. “How much extra would that be for first class?” I asked.
“It’s quite a bit more. Just let me check that for you,” the ticket agent said as she punched some keys on the computer.
My mouth fell open when she told me the fare. I pondered the idea for a moment, then I unfolded the wad of bills again. “Go ahead and make that a first class ticket.”
“Most certainly,” she replied as she took back the documents she had just handed me. Finally, all ticketing procedures were complete.
“Do you have any luggage to check?” she asked.
“No luggage. Just me,” I answered.
She gave me a second look, as if she hadn’t heard me clearly the first time. “No luggage?”
“No. I’ll do some shopping when I get there,” I said as I tucked the bundle of bills back into the small purse I’d bought in an airport gift shop earlier.
“I see. Well, you have a very pleasant trip, Miss Lace, and please fly with us again,” she said, smiling.
“Thank you,” I replied, and turned to leave the counter.
I crashed into a man, causing him to drop his carry-on bag.
“Devonie!”
“Craig,” I replied. I frantically tried to think of some way to explain how I was still alive, after everyone believed I had been killed on the boat.
“I thought you were dead. Everyone thinks you’re dead. Your poor aunt and uncle are beside themselves. What the heck is going on?”
I took him by the arm and shuffled us into a small airport café. I found a quiet table in the corner. “Listen, Craig. It’s all too complicated to explain. You just have to believe me when I tell you, if you let anyone know you’ve seen me, I won’t be alive much longer.”
“What have you gotten yourself into? You need some help.”
“No. I don’t want you to get involved—you’ll only put yourself in danger. Now, please. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. I’ve got to go. My flight will be boarding soon.”
I started to get up from the table when suddenly, a horrible thought came to my mind. “Oh, no!” I gasped and collapsed hard, back down in the chair. “Craig. There is something you can do for me. There’s a patient in the intensive care unit at San Diego General. His name is Jason Walters. He was in a car accident, but it wasn’t really an accident. Someone forced him off the road. When they find out he survived, I’m sure they’ll try to finish him off, before he regains consciousness.”
Craig stared at me, without saying a word. He studied my face intensely. The desperation must have shown in my eyes. I imagined he was trying to decide if I was making this crazy story up, or if it could possibly be true. He must have come to some conclusion, finally. “That’s no problem. I’ll just have the police set up a twenty-four hour watch on him.”
“No. You don’t understand. I’m fairly certain the authorities tried to have him killed in the first place—the same people who blew up my boat. Can you put some people you know and trust on a twenty-four hour watch over him? I’ll pay for any expenses. You just tell me how much private nurses cost,” I said as I pulled the money from my purse again.
“Keep your money, Devonie. I know some people who can help out. I’ll do what I can. Jason Walters?”
“Yes. Thank you, Craig. You don’t know how much I appreciate this. Now, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my flight.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you. If anyone asks, you never saw me, and you don’t know where I am. I’ve got to go,” I said and hurried out of the café toward my gate.
The flight attendant demonstrated all the emergency procedures as we pulled away from the gate. I stretched out in my first class seat and closed my eyes. I needed to think, but I was exhausted. The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was the pilot announcing the current temperature in Geneva over the intercom.
Chapter Twelve
San Diego—1995
Robert Kephart sat quietly in his hotel room, reading his E-mail again. He had already read it thre
e times. He was troubled, and the effects of having no sleep for days showed on his face. When the phone rang, it startled him. He jumped to grab the receiver and nearly knocked the laptop computer off the table.
“Yeah,” he answered, abruptly.
“Kephart?” Carl Hobson’s voice asked over the phone line.
“Yeah,” he repeated.
“Listen, carefully. I have a room at the Marriott. It’s number four thirty-four. Be there—alone—in exactly thirty minutes. I’ve decided to pay you our original agreed upon price, since it looks like we’ve taken care of our FAA problem. But don’t expect to get any more business from us in the future. We can’t afford screwups like the one you pulled.”
“I’ll be there,” Robert replied, and hung up the phone. He was still uneasy. This wasn’t the usual smalltime mobster he was dealing with. This was the CIA, and they could make him disappear without a trace in the blink of an eye. He checked his watch. He would just barely have time to get to the Marriott by noon. He deleted the E-mail messages from Hobson, shut down the computer, and packed it up in its case, then cautiously checked for anyone suspicious in the hall before he let himself out of his room. He felt like a mallard during hunting season.
