by Gina Cresse
“What?”
“Put your hands on the hood, now!” he yelled this time.
A small crowd had gathered in the doorway of the restaurant and watched the two peace officers in action. I obeyed their orders, placing my trembling hands on the hood of my Jeep. I could feel the pace of my heart speed up. My legs felt weak, and I leaned on the Jeep to keep from falling. Dozens of eyes stared at me like I was some sort of criminal. People in passing cars slowed down to gawk at the sight. I wanted to slide under the Jeep and disappear.
“What’s this all about? There must be some mistake,” I insisted, my voice trembling. The shorter officer frisked me from head to toe in search of a weapon.
“This vehicle was reported stolen this morning. You fit the description of the perpetrator. You have any ID?” Vladowski asked.
I couldn’t have heard him correctly. My heart was pounding so hard, I could hear it beating in my ears. “Stolen? It’s not stolen. This is my Jeep. My driver’s license is in my purse and the registration’s in the glove box.”
The unidentified officer took my keys while Vladowski searched through my purse for my wallet. He opened it up to my license. “Are you Devonie Lace?”
“Yes. That’s me, and this Jeep is registered to me.”
“Not according to the DMV. Belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Hayes. You stole it from them at gunpoint this morning in front of their home. Recall that?” Vladowski accused.
I shook my head to clear the pounding that was going on in my ears. I felt as though I might pass out at any minute. I worked to control my breathing so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. “That’s ridiculous. You’ve got the wrong person.”
Vladowski’s partner removed the registration certificate from the glove box and closed the passenger side door. “Take a look at this, Hank.”
The officers inspected the registration certificate that identified me as the owner of the vehicle. Vladowski took the certificate to his patrol car and got on the radio while his partner kept an eye on me. The crowd of onlookers grew into a small mob.
When Vladowski returned, he took me by the arm and led me to the patrol car. “We have to go down to the station.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. “So, am I under arrest?”
“Not yet. There’re some discrepancies here we need to straighten out. According to the DMV computer, you’re not the registered owner of this vehicle.”
For some reason, as soon as he mentioned the word, “computer,” I felt a slight sense of relief. “Great—another computer foul-up,” I grumbled under my breath. Vladowski shoved me, head first, into the black and white limo that would transport me to a place I knew I didn’t want to go.
Over five hours later, officer Vladowski and his partner, who I’d come to think of as The Shadow, offered me their deepest regret and apologized for the unfortunate foul-up with the computer system.
“That’s okay.” I gathered up my purse and got to my feet. Did I just tell them it’s okay that they detained me for nearly six hours? And did I say it with a smile, as though I enjoyed the entire humiliating experience? Am I an idiot? Maybe I should plaster a sign on my back that says, “Kick me—and have a nice day.”
By the time I found my Jeep, a team of men in dark blue coveralls were replacing the door panels.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
I got no answer. I was handed a clipboard with a paper to sign, and my keys.
“Excuse me, but why did you have the door panels removed?” I insisted.
“Our instructions. Just sign the paper, lady.”
“I’m sure my attorney will be very interested in just exactly what your instructions were,” I grumbled as I signed the form, scowled at him, and handed it back. Why would they take off the door panels? I decided not to dwell on it. I just wanted to get out of Dodge before anything else happened.
It was two in the morning by the time I pulled into the marina parking lot. I let myself into the Plan C and turned on the lights. The message light on my answering machine flashed. I pressed the playback button and listened while I carried my overnight bag to my cabin.
The first four messages were from Craig: “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. Guess you’re out. I’ll try back later… I love you.” Beep. “Hi, sweety. Me, again. Guess you’re still out… I miss you… Nothing important. I’ll call back. Love you.” Beep. “Hello? Dev? Are you there? Guess not… Where are you? I’ll keep trying. I love you. ‘Bye.” Beep. “Devonie? What’s going on? I’ve been trying to call you for two days. Where are you? I need to hear your voice. Uh…I miss you. Are you there? Guess not. I’ll keep trying. I love you… Really.”
I walked back to the phone and stared at the blinking lights. I couldn’t deal with Craig at the moment. His questions demanded my undivided attention, and I had way too much going on at the moment to make decisions when it came to matters of the heart. I waited for the next message to play back.
“Devonie. It’s Spencer. What’re you into, girl? Call me as soon as you get in. I mean, ASAP. Got it?”
I stared at the phone, then the clock. His voice had a definite urgency. I picked it up and dialed Spencer’s number.
“Devonie! What the heck’s going on? What are you mixed up in now?” Spencer said.
“You know as much as I do. What happened?” I shot back.
“Some NSA guys were here today. They were submitting all kinds of queries. Came up with a rap sheet on you a mile long. It’s a bunch of bogus stuff, and I can prove it, but it really looks bad. You’re in big trouble, Dev.”
“What? NSA? Who’s the NSA?”
“If you ask them, they’ll tell you it stands for ‘No Such Agency,’ but don’t believe it. It’s the National Security Agency. These guys listen to the world’s conversations and look for possible threats. They’re probably listening to us right now. They’re on you like stink on a skunk. You’d better get the heck out of there.”
“Thanks, Spence. I’ll catch up to you as soon as I can.”
I dumped the contents of my overnight bag on my bed and threw some fresh clothes in it. I locked the Plan C, dashed up the dock to the parking area and jumped into the Jeep, then peeled out of the parking lot.
The ATM machine was in a well-lit area, but I still felt uneasy. I checked over my shoulder before I slid my card into the slot. I punched in my PIN code and waited. I gaped at the “ACCOUNT CLOSED” message flashing on the small black screen. The machine kept my card. The thought of how they manipulated my bank records flashed through my mind. I didn’t have time to ponder. I just knew I had to get the heck out of there.
I slowed down and coasted past the marina parking lot without pulling in. The flashing red and yellow lights from five police cars parked at the marina office glared on the glass windows of my Jeep as it rolled by. I didn’t stop.
Chapter Nine
I pulled to the curb in front of Jason’s house and cut my lights and engine. A barking dog threatened to wake the neighborhood. I riffled through my tool kit for a screwdriver, then quietly opened my door.
Jason’s vacationing neighbors just happened to own a Jeep Grand Cherokee, the same year as mine. The yuppie vehicle sat, unsuspectingly, in its dark driveway. I tiptoed to the back of the vehicle. My movements triggered a motion-detector light that flooded the driveway with a beam so bright, I felt like a star on Broadway. I heard the sound of toenails clicking on the concrete walkway in the back yard. The black nose of Barney-the-Boxer sniffed like a vacuum under the gate. I could hear a low growl start from deep in his throat. I crouched behind the Jeep, held my breath, and froze like a statue.
“It’s okay, Barney. It’s just me. I played tug-of-war with you while Jason fixed your dinner. Remember?” I whispered.
Barney wasn’t buying it. He let out a loud bark, then another. I quickly unscrewed the bolts holding the license plate to the bumper. Barney snarled between his frantic yelps. I jumped with every bark as I scooted around to the fron
t of the Jeep and started on the second plate.
Jason’s porch light flicked on. His front door opened and I could see him step outside wearing his robe and slippers. “Shush, Barney!” he ordered in the loudest whisper he could manage. Barney ignored his command.
“Darn you, Barney. You’ll wake up the whole neighborhood,” Jason said.
I’d just removed the last screw from the license plate frame when it slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. The noise startled Jason.
“Who’s there?” he demanded in a voice two octaves higher than normal.
I stood up, slowly. “It’s just me, Jason. Don’t call out the National Guard.”
“Devonie? What the heck are you doing?”
I gathered up the license plates and approached him. Barney continued to warn the world about the horrible thing happening in his owner’s driveway.
I grabbed Jason’s arm and ushered him toward his front door. “Let’s go inside so he’ll be quiet.”
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Don’t be difficult. Just come on, before he wakes up the whole block.”
A half-dozen more barks after we’d closed the door, then Barney halted the neighborhood alert. I followed Jason into the kitchen and sat down at the table, laying the license plates in front of me.
“All right. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m giving Todd Schlempenheimer your phone number.”
“No. Not that. Anything but that.”
“Talk, girl.”
“I’ve got to get to Sacramento. I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with this stuff I got from Clancy. Somehow, someone’s given me an electronic criminal history a mile long, and the state troopers are after me.”
“What do you want with those plates?”
“I just want to put them on my Jeep so I can get from here to Spencer’s without being stopped.”
“Jeez, Dev. I can’t believe you’re mixed up in something like this again.”
“I know. Me either. Can I borrow some cash? They took my ATM card. I tried to use my gas card to fill up the Jeep, but my account’s been closed. None of my credit cards are valid anymore. They’re very thorough.”
“Cash? How much?”
“As much as you can spare. I’ve got to get to Sacramento.”
Jason disappeared into his bedroom, then returned with a glass mason jar. “Don’t have much cash. You can have my poker money. There’s probably about forty-five, maybe fifty bucks here.”
My eyes bulged at the stash of coins. “Quarters?”
“It’s cash. Want it or not?”
“Yes. I want it. It’ll get me there. I’ll eat light.”
“I’ll fix you something for the road. You won’t have to worry about stopping for food.”
“I can’t bear the thought of one of your travel snacks. I’d rather go hungry.”
“You’ll change your tune about the time you get to Fresno. Your mouth’ll water for one of my dill-pickle-and-peanut-butter sandwiches.”
I cringed at the thought. “Don’t you have apples or bananas? Any fruit at all?” I pleaded.
Jason tapped his chin with his finger as he took a mental inventory of his cupboards. “Fruit? I’ve got some jam. I’ve got some grape bubblegum. Oh! I know! I’ve got a box of frosted strawberry Pop Tarts.”
Jason slid open a drawer and pulled out a package. “Here. I was saving this for breakfast. You can have it. It’s a Hostess Fruit Pie—berry. And I’ve got a six-pack of Orange Crush.”
“This is your idea of fruit? You do realize real oranges don’t come in aluminum cans with pop-tops, right?”
“I know. They come in paper cans you stick in the freezer until you mix ‘em with water.”
“Right,” I smirked, then gathered up the license plates and Jason’s care package and headed for the door.
I drove as far as I could before my eyelids refused to stay open. I pulled into a rest area, crawled into the back of the Jeep and immediately fell asleep. The sound of my stomach growling woke me up. I put the Jeep in gear and headed down the road. I stopped to fill the tank, counting out twenty dollars in quarters to the cashier. I splurged and bought a bottle of water. By the time I passed the Fresno City Limit sign, the thought of Jason’s pickle-and-peanut-butter sandwich actually sounded appetizing. He was right. Darn him, anyway. I stopped at a roadside fruit stand and bought a few apples to carry me through the rest of the trip.
Spencer wasn’t home when I arrived. I didn’t dare call him at work in case he was right about our phone conversations being listened to. I waited. Seven o’clock. No Spencer. Eight o’clock. Still, no Spencer. Finally, at nine thirty, the lights of his beat-up old Dodge Dart reflected in my rear-view mirror as he pulled into his driveway.
“Devonie! You made it,” he said. “Quick, pull your Jeep into the garage. I’ll meet you inside.”
We sat down in front of Spencer’s computer and powered it up.
“I exported the results of the criminal database query and e-mailed it to myself here. Look at this.”
Spencer opened the file and displayed the results on the screen. Each record contained personal information about me and a description of the crime I “allegedly” committed. “Whoever put these records in the database didn’t count on anyone looking at the system-maintained fields. Every record is stamped with the system date and time. When I wrote this application, I made it impossible for anyone to modify the date stamp. I also store the IP address of the client machine making the entry,” he explained.
My finger scanned down the “Date Added” column. Every date was the same—yesterday—and all the IP addresses were the same. “This was all entered yesterday, by the same person,” I noted.
Spencer pulled my finger off the screen and wiped the smudge off with a cloth. “Well, at least from the same machine. You’ve been framed.”
“Can we find out who this IP address is assigned to?” I asked.
“Already working on it.” Spencer made a few mouse clicks. “Look what I’ve been working on for the past six months. This is a graphical representation of the network I administer for the state. Every server, client, router, hub—you name it, I’ve got it documented here.”
The screen looked like a street map of downtown San Francisco, only busier. I squinted to read the tiny print.
“Here, I’ll zoom in.” He clicked on the magnifying-glass icon and the area of interest became larger. “This IP address is assigned to a client machine at the U.S. Justice Department in Los Angeles—the building on South Soto Street, to be exact.”
“Can you narrow it down to an office?” As usual, I was awed by Spencer’s total mastery of the electronic world. There’s no computer task he can’t accomplish, given enough time and resources.
“Not with this tool. But I activated a protocol analyzer and set a capture filter on the IP address. Then I spammed the L.A. office with an offer of cash for true stories with screenplay potential. Signed it Spielberg. All I had to do was sit back and wait for activity to pick up, and voila! Got us a name to go with the IP address.”
“Well? What is it?” I couldn’t wait to hear.
“Carissa West.” He beamed.
I ran the name through my own memory bank. “Carissa West? Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Think we ought to send Carissa a message? Let her know we’re on to her?” Spencer asked.
“Not yet. I think we should feed Carissa enough rope to hang herself with. As long as we make sure those database records aren’t tampered with, you’ll be able to come to my rescue with the evidence if I need it. Right?”
“Not to worry. I’ve made a backup of the export and I’ve locked the records—so they can’t be modified or deleted from the database.”
“Good. By the way, can you do anything about getting my bank account reinstated? I’m gonna run out of quarters pretty soon.”
“Probably could, but if I got caught, it’s back to the slammer.”
“You’re
right. Forget I even suggested it.” I hesitated a moment. “You have any spare cash?”
Chapter Ten
The bed in Spencer’s guest room was comfortable enough, but I didn’t sleep well. I tossed and turned all night, trying to piece together the puzzle. Where was Gerald Bates? And why was his yacht sitting at the bottom of the ocean? Where was Roy Hastings? And why did he abandon his boat? Who was on my boat? And what were they looking for? Who was Carissa West? And why was she trying to frame me? Too many questions. No answers.
I couldn’t lie there any longer. At six, I rolled out of bed and staggered down the hall to Spencer’s living room. I searched for the remote and switched on the TV. There was no escaping the big news story of the week—the discovery of Gerald Bates’ yacht. A news reporter stood on the deck of a commercial charter boat. In the background, two other boats were anchored. I could see divers leaping into the water.
The reporter brushed the wind-whipped hair from her face and pointed in the direction of the divers. “That’s the exact spot where the Gigabyte went down. Getting to the wreck has been a major challenge for these divers since the boat is down nearly one hundred and fifty feet. Reports so far indicate the yacht suffered major structural damage, most probably from a severe storm. Gerald Bates and his crew are presumed dead.”
Spencer padded down the hallway in his Spiderman pajamas, scratching his head. “What’d they say caused it to sink?”
“They said it broke apart in a storm. Sure didn’t look damaged when I saw it.”
“Who said it broke apart?” Spencer asked.
“Don’t know where that came from. They’ve got some divers going down to check it out.” I squinted to get a better look at the boats in the background. “I can’t tell for sure, but those don’t look like Coast Guard boats.”
Spencer studied the screen. “Could be divers hired by the Bates Corporation. Technically, that’s who owns the yacht.”
“Could be. You know, I bet Clancy knows exactly what’s going on there. He was chomping at the bit to get the salvage contract. Maybe I’ll give him a call.” I found his number in my purse and dialed. No answer. I checked my watch. “No wonder. It’s not even seven yet. I’ll try later. What’s for breakfast?”
