Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 02 - A Deadly Bargain, Plan C

by Gina Cresse

  “Four or five others? But only one went with Roy?”

  “Only one I know of. Don’t know what happened with the others. Didn’t see them again.”

  “Where did Roy live?”

  “Had a little place up on Whittley. Still empty. He owned it outright. No relatives. I figure the State’ll take it for taxes eventually—if Roy don’t show up.”

  “Would you show me where it is?”

  “I suppose. Why you so interested?”

  I wasn’t prepared to give out any more information about what I knew. If I told Sherman that the tanks he’d filled were full of poison gas, he’d either clam up or he’d call in the cavalry. Neither option looked good to me at the moment. “Oh, I’m just curious to know what happened to him. Don’t you think it’s strange, him disappearing like that?”

  Sherman nodded his head as he took a big bite out of his deep-fried fish.

  We stood on the front porch of the little clapboard house. Sherman noticed me staring at the white paint that was just beginning to peel.

  “I was gonna help Roy paint her this summer, but…”

  I nodded my head. He didn’t need to explain. I pulled the ring of keys from my purse and searched for one that looked like it might fit the front door.

  “Where’d you get those?” Sherman asked.

  “They were on the Little Maria. Maybe one fits.” I tried several, but with no luck.

  “Try that one.” Sherman pointed to an inconspicuous-looking key marked, “Black and Decker.”

  I slid it into the lock and turned the key. Bingo. We were in.

  The house was dark and musty, and smelled like the windows hadn’t been opened for at least six months. I flipped a light switch but nothing happened. I assumed the electricity had been turned off for some time since Roy wasn’t around to pay the bills. I opened the drapes to let in some light.

  There were dirty dishes in the sink and a line of ants crawled along the counter, feasting on the meal of the century. A few stacks of papers littered the kitchen table. I fingered through a few envelopes. A small slip of paper caught my eye. I picked it up and studied the blue letters on bright-yellow paper. It was a photo-processing claim-check, dated November tenth. I glanced around to make sure Sherman wasn’t watching and slipped the paper in my pocket.

  A half-dozen wet suits hung from a bar in the doorway between the living room and a bedroom. They each had some sort of rip or tear and required patching. Two scuba tanks sat in one corner, and a bunch of snorkels and masks were piled in the other.

  Four fishing poles, of various heights and gauges, leaned against a wall next to a book shelf. I scanned the titles on the shelf. Not much fiction, except for copies of The Old Man and the Sea and Moby Dick. The others were either about boats, diving, or fishing, and a few on carpentry.

  Sherman looked at his watch. “You know, I gotta get back to my shop. You seen all you want?”

  “Think I could stay and look around?” I asked.

  “Don’t think it’s a good idea. Neighbors might shoot you.”

  I nodded understanding.

  We locked up the house and climbed back into Sherman’s golf cart—one of the main forms of transportation on the island—and headed back to town.

  The lady behind the counter at the drug store gave me a big smile. She reminded me of my Aunt Margie—before the electrolysis. “Yeah. This is one of our claim checks. Older than Methuselah. You forget about it?” she questioned.

  “Sort of,” I replied.

  “Well, let me see if we still have them.” She fingered through a pile of envelopes haphazardly thrown in a drawer. “You’re in luck,” she said, pulling an envelope out. “Hey, these are Roy’s pictures. You know Roy?”

  “I’m his niece,” I said as I glanced all around the counter, but never directly at her. “He asked me to pick them up for him.”

  She ran her eyes up and down my body. “Roy never mentioned a niece. You from around here?”

  “Long Beach,” I answered. That, at least, was half true.

  “Haven’t seen Roy for—gosh, it’s been months. He okay?” she asked.

  “Fine. The pictures?” I reminded her.

  “Oh. Sure. Here ya go, hon. That’ll be fifteen eighty-three.”

  I handed her a twenty and waited while she counted out my change. I wandered back outside and found a bench overlooking the beach, then sat down and tore open the envelope.

  Even in the murky underwater photos, I recognized the familiar image of the Gigabyte. I’d seen it first hand, but I hadn’t gone inside the wreck. I stared at the photos of the main salon, the galley, and the cabins. What a beautiful yacht. I thought of my Plan C and hoped she was safe and sound in her slip. Then the explosion of my first boat, the Plan B, flashed through my mind. The sickening feeling I had when I saw her go up in flames edged its way to the front of my memory.

  I thumbed through a couple of photos that reinforced the bad feeling I had about the demise of the Gigabyte. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at, but something didn’t look right. I studied the photos a while longer. It couldn’t be what it looked like. The poor lighting must have played a trick on the camera—or maybe not.

  I decided I’d gotten all the information I could, so I jogged back down to the marina and hitched a dinghy ride to the Little Maria.

  The sun had just dipped below the horizon as I tied up to the dock in Long Beach. I dug my cell phone out of my purse and punched in Spencer’s number. I hoped he’d found some answers to why all this was happening to me.

  “Hey, Spencer. It’s me. What’d you come up with?”

  “Dev? You okay?” I sensed a level of concern in his voice.

  “Fine. What did you find out?”

  “You won’t believe it…but I really don’t think we should talk about it over the phone. Understand?” His voice took on a low, James-Bondish tone.

  “Yeah. I get it. What do you want to do?”

  “I’m gonna catch a flight out of here in the morning. Can you pick me up at LAX?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What time?” I said, grabbing a pencil to write down the information.

  “Ten thirty. Southwest.”

  “Okay. See you then,” I said.

  I rolled my sleeping bag out on the floor in the lower hold of the Little Maria. Lying on my back, I stared at the ceiling and wondered where Clancy and Olive might be. I hoped Spencer was right and they just decided to take a vacation. A little voice in my head told me that probably wasn’t the case.

  I thought of calling my FBI friend, Dan Cooper. I knew I could trust him. Maybe after I talked to Spencer tomorrow, I’d call Dan.

  My stomach growled as I tried to drift off to sleep. I’d forgotten to eat dinner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was only twenty miles from the Los Angeles International Airport, but when I got to the 405 freeway, I may as well have been half-a-world away. I merged into the quagmire of traffic and tried to make my way over to the far left lane.

  “You people are crazy to do this every day,” I announced to no one listening. I watched the seemingly infinite number of commuters curse as they cut each other off and exchanged dirty looks and internationally-recognized gestures of total irritation. “It’s no wonder you’re all shooting at each other on the freeways.” I read the bumper sticker on the pickup truck in front of me: “Cover me—I’m changing lanes.”

  It would have been easier to find a parking spot at the mall on the Saturday before Christmas than it was to find one at the airport. When I finally found a spot in the back forty, I hustled through the terminal to Spencer’s gate. The flight status monitor indicated his flight was on time. Out of breath, I politely pushed my way to the front of the crowd of people greeters, just as his plane taxied up to the gate.

  I checked the faces as the passengers strolled through the doorway. Visiting families and friends painted huge smiles on their faces when they’d spot their loved ones. Tired businessmen and women hurried o
ff the plane, emotionless, on a mission to make a connection or to get to a meeting.

  I looked at my watch. A few stragglers were deplaning, but no Spencer. I went back to check the flight arrival monitor. I thought there must be more than one flight arriving from Sacramento so I read down the list again. No. This was the only one it could be.

  I approached the check-in counter. “Hi. I’m supposed to pick up a friend on this flight, but he doesn’t seem to have been on it. Can you check to see if there are any messages from Spencer Davis?”

  After a few phone calls, we found no evidence that Spencer made any attempt to get a message to me. Another Southwest flight from Sacramento was due to arrive in thirty minutes. I assumed he’d missed his flight and had to catch a later one.

  I picked up a newspaper and leafed through the pages as I waited. More news of the Gigabyte was plastered all over the front page—along with more speculation into the demise of Gerald Bates. Everything pointed to the probability that he’d drowned, along with his crew. There was another quote from Morgan Johnson, the insurance investigator who’d seen the wreck first hand, claiming the yacht broke apart. The article stated there were no immediate plans to recover the yacht. The cost would be too prohibitive, even though the boat was extremely valuable.

  An announcement over the P.A. system turned my attention from the news back to the arrival of the next Southwest flight from Sacramento. Again, I anxiously watched as a parade of travelers disembarked, but no Spencer.

  I called his house. I waited, impatiently, as his answering machine went through its routine: “Hi. This is Spencer. If you’re a friend, leave a message. I’ll pick up if I’m home. If you’re trying to sell me a subscription, credit-card protection, accidental-death or dismemberment insurance, or want me to change my long distance carrier, leave me your home phone number and the hours you’re most likely to be fixing dinner or watching a good movie, and I’ll try to call you back.”

  “Spencer. It’s Devonie. Are you there? I’m at the airport. Where are you?” I got no response.

  I dialed information. “Long Beach. I’d like an address for West Coast Insurance.” I scribbled down the address. “Thank you.”

  I hung up the phone and glanced around the terminal at the crowds. Maybe Spencer and I’d gotten our wires crossed, and he came in on a different airline. I returned to the check-in counter and asked to have him paged. Minutes passed. Nothing. Where was he? What could have happened?

  It was past noon by now. I left a message for him in case he showed up, and then found my way out of the terminal and back to my Jeep.

  The drive back to Long Beach was not any better than when I came this morning. There doesn’t seem to be any good time to travel on the freeway. Horrible thoughts raced through my mind about what could have happened to Spencer, and they didn’t make the trek any more endurable.

  The receptionist at West Coast Insurance smiled pleasantly at me as I walked through the door.

  “Is Morgan Johnson in?” I asked.

  “Let me check. Your name?”

  “Devonie Lace.”

  Morgan must have sprinted from his office to the reception area—he seemed out of breath when he greeted me.

  “Devonie. What a nice surprise. What can I do for you?” he asked as he straightened his tie.

  I held the envelope of photos tight in my hand. “I need to talk to you—in private—if that’s possible.”

  “Sure. Come on back.”

  I followed him to an office and he closed the door behind us as we entered. I thought back to the news reporter’s interview with Morgan and his explanation for the sinking of the Gigabyte. He was a much better liar than me.

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of Clancy for a couple days. Have you seen him?” I asked.

  “Clancy? No. What do you need him for?”

  “I’m worried about him. You know him better than I do. Is it like him to just disappear without a trace?”

  “Not really. You tried his house?”

  “I called. No answer.”

  “Hmm. Don’t have a clue.” Morgan fidgeted with a box of paper clips and spilled them on the desk.

  I took two photos out of the envelope and shoved them in his face. “I have another question. What do you make of these?”

  He analyzed them. I noticed small beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead. He wiped them off with the back of his hand. “Where’d you get these?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You know what they are, don’t you?” I demanded.

  “Yeah.” He laid the pictures on the desk.

  “Why’d you say the Gigabyte went down because of structural damage? You and I both know she didn’t break apart.” I pounded my finger on one of the pictures to make my point. “Those are opened seacocks! Someone sank that yacht on purpose.”

  “You shouldn’t have these pictures. If you’re smart, you’ll give them to me and forget you ever saw them.” Morgan’s voice was quiet and shaky—much like mine gets just before I break down in tears.

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to forget this. There’s something going on and you’re obviously involved. What is it? Some sort of insurance scam? You get a percentage of the payoff if you push the claim through—no questions asked?”

  Morgan squeezed his eyes shut. “God, if it were only that simple. You really have no idea what you’re getting involved in.”

  I decided to keep pressing. I wanted to know what it was he wasn’t telling me. “Really? How about Clancy? Did he get too involved? That why he and Olive suddenly fell off the face of the earth?” My voice raised a full octave by the end of the sentence.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But if so, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Clancy’s a good friend. I’d never do anything to hurt him.”

  “Just tell me why you lied. What do you gain by not telling anyone why that yacht really went down?”

  He placed his forehead in his palms and slowly shook his head back and forth as he spoke. “My life.”

  He looked up at me. I studied his face and noticed the lines of worry etched into his forehead. I stared into his eyes and he stared back without looking away. I believed him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was story hour at the public library. I heard a young woman’s voice reading from some classic children’s book—I think it may have been Charlotte’s Web—as I walked past the children’s book section. Sitting in a circle on the floor, a dozen fidgety toddlers poked and tickled each other as the patient woman ignored their behavior and read as though she had their undivided attention.

  I pulled my chair up to a computer sitting on a table near the back corner of the library. I entered the web address for my internet service provider and waited for the web page to display on the screen.

  I checked my e-mail, hoping Spencer had left me a message to let me know what happened. Two dozen unread messages sat in my in-box. The first one was a pretty-underwear chain letter from my friend, Beth. If it worked as planned, I would have received fifty-eight pairs of lacy underwear. What would I do with fifty-eight pairs of underpants? I deleted it.

  The next fourteen were forwarded jokes. Mass delete.

  The next three were from someone named Cyndi, and I only needed to read the first few lines to know Cyndi wasn’t a nice girl. I’d been spammed by an X-rated solicitor. Delete. Delete. Delete.

  I skipped over my monthly Sunday Sailor Newsletter.

  There were no messages from Spencer, but the last entry in the list caught my attention. The sender was identified as “cwest.”

  Her message was flagged to send a return receipt once I’d opened it. She would know that I’d picked up the message. She requested a meeting with me. The place, date, and time would be up to me. Carissa West, the woman responsible for creating my extensive criminal history in the government’s database, thought I’d be stupid enough to meet with her.

  I closed her message and opened a “send message” window.

  Spence
r: What happened? Where are you? Are you okay? I’ll keep checking my e-mail. Send me something to let me know what’s happening. Devonie.

  I pressed the send button, logged off of the computer and left the library.

  Why would Carissa West want to meet with me? It would certainly be a setup. She’d have the entire police force waiting for me to walk into her trap. I had to find Spencer. He’s the only one in the world who could clear my name.

  I wasn’t in the library more than thirty minutes. I walked down the row of cars parked along the west side of the brick building I’d just exited. A green Volkswagen was parked in the spot I could have sworn I’d left my Jeep in. I walked the length of the parking lot again. No question about it. My Jeep was gone.

  I emptied the contents of my purse on the bench next to the library entrance. No cell phone. I’d left it in the Jeep. I dug for change for the pay phone. I found one dime, one nickel and twenty-eight pennies.

  I held the twenty-dollar bill out for the woman behind the desk in the library, hoping the pathetic look on my face would arouse sympathy. “Can I get change for the phone?”

  She smiled one of those smiles you get when you’re sixteen and you ask your mom if you can borrow the car to “run some kids over to Reno for ice cream.” Wrong. “Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t give change. There’s a minimarket around the corner, about four blocks down. You can probably get change there.”

  It was six blocks. They wouldn’t give me change unless I bought something. The pay phone took my first two quarters, wouldn’t give me a dial tone, and wouldn’t give me my money back. I took my remaining change and my newly purchased pack of gum down the block to the next phone booth I found.

  Jason’s phone rang twelve times before I finally gave up on it. I guess his answering machine was on the blink again. I know what I’m getting him for Christmas this year.