by Gina Cresse
“You sure? You could have the date wrong.”
How soon they forget. I’ve explained to Jason a hundred times—if my last name was Right, my first name would be Always—at least when it comes to remembering dates and numbers. I glared at him. “You’re birthday is March fourteenth, I graduated from college on June ninth, I was hired at San Tel on August twelfth, I quit San Tel on October eleventh, your sister’s birthday is—“
“Okay. Okay. I get the picture. So the yacht sunk on the tenth. What does it mean?”
“It means someone made up the story about Bates returning to San Francisco on that date. I bet he wasn’t anywhere near the City. He wasn’t on his yacht. He was somewhere in the Middle East when the Gigabyte went down.”
“So, where is he now? How could he just vanish?”
“I bet he had help. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like he’d returned.”
Chapter Eighteen
I tapped my fingers on Jason’s kitchen table as I counted the rings over the telephone stuck to my ear. Four rings, then, “Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I direct your call?”
I sat up in the chair. “Dan Cooper, please.”
“Mr. Cooper’s on vacation—“
“I know. Voice mail will be fine.”
I listened to agent Cooper’s generic greeting. “This is agent Cooper. I’m out of the office until the fifteenth. Leave me a message.”
I cleared my throat. “Dan, this is Devonie Lace. You won’t believe it, but I’m in trouble again. I can’t tell you where I am or how to reach me. I hope you’re one of those insane people who checks his messages daily, even on vacation. I’ll keep checking with your office.” I hung up the phone and turned to see Jason searching the refrigerator.
“How much room do you have on your credit card?” I asked as I stood up and began pacing the floor.
“Huh?” he responded, still rifling through the vegetable crisper—where he stores his candy bars.
“Enough to get two round-trip tickets to San Francisco?” I asked.
“Bus?”
“Please! No! Plane tickets. Southwest. They’re cheap.”
“What’ve you got in mind?” He finally turned to look at me while he took a bite out of a Mars Bar.
“I have to find Spencer. I just know Stan Parker is involved somehow.”
Jason downed the candy bar in two bites, then reached back in the fridge and pulled a hotdog out of its plastic package and jammed the entire thing in his mouth. “You’re not thinking of trying any of that Rambo stuff, are you?” he asked, his mouth still full.
I laughed. “Me? No way.”
“Good.”
“That’s why I’m bringing you along.”
Jason choked on his hotdog. He coughed and wagged his finger at me, unable to speak.
“How can you still be hungry?”
He patted his chest and swallowed the half-chewed wiener.
I headed for the door. “Come on. We’ll need your cell phone.”
The next Southwest flight to San Francisco was scheduled to leave in just a little over an hour. Jason and I made our way down the long corridors, through the security stop, and to our gate just in time to hear the boarding call. We obtained our boarding passes and, luckily, found two empty seats next to each other. Someone had left a newspaper in the seat pocket in front of me. I snatched it up and leafed through the pages, looking for any Gigabyte updates.
I wanted to check my messages before the seatbelt sign came on. I nudged Jason. “Let me see your phone.”
He was half asleep. “Huh? Oh. Okay.” He dug it out of his pocket. “Here you go.”
I called my number and waited for my answering machine to pick up. As soon as I heard my voice on the recording, I punched in my secret code and listened to my messages. The first one was from Craig.
“Devonie, are you there? Please pick up. Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Please call me. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my forehead. I knew I should call him, but I didn’t know what I was going to say to him yet. I shoved that worry to the back of my mind.
I heard a click, then some static, then a brief silence. The voice was barely audible, just a whisper. I could make out the first word. “Devonie.” I couldn’t be sure about the rest of the message. It sounded like a frantic, “Oh man, they’re here,” and then the line went dead. I powered the phone off and handed it back to Jason. The voice could have been Spencer’s, but I wasn’t sure. The knot in my stomach grew larger and tenser with each passing minute. By the end of the ninety-minute flight, the imprint of my fingernails was carved into my palms.
The girl at the car-rental counter pointed through the glass windows at a bright-purple Plymouth Neon parked out front. I gaped at it. “No. We can’t take that car,” I blurted. “We need something a little…uh…something more…something less purple.”
She gazed out the window at the collection of brightly colored cars. “We have a yellow one.”
I smiled at her. “White? Do you have white?”
She frowned. “Not in an economy car. We have a white Taurus, but it costs more.”
“We’ll take it,” I said.
Jason elbowed me. “Wait a minute! How much more?” he asked as I took him by the arm and pulled him away from the counter—out of earshot of the car-rental agent.
“I’ll pay you back when this is over. We can’t be prancing around the Silicon Valley in that…that…Mickey Mouse car. We’ll stand out like a rodeo clown at a polo match.”
Jason slumped his shoulders and trudged back to the counter. “I guess we’ll take the Taurus.”
The Silicon Valley, an area about twenty-five miles long, ten miles wide, and approximately forty-five miles southeast of San Francisco, is home to some of the wealthiest high-tech companies in the world. Countless entrepreneurs hitched their wagons to that fortune-bound horse called “technology” and Gerald Bates was one of the visionaries who had the stamina, fortitude, intelligence, and incredible good luck to come out on top. Employees of these companies enjoy the monetary rewards of working for a veritable gold mine.
As Jason and I sat in our plain white Taurus in the parking lot of the Bates Building, we glanced around at the other cars parked there. I counted one Ferrari, one Porsche, two Jaguars, six Benzes and twice as many BMW’s. Our Ford was painfully out of place—much as I wanted to be inconspicuous.
Jason sat behind the wheel and drooled over the expensive sports cars surrounding us. I nudged his shoulder. “Trade me places.”
“What?” he said as he squinted at me through those green eyes. The last time I saw a face like that, Clint Eastwood was on the big screen asking some punk if he felt lucky.
“You heard me. I want to drive,” I said.
He sneered at me. “No way. I want to live to use my return ticket to San Diego.”
“Come on. I’m not gonna do anything crazy. I just don’t want to lose this guy.”
“I’ve seen Bullet. You’ll be like Steve McQueen and we’ll be airborne over the streets of San Francisco,” Jason argued.
“Sissy.”
“Go ahead. Insult me.”
“Okay. Fine.” I turned back and crossed my arms over my chest. “You can drive, but you have to swear you’ll stick to him, no matter what. Spencer’s life may depend on this.”
“Have faith. I won’t let you down.”
I gave Jason a skeptical glance. “Right. Let me see your phone.”
I powered on Jason’s cell phone and ran the script through my head one more time. I punched in the number for Bates Corporation and impatiently navigated my way through the electronic maze designed to direct my call as quickly and efficiently as possible without any human contact. After repeating the sequence three times, being disconnected twice, and selecting two wrong options, I finally reached the voice mail for Stan Parker. In exasperation, I pressed the zero button and waited for a human bein
g to come on the line.
“Hello. I need to speak to Stan Parker right away. It’s an emergency. Can you please page him? I’ll wait.”
The operator paused briefly. “The nature of the emergency?”
I rolled my eyes. “A personal emergency. Please!”
“Hold please.” A flood of elevator music streamed into my ear, causing the opposite reaction than what was intended. I checked my watch. Five minutes later, the operator came back on the line. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to locate Mr. Parker. I can put you through to his voice mail.”
“No. Already tried that. Page him again. Tell him it’s Carissa West.”
She didn’t reply. She shoved me back into the flood of elevator music. I waited, again.
Jason ogled a burgundy Jaguar parked opposite us. He looked like a kid paging through the J.C. Penney’s Christmas catalog.
Finally, a man’s voice barked into my ear. “Carissa?”
I cleared my throat. “No, Mr. Parker. It’s Spencer Davis’s assistant. I’m calling to see how you’re coming with those flow charts.”
He was silent for a moment. “Flow charts? But Maggie said you were—“
“Carissa West? Yes, I know. I had to get your attention.” My heart was racing, but not as fast as my brain was trying to stay one step ahead of him.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“Not until you tell me where Spencer Davis is.”
“What? How the heck should I know where he is?”
“Come on, Stan. You and I both know you’re not the network administrator for Bates Corporation. People are missing and I think you know where they are,” I said.
“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re—“
“Oh, really? I’ll show you just how crazy I am. I know for a fact that Gerald Bates wasn’t on the Gigabyte when it went down. I know it was deliberately sunk—someone opened the seacocks. I have pictures to prove it. I also know that on the day it sank, Bates was in Baghdad, meeting with Mohammed Aziz. Am I warm, Mr. Parker?” I figured as long as I was going out on a limb, I may as well start with hard facts.
“You don’t know anything.” His voice took on an arrogant tone—I had to call his bluff.
“Really? Then why haven’t you hung-up on me?”
“Who are you?” he demanded again.
“I told you, not until you tell me where Spencer Davis is. If you don’t, I’m going to the FBI with everything I know.” I was hoping I wouldn’t have to play all my cards, but this guy wouldn’t budge.
“They’ll laugh you out of their office. No. Better yet, they’ll lock you up in a State hospital. Men in white jackets. I’m sure you’re familiar,” Parker said.
“I know about Harlan and Carissa West. I know about Kent Morrison. I know about Roy Hastings.” I grasped for my last cards. “I even know about Clancy and Olive McGreggor. I know it all, Mr. Parker.”
“What do you know about—“
“Ever cheat on your wife? Lie to the IRS? Steal something valuable? Because I’m about to find out, and when I do, I’ll tell the world what a lowlife scumbag you are. Think your wife and kids will want you around after that?”
“You don’t know anything. You’re crazy.” Click. The line went dead.
I guess I went far enough. If I’d played my cards right, Mr. Parker would be on the run—just where I wanted him. I hung up the phone and handed it back to Jason. “You ready to rumble? I expect we’ll see Mr. Parker through those doors any second now.”
Jason turned the key in the ignition. “You better hope he’s not the owner of that Ferrari or we’ll be in trouble.”
“Only if he knows we’re following him. Just be cool.”
Thirty seconds later, Stan Parker blasted through the glass doors and raced to his car, a silver-blue Toyota minivan. Jason let out a sigh of relief as he put the Taurus in gear and pulled out of our spot. We eased out of the parking lot and followed the minivan south, then onto the freeway. Jason kept one car between us and Parker to avoid being spotted. Luckily, Stan Parker used his turn signals faithfully, so we were never surprised by his moves. We exited the freeway after about ten miles and headed east, toward the foothills. We followed him into a rural subdivision called ”Iron Horse Estates.” Jason stayed back far enough to avoid attention, but close enough that we could always keep him in sight if he turned a corner.
The minivan finally pulled into a long circular driveway in front of a large ranch-style home. The red tile roof shaded two ferns hanging in the Spanish arches on each side of the entry. A perfectly manicured lawn led to a flower bed bursting with begonias, impatiens, and oxalis. The flowing branches of a weeping-willow swayed with the breeze. The pleasantness of the scene momentarily distracted me from the seriousness of the situation.
“Stop right here,” I instructed Jason. We parked on the street and watched as Stan Parker climbed out of the minivan.
A golden retriever, with a red bandana tied around his neck, barreled around the corner of the house to greet him. Pink flowers and dirt clods flew through the air as the big dog tore through the flower bed. Stan Parker covered his eyes with his hands and shook his head.
“That’s Tex!” I blurted, pointing at the bumbling beast.
Jason grabbed my hand and pulled it down. “Don’t get so excited. There must be a million of those dogs around. You can’t be sure it’s Tex.”
A woman walked out the front door and called the dog to her side. I watched as the big dog obeyed her command and she took him by the collar and led him into the house. Parker followed.
“Oh yeah? Now I’m sure that’s Tex.”
“How do you know?” Jason asked.
“Because that was Olive who just took him inside.”
Chapter Nineteen
We sat in the car, watching the closed front door, waiting for someone to come out. “I don’t get it. Clancy and Olive? They can’t be involved in all this,” I said.
“Why not? You said he found that boat back in November. He could have found the Gigabyte months ago,” Jason said. That scenario hadn’t occurred to me, but Jason’s theory sent my brain on a wild detour. I processed it, but couldn’t make any sense out of it.
“But why all the charade? It doesn’t fit. There’s something else going on,” I insisted.
Jason adjusted the strap of his seatbelt. “What do you want to do? Bust in there like the Lone Ranger?”
“No. Let me see your phone again, Tonto.”
I punched in the number for Dan Cooper’s office and navigated my way back to his voice mail. This time, he’d added an addendum to his announcement. “If this pertains to an urgent matter, press zero and speak with my assistant, Marci Eisman. She will assist you.”
I pressed zero and waited for the welcome voice of a real person. “Hi. Marci Eisman, please?”
“One moment.”
Ten seconds later, “This is Marci. Can I help you?”
“Hi Marci. My name is Devonie Lace. I’ve been—“
“Miss Lace. Yes. I’ve been expecting your call. I have a message for you from Agent Cooper. He’s on his way to San Diego right now. He wants you to meet him at the FBI office there as soon as you can.”
I checked my watch. “It’ll have to be tomorrow morning. Can you relay that to him?”
“Certainly.”
A moment later, the door I’d been watching swung open and Stan Parker rushed out, followed by Clancy and Olive. Tex squeezed through the door and Olive grabbed his collar and ordered him back into the house.
“Thanks, Marci,” I blurted into the phone and hung up.
Stan, Clancy, and Olive piled into the minivan and peeled out of the driveway.
I pointed toward the escaping vehicle. “Quick! Follow them!”
Jason fumbled with the keys.
“Come on! Come on!” I blurted.
“I’m trying! Lay off!” He finally got the Ford started and jammed it in gear. We took off after the minivan.
“Not s
o close,” I ordered. “He’ll make us.”
Jason eased off the gas pedal. “Make us? You’ve been watching too many cop shows.”
“Just don’t lose him.”
We wound our way back to the freeway and merged into the heavy traffic, headed north. Stan Parker must have shoved his foot to the floor, because the minivan surged ahead, almost rear-ending the car in front of him. He swerved around the obstacle.
“Speed up,” I said.
Jason eased the Taurus around the Honda in front of us. The minivan weaved in and out of traffic, putting more distance between us.
“Hurry! He’s getting away!” I hollered, bracing my hands on the dash. I felt a knot in my stomach as the tension built with each passing second.
Jason leered at me. “Just relax. I told you I want to live to see another day.” He checked over his left shoulder and eased into the carpool lane. The minivan was well ahead of us. I glanced over at the speedometer. It read seventy-five.
“Come on, Jason. People are passing us!”
He gripped the wheel and pushed the accelerator down a little more. I watched the needle inch up to eighty.
“Okay. Now you’re keeping up with the commuters. How about catching that minivan,” I said, pointing through the windshield toward the vehicle that had almost disappeared from our view.
Jason’s knuckles were white as we barreled down the freeway at eighty-five miles-per-hour, then ninety. I sat on the edge of my seat and strained to keep the minivan in sight.
“I think we’re gaining on him,” I said as I took a deep breath to fight off the symptoms of hyperventilating. “Keep it up.”
The minivan moved over to the number-three lane, then to the center lane.
I pointed at it. “He’s moving over. We better stick with him.”
Jason didn’t make any move. I glanced over at him. “Come on, Jason. Change lanes.”
Jason looked over his right shoulder. “I can’t. There’s no opening.”
I checked over my shoulder. “Sure there is! Just make one! They won’t hit you!”
