by Gina Cresse
Jason flicked on his turn signal. The car on our right bumper sped up.
“Jerk,” I grumbled as it held its position next to us.
The minivan changed lanes, again. “He’s gonna get off, Jason! Come on! Get over!”
“I can’t! There’s no open spot!”
The minivan made one last swerve and glided down the off-ramp. We barreled by at eighty-five miles-per-hour. “Great. We lost him,” I moaned. I couldn’t believe it. After all that effort—the flight, the daring phone call, flushing Stan Parker out—all for nothing. I absolutely hate wasted effort. I tried to come up with a way to save this failed mission.
Jason eased his foot off the accelerator. “Sorry, Dev. There was just no way.”
I cranked around in my seat and tried to see where the minivan went. It was useless. He was long out of view. I turned back around and adjusted my seatbelt. I didn’t say a word, but just stared out the windshield, gritting my teeth.
Jason glanced at me. “Come on, Dev. I’m sorry. There really was no way—“
“I know. You’re right. I’m just worried about Spencer.” I checked my watch. “Our flight’s not for another four hours. Let’s head back to the Bates Building.”
“What are you cooking up now?” Jason asked, with a worried tone in his voice.
I pointed out the window toward a shopping mall on the west side of the freeway. “There. Let’s stop at Sears.”
“Sears?”
“Yeah. Got your credit card handy?”
“Jeez! You’re gonna break me!”
I led Jason through the tool section of the store. I gathered up a leather tool belt, a collection of screwdrivers, pliers, wire cutters, and strippers.
“What in the world are you up to?” Jason asked, standing in the middle of the aisle, feet apart and hands on his hips.
I picked up a baseball cap, took his hand, and led him toward the counter. “You’ll see.”
Jason signed on the dotted line and we marched out of Sears with our purchase.
“Okay. Time’s ticking. Let’s get over to the Bates Building,” I said.
Jason glared at me. “Something tells me I’m not gonna like this.”
“Relax. It’ll be okay.” Famous last words. I remember chanting those very words to my manager at San Tel during those eleven days when the database had gone down and I couldn’t get it back up. I’ve tried hard to stay away from situations that call for those four little words. Apparently, I haven’t tried hard enough.
We pulled into the Bates Corporation lot and parked behind a large garbage bin. It was late in the afternoon and the time limit imposed by our return flight to San Diego nagged at me. I pulled the price tags off the tools and placed them randomly in the belt. I stopped and looked at Jason. “This isn’t gonna work.”
He squinted at me. “What’s not gonna work?”
“My plan. I need you to do something first.”
“ What something?”
“It’s easy. Just go into the lobby. There’s a stack of newsletters on the table in the waiting area. Grab one and bring it back.”
“Newsletter? Why?”
“You’ll see. Hurry.”
Jason shook his head, unbuckled his seatbelt, and climbed out of the Ford. He pointed his finger at me. “You’d better be right about this.”
I watched him disappear through the glass entrance. A moment later, he reappeared with the rolled-up newsletter in his hand. He beamed a proud smile at me as he approached the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “Here you go. Mission accomplished.”
I snatched it up and flipped through the pages, stopping when I found what I was looking for. “Good. Now we have to find a copy machine.”
“Copies?” Jason shot a grimace my way, then started the car.
“Yeah. That shopping center we passed about two miles back. I saw a drugstore,” I said.
We stood at the copy machine next to the ice-cream counter in the drugstore. I patted my pockets and glanced at Jason. “Got any change?”
He dug through his pockets and produced two dimes, four nickels, and six pennies. I picked out everything but the pennies.
I opened the newsletter to the sample forms and found the new design for the Bates Corporation work order. I tore off a small strip of blank paper from a different page, licked it, and pasted it across the word “sample” on the work order. I laid it face down on the glass, closed the lid, put my dime in, and pressed the big green button. The machine spit out half of a work order, too small, and oriented the wrong way on the paper.
Jason elbowed me. “Better read the instructions, techno-queen. That’s all the change I have.”
I smirked at him, pressed some buttons, dropped another dime in the slot, and hit the “Go” button again. This time, it was perfect. I made two more copies and snatched the newsletter from the glass.
I took Jason’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute. I’m gonna get an ice cream.”
“Come on! We don’t have time!”
Jason mimicked me in a high-pitched, nasally voice. “Come on, Jason. Give me your credit card, Jason. Drive me here, Jason. Drive me there, Jason. Jump off that cliff, Jason.”
I ignored his mockery and dragged him through the exit door. “Give me the keys,” I demanded.
“No.”
“Then quit whining.”
We parked in the Bates Building lot again. I scribbled some words on the work order and signed Stan Parker’s name to it, then climbed out of the Taurus and stood next to the passenger door. Jason watched as I buckled the tool belt and wiggled it on my hips to make sure it wouldn’t slip off. “Wait here,” I said.
“What are you up to?” Jason asked.
“I’m gonna see what I can dig up. If I’m not out of there in…“ I checked my watch. “In thirty minutes, come get me.”
“Get you? But—“
I slammed the door and trotted across the parking lot toward the entrance, leaving Jason with his mouth hanging open. I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and tucked my hair through the opening in the back of the baseball cap.
When I pushed through the big glass door, I was relieved to see a different receptionist behind the counter. I removed my sunglasses and spread the work order out on the counter in front of her. “Hi. I’m from maintenance. I need to tone out some lines in Stan Parker’s office.”
The receptionist glanced over the work order, then back at me. “Where’s your employee badge?”
I glanced at my watch. “By this time, it’s probably somewhere in my backyard. My dog ate it last night.”
She crinkled her nose. “Ew.”
“H.R. knows. I’m supposed to pick up a visitor badge from you until they get my new one made up.”
She pressed some buttons on her switchboard and smiled at me. I tapped my foot on the tile floor and readied to dash out the front door.
She glanced at her clock. “No one answers in H.R.” She handed me a visitor badge. “Here. Just bring it back when you get your replacement.”
“Thanks.” I clipped the badge to my shirt and hurried down the corridor.
I glanced down a row of cubicles and checked my watch. It was nearly five. Anxious employees packed up their things and made small talk while they watched the hand on the clock sweep past the twelve. I strolled down the aisle and watched as the obedient employees logged off of their computers before going home for the night.
I made my way to Stan Parker’s office. Stan had left in such a hurry that he failed to lock his door. I slipped in and sat down in front of his computer, which he’d also failed to log off of. I must have really panicked him with my call. His screen-saver password glared at me, daring me to try it.
I glanced around the sterile-looking office. There were not many clues about hobbies, interests, loved ones—in fact, the only hint that he had a life outside this office was a photo of him and a small boy of about eight or nine, fishing from a pier. The San Francisco skyl
ine was etched in the background, and they were laughing and obviously enjoying each other’s company. I assumed it was his son.
Stan Parker was not a savvy computer user, but I was hanging my hat on the chance that he, at least, had administrator privileges to the network. I tapped my fingernails on the desk and stared at the screen, still prompting me for a password. I checked my watch. I only had twenty minutes before Jason would come to my rescue.
I remembered something Spencer told me back when we worked for San Tel. I turned the keyboard over and found a label stuck to the bottom with a cryptic code printed on it. I typed it into the password box and was in. “Shame on you, Mr. Parker,” I whispered as I opened the explorer window and scrolled through the folders. I found one labeled “aziz” and brought up the first of six documents contained in it. A local printer was connected to Parker’s computer and sat on a table in the corner of his office. I clicked on the print button and let the document finish spooling to the printer before I brought up the next document.
I checked my watch. I’d have to be on my way out in five minutes. “Hurry up,” I whispered as I impatiently waited for the printer to spit out the last two documents. I snatched them up and raced out of the office.
I stepped into the lobby in time to see Jason standing outside the locked glass doors. I smiled at him and pushed my way through.
“How was I supposed to come get you when the doors were locked?” he grumbled.
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”
As we headed for the airport, I read through the stack of paper I’d generated in Parker’s office. “Oh, man! We hit paydirt!” I said, bolting upright in my seat. I skimmed rapidly through the pages in my lap.
Jason glanced at me. “What’s it say?”
“Remember all those rumblings about an antitrust lawsuit the government threatened Gerald Bates with last year?”
“Yeah. I think so. Haven’t heard much about it lately.”
“And you’re not gonna, either. They cut some sort of deal with Bates.”
“Deal?”
“Yeah. He’d established some sort of rapport with Mohamed Aziz, that oil guy I told you about,” I explained as I continued reading. “Looks like they got to be pretty friendly. Aziz bought a Mercedes and gave it to Bates as a gift.” I stopped for a moment and reread the sentence. “Huh, this is weird. Aziz bought the car in San Diego and had it delivered to Bates’ home. I wonder why he’d buy it there when Bates lives in the Bay Area?” I pondered the question for a moment, then dismissed it. “Anyhow, the government wanted Bates to help get undercover agents into Iraq. Looks like they were supposed to pose as Bates’ employees—aids, assistants, secretaries.”
“What happened to Bates?” Jason interrupted, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Don’t know. Nothing here says. Dan Cooper’s our best bet right now.”
We turned the rental car in and rode the shuttle bus to the airport terminal. Our flight was delayed thirty minutes. Jason nudged me. “I’m gonna get a hotdog. Want anything?”
I pondered my choices. “Yeah. See if they have some kind of chicken sandwich—not deep-fried.”
“If they don’t?”
“I don’t care. Anything. I’m starving.” I knew it was risky giving Jason free reign to choose my food, but I was desperately hungry.
He came back with two hotdogs, smothered in mustard, ketchup, and relish. I didn’t say a word as I practically inhaled the preservative-packed wiener. I hated to admit it, but it tasted wonderful. I just blocked out the thoughts of everything I’ve ever heard about what goes into hotdogs.
We touched down in San Diego and pushed our way through the crowd as we struggled to get out of the congestion at the gate.
We started down the corridor toward the exit when Jason pointed toward the restroom sign. “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared through the door and I leaned against the wall to wait for him.
I noticed two uniformed men talking with each other. They glanced at me, then conferred some more. I moved away from the wall and started for the ladies room. They beat me to it. One on each side of me, they took my arms and ushered me down the hall.
I stumbled over my own feet. How could they have found me? They were just waiting for me, like a pair of cats at the mouth of a mouse hole. I glanced up and noticed the odd panels placed strategically in the ceiling. Cameras. They must have caught me on video in the San Francisco airport. It would have been easy to track down my destination and lay in wait. How could I have been so stupid? “What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Devonie Lace?” the one on my right asked.
“What do you want? Let me go!” I struggled to free my arms.
“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—“
“Under arrest! For what?”
The man in blue released my right arm and pulled the arrest warrant from his pocket. He read down the list. “Let’s see. Where to begin: Grand theft auto, Assault with a deadly weapon, Forgery, Possession of narcotics with the intent to sell, Driving under the influence—“
I cut him off. “You forgot fishing without a license.”
The officer smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper in his hand and ran his finger down the list. “Give me a minute. I’m sure I can find that in here, somewhere.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. This is a setup. I didn’t do any of those things,” I insisted.
My captors smiled, and the one still grasping my arm winked at his partner. “That’s what they all say.”
“But it’s true. You’ve got to believe me. I’ve been framed.”
“Tell it to the judge,” the one on my left said as he and his partner hauled me down the long corridor and continued informing me of my rights.
I wasn’t interested in their version of the Miranda speech. I’d heard it a thousand times on old Dragnet reruns. I cranked my head around to see Jason wander out of the men’s room. I called out to him. “Jason! Call Dan Cooper!”
Jason gawked at the two officers escorting me away. “Where are they taking you?” he hollered.
I turned to the usher on my right. “Where are we going?”
“Eighth Precinct.”
I called back over my shoulder, “Eighth Precinct! Hurry!”
Chapter Twenty
I slumped in the back of the black-and-white squad car as it worked its way through the heavy traffic of San Diego. I stared blankly at the metal grate separating me from officers Robins and Cowen. They conversed as though I didn’t exist. As far as they were concerned, anything behind the grate was on equal ground with rattle snakes and rabid skunks. As we passed the “Eighth Precinct” sign, Cowen swung the car around into the parking lot. On the other side of a tall chain-link fence, I noticed an unusual car. It was a bright pink Mercedes Benz. Robins noticed it, too.
“Oh, no. Mrs. Grovesner’s at it again,” Robins grumbled.
Cowen chuckled under his breath. “You’d think someone with the kind of money her husband brings home could kick the habit.”
“You kidding? I bet she shoplifts on purpose to pay him back for giving her that ridiculous pink car,” Robins shot back. They both laughed.
I noticed the license plate frame as we passed by the Mercedes. It was from Grovesner Mercedes, a dealership in downtown San Diego—the same dealership where Aziz had purchased the car for Gerald Bates.
Cowen parked the squad car in a slot close to the police station. “He probably got it for next to nothing—couldn’t sell the thing on his lot—not with a paint job like that.”
Cowen set the brake, cut the engine, and broke into his tour guide routine. “Here we are. And on your left, we have the historic Eighth Precinct building, home of the next Pig Bowl champions of the Southland.”
Robins pulled me from the back seat and slammed the door. He grinned at his partner. “Those CHP wimps are gonna cry to their mammas after Saturday’s game.”
I glared at the cavalier pair as they led me up
the steps. As we entered the building, a well dressed woman walked toward us, heading for the exit. She had mascara-stained tear streaks down both cheeks and one of her teal-green pumps had a broken heel, causing her to limp like a broken down old horse. Her outfit was expensive, probably from one of the finer department stores in the area. Her perfume was strong, but not unpleasant. Its scent arrived well in advance of her physical self, and I thought she could probably stand to be a little more conservative when applying it. I noticed the huge diamond ring on her left hand. She wiped her nose with a wad of tissue and tried to avoid our stares.
Officer Cowen held the door open for her and gave a huge smile as she passed. “Evening, Mrs. Grovesner,” he said.
She nodded and mumbled something I couldn’t hear as she scurried out of the building. I would have shed a tear for the poor thing if I hadn’t already been feeling so sorry for myself.
My delightful evening ended by being ushered into a cold, dreary, holding cell. The unconcealed stainless steel commode in the corner sent a shiver up my spine. I wondered how long I could hold out without using it and wished I hadn’t drank that last glass of water on the plane.
I lay on the hard bunk and stared up at the gray ceiling. The place reeked of Pine Sol, trying to cover up all the other unpleasant odors, but not succeeding. Women in neighboring cells shouted obscenities at each other, revealing their true natures and making it perfectly clear why they were here in the first place. But why was I here? I’d been trapped in this cell for hours and I felt the tears welling up. I’d just about reached the end of my tough-woman performance. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to redirect my focus.
“When do I get my phone call?” I yelled at the top of my lungs, assuming no one was listening. I bolted upright when I heard the jingling of keys clanking against the lock on my cell. The voice on the other side laughed and said, “Just settle down, Miss ‘I’ve been framed.’” The bars swung open and a hefty woman in a drab uniform marched in. The guard pointed at me. “You got a ticket out of here, Missy. Got friends down at the FBI, do we?”
