Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 01 - A Deadly Change of Course--Plan B (10 page)

“Oh.  I’m sorry to hear that.  How did it happen?”

“He and his wife were killed in a plane crash
—
very tragic.”

How ironic
, I thought to myself.  “Was it a commercial flight?” I asked.

“No. 
His own private plane.
  Both Frank and his wife were killed.”  The woman sounded distressed.

“I’m sorry I had to bring it all up again.  Thank you for your time.”

I made one more call to Uncle Doug.  I didn’t want to be too specific over the phone
—
in case anyone was listening in on the conversation.  “Can you meet me for lunch at that place you and Arlene took me to for my thirteenth birthday?”

He hesitated for a moment
—
trying to remember back that far, I guess.  “Oh.  Sure.  I’ll meet you out front at noon.  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  I’ll see you at twelve.”

I stopped to pick up a battery for the laptop and a box of CDs on my way back to San Diego.  I sat in the car in the parking lot and made several backup copies of the E-mail documents Robert
Kephart
had left on his computer.  A man’s voice startled me while I waited for the last copy to be made.

“Nice car,” he said as he leaned over the passenger side door, admiring the sports car.  He hid his face behind a pair of dark reflective sunglasses that looked as if they came right out of the seventies.  He wore a pair of jeans about as tight as the casing of an overstuffed Polish sausage.  His dark shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, exposing a collection of gold chains that would put Mr. T to shame.  On his right hand was a hideously gaudy
piece of oversized gold jewelry.  On his other hand, he wore a mood ring.  I hadn’t seen one of those since high school.  He also sported a pair of pointy, high-heeled alligator-skin cowboy boots, complete with sterling-silver toe caps.  To top off the entire ensemble, he wore a black mohair cowboy hat with a confederate flag pinned to the front of it.  He reeked of Calvin Klein’s Eternity for Men, a scent that I used to find very appealing
—
at least up until that moment.

“Thank you,” I said, not offering any other words to encourage a conversation.  He gave me the creeps and I wanted him to be on his way.

“BMW
?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Like the one in the James Bond movie.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Cool,” he said as he stepped back to admire the car.  “Think I could take her for a spin?”

I laughed.  “You’re kidding. 
Right?”

“I’d be careful. 
Just once around the block?”

“I don’t think so.  I’m late for an appointment,” I said and started the engine.  As I backed out of the parking spot, I watched him walk to his car
—
an older model bright-yellow Porsche
Targa
.  He followed me out of the parking lot and tailgated me all the way to the highway.

“Great,” I said to myself.  All I needed was for this guy to pester me all the way to San Diego. 

I made several turns to try to lose him, but he kept right on my tail.  Picking up speed, I started weaving in and out of traffic.  When I thought I had lost him, I
quickly darted into the parking lot of a small restaurant.  I parked in the back so the car wouldn’t be visible from the road and went inside for a few minutes to give the jerk time to get out of the vicinity. 

Sitting in a booth with my iced tea, I watched a brother and sister torment each other in the booth next to mine.  He would pull her hair, and she would punch him in the arm.  The parents would make promises of punishment, but
never followed through
.  The mother left the booth to make a phone call, and the father went to the rest room.  Then I watched in amazement as the boy took the wad of gum he was chewing and dropped it in the fresh bottle of ketchup the waitress had placed on their table.  He used a straw to push it just beneath the surface so it wasn’t visible.  The two little snots squealed with delight at the ingenious act.  Suddenly, they were the best of friends.  When their parents returned, the happy family went to their minivan and left. 

It wasn’t until then that I noticed the jerk in the yellow Porsche.  He had somehow slithered in and taken the booth behind me without me noticing him.  He must have checked every parking lot on the street, looking for the Z3.  This guy was some sort of crazy stalker.  When I turned and noticed him, he smiled and waved, like we were old friends.  He ordered a burger and fries, and rudely interrupted the busy waitress, demanding ketchup.

I smiled, got up from my table and picked up the bottle of Heinz from the rotten kids’ booth, then strolled over to his table and placed it in front of him.  “Here you
go,” I said, politely.  Turning to walk away, I whispered, “Bozo,” to myself. 

After paying my bill, I quickly left.  As much as I wanted to stick around and watch the expression on his face when he bit into the big wad of Bazooka bubble gum in his hamburger, I decided it would be wiser for me to be on my way.  As I pulled out of the parking lot, he came running out of the restaurant, cursing at me.

I stuck my foot into the accelerator and squealed around the corner.  That darn little yellow Porsche was on my tail before I knew it.  I was speeding dangerously through traffic, trying to locate a freeway on-ramp
.  He just stuck to me like Velcro
.  I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could change lanes.  No open spot.  I swerved into the oncoming traffic lane and checked my
speedometer—
seventy-five miles per hour.  The speed limit sign read thirty-five.  I dashed back into my own lane just in time to escape a head-on with a Cadillac.  A short break in the oncoming traffic gave me an opportunity to get off the Pacific Coast Highway.  I squealed left, through a red light, and onto a small side street.  My yellow shadow haunted me.  I couldn’t seem to lose him.  Racing through a quiet residential area, we must have looked like
a couple of Grand Prix
wanna-be
s
.

Suddenly, a small calico cat, carrying a kitten in her mouth, trotted out in front of me.  I slammed the brakes on.  The Porsche squealed to a halt behind me, coming within inch
es
of my bumper.  Mama kitty, startled by the commotion, stopped dead in her tracks, panicked.  She dashed left, then right,
then
left again.  I watched in my
rearview mirror as the driver-side door of the Porsche opened.  Finally, the feline got her senses and carried her baby to the safety of a large planter box in the next yard.  Just as my pursuer reached the rear fender, I punched the accelerator and sped off.  He jumped back into his little bumble bee car and resumed the chase. 

Somehow, I found myself back on the main highway, only this time, heading north.  I just couldn’t seem to lose him.  Then, all of a sudden, he disappeared.  Soon enough, I realized why.

When I saw the flashing red lights and heard the siren, my heart sank.  I pulled over and sat helpless, as I waited for my fate to be dished out to me.  The little yellow Porsche raced by and honked his horn as he passed.  What a jerk.

“May I see your license and registration, please?” the officer asked.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have my license with me.  I seem to have lost it,” I confessed.  “But here’s the registration,” I said as I rummaged through the glove box, searching for the certificate.

He inspected the registration certificate.  “Are you an employee of Douglas Lace Yacht Brokerage?” he asked.

“No.  Douglas Lace is my uncle.  He loaned me this car.”

“I see.  What’s your name?” he asked.

“
Devonie
Lace.”

“Do you have any identification?”

“Well, not actually, officer.”

He eyed me suspiciously.  “May I ask why you don’t have any ID?”

I bit my lip and hesitated, trying to think of a good excuse.  Sympathy seemed to be my best shot in a situation like this.  “Well, you see.  I had this fight with my boyfriend last night.  He took me out to dinner at the Pier Restaurant.  After dinner, we walked out to the end of the pier, and he said he had something very important to ask me.  I thought for sure he was going to propose, since we’ve been dating for nearly seven years now.  I had told him that I wasn’t going to wait much longer for him to make up his mind.  Anyhow, he didn’t propose.  He asked if I could loan him twelve hundred dollars for one of his crazy, get-rich-quick schemes
—
that never materialize.  I told him no, and that I never wanted to see him again.  After all, he never repaid me from all the other times I loaned him money and he promised to pay me back.”  I mustered up all the emotion I could, and even managed a tear or two.  “Anyhow, he grabbed my purse and we struggled over it.”  I paused to wipe the tears from my face.

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

T
he police station was a pretty q
uiet 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.  A
m 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.  T
hey’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 c
ollected 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 pull
ed
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 himsel
f 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 ownership 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.