Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 02 - A Deadly Bargain, Plan C (11 page)

“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
.  T
hen 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
.  T
he 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 off 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 b
ack 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 pla
stered 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 immed
iate plans to recover the yacht.  T
he 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 n
eed 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
.  I
s 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 do
wn 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 v
oice 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

I
t was story hour at the public library.  I heard a young woman’s voice reading from s
ome 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.

Spencer:  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.

I walked back toward Clancy’s.  I didn’t dare call the police to report my Jeep stolen.  I didn’t know what to do.  I used the time it took to make the long trek back to the port to think.

I stopped at another pay phone and made one more attempt to get a hold of Jason. 
Still no answer.
  I dropped in more change
and dialed a different number
.  This time, I got a response.

“Federal Bureau of Investigations.
  How may I direct your call?”
came
the voice, sounding very flat and uninterested.

“Dan Cooper, please.”

“He’s not in.  Can I connect you to his voice mail?”

Voice mail—
the electronic answer to call screening.  Was I irritated?  Yes, very.  “When will he be back?”

“He’s on vacation.  He’s due back on the fifteenth.”

Oh, great. 
“Fif
teenth?
  As in, two weeks from—
“

“Yes.  Two weeks from tomorrow.  Would you like his voice mail?”

“No, t
hanks.”

I decided against buying a lottery ticket.  Didn’t seem like my lucky day.

For some reason, intuition maybe, I
walk
ed
up to the front door of Clancy’s office.  I peered into the bucket reserved for
Tex’s
tennis ball.  It was empty.  I figured someone wandered by and took it for their own pet’s enjoyment.  Something about the door seemed strange.  It wasn’t closed tightly.  I gave it a little shove and it swung open.

“Clancy?”
I called.  No response.  “Olive?  Tex? 
Anyone here?”
  I cautiously stepped o
ver the threshold
and peered inside.  It was dark, but there was enough light coming through the window to allow me to see.  I tiptoed over to Olive’s desk.  It didn’t seem to look any different than usual.  But something was missing
—
Tex’s
dog
blanket
.  I remember
ed
it was always piled next to her desk.  It was gone.

Why would someone take a dog blanket?  I couldn’t think of any explanation, unless Clancy and Olive came by.  I noticed the coffee pot had been turned off and unplugged.  They must have left in a hurry.  The doorknob was locked, but the wooden door, swollen from the dampness, hadn’t been forced tightly closed.

“What are you doing here?”
someone said
from behind me.

The voice startled me and I swung around, knocking a cup of pencils on the floor.

The light behind the tall man made him a silhouette and I couldn’t see his face
.

“
Wh
…
What?” I stammered.

“W
hat are you doing here?” he repeated.

I recognized the voice
.  “Morgan?
”

“How’d you get in here? 
I t
hought you said Clancy and Olive
were
gone.”  He reached over and switched on the lights. 

“The door wasn’t closed tight.  I think Clancy and Olive must have been here recently.  Some of
Tex’s
things are missing, and someone turned off the coffee pot.  What are you doing here?” 

“I got worried about them.  After you came by and told me they’ve disappeared, I thought I ought to check it out,” Morgan explained.

“They must be hiding out somewhere.  You know of any place Clancy might hole up?” I asked.

“Oh, sure.
  There must be a hundred spots he’s found while out scouting in his boat. 
Hidden coves on little islands.
  He’s probably camped out right now, waiting for the dust to settle.”

Dust to settle?
  I’ve heard that phrase too many times.  I was getting fed up with being kept in the dark.  “When’s the dust going to settle?  Tell me what’s going on,” I insisted.

“The dust will settle when the Bates Corporation people recover everything they want from the
Gigabyte
.  I’m sure Clancy got a little too pushy about getting the salvage contract. 
Probably made someone mad.
  You know how he can be.”

I knew
Morgan
was doing his
be
st to pacify me, but I wasn’t about to be pacified.  Not this time.  “What’s the big deal about that boat?  Why can’t you tell anyone it was purposely sunk? 
Seems a lot of people would be interested in that kind of information.”

Morgan pulled a chair up to Olive’s desk and sat down.  He seemed very tired and worn out.  “A lot of people
are
interested, and they don’t want it made public.  If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of this.  I don’t know why the
Gigabyte
was sunk, but I know the people behind it can make sure anyone who gets in their way won’t be a problem for long.”

I took the seat across from Morgan.
  “How is it you know so much?
”

“Two hours after I reported finding the wreck to the Coast Guard, a couple of strong-arm types paid me a visit at home.”  He gingerly rubbed the back of his head and winced.  “Made it perfectly clear I was mistaken about the boat not having any structural damage.  They also made it clear that if I didn’t support their story, I’d have some structural damage of my own to deal with.”

“They threatened you?”  Now I was getting somewhere.

“That’s putting it mildly.  Only reason they didn’t kill me was because I told them I wasn’t the only one who knew about the yacht.  I assured them if anything happened to me,
a half
-dozen others would sing like birds about the
Gigabyte
.  I promised to keep the whole thing under wraps until the divers recovered everything they needed.”

Am I the only one who sees the illogic here? 
“Then what?
  You know someone’s eventually going to dive the wreck and expose the fact that it didn’t break apart.” 

“I don’t know.  I get the feeling they hadn’t thought it that far through.  They were mostly concerned about the immediate recovery of whatever’s on the yacht.”

I remembered the photos from the
Gigabyte
.  I dug them out of my purse.  “Does it have anything to do with these containers stored in the hold?  Look at these.”

I handed Morgan the pictures
of the containers
.  He flipped through them.  “I don’t know. 
Maybe.”

He handed the photos back to me.  “You might think about locking these up in a safe place.  The goons who came knocking on my door would love to get their hands on them.  You suppose anyone knows they exist?” 

Visions of the shambles I found on the
Plan C
raced through my head.  I recalled how I bravely paraded through the salon, wielding my trusty baseball bat as though I could fight off any attacker.  Who do I think I am? 
Wonder
Woman?  It must be the same instinct that causes a Chihuahua to challenge a Rottweiler.  “I think someone
probably does know about them—
the goons who broke into my boat.  Remember?  This could be what they were after.”

“Ordinarily, I’d say you should go to the police, but in
—
“

“I can’t go to the police.  Whoever these guys are, they’ve made sure of that.”

“Well, I think you’re probably right about Clancy.  I think he’s in hiding somewhere.  What about you?  What are you going to do?” he asked.

I didn’t have a clue.  The temperature felt as though it had gained ten degrees.  I wiped my damp forehead with my clammy hands and dug down deep for that confident demeanor again.  “I have some friends helping me.  I’ll be okay.”

“If you need anything, you know where to reach me.  Here’s my card with my office and my home numbers.”

Morgan handed me a business card.  I took it and slipped it in my pocket. 

“Thanks.”

Morgan followed me out and closed the door tightly behind us.  He walked back to his car, turned, and waved as he opened the door and got inside.  I waved back and waited for him to drive away before I walked down the dock to the
Little Maria
.  He seemed trustworthy enough, but I still didn’t want anyone to know where I was spending my nights.