Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 02 - A Deadly Bargain, Plan C (13 page)

“Yeah.
  She was right i
n here, officers.
  Tried to tell me
I
was in the wrong one.
”  Little weasel.  I should’ve known he’d squeal. 

I heard the heavy footsteps of three or four men walking around the small room.  They banged the stall doors against the walls as they pushed them open.  I held my breath and felt a drop of sweat roll down the side of my face.  I didn’t dare move to wipe it off or I’d make a sound and give away my hiding place.

“S
he’s not here now.  She must have slipped out while we weren’t looking.”

“What’d she do
?  She didn’t look dangerous,” the weasel asked.

I never heard their reply.  They dashed out when they’d assumed I was gone.  I lifted the lid slightly and peeked out.  The coast was clear.  I climbed back out of the can and slipped out through the door.  The officers were outside,
interviewing potential witnesses
.  I tiptoed down the hall and through the swinging doors into the kitchen
,
then
raced through a doorway leading outside.

I stop
ped briefly to get my bearings—
the ocean to my left, dry land to my right.  I jogged down the wooden p
ier to the sidewalk, then
disappeared into a group of tourists and stayed with them until we all reached the highway. 
The
Pierside
Cinema building appeared right in front of me.

I bought my ticket, a bag of un-buttered popcorn, and settled into a seat at the back of the theater.  I’d come in just as the wicked stepmother locked poor Cinderella up to prevent her from going to the ball.  My popcorn was completely gone before the glass slipper came off and caused all that commotion.

Chapter
Seventeen

“I
thought you were opposed to…let’s see…how
do you
put it?  ‘
Promoting
unfulfilled fantasies that can only lead to disappointments due to unrealistic expectations by exposing young minds to senseless fairytales,’” a voice whispered.    Jason reached into my empty popcorn container.

“Jason.  You
made it,”
I gasped.  He couldn’t possibly know how glad I was to see him.

“Ready to get out of here?” he asked.

“Just as soon as he puts the slipper on her foot
.”

“Okay.  What the heck’s going on” Jason
asked
as we left the theater. 

“I’ll tell you on the way.  Come on,” I ordered, grabbing his arm and leading him to the parking lot.  As we approached Jason’s pickup, I made a conscious effort to reach the driver-side door first.

“Mind if I
—“

“No.  I’m driving,” he stated, emphatically.

“But
—“

“I’m driving.  End of discussion,” he blurted.

“Fine.
  I may as well sit on the roo
f
so I can wave to the crowd,” I
said
.

“What?”

Right.
  Like he doesn’t know he drives slower than
my 90-year-old grandmother
.  “You drive so slow, it feels like we’re in a parade,” I reminded him.

“Do I have to remind you that at eighty miles-per-hour, you’re no longer steering, you’re aiming?”

Gee.  Where had
I heard that before?  Oh, yeah
—from Jason
—
only a million times
—make that a million and one.  “And at fifty-five miles-per-hour, you’re crawling on the freeway while a bazillion other drivers pass you like a turtle in the middle of a rabbit stampede.”

“Ah.  The old tortoise and hare analogy.  You remember how that story
ends
, don’t you?” he pointed out.

I didn’t have the energy to argue.  I was tired and beat. 
“Fine.
  You drive.  Wake me up when we get there.”

“Where are we going
—
if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I think Los Angeles would be a good place to get lost for a while.  Let’s find a public library.  I want to see if Spencer has answered my e-mail.”

Jason put the pickup in gear.  “Los Angeles, it is
—
but you’r
e not going to sleep until you tell me what’s going on
.” 

My shoulders slumped with disappointment as I read down the messages in my in-box. 
Nothing from Spencer.
  My worry was quickly turning to fear.  Had I gotten Spencer into terrible trouble?

I turned to Jason, sitting next to me paging through the sports section of the Los Angeles Times.  “You still have that old Motorola cell phone?” I asked.

“Yeah.
  Why?”

“Have it with you?”

“In the truck.
  Want me to get it?”

“
Not yet.  Let me see the entertainment section of that paper.”

I searched through the pages until I found the name and address of a popular local restaurant.  I began a new message, addressed to Carissa West.

Meet me at the Outback Steakhouse near your office - tonight at 7. 
Devonie
Lace.

I scheduled the message to be sent in twenty minutes.  Jason reached for my hand and took it off the mouse.

“What are you doing?  Didn’t you tell me she’s the one setting you up?  You can’t meet her.  It’s a trap,” he warned.

“I know.  I have a plan.  Let’s go.  We’ve only got twenty minutes.”

We found a parking spot on the street in front of the U.S. Justice Department building.  It was late afternoon and the sun beat through the passenger window with magnified force.  While Jason fed the parking meter, I fanned my face with a map and rummaged through his glove box, searching for a small screwdriver. 
Nothing.
  How can an appliance repairman not carry a simple screwdriver in his truck?  I checked my watch
—
time was running out.  Jason slid back into the driver seat.

“Don’t you have a screwdriver?” I asked.

“Back at the shop, in my toolbox.”

“Geez.
  What if you broke down
?  What would you do?”

“I’d call a tow truck.  What do you need a screwdriver for?”

“I need to get inside the phone.  What about a pocket knife?”

Jason dug in his pocket and handed me his trusty Boy Scout pocket knife.

I
removed the cover from the phone,
then
I
took the gum out of the plastic baggie and
used a short strip of tinfoil from the wrapper to
enhance
the capabilities of Jason’s old cell phone.  He watched me, curiously, as I worked on the device.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m turning your phone into a scanner.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

I recalled a rainy afternoon, about three years ago, when Spencer and I worked together in the same office.  Things were kind of slow that day and Spencer was bored.  I’d watched him fiddle with a cell phone and asked him what h
e was up to.  He was a snooper—not malicious
—just nosy.  He was listening to a cell phone conversation going on between our manager and some woman, obviously not his wife.  Spencer’s knowledge of that conversation kept him employed with San Tel longer than he probably should have been.  When he finally stepped over the line and modified some of his fr
iend
s
’
credit card records to reduce their debt, even our unfaithful manager couldn’t save his hide.  “Spencer showed me how, back when we worked for San Tel.  Only works for listening to calls on analog phones, but we may get lucky.”

“Who are you going to listen to?”

“Carissa West works here.  I’m betting she’ll get on her phone when she receives my e-mail message.”

“What if she doesn’t use her cell phone?”

Another important bit of information I learned from Spencer
was
that government agencies are not very trusting, even of their own employees.  He described some of the listening devices being “tested” in the State building where he eventually gained honest employment.  “The call she’s likely to make, she won’t want any federal
ears
listening in on.  The government’s notorious for spying on their employees at work.  I bet there are more bugs on the phones in those offices than the Watergate Hotel ever saw.”  I nodded toward the glass windows of the office building across the street from us.  I completed the task of modifying Jason’s phone and checked my watch.

“There.  Mission accomplished.  She should be getting the e-mail message right…about…now.”

I held the phone to my ear and scanned through the channels, listening to any cell phone conversations taking place in the area.

“What do you hear?”

“
Shh
.”  I held my finger to my lips.

Jason watched my face for any expression.  He looked like an obedient dog waiting for his master to release him from the “stay command,” so he could eat the dog cookie placed on his nose.

I scanned through the channels, stopping whenever I heard a promising conversation.  “If Carissa is at her desk, she should have received my e-mail message about three minutes ago.  That should be enough time,” I murmured to Jason. 

My intuition told me to hold on the conversation I’d just landed on.  A woma
n’s voice opened the dialogue.

“It’s me.  She wants to meet.”

A man replied.  His
gruff
voice overpowered her squeak.
 
“When?”

“Tonight.
 
Seven.
  You think she’s made the connection between Bates and Aziz?”

“Doesn’t matter if she has.
  You notify all the forces?”

“Not yet.  I just got the message.  Are we sticking with the original plan?”

I chewed
my lip as I listened to the two of them plan my demise.  I knew I was in trouble.  These people had connections and skills that could keep me in hiding indefinitely.  I fanned my face again.  The sun seemed to be burning right through my skin.

“Yes.  Bring her in.” 

“It’s as good as done.  I’ll call you after,” she promised.

The connection closed and I dropped the phone in my lap.

“What?  What?  Tell me what you heard
?
” Jason demanded. 

“You ever hear of Mohammed Aziz?  He’s an oil industrialist.”

Jason pondered for a
moment.  “No. 
What’s he got to do with this?”

“I don’t know, but there’s a connection between him and Bates.  Let’s get back to the library.  I’ll explain on the way.”

I searched on any document I could find with both Gerald Bates and Mohammed Aziz names in it.  From all accounts, Gerald Bates had just returned from a business meeting with Mohammed Aziz the evening before he set sail on the
Gigabyte
, never to be seen again.  The stories claimed he called ahead from the San Francisco Airport to his office to have the yacht stocked and ready to sail early the next morning.  He apparently scheduled a last-minute vacation cruise to the Hawaiian Islands and wanted his crew prepared.

I nudged Jason with my elbow.  “Have you seen any reference to where the
Gigabyte
was berthed in San Francisco?”

“No.  Think your uncle might know?”

“He probably would, but he’s in Europe right now.  George might know.  Come on.  Let’s go,” I said, as I jumped out of my seat and hustled toward to exit.

Jason hurried to catch up with me.  “Who’s George?”

“One of Un
cle Doug’s salesmen.
 
Hurry.”

We climbed back into Jason’s pickup and I punched the number for Lace Marina into
his
cell phone.

“Lace Marina.
  This is George.
”

“George.  It’s
Devonie
.”

“
Devonie
!
  How are you?”

I have a standard answer whe
never someone asks me how I am—
I’m
okay, or I’m fine, or I’m good
—even when I’m not.  I don’t know why that is.  I’d like to think it’s because I don’t want to ruin any
one else’s day with my problems
—or maybe I just don’t want to talk about whatever it is that’s wrong.  At any rate, standard answer number one slipped ou
t.  “I’m okay, George.  Listen—
“

“I haven’t seen you for ages!  When are you going to come by and visit us?”

“Soon, George.
  Listen, I need
—“

“Your uncle said you’ve been sailing around the Caribbean for a few months.  I bet that must have been a great trip.”

“It was, George.  But, I need—
“

“Did you take any pictures?  I love pictures.”

I clenched my teeth.  “George!  Yes, I took pictures.  You can have them all, but please let me finish a sentence.”

“Oh.  Sorry.  What’s up?”

I felt like I’d just kicked Lassie.  “Thanks, George.  Sorry I’m so cranky, but I need your help.  Would you happen to know where in San Francisco the
Gigabyte
was berthed?  That’s Gerald Bates’ yacht
—
the one that was lost.”

“Right.
  It was lost, but now it’s found.”

“That’s the one.  I remember Uncle Doug talking about the guy who owns the marina where it was berthed.  Do you know who that was?”

“H
eck, yeah!
  Hugo Baumgartner.  We call him Captain Huey. 
Great guy.
  You should’ve seen him dance on the tables at
Scoma’s
at
the convention
last year. 
Had us all rolling on the floor.”

“That’s great, George.  Do you know the name of the marina?”

“Better than that.
  I can give you his number.  I’ve got it right here.  Let’s see.  I’ve got it somewhere in this crazy th
ing.  Now, where is that number?
”