Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (25 page)

“
They were going to testify in court. She, and five or six other witnesses.”

Stuart unconsciously reached for something that wasn’t there. As it was, his fingers closed on empty air. I suspected I knew what they were reaching for: something alcoholic and strong. Unfortunately, we were at a Starbucks, and as far as I knew, they didn’t serve any whiskeyaccinos. At least not yet.

“At the time of the crash, she was with the other witnesses?”

“
Yes,” he said. “They were being flown to a safe house at the Marine base in Camp Pendleton. At the time, of course, I hadn’t known where the government was flying her to. I do now.”

“
Who was she going to testify against?”

Stuart looked at me hesitantly. I sensed I knew the source of his hesitancy. He was about to involve me in something extremely dangerous. He wasn’t sure if he should. Here I was, a cute gal wearing an urban sombrero, and no doubt he didn’t want to put me in harm’s way.

“You can tell me,” I said. “I’m a helluva secret keeper.”

He shook his head.

“Maybe I should just let this go,” he said.

“
Maybe,” I said. “But I’m a big girl.”

“
These people are extremely dangerous and, as you can see, can strike anywhere.”

“
You caught the ‘big girl’ part, right?”

“
It’s going to take more than being a big girl, Samantha. It’s going to take an army, I’m afraid.”

“
Call me Sam. And there’s very little that I fear.”

He squinted, studying me, and as he did so his perfect bald head caught some of the setting sun. There’s beauty everywhere, I thought, even in baldness.

“You’re really not afraid, are you?” he asked.

“
Nope.”

“
You should be.”

“
I’m afraid of a lot of things, but men with big guns aren’t one of them. My kids’ math homework, well, that’s another story.”

He grinned.

“Fine,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“
Duly noted.”

He looked at me some more. He didn’t know what to do with his empty hand. It opened and closed randomly. No doubt he was used to holding his wife’s hand. Now, I suspected, her hand had been replaced by a crystal tumbler of the hard stuff.

“She was going to testify against Jerry Blum.”

I nodded. I knew the name, especially since I had once been a federal agent. Jerry Blum had single-handedly built an enormous criminal empire that stretched down into Mexico and as far up as Canada, which was no surprise since he was, of all things, Canadian. These days he worked hard to bring drugs to the streets and schools of Orange County. Six years ago, he had dabbled in home loan scams, which had been my specialty. He had an uncanny knack of distancing himself from anything illegal, and an even more uncanny knack to avoid prosecution, which is why my department never caught him.

Last I heard, he had been standing trial for a bizarre crime outside a nightclub in Seal Beach, California, where Jerry Blum had uncharacteristically lost his cool and popped someone with a handgun. Yes, witnesses were everywhere.

I asked Stuart about this, and he confirmed that his wife had indeed been one of the witnesses. She had seen the whole thing, along with five others. She had agreed to testify to what she saw, thus putting her life in mortal danger.

I tapped my longish fingernail on the green plastic table. My fingernails tended to come to a point these days, but most people seemed not to notice, and if they did, they didn’t say anything about it. Maybe they were scared of the weird woman with pointed fingernails.

I said, “Why do you think Jerry Blum was involved in your wife’s plane crash?”

“Because as of today he is a free man. No witnesses, and thus no case. It’s been ruled self-defense.”

“
But we’re talking about a
plane crash
, and if the plane was headed to a military base, then we’re probably talking about a military aircraft.”

“
I know I sound crazy, but look at the facts. Jerry Blum has a history of silencing witnesses. This case was no different. Just a little more extravagant. Witnesses silenced, and Blum’s a free man.”

I continued tapping. People just didn’t take down military aircrafts. Even powerful people. But the circumstantial evidence was compelling.

Whoops! I was tapping too hard. Digging a hole in the plastic. Whoops. A vampiric woodpecker.

I asked, “So what have federal investigators determined to be the cause of the crash?”

“No clue,” said Stuart. “The investigation is still ongoing. Every agency on earth is involved in it. I’ve been personally interviewed by the FBI, military investigators and the FAA.”

“
Why you?”

“
No clue,” he said again. “But I think it’s because they suspect foul play.”

I nodded but didn’t tap.

Stuart added, “But he killed her, Sam. I know it, and I want you to help me prove it. So what do you say?”

I thought about it. Going after a crime lord was a big deal. I would have to be careful. I didn’t want to jeopardize my family or Stuart. Myself I wasn’t too worried about.

I nodded and he smiled, relieved. We discussed my retainer fee. We discussed, in fact, a rather sizable retainer fee, since this was going to take a lot of time and energy. He agreed to my price without blinking and I gave him my PayPal address, where he would deposit my money. I told him I would begin once the funds had been confirmed. He understood.

We shook hands again and, once again, he barely flinched at my icy grip. And as he walked away, with the setting sun gleaming off his shining dome, all I wanted to do was run my fingers over his perfect bald head.

I needed to get a life.

Chapter Three

A half hour later, I was sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot and waiting for 7:00 p.m. to roll around.

I had already concluded that traffic was too heavy for me to get back to my hotel in time to call my kids, and so I decided to wait it out here, just off the freeway, with a view of the golden arches and the smell of French fries heavy in the air.

My stomach growled. I think my stomach had short-term memory loss. French fries were no longer on the menu.

The sun was about to set. For me, that’s a good thing. The western sky was ablaze in fiery oranges and reds and yellows, a beautiful reminder of the sheer amount of smog in southern California.

I checked the clock on the dash: 6:55.

My husband Danny made the rules. We had no official agreement regarding who could see the kids when. It was an arrangement he set up outside of the courts, because in this case he was judge, jury and executioner. A month or so ago he threatened to expose me for who I am, claiming he had evidence, and that if I fought him I would never see the kids again. Danny was proving to be far more ruthless than I ever imagined. Gone was the gentle husband I had known, replaced by something close to a monster of his own.

Not the undead kind. Just the uncaring kind.

For now, as hard as it was not seeing my kids, I played by his rules, biding my time.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. A small wind made its way through my open window, now bringing with it the scent of cooking beef. Maybe some McNuggets, too. I sniffed again. And fries, always the fries.

I looked at my watch. Three minutes to go. If I called early, Danny wouldn’t answer. If I called late, then tough shit, 7:10 was my cut-off no matter what time I called. And if I called past 7:10, he wouldn’t pick up. Again, shit out of luck. The calling too late thing had only happened once, when I was in a client meeting. I vowed it wouldn’t happen again, clients be damned.

Two minutes to go. I treasured every second I had with my kids, and I hated Danny for doing this to me. How could he turn on me like this?

Easy,
I thought.
He’s afraid of you. And when people are afraid they do evil, hurtful things.

One minute. I rolled up my window. I wanted to be able to hear my kids. I didn’t want some damn Harley coming by and drowning out little Anthony’s comically high-pitched voice, or Tammy’s too-serious recounting of that day’s school lessons.

Thirty seconds. I had my finger over the cell phone’s send button, Danny’s home number—my
old
home number—already selected from my contact list and ready to go.

Ten seconds. Outside, somewhere beyond the nearby freeway’s arching overpass, the sun was beginning to set and I was beginning to feel good. Damn good. In fact, within minutes I was about to feel stronger than I had any right to feel.

And I was about to talk to my kids, too. A smile that I hadn’t felt all day touched my lips.

At 7:00 p.m. on the nose, I pushed the
send
button. The phone rang once and Danny picked up immediately.

“
The kids aren’t here,” he said immediately in his customary monotone.

“
But—”

“
They’re with Nancy getting some ice cream.”

Nancy was, of course, the home-wrecker. His secretary fling that had become more than a fling. The name of that witch alone nearly sent me into a psychotic rage.

“They’re with
her
?”

“
Yes. They like her. We all do.”

“
When will they be back?”

“
I don’t know, and that’s none of your concern.”

“
So when can I call back?”

“
You can call back tomorrow at seven.”

“
That’s bullshit, Danny. This was my time with—”

“
Tomorrow,” he said, and hung up.

Chapter Four

An hour later, I was boxing at a little sparring club in downtown Fullerton, a place called Jacky’s. Jacky himself trained me, which was a rare honor these days, as the little Irishman was getting on in years. I think he either had a crush on me, or didn’t know what the hell to make of me, since I tended to destroy his boxing equipment.

The sun had set an hour ago and I was at maximum strength. I was also still pissed off at Danny, hurt beyond words, and now the old Irishman was feeling the brunt of it.

He was wearing brand-new punch mitts, which were those little protective pads trainers use to cover their hands. I was leveling punch after punch into his mittened hands, sometimes so rapidly that my hands were a blur even to my eyes.

And I wasn’t just punching them, I was hitting them hard. Perhaps too hard.

Jacky was a tough guy, even though he was pushing sixty. He was an ex-professional boxer back in Ireland who had suffered his share of broken noses, and no doubt had broken a few noses himself. I had never known him to show pain or any sign of weakness. And so when he began wincing with each punch, I knew it was time to ease up on the poor guy. He was far too tough and stubborn to lower the gloves himself and ask for a break.

I paused in mid-strike and said, “Let’s take a break.”

To say that Jacky was relieved would have been an understatement.

Still, he shot back. “Is that all you got, wee girl?” he asked loudly, and, I think, for the benefit of anyone watching, since I sometimes attracted a crowd of curious onlookers, and Jacky had a tough-guy image to uphold.

Of course, I never wanted to attract crowds of onlookers, as I generally avoid bringing attention to myself. But since that incident last month with a Marine boxer, an incident in which I put him in a hospital, well, I had become somewhat of a hero in this mostly women’s boxing club.

“Well, I could probably go another round or two,” I said lightly to Jacky.

“
I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said.

Jacky shook off the protective gloves. His hands were ruddier than his Irish complexion; his fingers were fat and swollen.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I had a bad night.”

“
I’d hate to get on your bad side.”

“
Doesn’t seem to worry my ex-husband.”

“
Then I say he’s not right in the head. You punch like a hammer.” He shook his head in wonder. I often caused this reaction from the old boxer, who hadn’t yet figured me out. “Harder than anyone I’ve ever trained, man or woman.”

“
Yeah, well, we’ve all got our talents,” I said. “Yours, for example, is having red hair.”

“
That’s not a talent.”

“
Close enough.”

He shook his head and held up his red hands which, if I looked hard enough at them, I could probably see throbbing.