Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) (10 page)

It was the best answer I could hope for. I had one shot at impressing this woman. Of getting her to give me a little leeway. This was a far trickier conversation than the one I’d had with Zimmermann the night before. The bankruptcy of Turbo-Tidy Clean was a tiny but very important piece of a much bigger picture, and the only tool left in my arsenal. And I couldn’t risk the political tug-of-war between FBI regional jurisdictions sabotaging my plan.

So I told Judge Trane almost everything.

CHAPTER 14

I explained how Skip had planned to get revenge on his clients-slash-enemies where it hurt—in their pocketbooks. Using the only measuring stick that really meant anything to them. They took brutality, turf wars, and poaching of people in stride. But steal their money and it was no-holds-barred warfare. And I had one more set of impenetrable walls to get through to reach the unreachable Numero, Felix Ochoa. Only money—the lure of easy money—would accomplish my goal.

Turbo-Tidy Clean, LLC was the cherry on the sundae, the golden ring on the carousel. Want to talk about easy money? Then let’s talk about what those car washes were really used for, and could be used for again.

Skip was sunk. He already had been—the FBI knew all about his illegal activities. But I still felt a sense of betrayal while I outlined his very clever money laundering device for the judge. I also had a feeling I was giving her a lot more detail than the FBI’s legal team had in their mounds of paperwork, and she was rapidly digesting the information.

She kept muttering, little sounds in the back of her throat. I couldn’t tell if they indicated disgust or appreciation for the ingenuity of Skip’s plan. I was at somewhat of a loss, because I could only explain the parts I knew about. There was much more that was dark to me.

The FBI wanted Turbo-Tidy’s assets, or the funds from the sales of those assets. I didn’t care—they had certainly earned what they seized. But first I wanted to use those assets one more time, as an enticement.

The FBI had demonstrated an incredible ability to be patient in the past—sometimes to their own detriment—to wait solely because they were greedy with regard to letting incriminating evidence pile up, to make sure their legal cases were beyond solid. I wanted to force the issue, to take risks in order to go out and grab that incriminating evidence. Same end, different means. Aggressive instead of passive. And I wasn’t fettered by the letter of the law the way the FBI was.

Judge Trane would have to decide which method would be more effective. As a bankruptcy judge, this legal wrangling which affected a huge federal criminal case was definitely far outside her normal purview, but it’s amazing how much clout a little paperwork carries. And the ability to hold up the case or let it proceed was directly under her thumb.

When I’d wrapped up my version of events, Judge Trane sent her assistant, the young man named Theo who knew how to order the world’s best burritos, to fetch Matt and Josh from the conference room. I suspected she was looking for confirmation of my story.

It didn’t help that I was disheveled and sleep-deprived and probably somewhat manic looking. It was hard to put my best foot forward, appearance-wise, when I’d been snatched from a sleazy motel after a day on the run. I tried to shove my chiding thoughts (which were eerily audible to my mind’s ear in my mother’s rebuking voice) about personal grooming, professional presentation, and social acceptability to the back of my mind.

But I got the reinforcements I needed, in spades. Matt seemed eager to finally have a chance to give his slant on the FBI’s perspective, away from the obvious snubbing by the other agents because he wasn’t on his own turf. But he was
my
case manager, and I was proud of him, even if we did mostly drive each other crazy. Matt knew the stakes we were facing better than anybody, and his vote of approval warmed my heart.

A heavy silence settled over our little group when Matt wrapped up his arguments. Judge Trane gazed at the sliver of the panoramic view available to her from between the drapes, her brow furrowed in private concentration.

“I have, indeed, heard from Freddy Blandings,” she finally said, jerking me back to attention, “with regard to this case. My main job as a bankruptcy judge is to make sure all creditors recoup as much as possible from the dregs of a failed company. Try to ease any suffering, repair the injustices. But it would be safe to say Turbo-Tidy Clean didn’t fail from negligent management. Quite the contrary.” She pitched her eyebrows at me in an acknowledging nod. “You want me to believe the creditors in this case are far less than honorable—so much so that several of them don’t appear on the books at all. This could certainly be one explanation for Blandings’ hyped vigilance in the matter, supporting your claim that he has a conflict of interest in the parties he’s representing, whether officially or unofficially.”

She seemed to be working through the details internally, voicing her summary as a way to parse the information in her own mind. I nodded at her, and she returned to frowning at the window.

After several minutes, she roused herself and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “It’s Friday,” she said, as though it was one fact we could all nail down and agree upon. “I like Fridays. Good for thinking. Which this case requires. I’ll let you know my decision as soon as I know it myself. Ms. Ingram-Sheldon—” her green eyes locked onto mine, “I want you personally available in case I have any other questions. Which means you need to stay in the city. But”—Matt became the next victim of her penetrating stare—“she’s not to be harassed. I expect you to make sure the agents from the San Francisco office understand that the new policy with regard to Ms. Ingram is strictly hands-off.” She swung back to me. “But you will also
not
be meeting with any of the Numeros who might possibly end up involved in this deal—either overtly or covertly, prearranged or not. I don’t actually have the authority to demand this of you, but for prudence’s sake, I’m requiring it. I want everything legal and aboveboard, no shadows of suspicion hanging over my rulings.”

I nodded vigorously. Because I’d already wrapped up all my meetings with criminals, thanks in large part to Clarice’s fabulous organizational skills and Josh’s evasive driving techniques. In spite of the close calls, pieces were dropping into place—jerkily and awkwardly, but so far, successfully.

oOo

Judge Trane’s guidelines gave me a bit of a reprieve. The FBI reunited Josh and me with our scant luggage. They’d conveniently packed our belongings for us and checked us out of the fleabag motel. Not that Josh had ever officially checked us in since our payment had been a few twenties under the counter, but the FBI had returned the room keys on our behalf. They dropped us off at one of the safer and cleaner convention hotels downtown.

Josh had some loose ends to tie up, so he went off on his own for the afternoon. I’m sure he quietly slipped away from whatever FBI tail might have been put on him. Arranging for the continued safe storage of the recordings he’d made the day before was top on his list. He said his buddy would eventually pick up the minivan we’d abandoned, if it was still where we’d left it.

I cleaned up and took a taxi to Century Hills Memory Care Center, entering by the front door this time and giving my FBI tail an easy job of it. I hadn’t known, the day before, that I would get this gift of an extended visit with my dad. It was as though a wealth of riches had just been dropped in my lap, and I was almost giddy with anticipation.

Arleta wasn’t on duty, but the charge nurse signed me in and introduced me to the man who would be my personal escort for the duration of my visit—Special Agent Antonio Hackett—while his colleague sat in a boringly unmarked sedan in the parking lot, waiting for me to exit.

Antonio wasn’t big on smiling, or talking. I had no doubt he’d been informed of my presence in the city this morning and had been forewarned that I was heading his way. But I could still see why Arleta enjoyed his company. It’s just that I was on the receiving end of his very professional demeanor, so I wasn’t going to get a glimpse of his romantic, flirty side that Arleta had gushed about.

I spent several hours shadowing my dad. We watched a few minutes of a melodramatic soap opera on television, ambled through the halls to the game room and sat at the chess board for another few minutes, wandered more halls nodding to other residents and exchanging brief random comments with them. He intentionally avoided the circle of residents who were disjointedly singing “Fly Me to the Moon” under the direction of a guitar-strumming staff member. Then Dad went through the circuit again. And again. Always clockwise.

He was so clearly restless and confused, my heart ached for him. I tried to hold his hand, but he shook me off. I tried to bring up things we’d done together in the past, shared memories, but he just stared at me blankly as though wondering why I was flapping my jaws.

My dad, the man I knew and loved dearly, had shrunk so far inside his own body that I couldn’t reach him. His spirit, his personality, his ready laugh—barred behind an impenetrable shell of confusion. The ties that bind us are so fragile, and I wanted every single one of them back.

I wondered if my presence was the very thing that was disturbing him, making him uneasy, but the charge nurse murmured encouragement. “It’s all right, honey. Keep trying.”

Eventually, even Antonio deigned to comment. “Don’t worry, Ms. Ingram,” he whispered. “This is your father’s normal behavior. He keeps himself busy, almost like he’s on patrol.”

I smiled at his statement. Of course my dad would try to be useful, even when he no longer understood what usefulness was. And I realized that this taciturn special agent knew my dad in his current condition better than I did. I wanted to hug Antonio for this measure of grace—he had no idea just how valuable—he’d given me, but thought that would go over like a ton of bricks. I’d ask Arleta to do it for me—later.

Instead I leaned in kissed my dad on the cheek. “I have to go,” I whispered.

“Nora?” he croaked.

“Yes, Daddy.” I just about lost it, right there. “It’s me.” I peered deeply into his faded eyes, trying so hard to see what might glimmer behind them.

“Good girl.” Dad patted my arm. “Good girl.” Then he turned and shuffled toward the dining room.

Antonio called a taxi for me and saw me out. He even flicked a wave in acknowledgment to the FBI driver waiting in the parking lot, as though he was handing off responsibility for me like a baton in a relay race.

I slouched low in the taxi’s backseat, wanting the illusion of privacy, and pulled out my one and only phone. That was probably why I’d felt like I was traveling light—I’d left all my other phones in Clarice’s care.

She answered on the first ring. “Well?”

The taxi driver cranked up the volume on his stereo, releasing a barrage of mind-numbing rap music which he punctuated with chin juts while gunning through the quiet neighborhood.

“Good,” I replied, bracing one hand against the door to keep from sliding off the seat. “Pretty good.”

“What is that racket?” she hollered.

The driver was slapping his hands on the steering wheel, his entire body thumping in rhythm with the lyric bursts coming through the speakers. I reached through the opening in the safety partition and tapped him on the shoulder, aware that all my actions were being recorded by the camera blinking at me from above the rearview mirror.

No response.

“Hey,” I yelled, and earned a quick glance in the mirror. I made a pinching motion with my thumb and forefinger, and he dialed down the volume a notch.

I cinched the seatbelt as tight as it would go and returned the phone to my ear. “Taxi,” I wheezed. “Sorry.”

“Everything on schedule?” Clarice asked.

“As well as can be expected.” I told her, in short, rushed sentences, about the morning’s surprise meeting with Judge Trane and the fact that everything was in a holding pattern awaiting her decision.

“She’ll be a good one to have in your corner,” Clarice barked. “I’ll do some checking on her past judgments. Get you some more ammunition if she comes back with questions.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. My head was starting to throb in time with the reverberating music—if you could even call it music. More like some angry dude shouting epithets. The whole car was bouncing.

“Call Walt,” Clarice hollered. “He’s driving me crazy, calls every couple hours wanting to know how you are.”

“Tell Emmie I love her,” I shouted. But my phone’s screen was dark. I didn’t know if Clarice had hung up on me or if I’d accidentally bumped the wrong button. Or if the rap music was creating so much hash that the signal had spontaneously disconnected, probably as a protective measure.

I peered through the windows, fore and aft. We were stuck on the freeway, every lane jammed to a standstill. Welcome to San Francisco. The driver had been making excellent time—until now.

I undid my seatbelt, pitched forward and stretched my arm through the opening. I could barely brush the radio controls with my fingers, but not enough to turn the volume knob. So I screamed in the driver’s ear, “Do you want me to get out and walk?” Wouldn’t my FBI tail have a field day with that one? Try following a woman wandering on foot between lanes of backed up traffic on I-280.

The driver gave me a surly glare but did reach over and click off the radio. Wasn’t blaring music at painful decibel levels a recognized torture mechanism? This guy was so not getting a tip.