Unidentified Woman #15 (17 page)

“Hanging out with you can be so depressing sometimes.”

“You want depressing? Next time you’re on eBay, ask yourself how much of that merchandise is stolen.”

“Stop it.”

“I don’t want to pick on eBay, but that’s where a lot of it ends up, online auction sites. That and small businesses, flea markets, and garage sales.”

“What about pawnshops?”

“Not so much anymore. Pawnshops are required by law to keep track of the merchandise that comes in; they have to record serial numbers and product descriptions. If the cops find a computer or snowblower or diamond ring that was stolen, shops have to be able to provide them with the name and address of the customer who sold it to them.”

By then I had the Lexus on 35W and was driving south through Minneapolis.

“Where are we going?” Nina asked.

“To a pawnshop.”

“There’s no need for that, McKenzie. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Did you enjoy your little undercover assignment today?”

“Yes, I did, actually.”

“Want to do it again?”

“What do you have in mind?”

*   *   *

Pawnshops have always gotten a bad rap as a desperate resource for desperate people, and maybe there was a time when they deserved it. Yet there was nothing desperate about Easy Cash. It was light and airy and clean and, at first glance, resembled any consignment store you’ve ever been in with its astonishing array of merchandise—over twelve thousand square feet of computers, DVD players, electric guitars, clothes, jewelry, tools, bicycles, lawn mowers, even motorcycles and snowmobiles. If a product had financial value, Easy Cash traded in it. The only exception was guns. There was a large sign next to the front entrance that read:
EASY CASH DOES NOT BUY OR SELL GUNS OF ANY KIND. YOU ARE PROHIBITED FROM CARRYING A GUN ON THESE PREMISES.
It made me think I should remove the nine-millimeter SIG Sauer holstered behind my right hip, but I didn’t.

We were met at the door by a young man who wore a blue tie over a blue shirt—all employees of Easy Cash were required to wear dress shirts and ties. He asked how he could help me today, and I told him I wanted to speak to the owner. Before any other words were spoken, though, Marshall Lantry called to me.

“McKenzie, you sonuvabitch,” he said.

“You’re good friends, I can tell,” Nina said.

Lantry was wearing a blue sports jacket to go with his shirt and tie. He was waving at me from behind a counter in the center of the store. The counter was on a foot-high platform. I had convinced Lantry to build the platform years ago in order to discourage miscreants from attempting to come over the top of the counter for either the cash register or him and his employees. Originally, we had mounted posters of Anna Kournikova, Taye Diggs, and Jennifer Lopez behind him. Now it was Maria Sharapova, Boris Kodjoe, and Jennifer Lawrence. Hanging right above the posters were security cameras. The way I had explained it to Lantry, the posters would encourage customers—male and female alike—to look up, which in turn would help the cameras to get a good shot of their faces.

As we approached, he came around the counter and shook my hand. “Damn, I haven’t seen you for the longest time,” he said.

“Good to see you, too.”

“Who’s this?”

“Marshall Lantry, meet Nina Truhler.”

“Ahh, Ms. Truhler.” Lantry took Nina’s hand between both of his and smiled brightly. “You are way too pretty to be spending time with this loser.”

“People keep telling me that,” she said.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure? What can I sell you?”

“Something high tech,” I said. “Something, maybe, in the back room.”

The sparkle in his eyes added to his smile.

“You want to talk s
erious
business,” Lantry said.

“I do.”

A few moments later, Lantry led me to a large metal door in his basement fitted with an electronic lock that he disarmed by inputting a code into a keypad. The door opened, and rows of fluorescent lights flicked on automatically.

“Wow,” Nina said.

Metal shelves were pushed against each of the walls. Electronic surveillance gear of every shape and kind, both new and used, was stacked on the shelves. I was surprised by the number of cameras.

“It’s a video age,” Lantry said.

“Wow,” Nina said again. She was running her fingertips over the face of one of Lantry’s satellite dishes. “The places you take me.”

“Are you looking for a nanny cam, Ms. Nina?” Lantry asked. “I have seventeen different varieties, including the cutest teddy bears.”

“Actually,” I said, “we need a wire. For the lady.”

“We do?” Nina asked.

“And a receiver.”

“Distance?” Lantry asked.

“A couple hundred yards, at least.”

“Recorder?”

“Probably a good idea, but I need to listen in real time.”

“You realize that it’s illegal to intercept and record conversations without the consent of the folks involved, right?”

“It’s also illegal to sell bugs for the purpose of intercepting and recording conversations without the consent of the folks involved.”

“Just as long as we’re both on the same page.”

“Wait. What?” Nina said.

“So, you’re looking for…” Lantry turned his back to me and was scanning his shelves. “People are going to say things to the lady and you want to listen in?”

“Exactly.”

“What people?” Nina asked.

Lantry went to a shelf laden with computer keyboards, mouses, wireless routers, thermostats, smoke detectors, power strips, air fresheners, wall clocks, clock radios, picture frames, even baseball caps.

“Are all these bugs?” Nina asked.

“Listening devices, yes.” Lantry spoke as he rummaged. “TV shows, you always see the hero wearing a wire, literally a wire, taped to his chest. That’s just so the audience can wonder if the hero’s going to get caught. It’s for dramatic effect. In reality, there are so many less visible ways to do it. Hey, McKenzie, how ’bout this—a woman’s silver watch that contains a high-definition miniaturized camcorder. Or wait, I have the same camcorder in a black pen”—he showed it to me—“and a key chain.” He showed that to me, too.

“We don’t need pictures,” I said.

He took an earbud and held it up for everyone to see.

“Spy Ear III,” Lantry said. “Two-way communications system.”

“I didn’t know these were real,” Nina said. “I thought it was just something you see on TV.”

“Oh, they’re real.”

“Except that you need to wear a neckloop,” I said.

“What’s that?” Nina asked.

“It’s a coil of wire that you wear around your neck,” Lantry said. “It’s kinda like an antenna that plugs into an audio monitoring device.”

Nina’s hand went to her throat as if she were already wearing it.

“An actual wire like TV again,” I said. “I’d like to avoid that.”

“Sure, sure.” Lantry held up a listening device that resembled a tiny flower—a light blue forget-me-not—attached to a needle about the length of a toothpick. “Lapel mic. Pin it to her coat. I’ll configure your cell phone so you can listen in and record. One ninety-nine retail. For you, one forty-nine.”

“Sold,” I said.

Lantry set the forget-me-not in Nina’s palm.

“Not as cool as the earbud,” she said.

TEN

Unlike Arden Hills, Woodbury did not want for development. It wasn’t even a city fifty years ago, yet now it was the tenth largest in Minnesota.
CNN Money
ranked it eleventh on its list of 100 Best Places to Live, and for the most part its homes reflected that position. They were large and opulent and looked as if they had been built yesterday. The house listed in the flyer was no exception. We found it near a Lutheran church at the top of a T-intersection. Like the place in Arden Hills, it was surrounded by vehicles. I was fortunate to find an open space about a block away at the bottom of the T with a clear view of the garage.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

“They’ll speak to me more freely if you’re not around,” Nina replied. “You said so yourself.”

“Actually, what I said is that they’ll be more likely to flirt with you if I’m not around.”

“And that’ll help me get information.”

“That’s the plan.”

Nina flicked the petals of the forget-me-not attached to the lapel of her charcoal coat. The sound of it rumbled off my smartphone speaker like a rifle shot.

“Will it be dangerous?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t think so. On the other hand, we are dealing with a criminal enterprise.”

She flicked the lapel mic again.

“Stop that,” I said.

“Just checking to make sure it works. Should we have a code word in case something goes wrong?”

“I’ll have eyes on you”—I held up a pair of binoculars—“as well as ears, so probably that’s not necessary. On the other hand…”

“I could say ‘broccoli.’”

“You could say ‘help.’ How ’bout that?”

“Fine.”

“Call for help and I’ll come running.”

“Good to know.”

Nina left the Lexus and started walking toward the house. The layout was the same, with “used” items lining the driveway and newer merchandise loaded on tables inside the garage, although the garage was larger. It had doors for two vehicles and a third for a boat and trailer. There were more customers as well. They seemed better dressed, too, which didn’t surprise me. Woodbury had a median income of over one hundred and ten grand. Instead of saying
WELCOME
, the signs posted at the city limits read
PLEASE WIPE YOUR FEET.

I watched Nina through the binoculars as she passed a blue and white real estate sign.

“Hey, McKenzie,” Nina said. Her voice was perfectly calm. “Wasn’t the other house for sale, too?”

“Yes, it was,” I answered, although she couldn’t hear me. I wrote the name of the Realtor in the little notebook I always carry.

Nina browsed her way up the concrete driveway. Like the day before, the temperature was touching the low forties, and the customers were in a jovial mood. I heard many happy voices. One guy said, “I bet we’re playing golf by the end of the month.” I assumed it was the fellow standing just off of Nina’s shoulder and handling a pitching wedge that he took from a golf bag belted to a hand-drawn cart.

“Don’t jinx it,” another fellow said.

The golfer returned the wedge to the bag and removed a putter.

“This year I’m finally going to break eighty,” he said.

“Okay, now you’re just talking crazy,” his partner replied.

Nina kept moving along the tables. She paused to examine one of those flat, round vacuum cleaners, the kind that roam randomly across the floor, caroming off of furniture until, theoretically at least, it covers every nook and cranny. She held it up, I presume for me to see.

“I have a boyfriend who would love this,” she said.

A young woman was standing behind the table—the same one who was demonstrating the juicer the day before.

“Would you like to buy it for him?” she asked.

“No. When it comes to housecleaning, he’s lazy enough as it is.”

“Hey, hey,” I said.

Nina returned the vacuum cleaner and kept moving, seeming every inch the dedicated shopper. She stepped inside the garage, and my cell phone started broadcasting a steady moaning sound that competed with the voices. It was the sound of the overhead blowers working hard to keep the garage heated. I turned up the volume just in time to hear the young man.

“Nina, isn’t it?” he said.

I could see Nina pivot slowly to find Mitch standing behind her.

“You made it,” he added.

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Mitch’s smile was clearly visible to me through the binoculars, and I thought, Be very, very careful, pal.

“You showed some interest in pearls yesterday,” he said. “I have something you might like.”

Mitch led Nina to the cafeteria-style table where they had laid out the jewelry. He held up something for Nina that I couldn’t see. Nina took it from his hand.

“Pearl earrings,” she said.

“They’re nearly identical to the necklace you bought yesterday.”

“I can see that. How much are they?”

“Two hundred dollars for the pair.”

“That’s a very good price.”

“A new customer, we like to keep your business.”

“This is the way to do it.”

Nina reached into her bag and produced the cash. If Mitch had been paying attention, he would have noticed that there was plenty more where that came from. The way he suggested, “Please, keep looking. I’m sure you’ll find other merchandise that you’ll like,” made me think that he had. Nina wasn’t about to let him go, however.

“Do you get a lot of pearls?” she asked.

“Depends.”

“I love pearls.”

“I gathered.”

Nina allowed her voice to drop an octave or two.

“If you should come across a necklace made with Japanese Akoya pearls, I’d be interested in paying a buy-it-now price,” she said.

“Buy it now?”

“Isn’t that what they do on the Internet auction sites, give customers a chance to buy it now and avoid an auction?”

“It’s not an auction, but—Japanese Akoya pearls, you say? It’s possible we can do something for you.”

“I’m also looking for pearl pendants.”

“If we come across anything…”

“You have my e-mail address.”

“Clever girl,” I said.

“Mitch.”

Over the smartphone, it was just a guy calling a name. The way Nina’s and the young man’s heads snapped around, it must have sounded much more fervid to them.

“Excuse me,” Mitch said.

I followed him with the binoculars as he left Nina’s side and moved toward an older man who was standing with his hands locked behind his back. A second man, younger, taller, thinner, with short brown hair and completely devoid of expression, stood a few feet behind him, his head swiveling slowly from side to side.

Bodyguard,
my inner voice said.

Mitch said something that I couldn’t hear, and the older man grabbed his arm. Mitch pulled it out of his grasp. The older man glanced about as if he were afraid of being overheard, took Mitch by the arm again, and guided him to the table stacked with cashmere sweaters. The bodyguard moved with them, keeping a respectful distance.