Toxic Blonde

by David Stever

  Quade stood, paced around for a second, then put both hands on the table and leaned close to Ainsley. A common technique that put the interviewer in a power position.

  "Mr. Ainsley, it's extremely important that you answer this next question honestly, or the entire plan does not work. Did you tell anyone, anyone at all, that you went to see Johnny, or that Mary Ann hired him?"

  "No, no one."

  "You didn't tell Bellamy?"

  "No, I swear. There is nobody else I can even talk to. No other family and I don't trust anyone at the company."

  "No company gossip? Water cooler chatter?"

  "I overhear company gossip. Everyone loves a sex scandal, but nobody includes me."

  I got up and refilled our coffee cups. I did not make habit of cooperating with the feds, but I liked Quade’s plan, and I had to admit, it provided some work with a much-needed edge.

  Quade continued. “All we need is for you to be the eyes and ears inside the building.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Do Keira and Bellamy ever go out to lunch together?”

  “Every day. They go to a place called Lulu’s Café. Not too far from our building.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Everyone knows. Some of the women in the office will go there so they can spot Tom and Keira then gossip about it later.”

  We talked through what we wanted from him. Information on their routines and what he could expect from us.

  “Meanwhile, keep to your normal, daily routine. We will contact you on the phone Johnny gave you. Keep the phone in your car; check it at lunch time and in the evening.”

  Ainsley stood and shook our hands. “It is the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, George, it is. One day soon, I’ll explain,” Quade said.

  ***

  Ainsley left and Quade made a call. Five minutes later, Agent Ortiz came into the hotel room with Eric Eichenberg.

  “The boy wonder. We meet again,” I said.

  “Dude, what are you doing here? They came and got me at my job. I freaked.”

  “Sit down.”

  We sat around the table again and Quade put a sheet of paper in front of Eric. “This is a document giving you full immunity for any work you do for us on the case. You will also receive compensation of twenty-five hundred dollars. One-time payment, in cash, untaxable, untraceable.”

  Eichenberg’s eyes went from Quade to me. “For what?”

  “Need you to create a legend for Johnny, then do deep web research on a person we have under surveillance.”

  “Don’t you guys have an entire FBI to do this stuff?”

  “We do, but it would take me weeks to get done what you can do in a day. How about we sign the paper?”

  He turned to me. “Am I helping you on this? ʼCause I’ll only do this for you.”

  “You are.”

  “A legend, a complete background?”

  “Yes. Work history, credit report, addresses, schools, the works. I will give you details, plus a Social Security number for him,” Quade said.

  “What’s the catch, fed dude?”

  “The catch is we have national security interests to protect and you are the best person for this job.”

  “PI Dude?”

  “You’ll be fine. Do what you do, computer dude.”

  “Where will I work?”

  “Right here. We’ll supply everything. Plus, unlimited room service. Agent Ortiz will stay with you.”

  He glanced around the room, took it all in, gave Agent Ortiz a quick once-over. “Quade, as long as it’s your ass that goes down and not mine.”

  22

  Two clients on one case is one client too many, and I never expected the FBI to be a client. I dealt with many federal agents over my career and navigating the egos and arrogance was the constant frustration. They never wanted input from the city cops walking the beat, but Quade seemed to put his ego aside and realized the benefit in my involvement. I gave him credit for that because Keira Kaine would smell a fed from miles away. Still, my sixth sense was my most loyal ally and it reminded me to only trust myself. Quade had a plan, but I damn sure needed one, too.

  Only a few days ago, I complained to Jim Rosswell about taking on another routine cheating spouse case. Now, the opposite was on my plate. The brutality I witnessed, as delivered by Keira Kaine, and Ainsley’s contention that she had nefarious ambitions, were not lost on me. The furtive aspect with Quade was an adrenaline spike, but my first loyalty was to client number one, Mary Ann Bellamy, and securing proof of the affair.

  McNally’s was between lunch and happy hour, which gave me a chance to gather my troop—Mike. We sat in my back booth and I filled him in on Ainsley, the FBI, at which he cringed—no love lost there—and Eric Eichenberg creating a legend for me.

  “You are going undercover for them? Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Suddenly you’re an adventure seeker? No way. I need a drink to listen to this.” He got up, grabbed a bottle from the bar, and came back and poured two drinks. “Brunette or blonde?”

  “Why do you always go there?”

  “Well?”

  I threw back my bourbon and poured another. “Blonde. I watched her put a hurt on two guys and it got me curious.”

  “Now you have a pain fetish?”

  “No, but I feel for the wife and the old man.”

  “Feelings? I’m worried about you.”

  “Something with the blonde, though. Why would an executive with an aerospace firm, government contractor with a top-secret clearance, be meeting with two low lifes at a truck stop motel? The feds are on to something with her and I think they are right. She’s bad. I’m not sure how, but my curiosity is piqued.” I lifted my glass to my summary.

  “You got a point. Feds give you details?”

  “A few. Another meeting this afternoon.”

  “Let’s see. Top-secret clearance, government contractor. She’s compromised.” He raised his glass and toasted his expert deduction.

  “We’re going to find out.”

  “Please don’t get yourself killed and leave me to run this joint by myself. Next thing you know, we’ll be holding a memorial golf tournament in your honor to raise money for some charity and I’m not into that.” He finished his drink and got up from the booth. “Let me know how I can help.”

  Katie came in and Mike stopped dead in his tracks. “Damn, where are you going?”

  She wore navy-blue dress slacks, heels, a cream-colored blouse, dangling gold earrings, a necklace to match, full make up, and her hair was down and flowing in head-turning, show-stopping curls.

  “I’m coming here, to work.”

  “Did you forget this is a bar? Not some upscale, five-star restaurant. You look fantastic, but a bit over-dressed, wouldn’t you say?” Mike said.

  “No, just tired of jeans and T-shirts every day.”

  “In that case, the grease traps need cleaned out.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then Mike pointed at me. “She’s your employee today.”

  “Smart man, Mr. McNally,” Katie said. He walked away shaking his head as she sat in the booth. “What’s on the schedule?”

  “What if the grease traps do need to be cleaned?”

  “Change of clothes in my car.”

  “Uh, huh.” I cocked an eyebrow.

  “C’mon. What are we doing?”

  “You’ll find out.” I got up. “You coming?”

  “Yes. Will Scott be there?”

  “Scott? Who is Scott?”

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  ***

  Agent Quade hit the Hilton lobby the same time we did and we all rode the elevator to the fifth floor without anyone saying a word. I did catch him taking a second glance at Katie.

  He tapped twice on the room door. Agent Ortiz opened it and we went in. Eric was at the table and jumped to his feet when he saw Katie. “Damn, girl. You are smokin’.”
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  She blushed. “Thanks.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Quade said, “Yes, what is she doing here?”

  “I want her up to speed on this. She’s part of the deal.”

  Quade assessed for a second, used the opportunity to look her over. “Fine. I prefer she stay here, not in the field.”

  Quade, Eric, and I sat around the table and Katie and Ortiz sat on the sofa. Eric gave me the details on my new persona. “You are now Arthur Rhodes from California.” He handed me a sheet that listed my Social Security number, an address in San Jose, details of my education, name of a former wife, and two previous addresses. He also gave me a California driver’s license, complete with my picture.

  “This is impressive. All in one day,” I said.

  “Dude, Mamacita Maria here is off the chain amazing.” We all turned toward Ortiz and it was now her turn to blush. “Right, Mama?”

  “Umm...” She cleared her throat. “Yes, we were able to pull this together in record time. You also have a credit history if they check, and I’m sure they will.”

  Quade tapped the paper. “Learn this overnight and I say we make an attempt tomorrow at lunch at the café Ainsley mentioned. You sure you’re comfortable doing this?”

  “Been many years since an undercover assignment. I’m up for it.”

  He reached a hand to Ortiz. “The phone?”

  She handed me a burner phone. “Use only this to communicate with us. It also has a separate GPS so we can track you.” She opened an envelope and gave me a small, white disk, the size of a button on a man’s dress shirt. “Hide this in your clothes. A second tracker, in case it all blows up.”

  “So you can find my body?”

  Neither agent reacted. They had traded their sense of humor for a badge.

  For once, I hoped Eric would talk, but Katie broke the awkward silence with an equally awkward comment. “So, Scott, will I be here with you, or in the field with Johnny? Either way is fine. I’m working on my PI license, so any experience is great for me.”

  Ortiz turned away, suppressing a smile. Quade, to his credit, did not embarrass her. “We’ll figure out your role in the operation.”

  “How long does it take to get a PI license?” Eric asked.

  “Eric, how about we stay focused?”

  “Right, PI boss. I got it.”

  We went through the approach for tomorrow. I explained how I wanted to play it and Quade agreed. If Keira and Bellamy did not keep their lunch date, we wait another day. Quade made clear his goal in contacting her. “Let’s hope she reacts. Do not engage in any other conversation.”

  “Understood.”

  “We meet back here after.”

  Eric stretched out on the bed, Quade was first out of the room, and Ortiz stepped in front of Katie. “Sweetie, many women have tried and all have failed. He is all business. Trust me.”

  Eric called after Ortiz. “Mamacita Maria, remember my gig next Saturday.”

  Ortiz’s eyes went to the floor and she wasted no time on her exit.

  Katie flopped her head back on the sofa. “Was I obvious?”

  “Katie, babe, you took a shot and missed,” Eric said. “It’s cool. C’mon, I have room service.” He patted the bed. “Anything we want. We can party all night.”

  “Oh my God.” She got up, grabbed her purse, and scrammed.

  I said to Eric, “Hey, you took a shot and missed.”

  He shrugged and picked up the remote.

  23

  The McNally’s-sponsored police league softball team kept the bar busy all night. They won the championship and Mike had the beer taps wide open in celebration. Katie and I both pitched in, me behind the bar and she in the kitchen, and we took turns checking the GPS on the laptop for any movement of Bellamy’s Range Rover or Keira’s Mercedes. Nothing tawdry so far, each parked at their respective houses all evening.

  A nervous tic about George Ainsley crept into my gut. I worried about him as our eyes and ears in the company, and whether he could handle the task without Keira growing wise to his efforts to wedge between her and Bellamy. I needed him to play it cool and not be overzealous.

  I sent a text message asking him to meet me at Nancy’s at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast the next morning. I received back a quick, “Yes.”

  Around 9:30, the softball team and their wives and girlfriends dwindled out and I began to wipe down the bar when Katie yelled from the back.

  “It moved.” Her frantic hand motioned for me.

  I hurried to the booth and the GPS cursor for Keira’s car was now on the interstate headed toward the same truck stop from the other night. “Only her car. Bellamy’s is still at his house.”

  “Do you want to follow?”

  “Of course.” She threw off her apron.

  I sent another quick text. She grabbed the laptop, and ten minutes later, we pulled under the portico of the downtown Hilton. “What are we doing?” Katie asked. “She’s on the highway.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Two minutes later, Scott Quade hustled out of the hotel lobby, still buttoning his shirt. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She flipped down the visor and checked her face. “You owe me. I could have changed.”

  He squeezed his long body into the backseat of the Buick. “Thanks for including me. Where is she?”

  Katie twisted around to Quade and held the laptop for him to see. She pointed at the GPS cursor, which was on the interstate.

  “She’s headed toward the motel and truck stop where we observed her before.”

  Quade asked a few questions about us being here the other night but we did not have much to add. Katie watched the cursor on the screen and we figured she stopped at the Starry Night. We took the exit off the interstate and slowed as we approached the motel. Eighteen-wheelers lined the access road again and we used them for cover, sliding into a spot between two trucks. We had a clear view of the motel parking lot.

  “There’s her car,” Katie said. “And the van. Scott, we suspect it’s the same van that ran Mary Ann Bellamy off the road.”

  He nodded. “Good to know. Do you have binoculars?”

  “Of course.” She handed them back to him.

  “Katie, your hair. Do you have the cap?” I said.

  She shot me a look that almost took my head off, but relented when Quade agreed it was a smart idea to hide her hair.

  “Don’t want to give them anything they can recognized.” I watched Quade in the rearview mirror as he watched her tuck her hair inside the ski cap. Maybe he’s not all business after all.

  We waited forty-five minutes in almost complete silence except for Katie asking Scott questions about his personal life. She could not help herself. Where he went to school, where he was from, did he like sports. He was polite and answered all she asked, but never asked her anything. I sensed her discomfort and embarrassment.

  Quade leaned forward. “Can we move closer?”

  “You sure we want to?” I said.

  “No, but I don’t have a clear view of the license tag on the van.”

  We drove into the lot, Katie with the camera ready, and Quade slouched down in the back seat. We made two passes and she clicked away. I parked as far from her car and the van as possible, but only thirty yards separated us.

  A woman—if we could call her that—came out of a motel room and walked across the lot toward the truck stop. She was tall, rail thin, had long, stringy brown hair, wore a blue bikini top and jeans that hung off her skinny hips, and her arms were covered in tattoos.

  Katie filled in the rest. “Lot lizard.”

  “What?” Quade asked.

  “Lot lizard. Hookers who work the truck stops. Drugged out, too, I’m sure.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not as new as I appear.”

  Another thirty minutes went by and I noticed Katie’s eyes going closed. Mine were not far behind. It was after midnight at this point and I was about to call
it when a motel room door opened and Keira walked out with her two henchmen behind her.

  “Show time, folks.”

  We came alive. Quade used the binoculars and Katie zoomed in and snapped pictures. We were now close enough to get clear shots of their faces.

  “Quade, the box on the floor back there.”

  He opened it. “Sweet.” It contained a small, gun-shaped, battery-powered parabolic microphone. He turned it on, put on the headset and lowered his window, pointing the mic in the direction of the trio. “Does it record?”

  “Yes. Squeeze the trigger.”

  The three stood beside her car and it appeared Keira did most of the talking. Both goons had their hands on their hips, listening and nodding. She jabbed the tall guy in the chest to make a point, and then turned to the short one. He backed up a few steps.

  “I’ll be damned.” Quade took the headset off and picked up the binoculars.

  Katie turned to him. “What is it?”

  “Interesting. Here, listen.”

  He handed me the mic. Katie and I shared the headphones and she aimed it toward our target. We heard their voices, but they spoke in another language.

  Katie lifted the headphone from her ear. “What is it? Russian or something?”

  I turned to Quade. “You know these guys?”

  “The tall one might be Maxim Vlasova. Not sure about the other one,” he said. “I am assigned to the organized crime unit in New York, but we detected an increase in activity in a cell down here in Port City, so here I am. No doubt they’re Bratva.”

  Katie faced Quade. “Bratva?”

  “Russian mob. Quite active in the United States. I’ll explain but let’s keep our attention on the action.”

  A beat-down broke out. Keira had her two goons in full retreat. They shuffled backward in a circle while she jockeyed them around like a lioness backing her prey into a snare. Their heads bobbed up and down.

  Quade put the headphones on again. “She’s laying them out. Something about them not following orders and being where they were supposed to be.”

  “You speak Russian?” Katie snapped a few more shots.

  “No. I understand some basics. Go as close on their faces as you can. I’ll run the pictures through facial recognition.”