License to Lie

by Terry Ambrose

  He drove to Roxy’s apartment again. This time, he scoured the lot for her Toyota. When he didn’t find it, he assumed she was gone, but decided to be sure. At her door, he found the lights on and his card gone. He wondered if she was pulling another trick or if she was still here.

  Skip knocked—lightly, at first, then louder. “Open up, Roxy.”

  He considered banging even harder, maybe yelling, but that would only make the neighbors angry and bring the cops. For all he knew, Roxy also had a snoopy neighbor who had a revolver and 9-1-1 on speed dial. He paced back and forth on the walkway in front of her door. He didn’t know what to do. He could go home and check the locator service, but if she was inside, she could leave the moment he walked away. What he needed was someone to check the locator for him. Baldorf.

  He dialed the number.

  “Dude, speak to me.”

  “I need another favor.”

  Baldorf chuckled. “You’re going to owe me. Big.”

  “Whatever you want. Can you check a GPS locator service for me?”

  “Do I have to hack in or are you giving me access codes?”

  Skip smiled. “I suspect it doesn’t matter much to you.”

  “Only in the amount of time it takes to get in. Some systems are more secure than others.”

  Skip gave Baldorf his user name and password and the URL to access his account. About a minute later, Baldorf said, “I’m still waiting for the results. You still trying to find that woman?”

  “Roxy Tanner.”

  “Right. The one who’s been making you crazy.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

  “Dude, I’ve, like, never seen you in love before. It’s kind of cool.”

  Skip rubbed the back of his neck, which felt suddenly hot. Was he that obvious?

  “Hey, here it is. She’s on the corner of Washington and Juniper. Where are you?”

  “At her apartment on Acacia. This thing can’t be off by that much.”

  “Hey, man, I take that back. She’s on Juniper. She’s moving, man. Looks like maybe she’s in a car.”

  “Son of a bitch! There must be a back entrance to this place. I’m gonna try to catch her.”

  “Car chases are a bad scene, man. Wouldn’t you rather, like, use the technology? Let her run. You show up once she stops. How cool would that be?”

  Where would she be going? To see her parents? She hadn’t been there yet. “Baldorf, you really are brilliant. Is she headed toward Tamarack?” He was already at the bike and had the key in the ignition.

  “Yup. Dude. I know this isn’t very cloak-and-dagger like, but, um, I gotta tinkle.”

  Skip revved the engine on the bike. “You what?”

  “I gotta go, man. Be right back!”

  Skip found himself listening to dead air as he guided the bike down to Garfield, then left. She was probably headed to her parents’ house. He’d hold back and show up just after she got out of the car. No more running then.

  He was about ready to turn onto Tamarack from Garfield when his phone beeped. He glanced at the display.

  Low battery.

  Baldorf still hadn’t returned, so he disconnected. He stuck the phone in his jacket pocket and made his left. Traffic on Tamarack was light at this hour and he wanted to make sure he didn’t land on Roxy’s tail at one of the stoplights, so he drove slowly. As he crossed the overpass for I-5 he noted the traffic, which, even at this hour, resembled a steady stream of ants invading a picnic.

  He passed Rite Aid and Vons and had just crossed Adams when his phone rang. He pulled it and checked the display. Baldorf. He snickered as he chided his friend. “Tinkle time over?”

  “Yeah, man, oh that’s so much better. Too much coffee.”

  No wonder he was always wired.

  Baldorf asked, “So, did you follow her onto the 5?”

  “What?”

  “She turned north on the 5, man. She’s halfway to Oceanside right now.”

  Skip pulled the bike to the side of the road. “What the hell’s she doing there?”

  “I dunno, man, looks like she’s hauling ass wherever she’s going.”

  Skip sat back on the bike. He cursed his luck. She wasn’t heading for her parents, she was going—where?

  His phone bleeped. “I’m about out of juice.” And he was. The way he felt, if Roxy didn’t want his help, forget her. The phone bleeped three times and shut itself down. Skip glared at it.

  A car cruised by, windows down, radio blaring, sparkly lights in the back window lighting up the rear like a Christmas tree. Shit! He couldn’t track her. He could take the 5 north to the Canadian border and never see her. He put the bike back into gear and pulled forward and drove to the Tanner residence.

  He passed their home, did a U-turn and stopped on the opposite side of the street from the house. Dark. He wasn’t about to wake Richard and Evelyn again. His throat felt tight as he noted the streetlight glinting off one of the front bedrooms. Had that been hers as a girl? How had she turned into a criminal? He sat until the fog began to drift in, wondering when he’d become just another dumb guy who’d fallen for Roxy Tanner. How many others had there been?

  The streetlight glowed with a cold halo in the heavy blanket of fog. He could sit here until the night chilled him to the bone, or he could go. He didn’t know that it mattered. He felt numb inside as it was.

  Skip put the bike in gear. “To hell with you, Roxy Tanner. I’m done chasing you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Roxy

  Some things in life just seem to be patently unfair. I had nearly five million in the bank, a grand in cash, and fake credit cards to muddy my trail. I had a head start on anyone trying to follow me and the dead-on cunning to work out contingency plans on the fly. What I didn’t have, however, was gas.

  There was no way I’d make it to LAX without filling up. Not safely, anyway. I started watching for gas stations and found one in Aliso Viejo. Stopping for gas pissed me off because it made my car more visible. Stay low, under the radar. That meant minimize human interactions whenever possible.

  I paid cash for the gas and used the restroom—which reminded me of a cross between an outhouse and a garbage dump. It was the kind of place my mother would say, “The five-second rule doesn’t apply, honey. If it gets within a foot of anything, it’s contaminated.” Restrooms like this make women envy the male plumbing system.

  Given that I was already here and visible, I grabbed a cup of coffee before getting back on the road. With caffeine in hand, it was back to the late-night driving routine of watching taillights come and go while keeping an eye out for those pesky Highway Patrol cars. The cities came and went also—Cypress, Lakewood, Compton, and Lynnwood. With my coffee drained and the turnoff for LAX in view, I should have been feeling as though I’d mastered the world, but I wasn’t. I found a spot in long-term parking, grabbed my overnight case from the trunk, and headed for Terminal 7. With any luck, I’d be able to catch a flight destined for a warm climate.

  Inside the terminal I found a bank of monitors and checked for departures. My choices were slim. Take Cathay Pacific to Vancouver—not happening, Asiana to Seoul—wrong direction, Aerounion to Guadalajara—too many people, or Sky West to San Diego—like I wanted to fly back to where I’d just driven from. Definitely not happening.

  Way down the list, I found what I was looking for, a United flight to New York. I made my way to the ticket counter, which was staffed by a sleepy-eyed employee. His face brightened when he saw me—this guy was so bored he actually wanted to see a customer. Now that’s desperate.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Indeed, it is. Can I help you?” His name tag said he was James.

  “Are there any seats left on the New York flight?”

  James got a bewildered look on his face. I doubted that he had many customers walk in at 2:00 a.m. wanting to buy a ticket, so my first order of business was to give this sleepyhead something to focus on before
he spent the rest of his night wondering if he should call the cops about a blonde terrorist.

  I set my bag down and let the pain from my fight with the kidnapper show through. “My boyfriend beat the crap out of me. The cops came and took him away, but I want to be gone by the time his asshole attorney posts bail in the morning.”

  James seemed at a loss. Maybe I’d come on too strong. He hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Pretty bad?”

  “Not as bad as the last time. I told the SOB that if he did it again, I was gone.”

  “Good for you. Does he drink? I had an uncle that got real nasty when he drank.”

  I rubbed my shoulder and put on a pained expression. “No, we went to a restaurant. The waiter was talking to me just like you are right now. When we got home, he went ballistic.”

  James shook his head. “That’s terrible. Let’s get you out of here. You’re in luck. I have some seats left to New York. Do you have a credit card?”

  I pulled out my credit card for Lucy Kravatz and handed it over. The fake credit cards and passports had set me back a considerable amount, but it was a far cry from what it would cost me to hang around here.

  “Ms. Kravatz? Hang on. Oh, I’ll need some ID also.”

  “It’s Miss. I just got a domestic-violence divorce—dial 9-1-1 and run like hell.”

  He smiled. “No problem.” As he ran the card, he said, “You know, it’s going to be several hours before your flight. Maybe you’d like to rest up a bit in our International Lounge?”

  “Could I—do that?” I was stunned. I hadn’t expected him to care much about my personal tale of woe, so this guy’s willingness to help shocked me. All because I’d told him I’d been beaten up? His kindness touched me. “How can I get in?”

  He winked. “It’ll be our secret. It doesn’t open until five, but I can sneak you in now. That way you’ll have some peace and quiet until it’s time to check in.”

  I smiled, in fact, I think I even blushed. “Thank you, James.”

  He winked. “My pleasure.”

  We finished the financial transaction and James met me on the other side of security, where he guided me to the lounge up on the mezzanine level. The doors to the elevator closed and James broke the silence. “My wife has a friend who just had to separate from her husband for the same exact thing. There’s just so much violence in the world today.”

  I agreed. The elevator reached the mezzanine and we walked to the door of the lounge.

  James opened the door wide and flipped on the lights. “Here you go. It’s all yours, for a while.”

  “Thanks.” I kissed him on the cheek.

  It was his turn to blush. “I—I need to get back to my station. Bye-bye.”

  He closed the door and left me alone. The lounge wasn’t stocked with anything like coffee or tea or other stuff yet, but it was quiet and the seating was far superior to the standard airport-issue backbreakers out in the terminal area. It was also away from public view and that fit my plan precisely. I pulled off my jacket and settled down into one of the chairs, covering myself with my jacket to ward off the cool air coming through the vent above. If this was home-sweet-home, I might as well get comfy.

  I must have fallen asleep in the chair because I don’t remember anything until around four. That’s when someone turned the doorknob, which sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. I practically jumped out of my chair. Being basically paranoid, I immediately assumed that James hadn’t fallen for my act and had reported me to the cops. To my surprise, it was James again.

  “Thought you might like a newspaper. Sorry if I woke you.”

  “It’s okay.” I rubbed my face and neck. “Guess I fell asleep.”

  “Well, you’ll be able to board in about three hours. I’d better warn you, the flight might get delayed a bit. Restrooms are over there and they’ll be bringing in the coffee and snacks soon.”

  “Will you get in trouble if I’m here?”

  He shook his head. “If anyone questions you, which I seriously doubt, send them to me.” He tapped himself on the chest and winked.

  Wow, I thought, look what one kiss on the cheek had done for him. “Okay. Thanks again.”

  James left and rather than settling down for some more sleep, I started flipping through the pages of the Times. It wasn’t often that I saw the LA Times and I’d probably see it even less once I had relocated to the Caribbean.

  Most of the stories were insanely boring. The typical BS. Political posturing, international squabbles, and more. All of which were driven by people who would rather fight than work out their differences. When had compromise become a dirty word? Whatever. Not my problem.

  I was bored as hell by the time I got to the back of the A section and spotted a headline that struck close to home. “Oceanside Man Found Dead at Beach.”

  Oceanside is an old military town that’s trying desperately to find their way in an environment that’s not so heavily dependent upon the military. The shift from bars and brothels to malls and tourists wasn’t coming easy, but it was happening. I read the story, wondering in that morbid way people do when someone from near their hometown dies—did I know him?

  On Thursday afternoon at about 5:00 p.m., LAPD received a call that the body of James Dane of Oceanside had been found on the beach in Newport. According to LAPD, Dane had been shot once in the back of the head, execution style.

  LAPD sources indicated that they have no witnesses and said that the motive did not appear to be robbery because Dane still had his wallet in his back pocket. They also noted that the body did not appear to have been dragged to the scene.

  Witnesses are encouraged to contact LAPD Detective Wallace.

  The reporter had apparently gotten to the scene quickly because there was a picture of Dane’s body in which he lay arrow-straight in the sand, face down. The photographer had also gotten a mini-forest of bare legs that surrounded the body in the picture. My hand trembled as I set the paper in the chair next to me.

  Someone was cleaning up. First Stella, now her boyfriend. It couldn’t be the kidnapper because he’d died in Skip’s car. Or was it him? Maybe I had the sequence wrong. Had the kidnapper followed Dane? Found him and learned about the CD? Was that why he’d been at Stella’s?

  Who else knew about this? Was there a fourth man, a boss, as Skip had thought? Stella’s phone might have the answer, but I’d dumped it—no, I hadn’t. It was sitting in the back of my car. I slumped down into my seat. Shit. I’d forgotten to dump the bag with the phone and my hard drive. Now what? It was 4:34. This room would open shortly anyway. I put on my jacket, grabbed my bag and left my little hideaway. I’d handle the rest of my wait in the public arena.

  As I made my way back past security, I noticed that the TSA line was already growing. It had been easy earlier—returning through security would take much longer. Instead of going straight to the car, I decided to see if James was still on duty. My breath caught when I got near the ticket area and spotted Skip wandering around. Son of a bitch—how had he? I searched frantically for a courtesy phone and spotted one about twenty feet away. I waited until Skip was pacing the opposite direction, then dashed over to the phone and picked it up.

  An operator answered, “LAX operator.”

  “I need to speak to James at the ticket counter in Terminal 7 for United.”

  “One moment.”

  The phone rang twice and James picked up.

  “Oh, thank God. James, this is—” I almost said Roxy, but caught myself. “This is Lucy Kravatz. That guy who’s wandering around the terminal wearing a blue jacket, that’s my boyfriend. He must have gotten out of jail somehow. Maybe they didn’t hold him.”

  “He said he was looking for a Roxy Tanner.” His voice was tinged with suspicion.

  “This is LA, James. I’m trying to become an actress and that’s my stage name, the only one he knows me by. My real name is Lucille Jennifer Kravatz and I was born in Ithaca, New York. Now, who’s going to
hire an actress with that name? Everything’s got to be sexy these days. That’s why I’ve been using Roxy Tanner since I got here.”

  “Okay, well, I told him I couldn’t give out any information about customers. I think he’s about to leave anyway. What are you doing on this side of security?”

  “I realized I left something in my car that I need.”

  James interrupted my tale, “He’s leaving.”

  “Thank goodness. Thank you again. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  I watched Skip exit the terminal and noticed that he was headed for short-term parking. Since I was in long-term, I felt relatively safe and made my way back to the car. I’d opened the back door and had pulled out the bag containing Stella’s phone when I realized how Skip found me. He’d been using that GPS locator service. He’d know every move I made until I got rid of my phone. I’d intended to get a replacement within the next day or so, but not while waiting for the plane at LAX. Then it hit me. Maybe I already had a replacement, thanks to Stella.

  What would happen if I put the little do-hickey they called a SIM card from her phone into mine? Wouldn’t that make mine a different phone? It was worth a try, but first I needed to go through her address book one more time.

  I powered down my phone and pulled the SIM card, then went back to the terminal. I figured the safest place for me was on the other side of security. Skip could always buy a ticket, but I doubted he’d go that far. Besides, the line was growing longer with each passing minute. Inside Terminal 7, I found a quiet spot and began looking through Stella’s address book.

  If I’d known that my flight was going to be delayed when I bought the ticket, I might have done something different. As it was, I’d already waited for hours and had two more before my flight. I was checked in and ready to go, so I might as well tough it out. They wouldn’t start boarding for at least an hour. I had plenty of time. I went through the entries one by one. It looked to me like she had in the neighborhood of 200 contacts, so I didn’t have a lot of time to spend on each. I found the entry for Jimmy Dane, but the address only had a phone number. Why didn’t she have an address for him? Why no e-mail?