“Hey, aren’t you cold?”
Lynnette jumped and thrust the phone in her pocket, pushed herself up from the bench, and grabbed the handle of her carryon. “Yeah,” she said. “I better get moving.” She glanced at the woman in jeans and a heavy flannel jacket who had walked up behind her. Lynnette hadn’t heard a thing. If that had been the fat man, he could’ve killed me.
“Come on in,” the woman said, pointing to a tiny shop a few feet from where Lynnette stood. A sign on the door said Caffeine on Tap. “I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”
Inside the cozy shop, the woman pointed toward a table and chair in one corner. “You hungry? I have cinnamon rolls just out of the oven.”
Lynnette turned down the rolls but accepted a huge cup of coffee.
The woman got busy behind the counter and ignored Lynnette for several minutes. An empty newspaper rack sat by the door. A small television occupied one end of the counter, its screen dark. Lynnette passed the time by reading the handwritten menu on the wall chalkboard.
The woman poured a cup of coffee for herself and leaned against the counter. “I don’t want to be nosy,” she said. Apparently she meant it, because she didn’t say anything else, didn’t ask any questions.
Lynnette chose not to answer at first, but then felt rude in the face of the stranger’s kindness. “It’s complicated.”
“I figured that.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Okay. Suit yourself.”
Lynnette sipped her coffee, feeling more and more uncomfortable as the coffee lady continued to watch her. “Listen, I appreciate the coffee, but I have to get to the bus station.” She stood up at the same moment a door opened at the back of the shop and a man carrying two newspaper bundles strode toward the rack. She waited as he ordered a cup of coffee. After stacking the newspapers on the shelves, he handed a paper to Lynnette and laid one on the counter. With the cup of coffee in his hand, he shouted, “See ya!” and hurried out the door.
“Sure you don’t want more coffee?” the woman asked.
“Thanks, no.” Lynnette folded her newspaper and shoved it in the outside pocket of her carry-on.
“Whatever’s going on, maybe I could help.”
Lynnette shook her head. “I don’t think so. Thanks, anyway.”
“Why don’t you sit and have something to eat?”
Too pushy. She acts as though she’s trying to keep me here.
Had the fat man been here looking for her?
Without another word, Lynnette pulled the sweatshirt hood over her head and walked out the door. She crossed the street at the next intersection and walked away as fast as she could. She’d told the woman at the coffee shop she was headed to the bus station, so she couldn’t go there. At the end of the block, she turned in the opposite direction.
At the next corner, Lynnette doubled back toward 16th Street, where she stopped and peered around the corner toward the coffee shop. A police car sat in front, its lights flashing. An officer stood by the front door. The coffee lady pointed in the direction Lynnette had walked when she left the shop.
What the hell? Lynnette stepped out of sight and leaned against the building, rubbing her forehead as though to massage the frown away. It made no sense for that woman to call the cops. What’s going on?
Hadn’t she just told herself to pull it together, stop acting so paranoid? Now that she didn’t have to worry about Grace, why didn’t she return to the coffee shop to talk to the police? They could track the fat man and exchange the laptop cases. No muss, no fuss, no danger. For Pete’s sake, the cops probably stop there for coffee every day.
Then why did the coffee lady point in the direction Lynnette had gone?
It had to be Carl. He had reported her missing or he had accused her of some kind of crime. He must have figured out she was in Denver by tracking the credit card purchase and charming some airline cutie into checking the passenger list for both legs of the flight. One call to Denver P.D. from one cop to another. That’s all it would take. And here she was, wandering around downtown in the early morning, before most of the businesses were open. She’d stand out like a sore thumb with her carry-on bag. She had to ditch stuff right now so she didn’t look like a stranded traveler.
Backtracking to an alley she’d passed only moments before, Lynnette hurried toward the nearest dumpsters and stepped between the first two. She pulled off the black wig and threw it away. She took off her jacket and turned it inside out so the gray, quilted lining showed. Next she removed the red sweatshirt and dropped it on the ground. Hoping the absence of red and purple would be enough to make her less obvious when seen from a distance, she slipped the jacket on inside out. Sammy’s phone bumped against her hip. It would be harder to get to it, but she didn’t think she’d have room in her purse for the phone. She threw the purple gloves on the ground with the sweatshirt.
The carry-on case came next. She took the newspaper from the outside pocket and stuffed it into her purse. After removing Sammy’s laptop case, she stuffed the cash into her pants pocket. The brown manila envelope rolled easily and fit inside her purse. After peering around the dumpsters to make sure no one watched, she threw the bag away. She went through the rest of Sammy’s laptop case and pulled out the things she would need. The laptop she’d carry under her arm. The phone charger and the computer’s brick and cord went into her purse. Sammy had two flash drives in his case. She took them as well. When she had everything, she tossed the laptop case into the dumpster with the carry-on bag.
Her purse weighed a good ten pounds and felt way too full for comfort. She took a deep breath and let it out. Comfort is not the primary issue here. What could she discard? She took a quick inventory and removed her water bottle, a bag of cough drops, all of her keys, six ballpoint pens, and a half-empty notebook. She tore out a half dozen pages of the notebook and stuffed them back in her purse with a pen. After chugging most of the water, she tossed the bottle.
She couldn’t do much about her purse and her brown Reeboks at this point. She listened for a moment and didn’t hear anyone in the alley. Just as she stepped out from between the dumpsters, a bread delivery truck turned in from the street. She stepped aside to let it pass, then followed as it cruised almost to the end of the block before stopping. The back door into a business stood open. The aroma of bacon and coffee floated into the alley.
Lynnette ignored the bread man and thoughts of breakfast and walked around the truck to the end of the block. She needed a cyber café with no cop car parked outside the front door. Or anyplace with public computers, or wireless if she wanted to risk using Sammy’s laptop. And she needed to be far away from downtown.
A college campus. Big cities had colleges, and college libraries often opened early to accommodate students. As she drew near one of the hotels, she saw a line of cabs in the circle drive. Lynnette walked across the street to the first driver and said, “Take me to the campus?”
“D.U.?”
“Yeah.”
“What building?”
“The library.”
CHAPTER 17
* * *
Denver, Colorado
Thursday, January 23
As soon as the taxi entered the ramp to I-25, Lynnette felt safer. By the time she watched the cabbie drive away from the library, she had shaken the anxiety she’d felt since hearing the first voice mail message from the man with the accent.
The cab driver barely looked at her. She’d done her best to avoid drawing his attention by staying quiet and giving him a good tip—not too big and not too small.
Lynnette entered the library and found the restrooms. Looking at herself in the mirror, she noted her bruises had turned a sickly yellow around the edges. She washed her hands and face and dabbed more foundation over the worst discoloration, blending it as best she could. She ran a comb through her hair and fluffed her bangs.
No one seemed to notice when she wandered into a large room filled with tables and ringed
with low-walled study cubicles equipped with outlets. Signs placed throughout the room advertised free wireless, but Lynnette didn’t want to use Sammy’s computer unless she had to. Instead, she sat at one of the public-use computers and put her purse and Sammy’s laptop on the floor between her feet. After slipping her jacket off and stuffing it behind her back, she logged on to her email account.
Nothing from Carl. Also, nothing from her bank or brokerage firm alerting her to unusual activity on her accounts. She closed her eyes, trying to remember her bank passwords. Creating unique and secure passwords for each of her online accounts had a downside. While she struggled to remember, she reminded herself that Sammy the Creep had her statement, account number, login name, and password. I’m an idiot.
Besides the usual spam, her Inbox contained an email from Dave Buchanan at the Reporter.
That’s odd. The two hadn’t been in touch since she left Indianapolis.
She’d send an email to Blue first, then Dave. She’d have to go back to the investment account password later. Pulling her purse into her lap, she searched its contents for the napkin with Blue’s information on it, then wrote a short email to let Blue and Grace know she was okay. If the two girls met the early bus from Denver, expecting Lynnette to be on it, they might think she’d taken off for good.
Then she opened the email from Dave Buchanan. It said: Where are you? What’s happened? Call now. Urgent. She replied: I have information that might be a story. Need to talk, but I lost phone list. Send work number stat.
She heard a ping that signaled incoming mail. Blue wrote: Where are you? I’ll pick you up. Sixty minutes max.
Lynnette frowned. Wouldn’t it be better to avoid the girls? Why put them in danger? She would tell Blue not to come.
Her Inbox pinged again. She closed Blue’s message and opened the response she’d received from Dave. He had listed three different phone numbers and added: Call right now. Urgent. Lynnette shivered as she jotted down the numbers and stuffed the paper in her pocket.
Another ping from the computer. Lynnette opened the new email from Blue. You still there? Where are you?
Lynnette hit Reply. D.U. Library. Don’t come. I have other plans.
The answer came right back. We’re on our way. We went to campus and picked up my car. Watch for us. It’s a black Kia Rio.
Lynnette mentally kicked herself for mentioning her location. She hit Reply again and typed: No, Blue. You and Grace are safe. You don’t need to get involved. Too dangerous.
She hit Send and waited. No response.
With a sigh, she hit Reply on Dave’s email. Dave, I can’t call you yet. I need to get to a different phone. Will call in two or three hours and explain everything.
She hit Send, logged out, and started to close the browser. Before she could do so, Sammy’s cell phone vibrated against her hip.
She checked the display and confirmed the call did not come from her cell. The number didn’t match the one used by the man she’d decided to call The Cuban, either. This new number came from a different area code, one she couldn’t identify. She didn’t answer it.
She listened to the remaining messages on Sammy’s phone, hoping The Cuban had said something to give away his identity. If this guy wanted the goods Sammy had in his laptop case, and Lynnette now possessed them, The Cuban could be tracking her on his own.
Methodically, she went through the voice mail. The first two were from The Cuban. He threatened to kill Sammy if he didn’t call. Then everything changed.
The last voice mail from The Cuban said, “If this message is received by Lynnette Hudson, also known as Lynnette Foster, you should know that Sammy Grick died early this morning in a Denver hospital. My representative picked up his personal effects. I know who you are, Mrs. Foster, and I have all of the information I need to track you down. Sammy had your laptop and personal papers. His case, which included items belonging to me, is missing. I understand why you don’t want to be found, but I want the case and everything in it, and I want it now. My man has been dispatched to find you. He’ll be in touch.”
Holy shit! Who was this guy? Why would The Cuban in L.A. have a contact in Denver able to track the fat guy so fast? Or had he sent someone to Denver specifically to find Sammy Grick? She glanced around the room to see if anyone watched her. The hairs on her arms rose as though a cold breeze had blown through the room. Her heartbeat hopped once, then again. Her mouth felt dry. She set the phone down and reopened the browser. The Cuban had her name, her home address, and all the contacts in her computer email and on her cell phone. If he did an Internet search on her name, what would he find?
She brought up a search engine and typed in Lynnette Hudson. There were links to a couple of her old stories in The Indy Reporter, but little else. When she tried searching for Lynnette Foster, however, there was breaking news.
The first three entries were from the online version of the Thursday Miami Herald. The first entry’s title read: South Florida Woman Sought as Person of Interest. Lynnette’s hand trembled as she placed her cursor on the link and clicked. Seeing her photo prominently displayed at the top left corner of the article shocked her.
Carl. That bastard. What had he said? That she stole something and ran off? She started to read the article, then covered her mouth with her hand as she read the next sentence and discovered why the cops wanted to talk to her. She read it again, then leaned back in her chair and stared at the screen. Thinking to cool the flush of her cheeks, she put both hands to her face. She then thrust her ice-cold hands between her knees to warm them and hunched forward, trying not to cry.
The crawly feeling returned. She glanced over her shoulder and looked around the room. No one watched. She read the whole article. Someone had murdered Carl. The cops considered her a person of interest. They didn’t know for sure, but thought she might be in Denver or Los Angeles. They reported she might be traveling under her maiden name, Hudson.
It must have been on television. That’s why the coffee shop lady had called the police.
Did the cops think she murdered Carl? Why would they? The fact that she’d disappeared? The note she’d left on the kitchen table? She tried to remember exactly what she wrote.
Something else bothered her. She read the article again. Ah, there it is. There were no signs of forced entry at their house. Would Carl be foolish enough to leave the door unlocked? Or answer the door and let his killers walk inside? Not in a million years.
The patio door. I can’t remember securing the sliding glass door. Lynnette felt sick to her stomach.
What else? She read on. Time of death. There might be a delay establishing time of death because the house was so cold when the cops found Carl’s body. That’s my fault, too. She had turned the air conditioner off when she left. By the time Carl came home, he probably had to crank up the air full blast to make the overheated, stuffy house bearable.
Had Blue or Grace seen the news? Were they picking her up only to turn her over to the police? Maybe the “we” Blue mentioned included Blue and her dad. Or Blue and the cops.
The email from Dave seemed suspicious as well. What had he said?
Where are you? What’s happened? Call me. Urgent.
Would he alert the police that she’d be calling him soon? Lynnette heard whispers nearby. She closed the browser.
With a quick glance at her watch and another around the room, she grabbed her purse and laptop and hurried to the restroom. She went straight to the handicapped stall at the back and locked herself in, sat on the toilet, and wept.
She had wished horrible things on Carl right after he hit her, but she never wanted anything like this to happen. Thoughts of what he might have gone through flooded her mind. She tried to push them away so she could decide what to do. A picture of the unlocked patio door intruded time and again. Was she to blame?
Dabbing her eyes with wads of toilet tissue, she took a couple of deep breaths and willed her feelings of guilt and self-pity to take a hike. She glanc
ed at her watch. Another ten minutes before Blue might show up. Someone came in to use the rest-room, then washed her hands and left. Lynnette went to the sink, applied cool wet paper towels to her eyes, then applied more makeup.
After peering closely at her reflection, she used her fingertips to brush at the edges of the flesh-colored liquid layered on her discolored face. She combed her hair again and fluffed it over her forehead. As she walked out of the restroom, she took her sunglasses out of her purse.
The sun had burned the haze away, leaving no sign of the early-morning frostiness. Even the mountains to the west appeared sharp and clear, the sky the soft blue of a baby’s blanket. A park bench sat in the sun near the sidewalk. Lynnette sank onto the bench as though she’d completed a three-mile run.
Students with knit caps pulled over their ears, others with no caps at all, most with jackets and backpacks, rushed past. Older men and women, all carrying large briefcases, passed at a more sedate pace. Professors?
A man wearing an old-fashioned tweed jacket with suede elbow patches hurried along the sidewalk in her direction, surveying everyone he passed. He carried a black case in his right hand and held the bowl of a pipe in his left. As he approached Lynnette, he studied her as if trying to memorize her every feature. He took the pipe out of his mouth and tucked it in his jacket pocket. As he strode past, he continued to stare.
He wouldn’t see much more than his own reflection in her sunglasses. Even so, Lynnette looked away to avoid his gaze. He paid too much attention to her. The case he carried in his right hand caught her eye. It looked exactly like the one she’d lost to Sammy Grick, but she couldn’t remember a single identifying characteristic that would tell her for sure. If I ever get it back, I’ll carve my initials across both sides and tie yellow and pink yarn around the handles.
Lynnette looked over her shoulder once and then again a few seconds later. When the man disappeared through the doors, she picked up her purse and the laptop. His behavior troubled her. He paid too much attention to the people around him. No one else did that.
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