by Rachel Brady
“Thank goodness,” I said. “Does the FBI know where Casey is?”
“I don’t know what they know. What about you? Are you okay?”
I brought him up to speed.
“I’m staying home til one of my buddies gets off duty. He’ll keep an eye on my family,” he said. “Then you and I have a date.”
“Where?”
He read a street address. “Edward Kosh turned up in the drop zone files you gave me. Don’t know about you, but I’d like to stop by and say hello.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Kosh’s beachfront paradise was a mere thirty minutes from the drop zone, and ten minutes from my motel, a coincidence that didn’t sit well. It wasn’t clear whether Jeannie had shouted his name because she thought he could help us or because he was involved, but I assumed the worst.
Richard should have been there waiting for me, but his car was no where in sight, so instead of parking, I slowed the junky El Camino and studied the home of a man I’d never met.
Judging by his house, Edward Kosh didn’t do half bad. His home was elevated on stilts, with the living space directly over a carport and outdoor shower stall. Beyond the house, waves lolled on a private beach and morning sun glinted off the sea. Like its neighbors, the home had been built facing the ocean. From my spot on the street, I was actually looking at its back. A couple of newspapers lay forgotten in the driveway and his carport was empty except for a few sea gulls scavenging near the trash cans. Apparently Kosh was already gone for the day, off earning his nice living.
I was partly tempted to climb the steps and peek through his windows, but doing it alone and unarmed with no real assurance the place was actually empty seemed foolish. So a block ahead, I parked and called Richard. When he didn’t answer at any of his numbers, I tried to convince myself that he was an ex-cop and could take care of himself. Still, I worried. It wasn’t like Richard to be late or unresponsive, and I doubted any amount of training or experience could adequately prepare a person for a situation like ours.
Unsure what to do without him, I used the waiting time as an opportunity to clean myself up. Otherwise, I knew my tussled hair and bloodstained clothes would eventually draw attention. At a nearby super center, I grabbed the first suitable items in my size with no regard for fashion—a pair of lemon yellow Capri pants, long enough to cover my wound, a peach camisole, and a pale green cardigan. I draped them over an arm and headed toward the pharmacy, thinking the whole time that the gash in my leg must be splitting even wider. On my way, I swiped a backpack off its display hook. Next I found the antibiotic ointment, gauze, and medical tape that I needed most, and finally enough basic toiletries to make myself passable.
After I paid, I used the restroom to clean and bandage my leg and change clothes. I washed my face, made it up, and pulled my hair into a tight bun, the only presentable hairstyle I could manage with a rubber band and a travel-size can of hairspray. When I left the restroom, I was a regular person again. At least, on the outside.
By 7:20, I was back in Kosh’s neighborhood, but there was still no word from Richard and no sign of him. One of Kosh’s neighbors, a prim woman in a sleek jogging suit, retrieved her empty garbage can from the curb. She followed me with her eyes as I passed.
Again, I parked a block away and tried calling all of Richard’s numbers. He didn’t answer anywhere and I was coming up on a decision point. The men who had Jeannie expected their money in less than an hour. I’d either have to explore the Edward Kosh angle by myself or return to the hotel to make the exchange for Jeannie. The choice should have been obvious, but I kept going back to our phone call.
Jeannie had wanted me to know something about Edward Kosh badly enough to take a beating for it. Whatever that was, it seemed I owed it to her to visit his house, to at least do something. I thought about his nosey neighbor and worried about being seen.
Then I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about that neighbor’s trash.
She’d been hauling in her garbage can, but I remembered the gulls in Kosh’s carport. He hadn’t set his own cans out. Then there were the newspapers in his drive—two of them. I grew hopeful. Certainly Kosh knew that Jeannie had leaked his name. Maybe that was the reason his house was empty.
Feeling better about the odds, I decided to give it a shot. I moved both cell phones, mine and Kurt’s, and all Trish’s cash into my roomy new backpack. A crumpled paper was wedged among the bills. I unfolded it and read what looked like somebody’s fast addition problem—a series of four numbers down the left side of the page and corresponding values down the right. Numbers in the first column looked like dates with no slashes to separate the day, month, and year. The second column had three numbers—89, 75, 84—summed at the bottom. The fourth spot was blank; someone had drawn a question mark there.
That’s what my whole week was beginning to feel like—a big question mark.
I shoved the paper into my bag and walked to the house, trying not to limp. At the top of the steps, on Kosh’s upstairs landing, I deliberately dropped my keys. As I bent to get them, I surveyed his street. No one was watching.
His front door had several panes of ornamental glass. If I could break one, I could reach inside and unlock the door. Nobody would see. The only view of the door was from the deserted beach behind me. I decided to use my sweater to help me shatter a piece of glass without cutting myself, the way I’d seen it done on TV.
Then I stopped. What if there were an alarm?
I cupped my hands over my eyes and pressed my forehead toward the glass. On the other side, about ten feet away, a questioning face looked back at me. A matronly Hispanic woman, holding a squirt bottle of Tilex, came forward and opened the door. She had what looked like a cleaning-products-holster around her broad hips.
I improvised. “May I see Mr. Kosh?”
“He’s not here, so sorry.” She began to pull the door closed.
I frowned. “That’s strange. We’re supposed to meet for breakfast.”
She shrugged. “Not home.”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ll wait out here. Hopefully he’ll be back soon.” I leaned against the porch’s wooden banister and turned toward the surf. The wind was picking up.
Behind me, she said, “You want to sit?”
I turned. When she nodded to a kitchen barstool, I smiled my thanks and followed her inside. She closed the door behind us, and I surveyed the front rooms. The living room, to the right, was bright with natural light and furnished with white leather and maple pieces. Enormous windows offered a spectacular view of the sea. The kitchen, where I sat, was small and tidy and smelled like citrus cleanser. The only items on the granite countertops, still damp from having been wiped, were a cutlery set and an espresso machine. Ahead, a hallway led to the part of the house that overlooked the street.
I turned around and looked at the door. No alarm system keypad.
“The house looks great,” I said. “Mr. Kosh says nice things about you. Ana, right?”
“Teresa.”
“Of course, I’m sorry.”
She nodded and disappeared into a bathroom down the hall. I heard the shower curtain being pulled back and water running in the tub. It gave me an idea.
I wandered toward the bathroom and found her bent over the tub, the fabric of her slacks stretched tightly around her extended rear end.
“Is there another restroom I could use?”
She pointed to the right without looking up from her scrubbing.
“Thanks,” I said, turning toward Kosh’s master bedroom. I stepped inside and made a hasty search. The hanging space in the closet was filled with expensive women’s clothes. A small portion of one rack had men’s suits.
Nothing was under the elaborate king-size sleigh bed, but a jewelry box on the dresser protected an impressive collection of gemstone earrings and pendants. I ran a tentative finger over what must have been thousands of dollars in necklaces, bracelets, and rings. I ducked inside
the master bath and flushed the toilet.
On the way back to my designated kitchen stool, I paused. “How long to clean a house this size, Teresa?”
Kosh’s home office was straight ahead.
“This house, two hours.” She grunted as she stood. “Other houses…not so neat.”
Kosh had two computers, a desktop and a laptop, side by side on his desk. I looked from one to the other and wondered which would boot up faster.
“Place looks perfect,” I said. “You must have been here two hours already.”
She raised the toilet seat and squirted cleanser under the rim. “Almost done. Finish here, sweep floors. Then, next house.”
I returned to the kitchen. When a vacuum cleaner started in the master bedroom, I unlocked a living room window. I wanted to come back when Teresa was gone and search Kosh’s computers.
I could only hope that the fact I’d seen no sign of an alarm meant there wasn’t one installed. You’re an idiot, Emily. Let’s just hope you’re a lucky one.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Teresa pushed and pulled the vacuum down the hall, where it sucked up perfumed powder she’d sprinkled on the floor. Gesturing at my watch, I signaled I was giving up on my fake meeting with Kosh and waved goodbye.
Hidden in the carport’s shower stall, I waited next to His and Her flip-flops and beach towels until Teresa’s ride came at quarter to eight. When the car pulled away, I went back upstairs and let myself in through the open window, closing it behind me.
Trish’s money was supposed to be delivered to Jeannie’s hotel room in fifteen minutes. I wasn’t sure what to do. The money was the only leverage I had. If I gave it back, Trish and her cohorts would disappear. I’d never find out about Casey or how this mess was tied to me. But keeping the money didn’t guarantee an explanation either, just more trouble for Jeannie. I remembered Eric Lyons being found in the river and thought about how Craig Clement and I narrowly escaped death hours ago at the drop zone. Even if I turned over the cash, could I really believe they’d let Jeannie go?
I used my cell to dial the motel. I’d say I couldn’t get back to Houston in time for the trade, but I was coming as fast as I could.
No one answered in Jeannie’s room.
They’d probably left. My instructions were to return the money by eight and then go back at nine for Jeannie. Whoever had her probably didn’t want to be there when I showed up. I used Kurt’s phone to call the number Trish had phoned from earlier, but Trish didn’t answer either.
I went to Kosh’s office and powered up his desktop computer. Its files were password protected. I tried the laptop. It had no password protection, which was a surprise, but then something else shocked me more. The screen’s wallpaper image was a picture of Trish and Scud.
I stared at their charming, misleading smiles and facts fell into place. Edward Kosh was the skydiver I knew as Scud. The man I’d shot, now maybe dead, for all I knew, back where this mess had begun. The trendy clothes in the closet, expensive jewelry on the dresser…those had to belong to Trish. There was no other explanation.
I thought of David Meyer. Trish had been living with him for months. But why? She was using him, but I couldn’t imagine for what.
I decided to take the hard drives, but I needed a screwdriver. I went to the kitchen and pilfered through drawers until I found a can opener with an end piece flat and small enough to do the trick.
The desktop’s drive was in my backpack and I was unfastening the last screw on the laptop’s access door when I thought I heard a car in the drive downstairs. I peeked behind the drape as the trunk of a gold sedan disappeared into the carport below.
I raced to finish the drive removal, but my fingers would no longer work together. The last screw was difficult to maneuver, but it finally yielded. Car doors slammed under the house as I pulled the access panel away. When I tried to extract the drive, I discovered it was fastened to the inside of the case with four, tinier screws. There was no more time.
I put things back in the approximate place I’d found them and closed myself inside the office closet. It seemed my pounding heart would give me away.
Moments later, the front door opened and keys dropped onto the granite countertop. Voices in the living room were muffled, but there were at least two men. I made out “just twenty minutes” and “watch the street” as one voice got closer.
The door to the bathroom closed. Its overhead fan turned on. I cracked the closet door open so I could hear better.
“Want some eggs?” someone called from the kitchen.
The man in the bathroom shouted that eggs sounded good, and then the same question was asked to someone else.
I didn’t hear an answer.
The speaker said again, “Want some eggs, beautiful? Hungry?”
There was a pause, and then he continued, “Come on. Might as well eat something.”
His tone was taunting. Suggestive. The toilet flushed on the other side of the wall and the bathroom door squeaked open.
The guy in the hall said, “I got something better than eggs.”
An unequivocal reply came from the living room: “Fuck you, pencil dick.”
My breath caught. It was Jeannie.
Someone mumbled about hardheaded broads and acid tongues.
The phone on Kosh’s desk rang and someone answered on an extension in the front of the house. I heard, “Is it there?” but couldn’t make out the rest.
I looked at my watch. 8:00.
They were talking about the money. The men were hiding out with Jeannie while they waited to hear if I’d returned it. I heard them discuss what to do. One said he’d call me.
Shit. Where was my bag? Any minute my phone would ring, and I’d left the ringer on incase Richard called.
I spotted it on the floor beside the desk chair, only a few feet away. But the open office door was a problem.
All I heard were kitchen sounds associated with breakfast. Somebody could be dialing. I stole a glance into the living room, and when I didn’t see anyone, I crawled behind the desk and grabbed the backpack, opening the zipper right away. I fumbled for the phones, unsure in my panic which one they’d call. I found mine first and turned off the ringer. Kurt’s was buried and I ransacked the bag with two hands before finding it deep in a corner. I managed to find his Ringer Off option. My thumb was still on the key when the phone’s LCD screen changed. It was signaling the number of an incoming call.
“She’s not answering,” I heard from the kitchen. “Should I leave a message?”
“Forget it. She’s playing tough.”
The LCD on Kurt’s phone changed to report one missed call.
“She’s smarter than the two of you together,” Jeannie said. “If I know Emily, this place is already surrounded by cops.”
I’d have been delighted with one. Where was Richard?
I peered around the corner of the desk. Jeannie was now on the pristine leather sofa in the living room. The sight of her almost moved me to tears. Her face was swollen.
She wore yesterday’s clothes, now wrinkled. Her coif was disheveled, her make-up gone, and soon there’d be a shiner. No wonder she was ornery.
I pushed the pack over my shoulder and crawled back to the closet. Jeannie spotted me. Her eyes widened. I backed into the closet and pulled the door mostly closed.
“Gotta pee.” Jeanne’s tone was matter-of-fact.
She was probably already crossing the living room, because the next thing I heard was, “Hey! Sit down!”
“Relax, mister. I promise not to flush myself out to sea.”
“Let her go,” the other said. “No windows in the bathroom.”
Soon, footsteps brushed on the carpet inside the office.
“Em?” she whispered.
“Here,” I whispered back, and pressed the closet door open a bit further.
She stared down at me, crouched on the floor under a series of hanging jackets, and I had the feeling she wasn’t really seeing m
e.
“What are you wearing?” she whispered. “You look like a damn sherbet.”
“Hey, what’s going on back here?” Someone was approaching the hall.
Jeannie pushed the closet door until it was open only a few inches. She stood in front of it with her back to me. I ducked into shadows.
“In here,” she said, annoyed. “Seriously. Relax. Swanky beach house. Wanted to look around, that’s all.”
“Yeah?” he said. “I think you wanted to look for a phone.”
I heard body weight drop into the desk chair as a huff of air escaped from its suspension. The bulldog was guarding his phone.
“I hope you’re wrong about your friend,” he said. “For your own sake.”
“How much money did she take?” Jeannie asked. “You mad a girl got your money?” I could hear the smile in her voice.
“You talk a lot, lady. And you’re not as funny as you think.”
Jeannie sighed. “Yeah, well, you talk a lot too. And you’re not as smart as you think.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The office door closed emphatically. I guessed the message to Jeannie was Stay Out.
A TV droned in the front room and I heard snippets of the morning news mixed with the clatter of dishes and forks. A newscaster prattled about an injured FBI agent at Gulf Coast Skydiving. I pictured Jeannie’s kidnappers shoveling eggs as they watched the segment. We had to get out of there. I knew our odds would be better if I could get rid of one of the men first.
I pulled the closet door fully shut, and flipped open Kurt’s cell phone in the darkness. I pressed the little illuminated buttons and brought up the number for its last missed call. It was the call Jeannie’s kidnappers made moments earlier, and by my bad luck, they’d used the landline from this very house. Had a cell phone been used, I could have texted back. Instead, I’d have to actually speak to them and hope not to be discovered.
I pressed Talk, and Kosh’s desk phone rang. Even though I expected it, I still jumped at the noise. Someone answered on another extension.