by David Stever
“Wow, they got both cars.”
“Yep.”
“They could follow us wherever we went,” she said.
“Right. Or they will know if I am following anyone.” I got on the ground, searched under the car and found a tracker under the front left fender.
We went into McNally’s and she set up her work station in the back booth. I tossed the second GPS on the bar. “Found that one in my Z4.” Mike picked it up and shook his head. “Check your car.”
“I told you. Don’t get her killed,” he said. I smirked. “How was she out there?”
“Talks too damn much.”
“She’ll work in here from now on.”
Mike put a shot in front of me and I threw it back. “Either my client is tracking me, or someone else who knows we’re out looking for this money wants to keep tabs. Right?”
“Right.” Katie walked over with her notes and sat beside me. Mike pointed at her.
“Umm, can I have a ginger ale? My stomach’s a bit on the queasy side.”
She opened her pad. I said, “So the obvious person would be Tony.”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “He has guys who would do the dirty work.” He gave her the soda and she sipped at it while tapping her pen on the notepad.
“Or it’s Claire,” I said.
“Our own client?” asked Katie. “Why?”
“Ah, and that’s not even the big question, is it?”
Mike leaned on the bar and we watched her. After a moment, she realized we were quizzing her.
“Oh, okay. Somebody is tracking the cars. They want to know where you are and who you’re talking to.” She hopped off the stool and paced around. “Okay, I can do this. The first guy, the Tony guy—it could be him because he wants to know if you find the money…but, but, that’s too easy.”
“I agree. But think through today.”
“We go to the restaurant, come out, the car is painted…wait, what made you check under the car?”
“The paint on the car tells us we were followed. They knew I’d figure out a tracker was used and search the car.”
“Why tell us?”
“To tell me what they’re capable of.”
“Confirming the money exists. Right?”
“Don’t know.” I had Mike pour me another. “They tipped their hand on purpose. That’s the curious part.”
“Right, why a fake car bomb, why throw the fire-bomb two feet short of the building so it does minimal damage?” Mike asked. “They want to scare you—but not too much?”
“Nothing is normal with this case. Either way, you are working from here. No more outside work.”
“What?” Katie said. “Today was incredible. A little scary, but I’m stoked.”
My phone rang and I held the screen up for Mike and Katie to see: claire dixon. I answered and walked to the back of the bar for privacy.
The call only lasted a minute and I came back to Katie, who moved back to her booth. Mike was in the front with a customer.
“I changed my mind. Are you doing anything this evening?”
“I don’t have any plans.”
“Head home and I’ll call you with details.”
“Great, thanks.” She gathered her things and hurried off.
Two can play the GPS game.
Chapter
21
Claire called to invite me to dinner. She said she wanted to make up for the trouble that happened since she hired me. She asked that I recommend a restaurant because she was not familiar with Port City, so I offered Martino’s at seven o’clock. By allowing me to suggest the location, it gave me an advantage, like playing on my home court. But her playing as a visitor in this game did not make her less of an opponent. Remember the gut feeling I had about her when she walked into McNally’s? More and more I felt I was up against a calculating female with an agenda.
I called Katie and told her to meet me at six thirty in the Martino’s parking lot and to find a friend to join her there at seven thirty.
Martino’s is not the fanciest place in town but it is one of the best Italian restaurants in the city. White tablecloths, male-only servers, great pasta, and an excellent wine list. I showed up fifteen minutes early, slipped the maître d’ a twenty, and told him the table I wanted. He agreed without hesitation. I took a seat at the bar and ordered bourbon on the rocks, keeping an eye on the door as a piano player in the corner began a Sinatra classic.
Claire arrived right on time. She wore a black cocktail dress, black heels, a gold necklace, and carried a small black clutch. Her hair flowed behind her as she made a head-turning Bond-girl entrance. Two waiters almost collided watching her as she walked to the maître d’ station.
I stood and waved. She flashed a smile as we exchanged our greetings. No doubt the other men in the restaurant were watching us. Eat your hearts out. The maître d’ did his job and we sat at the prearranged table that gave me a view of the bar area.
I told her she looked nice—the truth—and ordered a bottle of Chianti.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said. “I am making a formal apology for any problems my case caused. I guess I’m responsible in some way for the fire at your business.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s part of the job. I mean, we always run the risk of that kind of thing happening.”
“I never thought about it.”
“Been shot at more than I care to think about, chased by a car, bit by a dog, and the worst of all—sued.”
She laughed, remarked my job must be exciting. I told her what I told Katie, that the job was boring most days. She went on about her life and how she put things on hold so she could tend to her mother and now the business of her mother’s estate. She asked me questions about my life: was I married, did I have children? All Katie-questions, there was something different in her tone. I believed she was asking for a reason.
Our food came: lasagna for me and veal parmesan for her. We went through the first bottle of wine and ordered a second. The conversation got fun. She laughed at my old cop stories, the ones I could tell, and she didn’t seem too shocked when the stories got brutal or savage or cruel. Some people get kind of turned off when they hear about how old-school cops used to work, but not Claire.
Katie came into the restaurant with her friend, a black-haired young woman about her age, and they took seats at the bar, which told me that she completed her task without incident. When I looked over Claire’s left shoulder, I was in direct eye-line with Katie. They ordered drinks; I saw the friend turn around to look at our table. Katie must have pointed out her new boss. Come on, Katie…
It reminded me of a comfortable first date. Claire was quite enjoyable to talk with, not to mention gorgeous, and any man would be sucked in fast. I also reminded myself there was more to this dinner than an apology. An angle, Delarosa—she’s working an angle. This was the woman who booked herself into two hotels. This was the woman who dropped a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer on a no-name PI. Carlo Bocci killed himself at the mention of this woman. Keep the guards on duty.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. “You better answer that,” Claire said.
“I’m sorry.” I took out the phone and it was a text from Katie.
She’s into you.
“Just Mike.” I’m going to schedule a lesson on investigative trade craft for Katie. “Where were we?”
“About to ask for the check, and I’m paying.” She waved to the waiter. “Do not argue.”
“Not me. If a beautiful woman wants to buy me dinner, I’m all for it. I’m a modern man.” My phone buzzed again. “Gosh, I’m sorry.” A second text from Katie: She’s hot for you. I put the phone away.
“You know, Johnny, I said you have nice eyes.” She reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Well, I like your eyes, and I like your smile, too.”
I blushed, but her come-on to me was not a surprise. “Claire. You’re a beautiful woman—but you’re the client.”
“So?”
“Business and pleasure…you know.” It’s never a good idea to sleep with a client, but it would be a horrible decision to sleep with this client. The waiter came with the check, and it gave me a moment to recover. I looked at Katie; she had one eyebrow cocked and her arms were folded across her chest.
Claire finished up with the bill. “Shall we?” she said.
“Sure.”
We left and I let her lead the way across the lot to her Audi. She turned to me. “Well?”
“You hired me. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s not a good idea.”
“Johnny, are you sure?”
“We’ve had too much wine.”
A pause. “Okay, then.” We hugged; she came in for what I thought was going to be a kiss on the cheek but she planted it on my lips at the last minute. “You’ll regret this.” She grabbed my hands.
Why did I feel like Fredo getting the kiss of death from Michael? Or was giving in to her the smarter play? No. Until I know why Bocci killed himself, I needed to keep this strictly client/agency. She smiled and got into her car. I waited while she pulled off and waved as she left. I sent Katie a text, and she came out to the parking lot in less than a minute.
“Any trouble?” I asked.
“Nope. Perfect. I stuck the GPS in the right front fender. Right after she went into the restaurant.”
“I think you’re a natural at this. Go home and get some sleep.”
“She wanted you to go back to her hotel, didn’t she?” I shrugged. “Don’t shrug at me. She did. It was obvious.”
I handed her some money. “For your dinner. See you tomorrow at ten.”
“Thanks, stud.”
She went back into the restaurant. I got into my car and sat for a second before I started the engine. The kiss was nice, but I was proud of my willpower. Going back to her hotel would have compromised the entire case.
But yeah, she’s right. There’s not a man alive who wouldn’t regret it.
Chapter
22
McNally’s opens at eleven, so I met Katie at ten to let her in. If this worked out, I would make her a key. She went to the booth and opened the laptop and the tracker app. “This is cool—according to this, the car is on Harbor Boulevard,” she said.
“That’s the other motel.”
I brought two coffees to the table. “You’re on this all day. Plus, I want you to start on the mystery number I gave you.” I gave her the case file, including the list of banks in town I’d started going through. “I marked the ones I already called. Tell them your grandmother died and you found this number and you think it might be a bank account. Your goal is to find out if the number belongs to that bank. If the bank won’t give any information, just move on to the next one. Don’t use your real name.”
“Cool.”
“It could be an account with a stockbroker, too, but start with the banks. Keep good notes. Always. Notes are part of case work-product and can be subpoenaed. A lot of my work comes from law firms, and I’ve had plenty of cases end in lawsuits. They required accurate, detailed notes. I’m going up to my condo. Call me if the car moves.”
“Will do.”
“I was worried you wouldn’t come back. After yesterday.”
“Are you kidding? Yesterday was incredible. Last night with the GPS—what a turn-on. This is the best job ever.”
Turn-on? “Well, it worked out, and you did great, but your days will be like today. Research.”
“I understand.”
“Call me with anything.”
I took my coffee and was at the door when she called out. “Mandy thinks you’re cute.”
“What?”
“Mandy. My friend from last night. She thinks you’re cute. Said you have sexy Italian hair.”
I had to hear this so I went back to the booth. “What are you talking about?”
“She said Italian guys are either bald or have a full head of hair. She liked your hair.”
“Oh. Then I’ll give her a call, I guess.”
“Funny.”
I went into my condo with Bocci on my mind. He needed to be the order of the day. With Katie on research, I was freed up to hit the streets. Bocci held the clues, and I had to figure a way to pry them from his cold, dead fingers.
I opened my computer and had an email from an attorney, Jim Rosswell. He’s a partner at Rosswell-Ward; I work for them on occasion. He asked me to give him a call. Why do people email asking you to call them? Why don’t they just call? So I wrote back, telling him I’m on a job and that I’d call as soon as time permits.
I packed some of my tools of the trade into a leather briefcase, including my mini digital camera and a small portable drill and my Beretta. I put on my blue suit, a white shirt, and a gray-and-blue striped tie. On my way out of the condo, I stopped in the bathroom and took a look at my hair. Most of it was still black.
Thank you, Mandy, for the ego boost.
The outer street door to Bocci’s office was locked. I walked around the strip of stores, looking for another way into the building and only found the rear doors of the retail stores. Back around front, it was lunch time with a lot of traffic coming and going. Most folks went into the Chinese restaurant or liquor store.
I went into the liquor store and an older Middle Eastern gent manned the counter. I told him I was an insurance adjuster investigating the death of Mr. Bocci and was to meet a police detective in the office, and that we needed the outer door opened. He sent me to the Chinese restaurant. Said they owned the entire building.
I gave the same story to the owner of the restaurant, talking to him between calls for take-out orders. He kept repeating, “Bocci dead, need paid rent.” I tried to convince him I’m the guy who can get him his rent money, but I needed a key to the outer door. “Bocci dead, need paid rent.” Over and over, like a busted record.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a young Asian woman behind me in line. “I overheard, do you need some help?”
Yes, please.”
The woman said something in Chinese to the little man behind the counter. He stopped, glared at her for a second, then his arms flailed and he screamed something back. Her voice got louder as she pointed to a clock, then pointed to me, then pointed at him. I don’t know what she said, but he disappeared into the back.
“What happened?” I said.
She smiled. A moment later the man returned and slammed a key on the counter. She picked it up and handed it to me. “Bring it back when you are finished.”
I handed her a twenty. “Thanks, lunch on me.”
“Wow, thank you.”
I unlocked the outer door and went up the flight of stairs to Bocci’s office. I took the pick set from my brief-case. The lock on Bocci’s door had to be fifty years old and it took me less than twenty seconds to open it. I went inside. Nothing had changed since my first time here. The pens were on the desk, his glasses in their place. The mess on the wall behind his desk was there and brought back the nightmare.
Conspicuously absent from this office was a computer and that was a good thing. Old-school Bocci must have refused to enter the cyber age, which left the two old wooden filing cabinets that sat along the wall. One labeled Personal, one Corporate. Both locked, and I had no luck with the pick set, so I used my drill. The bit easily went through the soft metal and I had the cabinets open in seconds.
Files and more files. Each one with a client’s name on it. This was the haystack and I didn’t even know what the needle looked like. Aletto’s name was on a few files, but primarily personal finances from what I could determine.
I didn’t recognize any other names and started in on the corporate clients. Nothing sto
od out to me. No companies I recognized.
My phone buzzed. A text from Katie: The car is moving.
I called her. “What road is she on?”
“Umm…she left Harbor and it looks like she’s heading downtown.”
“I’m going to put you on speaker.”
“Okay, she’s getting onto the highway. The interstate—I think.”
“The roads will be marked. You’ll see.”
“Yes, it’s the interstate.”
“Tell me when she gets off the highway.”
“Is this legal?”
“Is what legal?”
“Putting a tracking thing on someone’s car?”
“We’ll talk about that later.” I went back to the corporate files and looked for anything that seemed relevant. Nothing did. I took the files out one at a time, flipped through it, and then replaced it. Each cabinet had six drawers, so my search was pointless without a name or lead. I guess somewhere in my brain I thought I was going to find a file labeled, “Secret Two Million Dollars.”
“She’s turning off the highway,” said Katie.
“Where?”
“Umm…it looks like Western Boulevard.”
“Western—are you sure?”
“Yes, wait…yes, it’s Western.”
“That’s where I am.”
“What?”
“I’m at Carlo Bocci’s office. On Western.”
“Oh my God…is she coming to you?”
“Katie, where is she, what is the cross street?”
“Umm…hold on…Twenty-Fourth Street. I think.”
“Okay, she’s about two miles—I’m at Western and Third.”