Widows-in-Law

by Michele W. Miller

  Lauren had dressed down, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a work shirt under her wool peacoat. Still, he approached her as if she were a health department inspector. “May I help you?”

  She nervously cleared her throat with a cough in a way she never had to do in court. “Um, I’m meeting Lucho here.”

  He paused, eyebrows arched, a flicker of fear passing across his crystal-blue eyes. But the expression was gone instantly, replaced by a smile that exceeded the occasion. He led her to a seat at the bar. “Sit down, sit down. I’m CB. I didn’t know Lucho was coming. He’s not here yet. Sorry, we’re not even open yet, or I would give you some chips to play upstairs. We have blackjack, slots, roulette, poker.”

  Lauren nodded her head politely. Now that she’d said she was meeting Lucho, she was no longer the building inspector. Lauren figured CB took her for a girlfriend of Lucho’s.

  CB walked back around the counter, “What’ll you have?” But before she could respond, his eyes cut toward the door. “Lucho. Hola.”

  The well-groomed man who entered had dark eyes, an angular face, and thick, wavy hair to the nape of his neck. From Lauren’s limited knowledge of Spanish, she thought CB was saying that he’d been keeping her company while she waited. She didn’t need to know any Spanish to tell that the new arrival scared him. Like CB, Lucho also wore a suit, a very expensive suit. There was no sign of kindness in his eyes as he nodded at her, but she hoped the way he dressed meant they would talk business in a businesslike manner.

  Lucho held his hand out, signaling toward a hallway. “Please,” he said.

  She walked ahead of Lucho down a hallway with tiny lights at the floorboards. They reached a door with a small plaque beside it that said, office.

  A room where no one will hear me scream. She forced the thought away, chiding herself. There would be no screaming.

  When she came to the door, Lucho stepped close behind her, reached around and opened it. Her spine stiffened and she quickly walked inside to put space between their bodies. The small, square room was furnished with a glass desk, telephone, and a couple of cushioned chairs. Mirrors lined the walls. Through the mirror, she saw Lucho close the door behind him, scanning her, head to toe, a sexual assessment. “Your clothes, take them off.”

  “What?” The blood left Lauren’s face. She turned back toward the door. She would never get past him.

  “Your clothes.” He smoothed his mustache, enjoying himself, although there was no hint of a smile.

  He stepped closer and she stepped backward, hitting the wall.

  “Strip.”

  Her heart hammered uncontrollably. “No.”

  Then he was across the little room and on her. She screamed and, without conscious thought, her fist shot out and connected hard with his jaw. She was stronger than she looked, and his head snapped back.

  She pushed and tried to get around him to the door. She was almost there when he grabbed her, jerked her arm hard backward and threw her against the glass desk. Its edge painfully grooved the front of her thighs and she was bent over it, her back to him. His body pressed against hers and she cried out, trying to get away from him. Cold metal pressed against her neck. She heard the click of a safety and saw the glint of his gun reflected in the mirror.

  “Shut up,” he barked in her ear.

  His entire body against hers, there was nothing more she could do. His hand reached around and roughly opened her shirt buttons. He grabbed one breast then the other and ran his palm down her belly. He opened her pants and his cold fingers reached her crotch. She began to cry, as he lingered there, feeling, groaning, before taking his hand out of her pants. He ran his palm down her pants legs and up her back.

  “I need to check for wires, mamita. And you are muy hermosa.” She felt his breath on her ear. “It is too bad so much money you owe. I would love chocha instead—you know, pussy. A little bargain. But Jorge would be very angry. He would say no chocha is worth twelve million dollars.”

  Then he was off her. Her chest heaving, Lauren righted herself and turned around, buttoning her blouse and zipping her pants, feeling as if every inch of her skin had been invaded. Lucho smiled as he watched her.

  She silently talked to herself: Do not panic, Lauren; if you’re going to get out of here alive, you cannot panic. “We don’t have your money,” she said as calmly as she could.

  He tucked his gun into a shoulder holster inside his suit jacket. “But you will get it for Jorge. It is his.”

  “We don’t know where it is, if Brian even had it.”

  “He brought bonds from Tortola. You can be sure of that. Now, you will complete delivery or you will die. Emily, too.” His hips thrust out almost imperceptibly. “And that young one, she will get the beecho first, then I will bite off … how you say? Her neeples … before I kill her. My English not so bad, eh?” He smiled at Lauren as her face froze with horror. He watched her terror with the gusto of a customer at a strip joint.

  She pushed words out. “I’ll try.”

  “Jorge say to tell you he will buy the karate man’s contract as commission for you if you bring our bonds. Jorge is much nicer person than me, but if you fail, Jorge’s own family is at risk. Family always comes first, and he will not accept failure. You have two days, then you call. Do not think of calling the police.” His hard eyes stared deeply into hers before he took her face in his hands and spoke in her ear, “The police cannot protect your little girl. She will never allow it, si? She will run away, back to her boyfriends, and I will be waiting for her and you. You call when you have the bonds. Here is a new number.” He handed Lauren a card with a phone number and opened the door. “Go.” Lauren wanted to remain calm but couldn’t stop herself—she ran, feeling his eyes on her as she fled down the hallway. Her sobs began as she neared the door to the vestibule that led to the street. Almost to safety, the door opened. She slammed headlong into an entering man and let out a panicked half scream. They weren’t letting her go, they’d let her run toward safety for the fun of it. The man held her arm tightly. She struggled, looking up.

  Carl. Her head reared back. His eyes showed an instant’s surprise. Then the expression was gone.

  ***

  Over Lauren’s shoulder, Carl saw Lucho’s appraising gaze, familiar from surveillance photos. Lucho had one hand low behind his thigh. Carl started to reach for his gun but stopped himself. The place would explode right there with Lauren in the line of fire and Carl a step behind the man who already had his gun out. Carl loosened his grip on Lauren’s arm.

  “Get off me,” she screamed hysterically, pushing past him and running out of the sports bar.

  He looked after her for a second as casually as he could while he did a mental check on his own breathing. Then he turned back and walked inside, the door closing behind him. “You must have sold her one fucked-up piña colada.”

  CB approached, nervously. “Lucho, this is my assistant manager, Carlos.”

  “Mucho gusto.” Carl offered Lucho his hand to shake in the hope that he would put away his gun.

  Lucho nodded and grunted acknowledgment. He didn’t shake, but Carl breathed easier as he watched Lucho holster his gun inside his jacket.

  “Nos vemos,” Lucho told CB.

  Lucho gave Carl a long look as he brushed past close enough to invade Carl’s body space. Carl felt the instinctive urge to attack or step away, both of which he resisted as Lucho walked out.

  Carl’s back bristled with warning. He moved quickly from the window toward the bar, picturing shots fired at him from the street even though the window was opaque. Carl tried to calm down and reason things out. He hadn’t blown his cover. Lucho was just an asshole, pissing on bushes. Carl stepped behind the bar where CB had retreated. “What happened to that woman, CB?”

  “No sé. How should I know?”

  Carl grabbed a fistful of CB’s Day-Glo T-shirt. “What do
you mean, how should you know?”

  CB struggled and landed on a stool, which rocked backward and nearly dumped him off before he regained his balance with a hand on the bar. He lowered his voice and angrily said, “How would I know? I heard her scream once. She came out crying. So, Lucho gave her some beecho, that’s it. A quickie.”

  Carl barely kept his fist from crushing CB’s face. He yanked the smaller man off his stool again and lifted him close. “Listen, you slimy motherfucker, you see her again, you text me, you hear? With a 911 code. You got me?”

  “Yeah, I got you.” CB pushed Carl’s hand away. He took a step farther back from Carl. “So what’s up with the girl, compadre?”

  “I’m not your compadre.”

  Carl turned from CB, breathing hard, trying to come down from his last moments of panic. He leaned against the bar, his eyes on the ceiling. “Did you find out anything else about the deal?”

  “They’re trying to arrange a money drop-off with the Chinese dude’s group. They want me to come. They need a crew they can trust not to rip them off. It’s always hairy when money’s exchanged. But some bitch is still supposed to have it.” CB’s eyes opened wide then narrowed. “Oh, I get it, I get it. That was the bitch, wasn’t it? You have some out-of-control shit happening. You’ve got a whole international gang war about to break out over that money, plus now you’re going to have ATF and Homeland Security wanting a piece of the weapons action, and there’s some gringa running around ready to get herself killed. And you’re thinking you’ve got to do something about it, but it could blow the bust.” CB laughed. “You’re all fucked up, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up, CB.”

  Carl walked away, down the hall. He wanted privacy to call Rick and let him know about Lucho being there. Carl pulled the Gossamer from inside his leather overcoat. At least he’d be able to identify Lucho’s cell phone now, given that only three people other than Carl had been in the room and he already knew Lauren’s and CB’s phones. Still, would he let Rick or the ASAC know about Lauren? Carl needed time to think. He was shell-shocked from seeing her. She thought he was one of them and that he’d betrayed her. And it was true. He’d betrayed her all along and now he’d failed her. What if she really had been raped? He shook his head in rage and disgust at himself for being unable to protect her.

  So now what were his options? They could get a warrant to listen in on her telephone. But at this point, Lauren was in too deep and so was he. It might not exonerate her, and the most likely thing she would say on audio was that Carl had been stalking her. That could easily get Carl fired or out-stationed to the North Pole. Carl’s after-hours surveillance had violated the ASAC’s orders. He’d gone totally off the reservation.

  Carl entered the office and took in the sight of an overturned chair. He groaned. Carl’s gut had been right about Lauren being involved. And CB was right. Everything had spun out of control. Lauren had come across information about Arena’s money, or she had his money. Assisting weapons dealers would land her in prison for decades if it didn’t get her killed.

  Carl righted the chair and sat down at the desk, inspecting the readouts on the Gossamer. He felt a glimmer of relief. Now that he could follow Lucho’s and Lauren’s movements, he’d know if the two were near each other and he’d have a chance at protecting her. He lay his forehead on his arms. That was a ridiculous plan. If the two did meet again, he couldn’t ensure he’d be close enough to help. Rick had been on point all along. Carl really liked her, and it was interfering with his ability to think.

  There was only one thing he could do: he had to get her out of town, out of the picture, and out of his head. For both their sakes, Carl had to warn Lauren to lay low and stay out of things. That was the only way they’d both get their lives back on track. And there was another reason why he had to talk to her—maybe a less important reason but it was driving Carl just as hard: he had to erase the expression of terror and betrayal from her eyes. The memory of it was already haunting him.

  CHAPTER 32

  The West Side Highway slipped by in a blur of speed and tears. Lauren hugged her arms and rocked in the back seat of a cab. She could still feel where Lucho’s fingers had touched her. She could still see the images he’d painted of doing worse to Emily.

  And then, Carl. She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. Carl was the reason Lucho knew so much about her. She’d never seen Carl before Brian died. Then, suddenly, he was everywhere. And she, like an idiot, had told him practically everything about herself. But worse than that, she’d told him everything about Emily. Fucking shit. She let out a sob, hating herself.

  Now, if she didn’t do what these people wanted—that bastard Lucho was right—there was no way she could keep Emily safe. And Jessica had been right, too. There was no going back. Their lives had been snatched out from under them like a tablecloth in a magic trick. They had to find the bonds Lucho was talking about, and they had to figure out how to get them to Jorge Arena without putting themselves in even more danger. Lauren only hoped that Jessica was also right that the Arenas wouldn’t kill civilians as readily as they killed their own, and that they’d think of her as a civilian.

  Not sure of that at all, Lauren peered out the back window as her cab reached Washington Heights. There were a lot of cars behind hers. She couldn’t tell if anyone had followed, but did it matter? They probably knew where she lived.

  When she was alone in her empty apartment, she stripped off her clothes and turned on the shower, hoping to scrub away Lucho’s hands. She stepped in, and the warm water covered her exhausted body—she hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and she closed her eyes, nearly swooning with fatigue. The Psycho shower scene flashed across her mind. Only it was a gun and Lucho now. Yelping, Lauren grabbed a towel. She tried to calm herself as she dried off, then dressed.

  She had to forget about Lucho and get down to business. Fighting through her near-fugue state of sleep deprivation and shock, she picked up her shoulder bag from the couch and took out the printed page that Emily had given her. She had guessed right about the bonds. Bearer bonds could be cashed by whoever had them, and they could be in huge denominations, so they were easy to transport. She scanned the list of company names, numbers, and what looked like code names next to them. Sitting at the table, she began plugging the company names one at a time into Google.

  She hoped only one of the companies was in Miami. The first one was in Nevada, the next was in New Jersey. One didn’t come up on Google at all. Lauren told herself she’d come back to it. She typed in the next entry: Jansen-White, Inc. A glossy website came up, depicting a reception area of red carpet and shiny chrome. It was a safe-deposit box company with a location in Miami. Pay dirt.

  Lauren dialed the phone number. A woman answered in a sing-song receptionist’s voice, her accent slightly southern. “Jansen-White, may I help you?”

  “I’m considering renting a safe-deposit box.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How does it work? I’ve never rented from a private company before.”

  “Oh, well, it’s very simple and designed with the client’s absolute security and privacy in mind. The prices range from five hundred to two thousand dollars per year, depending on the size of the box. We have a vault that utilizes state-of-the-art security equipment and our premises are manned by an armed guard and subject to video surveillance at all times.” The woman’s voice took on the intonations of a memorized recitation. “In addition, we guarantee your personal privacy by allowing you to gain access to your safe-deposit box through use of a PIN or code name that you choose, and only you know. Of course, we have a double key system. You have one key and our second key is required to gain access, which can happen only if you correctly input your PIN or code name and it corresponds to your box number.”

  Lauren looked down the list at the entries next to Jansen-White, obviously the box number and a nauseatingly cute code n
ame: HazelNuke. Jessica’s dogs. Now all she and Jessica would have to do was find the key to box number 276. Lauren thanked the woman, promising to call back after she’d had a chance to think over her safety-deposit box needs, and hung up.

  Lauren looked up the rest of the companies and found one other in Miami, which didn’t seem as likely. MapQuest put it a full hour away from the hotel where Brian had been staying, and Brian hadn’t rented a car on his Visa or PayPal cards. Jansen-White was midway between Brian’s hotel and the airport. She and Jessica would go there first.

  Lauren searched flights to Miami. A morning flight wouldn’t leave time for Jessica and Emily to make up for lost sleep after their ordeal, but they had to get to Miami before close of business tomorrow. After Lauren had selected flights and paid for them, she pulled up her Outlook calendar and began calling her coworkers to ensure her Family Court cases were covered for the rest of the week.

  ***

  Braving the slow evening rush hour in a taxi, Lauren returned to the Criminal Court building. Her eyes felt weak and puffy from lack of sleep and crying earlier in the day. She paused outside the Arraignment Part and breathed deeply, trying to clear her head of the caffeine jitters. Caffeine was the only thing keeping her awake and oriented, but it also exacerbated her anxiety. A computer-printed court calendar hung on the wall, listing the names and docket numbers of the next fifty defendants to be called for arraignment. Emily and Jessica weren’t on it.

  Lauren turned back and waited in a line of a half-dozen people at the Correction Department information window. She gave a court officer Emily and Jessica’s names through a grating in the plexiglass window. The man typed then stared at a computer screen. “Their prints are here but they don’t have docket numbers yet.”

  “Is there anywhere I can check on the holdup?”