by Stephen John
I hung up the phone and dialed Carter’s phone.
“Fortune, we could use another fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Carter, we have to get you and Paul out of there, now!” I snapped.
“Why?”
I brought him up to speed on what I’d seen, ending with, “Ask Paul if there is a back entrance to that apartment building.”
“Hang on,” Carter said. I heard him speaking with Paul. “Yes, he said there is. One block south, take a right, then in a half block there is an alley to your right. Take that alley.”
“I have your keys,” I said. “I’ll get the car and meet you and Paul in that alley in five minutes. It’s only a matter of time before they find him. We have to move him.”
“Agreed,” Carter said and hung up.
I trashed the rest of my mint mocha and walked outside and across the street to Carter’s car. I unlocked the driver’s side door when I heard a male voice with a Hispanic accent calling.
“Excuse me, Miss,” he said.
I turned to him. He was a Mexican version of The Rock, only younger and way meaner looking. He was in his mid-twenties, well over six-feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds, and every ounce rock solid. He expression was serious.
“Yes,” I replied.
He showed me a picture. It was the same picture I saw on Carter’s computer of Paul Pride with his strikingly beautiful and recently sleeping-in-the-same-room-with-my-would-be-boyfriend’s-sister.
“Do you recognize either of these people?” he asked, in a not-so-polite, yet not rude manner.
I looked at the photograph for a moment.
“No, I don’t recognize them,” I said.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Look again.”
I looked again.
“You know the guy looks a little like the lead singer for a local band called Knife Bludgeon. I just saw them. Is this guy named Dutch?”
“No he isn’t,” he said.
“Then no, I don’t know him.”
“Do you live around here?”
“No, I was just meeting an old friend at Starbucks this morning,” I said.
He looked at me as though he was evaluating whether I was lying. He continued to look, but said nothing. Finally, I spoke again.
“Anything else?”
He stared at me coldly for another few seconds before saying, “No. Thank you. Have a good day.”
A polite mobster, I thought. They are so rare these days.
I hopped in Carter’s car and drove away slowly, trying to not attract attention. Mexican Rock guy did eyeball me as I pulled away. I drove down the block, made the next right turn and turned into the alley as instructed. Carter and Paul Pride were in the alley waiting on me. They got into the car quickly. Carter got in the front seat next to me; Paul slid into the back. I pulled out onto the main road slowly.
“Oh crap! Get down. I see their car,” I said.
“Dammit!” Paul blurted out, “That’s Ricki Garcia’s car.”
Paul hunkered down in the back seat, out of sight.
“Who is Ricki Garcia?” Carter asked.
“Montoya’s muscle; his assassin,” Paul responded. “He was one of my regular contacts within Montoya’s organization. He is bad, bad news. He can shoot you from fifty yards away or break you in two with his bare hands, and he will do so without hesitation. If Montoya put him onto finding me, it means only one thing; they don‘t want to just fine me; they want me dead.”
Carter looked at him in disbelief, “Duh. Do you really think so?”
I gave them a quick update on Garcia showing me Paul’s and Ariel’s picture. Paul’s face turned white; he lowered his head into his hands.
“I’ve really screwed up,” he said.
“You have,” Carter agreed. “Tell me, where is the cocaine now?”
He hesitated.
“Paul, if you want us to help you, you need to spill it all.”
“It’s in a U-Store-It facility near Southcenter Mall,” he said.
“Sally, she knows about all this?” Paul asked.
“Yeah—well, most of it. She knows I’m lying low but doesn’t really know there are people out to kill me.”
The greed associated with money and the effect cocaine has on your brain is a lethal combination, I thought.
“You’re telling me she is not being careful?” I asked. “She isn’t watching for people following her or looking for a black Lincoln?”
He shook his head. I sighed.
“How did you intend to cash out on the cocaine?” I asked.
“One of Montoya’s rivals,” he said. “Luis Alvarez. He wants to buy it.”
Earlier, when I Googled Manny Montoya, I saw several references to Luis Alvarez. Montoya was clearly the biggest drug lord in town but Luis Alvarez was number two and climbing. Montoya had no love for the man who was taking a serious bite out of his share of the pie.
“Did you have a time set up for the exchange?” I asked.
“No, not yet, but he is pressuring me,” Paul replied. “I really wanted to wait until things cooled down.”
“Paul, these are drug dealers,” I said. “For them things will only cool down as your dead carcass does.”
He nodded, “I understand that now.”
“If Montoya and his men have found the neighborhood you’re living in, it’s only a matter of time before they find Sally. We need to get you and Sally to the safe house I found for Ariel while we work all this out.”
“How can we work it out?” Paul asked.
“There’s only one way,” Carter replied. “We go to the DEA on your behalf and cut a deal. You turn in the drugs and agree to testify against Montoya in exchange for whatever we can negotiate.”
“No way!” he barked. “I’m not testifying.”
“It’s the only way,” Carter said. “You need to consider—”
“No,” he repeated. “I’m not doing it.”
“How about this?” I interjected, unable to keep quiet any longer. “How about we drop your sorry butt off right here, and you deal with it on your own? I know—maybe you can have a shootout with Montoya and his thugs? How would that be? Maybe your innocent sister can join you? Or your girlfriend. That would be bad by the way. Her butt makes a really large target, don’t you think? Has she fired an automatic weapon before?”
“Hey, I don’t need your sarcastic comments right now,” Paul scoffed.
I slammed on my brakes and then pulled off the side of the road. I turned and glared at him. “Listen, Mister. Carter Le Blanc dropped everything to fly out here and put his own life at risk to help you and your sister. God knows you don’t deserve it. You don’t like the plan? You don’t want to go to the DEA and cut a deal? Fine. Give me a better idea or get out of the car.”
“Fortune...” Carter began. “Let’s remember Paul has been through a lot...”
“And you!” I huffed at Carter, “quit being so wishy washy with him. He’s brought this on himself and he’s going to get his sister, his girlfriend, himself, and you killed in the process.”
Carter’s eyes widened and he sat back, not quite understanding how to take my outburst.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice lowering only a little. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I was out later than normal and when I woke up this morning, I found this rash I can’t explain...”
I sighed. Both men just stared at me blankly. I looked to my left and saw a mini-mart.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “I’m going across the street to use the restroom, and I’m going to get one of those Klondike bars. You boys talk it through. When I get back, you are gonna tell me the plan, and it had better be a good one, or I’m going medieval on both of you.”
As I walked away, I could hear Paul say, “She’s a feisty one,” to which Carter replied, “You have no idea.”
When I came out of the mini-mart, Carter had moved to the driver’s seat and Paul in the passenger seat. C
arter had turned the car around and was waiting for me. I opened the door and slid in the back. Carter pulled away.
I took a big bite from my Klondike bar. Carter looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“Do you think your partner, Harrison, could set up a meeting with the DEA here in Seattle?” he asked.
“Yes,” I mumbled through a mouth full of ice cream.
“Okay,” he replied. “We are going to pick up Sally at the jewelry store and take Paul and her to the safe house where Ariel is staying. We’re going to have Sally tell the owner that she has had a family emergency and needs a few days off.”
“Okay,” I said, turning to Paul. “You’re good with this?”
Paul nodded. It was a reluctant nod, but a submissive one nonetheless.
“Ariel and Sally will not be happy with this,” he said. “What am I supposed to say to them?”
“You could point out...” Carter began.
“Not our problem,” I interjected, firmly. “You made some big, big mistakes, Paul. Man up and deal with them. It’s time to put on your big boy pants and leave the short breeches at home. I’ll make the call to Harrison and set up the DEA meet. You pulled your girlfriend and your innocent sister into this. You explain it.”
“Okay, okay. I know.”
“Then act like you know,” I barked. “Without our help big Ricki is going to kill you. Then he will probably kill your girlfriend and your sister just because you inconvenienced him. With our help, we might get the DEA to cut you a deal. You can still have a life. What’s it going to be?”
I saw the faintest hint of a smile form on Carter’s face.
Paul nodded, “I agree. I’m on board. And thank you.”
My cell beeped. It was a text from Ida Belle: Gertie has been arrested. I need your help.
Crap! I thought. She must have taken the news that Consuelo had been fired badly and done something reactive. I sent Ida Belle s text back: On my way. Text me the location of the station. I’ll get down there.
“Drop me off at my hotel before you pick up Sally,” I said. “I’m going to figure out what I will say to Harrison to make this DEA thing work, not to mention Miss Sally is going to be fit to be tied when you yank her away from work and tell her this story.”
Paul sighed.
“So, I’ll leave it to you boys to handle that,” I added.
Chapter 12
Carter dropped me off at my hotel. I got out of the car but tapped on the glass. He rolled his window down.
“I have something else I need to deal with, but I’ll call Harrison and get a meeting set up with the DEA,” I told him. “You get Sally and Paul settled and call me.”
“What are you dealing with?” he asked.
“Just the usual stuff,” I replied. “You focus on Paul. When Sally hears what’s going on, she will be unhappy, and that’s not to mention the fireworks that will go off when Ariel sees Paul.”
“Yeah, that won’t be pretty,” he said. “Okay, I’ll call you.”
I walked away. I made it five feet.
“And Fortune?” Carter called out.
“Yes?”
“Thanks for everything. I am glad you’re here. I really need you.”
I almost threw my arms around and kissed him but I had proposed we keep the relationship professional until we finished this mess. Plus, I hadn’t completely forgiven him for having Ariel stay in his hotel room.
“Thanks, Carter,” I said, feeling a little weak in the knees, wanting to hug and kiss him, anyway. “I’ll see you later.”
Chapter 13
I was at the police station waiting for information on Gertie. I had borrowed Ida Belle’s rental car and told her I’d handle it. She was spending time with Consuelo, who had no résumé, no interviewing skills and couldn’t write well in English.
I had bond money ready, if needed, but I was getting jerked around at the station. My temperature was rising.
My phone rang; it was my partner.
“Thanks for calling me back so quickly, Harrison,” I said.
“Your message made it sound like it was important,” he replied. “I called as soon as I picked the voicemail up. What can I do?”
“Back when we were working together, I remembered you had a friend in the DEA, an agent in Seattle?”
“Special Agent Tim Young, yes. He’s a good man,” he replied. “We went to college together. The CIA recruited us at the same time. We decided on different directions.”
“Does he still work out of Seattle?” I asked.
“Yep, I think so.”
“Think you could make a call to him for me?”
“Are you up to something that will make Director Morrow’s stomach hurt?” he asked.
“It will give him a bleeding peptic ulcer,” I said, “but only if he finds out.”
“That’s what I thought,” he replied.
Director Morrow was my boss at the CIA—my dad’s former partner and a man whom I’ve worked with for eight years now. He was the one who placed me in Sinful and gave me the identity of his niece, a local librarian, when a Middle Eastern arms dealer put out a contract on my life—one-million if I am killed and ten-million if I am brought to him alive. My orders were to blend in to Sinful’s quaint, quiet population, and remain invisible. The problem with that whole scenario is several-fold: Sinful’s population is not quaint, they’re anything but quiet, and I have demonstrated nothing close to an ability to remain invisible.
“Tell me what you need,” Harrison continued.
I launched into the Paul Pride story, in vivid detail, leaving nothing out. Harrison remained quiet, soaking it all in. It took about ten minutes to go through everything. I ended with, “—and at this moment, Carter has Paul Pride tucked away with his sister and his girlfriend in a safe house.”
Harrison whistled, “You never do anything easy do you, partner?”
“It’s not in my nature,” I replied.
He chuckled, “I will call Tim Young as soon as I get off the phone. I’ll let him know you are undercover and why, but he will need to know your credentials.”
“You think we can keep this out of Morrow’s line of sight?” I asked.
“Probably not,” Harrison replied, “but Tim’s a good friend of mine and he owes me a favor. We might keep this off of Morrow’s radar until the end. That would at least keep him out of your hair while you’re in process.”
“I appreciate that, partner. You’re the best.”
I hung up the phone just in time to see a tall barrel-chested police officer approaching. He was Hispanic, in his late forties, under six-feet tall, medium build. His face was clean-shaven and serious. He had black hair, peppered in gray, with a receding hairline. He carried a box with him, approximately twelve-inches square. He sat the box down and looked up at me.
“Are you Miss Morrow?” he asked. “Fortune Morrow?”
“That’s me,” I replied. “Do you have information about...”
He held up his hand, “I’m Officer Hernandez. Gertie is on her way up here now. We are releasing her to you.”
I raised my eyebrows; that was much easier than expected, “Oh, good,” I replied.
“Gertie—she’s a real—handful, isn’t she?” he asked rhetorically, without a hint of a smile.
I nodded politely, receiving the message loud and clear he and Gertie had gotten to know each other.
“She can be,” I said. “Were you the arresting officer?”
“I was. I tried to calm her, but she was not having any of it. I never wanted to arrest her. The people here make fun of cops who bring in little old ladies, but she makes things—you know, difficult.”
I let out a breath and nodded, “She can be that way sometimes. What exactly did she do?”
“Before I arrived on the scene someone reported her to be in the lobby of the Camano Bay Hotel, yelling and demanding to speak to the manager,” he said. “They finally convinced her to take a seat and wait.”
> “Okay,” I said. “So far so good.”
“Not really,” Hernandez said. “They wanted her out of earshot of the other guests.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound bad,” I replied.
“It was,” he said. “They sat her next to a s’mores cart.”
“A s’mores cart? As in...”
“Yeah, you know, graham crackers, chocolate bars, and marshmallows—s’mores. Apparently, the staff was preparing the cart as a dessert for an outdoor lunch barbecue for a group of guests.”
“Oh... and?”
“Gertie stole all the marshmallows,” he said. “She had a shopping bad with her. She dumped several bowls of marshmallows in it. She had hundreds.”
“I see.”
“To make matters worse, the manager keeps her waiting. She’s sitting there, stewing and eating marshmallows. Twenty minutes go by. This guy finally comes out and takes her into his office,” Officer Hernandez continued. “They exchange words, all the while she continues to eat these marshmallows.”
Gertie can be a real pill when she gets her dander up under normal conditions. I could only imagine what she could be like on a sugar rush.
“Things got a little heated between her and the manager,” Hernandez continued. “He asks her to leave. She refuses, and then throws marshmallows at his head, one after another.”
I smiled at the thought, but quickly suppressed it when I saw the expression on Hernandez’s face had not changed.
“Oh dear,” I said, attempting to recover.
“Boop—boop—boop,” he chimed, holding his thumb and forefinger together, making a short throwing motion, imitating the sound he felt marshmallows might make as they ricocheted off the manager’s head. “Every three seconds she launches a marshmallow at him. Boop—boop—boop.”
“I’m sorry.”
“After taking about ten marshmallows to the head, the manager calls 9-1-1 when she refuses to stop. I’m near the scene and I answer the call. I get down there and I go in the office and I see this tiny woman, barely over five-feet tall, pelting this three-hundred-pound lard-ass in the head with marshmallows.”
“Sounds awkward,” I said.
“It gets worse,” he said. “There were marshmallows all over the floor. It was quite a sight. I asked the guy why he couldn’t figure out how to handle such a tiny little woman.”