Even with NAFTA money fueling the economy, Mexico was still a primitive country. Recently, the government had made noises about confiscating the property of Anglos living in the country.
Canada was much more civilized. He'd settled on Vancouver, British Columbia, because it offered escape by both air and sea. He'd driven north, using his own ID at the point of entry.
But once settled in the hotel, he'd taken yet another passport from the hidden compartment in his custom made suitcase. The photo was his, the name borrowed. The birth certificate he'd used to obtain both the passport, social security card and California driver's license was genuine. Michael James Carlyle had died shortly after it had been issued, undoubtedly causing his parents great grief. Jake considered it an act of divine providence.
"One more signature, Mr. Carlyle, and we're done." The glossy lady behind the new accounts desk at the downtown branch of Great Pacific Bank and Trust had promise, he thought, taking in the expensive suit as well as the glint of gold at her neck and earlobes. He'd been especially struck by the ring on her right hand, an exceptionally fine diamond solitaire nesting in a lovely circle of emeralds.
Jake had an eye for quality and expensive tastes, both of which cost money. He was sitting pretty now, of course, thanks to dear, trusting Daniela and all those lovely liquid assets. Still, a prudent man planned ahead to the time when he could no longer count on his charm and appearance to maintain him in the proper style.
It would mean moving up his plans by a few weeks, he thought as he obediently scrawled his signature to the card bearing Michael Carlyle's carefully constructed history.
"How long do you plan to stay in Vancouver, Mr. Carlyle?" Ms. J. Stephens asked as he slid the card across the pristine leather blotter. Her nails, he noted, were perfectly manicured—and very red. A lady in the drawing room, a hooker in the bedroom, every man's dream. Daniela had been especially ripe, he recalled with a fleeting pang of regret. He'd planned to spend at least six months with her, but all that had changed when she began showing signs of a distressingly willful nature.
He liked his women meek and obedient, as well as financially comfortable. And then there was that brat of a daughter of hers. Always yapping at his heels for attention like an obnoxious puppy. It had taken all of his acting talent to keep from backhanding her into shutting up for more than five minutes at a time.
He would have to find out if J. Stephens had children before making his move. "My plans are somewhat fluid," he said with just enough of a smile to show that he was interested, but not desperate. "As I mentioned earlier, my partners and I have very specific requirements for the building site. Unless I get lucky, I suspect it will take me several weeks at least to come up with three or four possibilities to take back to Santa Barbara."
Ms. Stephens tucked the card into his file folder and closed it with a graceful twist of her wrist. "These checks will be good for a month from today," she said as she wrote his name on the cover. "The personalized ones should arrive at your Santa Barbara address within two weeks."
Jake pocketed the checks, then allowed a thoughtful expression to creep into his eyes. He'd worn his contacts to this appointment, turning Jake Folsom's dark blue eyes a rich deep brown. Following well-tested procedures, he'd changed his appearance as soon as he'd left Portland, adopting a longer hairstyle as well as touching up the gray. He'd also grown a mustache which he kept rakishly bushy. He was also toying with the idea of cosmetic surgery, although he hadn't yet made up his mind.
"Would it be too much trouble to hold off on sending those checks for a few days?" he asked with just enough warmth in his voice to sharpen the predatory interest he'd seen flashing into her carefully made-up eyes when he'd settled across from her forty minutes earlier. "I might just be staying longer than I had at first anticipated."
Rising to the bait with satisfying eagerness, she hastened to assure him that it was no trouble at all. Five minutes later Jake walked into the Canadian sunshine with an extra bounce in his step, and his mind already mulling over a tentative plan of seduction. He was still refining his plan when he arrived at his hotel in the heart of downtown.
Prudently, he stopped at the desk and requested a magnum of champagne be sent up to his room. "And two dozen red roses," he added as an afterthought, slipping the fresh-faced clerk a Canadian C-note.
"Mrs. Folsom is a lucky woman," she said with a bright smile. "Not every bridegroom is so thoughtful."
"Not every bridegroom has such a wonderful wife," he said, summoning the besotted expression the woman would expect—and appreciate.
A grim disgust ran through him as he thought of his impulsive marriage to mousy little Arlene Clark. Fifteen years ago he'd been broke and heading toward Canada to lay low for a while after a gold mining scam had blown up in his face when his rental car had been rear-ended by a bus. He'd ended up in traction in a hospital in Bellingham. Arlene had been his nurse.
When he'd gotten out, both legs had been encased in plaster. He'd needed a place to hole up for a couple of months until he healed and Arlene had seemed like the ideal cover. But she'd been a churchgoing lady with a lot of nosy friends so he'd married her.
He returned to her often enough to keep her—and her anonymous house in an anonymous neighborhood—available to him when he needed a place to lie low for a while. Pathetic loser that she was, she always acted so glad to see him.
Women were such stupid fools, he thought. They deserved to be fleeced. Sometimes they even deserved to be killed.
A cold smile stretched his lips as he waited for the elevator. One thing you could say about Jake Folsom, he always gave a woman exactly what she deserved.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Arlene Mary Folsom lived in a surprisingly pretty enclave of midrange tract homes situated on a wide street lined by mature trees and neatly tended yards. It seemed a point of pride for the homeowners to keep their vehicles locked tidily in garages or carports, which meant that a strange car parked anywhere on the block for more than a few hours would certainly arouse Folsom's suspicion.
Bellingham PD had been cooperative, if not enthusiastic, about federal agents serving a warrant on their turf. Chief of Detectives Clarence O'Donnell had given Rafe enough flack to satisfy his hometown pride, then pulled strings to make things happen fast.
He'd personally driven them past the house in his SUV, even stowed his son's kayak on the roof for cover in case Folsom happened to spot the strange vehicle. As he drove nearby streets so that they could become familiar with the area, he'd filled them in on possible escape routes Folsom might have already mapped out.
Because there was little cover in the area and no overhead power or telephone poles to make posing as repairmen feasible, he'd suggested they pretend to be landscapers sprucing up the lawn in the house across the street. It just so happened his brother-in-law had his own landscaping business, and for a small fee, he'd be glad to rent the Feds enough equipment to make the pretense believable. Seth had been big time ticked at the man's nerve. Rafe had been more philosophical. He'd deal with the devil himself if that meant taking Folsom down.
Now three long days after they'd flown into Bellingham late Saturday night, Rafe's back ached from digging up the turf, and his knees were sore from kneeling in the dirt while he planted what seemed like dozens of annuals.
According to Mrs. Mavis Quinn, the sprightly sixty-something widow who had been delighted to let them dig up her front yard as a cover for a stakeout, "dear Arlene" and her husband Jacob had recently reconciled after a lengthy separation.
Able to charm the birds from the trees, he is, Mrs. Quinn had declared with a blissful little sigh. And so distinguished looking. An international trade expert, you know, which is why he was always traveling.
Rafe had been more interested in the description of the ring "dear Arlene's" recently returned husband had given her shortly after his unexpected arrival on Easter Sunday.
An absolutely magnif
icent emerald solitaire set in the prettiest platinum setting, Mrs. Q. had gushed with a romantic gleam in her faded blue eyes. Stripped down to basics, the ring sounded all but identical to the description Randolph had included in his report, the one Folsom had taken from the safe deposit box he'd insisted Danni rent for her valuables. The one to which he, too, had a key.
Mrs. Q. had gone on to explain that the happy couple had gone away for the long weekend. They were due back today or tomorrow; their unofficial informant hadn't been real clear on the exact day.
A barely leashed tension ran through him as Seth pulled the borrowed landscaper's truck into the driveway and hopped out. Like Rafe, himself, his partner wore a kelly green uniform shirt and a green and white ball cap.
Nights the PD handled the stakeout, using different vehicles parked at different spots along the street. So far, nothing.
"I got you a salad, too," Seth said as he tossed Rafe the sack containing his lunch order, a double cheeseburger with bacon, a double order of large fries. "Figured the lettuce would soak up some of the grease before it hit your arteries."
Rafe snorted. "I was raised on lard, amigo. It's the rabbit food my arteries don't like."
By tacit agreement they settled down in the shade of the towering pin oak that dominated the eastern half of Mrs. Q.'s yard. Situating himself so that he had a clear view of both ends of the street, Rafe settled back against the trunk and unwrapped his satisfyingly greasy cheeseburger.
"How much longer do you think we can pretend to be planting flowers?" Seth asked as he pulled out his own mess of sprouts and lettuce.
"As long as it takes, partner."
"Damn things make me sneeze." Seth eyed the neat row of petunias glumly. "Guess we could dig them up and move them someplace else."
Rafe took a bite before unscrewing his thermos. Brooding wasn't his style, but he couldn't seem to get Danni out of his mind. When he'd called Jarrod at his office this morning, the cowboy doc had assured him she was on the mend. The doc's wife and Mrs. Savage were taking turns watching out for her and her daughter. Probably better than he ever could.
"Do you think Folsom's wife knows what kind of a man he is?" Seth asked between bites.
"If she doesn't, she sure as hell will soon." He poured coffee into the cap, then took a sip. He grimaced at the stale taste. Just one more reason to hate stakeouts.
Seth shoved more greens into his mouth, then chewed earnestly. "You gonna tell me what kind of history's between you and Dr. Fabrizio, or should I use my imagination?"
Rafe figured he'd get hit with this sooner or later. The kid had hung on to his curiosity longer than most. "We were raised on the same land. My father worked for hers."
Seth frowned. "I thought you didn't have a family."
"Don't anymore." It still hurt, even after so many years. Talking about it with Danni had brought it all back again, stronger than ever. It was worse on holidays. Usually he volunteered to work, just so he didn't notice how empty his apartment was.
Down the street a garage door suddenly opened, and a baby pickup backed out. He watched as the driver, a young man with spiked hair floored it, spinning the wheels and sending out plumes of exhaust as he roared away toward the cross street to the west.
"Damn, where's a cop when you need one?" he said, shaking his head.
"Probably figuring out ways to gouge money out of brother officers," Seth muttered, digging in the bag for another packet of dressing. "When are you planning to tell Fabrizio about this new twist?" he asked as he squeezed the last drop from the packet.
"Which twist is that?"
"The fact that she married a man who is already legally married to someone else."
"Depends on how this shakes out."
"Guess that makes sense. No reason to upset her while—"
"Heads up," Rafe ordered, his gaze fixed on the dark blue late-model sedan just making the turn onto the street at the eastern end. According to their unofficial informant, Folsom's wife drove just such a car.
Since he was facing the house across the street, Seth kept his gaze straight ahead, but his body was suddenly coiled and ready. As the car approached, then slowed to make the turn into the driveway directly across from where they sat, Rafe's heart speeded. His mind, however, was already slowing, its focus narrowing. It was always that way when he braced for action, as though events were suddenly clicking through his brain in separate frames.
"Hot damn it's him, all right," Seth said, his blue eyes glittering as he pretended to drink his soda. "He's gotten rid of the gray hair and grown a mustache but it's Folsom, no doubt about it."
Rafe pulled up one knee and pretended to tie his sneaker while he watched the garage door slowly opening. A man who knew the value of planning, he'd already taken Seth through every possible scenario.
The one that seemed to have the best chance of success was this one, catching Folsom when he'd just returned, and before he had a chance to switch his mindset. To that end they had to make their move as soon as he got inside. Because the house was identical to Mrs. Quinn's, both he and Seth had memorized the layout.
There was small porch in the front, a deck in the back with a sliding glass door. The other entrance was in the garage. The small backyard was fenced, with a redwood gate leading to an alley. Under cover of darkness Rafe had checked out the gate's hinges and found them well oiled, swinging open and closed without making a sound.
Seth would cover the back, he would go in the front.
"Wife looks like a tiny thing," Seth offered as he tucked his half eaten salad back into the bag.
"Only takes a few ounces of pressure to pull a trigger on a real big gun." Still, the woman with the curly blond hair and mousy features was a well-respected nurse and an active member of her church. She had no skeletons in her closet, no arrest record, nothing to indicate she was anything but an innocent pawn. In her own way, Folsom's wife was just another victim.
Curbing his impatience, Rafe flexed his shoulders, working out the stiffness as he swept his gaze up and down the block. They'd caught a break this time, he thought. The street was empty. It was every cop's nightmare, some innocent law-abiding citizen getting in the way of a bullet meant for the bad guys. Before Alice, it had been his worst one. Now it was a pale second.
"We'll give him ten minutes to carry the bags inside," Rafe said as he dropped the rest of his burger into the sack and closed it with steady hands. "And then we move."
* * *
The area where the smaller commuter planes parked was at the far end of the oldest of the terminals at Portland International. Consequently it had smaller, shabbier waiting areas and fewer conveniences. It was also far less crowded than the areas where the major carriers were situated, a plus for the two Portland PD detectives waiting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the parking ramp.
Familiar with the special security screening they'd be forced to undergo before they'd be cleared to carry their weapons into the facility, they'd arrived in plenty of time to meet the 4:15 p.m. plane from Bellingham. Last time Case Randolph checked, it was due in on time.
Hurry up and wait, he thought as scanned the overcast sky for a glimpse of the small plane.
"Thought the doc ordered you to lose ten pounds," Case commented as his partner, Detective Sergeant Don Petrov pulled a chocolate bar from the sagging pocket of his ancient blue blazer.
"Missed lunch," Don said as he ripped it open with hands as big as oven mitts.
Never one to stifle a generous impulse, Case accepted a square and popped it into his mouth. "Guess that mess of greasy French fries I saw you stuffing in your mouth while you were typing your notes on the Sanders shooting was breakfast, huh?" he said as the chocolate melted on his tongue.
"Nah, just a midmorning snack."
Case checked his watch, then shifted his narrowed gaze to the tarmac directly below. He hated playing taxi service for the Feds, especially when it was his case they'd muscled in on without so much as a by-y
our-leave.
He'd pitched a fit to the captain, but they'd both known it was little more than a token bitch. Rules were rules, even if Case bent as many as he could manage without pulling down major flack. In this case, though, the federal warrant predated Portland PD's, and that was pretty much that. Which meant that despite all the work Case had put in, calling in markers and spending hours in front of a computer screen, looking for similar M.O.'s, Folsom was Cardoza's collar. The bastard would be tried in federal court, with the state charges second in line.
"Federal types give me heartburn," Petrov grumbled before tossing the candy wrapper into a nearby receptacle. After twenty years of working together they often read one another's mind. It came in handy when things got hairy.
"Cardoza's a decent enough sort," Case offered aloud. "Called me direct instead of reaching out to the brass like most of those buttoned-up types. Asked for local assistance real polite like, too."
Petrov looked unimpressed. But then, not much impressed the big guy. Not after thirty-five years in law enforcement. "How come you decided not to give Dr. Fabrizio a heads up on Folsom's arrest?"
Case watched a two-engine prop job swoop down from the cloud cover like a fighter jet streaking toward a carrier deck. "Prue says Danni's still not a hundred percent back from her bout with the bug. I figured I'd wait until the bad guy was in the pokey, just in case something went sideways." He sighed. "Besides, Prue would have my butt if I upset a mama-to-be who's already dealing with enough stress. Hell, she'd have the whole Brigade down on my head if I caused her any more problems. They've closed ranks around their new sister.
"I figure Cardoza will wait until the other passengers clear the area before bringing Folsom out," Case offered, watching the small commuter plane taxiing closer.
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