She flashed a nervous smile and put her sunglasses back on.
Marvelli, she thought, glaring at his back, J am going to kill you.
“Shall we take a look around?” Lance asked.
10
Marvelli caught up with the tall black man at the front entrance to the main bungalow. He came up from behind and whispered over the man’s shoulder, “So whose balls are you busting today, Lawrence?”
Lawrence Temple turned around, and, as soon as he recognized Marvelli, he cocked an unamused eyebrow. He was a lean, good-looking guy, even with the straight-arrow, gold-rimmed glasses on, but he was pure fed, Stiffer than a white man with that ramrod-up-the-ass posture all feds seemed to have.
“Still with Criminal Investigations, Lawrence?”
Temple scrutinized him for a minute before he answered. “Mr. Marvelli,” he declared in his superiority-complex baritone, “what an un-nice surprise.”
“Come on, Lawrence. Don’t tell me you’re still pissed off about that Paul Gaines thing.”
“Why shouldn’t I be pissed off about Paul Gaines? My boss cited that in my year-end review. Delayed my promotion by six months.”
Marvelli chuckled to himself. Spoken like a true fed, he thought.
“Listen to me, Lawrence. Gaines had been in prison on a second-degree murder conviction. They let him out early, but he didn’t report to his PO for almost five months. The guy was a cunning mother—not to mention ruthless—and we all knew that. We also knew that before his conviction he had ordered a shit-load of killings that couldn’t be pinned on him. So what am I supposed to do? Let you take him in for tax evasion where he gets vacation time at Club Fed? Or do I take him back to Trenton where he can serve out the last seven and half years on his term? You tell me, Lawrence. What would you do if you were me?”
Temple was shaking his head. “You do not play by the rules, Marvelli, and you never have. That’s what pisses me off.”
“Those rules being: I should take a backseat because you’re a fed and I’m just a mutt from the state.”
“Cooperation, Marvelli. The way I learned it, law enforcement agencies are supposed to cooperate with each other.”
Marvelli had to laugh. “This is funny, Lawrence. I have yet to meet a fed who could bring himself to share information, any information. You ever hear of ‘anal retentive’? It’s in the dictionary under ‘Fed.’ You guys couldn’t cough up the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth if your promotions depended on it.”
Temple smiled to show that he was big enough to overlook an insult. “So what brings you down to Rancho Bonita, Marvelli? Working on that eating disorder of yours?”
“Business, my friend, business.”
“Really?” Temple nodded, waiting for Marvelli to make the next move.
“Okay, Lawrence, you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. I’ll even go first to show how much I trust you.” Marvelli nodded at Loretta and Lance, who were still standing over by the car. “The woman’s my partner. We’re here to pick up a jumper who works for this place.”
Temple stared at Loretta for a minute, then flashed a big grin. “And I thought we brothers were the only ones who liked ‘back’?”
Marvelli’s smile disappeared. “She’s my partner, not my squeeze. And don’t give me this ‘brother’ shit. Nothing more pathetic than a fed trying to be black.”
Temple gave him the hairy eyeball, but Marvelli didn’t give a shit. That crack about Loretta was out of line.
“So what’re you doing here, Lawrence? I showed you mine.”
Temple let his glare smolder. “Tax fraud. What else?”
“Who?”
“I didn’t hear you mentioning any names, Marvelli.”
“A woman named Spooner.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Good. We won’t have another Paul Gaines situation then.”
“I’m delighted.”
They stood there, eyeballing each other. Marvelli didn’t trust the guy as far as he could spit, and he was pretty sure that the feeling was mutual. He also knew how IRS Criminal Investigations people worked. They’d round up as many WeightAway office workers as they could, separate them, then see who they could get to rat on who. If Martha Lee Spooner was working in the administrative offices, Temple would probably take her in with his sweep, and once she got under the fed’s wing, he and Loretta would have to move mountains to get her back.
“Excuse me. Mr. Temple?” A cute blonde in the Rancho Bonita long-pants uniform came up to them, looking from Marvelli to Temple.
“That’s me,” Temple said.
“Oh.” She laid her hand on her chest and looked overly relieved. “Mr. Laplante asked me to find you. He’s waiting for you in the conference room. If you’ll just follow me.”
“Have a nice life, Marvelli,” Temple said, glancing back at Loretta.
Marvelli didn’t like the dismissive look on his face. Of course, feds weren’t totally useless, he thought. Temple had led him to Paul Gaines that time. It just might work again. Marvelli followed Temple and the cute blonde into the main bungalow, keeping a safe distance as they passed through the busy lobby to a doorway off a wide hallway.
“In here,” the blonde said, opening the door for Temple.
Marvelli picked up his pace and slipped in right behind him. “We’re together,” he whispered to the blonde.
Inside, a tall white guy with weird-looking hair stood up from the head of the conference table and extended his hand to Temple. “Mr. Temple,” he said with a smile. He was wearing a cream-colored linen suit and tan huaraches. “Roger Laplante,” he said. “And this is Martha Sykes, from our accounting department.”
A petite brunette nodded to Temple from her seat. Marvelli recognized her from the mug shots in her file.
Martha Sykes, huh? he thought, half-amused by her alias.
Martha Lee stayed in her seat as she shook Temple’s hand. Her hair was longer than it was in the mug shots, but it was definitely her.
“And you are?” The big weird-looking guy flashed a feeble smile at Marvelli.
Temple just noticed that he was there.
“Special Agent Paul Gaines,” Marvelli said quickly. He pointed back and forth from Temple to himself. “We’re partners.”
Temple’s eyes were bugging out of his head.
Marvelli ignored him and took a seat. A large bowl of fresh fruit was sitting in the middle of the conference table. He grabbed a banana and started to peel it. “So, Lawrence, shall we get right down to business?” He bit off the top of the banana as he nodded at Temple’s briefcase. There were some interesting-looking fruits in the bowl, things he’d never seen before. He’d let Temple talk for a while, so he could try a few before he gave Martha Lee the good news about her free one-way trip back to New Jersey.
Temple took a seat and opened his briefcase, scowling the whole time. He pulled out a legal pad and a pen, leaned back in his chair, and propped the pad on his knee. Marvelli watched him write in big block letters: “Obstructing a federal investigation is a FELONY!” He underlined “FELONY” a few times to make his point.
Marvelli finished off the banana and reached for something that looked like a small, round apple. He bit into it. He had no idea what it was, but it wasn’t bad.
“Mr. Laplante,” Temple began, “you have resisted all our efforts to resolve this problem. For the past sixty days, we’ve had to fine you $500 a day for noncompliance. You have already been notified that as of tomorrow the fine increases to $2,500 a day until such time as you turn over your books to our auditors. You already owe us some $30,000 in penalties. How much longer do you intend to continue with this nonsense, sir?”
Laplante smiled and wagged his finger. “I take offense at your characterizing this situation as ‘nonsense,’ Mr. Temple. I certainly don’t consider it nonsense—no, I don’t.”
Marvelli watched Laplante as he finished off the little apple. He was thinking, Snake oil.
&n
bsp; “Then I take it you’re ready to make your books available to us?” Temple said.
“Yes. Soon.”
“How soon, Mr. Laplante?”
“Very soon.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Well . . . I’d like to be.” Laplante glanced at Martha Lee, who’d been smiling pleasantly through all of this, but Marvelli could see that she was getting a little green around the gills. This Laplante guy was smooth, but Marvelli could tell from Martha Lee’s strained smile that they were both in deep shit, and the walls were closing in.
Temple rolled his gold Cross pen between his palms. “A date would be helpful, Mr. Laplante. Can you give me a date?”
“I will.”
“When will that be?”
“Well, what would be convenient for you?”
“Right now”
Laplante frowned and exchanged glances with Martha Lee. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be good for us.”
Temple leveled his stare at him.
Another fruit caught Marvelli’s eye. He thought it might be a tangelo, but he wasn’t sure. He picked it out of the bowl and started to peel it, but as he watched Martha Lee watching Temple, it struck him that this was a bad situation.
It was obvious that Laplante had a lot to hide. If he was willing to pay 2,500 bucks a day in penalties* he had a lot to cover up for. But Marvelli couldn’t care less about him. It was Martha Lee he was worried about. Fear was seeping out of her pores—he could smell it. Unfortunately, so could Temple. He was going to try to flip her and use her against her boss. He was going to make her queen for a day, promise her the world with a ribbon tied around it if she ratted on her boss. That wasn’t good.
If Temple got to her first, he and Loretta would lose her. And if they lost Martha Lee, Loretta would lose this wonderful job she wanted so badly. He didn’t like the fact that she’d finagled this Florida trip, but he did care about what happened to her. She seemed like someone who hadn’t had a break in a long while.
Marvelli popped a section of tangelo into his mouth and glanced down at Temple’s warning on the legal pad. Obviously he couldn’t grab Martha Lee right here. But he couldn’t wait too long either. Not with Temple around. He examined the fruit that was left in the bowl, looking for a knife so he could cut into that mango. He had to think of something pretty fast. He couldn’t hang around here. He had to get back to Renée.
Temple tapped the pad with his Cross pen, still giving Laplante the deadeye stare. “So when exactly can I expect to see your books, Mr. Laplante?”
Laplante looked greener than the mango, Marvelli thought.
Mr. Laplante? Mr. Laplante, are you with me?” Temple, the 1RS guy, was eyeing Roger like a water moccasin eyeing a juicy little frog.
Roger nodded and smiled at him, but Martha Lee knew he wasn’t listening. He was scared stiff, frozen to his lily pad.
The other guy—Martha Lee didn’t catch his name—was shooting grapes into his mouth. He was making her nervous with all his eating. Christ, don’t they feed this guy? she wondered.
But even without the second guy, Martha Lee was ready to jump out a window, she was so nervous. This Temple was out for blood, and he wasn’t going to be satisfied until he got to see the books.
Her face ached from smiling, trying to act as if there were nothing wrong. But there was plenty wrong. To begin with, Roger was all wrong. He was acting like a big dope, talking out of both sides of his mouth. He was acting guilty. Shit, with all his money, Roger should just try to bribe these two characters. Make it worth their while. It would be worth it. Roger owed the government an awful lot of money in back taxes. If Temple saw those books the way they were now, Uncle Sam would end up owning WeightAway. If she were Roger, she’d try the bribe.
But she really didn’t give a damn about what happened to Roger or WeightAway. All she cared about was wiring that money to Luis for the bogus cocoa, so she could get the hell out of there before the shit hit the fan, which was definitely going to happen as soon as Temple and his pencil pushers got a hold of those books. Over the past few months she’d slipped in entries of fictitious payments to the Alvarez Cocoa Company all over the ledgers to cover her ass just in case she was caught wiring the money to Panama. She wanted to be able to say she didn’t know any better because according to the books, WeightAway had dealt with Alvarez in the past, so she had no reason to question their bills.
But that didn’t ease her mind any. These government bastards were out for blood. Roger was the big prize, but they weren’t gonna stop with him. They were gonna want a whole passel of people to take the rap for this. And she couldn’t depend on good old Rog to protect her. Christ, he’d point the finger at his own grandmother if it could get him off the hook. That’s what these big guys do, blame the bookkeepers. I didn’t know this was going on, Your Honor. I swear. They were doing it behind my back. She could just hear Roger saying this, sounding so hurt and sincere.
These bloodsuckers, though, they might buy his story, but they’d never buy hers. If Roger got off, a lot of other people were gonna have to take the rap, and she was a pretty likely candidate. Once they found out she wasn’t really Martha Sykes and that she had a record, that would be it. She’d be the one.
Sweat was dripping down her armpits. She watched Temple’s mouth moving, and Roger’s mouth moving, their heads bobbing up and down, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything they said. And this character with the fruit was driving her batty. Now he was working on an orange, spitting seeds into his hand and dumping them into the ashtray. Eat ’em up alive. That’s what these people do. They’re like monsters. That’s what they were gonna do to her. Throw her ass back in prison so that she’d never see her little girl ever again.
“I said, isn’t that right, Martha? Martha?” Roger was looking at her. So was Temple. But she had no idea what Roger was asking her,
“Why, yes,” she said quickly. “Of course,” She cranked up her pleasant smile another notch.
Roger flipped his hands over, palms up, as if to say it were obvious. “So you see, Mr. Temple, it’s not that we’re trying to be difficult. It’s simply impossible to accommodate you at this time. . . .”
Blah, blah, blah. Roger was digging his own grave, and he didn’t even know it. Throw them a bone, for chrissake. Give ’em something, Rog. Get off the defensive.
But then something occurred to her. What if these sons of bitches had a spy in place somewhere at the spa? It wouldn’t be hard, what with all the fatties that came in and out of here. What if they were already on to Roger? What if their spy got into the cube and had a look around? What if that person found something? That would be just like the feds. Use Temple and this food-processor partner of his as decoys, making a big show about wanting to come in the front door when they’ve already got someone coming in the back way. Jesus, they were insidious. She had to get it in gear, fast. They could have a whole army of feds in their IRS-FBI-ATF-whatever-the-hell-else windbreakers waiting outside the gates to break in and arrest everyone in sight. She had to get that damn money wired to Luis and get the hell out of there before it was too late. Shit!
She reached down for her purse and put it in her lap, then started rummaging through it. The three men were watching her. Good. When she found what she was looking for, she brought it up to the top of her purse just long enough for them to catch a glimpse of the white paper-wrapped tampon.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said, standing up.
No one questioned her. She’d done this once before with a state trooper in Pennsylvania. It worked then. She hoped it would work again.
She walked around the table and went out into the hallway, closing the door softly behind her, passing through the lobby and out a side door. She was sweating buckets, but she was glad to be out of there. On the pebbled path she picked up her pace a little, then forced herself to slow down and act normal. She didn’t want to look obvious. Their spy could be watching.
Martha
Lee passed the cafeteria building and the indoor pool and headed for the staff compound, a cluster of stucco bungalows where the resident staff lived. She figured going back to her apartment wouldn’t look as suspicious as going directly to the cube. She’d grab some clean underwear, her contact lens kit, a few other things, stick them in her bag, and head for the cube. She’d wire the money to Luis while Roger was still with the feds, then take off. Maybe send Roger a message that she had a real bad headache, so they wouldn’t miss her till tonight, maybe even till tomorrow.
Cutting through the palms that bordered the tennis courts, she came out into a parking lot where the staff kept their cars. Her red Chrysler Le Baron convertible was parked near her bungalow, a cute little cramped pink one, just like all the others. She pulled out her keys as she walked and went right in. When she closed the door behind her, she locked the dead bolt, just in case. She was proud of herself that she wasn’t panicking. She was nervous, but she wasn’t panicking. She’d been in bad situations before, she kept telling herself, so she could handle this one. Just stay cool and it would all be over in forty-five minutes. She’d be on her way to the Fort Myers airport by then. Take the first plane going north, then figure out the rest from there. One way or another she’d get to Slab Fork by tomorrow. Then Costa Rica. Roger and the feds could kiss her sweet little ass because they wouldn’t be able to touch her then.
She went to the bureau on the other side of the double bed, pulled out the top drawer, and reached in for the envelope taped to the underside. Opening it, she did a quick count—twenty hundred-dollar bills, emergency traveling money. She tucked it into the inside compartment of her purse, then headed for the bathroom to get her contact lens kit and some makeup.
Costa Ree-ca, she thought, singing a bossa nova in her head.
In the beige-tiled bathroom she hit the lights, turning on the ceiling fan, too, by mistake. She didn’t bother to turn it off, just went to the medicine cabinet to get her stuff, unzipping a small gray pouch and filling it with rewetting solution, saline solution, lens cleaner, enzymatic cleaning pellets—
Devil's Food Page 10