On the Record- the Complete Collection

by Lee Winter

  Lauren watched her go, wondering if she’d overstepped some line. She didn’t regret her words. She’d meant them. Besides, a nod was good, right?

  She sighed and grabbed her phone to browse for lock-

  smiths.

  Lauren examined the shiny new apartment key and slid it onto her key ring. Ayers dropped into step beside her as they headed for her Saab.

  She’d been remarkably patient, watching the news on Lauren’s beat-up old sofa while they waited for Lock Both Ways to install a new triple locking deadbolt on the door. Ayers had amused herself—and Lauren—with a biting commentary, eviscerating various news channels for their journalistic failings, which involved her liberal use of the words regurgitated and uncritical.

  Lauren, who had been trying to chat with the locksmith about drill bit selections, came away discovering cobalt tips were better than titanium, and that Ayers’s acerbic tongue was absolute comedy gold.

  “Feel better?” Ayers’s gaze dropped to the new key.

  “Yeah. It’s good to feel secure again,” Lauren replied. “Hope the landlord doesn’t mind springing for that triple lock.”

  She shot Ayers a glance. She wondered when they’d become the sort of people who asked about each other’s well-being. But then again, a day ago they weren’t the sort of people to push each other against walls and press fevered kisses across lips and throats, either. So. There was that.

  They headed up the road. Ayers concentrated on where she was driving, and Lauren studied the motorists behind them in the side mirror.

  No tails. She relaxed marginally. Well, no obvious ones.

  Okay, so she wasn’t paranoid much.

  “I don’t think they know my car yet,” Ayers said when she caught what Lauren was doing. “They’re probably driving around in circles looking for your urban tank.”

  Before Lauren could give her usual defence of classic machines having character in a mass-produced age, her phone rang. She heard excited shouting down the line before she could get her name out.

  She listened in astonishment then covered the receiver. “It’s Maxine, the security guard at work,” she said and put the call on speaker.

  “Can you say that last bit again, Max?” Lauren said.

  “I caught a pair of suits going through two desks in editorial—yours and Ayers’s.”

  “When was this?”

  “This morning, before the online team’s early shift clocked on. I have no clue how they got past me or the barriers.” She sounded furious. “But, shit, when I do—”

  “What happened next?”

  “I cornered them at Taser point and asked them to state their damn business ’cause I’ve never seen these two meatheads in my entire life. They claimed to be from IT and had to fix something. And then, get this, all business-like, one of them asks where you keep your pink laptop. Apparently it needs an urgent fix.”

  Lauren sucked in a breath. Well, that clinched exactly what the pair of gorillas was after.

  “I know, right? Pink laptop? You!” Max chuckled. “So I called the cops. And you shoulda heard them squealing about that. They kept saying I didn’t know who I was dealing with. They threatened my job!

  “In the middle of this, Mr. Harrington walks past, takes one look at what’s going on, and demands to see them in his office—alone. Five minutes later he tells me to cancel the police call, and I get told to escort them outta here.

  “Smug when they left, too; one said a few choice things about my parentage that would have earned him a mouthful of broken teeth if my daddy had ’a heard. I’ve never been so tempted to Taser a smirk off a man’s face.”

  “Oh crap. Sorry Max.”

  “Not your fault. But what was it all about?”

  “It’s to do with a story we’re chasing. Can’t say much else right now.”

  “Ohhhh, gotcha, right. Okay, so you’re back in town? Ditched the witch? We good for karaoke Tuesday? It’s ABBA tribute night. Got some new flares. Extra sparkles. Almost melted my BeDazzler. It’s a riot.”

  “Ah yeah,” Lauren said. Her cheeks flushed, and she tried to block out Ayer’s suddenly intense stare. “I’ll let you know later when I see how things go with my story.”

  “Sure thing, Lauren. Catchya later.” The phone went dead.

  “Karaoke?” Ayers drawled as though she was a cat that had just been gifted a brand new toy mouse. “ABBA?”

  Lauren shot her a warning scowl. “Do not disrespect ABBA. I mean it. That’s a total no-go zone.”

  Ayers relented after a moment of looking sorely tempted. “All right. The Swedes are safe. For now.” She regarded her. “So…I’m a witch, am I?”

  Lauren made a face. “Can we talk about Sands’s laptop? Like shouldn’t we warn the hackers that they could be next? Not to answer any loud thumping on doors or something like that?”

  “All right.” Ayers sighed. “Let’s find a pay phone.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Lauren hung up the phone from out front of the Happy Beef Meat Company. Motto—We’re offally good.

  “No answer,” she said darkly as she opened the car door. “I tried twice. I don’t like it.”

  “What is that smell?” Ayers’s nose wrinkled.

  “If you’re thinking of throwing me out so I don’t stink up your precious car, I’ll remind you my car made the ultimate sacrifice.”

  “It’s merely scratched,” Ayers sniffed. “All right, get in. And before you ask, no, we can’t drive over and check on your hacker friends. For the same reason we shouldn’t be making work calls on our cells.”

  “We should have warned them,” Lauren grumbled as she slapped on her seatbelt. “They could be sitting ducks. I don’t know why we didn’t connect the dots last night about the laptop. It’s so damned obvious. And now Josh and the nerds are just mysteriously gone?”

  “They could have gone out for food.”

  “Why? When Josh had ordered them pizza?”

  Ayers reached into the back seat for her bag.

  “Smart boys that they are, I have faith they’ll find a way to contact us when it’s safe. Right now, we can do something more productive than worrying about things we can’t change. Remember this?”

  She lifted a page from her bag and gave it to Lauren. The bus driver’s itinerary. Ayers tapped one line.

  20:45: 11820 W. Olympic Blvd, LA—Collect envelope.

  “We wanted to know where Mr. Fels went that night after dropping off the women. And what was in the envelope?”

  Lauren’s face lit up. “Oh yeah.”

  Her phone rang again. She saw the Daily Sentinel prefix so she immediately punched the speaker button.

  “King?” a gruff voice asked.

  “Yeah. Frank?”

  “Ayers with you?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk on this number if it’s about our story.”

  “Then call me back in five. It’s important.” The phone clicked dead.

  “Come on,” Lauren said; her gaze darted back to the meat warehouse’s phone.

  “I’m not going near that place,” Ayers stated firmly.

  “But it’s offally good. Besides, what is it you say? Story always comes first?” Lauren shot her a shit-eating grin.

  Ayers scowled.

  “I’ll cut the BS,” Frank told them a minute later as they bent over the phone’s receiver, cheeks almost touching. “You hear about the intruders this morning? The two clowns going through your desks?”

  “Yes,” Lauren said.

  “So our publisher met with the men involved, had a little chat, and shortly after sending them on their way, called in the editor. He was seriously considering it before, but now he’s told Neil we have to spike your story.”

  “What?” Lauren gasped. “He can’t do that! We’re so close to—”<
br />
  “Hey!” Frank barked. “I haven’t finished. I just said he was instructed to do that. You think we’re gonna spike your story just when it’s getting interesting? Way we see it, if you have two Neanderthals rifling through your desks and getting rounded up at Taser point, then you’re onto something. And while Harrington might be easily intimidated, that doesn’t mean we all cave.

  “Now, we’re gonna buy you some time, but we’re on a clock now. Neil and I are going to conveniently forget to tell you officially that we’re killing the story. But after next Wednesday, Harrington will be hanging around editorial for some online integrated newsroom BS he’s dreamt up. We won’t be able to hide anything we’re working on then. So it’s real simple; you have till Tuesday night to file. Got it?”

  “Yeah Frank. And thanks.”

  “You got it, too, Ayers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Make it worth the shitstorm we’re gonna cop from the boss for this. Don’t let us down.”

  The phone went dead. Lauren carefully replaced the receiver.

  “So,” she exhaled. “No pressure then.”

  Ayers smiled darkly as they made their way back to the car.

  “What did I say?” she asked rhetorically. “Never get between an old-school editor and a front-page story.”

  She resumed the driver’s seat and flicked on her GPS and tapped in the Olympic Blvd address. Then she straightened, giving Lauren an unfathomable look. “All right, I am definitely not doing public-phone-reeking-of-roadkill ever again,” Ayers said sourly. “So on the way, we’re picking up a burner phone. I’ll bill it to Frank.” Her nose flared. “Along with my dry cleaning.”

  11820 W. Olympic Blvd., LA turned out to be the grungiest storage facility in business. Its sign boasted Stow your stuff at a ‘cheep, cheep’ rate and had a faint glue outline of what once most likely had been a cartoon bird.

  They made their way to the office only to find a faded Back in 1 hour sign on the door. Lauren glanced at her watch. Lunchtime.

  “I guess we kill an hour?” she asked Ayers. “Feel like some food?”

  “We smell of rotting carcass. How can you think of eating?”

  Lauren shrugged. “I grew up with five brothers. Kinda immune to gross smells for life.”

  Ayers looked faintly ill, and Lauren bit back a laugh as they headed back up the drive. Her gaze roamed across the prolific signage. No parking. No stopping. No flammable goods. Height allowance. Terms and conditions. She had to squint to read 285 storage lockers, capacities listed below.

  Lauren stopped. “Catherine?” She tapped the number on the sign. “Hey, have you got that plastic card we dug out of the laptop?”

  Ayers looked in her bag, pulled it out, and showed Lauren. It read 127/285.

  “Now, before you ask,” Ayers flipped it to her after she glanced at the 285 on the sign, “no, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Standing outside the roller door of storage unit No. 127 Lauren noticed her palms were sweating. Which was stupid, really. It’d either open or it wouldn’t. And if it didn’t, well, they’d deal with that then. But if it did…

  Ayers shot her an impatient look, and Lauren pressed the pass to a small black rectangle on the wall.

  Nothing happened. Lauren sagged in disappointment.

  “Try again. Turn it around this time.” Ayers suggested, stepping closer.

  Lauren reversed the card and pressed it against the reader. A green light blinked, and the screeching of a door going up sounded.

  Lauren jumped back in surprise. “Huh. I didn’t actually think it would work,” she muttered, relief washing through her.

  It was dark when they stepped inside. She heard a click as Ayers found the light switch, then the room lit up.

  The small space was largely empty with a couple of cardboard boxes neatly marked cables and connectors and cases and switches against the wall. At the far end was a small book shelf, neatly stacked with computer publications.

  “Hey,” Lauren said, “no doubting who rents this place.” She jerked her thumb toward the shelf.

  Magazine spines were filed by color.

  Lauren took in the rainbow of publications, and something tickled at the back of her brain. At that moment her hip bumped into something solid and big.

  She turned. It was a pallet of pink champagne. Well, sparkling rosé to be exact.

  “Hey, look at this.”

  Ayers joined her and plucked off the packing slip strapped to the shrink-wrap. “It’s definitely the Booze, Booze, Booze order,” she said.

  On top of the pallet lay an opened envelope. Lauren grabbed it.

  For pickup May 11, bus driver from Carson City Coach Rental. Please read instructions within.

  She pulled out a folded, typed page and read it to Ayers.

  Driver, retrieve key card 127 from the manager who gave you this envelope. Unload the pallet of champagne into that storage unit, then lock up, and return that card to the manager.

  Lauren dropped the envelope.

  “Crap,” she said. “It was Jon Sands all along? The hookers, the booze, the bus?”

  “Looks like it.” Ayers stared at it.

  Lauren’s brain fizzed. “Barry was so certain Sands didn’t do it. And why would he? Is this some kind of mistake?”

  “The proof is right in front of you. His key pass hidden in his laptop opened this storage locker.”

  “Della will be devastated. Her husband’s a thief,” Lauren murmured, and stepped away. She opened one of the boxes lining the walls marked spare parts. Motherboards and wires came spilling out. She studied a strange flat green stick with metal bits stuck on it and tossed it back in the box.

  “Nothing illicit in here,” she said. “He’s just an IT guy stashing his spare gear. I really don’t get it.”

  Lauren’s phone vibrated. She pulled it out and found an empty text from an unknown number.

  “Wrong number I guess,” she said.

  It vibrated again.

  Another empty message. She frowned and showed it to Ayers.

  “Don’t ask me,” she said.

  Lauren stared at the device hard, then put it on top of the pallet. It went off twice more in succession, vibrating and wiggling across the plastic casing.

  “Why do I get the feeling someone’s waving madly at me?” Lauren asked. She picked up her phone and tapped a text reply. Who IS this?

  Another empty text message landed. Then another. She growled and opened her inbox and stared at it, willing it to give her some answers. And then she saw it. The 1 next to her drafts folder. A draft message that she hadn’t written. She opened it.

  Safest way to communicate was all it said.

  She deleted the draft and wrote Who is this? She hit Save Draft.

  Within a second that message was gone and a new one appeared.

  U know who. U gave me shit looks for cheking out a certain sum1’s fine a$$ this a.m. Cant blame a man 4 looking. She like yunger men?

  “What’s going on?” Ayers asked, leaning over Lauren’s shoulder to peer at the screen. “Who are you writing to?”

  The draft mercifully deleted itself just before she could read it.

  “It’s Duppy,” Lauren said. As she spoke, a new message appeared.

  U know ur password is way 2 easy 2 hack. Shit—MammaMia? Not even any nos?

  Lauren scowled, wiped the message, and created a new one.

  What happened to you guys?

  A moment later a message flashed up.

  Think we tripped a hidden securty thng on the laptp. Then sum asshols wit no necks tried to break in but we got out a windw and dwn the pipe jst in time. Btw Josh says u owe him a new pair of sox. Hes safe 2. Just freakng out.

  “Oh crap,” Lauren whispered. Poor Josh.

  What’d
you find out? she typed and then saved it.

  The draft deleted.

  Everythng. But first, c this.

  An attachment appeared on the message. It contained a photo.

  Lauren opened it to discover a screen grab of a list of names and numbers.

  Reason no.1 that u have an asshle problem. Found this in a file wit lots of securty on it. Whch just made SnakeP more pumped 2 crack it.

  Lauren stared at the screen grab.

  State of Nevada

  Infrastructure projects 2014-2015

  Red Files—RF814: Consultancy Fees

  A list of names were below it.

  “These are the Red Files?” Lauren said, pausing on the third line, showing it to Ayers. “It’s just an account that pays consultants?”

  “Not quite,” she replied. “Look who’s on the list.”

  Lauren examined the names.

  Peter Freeman—$65,000

  Harry Biggs—$20,000

  Jason Maynard—$10,000

  Nigel Masters—$5000

  BALANCE—$100,000

  Dec 11, 9:02am

  So, Nevada’s governor, lieutenant governor, the chief of staff, and someone else.

  “Jesus!” she whispered. “Nevada’s three top political operators are being paid consulting fees from an account buried in infrastructure? Come on—how suspicious does this look?”

  A new draft message appeared.

  The $$ were paid to those 4 thru this account from an outside compny every 2 months, same amount each time. Then instantly the $$ were zapped out into personal accounts, and red files went back 2 empty. So even if anyone got luky findng this account, which is xtra hiden, itd almst always be on $0 so no one would bothr with it.

  Ayers sighed. “Bribes. I was almost hoping it would turn out to be something a little less predictable. But it seems corrupt officials are as inevitable as taxes.”