“You’re funny,” I joked. “Where’s Mrs. Meadows?”
“Didn’t get enough last night?” V asked. “Those girls leaving this morning looked pretty tired, except the blond one.”
“What are you jealous? This isn’t the morning, V,” I said, a little more sharply than necessary.
“Mrs. Meadows is at home,” she said turning serious. “She emailed in sick today and both phones are there. She’s been making calls all morning.”
Deek had installed tracking and monitoring devices during her visit. V sent the address to the car’s on-board navigation system. Handy.
“Let me guess. Calling friends looking for her husband and Detective Johansen.”
“Correct,” V confirmed.
“Hey, I’m sorry I got pissy,” I admitted. “I hate driving.”
“Deek called in,” she said, changing the subject. “He’ll be back online early today. I think he’s bored.”
That was good news; we were going to need all his hacking skills today. “You’ve done a great job filling in, have him call me when he gets in.”
“Will do,” she confirmed.
“And I need to run a full pre-employment screen on Amber Morrison,” I added. “Match her face from the security video and tell Deek to see if she’s got a jacket anywhere and start wiping her records.”
“The hooker?” She asked after a few seconds of keyboard clicking.
“Ex-hooker,” I corrected.
“Not a problem,” V replied. Of all the crew I’d expect her to understand. Growing up in a Brazilian slum was a tough childhood.
Luckily the traffic was light at this hour; the trip went fast and I managed not to kill anyone. Before long I was rolling through one of the older neighborhoods north of West Palm, near the Intracoastal. It was an old neighborhood but well kept. The lawns were neatly trimmed the houses well-maintained cinder block construction with terracotta shingles that had survived a lot of hurricanes over the years. This was old Florida; the kind of neighborhood people in real estate called “buy and die” because once people moved in the only time they left was in an ambulance. The Meadows’ house was across the street from a high rise condo, nestled in around several other nearly identical houses different only in the exterior color. Their house was kind of a muted yellow that was quite attractive.
I looked for the non-descript sedan with bored looking junior agents discovering the glamor of law enforcement and was not disappointed to finally spot them in the condo parking lot. There would be more. They would no doubt run my plates and they would pass a surface inspection. If they dug down, they would get nothing and, by the time they got done with all the questions, the car would be back in the motor pool while Q and I were lounging on a South American beach somewhere.
I parked in the narrow drive and knocked on the door.
Mrs. Meadows came to the door in a short white terrycloth robe, her wet hair hanging loosely around her shoulders holding a phone to her ear. She looked surprised and I got a whiff of chlorine as she opened the door, waved me in and held up a finger while she went back to the telephone conversation I had interrupted. The house was tastefully decorated, obviously updated since the Meadows took over the house. The floors were polished tile; it didn’t pay to carpet a home this close to the Intracoastal in hurricane country, you’d just end up throwing it away after a big storm. The open floorplan let in the light from the large sliding windows in the back and reflected light from the pool sparkled off the walls and furniture.
“You’re popular,” V observed into my earpiece. Traffic on Fed comm channels, a cell phone for the locals and an encrypted transmission that looks military. Can’t pinpoint them without another car and one is using burst mode.”
Our cars were fitted with a modified version of the electronic equipment the police used, only a lot more sophisticated. V could monitor nearly every signal in a quarter-mile radius. The military encryption was most certainly not the Feds or locals and that concerned me. Added to the fact I hadn’t spotted either team means they were sheltered nearby, either in the condos or one of the neighboring houses, probably using cameras so they wouldn’t be spotted watching out the windows. I didn’t like that, not at all. That was the mark of very careful people, the kind who got the job done and didn’t make mistakes. People like us. That means the house was probably bugged as well.
Mrs. Meadows made a quick end to her phone conversation and turned her steel grey eyes back to me.
“How’d you know I was here?” she asked.
“You hired us because we know things,” I reminded her with a smile.
“I suppose,” she agreed. “A little creepy, though.”
“Nice place,” I observed, changing the subject. “You two have done a lot work around here.”
“Uh, it needed it,” she lamented. “Mom let it go so bad, it took Donnie and me months to put in new tiles and fix the roof. Coffee?”
“Whatever you’re having,” I agreed. She used a single serving machine to brew up a pair of Kenyan dark roast coffees and I took a seat on one of the stools in front of the kitchen counter. She passed my coffee over and stood on the opposite side.
“So how’s Detective Johansen today?” I asked, taking a sip of the rich, black coffee.
“He doesn’t have anything new and doesn’t think the Feds are doing any better. But you probably knew that,” she observed, two-handing her own coffee cup.
“I did,” I confirmed. “We should consider the possibility that your husband has left the country.” I made that statement as much for the listening ears nearby as Mrs. Meadows.
“That got someone’s attention, more traffic on the military band,” V confirmed. “These guys are good.”
They were good and I once again marveled at the pace of operations in the age of total information awareness.
“Do you have anything solid on that?” Mrs. Meadows asked keenly.
“Simple process of elimination,” I deflected. “If he was here the police would have found him by now. He either made it out of the country or…”
“Or he’s dead,” she finished for me.
Or I’m helping him, I thought to myself. There was no need to lie when you could simply let other people spin their own conclusions. The best part of that strategy was that people are far more likely to cling tightly to the theories they cook up in their own head. Besides, we had an audience and this was performance art.
“That’s a little premature,” I said truthfully.
“But not out of the question,” she insisted. You can take a lawyer out of the office but they’re still lawyers.
“Look, I told you we’d get your husband back and we will,” I insisted, knowing that would be much sooner and in quite different circumstances than she expected. “I didn’t guarantee it would be a happy reunion.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she said trying to rub the headache out of her temple. “This has all been…so...”
And there it was, a halting breath on the verge of tears. This is where I was supposed to go over and give her a manly, comforting hug, which would turn into a clumsy, sloppy kiss and end up in the bedroom.
“It’s a lot to deal with,” I sympathized, not moving from my side of the counter. I enjoyed performance art but that many people listening is intimidating at my age.
I wasn’t getting it so she lifted up her head and made a show of wiping the moisture from her eyes. She was probably wondering if she needed to draw me a picture.
“I should be going,” I said gently, setting the cup down and giving her my best it’s not happening look.
“I really appreciate what you’re doing,” she said, reaching across the counter to touch my arm and letting the robe slip just enough to let me know she didn’t have anything on underneath. I had to hand it to her; she was doing everything but sending up a flare.
“Are you going to do her?” V asked through my earpiece. “Because I’m not listening to that shit.” I wondered how many people were
wondering the same thing.
“I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Meadows,” I said warmly, while firmly but gently removing her hand. I turned to go, the soft pad of her bare feet catching up to me to get the door.
“Thank you again,” she gave it one last shot, but with less enthusiasm this time.
I stepped out into the bright Florida sunshine.
“Wow, everything is lighting up,” V confirmed. “Feds, locals, mystery team and the Mrs.”
That would be my photo and video, I guessed. My image being matched against databases all over the world, most of which were polluted with more than a half-dozen false positives and then seasoned with conflicting updates. Like almost anything connected to our operation, they’d end up more confused than when they started. In the modern age of digital storage, the way to hide trees was to create a forest of misinformation.
Mrs. Meadows would be calling her boss with the bad news. The locals would be using traffic cameras, so that meant I couldn’t go back to the boat, not that I wanted to anyway. Time to head to the police station; I drove slowly so whoever was following could keep up.
“You’ve grown a tail while I was gone,” Deek announced in my ear.
“Good to have you back,” I acknowledged. “V’s done a good job and, no offense, she’s a lot nicer to have in your ear.”
“Roger that,” Deek chuckled. “Figured it was time to start on the horse park finances.”
“That it is,” I loved working with professionals. “First I’m going to need to ditch this car.”
One or more of the parade behind me would certainly try searching and bugging the car while I was at the police station and we couldn’t have that.
“You’ve got at least one team behind you and the locals tracking you with traffic cams,” Deek observed. “The tail is using military grade encryption.”
“That probably means the Feds are back there, too,” I observed. “Getting crowded out here.”
“Trying to get a valet in place but I need a few more minutes,” Deek replied.
South Florida was thick with valet parking; it was everywhere and particularly convenient downtown. Our valet would go in one door of the parking garage, switch the tags and then go out the other. They’d take the car on a long meandering drive to make sure they didn’t have a tail and then park it somewhere under surveillance and see if anyone bothered it. Such were the lengths necessary in the modern world to keep nosy people out of your business.
“I’m rollin’,” Q announced. It was great having the whole band back together.
“Headed out,” V announced that she was leaving the beta site and turning operations back over to Deek. Q and V would make sure I had plenty of cover when it was time to lose my tail.
“Getting traffic cam pics of your tail,” Deek informed. “They look more corporate than military.”
“Contractors?” I asked. These days “contractors” was the modern term for respectable mercenaries, which would also explain the military grade encryption.
“Not sure, boss.” Deek clarified. “Not from in town. They’re driving a rental.”
“Hmmm, new players,” I mused.
This was the downside to our business in the modern world. Once you started a job, you had to wrap it up fast before the string of players now following me to downtown West Palm Beach had time to start mapping our operation. My picture was now sailing around the world, pinging on official databases, making notes about when and where. I was being watched on traffic cams and my burner phone was now certainly being monitored and tracked. If you fall off the radar right away, no one has time to stick around and ask many questions but keep showing up and, sooner or later, even a sloppy organization can get lucky.
I took a couple wrong turns and one of my tails had to run a red light trying to keep up. They were good but not deep. If they had more than one car they would have passed the tail to the other vehicle instead of running the light.
“Valet is ready at the District Court building, north-east corner,” Deek informed me. The police station was between Clematis and Banyan in a complex of government buildings and there was always a lot of traffic.
Just before I turned the corner our valet put out a sign and two orange cones. I pulled up, he handed me ticket and drove off toward the parking garage around the corner. The great thing about walking toward the police station is no one was going to follow me there. The locals didn’t need to, the Feds didn’t want to and the new players wouldn’t want to show their faces. I took my time, partly to let my tails see where I was going and partly to give Q and V time to plan an exit strategy.
The police station in West Palm was a block west and across the street from the new courthouse and not your typical government building. It was angular and modern looking and, since the parking garage was in the back, there was very little pedestrian traffic around the front of the building. The front desk called upstairs and gave me a visitor ID. Johansen had enough seniority to get one of the coveted window seats for his desk. He shook my hand and gestured toward a plastic chair on the opposite side of his desk. I inwardly shuddered at the thought of how much filth that chair had seen over the years.
“I assume you would have called with big news,” Johansen said easily.
“Why do all police stations smell like stale coffee?” I asked absently.
“Goes with the territory,” Johansen mused. “You’d think one station somewhere would invest in good coffee, wouldn’t you?”
I chuckled. “You’d think. We probably should consider that Don Meadows made it out of the country,” I said changing the subject and turning serious.
“We had considered that,” Johansen confirmed. “He didn’t leave from any of the local airports.”
“By boat then,” I suggested, knowing that was true.
“The missus mentioned he used to sail with his folks when he was a kid. So, yeah.”
“If he’s gone, that’s it then. Game over,” I proposed, putting on my best disappointed face.
Johansen sighed heavily. “More than likely,” he agreed. “But he hasn’t cashed any of those bonds yet.”
And how would you know that?
“How would he know that? Isn’t the whole idea behind bearer bonds is that no one but the bank knows?” Deek gave voice to my thoughts through the earpiece -it was kind of freaky sometimes.
He must have read the question on my face or realized he made a mistake.
“I have friends with the FBI,” he said a little sheepishly.
But how would they know? I kept that thought to myself, keeping my face blank. It was unlikely the FBI had anyone watching Panamanian banks but one of the three-letter agencies probably did. Still, this type of case wasn’t in their wheelhouse, either. For some reason that remark gave me a bad feeling, but that would have to keep.
“He’s lying,” Deek observed.
“You keeping an eye on Mrs. Meadows?” I asked knowing that answer but wanting to change the subject.
“We got a couple guys out there,” he confirmed.
“Then you know I was out there earlier.”
“Yeah, they called,” Johansen admitted.
“He hasn’t tried to call or contact her? Not once?”
He shook his head. “Not that we can pick up,” he admitted. “Hell, he’s probably on a beach somewhere, laughing at all of us.”
He probably was this morning, I thought to myself. “If he’s smart he’ll stay on the move.”
“He seems pretty smart,” Johansen observed. “He managed to give you the slip.”
“We’re not ready to admit defeat yet,” I said dismissively, standing to leave.
We shook hand and I made my way out of the labyrinth of government furniture and slipped my phone in the pocket of one of the lawyers coming out an interview room and made my way toward the door.
“Time for an exit strategy,” I said walking into the sunshine.
“Our out of town friends haven’t spotted you yet,” Q observ
ed. My team was now watching the watchers.
“Feds are trying to figure out what to do,” V added.
“Blind spot, southeast corner,” Deek observed, checking the camera coverage.
“Southeast it is,” I said, turning to my right and angling away from the police department. “How about a distraction?”
“Fire alarm for the court house coming up,” Deek agreed.
A minute later a steady stream of people started filing out of the courthouse building. Judges, lawyers, office staff and litigants were flooding down the steps and streaming out along the sidewalks. Sirens in the distance indicated this wasn’t a scheduled drill. I moved toward the crowd.
“The contractors are confused,” Q observed. “One is staying with the car, the other is moving your way.”
I picked up the pace, plunging into a stream of people coming the other way. The sirens were getting closer, blasts on their air horns marking each intersection.
“Ready,” I announced.
“Rolling,” Q advised.
“The Feds are on the phone, not following,” V reported. “I think they’re tracking your phone.”
“Ditch them, V,” I ordered. “Get in behind us and make sure there’s not another tail.”
“On it,” she confirmed.
The first fire units were just arriving, pulling up in front of the courthouse. The cars on the cross street were a solid mass, I could see Q up ahead to my right, just past the traffic snarl.
“I’m blocked,” V announced.
“That’s fine, the fire department is covering our exit,” I observed, walking up the passenger side of Q’s car and easing inside.
Q handed me a new phone and we headed south down the street just as police cars swept in to start directing traffic.
“Have a nice walk?” Q asked, his voice echoing faintly in my earpiece, which were luckily designed to dampen the mics in close quarters.
“Lovely,” I confirmed.
“Where to?”
“Deek, where’s the houseboat?”
“Miami,” he said without hesitation.
“We’ll slot up there tonight,” I suggested. There were too many eyes looking for us in West Palm.
The Rogue Horse Recovery: Book One of the Recovery and Marine Salvage Inc Series (Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc.) Page 7