by J. A. Jance
As the clock ticked down on that Friday afternoon, he knew the time had come to make his move. It was now or never. Long experience had taught him that the best time for these kinds of incursions was late in the day on Fridays. It was when people’s attention spans suffered the most, leaving them distracted because they were already preoccupied with dreading their evening commute or making plans for the upcoming weekend.
Webster had joined the Air Force in hopes of training for special ops, but that hadn’t worked out very well. After punching out his commanding officer, he had been tossed out on his ear with an other-than-honorable discharge. His tendency for brawling carried over into civilian life, where a fatal bar fight several months later had landed him in the slammer for involuntary manslaughter. Once out of jail and back on the streets, finding legitimate work had proven almost as problematic as finding a decent place to live.
Fortunately for him, his widowed mother had remarried. She had moved to her new husband’s ten-acre parcel on the outskirts of Marana, just northwest of Tucson. His mom had held on to Ron’s father’s old Lazy Daze RV, and she and Art, her second husband, let Ron live in that rent-free. Powered by an extension cord from the garage, it was hardly luxurious, but it beat living on the streets. The place had been an oven through the dead of summer, but now that autumn was under way, it was far more comfortable than the makeshift cot in the back of his work van where Ron had been roughing it the last two nights.
Before getting thrown out of the Air Force, he had learned enough about electronic surveillance to make him dangerous. Now he kept body and soul together mostly by working for marginally ethical divorce lawyers where his main focus was helping to get the goods on the marital wrongdoings of some erring spouse. When it came to non-court-ordered eavesdropping, Ron was a very handy guy to have around. But work had been in short supply the last several months, and this week he was grateful when Robby, one of his job brokers, had given him a call.
Jobs for Robby’s clients tended to be more on the sketchy side but they paid better. Not only that, when it came time for payday, Robby didn’t jack you around. You did the job and he paid up. That’s how Ron liked it.
When Ron had been given the assignment, it had seemed simple enough. He was supposed to drive up to Cottonwood, north of Phoenix, and set up a network of listening devices and some video surveillance as well in a mom-and-pop company called High Noon Enterprises operating out of Mingus Mountain Business Park. How hard could that be? Once Ron arrived on scene, however, he had been dismayed to learn that each evening when High Noon shut down for the night, it was locked up tight behind a solid wall of rolling security shutters.
Ron had seen the ads for those suckers on TV, where the pitchman claimed that even a SWAT team had been unable to get inside. Rather than give up, Ron realized that, if breaking in wasn’t going to work, he’d need to find a way to be invited.
It appeared that the entire complex was being renovated, and Ron made it his business to find out as much about the project as possible. Using his job of raking and weeding as cover, he had befriended several of the construction workers, including the trio of electricians assigned to upgrade the complex’s electrical service. According to them, they had spent weeks upgrading the wiring for space being taken over by High Noon and redesigned into a computer lab. The work, unavoidably delayed several times, was now complete with the exception of passing final inspections from the county building department. The moment Ron heard that telling detail, he knew that posing as a building inspector would be his best bet for getting inside.
While on the job Ron wore an impenetrable pair of sunglasses as well as a broad-brimmed hat with a tail of material that covered his ears and the back of his neck. When one of the other guys at lunch had inquired about the hat, Ron told him he’d had a spot of melanoma removed and was under doctor’s orders to keep the sun off his skin. That was an outright lie. The sunglasses, hat, and trailing scarf were almost as effective as a hoodie when it came to defeating security cameras, and in Arizona’s sunny climes, they made a hell of a lot more sense.
Fortunately for Ron, Robby had supplied him with dossiers that provided a good deal of background information on the people involved in High Noon, a total of five individuals—three females and two males—and no dogs. From his vantage point out in the parking lot, Ron sorted out who was who and kept track of their comings and goings.
The dossier on a guy named B. Simpson designated him as the head honcho. He was evidently the brains of the outfit and also did a good deal of traveling. The headshot photo of him made him look like an unassuming businessman. Not much of an opponent as far as Ron was concerned. And since there had been no sign of the guy all week long, Ron decided he was probably off on a business trip.
Next up was someone named Ali Reynolds. Her photo showed a fit-looking older woman who, despite the difference in last names, was also apparently Mrs. B. Simpson. The first two days she had shown up in a sweet Porsche Cayenne, but today for some reason she had shown up driving a seventies vintage Bronco that, despite its advanced age, sported a new coat of paint and appeared to run like a top. After stopping briefly in front of the building, Reynolds had spent the better part of an hour being driven around and around the parking lot by Stuart Ramey, the second man listed on the company roster.
Ramey was a lumbering-looking guy in his early forties, maybe. According to the paperwork, he was supposedly some kind of computer genius, but he was also a piss-poor driver. One disturbing item about him and something that had made him a major roadblock to Ron’s ability to complete his assignment was the fact that Stuart evidently lived in an apartment attached to the company’s headquarters. Ron hadn’t anticipated having someone at the site twenty-four/seven. All he could do was hope that his building inspector guise would provide enough of a work-around.
The second woman in the mix was a very hot-looking young Asian chick named Camille Lee. She was a tiny mite of a thing who looked as though she’d be blown away in a strong wind. Too bad she wasn’t the one with the on-site apartment. She usually left promptly at five, rushing off in her bright red Prius as though she had pressing engagements elsewhere.
The last of the three women was Shirley Malone. Her dossier listed her as the receptionist and didn’t include a photo, but Ron had managed to figure out which one she had to be—a second older woman, late fifties or so, who looked more than a little frumpy and who drove around in a battered Honda sedan that was in far worse shape than the much older Bronco.
Having sorted through the players, Ron had settled on Shirley Malone as the most vulnerable as well as his best bet for getting inside. Ron prided himself on being something of a ladies’ man, especially where older women were concerned. His plan was to go to her late in the day, pass himself off as a building inspector, lay the charm on thick, and trick her into giving him access. He hoped things didn’t go south from there, but if they did, he was fully prepared to handle both Shirley Malone and Stuart Ramey.
Then, much to Ron’s surprise, he caught a break. Earlier in the afternoon, Ramey, the live-in male, and the older woman named Shirley had returned from some kind of errand. An hour or so after that, the younger woman and Ramey exited the office in a hurry, this time with the man carrying a piece of luggage. When they piled into the red Prius and tore out of the lot, Ron could barely believe his luck—luggage? Did that mean that, for today, at least, Stuart Ramey and perhaps the young woman, too, were off on some kind of overnight trip? That made three down; two to go.
Then, an hour or so later Ali Reynolds emerged from the building as well. She climbed into the old Bronco and drove away, leaving behind good old Shirley—the last woman standing.
Ron gave himself another half hour after that. Showing up after four would make it that much closer to quitting time. It was five past when he drove the van into a visitor parking slot directly in front of the High Noon entrance. He had created a specially designed lanyard in advance of his visit. Pulling it out, he place
d it on display around his neck. On it was a laminated name badge, complete with a photo, that identified the wearer as one Steve Barris, a building inspector for Yavapai County.
He had already mapped out all the outdoor surveillance cams in the business park, including the ones on the outside of the High Noon portion. As he exited the van, he did his best to dodge the cameras. As for his vehicle? If anybody ever got around to tracking the van’s plates, it wouldn’t be a problem because they’d come back as stolen.
Outside the van, Ron paused long enough to reach back inside and retrieve a tool kit.
“Okey-dokey,” Ron muttered under his breath as he headed for the entrance. “Showtime. Let’s make this happen.”
Before long he’d have High Noon Enterprises wired for both sight and sound. It had been a long dry spell, and his already shaky finances had taken a serious hit. Ron was grateful to finally have a job to do, and he was determined to get it done.
16
In the six months Shirley Malone had been working at High Noon, it was unusual for her to have the place to herself. Most of the time, Stu Ramey’s large and comforting presence would be somewhere in the background. During work hours he spent his time seated in the computer lab keeping watch over a complex collection of monitors. During non-work hours, he’d be hidden away in his studio apartment, which was on the far side of the lab.
When Shirley had first come on board, she’d been wary of Stu. His standoffishness and general awkwardness around people had made her uncomfortable. Her unease had lessened once Cami had explained some of the poor guy’s underlying issues—one of which was an inability to handle unexpected changes of any kind. It had taken time and a good deal of effort on Shirley’s part, to say nothing of uncounted batches of homemade chocolate chip cookies, to bring him around, but ultimately her unrelenting charm offensive had worked.
Shirley and her late husband, Earl, had never had any kids of their own, but Stu’s glaring personality deficits had unleashed all of her maternal instincts. She was proud of the fact that she’d been instrumental in teaching him to drive, and she was downright ecstatic that he had aced his driving exam the first time around.
Shirley’s workstation was behind a counter just inside High Noon’s front entrance. Although the engraved nameplate positioned on the counter identified her as RECEPTIONIST, her duties went beyond that. Yes, she functioned as the official gatekeeper and operated the electronic controls that allowed visitors and vendors without keypad privileges access to the building. When she first arrived, the break room had been a health code violation waiting to happen. She’d immediately taken that situation in hand, and the break room now sparkled as a result of her efforts. In addition, she handled a good deal of the company’s routine office work.
It seemed odd to Shirley that although High Noon Enterprises was high-tech, it was definitely not a paper-free environment. She did a lot of scanning and filing, but she wasn’t complaining about any of it. She’d spent most of her adult life working cashier counters in grocery stores. Being able to sit at a desk rather than standing on her feet all day was something she regarded as an incredible blessing. In fact, the idea she’d been able to land any kind of job at all at her age, especially one that paid reasonably well and came with benefits, was nothing short of miraculous.
Having to start over in her late fifties had never been part of Shirley’s game plan, but Earl’s long, debilitating final illness had wiped them out financially. They’d burned through both their savings as well as the equity in their home. Eventually they’d lost the house entirely. Because Shirley had missed so much time from work, she’d been let go from her job. Being unemployed while she was still functioning as Earl’s primary caregiver was one thing. Once he was gone, however, when Shirley had tried going back to work, she’d hit a brick wall. Experience be damned, no one wanted to give a job to a woman her age.
Reduced to living in her car—a twenty-year-old Ford minivan—she’d finally admitted defeat and limped back home to Arizona. Shirley had grown up in Phoenix, but after her father retired, her parents had moved to the Verde Valley. Shirley lived there now, sharing a fourteen-by-seventy mobile home in Cornville with her widowed eighty-three-year-old mother, Edna Farber, and her mother’s three cats.
Shirley didn’t like mobile homes, and she didn’t much care for cats, either, but it beat being homeless and it certainly beat living in a minivan. With nothing to do but sit at home and stare at the four walls, she probably would have gone nuts over time if she hadn’t stumbled into this job.
Edna’s sole vice, and now Shirley’s, too, was bingo. For years, every Friday night, come hell or high water, Edna had gone into town to play bingo at Cottonwood’s VFW post. When Shirley moved back home, she had quickly realized that Edna was a hazard on the highway and that her driving days needed to be over. The only way Edna would consent to giving up the keys to her Honda sedan was if Shirley would promise to drive her to bingo on Friday nights.
The deal was struck. Now the aged minivan was gone and Shirley, with a much newer car to drive, faithfully took her mother back and forth to bingo every Friday evening. At first she’d gone strictly out of duty, but before long she had been sucked into the fun and socializing as well. The VFW post was a place where she could hang out with people who were her own age or even older. She liked the fact that among the folks she found there she didn’t have to explain her history or make excuses for it. Plenty of her fellow bingo players had already been down the same road. For them having spent years caring for a dying spouse wasn’t all that unusual.
Over time, Shirley and her mother had developed a friendship with two of the bingo regulars, Edie Larson and Betsy Peterson, who bused over to Cottonwood each Friday evening from an assisted living facility in Sedona. One night, during a break in the bingo action, Shirley had broached the subject of her need to find a job in a world that considered her too old to carry her weight.
“You should talk to my daughter,” Edie had said, scribbling down a phone number on the back of a napkin and handing it over. “Ali and her husband, B. Simpson, run a global cyber security firm from an office right here in Cottonwood. She mentioned to me just the other day that they were looking into hiring a receptionist.”
With nothing to lose, Shirley had gone ahead and called the number, where she had spoken directly to Ali. After sending along her résumé, Shirley had been surprised to be invited in for an interview. The moment she and Ali met face-to-face, the two of them had hit it off. They weren’t that far apart in age. They’d both lost husbands to cancer, although Ali had been in her twenties when her first husband died. And, after lives lived elsewhere, they’d both been faced with coming home to Arizona in order to regroup.
Today, with the filing and scanning done and with nothing much to do but hold down the fort until quitting time, Shirley sat at her computer and dashed off a quick e-mail to Jackie Wilson, her best friend back home in San Diego.
Yay, it’s Friday. That means bingo night. Who ever would have thought that playing bingo with a bunch of old fogies at a VFW hall would be the highlight of my week? LOL. How the mighty are fallen!
Tomorrow I have to take Mom’s Siamese, Archie, to the vet. He’s getting really old and frail. We’re already having to give him insulin shots, and I’m afraid it will break Mom’s heart when she loses him.
Everybody is out of the office this afternoon, and it’s a little weird to have the place all to
The door buzzer sounded, startling her. Looking up from her monitor, Shirley saw a middle-aged man standing outside, holding a clipboard. A toolbox was stationed at his feet.
Shirley pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
“I’m Steve Barris, an inspector with the county building department. I know it’s late in the day, but before I head back to Prescott, I’m here to do the final inspection on the changes you’ve made to your electrical service. If I can sign off on the permits, you’ll be good to go as far as occupancy is concerned.”
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br /> Shirley knew nothing about construction, but she did know that at least one open building permit was hanging fire and keeping them from being able to utilize any of their newly remodeled space. She also suspected that with Cami and Stu rushing off to collect a truckload of additional computer equipment, that space was going to be needed sooner rather than later. She wasn’t exactly comfortable letting the guy into the building when she was the only one there, but still . . .
“Sure,” she said. “Hold on, and I’ll buzz you in.”
The man who stepped through the door was dressed in khaki and wearing a straw hat with a cloth tail that covered the back of his neck. As soon as he was inside, he removed the hat and placed it on the counter, a gesture Shirley regarded as a welcome piece of gentlemanly behavior.
“I’m just the receptionist,” she told him. “The lab manager isn’t here right now, and he probably should be.”
The man sighed. “I was really hoping to get this one checked off my list today. If it doesn’t get done today, it’ll have to wait until the end of next week. That’s the next time I’ll be back in Cottonwood. By the way,” he added, “the inspection is strictly routine. It’s just a matter of checking the connections and the voltages. There’s no reason why your lab manager would need to be present.”
Shirley thought about that and about that truckload of inbound computer equipment. If occupancy was in question, what would happen if Stu and Cami showed up with the U-Haul on Monday or Tuesday and were unable to unload it until the permits were cleared? No, Shirley decided, it was either get the job done today or risk losing a whole week.