Regardless, Clarice hadn’t replenished our stash of phones any too soon. I’d take all the old ones with me to the airport tomorrow, remove the batteries, and dispose of them when I had the opportunity.
I decided to do a little fishing. Matt’s comment about the company’s books was perhaps a clue that he knew less than I was assuming.
“Are you sure you don’t need Robbie’s help? He’s a nice young man, and I think he’d be willing to cooperate,” I said.
“No need,” Matt growled. “All the assets are accounted for. The paper trail is clear.”
Gotcha—maybe. I allowed myself to draw a deep breath. Robbie had generated that paper trail—two of them, actually, the real one and the one Skip submitted to the IRS when he paid taxes, both of which were now in the FBI’s hands. And those accounts had had nothing to do with what Robbie and I had discussed on the phone yesterday.
“Is there anyone else I’m not allowed to talk to?” I asked sweetly. “Because I was unaware of any restrictions on my exercise of free speech. Robbie’s just a kid, and I feel he’s been taken advantage of by some of the less scrupulous members of your San Francisco office.” I snorted into the phone. “What they’re threatening him with—well, extortion goes both ways.”
It was a vague insinuation. And a test.
Matt was silent for a long minute. “He’s old enough to know better, but I’ll check it out,” he finally said, sounding as though he was grinding his teeth together. He hung up.
I sank onto my bed and pressed the phone against my stomach, trying to still the flutters that were still bashing around nervously in there alongside the cornbread. Then I quickly checked the phone—yep, my original one, the one I’d had from before my marriage, the one Matt always called me on. The one I’d kept in the fruitless hope that at some point there’d be a ransom phone call regarding Skip.
Good—it was the right phone.
It was possible that Matt had been relying on metadata only for the assumptions he’d made about my call to Robbie—the two phone numbers involved, the time and date, and the duration, maybe the cell tower coordinates at both ends, but not the content.
Maybe my (false) accusations would provide Robbie with a little grace period from his FBI surveillance team too, a little breathing room for him to run the errands I’d requested—if he hadn’t had a chance to do them yet.
I hoped my contact with Robbie would be interpreted as only a little friendly interference. It was better that the FBI not realize it was about to turn into much more than that. No matter what, I’d have to act very quickly tomorrow. The moment my flight booking was placed, I’d be working under a rapid deadline.
CHAPTER 8
Aside from the fact that I was rusty from lack of sleep and hyped on caffeine, my departure from Mayfield was uneventful. There was no point in trying to sneak out cross-country and borrow someone else’s vehicle as I had done in the past—an online plane ticket purchase had made that a moot issue.
But there was also no point in publicly advertising my journey either. I really had no idea exactly how observant or concerned my FBI surveillance team was. They’d let me be pretty freewheeling and had not hampered my movements in the past.
I also hoped they were still swamped with writing up the reports about the disposition of Giuseppe Ricardo Solano’s body which we’d found in Mayfield’s cemetery. Not the resting place I’d have chosen for my Numero Tres, but then I hadn’t been consulted in the matter. Although the FBI occasionally seemed to hint that they thought maybe I had been. We were all waiting for the lab results to come back.
Dawn came—from behind a thick bank of clouds on the eastern horizon—while I drove. The last stars winked out and sunbeams streaked across the crystalline sky in a multicolored transparency that put all watercolor washes I’d ever seen to shame. It took my breath away. And lasted all of three minutes.
But the scene was one of those snapshots that’ll be engraved in my memory forever—at least as long as my mind was fully functioning. Why is it that the sweetest things in life are often snippets and so very easy to miss? I mourned over my dad’s loss of this indescribable joy and beauty—the access to all his snippets that Alzheimer’s had stolen.
I sat in a traffic clog comprised of all the Vancouver commuters heading in to their jobs in Portland on the Glenn Jackson Memorial Bridge for a while. But that vantage point presented a spectacular view of Mt. Hood in all her snowbound glory, so the time wasn’t wasted. We crept along, bumper-to-bumper, and slowly crossed the Columbia River, transitioning from Washington to Oregon.
Then I zipped down the exit to Airport Way, turned onto 82nd Avenue, and was occupied with looking for the sign to the private parking lot Clarice had selected for me.
Everything went like clockwork due to her meticulous planning. A short shuttle ride and a tip for the driver for unloading my one small bag, stride through the entrance to the airport and straight into a security checkpoint line, listen to the chatter of those waiting around me, shuffle forward, heft my bag onto the conveyor belt, take my shoes off and dump them in a plastic tub, walk through the scanner, pick up my stuff on the other side. The faces of the TSA employees manning my line never once lost their bored flaccidity.
That’s when I exhaled. Either the FBI weren’t early risers and hadn’t noticed my movements yet, or they didn’t care what I was doing, or they were watching but staying out of my way. I really didn’t need to know which reason as long as they didn’t interfere.
I hustled down the concourse and pulled one of my new phones out of my tote bag.
Clarice answered on the first ring. “You’re there? Good. Now listen. Change of plans.”
I swerved toward a coffee kiosk that had several tall tables scattered in front of it for customers’ convenience. I plunked my bag on an open table and pulled out a notebook and pencil. “Okay. Shoot.”
“Zimmermann’s employees are giving me the runaround. Truth—I think he’s being extra cautious since his girlfriend didn’t return from her little jewelry-buying expedition. I’m not going to be able to get you an appointment with him. But rumor has it he’s always at his flagship store at closing time, where he reviews that day’s take, if you know what I mean.”
I did, indeed, know what she meant. So he was a hands-on manager. That was a difficult habit to break. I scribbled down the address to the store.
“Get a bottle of water. Stay hydrated. Dump the old phones. Remember what Josh told you.” Clarice barked each command, and I could picture her running a gnarled finger down her own checklist. I grinned. It was the best sound, like the good old days. I hadn’t realized how much I’d enjoyed—and missed—our working relationship.
“Just keep your wits about you, girl,” Clarice continued. “Turn your phone back on as soon as you land.” She hung up.
I did exactly what she’d said, in precisely the order she’d listed. I grabbed a wad of napkins along with my two water bottles, opened one bottle to start sipping, and proceeded to quietly wrap phone parts in the napkins and drop them in trash cans along the length of the terminal. I popped in and out of restrooms, visited the food outlets and newsstands, bought a magazine here, a candy bar there, and left little electronic pieces behind.
At the gate, I scanned the other waiting passengers and immediately spotted a young mom with a wriggly toddler. It was hard not to notice her. She seemed to be on her own with the little girl—no husband or grandma as traveling companion. And she’d already pulled both Cheerios and Goldfish crackers out of a humongous diaper bag in an effort to placate the child. There were crumbs all over her, the little girl, and the empty seats to either side of them. And the child was now ramping up to full-blown screaming.
I wasn’t enjoying the mom’s misery, but she was possibly my ticket to accomplishing the first of Josh’s instructions. I went and bought a second candy bar and a bag of peppermint patties.
I waited to board until the final call. This was a completely different flying
situation than the last time I was up in the air. I’d returned from my honeymoon alone, except for the pilots and steward, on a chartered Learjet. Now I was crowded in with all the other weary passengers in the economy class of a regional airline.
I heard the toddler long before I saw her. I hefted my carry-on bag into the first open spot I found in the overhead bins. I passed by my assigned middle seat—the uncomfortable result of a last-minute booking—and headed to the row where the frazzled mom was wrestling her squirmy, red-faced, tear-streaked child on her lap. I smiled at the businessman next to her who had obviously intentionally booked an aisle seat so he would have a minuscule amount of extra room to work.
He had his laptop and a sheaf of papers clamped against his chest, poised for action the moment he’d be allowed to drop the seat-back table after takeoff. But he hadn’t been able to control who his seatmate was or the volume at which she operated. Beads of sweat dotted his hairline, and he was flushed to the shade of a ripe strawberry.
I leaned down and flapped my arm behind me, gesturing. “I have a seat up there. It’s in the middle, but it’s—well—” I shrugged. “I don’t mind babies. Do you wanna—?”
“Yes. Yes,” he blurted so eagerly a fine spray of spittle flew out of his mouth. “Yes.” He tried to stand, bucked against his seatbelt, and slammed back into the seat. He hurriedly unclasped the belt and did the awkward, cramped aisle shuffle with me so I could squeeze into his spot. I yelled my original seat number to him.
“God bless you, lady,” he hollered near my ear. “You have no idea. This presentation. It’ll be career ending if I flub it.” He eased down the aisle.
I heaved a sigh and wished I’d packed earplugs. Instead, I pulled the candy and my knitting out of my tote bag before wedging it under the seat in front of me with my feet.
I turned and smiled at the mom. “I’m Betsy. Your little girl is adorable.” I’d chosen to use my mother’s name since it would be easy to remember.
My neighbor returned my smile, if somewhat wanly. I’m sure she also agreed that her daughter was adorable—usually—but was hesitant to admit it at the moment, fearing the wrath of a couple hundred suffering people trapped inside a tin can with that lusty set of lungs.
“Maybe her tummy’s upset. Peppermint can really help. I always eat peppermint when I fly.” Another lie. But it was for a good cause—two good causes, actually—one selfish and one altruistic. I tore open the bag of peppermint patties and offered one to the mom.
The little girl instantly stopped screaming and eyed the shiny goody. “More,” she said, lunging forward with her fat little hand outstretched.
“I don’t think—” the woman started.
“Calms everything down. Soothing for the throat and the digestive tract.” I kept babbling about the health benefits of peppermint, eighty percent of which I was making up, while I unwrapped another pattie and stuffed it in my mouth.
This drove the little girl to new heights of insistence, and her mother had no chance. The child and I both knew healthy snacks just weren’t going to cut it. I surrendered the rest of the bag.
The miraculous thing was, it worked. The candy bars had been my backup plan, and they weren’t needed. Three or four patties, and the child had slumped against her mother’s chest, pink and still a little damp from the histrionics, chocolate smudges on her face and fingers and dress, her static-y blonde hair drooping and her eyes glazed over. A few minutes later, she was snoring softly.
She’d probably worn herself out. Throwing such an exemplary tantrum certainly qualified as aerobic exercise. But I’ll still chalk one up for peppermint patties.
Apparently the effect was contagious, because within another few minutes, the mom had also wilted, chin on her collarbone, slumbering over her baby.
I had the next hour to myself without the need for small talk. I got a lot of knitting done. Mainly because my fingers were moving at the same speed my brain was as it raced through scenario after scenario of what might come next.
CHAPTER 9
Stage Two. Per Josh’s instructions, I was introducing as much irrationality and unpredictability into my movements as possible. I’m all for using utter confusion as a defense mechanism.
When the plane pulled to the gate, I sat quietly while all the other passengers whose destination was San Jose crowded the aisle and bonked each other with their luggage. As the line slowly straggled out of the plane, I joined the end. I needed to be part of the group so I wasn’t memorable, but I also needed to give the impression that I was traveling to Los Angeles as long as possible.
The businessman I’d traded places with was still hunched in my seat, peering at his laptop, mouth moving silently as he reviewed whatever he was going to pitch to his prospective clients. So he really was going on to Los Angeles the way I was scheduled to. Perfect. That seat would be occupied as the flight manifest said it should be. Different gender, but I couldn’t help that.
I retrieved my carry-on bag and hustled along the ramp to the terminal. Alaska Airlines’ gates were grouped in Terminal B. I veered left, away from the main traffic flow toward the baggage claim area and the public exit. I tried to walk slowly as though I were stretching my legs before another prolonged bout of sitting stuffed in a plane seat.
I found the employees-only door between the meditation room and the defibrillator station—exactly as Josh had described. I squared my shoulders, resisted the urge to glance around nervously to see if anyone was watching, and pushed through it purposefully, as though I knew what I was doing. No one yelled at me, and no alarms sounded.
I clattered down the concrete stairwell. I’d always wondered what airports look like behind the scenes—from an employee’s perspective instead of from a passenger’s perspective. But I didn’t have a chance for occupational observation. I barged through another door at the bottom of the stairs and emerged into an open area under the terminal.
“Nora,” Josh hissed, and I nearly levitated out of my shoes. “You made good time.” He grinned at me and grabbed the handles to my carry-on bag, pulling it off my shoulder. “This way.” He had a black knit cap pulled down over his ears and was dressed in a bland gray set of coveralls with a laminated ID card clipped to a patch pocket on his chest. His picture was on the card, but the type was too small for me to read what name he was claiming as his own.
I had to trot to keep up with him.
“You swapped seats?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I huffed.
“Good. We’ve done everything we can. I’d give us a couple hours at most before we have a tail.” He led me through a gate in a high chain link fence and to a parking lot dotted with battered sedans and minivans—employees’ vehicles. He popped the trunk of a generic, tan-colored four-door Kia and tossed my bag inside. “How’s our appointment roster?” he called over the top of the car.
I climbed into the front passenger seat where my knees pressed into the dashboard. I found the lever and slid the seat back. “Zimmermann’s a no-go, at least officially. But Clarice says we might be able to catch up with him after eight p.m. at his flagship Roman & Bernard store.”
Josh slipped on a pair of sunglasses and stuffed his ID card in the center console while also nosing the car out onto one of the many access roads that looped around the airport complex.
“Then I have a surprise for you. Hungry?” Josh shot a glance at the rearview mirror and accelerated.
“Of course,” I said, even though I wasn’t. My stomach was dealing with too much nervous upheaval to think about food.
We were approaching the arrivals and departures lanes in front of the terminals. “Tilt your seat back,” Josh said. “So you’re behind the B-pillar.”
“Huh?”
“Lean back. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few FBI agents out on the sidewalk. I don’t want them to catch you in profile.”
I found the right lever just in time and also rested my elbow on the windowsill to crowd the visual space even more. I tur
ned and faced Josh.
“Good,” he muttered. “We’re just a couple tourists.”
“In San Jose?” I bantered.
“Yeah. Well.” He chuckled and put the Kia through its paces. Soon we were flying down the freeway.
He changed lanes a lot, sped the way most Californians do, taking the speed limit as a suggestion for during inclement weather only, but didn’t behave in a way that stood out. We were just another set of people with important places to go and things to do without much tolerance for the slowpokes.
As scenes zipped by which I recognized, places I’d formerly considered part of my home turf, I realized how little—if any—I’d missed living in the city. Josh, still actively checking all the mirrors and sliding in and out of traffic, seemed to be in the same frame of mind.
“It’s weird,” he said, “seeing all this with a different set of eyes now. It’s kind of like progressing through a video game that is Skip’s life—what I know of his life, anyway. Who knew freeway exits could be a map to your memories, huh?” He tilted a little smile at me.
“In what way?” I asked.
“They’re like gateways to things we did together. We used to come down here sometimes on breaks from UC Davis, just goof around in the city. Skip would visit his mom, and I’d hang out. Concerts, the occasional Giants—back when they weren’t very good—or A’s or Sharks game. We couldn’t afford NFL games.”
Josh emitted a low chuckle and shook his head. “We just passed the exit to the hospital where he had surgery right before spring term started. I drove like a maniac to get him back to class on a Monday morning. Crazy times. The all-nighters we used to pull.”
“Surgery?” I sat up straighter and levered the seat back up with me.
Josh shot me a puzzled look, as least as much as I could tell from behind the sunglasses. “Oh right. Before you knew him. No biggie, though. Some hernia thing. I didn’t even know he was going in for surgery until he called me to pick him up, but he said it was elective and he thought he might as well do it during spring break. Sounded like a last-minute decision. Didn’t seem to lay him up any, except he quit playing flag football after that.”
Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 6