by Diane Kelly
I slipped the phone into my purse and stepped back into the lobby. What now? I glanced back into the library, at the bank of computers. Couldn’t hurt to check the machine, right?
I headed to the PCs. A boy of about eighteen was sitting down at the computer Mendoza had been using. An MP3 player was strapped to his upper arm, tiny earplugs in his ears. He had three days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, two metal hoops through his nose, and one serious case of BO.
I stepped up next to him. “Hi.” I gave him my friendliest smile. “I hate to inconvenience you, but I need to use that particular computer. Would you mind moving to another?”
He glanced up at me and turned back to the screen. “Yeah. I would.”
Not the response I’d hoped for. “Please? There’s five others available right here.” I gestured to the empty seats around us.
“Exactly,” he said. “Use one of those.” He began to type on the keyboard.
“Look. I asked you nicely. Now I’m going to have to insist.”
He shot me a go-to-hell look and continued typing.
I crouched down next to him. “If you don’t voluntarily get up from this computer, I’m going to have to make you.”
He looked me over and snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Oh yeah?” A quarter second later, I held him in a painful wristlock, his right arm sticking straight up behind him. “You like this, punk?” Okay, so I’d gone a little Dirty Harry on him. Sue me.
“Shit, lady! You’re fucking crazy!”
“Yes,” I hissed in his ear. “I am.”
I let go of him and he leaped up from the chair, grabbing his grungy messenger bag and taking off. I knew he wouldn’t report me. It would be too embarrassing for him to admit a five-foot-two-inch woman physically bested him. Wuss.
I slid into the chair, still warm from Mendoza’s and grunge-boy’s body heat.
During my six months of special agent training, we’d had several classes on computer searches, so I knew a little about cybersleuthing. Not as much as Josh, of course, but enough to get by. I pulled up the computer’s history and reviewed the list of Web sites accessed. The most recent was a site selling secondhand term papers. That would be grunge-boy, no doubt. Before that, the most recent sites accessed were one for Chase Bank, another for Cayman Islands Bank & Trust, and Google mail.
Mendoza had a Gmail account? Interesting. I’d just discovered how he was communicating with his stooge. Too bad I didn’t know how to hack into his account.
I texted Josh from my cell and he came inside, slipping into the chair as soon as I vacated it. I wasn’t sure he’d be able to get anything more than I had, but it couldn’t hurt to have him take a look, too.
I dropped into the seat next to him. “Well?”
Josh shook his head. “This history doesn’t tell us much. I could get more information if I put key logger software on the system.”
“What’s that?”
Josh explained that a key logger program would track all keystrokes made on the keyboard, thus allowing us to extract account numbers, passwords, and, most important, e-mail addresses and communications. All the information we needed. Without permission from Judge Trumbull, though, any such computer search would be illegal and any resulting evidence would be inadmissible in court.
Dang.
Judge Trumbull had turned down our earlier request for a wiretap, but she’d invited us to come back if we obtained new evidence. So that’s exactly what we’d do.
“Print out the search history for our records,” I told Josh. “We’ll need to follow Mendoza for the next few days and do the same if he uses a public computer again.”
He hit the key to print out the history and held out his hand, waggling his fingers. “The library charges a quarter a page.”
I rolled my eyes, dug in my purse, and handed him a dollar bill.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
My Backup Team
I arranged a double date for that evening. Brett and I met Alicia and Daniel at a Thai restaurant. The hostess seated us at a round table near the front windows.
Over a scrumptious plate of pad thai, I told the others that, as much as I enjoyed their company, I had ulterior motives for inviting them all out together. The three eyed me expectantly. I leaned toward them and spoke in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “I’m planning to do something really crazy and really risky this weekend.” My eyes scanned their faces. “Why don’t any of you look surprised?”
Alicia shrugged. “Crazy and risky is what you do.”
“It’s who you are,” Brett added.
I looked at Daniel.
He raised both hands. “I plead the fifth.”
“Typical lawyer.” Sheez. I was tempted to argue the point, but since I might need their help, I figured it would be best to keep my mouth shut. “If things go wrong, I’ll need bail money, legal representation, and someone to take care of my cats.”
Brett lifted his index finger. “I’ll post bail.”
“I’ll take legal representation.” Daniel slid one of his business cards across the table to me. I slipped it into my wallet.
“Guess that leaves me with the cats.” Alicia fingered her silver wristwatch. “Should we synchronize our watches?”
I paid for dinner. It was the least I could do for my backup team. Still, going rogue was costing me a small fortune. I wondered if I could get away with deducting the costs on my tax return.
* * *
Josh and I tag-teamed Mendoza the rest of the week. One good thing about Josh being a loner is that he didn’t mind playing spy on his own. As long as he had his laptop to keep him company, he was fine. We did our best to cover our trail at work, claiming to be working on our other cases when, in reality, the files languished in our desk drawers.
Thursday evening, Brett and I took places on either side of his kitchen table and dug into the steaks he’d grilled. I unwrapped the foil from my large baked potato, trying not to think of Nick Pratt, of the supersized spud in his skimpy bathing suit, the feel of his hot breath on my neck, the touch of his fingers on my skin. The hot potato burned my finger, the pain bringing me instantly back to reality. Why was I thinking of Nick when I had a sweet, sexy, practically-perfect-except-for-watching-golf-on-TV guy right across the table?
Maybe I should give up potatoes. Then again, Brett had flirted with Trish. My lusting over Nick was merely payback. How’s that for justification?
Despite the fact that each of us had downed a couple glasses of red wine, the mood was tense. Tomorrow I’d drive down to South Texas to smuggle Nick Pratt out of Mexico and back into the U.S. If things went wrong, which was a strong possibility, tonight might be the last time Brett and I would be together for a long time. Daniel was a good lawyer, sure, but even a good lawyer could only do so much for a client caught red-handed breaking multiple federal laws. The fact that I was a federal agent who should know better would only make matters worse for me.
Brett glanced across the table at me. “How many conjugal visits are prisoners allowed?”
“I have no idea.” It didn’t really matter. No way could I have sex with a warden standing guard outside the door, keeping time on a stopwatch. It would be tacky.
I looked back at Brett. His green eyes were dark with dread, worry lines radiating from the outer corners. My heart imploded in my chest. It wasn’t right to put him through this, was it? I knew Brett respected my work, admired me for doing a job that mattered. Yet, at the same time, the demands of my job forced him to make sacrifices and the risks of my job caused him significant stress.
The two of us got along well, enjoyed each other’s company, had begun to care about each other. But that didn’t necessarily mean we were right for each other, did it?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wiretap Request, Take Two
I fidgeted throughout the Friday morning staff meeting, earning myself the evil eye from Viola and an ass-chewing from Lu. “Quit drinking those damn
lattes,” she snapped. “You’ve been squirming like a rattlesnake in a pillowcase all morning.”
If she only knew. The squirming had little to do with the extra-large skinny no-whip latte I’d nursed during the meeting. Given my plans to travel to the border later in the day, my nerves were on edge.
After lunch, Josh and I armed ourselves with our printouts and followed Ross O’Donnell into Judge Trumbull’s courtroom, prepared to plead, grovel, and beg for an order allowing us to install key logger software on the computers Mendoza had used. It was our final hope for nailing the man. Our final legal hope, that is. There was always the head shot option. Dad’s Winchester stood at the ready in my coat closet at home.
The printouts would show that on Wednesday evening Mendoza had used a computer at a Holiday Inn to access his Gmail account and another offshore bank Web site. On Thursday afternoon, he’d returned to the central library in Dallas, where he’d accessed not only the bank and Gmail sites, but also several airline Web sites, no doubt planning a trip. Whether it was to Monterrey to visit his family or a business trip was anyone’s guess at this point. Without the key logger software in place, we couldn’t verify his plans. Whatever he’d been doing, it was clear things were heating up in some way. He’d been especially active the last few days.
I felt guilty not telling Ross the case had been officially closed. But what he didn’t know, he couldn’t object to, right? He’d refuse to help us if he knew Lu had called the investigation off. Still, Josh and I were doing our best to follow the rules as much as we could. Hence here we were in court, seeking the judge’s permission to cyberspy on Mendoza.
When our matter was called, the three of us approached the bench. “We’d like to speak in chambers, Your Honor.”
The judge eyed me, one gray brow raised. “Back for another go?”
I nodded.
Her gaze moved to Josh then back to me. “Where’s your usual sidekick?”
“That’s part of what we want to talk to you about.”
“Okeydoke. Let’s get this party started.” Trumbull stepped down from the bench, her black robe swishing behind her as she opened the door in the back wall that led to her private chambers. We followed her through. Once in her office, Josh and I took seats, while Ross stood behind me, his hands resting on the seatback.
Judge Trumbull flopped back in her chair and propped her feet, today clad in fuzzy purple slippers, on her desk. She put her hands behind her head, ready for our performance.
Wiretap request, take two.
Ross began. “Miss Holloway will explain the developments in the case since we last sought a wiretap. Her new partner, Josh Schmidt, will explain the technology they would like to use to gather evidence.”
I leaned forward in my seat and launched into my spiel, telling Judge Trumbull how Eddie and I had attempted, unsuccessfully, to gather information with traditional surveillance. “We followed this guy for days,” I told her, “but he’s a pro at covering his tracks.”
As my coup de grâce, I pulled out the framed photo of Eddie and his family that I’d swiped from his desk before we’d headed over. Weeks ago, when Lauren Sheffield had showed me the photo of Andrew and their son in front of the cruise ship, the sight of that once-happy family had pulled at my heartstrings. I hoped Eddie’s family photo would pull at Judge Trumbull’s.
She took the framed photo from me and looked down at it. “His girls are adorable.” She handed it back to me.
“Mendoza threatened Eddie and his family.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Threatened? In what way?”
I told her how Eddie was sitting in the coffee shop in the lobby of Crescent Tower, innocently eating his waffles, when Mendoza had approached.
“And what, exactly, did Mr. Mendoza say?”
I spoke slowly and deliberately, hoping to effect a convincing delivery. “He thanked Eddie for keeping an eye on the credit union and Crescent Tower. Then he told Eddie to ‘give his best to his wife and daughters.’”
She pulled her feet off her desk and sat up in her chair now. “His best, huh? Had Mendoza met Eddie somewhere before? Met the wife and kids?”
“Never.”
She frowned, realizing that despite the seemingly innocent language Mendoza had chosen, the fact he’d addressed Eddie at all said much more than his words. She turned her focus on Josh. “Tell me what you want to do.”
Josh launched into a technical tirade about the key logger software, giving details about installation, configuration, and task management.
After a few seconds, Judge Trumbull formed a gun with her index finger and thumb and put it to her head, pulling the imaginary trigger. “Don’t give me all that Star Trek mumbo jumbo, son. Just tell me what the software does in words an old woman can understand.”
Josh offered a watered-down, simplified version this time. “The software will allow us to track the keys that are hit and from that data we can extract Web site addresses, e-mail addresses and messages, account numbers, passwords, that kind of thing.”
“Gotcha.” She picked up her ballpoint pen and held it poised over the written order Ross had typed up. As her eyes scanned the document, she chewed the tip of the pen. When she finished reading, she clicked the pen and marked through part of the verbiage. “I’ll let you put the software on the Dallas library’s computer system, but I’m not going to allow it on the hotels.’”
Though it wasn’t exactly the full approval we’d aimed for, the limitation she’d imposed was understandable. The library was a public building, a government institution where complete privacy couldn’t necessarily be expected. A person using a computer at a privately owned hotel would expect more security, however. Also, while the city attorney wasn’t likely to give us any flack about the installation of the key logger software on the library computer system, the owners of the hotels might hire lawyers and put up a fuss about the invasion of their guests’ privacy. If Trumbull’s order were overturned, it would make her look bad. She didn’t want to take that risk. We’d have to go with what we got.
Josh and I stood and shook the judge’s hand, thanking her.
“Go get ’em, tigers.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Road Trip
Speaking of tigers or, more precisely, a hottie in a tiger-striped Speedo, Christina and I were now in the truck on our way to Mexico to pick up Nick Pratt. We’d left Friday afternoon, shortly after Judge Trumbull had granted the order allowing Josh to install key logger software on the Dallas library’s network. Josh planned to continue tailing Mendoza over the weekend. We’d need to know which libraries Mendoza had visited and when in order to narrow down our later review of the key logger data.
After our seventh hour on the road, our butts had fallen asleep, our legs had begun to cramp, and the pleasure of each other’s company was no longer such a pleasure.
Christina groaned. “Aren’t we there yet?”
I sipped my third skinny no-whip latte of the trip. “Two hours to go.”
“I’m sooo bored.”
“Let’s play I Spy.”
“What are we? Five?”
I didn’t point out that her whining was as childish as the game I’d proposed. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
She rolled her eyes but gave a grunt of acquiescence.
I looked around. Not much to see at ten o’clock at night on a nearly deserted interstate. In the distance, I spotted a billboard advertising a barbecue joint. The sign featured a smiling cartoon cow. “I spy with my little eye something brown and white.”
Christina pointed through the windshield. “The cow on that billboard.”
“Wow. You’re good.”
“It wasn’t exactly a challenge. That sign is the only thing around for miles.” She fluffed up her pillow, placed it on the seat between us, and curled up to take a nap.
A hundred and twenty miles later, I pulled into a roadside motel in Brownsville, just a mile from the border crossing into Mexico. The parking lot was
more potholes than asphalt and the fluorescent light in the lobby flickered eerily, but at least we wouldn’t be here long.
When I killed the engine, Christina stirred, lifting her head. “What is this place? The Bates motel?”
“We’re armed,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”
“A Glock is no match for a bloodthirsty bedbug.”
* * *
I woke the next morning, jittery with nervous energy. No need for a latte today. Christina and I planned to cross the border into Matamoros as mere citizens, worried that traveling as federal agents might put us on the border patrol’s radar, subject us to increased questioning and scrutiny.
Federal agents or not, if the American border guards caught us smuggling an undocumented person into the United States, we’d be in deep doo-doo. What’s more, Mexico had strict firearms laws. If the Mexican border agents discovered my guns, we’d be up to our chins in caca. But we were even more leery of traveling unarmed. Who knew if Nick Pratt had been followed to Matamoros? Even if he hadn’t, there was always the chance, however remote, that my instincts had been wrong and that he was in cahoots with Mendoza and Torres. In case I’d been duped, we needed to be ready to take Nick out or at least defend ourselves.
Step one was getting into Mexico. We pulled up to the border crossing and an attractive Mexican agent stepped up to the window. We showed him our paperwork and he took a cursory glance into the truck.
“Purpose of your visit?” he asked in a voice tinged with a heavy Spanish accent I’d have found sexy if I hadn’t been so scared.
“Shopping and margaritas,” Christina replied.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “What else?” Perhaps smuggling a wanted fugitive?
“Have a good time, ladies. Be careful with the margaritas. Tequila makes nice girls like you do crazy things.”
Little did he know we’d do crazy things without tequila.