Sneak and Rescue

by Shirl Henke

  Ida Kleb was a wiry little woman with a bulldog’s face and gorilla-size hands that looked capable of snapping the neck of anyone who crossed her. She wore a perpetual scowl and her gray eyes cut like lasers. No one in the IRS messed with her. Matt wasn’t about to break that rule. He stood in the door of her cramped little office, looking from Kleb to her austere surroundings. All the papers in the room were lined up with razor-edged neatness as if even inanimate objects understood her demands.

  “You, again, Mr. Granger. I’ve already told you, our investigation of Dr. Reicht is confidential. Go find something else to write about for the Herald.”

  “I’m not here on a story. I thought maybe you and I could have an exchange of information about the good doc.” Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits, seeming to move as if she were a Cylon Centurion from the original television series Battlestar Galactica. Matt smiled inwardly. Guess Sam was right. I’m still a geek.

  “Any information you possess about Dr. Reicht you are obligated to give the Internal Revenue Service.” Kleb stared up at him as she walked around the desk. Despite the disparity in their heights, she was utterly undaunted.

  He couldn’t help looking down at the rounded toes of her sensible shoes, wondering about a poison dagger for an instant before he replied, “Whatever happened to First Amendment rights for the press?”

  “Nowadays, it doesn’t have any,” she shot back, standing almost toe-to-toe with him.

  He refused to back away, but he did raise his hands in mock surrender. “Look, I just want to help. He’s involved in a case my wife’s working on and I’m looking out for her safety. I found out a few things that might help your investigation…if you help me, it might protect Sam.”

  “You go first,” she said.

  “You play chess?”

  She turned and shuffled a stack of papers, straightening them even though they didn’t need it. “I don’t have time for hobbies, Mr. Granger.” Then, crossing her arms, she placed her big hands around her elbows and waited him out.

  “Could I at least sit down?” he asked, eyeing a battered chair in front of her desk. Ida nodded and returned to her own counterpart behind it. Matt was stalling, figuring the odds of getting anything useful out of this cagey dame. Might as well go for it. “I did a little digging through a source with ties to the drug scene.” She might buy it since he’d done a big exposé on Russian and Colombian mobsters last year.

  “Go on,” she prompted, tapping a sharpened pencil impatiently on a blotter.

  “The doc’s been a naughty boy. He couldn’t disclose all of his income the last couple of years because it’s drug related. He’s got a lot of very rich patients with expensive recreational habits—illegal recreational habits.” He watched her for a reaction. The best she gave was one minute twitch of an eyebrow.

  She tossed the pencil across the desk to cover it up. “We knew that, of course. You’re wasting my time.”

  “I don’t think you did.”

  “Give me the names of these patients.”

  “Tell me what tipped you to go after him first,” he countered.

  After sleeping poorly on the Hide-A-Bed in the sitting room of Jenny’s suite, Sam had arisen with two kids jumping up and down, yelling at each other while their mother entered the room carrying the promised costume. Sam took the outfit and headed to the bathroom to change into it. When she walked out the door and looked into the full-length mirror across the room, she flinched. “I look like a hooker from South Beach,” she said, then could’ve bitten her tongue.

  “What’s a hooker, Mrs. Granger?” Mellie asked.

  “Sorry, you’d think I didn’t grow up in a house with six younger kids,” Sam said to Jenny, not about to admit that her street-tough south-Boston brothers knew a lot more than that when they were Mellie’s age.

  “A hooker is a bad lady,” Tiff explained, although from her expression, her mother and Sam figured she really wasn’t sure.

  “But Lt. O’Hara isn’t bad,” Mellie said.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that this getup’s uncomfortable.” Sam tugged at the spandex miniskirt and tried to shift the plunging neckline of the uniform so it didn’t reveal quite so much of her “best assets,” as Matt liked to call them.

  “You can see why I decided the costume wasn’t for me,” Jenny said with a blush. “The skirt fit me like a girdle. I don’t know what I was thinking when that rental clerk talked me into it, but I still thought my sister was coming and Tess would look great in it—just like you do. Harriett Mudd’s pants and shirt worked a lot better for me.”

  “Well, at least I can move in it,” Sam conceded. The low boots that came with the outfit had small heels but not enough to bother her if she had to sprint after Farley. I’ll probably catch pneumonia in that air-conditioned hall. But with any luck, she could locate young Winchester and be back in her nurse’s scrubs, transporting her “patient” home by afternoon. All she had to do was give Jenny and her girls the slip.

  “How about room service for breakfast?” Jenny asked. The girls immediately chorused agreement.

  “Er, I don’t do breakfast. I’ll catch something later,” Sam said.

  “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Tiff parroted like the merit-badge-winning Girl Scout she was.

  “You’re right, kiddo, but if I’m gonna stay in this uniform, maybe I’d better skip it just this once. I’ll see you on the floor, okay?”

  She left as Tiff insisted she’d have waffles and Mellie demanded French toast. Their mother fecklessly insisted they have yogurt or eggs for protein. Sam knew Jenny’d lose. She always did.

  The outrageous Lt. O’Hara costume worked to her advantage. When she slithered up and leaned over the registration counter, the young clerk’s eyeballs bulged out of their sockets and his tongue practically lolled on his keyboard. After flashing Farley’s photo, she had her “cousin’s” suite number in a flash. But when she arrived at the room on the fourteenth floor, which was really the thirteenth, her luck ran in that direction. A maid was already busy making up the beds.

  Farley and Elvis had departed for an early start at the con. “What were they dressed like? Could you describe their outfits?” she asked the smiling young woman with the fresh-scrubbed face of a kid working her way through college.

  Cyndi, as her name tag identified her, rolled her eyes. “I loved Alien and Lord of the Rings, but these guys are way out there, if you know what I mean—oh, I didn’t intend any offense,” she hastily added, looking at Sam’s skimpy “uniform.” “Er, are they family?” she asked, dubious.

  Sam grinned. “Not a chance in hell. One’s a car thief, the other’s a druggie.”

  That alarming news oddly seemed to reassure Cyndi. Kid must really need this job bad.

  “Well, the shorter one had this icky bulging forehead and a long brown fright wig, big bushy eyebrows and thick, dark makeup. The taller one wore white fur but he didn’t look like the Easter bunny, believe me. Had these antennae sprouting out of his forehead and extra arms—kinda like a big hairy white spider.”

  Sam paged through her memory and recalled the photo plates from the reference book she’d brought. “A Klingoff and a Pandorian. Great. Two of the most elaborate costumes. I’ll never recognize them on the floor,” she muttered. “Do they ever come back to the room to chill, have lunch, anything like that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I work the early shift so I can get to SLU for classes starting at ten. But you might ask Tilda. She’s the floor super and keeps a pretty close eye on what happens with the guests.”

  Sam thanked Cyndi and went in search of Tilda, who was as crazed as most of the staff was coping with hordes of people in otherworldly costumes roaming the hallways. All she learned about Farley and Elvis was that they usually returned to their suite and ordered room service around midnight.

  Since her odds of locating her target in full Klingoff regalia were less likely than winning the lottery, Sam decided t
o wait until he and his Pandorian pal returned to their room that night. In the meanwhile, she had escaped Jenny and her girls. They meant well, but this was business and she couldn’t risk having a pair of out of control kids and their noodle-kneed mom get in the way of her earning Roman Numeral’s hefty fee.

  With any luck—and heaven knew she was overdue for some—she’d have Farley in custody and be all the way to the Tennessee border by dawn’s early light. Making sure they were gone, Sam used the key they’d given her and slipped into the suite. Her first impulse was to leave the costume behind along with the hasty goodbye note she scrawled on hotel stationary, but she reconsidered.

  What if she blew the snatch and had to go back on the floor? No need to stand out. She pulled a wad of cash from her wallet and carefully counted out what she thought was a generous rental deposit. Once she had Farley back in Miami, she’d figure a way to get a receipt from Jenny and add it to Roman Numeral’s bill. Stuffing her personal belongings in her travel bag, she headed back to her van.

  Just as she was stashing her gear, her cell rang. Recognizing Matt’s number, she picked up. “Hi sweetie,” she answered brightly.

  “How’s St. Louis?”

  She looked at the cloudless sky. It was 10:00 a.m. and already the heat was starting to fuse spandex to her skin. At least there wouldn’t be much of it to peel away. “Hot, hot, oh, and did I mention hot?”

  “Got a little info on Reicht.” He explained about the illegal prescriptions the doc was peddling. “He’s a supplier for a lot of rich clients, according to my sources.”

  “Which we know are always impeccable. The IRS nail him for not reporting illegal income?” she asked. “God forbid they should care about his contacts with drug dealers.”

  “She was pretty closemouthed, but I don’t think Kleb knew about the drug thing yet. They started investigating him after stumbling across some large money transfers out of country.”

  “He could be a drug dealer,” Sam said, digesting the surprising news. She paused a moment; then a thought occurred to her. “Say, you don’t think he might be blackmailing patients? All kinds of dirty little secrets the rich and crazy in Miami might be spilling to their shrink.” But she reconsidered. “Nah, somehow, I don’t think that fits. Oh, he probably does what your sources said, slipping padded scripts to his patients, but that wouldn’t be enough money to blip the IRS radar.”

  “Ah, Samantha, great minds work along the same courses. Guess our meeting was fate.”

  “Only if Aunt Claudia is its agent. She paid me to put you on ice, Granger,” she reminded him.

  “It was a lot more complicated than that,” he reminded her, then headed off another argument about his aunt’s money by saying, “What’s going on there? Any sightings yet?”

  “You ever try to tell one Klingoff from another? They look as much alike as Mary-Kate and Ashley, only with turtle shells glued to their foreheads.”

  “That would be tough. An international con like this one must draw thousands. You might have to wait until its over and they’re out of costume,” he said.

  “No way. I have their room number. Tonight I’ll be on the road with Farley in the back of the van all safe and secure. But I won’t turn him over to Reicht…or to his loving father right away. The old man doesn’t want the kid anyway. I need a good shrink.”

  “I’ve told you that ever since we met, Sam.”

  “This from a guy who married his kidnapper. I’ll ask Pat to find me a legit doc to take care of the kid.”

  Matt snorted. “I’ve met Patowski. He’ll suggest a state asylum and a lobotomy.”

  “Yeah, you have a point,” she admitted grudgingly. “Okay, you find Farley a doc. Deal?”

  “Right. Oh, and Sam, don’t do anything crazier than usual. Deal?”

  Chapter 7

  The day turned out about as bad as she imagined. Her feet ached after hours of walking on the hard concrete floors, dodging extraterrestrials and ignoring leering stares from males of various species. No matter if they were from Mars or the edge of the Milky Way, men were appallingly predictable. Sam had a near brush with Jenny and her girls later that afternoon and decided it would be safer to wait for Farley and Elvis at their room.

  She changed out of her costume in the back of the van. Considering the temperature was only slightly lower in the Econoline than the sunny side of Mercury, pulling a thigh-hugging spandex skirt down her sweat-soaked legs was a better workout than an hour on a judo mat and a soak in a sauna.

  Visions of a cool shower almost made her pop for a hotel room, but if she ended up not turning the kid over to his father, she might be out a sizable bundle. Grunting as she put on a fresh tee and shorts, she muttered, “Once I get back in the air-conditioning, I’ll be all right.” As for anybody who got too close to her, well, they were on their own.

  Who would have thought St. Louis could be as hot as Miami? The long summer day finally dimmed into hazy twilight. Sam caught a quick bite at a greasy spoon a few blocks down from the convention center and then killed some time using the Internet at the public library. It was as if Elvis Peter Scruggs had simply dropped off the face of the earth, then reappeared seven years later. Alien abduction? Jeez, she was starting to think like these weirdos!

  She put in a call to Frobisher to see if he’d discovered anything on Scruggs, then returned to her van and dug her stun gun out of the glove compartment. After dark, she could get away with hiding it if she switched from a white to a black T-shirt, not an option during the blistering day. “Well, Sam, blastoff time,” she said, heading up the street toward the hotel.

  If her information was on target, Farley and Elvis should be turning in pretty soon. There was a large potted plant directly across from their room. She intended to be hiding beside it when they got off the elevator.

  When she hit the hotel a large sign done in tasteful purple and green glitter paint announced Twelfth Annual Middle American Bowling League Championship. The picture of a buxom female clad in substantially less than Lt. O’Hara was pasted on the sign, her finger pointing toward the bar at the right of the lobby.

  “Just what I need. Spacies armed with bowling balls!”

  She headed to the elevator and the pseudo fourteenth floor. A sharp wolf whistle emanated from inside the bar as she passed it. Sam didn’t pause to see if it was a Spacer or a bowler. How could you tell a bowler, anyway? The one with the bigger balls? The hallway was empty when she arrived at eleven-thirty and took her station.

  After more than three quarters of an hour, she was glad she’d opted for tennies with cushioned soles. Around midnight, when her Klingoff and Pandorian had failed to appear, she knocked on the door after swiping a room service tray just set out down the hall. No one stirred inside to check through the peephole. This would have to be the night they were going to be super late.

  As all sorts of worst-case scenarios started to play through her head, she heard the fire exit at the end of the hall open with a sharp click. Sam crouched behind her cover and waited. A big man dressed in a cheap suit that looked as if he slept in it, turned around after closing the door soundlessly. His face needed pressing, too. It was one of those hangdog kissers that had more ruts than a washboard yet was ageless. From the way his stocky body moved, she judged him to be no more than forty.

  And up to no good.

  Her trained eye picked up the bulge in his jacket at once. He was carrying heat. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and it had nothing to do with the sudden eruption of the air-conditioning vents up and down the corridor. She knew he was headed to Farley and Elvis’s room. Yep. She debated going after him before he got inside but he was armed and her stunner had a distinctly shorter range. She couldn’t make it twenty feet down the hall before he’d hear her.

  Sam cursed her stupidity for not bringing the .38 after two attempts to stop her en route here. All she could do was wait and let this play out. Her best hope was that she could divert Farley and Elvis when they came up on t
he elevator.

  She watched him pull a small narrow instrument resembling a dentist’s tool from his pocket and insert it in the door lock. A pro. It opened in barely a flash and he slipped inside the darkened room. She knew damn well this bozo wasn’t there to turn down the bedcovers and lay out chocolates. Then one of the elevators pinged. “Please let it be them!”

  Before the prayer could pass her lips, a second and third elevator stopped. Was the whole floor of guests returning to their rooms at the same time? The first two elevators disgorged what looked like an entire bowling league, dressed in striped shirts and bowler hats. No honkin’ way. Sam groaned. They were stone drunk, singing off-key as they swayed hither and yon down the hall, most of them coming in her direction. Several of them were armed with heavy leather cases containing their weapons of choice.

  But that was not the worst part. The elevator farthest away from her carried only two guys. One was a head taller than the other and they were dressed in grotesque Klingoff and Pandorian gear. They remained well behind the rowdy crowd of drunks. The taller one kept a hand on the shoulder of the little fellow, whispering what Sam imagined was a grain of common sense in his ear so he slowed down rather than attract the attention of the Derby League Bowlers, as their hats and shirts proclaimed.

  Sam debated whether to try slipping past them or remain in hiding until they filtered into their rooms. No way could she allow her unsuspecting pair to stumble into the goon waiting for them. Unfortunately, a hard core of the revelers decided to hold an impromptu songfest in the hallway between her and her targets.

  More unfortunately, one of the stragglers caught sight of her through the greenery and staggered her way, clutching a bowling bag in one fat fist. “Hey, lookee, guys. Our own persh’nal bowlin’ trophy.” He whistled again.

  Sam remembered the off-key sound. The jerk who’d spotted her from the bar. Before she could say “Mickey, transpond me up,” he had her cornered by the potted plant and his companions were shambling around him to see what would happen next.