Sneak and Rescue

by Shirl Henke

  Chapter 19

  “You’re wasting the taxpayer’s time, Mr. Granger. I’d be in violation of every regulation on the books if I revealed confidential information, especially to a newspaper reporter.”

  Ida Kleb’s name should’ve been Ida Klam, Matt decided. She sat behind a desk as battered and functional as the woman herself. Ida was fiftyish and thickset, with salt-and-pepper hair that looked as if she’d hacked it off just below her ears with a dull machete. Her face was utterly free of makeup and the least trace of humor. So much for the kinder, gentler, new IRS.

  God, I’m starting to think like Sam! Matt shuddered and gave Ida his most engaging grin. Normally, women melted like butter in the sun when he did that. Kleb remained frozen as Antarctica. Of course, when she’d shaken hands with him, she commented on his battered face—and squeezed his bruised knuckles in a vice grip. He wasn’t exactly at the top of his game after the brawl last night.

  He tried again. “Look, Ms. Kleb, my wife was hired by Farley Winchester’s father to rescue the boy from a kidnapper. Once she had him in her custody someone tried to kill him—several times. Farley is one of Dr. Reicht’s patients. We have evidence that Reese Reicht wants Farley dead. We could cooperate.”

  “If you know anything about Reicht’s involvement in attempted murder, it’s your duty as a citizen to tell the police,” she said calmly, but the pencil in her stubby fingers started tapping on the edge of the desk.

  “What if I could help the IRS with its investigation? This isn’t for a story—it’s to help keep an innocent kid from getting killed.” He waited.

  “What would you expect in return?” she finally asked, her face as expressionless as a champion poker player’s.

  “Whatever you could tell me off the record about Reicht. We both know he’s liberal with his prescription pad if the price is right. My bet, that isn’t the kind of money a doc could exactly report on his tax forms.”

  A faint smile curved her thin lips, but there wasn’t a trace of amusement in it. “No, it certainly would not be. I will say the sums involved are in excess of what we usually encounter when a physician hands out mind candy.”

  “Serious money,” Matt mused. “He hiding it offshore?”

  “Maybe. What do you know about Reicht?” she countered.

  He told her about Leila Satterwaite’s murder. “Did you know she was a patient of Reicht’s?”

  “That’s a matter for the local police,” she said, but the pencil resumed tapping again.

  “My wife used to be a Miami-Dade officer. She’s working with Sergeant William Patowski on it. Have you found any connection between Reicht and Upton Winchester? I mean, it seems strange that a guy with all Winchester’s prestige would hire a quack to treat his only child.” This was the jackpot question. Would she answer?

  Another sharkish smile. “I should’ve had you frisked for a tape recorder, Mr. Granger.”

  “I gave you my word this isn’t going to see the light of newsprint until every last guilty person’s behind bars. This is strictly off the record.”

  “Off the record, we occasionally audit prestigious citizens as well as quack doctors.”

  As Matt was leaving, Ida Kleb said in a voice that doubtless had sent shivers down the spines of many hapless taxpayers, “You will keep me apprised of anything you learn about Dr. Reicht…and Mr. Winchester, won’t you, Mr. Granger?” Matt felt like a swimmer too far away from the shoreline.

  Sam placed a call first thing that morning to Ethan Frobisher. She requested that he search for info on one Elvis Peter Scruggs, most importantly, those missing seven years of his life.

  Then she spent the morning filing an electronic extension with the IRS for their taxes. To get the sour taste of the blood-sucking government agency out of her head, she spent a couple of hours at her dojo doing a hard judo workout, then came home and hit the shower. She was just drying off when she heard the front door open and Matt’s footsteps coming down the hall. He turned into her office and started shuffling through the mess of papers on her desk.

  “I filed the extension. Now, what’s the deal with Ida Kleb?” she asked, pulling a tank top over her damp, curly hair as she walked in behind him.

  “One item. Guess who Reicht’s accountant is?”

  “Roman Numeral. Is he under IRS investigation, too?” Sam asked.

  “Dear Ida hedged just enough to make it pretty clear that he’s involved in something very naughty right along with the shrink,” Matt replied.

  “Mmm,” she said, leaning back against the sofa where her tax documents remained piled in the same disarray as when she’d first received the call from Upton Winchester IV. “If they’re hiding serious money from the govvy, it’s probably one of those offshore account scams.”

  “Seems likely,” Matt agreed. “But if the IRS hasn’t been able to nail either guy yet, how can we?” The minute he said the words, he could have bitten his tongue off. The gleam in his wife’s eyes made her answer clear. “No, you’re not going to do a B and E on Winchester’s office.”

  Sam shook her head solemnly. “No, I’m not.”

  He sighed, pulling her up into his arms. “That’s good.”

  She nuzzled his neck on tiptoe and murmured, “We are.”

  “That’s bad. In fact, it’s a cosmically dumb idea. It’s illegal. It’s dangerous. We could get—”

  “Get over it, Granger. Either you help me or I go alone.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked up earnestly into his face. “You owe me after inciting a riot last night at the Pink Pussycat.”

  “Me start a riot! You were the one—” She kissed him long and thoroughly. When she finished, he stared down at her and knew it was hopeless. “I’m the one who looks like he went ten rounds with Mike Tyson. You owe me.”

  “Nun-uh. You coming or not?”

  Before he could answer, the phone rang. Sam gave him a quick peck on the mouth, then dug through the debris around her desk until she located the phone. “Ballanger Retrievals…oh, hi, Fro. Find anything on our boy Elvis?”

  Matt waited, eager to hear about Scruggs, too. After a lengthy and what appeared to be frustrating conversation, she said, “Okay, let me give you a new project. See what you can dig up on connections between Upton Winchester IV…yeah, that Winchester, and Dr. Reese Reicht, M.D., Ph.D. He’s a local shrink working out of the Seascape Building. The IRS is investigating both of them…right…yeah, I will. You’re a sweetie.”

  “So?” he asked when she hung up.

  “Zip. Oh, the part about Scruggs’s abusive childhood in northern Florida checks out with what Patty told me. His old man was a sheriff in Jackson County. He wrecked pop’s cruiser on a joyride and spent time in a juvenile detention facility. Mostly teenage pranks that got out of hand. Underage drinking, that kind of stuff. Then got his GED and did a hitch in the army… Interesting that Patty didn’t give me that part.”

  “And?” he prompted, knowing how thorough Frobisher’s hacking could be from previous experience.

  “Like I said, zip. The guy just drops off the face of the frickin’ earth. Reappears after seven years as Farley’s newest and best friend.”

  “More like only friend, poor kid,” Matt said.

  Sam nodded. “Fro’s going to keep after it, but so far he’s hit a black hole. Thinks Scruggs must’ve left the country. Patowski speculated the same thing, but I don’t think so.”

  “Scruggs doesn’t strike me as an international man of mystery,” Matt said dryly. “What would he be doing abroad?”

  Sam shrugged. “Smuggling dope in Mexico? Who knows? But you’re right, he seems like a folksy backcountry con artist, not some kind of drug cartel hit man.”

  “It would connect him to Reicht and Winchester if he was,” Matt suggested.

  Sam mulled that over. “Naw. If he worked for them, why would Winchester hire me to get the kid away from him?”

  “Maybe he worked for Winchester and or Reicht, then double-crossed them and took o
ff with the boy.”

  “That would work. Which reminds me, I’ve been dodging calls from Roman Numeral’s office for the past two days. He wants to know where his kid is—and where I am. He hasn’t heard anything since the Georgia Highway Patrol called to verify the retrieval.”

  “You can’t tell him Farley’s in Miami.”

  “I know, but I could say I’m stuck in Atlanta with Farley all safely tucked in, then ask him if he wants to press charges against Scruggs for GTA. If he’s pissed enough at a double cross, he might go for it. He doesn’t know Scruggs and the Jag have vanished into the ether.”

  “Didn’t you say Scruggs told you the old man gave them the car?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah. Maybe now that he’s off the meds, Farley might remember more about that.”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t think he’d turn his pal El in, even if he did boost the wheels.”

  “You’re probably right. But I am gonna call daddy and see what he wants me to do about Scruggs.” She dialed the number and was greeted by the cool dulcet tone of Ms. Chandler’s voice. “Yes, this is Sam Ballanger to speak with Mr. Winchester…it pertains to a private matter Mr. Winchester hired me to— Dammit, the bitch put me on hold!”

  “Patience, Grasshopper,” Matt said with a chuckle. She’d told him all about her initial encounter with the receptionist at Winchester, Grayson & Kent. “You could ask to speak with Ms. Ettinger,” he suggested around a mouthful of corn chips he’d snagged from a bag she kept stashed in the top drawer of her desk.

  She gave him a raspberry, but when Chandler informed her that Winchester was in New York on business, she was forced to speak with his personal assistant. “Yes, Ms. Ettinger, this is Sam Ballanger…yes, I know I haven’t reported in…yes, I have Mr. Winchester’s son safely in custody. My van had engine trouble in Atlanta. Elvis Scruggs followed us from St. Louis. He’s here with Mr. Winchester’s Jag, too. I can call the local police and have him arrest—” There was a long pause as the Wicked Witch of the West went through her drill. “Yeah, well, just thought I’d check. You want I should drive the Jag back to Miami with Farley? I could always pick up my van when it’s repaired.”

  Matt could tell by the grin on her face that she was enjoying herself. When she finally hung up, he said, “I take it Roman Numeral doesn’t want you to touch his precious vintage car.”

  She smirked. “Yeah, and me a professional driver, too. He wants Farley back here immediately. Next flight. When he returns from his trip to New York, he’ll arrange to have the car returned—and—”

  “He doesn’t want the cops to touch Elvis Scruggs.”

  “You didn’t even have to hold the paper up to your forehead, Karnak. I’m impressed,” she said, grabbing the bag of chips from him and stuffing the last of them in her mouth.

  “It’s a good thing your hacker pal Ethan Frobisher set up that untraceable phone connection or they could trace your call and find out you and Farley are already home,” he said. “How long can you stall?”

  “No flights until tomorrow. Thunderstorms in Atlanta. After that, we’re up for grabs as far as Winchester’s concerned. He could call the cops and say I kidnapped Farley after I retrieved him from Scruggs.”

  “If we’re right about Winchester’s criminal involvement, the last thing he’ll do is call the cops,” Matt replied. “Does he have any idea where in Atlanta you’re supposedly keeping Farley on ice?”

  “Nah, I omitted that piece of pertinent info,” she admitted. “But the situation means there’s all the more reason to head for his office tonight and do a little snooping.”

  “No, it is not,” he said stubbornly.

  “Just think of the great story it’ll make.”

  “I swore to Ida Kleb that I wouldn’t publish anything until the IRS investigation’s finished. She isn’t the type to cross.”

  “So, let’s give our friendly local IRS a helping hand. They can’t do legally what we can do illegally.”

  “Yeah, like go straight to jail,” he replied glumly.

  The Seascape Building, like all the high-rise steel-and-glass wonders glittering on the Miami skyline, had state-of-the-art technology for security. But no one was better at running a con than Sam Ballanger. She’d spent years accumulating phony IDs. She had badges and paperwork to show she was a medical examiner, a registered nurse, an exterminator, a police officer from various jurisdictions, an electrician, plumber, phone company repairperson, even a member of Congress from Northern Florida.

  Tonight she was dressed in one of her all-purpose jumpsuits with the logo of Bug-Gone Forever, a local extermination company sewed on it. Getting a jumper to fit a guy Matt’s size wasn’t easy, but she’d found one, then had him sew on his own patch while she got her “tools of the trade” in order and called Fro for some tech backup.

  As they entered the lobby of the deserted building late that night, she flashed her ID and some official-looking paperwork at the front desk rent-a-cop. The guy who looked over her paperwork had a face that had traveled down a lot of roads, most of them not paved. His skin was sun-beaten the color of rusty tin and he had a voice to match. “Looks okay, but I gotta check with the company. Seems funny, bugs in a new joint like this,” he said, pulling out his own phone book from under the desk to look up the number for Bug-Gone Forever.

  “You got your lunch rooms with fridges and microwaves. Employees get sloppy, leave food out. Did you know a plain brown roach can climb straight up a clean glass surface quick as you walk across that floor?” Sam gestured at the polished marble.

  The guard grunted, not particularly wanting to know about the habits of roaches, which in Florida’s warm, humid climate grew to the size of well-fed house cats.

  Verifying her story was a sensible precaution. Anticipating the guard would do just that, Sam had used the correct number in the forged work order. She had also had Fro cut into the trunk line and switch any call coming from the Seascape exchange to his number. After a few cursory questions, the security guard, whose name tag identified him as Tommy, nodded. “Looks like you got roaches to clean out. Say, they ain’t down here, are they?”

  “No, just up around the twentieth,” Sam replied as she and Matt headed for the bank of elevators across the atrium lobby.

  As they walked past a stand of potted palms, he whispered to her, “Good so far, but once we get up there, you’re going to trip the alarm breaking into Winchester’s front door.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” she replied as the glass tube whooshed down and opened for them. “Enjoy the ride and see if you think Farley could’ve watched Reicht attack Leila from down there.” As the elevator started to ascend, she pointed to a cluster of potted flora across the huge atrium lobby.

  When they reached the top floor, Matt nodded. “Yep, I think he could if he was wearing his glasses and not too spaced-out. Still, never stand up in court.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” she said cheerfully. When the elevator door opened, she pushed the fifteenth floor and the tube descended quietly. Tommy couldn’t see the elevator leave them off at Winchester’s floor from where he was stationed. As soon as it opened, she was the first out. “Let’s get to work.”

  Matt whistled low at the thickly carpeted hallway and smoked glass doors discreetly lettered in gold: Winchester, Grayson & Kent. “Some fancy digs. You sure the cleaning people are done up here?”

  “I told you I checked everything out—with a little help from Fro. Yeah, they’re done before midnight.”

  “That security camera’s sweeping our way. What if deputy dawg downstairs notices that we don’t have the combination to enter the office complex?”

  “I need you to give me a boost, quick.” Sam darted to the camera as it swiveled in their direction with Matt right behind her. “Now!”

  She climbed up his body like a monkey in a banana tree and fixed a small electronic gizmo on the camera. Then she shimmied down. “Keeps the sweep away from door number three,” she said with a grin.r />
  “That’s the only reason you asked me to tag along—to use as a stepladder,” he accused.

  Sam shrugged as she walked over to the accounting firm’s door. “I might need you for something else. Right now, just keep watch while I do the deed.”

  “Probably bulletproof,” Matt groused as he looked at the heavy lock on the three-inch-thick glass.

  “I wasn’t planning on shooting my way in,” she said, kneeling and removing an electronic sensor of some kind from inside the “Bug-Gone” toolbox.

  He watched in equal parts admiration and trepidation while she worked the gizmo. “What if you trip some kind of alarm system?”

  “That’s the beauty of having friends who keep me up to speed on the latest technology.”

  “Frobisher?” he asked.

  She chewed on her lip in concentration as she replied, “And Patty.”

  “Sergeant Patowski’s a homicide cop. Why the hell would he do that?”

  Sam chuckled as the door glided open. “Not intentionally. But we do talk shop now and then. I eavesdrop whenever we have beers at the local cops’ hangouts. You’d be surprised what you can learn that way.”

  “Only if you are or were a cop yourself,” he said, knowing how the police clammed up whenever a reporter nursed a beer in one of their haunts.

  Sam walked into the spacious waiting room where she’d first done battle with the sleek Ms. Chandler. “This way,” she said in a low voice, heading down the hall. “We’ll have the joint to ourselves unless somebody’s burning the midnight oil in hopes of making partner.”

  He glanced at the dark offices. “Now there’s a comforting thought.”

  Sam suddenly stiffened and signaled for him to be quiet. Directly ahead a dim light emanated from beneath the walnut door of Upton Winchester’s office. “Looks as if somebody’s beat us to the punch,” she whispered.

  “Or Upton’s back from New York early,” he muttered.

  Sam removed her snub nose from the toolbox and then very carefully turned the knob on the massive door. She could hear the clicking of keys from across the huge room. A figure was hunched over Winchester’s computer, scrolling down long columns of figures with annotations beside them.