by K. A. Tracy
The warehouse was cordoned off with crime tape and police cars blocked the parking lot entrance. Sam knew that officers were also posted at the entrance to Devil’s Canyon Road, where George Manuel’s mangled body had been discovered wedged among some rocks. An advisory alerted all county hospitals to report anyone seeking treatment for a crushed cheek, broken nose, and dislocated knee, but Sam suspected Lou was already in the wind.
Officers had recovered Sam’s car keys from George’s pocket and on Larson’s orders they had been returned to her. She jiggled them in her hand, grateful she wouldn’t have to call a locksmith to get inside the condo. All she wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed with her dogs. The storm had passed, and the sky was once again a peaceful canopy of twinkling stars.
Joe walked over and joined her on the trunk. He stared down at his hands. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“What were you doing at my office anyway?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ll settle for the Readers’ Digest version for now.”
Joe rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulder. “A couple years ago when I was still at the department store, I met with a new European distributor for previous-season designer purses that we sold in our economy departments. His inventory was great, and I placed an order. But when the purses arrived, they were fakes. Good fakes, but fakes nonetheless. He had pulled a bait and switch.
“We notified authorities, and in the course of their investigation, I got to know a few people. One thing led to another, and I eventually accepted an offer to go to work full-time for a special sting department the Federal Trade Commission was forming in cooperation with the Department of Justice. After going through a training course, they set me up in a fabulous Michigan Avenue boutique as a front business, and my job was to ferret out fake art, fake designer clothes, mislabeling, whatever.”
Sam was incredulous. “You’re a government agent?”
“With a badge and gun and everything.”
“And you never mentioned it?”
“Sam, I couldn’t,” Joe groaned. “The whole point was for people to believe I was just a buyer for an exclusive boutique. I mean, look at me—who would ever believe I was an agent? That’s why it was so perfect. But I couldn’t tell anybody, not even mom. It was undercover at the highest level. Don’t you think I would have loved to tell you?”
Sam was in no mood to be reasonable. Even if his explanation made perfect sense, it still felt like he’d been lying to her. “So why tell me the big secret now?”
“Because it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving to start my own security consulting business. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The man who’d been talking to Larson now leaned against an unmarked car watching them. Joe motioned him over, and he introduced himself.
“Hi, Sam, I’m Kevin Mallory. I work in the DOJ’s Digital Investigations.”
She shook his hand, recognizing the name. “K.A. Mallory. You were the one corresponding with Rydell.”
Mallory nodded, frowning. “I was supposed to meet him last Sunday at a local diner to get all his documentation. He never showed. It wasn’t until I heard from Joe that I found out why.”
Sam saw the look that passed between them and finally got it. “This is your Kevin. I should have known by the Bobbsey Twins outfits.”
Joe ignored the sarcasm. He’d be lucky if she were speaking to him at all once she heard the rest. “When Kevin told me he was meeting a whistle-blower in Palm Springs, I thought it was a great excuse to come visit and to introduce the two of you.”
Kevin picked up the story. “But then Rydell turned up dead. He sent in enough documentation for us to believe there was a major counterfeiting ring operating out of the Valley but not enough to know who was involved or where it was located. He played it very close to the vest. We found his surveillance gear in the trunk of his car.”
“Where was it?” Sam asked.
“Stashed in a garage behind the building.” Kevin kicked the ground in frustration. “I don’t know why he didn’t back off when we told him to.”
“I do.” Sam rubbed her eyes, desperate to change her contact lenses. “He wanted to make sure he got the maximum reward money. I’m sure he thought that if he gave you a gift-wrapped case to prosecute, he’d get paid sooner.” Sam stifled a yawn and turned to Joe. “But I’m still not clear why you didn’t tell me what you knew. It might have saved me a lot of leg work.”
“Sam, if you knew there was a counterfeit ring working in the Valley, you wouldn’t have sat on the story. You would have insisted on investigating it directly, especially if you knew Rydell was an informant. That was too dangerous. Kevin needed to locate Rydell’s source of information but had absolutely no idea where to start because Jeff kept everything so secretive. I told him there was nobody who could recreate Jeff’s daily life better than you, and he should just wait for you to work your story to find out who Rydell had been close to. Through those leads he could hopefully ferret out the counterfeiters without tipping them off that they were being investigated.”
She stared at Joe long enough to make him fidget. “You were passing along my sources?” she asked quietly.
He raised both hands in a defensive gesture. “No, I absolutely wasn’t. I swear.”
“I wanted him to,” Kevin admitted, “for your safety. We argued about it, but he said it was his own safety I’d have to worry about if he compromised even one of your sources.”
“He was so right.”
“It does not make me less of a man to admit I fear you,” Joe said solemnly.
Sam smiled. “So you were just sitting around waiting to read my story in the paper?”
“Basically,” Joe nodded. “The plan was to talk to you after your story came out and ask if you’d be willing to share anything that might help their investigation.”
“In exchange for exclusive access if and when we busted the ring,” Kevin added. “I have to be honest, though, I didn’t like the idea. We’d already lost Rydell, and although we couldn’t be positive his death was related to the counterfeiting we had to consider it a distinct possibility. And if that were the case, the odds were high you would end up at risk, too, if you got too close. So I made Joe promise to watch your back and stick to you like glue.”
“I blew it.” Joe looked stricken. “I thought you were in for the night. That’s why I went out. I called Kevin and suggested we meet for a drink just to spend some time together. We sat at Street Bar talking until almost closing. When I drove up and saw your car was gone I didn’t know what to think. After listening to your voicemail message I got a bad feeling, and that’s why I drove to your office.”
Something had been bothering Sam for the last hour. “How did the police know to come up here?”
“He called and told me you guys were in trouble. I got on the horn to our technicians who pinged his GPS then alerted Larson.”
“You called from the trunk?” Sam shook her head at the absurdity of it all. “I guess George wasn’t the criminal mastermind he thought he was if he let you keep your cell phone. It’d almost be funny except for the fact he was a homicidal maniac.” She squeezed her temple.
“Are you okay?” Joe asked.
“I just have a headache.” She looked at Kevin. “How’d you know to call Larson?”
“From me,” Joe answered. “At the party I told Larson a friend of mine at DOJ might be looking into a local counterfeiting ring and asked for a contact number so they could talk. And no, I never mentioned it had anything at all to do with Rydell,” Joe promised.
Sam slid off the trunk and stretched her back, grimacing when she moved her arm, cradled protectively against her stomach. Kevin reached out and held her wrist. “Let me see that. What happened?”
“I got grazed by a bullet.” She grunted in pain as he peeled back the sleeve, causing the wound to start bleeding again.
“I’m no doctor but I think you might need
a couple stitches there. If nothing else, you should get it cleaned out, especially after being in runoff water. I’ll make arrangements to have you taken to a hospital.”
This was the last thing Sam wanted to do. “Is he always so take-charge?” she asked Joe sourly after Kevin walked away.
“It’s usually worse,” Joe smiled affectionately. “He’s the one who suggested we start a consulting firm and go into business together.”
Kevin came back with Detective Larson, who told Sam one of his officers would drive her to Desert Hospital when she was ready. “How you holding up?”
“I’m fine, or will be, if nobody leaks this to the Tribune before I have a chance to go to press on Friday.” Between police scanners and loose-lipped cops, no story was ever safe.
“I think you’ve earned your exclusive on this,” Larson assured her, “and I will make sure everyone here understands that.”
“Thanks.” Sam told Larson and Kevin about the DVDs and photos in Rydell’s bag. “I don’t know who gets first dibs, so I’m going to let you two figure it out,” she said, even though in her experience Federal always trumped local.
“I’ll send over a courier tomorrow.” Kevin handed her a card. “Just call me on my cell phone when you’re ready.”
If Larson was perturbed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he motioned for the other detective, named Ramon Velasco, to join them. “I’m going to release these two unless you need anything else from them.”
Velasco quickly browsed his notes. “So other than the deceased and a man named Lou, those were the only people you saw up here?”
“The only people inside the warehouse were those two,” she confirmed in a weary voice, “although on two different occasions George mentioned a man named Marco.”
Velasco looked at Joe, who concurred without hesitation. “All I saw in there were George and Lou.”
“No other vehicles?”
“The only vehicles I saw were the motorcycle, Manuel’s Lincoln, and the ATV,” Sam reported. “Otherwise, the parking lot was deserted when we got here.”
The detective thanked them and left. Kevin and Larson said goodbye and walked together toward the warehouse. Joe waited until everyone was out of earshot. “That’s some careful slicing and dicing of the truth we’re doing.”
Sam pulled the blanket tighter around her, suddenly feeling chilled again. “Thanks for going along with it, Joe. Anne might be extremely troubled, but I don’t see what would be accomplished by involving her in what happened tonight. This part is over.”
By the time she got out of the emergency room the sun was up, and other people were just starting their day. Sam thought it ironic that getting grazed by a bullet was less painful than having her arm cleaned and stitched. Joe was waiting in his rental when she emerged from the hospital with her right forearm arm wrapped in a sterile white bandage and a prescription for Vicodin in the pocket of her still-damp sweats.
They went back to the condo and crashed. Sam’s alarm clock went off at 11:00. She slapped at the snooze button and turned onto her side, knees drawn up. She was so tired she felt sick to her stomach. Alpha and Omega lay very quietly, chins resting on paws, staring at her with worried dog eyes. She reached out and scratched their ears, thinking how close she had come to never seeing them again. Or anyone else. She pulled both dogs close and cried until the pent up fear and rage over what might have been dissipated in a sea of tears.
Chapter Eighteen
Joe drove Sam to work, and she walked into the office right at noon. Monica jumped up from her chair and grabbed Sam in a tight hug. “Oh, my God, Marlene told me,” she said in a shaky voice when she finally let go. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Sam was surprised at the outpouring of concern and curious how Marlene knew what happened. She’d left her editor a message saying she’d be late to work but not why.
Monica studied her closely. Sam was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved LA County Coroner T-shirt to cover the assorted welts, cuts, scrapes, and bruises that adorned her legs and arms from the close encounter with the wash and George Manuel. Other than her left cheek, which looked like she’d been slapped by an angry tabby, her face was unscathed. But she looked about to drop.
“I think you should be home resting.”
“I’m fine,” Sam assured her. “Besides, I have a story to write.”
Marlene was waiting as Sam turned the corner and ushered her into the office, closing the door behind them. “I hear you went for a little swim last night.”
“Who told you that?”
“Like I mentioned before, I have a cop friend. Are you all right? You look exhausted.”
Sam sat on the window ledge. “Yeah, I could use a nap but otherwise I really am fine.”
Marlene sat at her desk and gazed steadily at Sam, her expression somber. “No story is worth dying over.” She spoke quietly to give her words more weight.
“Fortunately, I didn’t.”
“But you could have.”
She leaned her head against the glass. “Trust me when I say it certainly wasn’t my intent. I didn’t go looking for this; it came and found me, right in this parking lot.”
“Care to fill me in?”
Sam twisted to stretch her back. “The short version is George Manuel killed Jeff Rydell because he thought Rydell was setting him up to be busted for drug dealing. But Rydell was actually working with the Feds to bring down a major software counterfeiting ring Manuel was involved with.”
Sam’s arm was throbbing because she refused to take any painkillers until her story was written, and the discomfort was making her cranky. “I’d really like to get the story written if the lecture’s over.”
Marlene nodded. “Go do your story, Sam.”
When she got to her desk there was a Diet Coke and cup of ice waiting, along with a Snickers. On her computer screen was a Post-it from Monica: In case you haven’t had a chance to eat. Sam smiled at the gesture and opened the candy bar. “I should get abducted more often.”
After retrieving her notebooks and story material out of the desk, Sam turned on the computer and spent fifteen futile minutes trying to compose an opening paragraph. Frustrated, she exited Word. There was no way she could write the story of Rydell’s death until she had more information about Rydell’s life. There were still just too many holes.
She pushed all the counterfeit material aside and opened her files on Ellen and Lena. Monica appeared at her desk holding an envelope. “I’m so sorry. I forgot to give these to you when you walked in. I was holding them in my desk for you.”
“Thank you.” Sam held up the Snickers. “And thank you for brunch.”
Inside the envelope were three faxes: two from Nate and one from Mike Lewis. The fax from Mike detailed the numbers on Rydell’s cell bill. The calls made to Kevin Mallory’s office gave Sam a pang. There were calls to George Manuel, calls to the Konrad headquarters, calls to the house, and to Father Gerry. But it was the numerous calls to Phil Atkins that caught Sam’s attention. “Why would Jeff be calling Ellen’s campaign manager?”
That question was answered by Nate’s first fax. Rydell’s pre-paid credit card was ordered through Greenlight Professional Consulting. No wonder Atkins was so antagonistic. He didn’t want Ellen to know just how much he was keeping from her. But was he doing it to protect Ellen, the campaign, or himself?
Sam suddenly realized she hadn’t checked her email yet. She logged on and felt a rush of energy when she saw seven emails from Kinko’s. The first file was a copy of the brief newspaper story about the accident that killed Elisa Bayles. The headline was Highway Horror, Highway Miracle. A gas tanker had gone out of control going east on Interstate 10 and slammed into a car. The tanker and the car went off the road and down a steep embankment. The driver of the car was ejected and miraculously survived. But the trucker and the car passenger died instantly when the tanker exploded on impact. Names were withheld pending next of kin notification.
Sam closed he
r eyes and massaged her temples. The details of the accident in the newspaper account didn’t make sense. She had the same thought after downloading the photographs and their captions. At first glance, she assumed the photo captions had been matched to the wrong photos. But after double-checking, she confirmed they were correctly paired. Sam studied each picture a third time, enlarging them to fill her computer screen. There was no mistake.
A slow smile of understanding spread across her face. “I’ll be damned.”
When she read the second fax from Nate—the personals on June and Bill Konrad—Rydell’s circle was complete. There was only one final question to answer.
Sam printed out the pictures, captions, and a couple copies of the article. She set them aside then opened her notebook. She banged her bandaged forearm on the front edge of the desk but was running on adrenaline and barely registered the pain. She logged onto the public records database that eventually led her to an old newspaper article and the final pieces connecting Ellen Konrad’s past and present snapped into place.
Invigorated by a lightness of spirit and armed with the full truth, Sam told Monica to hold all her calls, straightened her keyboard, and began to write.
It started as an optimistic search for beginnings; it finished as an untimely end in a lonely stretch of desert. Although the answers he came looking for proved elusive, in between his hopeful arrival in Palm Springs this past January and his senseless murder last Sunday, Jeff Rydell proved that the essence of family transcends blood ties. He leaves a legacy of compassion, integrity, and decency among those whose lives he touched during his all-too-brief time in the Valley. And with a final act of courage, he brought a criminal enterprise to its knees.
The words flowed easily, and Sam wrote as if in on autopilot, rarely referring to notes, and stopping only to take an occasional sip of her soda. In little more than three hours she finished a five thousand-word feature that recounted Jeff’s lethal association with George Manuel, beginning with their fateful meeting at the Crazy Girl. The feature ended in Devil’s Canyon with police hauling the killer’s flood-ravaged body out of the wash, a victim of nature’s karmic wrath.