by V. K. Powell
“Gate City Storage on State Street.”
“Did you actually see inside the unit?”
“Duh, yeah, number twenty, back side on the end. Looks like the place is full of boxes. Ray was pretty nervous while he was unloading. What do you think is in there?”
“Not sure yet.” She pushed up from the sidewalk, pulling Vi with her. “You have to stay out of this. If you hear anything, let me know. Otherwise steer clear. I mean it.”
“Okay. Don’t blow a gasket. Wanna swap digits in case we need to get in touch?”
“Sure.” After the exchange, Loane started toward her condo, then turned back. “By the way, how did the job interview go?”
“Got the job. Keep you posted.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder and disappeared around the corner.
As Loane slipped into the back entrance of Center Pointe, she wondered again where Vi got her information. She obviously had resources. Did it matter? She couldn’t afford to take anything for granted. She wanted to know who Vi was, what motivated her, and how she fit into the big picture, because Vi obviously had her own secrets.
Chapter Eleven
Abby clicked on the QuickBooks icon on the club’s computer but nothing happened. She hated computers almost as much as numbers, so this was a double dose of hell—and all before lunchtime.
She’d come in early to search for the boxes of “furniture” that she was certain weren’t here. Aside from the huge dance floor, lounge, and restrooms, the building had only three other rooms. She searched every space large enough to conceal even one of the mysterious boxes and found nothing. Frustrated and disappointed, she’d retreated to the office.
The paneled room resembled a walk-in closet, and every time she entered she was afraid someone would close the door and lock her inside. The air-conditioning system struggled to force cool air to this windowless part of the building. It was always stuffy and smelled of stale man scents—sweat, cheap cologne, cigarettes, and sex. She made a mental note to buy an air freshener and then scrolled down to the QuickBooks icon again.
She clicked the gold-and-green symbol, and this time the program opened. It might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Opening a few files, she scanned the endless pages of entries. They all looked the same, tedious and boring, with no obvious irregularities. She could be looking at thousands of dollars of embezzled funds or redirected monies and have no idea. A degree in fine arts didn’t exactly prepare her for a foray into the world of cybercrime or money laundering.
“Damn freaking machine.” She stabbed at the keys to exit the program.
“That doesn’t usually help.”
“Holy crap.” Abby spun around in the desk chair and saw Kinsey Easton standing in the doorway. At least it wasn’t Ray or Tiny, who’d be more inclined, though no more entitled, to ask questions. “You scared me.”
“You’re the boss. You’re allowed to be in here. Me…not so much.”
“I thought I was alone. What can I do for you, Kinsey?” The young woman was dressed more conservatively than she’d been last night. Khaki slacks and a subtly patterned blouse made her look even younger, if that was possible.
“You told me to come back at noon…about work?”
She pointed to a chair for Kinsey to join her. “It would be a godsend if you could figure out this accounting system. I have no clue.”
Kinsey turned the computer screen toward her and took the wireless keyboard in her lap. Her fingers moved across the keys so fast Abby couldn’t follow what she was doing. A few clicks later she sat back in the chair and smiled. “Yeah, I can do this.”
“Did you major in computer science in college?”
Kinsey shook her head. “I picked it up. Like some people learn music, I’m basically self-taught.”
“Impressive. Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday when we talked about a job?”
“I didn’t know what kind of system you had. That makes a difference. This sure beats waiting tables.”
Abby’s shoulders relaxed and she leaned back in her chair. Kinsey might be the answer to a prayer, and it would keep her out of harm’s way in the club. “You’re hired, but one thing.” Now came the difficult part, explaining what she needed without it sounding like an unusual request. “I need a complete analysis of the books—account balances, income, expenses, a breakdown of operating costs, and anything that looks or even feels irregular.”
“Sounds pretty routine for a new boss.”
“I’d like you to back up the system every day and make an extra copy for me, just in case. If there’s ever a question of tampering, I’ll have daily tallies of everything. That should make finding any potential problem easier, shouldn’t it?” She hoped she hadn’t gone too far and looked to Kinsey for confirmation. Once she got her hands on the backups, she’d pass them along to Barrio or Bowman or whoever was now in the pecking order. She didn’t need to worry about interpreting what was on them. ATF had experts for that sort of thing.
“Makes sense. I can do that, no problem. Who’s my boss?”
“Me. If anybody else asks about the business, let me know. You can be trusted to do that, right?” For some reason she felt a little guilty for asking the question. Maybe it was the way Kinsey had handled herself with Ray that made her feel a kinship with her. Maybe it was her resilience. Either way, she was confident that she had a reliable ally.
“After last night, I’m not in the favoring mood with Ray or Tiny, the manhandlers.” Her slight frame shook. “You can count on me, M. When do you want me to start?”
“How about right now?” Abby relinquished her seat at the desk and watched as Kinsey hunched over the keyboard, immediately lost in her task. With any luck she would find something that would either implicate or exonerate the Torre family. Abby hadn’t considered life after this case in almost four months. Now she dared to hope that it wouldn’t be long until she returned to some semblance of normalcy.
“Will you be all right here by yourself for a while? I need to run an errand.” Kinsey waved her off like she were a pestering sibling. She scribbled her cell number on the pad beside the phone. “If you need me or anyone questions what you’re doing, call.”
Kinsey nodded.
Abby fast walked the few blocks to the historical museum, anticipation riding her like an impatient mistress. Something told her that her search for Loane would soon be over. The thought released equal parts joy and panic. She’d replayed their reunion in her mind thousands of times: a brief period of disbelief, the entire gamut of emotions, hours of explanation, ending with days of lovemaking and years of what—happily ever after? As she reached for the museum door, she wondered if she was fooling herself.
“I need to see Ms. Winters, please.” Abby evaluated the woman manning the desk and decided that any disruption to routine daily operations would not be met with pleasantry. She had the look of a guard on death row: stocky build, black dyed hair, and thick glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, she’s in meetings the rest of the day. If you’d like to leave your name and number, I’ll have her call when she’s free.”
“It’s important. I’d prefer to wait, if you don’t mind.”
The woman peered over the rim of her glasses as if Abby’s refusal to leave violated royal protocol. “As you wish, but as I said—”
“She’s in meetings the rest of the day. I’ll wait.” Abby settled into an uncomfortable straight-backed chair and pulled out her cell. Might as well be productive. She texted Carl: Hope you got my message last night, arrived safely. Things going well. Hired office help. Nothing else to report. That should keep him off her back for a while. Since she didn’t know where the shipment she’d brought up was now, she assumed the guys had taken care of it. She put it on her list of things to ask about later.
After an hour of restless sitting, she did a slow circuit around the museum lobby, reading literature about the building and exhibits. She called Barrio and
confirmed that he had indeed given Bowman her cell number and she was to channel information about the case to him. He didn’t bother to elaborate on his motives for the change of procedure.
Two hours later she was still waiting to see Eve. The over-protective administrative assistant hadn’t even offered her a glass of water. It was close to four thirty. She needed to get back to the office to see if Kinsey had had any luck or encountered any problems. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you contact Ms. Winters? It’s important that I see her. It’s a personal matter.”
The woman looked at her like that was not even remotely possible. “I’m sure she’ll be—” The phone rang, and she held a finger to her lips as she answered.
“Greensboro Historical Museum. Oh, yes, Ms. Winters. Things are going fine. No problems here.” She looked at Abby as if deciding whether to mention her. “There is a lady who’s been waiting for some time. She didn’t have an appointment. I don’t know what she wants. She said it was personal.” The more questions she answered, the more flustered and embarrassed the woman became. “I don’t know her name.” She looked up at Abby.
“Abby Mancuso.” She spoke loudly enough to be heard on the other end.
The assistant didn’t need to repeat it. “Yes, ma’am, right away.” She hung up and pointed to an office at the rear of the complex. “You can go on back.”
“Thank you so much.” Abby tried to keep the bite out of her voice but she’d wasted half a day. She knocked on the office door and Eve opened it immediately.
“I’m not sure if I’m shocked or on the verge of a heart attack. You look pretty good for a dead woman.”
“The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” Abby tried for a little Twain-ish humor as Eve evaluated her with penetrating blue eyes.
“I’m glad those looks come with brains…though I reserve the right to retract that statement.” She motioned to a seating area in front of her desk and waited. She wasn’t going to make this easy, but Abby didn’t blame her. Apparently everyone in Greensboro thought she’d died in the explosion.
“Eve, is Loane okay? I had no idea that—”
“That she almost died trying to save you? That she doesn’t know if you’re dead or alive? That she’s spent the last three months in hell looking for you? Or that she loves you so much that everything else is secondary? Which part didn’t you know?”
Eve’s words stung more than the burning cinders on the day of the explosion. She felt as if someone had squeezed the blood out of her heart. Her breath wouldn’t come. “I…didn’t know…any of it.” Tears burned her cheeks. “So sorry.”
“All you had to do was make one phone call.”
Abby remembered how often she’d wanted to do that, the times she’d forced herself away from the phone, and the countless nights she’d cried herself to sleep because she hadn’t. “I know.”
“I’m not the one who needs to hear this.”
“I don’t know how to get in touch with Loane. If I can’t find her, I can’t explain this whole mess…and she could be at risk. I have to tell her.”
“After everything she’s been through, you show up bringing more trouble? I can’t imagine why she would listen to anything you have to say.” Eve stood up and walked toward the office door, her intent clear.
“Please, Eve, give me her number.”
“Can’t. If she wants to get in touch with you, she will. That’s the best I can do.”
“At least tell me if she’s okay.”
“She’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking, but she’s far from okay.”
Abby felt like her life was crumbling even as she tried to piece it together. If this crucial bit fell away, the rest wouldn’t matter. “Thank you for seeing me, Eve. Please have Loane call me as soon as possible. I have to explain.” She wrote her number on the back of one of Eve’s business cards and handed it to her.
She had no idea if Eve responded to her request or if the assistant acknowledged her departure. She walked back to the club in a daze, Eve’s words swirling over and over in her mind. “She almost died trying to save you. She doesn’t know if you’re dead or alive. She’s spent the last three months in hell looking for you. She loves you so much that everything else is secondary.”
She loves me.
Hope soared inside her like the ocean at high tide. She laughed aloud, skipped a few steps, and then stopped suddenly. Before she could fully embrace the euphoria, sickening guilt twisted her insides into a tight knot. She’d hurt Loane by leaving and not telling her the truth…about anything.
Loane had come after her that night, been injured, and spent months trying to find her. Abby had been through her own hell after the explosion, but she couldn’t imagine what Loane had experienced thinking she was dead. So much had happened. Was it already too late for them?
*
Loane ducked between a building and landscaping timbers behind Gate City Storage, waiting for darkness. Fast-food wrappers littered the space, and the ground stank of urine and rotting garbage. Squatting for better concealment, she immediately regretted it, gagging on the unpleasant odors. She’d always disliked stakeouts for these very reasons. She turned her head sideways to take a shallow breath, and her cell phone vibrated against her hip. She ignored it. Time for action, not talk.
The storage manager had been very helpful earlier when she posed as a potential customer. Loane had located unit 20 exactly where Vi said it was and memorized the spot on the fence where she’d enter later to avoid the motion-sensor lights. Contrary to popular belief, the manager didn’t retain keys to the units once they were rented. The customer kept all keys to his lock and distributed them as he saw fit. In practice it worked great. In police practice, it was a pain because it required a search warrant for entry. However, she wasn’t acting in an official capacity. She didn’t need a warrant because she was technically and legally breaking and entering.
It was the first time she’d ever intentionally broken the law, aside from the idiotic strictures still on the books that tried to regulate her sex life. She hated to admit it, but the repressed thrill-seeking side of her enjoyed lurking in the shadows and avoiding detection. The ordered, rule-bound side of her cringed at what she was doing. Part of her wanted to call her police buddies and do things the right way. But they’d failed her once, and when the system failed, somebody had to fill the void.
Nerves bunched in Loane’s stomach and she searched for her customary balm. 1927 Charles Lindbergh piloted the Spirit of St. Louis to Greensboro and appeared at the War Memorial Stadium. Her memory flashed back to family meals when she was a child. Her father entertained them with history facts disguised as thrilling stories. He was so proud of his city and the work he did as a cop. He’d wanted them to share his love of her past and gave them Jeopardy quizzes to test their knowledge. She’d taken to it immediately as a special bond she shared with him.
When she’d come out as a lesbian at fifteen, meal times were hijacked by her mother’s rants against her lifestyle choice. Her father served as her champion over and over until the constant battles wore him down. Loane withdrew, reciting historical facts in her mind to avoid the conflict and pain. Three years of constant bickering and unrelenting homophobia later, her father filed for divorce and moved out. The separation had been her fault, and nothing she could do was enough to make him stay.
Her cell phone vibrated again, pulling her out of the unpleasant memory. She breathed through her nervous jitters, checked the area around the storage facility once more, scaled the fence, and dodged patches of light to the back row. Her heart pounded against her chest, and adrenaline filled her with daring. She’d heard arrestees talk about the high of committing a crime, like a cop’s rush during a chase or a junkie’s drug fix. She looked around again, fear dimpling her skin, and decided she preferred being on the legal side. Risking her life was bad enough, but the possibility of being punished for it wasn’t appealing. Never again, she promised herself.
Removi
ng the lock pick from her pocket, she held the tiny flashlight between her lips and jiggled the lock. On the third attempt, it sprang open. She took considerably longer to raise the squeaky door without alerting the entire neighborhood.
Once inside the unit, she stared at the stacks of boxes and shook her head. If even half of these contained weapons, the drug cartels along the East Coast would easily outgun the police. She opened the crate closest to the door—bingo. Every preferred weapon on the cartel’s list to wage war against the police: FN 5.7 pistols, nicknamed cop killers because of their armor-piercing capacity; Barrett .50-caliber sniper rifles; Colt .38 Super automatic handguns; and AK-47 and AR-223 rifles. It couldn’t be this easy. She checked several other boxes, and all contained weapons.
She reached for her cell to call the police but hesitated. She should report what she’d found so these weapons could be confiscated before they were distributed. How could she justify not doing that? Abby had probably died trying to find the source of this pipeline. If she turned the weapons over, they could be shoved into the same black hole with the rest of the investigation and she’d be no closer to finding the truth or Abby.
She tried to think like a gunrunner, but this didn’t make sense. Why the huge supply in one place? The product demand had either dried up, the delivery pipeline had been compromised, or someone was stockpiling for a big payday. Why this place? If she was hiding millions of dollars’ worth of illegal weapons, she’d use a more secure, more confined space with limited access. Maybe it was a brilliant move—detached from the rest of the Torre holdings and accessible by outsiders—plausible deniability. And how did Vi fit into the picture?
How had she found this place? Maybe she was involved in the case and pretending to help Loane as a distraction from some larger issue. What could be larger than a shitload of illegal guns on their way to a drug war? That idea was too convoluted. It was more likely Vi had a stake in bringing the Torres down. But what was her motivation and how far would she go to accomplish it? Those answers moved up her list of things to find out.