Licensed to Thrill: Volume 1

by Diane Capri

  “And I’m Yo Yo Ma.”

  He laughed. “You didn’t ask if I believed her.”

  “Did you?”

  “She was sincere, but no, not a chance.”

  “Still think she and Finlay are dirty cops?” she asked.

  “Bet your ass.” He signaled and floated into the interchange toward the airport. Black ice glistened under the streetlights. For a Miami dweller, he wasn’t a bad driver under hazardous conditions. He completed the treacherous overpass before he asked, “Anything noteworthy from your late night girl talk? Like maybe why Archie Leach is chasing us like a relentless Javert on steroids? Or who else is stalking?”

  Kim popped an antacid onto her tongue. Let it dissolve a little. She said, “Reacher headed for Chicago when he left Margrave.”

  “She told me that, too. That’s where the Chevy dude said they were taking Sylvia, wasn’t it? Can’t be a coincidence. What else?”

  “She swore blind the tall guy on the video isn’t Reacher.”

  He was surprised. “Did you believe her?”

  “Yes.”

  At the time.

  “What about Jacqueline?” he asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Did Roscoe admit she’s either Joe or Jack Reacher’s kid?”

  “What do you think?”

  They pulled into Hartsfield’s monitored air space and shut down confidential conversation. They entered the short term lot.

  “We’ve got to hustle. No time to return the rental,” Gaspar said. “And the way this case is going, we might need it again, anyway. We might have to come back.”

  “God, I hope not,” Kim said.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in the plane. Gaspar leaned against the window shade and was asleep before the cabin door was closed. Skies were clear. Didn’t mean they were in for smooth sailing, but Kim could hope.

  She opened her laptop once the plane reached cruising altitude. Door to door, Hartsfield to Reagan National was posted as 134 minutes. Fifty minutes in, she heard the familiar bell tone from overhead speakers that never meant good news. Her stomach was already a cauldron of acid. Now, it bubbled up like it might explode. She pulled two antacids from her pocket. She chewed them for quicker dissolve.

  “Folks, this is Captain Shaw speaking. DC air traffic control just told us we’re going to be circling here for a bit. We’ve got gorgeous air this morning. Beautiful sunrise off to starboard. Our flight attendants will bring you another cup of coffee. We’ll update you as soon as we have more information. For now, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

  Enjoy the flight?

  Who was he kidding?

  Gaspar remained sound asleep, oblivious.

  Kim squeezed her eyes closed, visualized her favorite outdoor meditation haven in the north woods. Tried to breathe. After a while, when the plane remained aloft, she managed to release her claws.

  Distraction. The only available remedy. She spent some time composing e-mails to three tax accountant colleagues.

  The real Sylvia Kent would have filed tax returns every year, with luck. The IRS wouldn’t have those returns any more; returns were deleted after three years. But the data should be there in some form, and maybe that data would lead somewhere. Maybe she could finally catch a break.

  The overhead bell chimed again. Kim’s hands flew off the keyboard and gripped the armrests; her head jerked up. She turned. Stared wildly out the window. The plane remained level. No smoke from the engines. Both wings intact.

  “Folks, this is Captain Shaw again. We’ve just been rerouted to Baltimore. We should have you on the ground at the gate in about thirty minutes. Ground agents will be available to handle your connections. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

  When the plane landed, Kim leaned in to shake Gaspar awake. He collected his bags and followed. When they emerged from the jet-way into the terminal, he looked around and asked, “Where the hell are we?”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Washington, DC

  November 3

  7:55 a.m.

  GASPAR SIGNED UP FOR ANOTHER Crown Vic at the rental counter. Objections were futile; Kim made none. She bought a fountain Coke over crushed ice to chase the chalk from her mouth and calm her stomach. She followed him to the car. She settled into the passenger seat and blinked sleep from her eyes. He navigated around traffic knots.

  First stop was at a convenience store. Kim laid out private cash for six pre-paid cell phones and six pre-paid gift cards. Burners. Forty minutes later, Gaspar parked at a strip center. Mailing address Crystal City.

  “This is it,” he said, checking his notes to confirm.

  American homogeneity at its finest. One long cinder block building divided into five storefronts, with an adjacent parking lot. Beige painted exteriors, matching store name plates affixed to the brown hip roof atop each entry door. Bookended by a coffee shop and yogurt store; computer shop, liquor store, and their destination centered between.

  Winter threatened here as everywhere they’d traveled. Clear skies at 30,000 feet invisible through the low grey clouds immediately overhead. No snow flurries yet, but Kim could smell them in the air. She flipped up her collar and huddled into her blazer. Wished for a coat. She hated cold almost as much as she hated flying.

  There was only one person inside the mail drop. Manning the counter was a spiky-haired dude, late twenties, dressed head to toe in black. A clunky nose ring rested in the groove above chapped lips. Quarter-sized round holes elongated fleshy earlobes. A botched tattoo replaced the guy’s right eyebrow. Permanent black coal eye rims completed the effect.

  “How can I help you?” Husky timbre. Polite. Maybe a real human heart beating inside the frightening package.

  Gaspar flashed his badge. “We need to see the contents of P.O. Box 4719.”

  Without rancor, “Got a warrant?”

  “We can get one. Do we need to?”

  The dude didn’t move.

  “Show me your ID,” Gaspar said.

  The dude held up the work badge hanging from the black lanyard around his neck. Gaspar maintained eye contact, took a photo of the face and the badge with his phone, sent it, and dialed a number.

  “Jenny? Carlos Gaspar here. Can you run that mug I just sent? Alfred Lane, works at Mailboxes are Yours in Crystal City. Yeah, probably twenty-seven?” Alfred nodded. “Uh, huh. Right. That’s the guy. How many? Yep. Okay. Thanks.”

  He clicked off the call and dropped the phone in his pocket and said, “Alfred Lane, you’re under arrest.”

  Then he started in with the Miranda warning and got as far as silent before the dude shrugged and said, “I thought all that was cleared up. Sorry. Come over here.”

  A long row of mail box doors was set into the wall. The guy stopped at one of the larger sized boxes, maybe eleven inches square, mounted about mid-collection. The guy pulled a small silver key from a ring of a hundred similar keys. Opened 4719’s brass door. Inside, envelopes were stuffed tight as Cryovac sausage.

  “Is this all of it?” Gaspar asked.

  “More in the back.”

  Kim followed Alfred Lane’s shuffle through a door into a well maintained storage area. There was a clean cement floor. The space was brightly lit. The walls had been recently painted.

  Lane pointed to a standard white cardboard banker’s box stacked neatly among identical boxes. The number 4719 was stenciled in black on all four sides. The box below was numbered 4720. Logical.

  “Is this all of it?” Kim asked. It seemed a small amount of mail for five years.

  “If there were more, it would be here.” The guy was breaking several federal laws by releasing mail without a court order. Kim wanted to arrest him on the spot.

  Instead, she asked, “Take it out front for me?”

  The guy bent down and grabbed 4720 and lifted it together with 4719, the proper way, with bent knees and a straight back. The exertion didn’t seem to stress him. He shuffled past her and through to the lobby
. He called back, “Check the lock on that door, OK?”

  “OK.” Kim wondered how 4720 was related to 4719. But she didn’t ask.

  The guy put both boxes on the counter.

  Gaspar said, “I’m going to need the rental information, too. You have it on your computer?”

  “Should be there.” He pecked and clicked and pulled up an account page. He printed it. He pecked a few more times, located a scanned copy of the application form, which included a photo of the box’s owner, Sylvia Kent. He printed that one, too.

  Gaspar found a packing crate, plopped down a ten dollar bill to pay for it, and filled it with the remaining contents of 4719.

  “What about 4720?” Kim asked, holding out her hand for the key.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” The guy handed the key over and returned to do the computer work on 4720, too focused to notice Gaspar’s questioning glance, or Kim’s quick shrug in reply.

  She opened mailbox 4720 and found it packed just as tight as 4719 had been. She waved Gaspar over with his crate.

  “Do you know when these boxes were emptied last?” she asked.

  Alfred Lane replied while continuing his computer work. “We don’t monitor the customers. They collect their mail when they want to and we store it for them until they do.”

  “How many customers do you have?”

  “Varies. Max is 750. Full up right now. Sometimes we have vacancies.”

  “You demand the same proof of identity as the U.S. Postal Service to rent these boxes, right?”

  “Required by law, we do it. Trust me, we don’t want terrorists here.”

  “Can we get a copy of the list?”

  “Why not?” he said. He tapped a couple of keys. The printer hummed. Gaspar took the pages and dropped them in the packing crate. He said, “Thanks, Alfred. Now help me tote these out to the car, OK?”

  “No problem,” Alfred said, like he was helping paying customers, like it was all part of the service. Eager to see them go away happy. Or more likely, just go away.

  Gaspar said, “I’d suggest you get those outstanding warrant problems ironed out. Otherwise, you’ll be a guest of the Feds by early next week. Know what I mean?”

  “I’m on it, man.”

  Kim figured what he’d be on was the next outbound bus as soon as their tail lights disappeared around the corner.

  Gaspar popped the trunk open, stowed the boxes and slammed the lid.

  “You all set? Anything else I can help with?” Alfred asked, hands resting in low side pockets.

  Gaspar pulled out his smart phone again, and brought up the fingerprinting app. “Put your right forefinger here.”

  Alfred Lane did what he was asked. No objection.

  “Thanks.” Gaspar sent the print. “But don’t forget about those warrants. I’ll check on you tomorrow. Everything’s not fixed by then, they’ll send me back to pick you up, you know?”

  “No problem.” Alfred Lane turned and shuffled back into the store, keys clanging on the chain hanging from his sloppy jeans.

  “Warrants for what?” Kim asked, once Gaspar had the Crown Vic on the road again.

  “He jumped bail in Jersey about three months ago. Twelve counts of grand larceny and aggravated battery.”

  “And you just ignored that? And left him there? Are you nuts?”

  “You’re so easy.” He grinned and winked. “Locals are on the way. They’ll get here before he scrams.”

  She punched his shoulder with her fist because he’d had her going. She felt better, though. “Some bondsman in New Jersey will be happy, too.”

  “And thereby hangs a tale,” Gaspar said.

  “Why? Who was the bondsman?”

  “Bernard Owens.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Me neither. Goes by Bernie, apparently. But we got a bonus. They sent me a picture along with his name.” He tossed his smart phone into her lap. “He looked a little worse than that the last time I saw him.”

  Kim looked at the photo. And gasped.

  She recognized the face.

  Bernie Owens, New Jersey bondsman, was the rescuer of Sylvia Black.

  The shorter guy on Roscoe’s videotape.

  The guy who wasn’t L. Mark Newton.

  Very likely the charred body in the Chevy.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  GASPAR DROVE ON AND SAID, “And Alfred Lane, who owes Bernie Owens big bond money, just happens to be working in the very place where Sylvia’s mail hibernated for five long years. Gets better and better, doesn’t it? Go right ahead. You can call me brilliant now. Roscoe would.”

  Kim punched him again, harder this time, and he laughed harder, too.

  “Lucky is better than good,” she said. She fired up her phone for an internet search, and less than sixty seconds later, she said, “Guess what other business Bernie’s got going on?”

  Gaspar said, “Tell me.”

  “Privacy management.”

  “Which is?”

  “A euphemism for helping people disappear.”

  “Enterprising guy. But apparently workaholism kills.”

  “Tax records will confirm or deny, but I’m betting Bernie owns the mailbox place, too.”

  “Because?”

  “Because the bond on twelve counts of grand larceny and aggravated battery must have been pretty steep. Bernie could have gotten his money back, and he didn’t.”

  “If he knew where to find the kid.”

  “The kid wasn’t exactly hiding. He had his name hanging around his neck. He was a walking investment. In Bernie’s own business. The kid said he thought his outstanding warrants had been taken care of. He made a deal with Bernie. Who owns the mailbox store. It’s the only conclusion that fits the facts.”

  He shrugged.

  “Can’t you ever admit I’m right?”

  He shrugged again. She went to punch him again, this time with feeling, but he caught her fist in his right hand and squeezed it. Briefly. Not too hard, but hard enough to hurt.

  A whisper thin layer of civilization separates men from animals, her father had warned many times. When she let her guard down, she always regretted it.

  Traffic snarls slowed them through two intersections. Gaspar said, “Bernie owning the place might mean there’s more dodgy customers. Agents are already on the way to the judge for warrants on the remaining mailboxes. Doubtful they’ll get a lead on Jimmy Hoffa, but you never know.”

  She took his concession as an apology for hurting her hand. Welcome, but insufficient. No matter. She’d long ago learned to mask her heart effectively. Kim understood the game, and played it expertly, even when she didn’t feel like it. Nothing personal. Just business. Professionalism demanded no less.

  She said, “The photo ID on 4719 is definitely Sylvia Black. But we won’t find any usable prints. She never touched any of that stuff in the boxes. Face recognition?”

  “Already in process.”

  “Maybe we’ll find something when we sort through the mail.”

  Gaspar pulled the Crown Vic into a budget hotel driveway. They stacked a luggage cart with the contents of the trunk.

  “I’ll check us in,” she said. She pulled the cart and left him to stow the car.

  At the counter she used the first of the pre-paid gift cards to reserve a second floor room near the side exit for two nights. She used Sylvia Black’s name and address.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Washington, DC

  November 3

  1:05 p.m.

  THE ROOM MENU SERVICE offered limited options. Kim chose coffee and pastries, French fries, mixed nuts, and bottled water. She placed the order and left cash on the table and headed for the bathroom. She locked the flimsy hollow door and leaned back against it. She closed her eyes. She breathed the stale air and the faint antiseptic fumes in the darkness. She stayed that way for a good long time. She vaguely heard Gaspar accept the room service delivery, but still she didn’t move.

  Eventually she di
d what she needed to do, washed, dried, tucked her hair into a fresh chignon, and examined herself in the mirror.

  Competent. Professional. Unyielding.

  Perfect.

  She squared her shoulders, opened the door, and rejoined her partner, for better or worse.

  The curled contents of mailboxes number 4719 and number 4720 were dumped on one queen bed, and the surplus from the banker’s boxes was on the other. Years of accumulated mail made surprisingly small piles. Gaspar had taken off his shoes and his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He had eaten his pastry.

  He asked, “Who keeps two P.O. boxes open for five years, but never collects the mail?”

  Kim said, “Someone who doesn’t want to be found. Everybody gets mail. Has to go somewhere.”

  “If she wasn’t going to deal with it, why pay for storage?”

  “If mail is returned, senders get curious.”

  “Why two boxes, then? One would do the job, wouldn’t it?”

  Kim picked up envelopes and thumbed through them. All were addressed to Sylvia Kent, at either P.O. Box 4719 or P.O. Box 4720, in Crystal City, Arlington, VA 22202. All were postmarked five and six years ago.

  She said, “Maybe she planned to come back someday.”

  Gaspar did the eyebrow lift. Good. That point hadn’t occurred to him. She needed to stay a few steps ahead, anticipate what he might do, make a plan B.

  He said, “But if she planned to return, then why not just tell people she was taking a year or two off to live in France or something?”

  Kim tossed the pile of envelopes back in the box. She stretched her back. She collected a black coffee from the tray, and returned to sorting. The letters were depressingly similar. She saw most of them repeatedly, with no variation aside from dates. “Maybe she was hiding from someone. That’s what she told Roscoe. Could be true.”

  He shrugged.

  They worked in silence.

  Gaspar finished the packing box stack. “Looks like Bernie should have hired Alfred Lane years ago. The prior clerk wasn’t as competent. The early stuff is all mixed up.”