“Eli?”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning mischievously “What the hell are you doing? Don’t you know better than to climb rocks at night? Let me help you before you hurt yourself.”
“Hurt myself,” Joanne grumbled in anger. “Where did you come from? You scared me to death.”
Eh laughed with delight. “I came to shore in the dinghy. Come to think of it, that word fits you perfectly.”
“What word?” Joanne said, allowing him to place his large hands around her waist and lift her off the ledge.
“Dinghy,” he said. “You know, like looney. Wasn’t that the name of your family doctor?”
Joanne looked perplexed. “When did I tell you the name of our family doctor?”
“Forget it,” Eli said, falling serious. “All these gated communities are the same. I told you when the Spencers offered to lease you their house that this place wasn’t secure. You want to be safe, you have to live in a building, know what I mean? A building with one entrance and one exit, both of them manned with guards and cameras.”
“Seacliff Point is secure by land,” Joanne argued, dusting herself off. “The average criminal doesn’t have a dinghy, nor could they afford to convert a fishing boat into a high-tech office. I thought you’d already left for Bali?”
“Don’t you ever look out your window, woman? I’ve been anchored in your backyard ever since I dropped your lousy ex-husband off at the jail.”
Joanne squinted, seeing the faint outline of a vessel off in the moonlight. “That’s the Nightwatch? How would I know that? What happened to your lights? Are you pretending you’re on some kind of covert mission?”
“Generator problems.”
“Too many toys,” Joanne remarked, employing the same tone she used for her children. “You don’t work for the government anymore, Eli. You could end up in prison if the Coast Guard catches you. And I probably haven’t seen half of what you’ve got on that boat.”
“Let’s go for a drink,” Eli said. “You can bring me up to date.”
Joanne had missed the detective. His size alone made her feel safe. His services didn’t come cheap, but he got the job done. He’d managed to find Doug and bring her children home. Of all the men who’d passed through her life, Eli Connors would always stand out as one of her heroes. “Before we do anything, tell me why you’re here.”
“Did you think I was going to forget you just because you ran out of money? Even behind bars, I don’t trust your ex-husband.”
Joanne jerked her head back, startled. “Are you saying Doug might hire someone to hurt me?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“Doug isn’t violent,” Joanne told him as they walked toward her car.
Eli seized her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Listen to me,” he said. “Your husband has enough money tucked away to hire a private army. I might bend the rules now and then, but I don’t kill people. The weapons and surveillance equipment I have on board the Nightwatch are to keep innocent people like you from getting themselves killed.”
“You’re paranoid,” Joanne said. “If something happened to me, Doug would be the prime suspect.”
“What about the kids?”
“He loves the kids.”
“Your husband is furious right now,” Eli continued. “He’d just hit the big time when I found him. And we’re not talking small change here. He sold a software program he designed for on-line gambling casinos to Forrest Hoyt Technologies for fifty million dollars.”
Joanne stopped walking, not certain she’d heard him correctly “Did you say fifty million dollars? The DA in L.A. told me Doug had sold some kind of program, but they didn’t mention a sum anywhere near that amount.”
“Fifty mil, sweetie,” Eli said, turning the collar up on his nylon jacket. “Put yourself in his shoes. The man’s worked years developing this program. Even when I tracked him down and handed him off to the authorities, he wasn’t worried. With that kind of bread, he figured he could pay back whatever money he had embezzled, serve a couple of months in jail, then walk out a rich man. That isn’t going to happen now.”
“Why not?”
“Because he got caught with his pants down,” Eli told her. They were standing next to Joanne’s Lexus in the parking area adjacent to the beach. He watched as she fumbled in her purse for her keys. “Why don’t you get a clip or something to hold your keys? Do you know how many women have been assaulted while they were trying to find their car keys?”
“Just finish what you were saying,” Joanne said, not in the mood to listen to another of Eli’s lectures. Pulling her keys out, she waved them in front of him, then unlocked the car door. “Get in,” she told him. “We’ll stop by my house first, then we’ll go to the Crow’s Nest in Ventura.”
Once Eli had squeezed his enormous frame into the passenger seat, and Joanne steered the car in the direction of Circular Road where her house was located, Eli continued to explain the situation to her. “Because of your husband’s gambling debts, he had to use a fictitious name to set up a corporation. The corporation then established an offshore bank account. The name Douglas Kuhlman is nowhere on this account, nor is he listed in any of the articles of incorporation. The offshore holding company accepts the funds, then when Doug’s corporation files the appropriate requests, the money is wired to another individual in the islands who is employed by your husband. This individual then transfers the money to Doug’s dummy corporation.”
“There’s a fine line on some of this stuff,” Joanne said. “Not every shelter or holding company is illegal. The more money people make, the less taxes they pay. That’s how the world works. A smart attorney or business manager knows where the cracks in the system are and merely presents them to his client as an alternative.” She paused and then continued, “And please stop referring to Doug as my husband. The divorce is final. Call him anything you want, but don’t call him my husband.”
“A shelter is one thing,” Eli explained. “This was a scam from day one. Doug’s first mistake was to steal from a company as big as Telinx.”
“He didn’t steal fifty million, though,” Joanne said. “I’m not certain all the numbers are in yet, but the last time I spoke with the L.A. prosecutor, it was nowhere near that amount.”
“Let me explain how this works,” Eli said, clutching the door handle as Joanne swerved around a comer. “Pull over and let me drive.”
“This is my car, Eli,” Joanne told him, sick of men who drove like maniacs, then started whining like babies as soon as a woman took the driver’s seat. “You talk, I drive. If you want, I can stop the car and let you off.”
“Tough broad,” Eli remarked, gritting his teeth as she fishtailed around another sharp curve.
“I don’t have a choice,” Joanne told him. “I’m a single parent, and I have a mountain of problems—both professionally and personally. The only way I can survive is to take control of my life. When I was married, I was a weak and foolish woman. I let my husband make all the decisions. The rest of the story you know.”
Eli remained silent until they pulled into her driveway “Once they find a person with this much dirty money,” he told her, “the IRS, the state, and every governmental agency involved work around the clock to freeze the assets so they can later lay claim to them. The only problem is the minute they alert the holding company that a crime is involved, the outside agent usually skips out with the money.”
“Good grief,” Joanne said, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “You’re telling me that a complete stranger walked away with fifty million? Half of that money should belong to my children. How could this happen?”
“Because your ex-husband and lots of other idiots believe these people are trustworthy, that’s why,” Eli told her. “I’m not certain the money is gone. I’ve managed to obtain a good deal of information, but in this case, too many agencies and countries are involved. The account holding the fifty mil is listed under the name of Jorge Baudelai
re. Mr. Baudelaire can legally wire the money to any account he wants. No one can touch him. Your husband listed this individual as the president and CEO of his corporation. He was in such a rush to get his hands on the money once the Forrest Hoyt Technologies deal was finalized that he didn’t even appoint any other officers in the corporation. The more people involved, the less chance you have of someone taking you for a ride.”
“I still don’t understand,” Joanne said, overwhelmed. “Why would he want more people involved? Wouldn’t that increase the chances of someone discovering what he was doing?”
“That’s the way I would have handled it,” Eli said. “All the parties involved have to agree to take the money. Then they have to trust each other.”
Joanne placed her hand over her chest. “How could someone smart enough to invent such a valuable computer program be this careless?”
“Hey,” Eli said, shrugging. “You were married to the man.”
Joanne felt sick to her stomach. “Is there more?”
“I’m afraid so,” the detective said. “Doug paid Baudelaire to use his name in all the negotiations with Forrest Hoyt. As far as Forrest Hoyt Technologies is concerned, they purchased the program from Jorge Baudelaire. Even if Doug was completely legit, which he isn’t, he’d have trouble collecting his money. In most instances, though, the people who funnel the money back and forth have an established track record with whatever banking institution refers them. What I’m trying to say is that not everyone gets ripped off. Millions of dollars run through this pipeline every day and nothing goes wrong. But when you dangle fifty million in front of someone, then tell them the rightful owner is a crook, even Honest Abe might be tempted to jump on it.”
“Discounting the financial side of this thing,” she said, “I still don’t understand why you think I might be in danger.”
“Not just you,” Eli said, turning sideways in the seat. “How about your kids, huh? Your husband owes a fortune to an Apache Indian tribe, the owner of one of his favorite on-line gambling sites. They may think you’re sitting on the money, that you’ve got it buried under Judge Spencer’s house and have been in cahoots with your husband all along.”
“That’s absurd.”
“You’re wrong,” Eli said. “What if they snatched one of the kids, thinking it would force you to tell them where the money is hidden? I mean, I spent two years tracking down your husband. That’s why I decided to hang around. You’re a fine lady, Joanne. You don’t deserve any more misery.”
“I think we should pass on the drink,” Joanne told him, not wanting to leave Leah in the house alone. “I let my son go to a party at the beach tonight. Should I go and get him?”
“No,” Eli said, exiting the car. “I’ll keep an eye on all of you for a few more days.”
“Don’t you want me to drive you back to the beach?”
“Not necessary,” the detective said, pointing to a black pickup truck parked across the street.
“That’s the Robertsons’ place,” Joanne said, shocked. “They’re at their other house in Florida. How did you get past the gate?”
“All I did was print myself up one of those fancy stickers that say Seacliff Point,” Eli said, already walking toward his vehicle. He yelled out over his shoulder, “Then I pasted the sucker on my windshield. But you don’t need me to protect you. I’m just a guy with too many toys.”
Joanne shouted, “How can I reach you in case of an emergency?”
“Call 911,” the big man said. “I’m not a cop, remember.”
“Don’t do this to me,” she said, jogging across the street. “Forget what I said about the Coast Guard and your equipment. At least someone cares enough about my safety to look out for me. For God’s sake, you’ve been working all this time for free. With the kind of fees you charge, you could have bought another boat.”
“I don’t mind if you call the Nightwatch a vessel,” Eli told her, leaning back against his truck. “But please, don’t call her a boat again. Everything I own is on that ship.”
“I know you lost your job with the CIA because they framed you,” Joanne said, reaching out and touching his arm. “They lost a good man.”
“Don’t worry,” Eli said, clicking the alarm button for his truck to disarm it. “You still have my pager number.”
FOURTEEN
Sunday, February 11, 2001, 7:35 P.M.
ELIZABETH DECKER was resting on the sofa. She had gone to mass that morning, then spent the remainder of the day praying, asking God to send her son back. The phone rang just as she got up to make another pot of coffee. “Ian?”
“Tom and Gary killed Ian,” a strange male voice said in hushed tones. “They buried him in a field off of Interstate 5 near Magic Mountain. The field is maybe five or six miles from what I think they said was a truck stop. They also mentioned going through the drive-through at McDonald’s.”
“No, God!” she cried. “My son is dead? You’re lying! Tell me it isn’t true!”
“Check the storage lot at your business.”
“Don’t hang up,” Elizabeth said. “The phone isn’t tapped.”
When she heard the dial tone, she sank to her knees on the floor. A searing pain entered her back. An unknown force pushed her forward, and she fell face forward onto the floor. Her body contracted into the fetal position. She was in a cocoon of darkness. She was certain her son was in the room with her, trapped in the dimension that followed death.
Elizabeth finally surfaced from the dark tunnel and regained her eyesight, although the images in front of her were murky and distorted. She struggled back to her feet. Now of all times, she had to be strong. She had to be strong for Ian. She had to lead him, comfort him. “It’s okay, baby,” she said softly, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. “I’m here. Mom’s here for you. Don’t be afraid.”
She clenched her eyes shut, tilting her chin toward the ceiling. She couldn’t indulge in self-pity. She would have the rest of her life to cry, stare at his pictures, relive memories. Now she had to make certain his killers were brought to justice. This was the time to work. Just as she had once carried him inside her body before his birth, she would now carry his soul. She would be Ian’s arms, legs, hands, eyes, ears, mouth, feet—his human and willing host.
Without conscious effort, she walked down the narrow hallway to her son’s room and sat on the edge of his bed. She wasn’t certain how much time had expired. In this dimension, hours could pass without notice. Elizabeth was in a space where the clocks had all stopped.
Elizabeth’s feet took her to Ian’s old stereo. Her finger depressed the play button. Her ears were assaulted with the thumping bass of a rock band. She reached for the volume control, then yanked her hand back. Ian liked the music loud. Her eyes roamed to the posters on the walls—the Rolling Stones, the Doors, Sting. When he’d moved to his own place, Elizabeth had left the room intact, fearful he wouldn’t be able to make it on his own.
Tonight her worst fears had been realized.
She drifted into the kitchen, pouring a glass of milk and opening the pantry door. The word “chips” popped into her mind. She didn’t have any potato chips. A river of tears streamed down her face. Such a small thing, yet so monumental. How could she have forgotten to buy potato chips? Ian liked salty foods. She poured salt on her finger and licked it, then made a crunching sound with her teeth.
A logical person could never accept Elizabeth’s behavior, even knowing she had just been told her son was dead. She would be labeled insane, moronic, certifiable. In the past, they would have classified her as a madwoman and locked her away. Whatever humiliation came along she willingly accepted.
Elizabeth possessed an ability to lead and shelter souls. Her grandmother had taught her mother. Her mother had taught her and her sisters. How far back the lessons went, no one would ever know, possibly to the onset of creation.
Elizabeth Decker had no formal education, no fine clothes or expensive homes. She had no stocks, bonds, a
wards, or certificates. What she possessed, however, were the necessary tools for the long and tedious task ahead of her.
No other gift could be more valuable.
FIFTEEN
Monday, February 12, 2001, 10:45 A.M.
WHEN JOANNE returned from a conference regarding a pending rape case, she discovered a message from Dean Kennedy on her voice mail. “I’m returning his call,” she told his secretary.
A few moments later, Kennedy came on the line. “Arnold Dreiser and Elizabeth Decker are waiting in the lobby.”
Joanne made it her habit to enter the office via the side entrance, not wanting to run into an irate attorney or defendant in the lobby “What’s going on?”
“Mrs. Decker received an anonymous phone call last night,” Kennedy told her. “The caller said her son had been murdered and buried in a field near Magic Mountain.”
“Why wasn’t I notified?” Joanne asked. “Dreiser has my home number. Do you think he’s trying to go over my head for some reason by contacting you?”
“He claims he tried to call you at home several times last night,” Kennedy stated. “Your line was busy. You better check your phone and see if it’s out of order. In the meantime, I’ll notify the front desk to send them to my office.”
Joanne called her home number. After seven rings, she hung up. Because the Spencers didn’t want to change their phone number, and Joanne had rented their house for only a short time, she didn’t have voice mail outside of her cell phone. She kept her cell phone on all the time, but Dreiser didn’t have the number. Thinking she might know why no one had answered the phone when Dreiser had attempted to contact her, she opened the zippered section inside her wallet where she kept the key to the safe room. The key was gone. Leah must have rifled through her purse while she was in the kitchen. Then, after Joanne left the house, her daughter must have unlocked the room to retrieve her computer. The main phone line had probably been busy because Leah had been on-line either chatting with her friends or surfing the Internet. Like father, like daughter, Joanne thought, marching down the corridor to Kennedy’s office. She hadn’t thought either of her kids knew about the secret room. She must have left it unlocked once, and one of them had accidentally discovered it. Joanne used that room to store various paperwork related to her divorce, as well as items related to her former husband’s criminal activities—items she didn’t want the children to see. Knowing Leah, she’d probably been intrigued by the room and told her friends about it. Now Joanne knew she’d have to tell the Spencers that their safe room was no longer a secret. Great, she thought, striding past Kennedy’s secretary and into his office.
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