Killing Pace

by Douglas Schofield

  And now, in her motel room, her burner phone vibrated at exactly twelve noon.

  Laura didn’t recognize the number.

  “You’re using a prepay.”

  “That’s right. And you’re not in Oregon.”

  “There’s something I need you to do.”

  “Just like that, huh? NO! Not before you tell me everything. What happened, what’s going on now, and where are you?”

  “It would be better if you didn’t know where I am. I don’t want you to have to lie.”

  “I’m going to lie anyway. Lie my fucking head off! Anyway, no one’s on to me. I’m walking through Bunker Hill Park, talking to you on a phone that I bought an hour ago. It’s going under the hammer as soon as we finish this call, and I’ll buy another one.”

  “Good.”

  “Two months ago, you were a federal agent working in Sicily, and now you’re a murder suspect. Trust is a two-way street, Laura, so if you want my help, start talking.”

  Laura knew that tone. He had every right. She’d pushed him too far, too often.

  “I didn’t murder that couple.”

  “I know that! I never believed you did. But if you want me to put my ass on the line for you, again, tell me where you’ve been for the last few months, why you’re a murder suspect, and what you’re planning.”

  “How much time did you buy with that phone?”

  “A hundred minutes for state to state.”

  “Okay. Find a bench, sit down, and listen.”

  It took her twenty-seven minutes to bring him completely up to date from their last contact, when he’d given her the lead on the Edens. He listened silently and didn’t interrupt her once, not even when she told him about the amnesia. But she could tell from his breathing that he was living every minute of her story.

  When she finished, he said heatedly, “Okay, the first thing I’m going to do is hack into every illicit cell phone in whatever jail that Lewis guy’s in and offer fifty grand to the first inmate to stick a shiv into him!”

  “Can we leave that for later?”

  “If we have to. But I’m angry, Laura. Really angry!”

  “So am I, Dickie.”

  “What do you need?”

  She explained.

  “Even if the brand they used had CVR,” he replied carefully, “most storage plans only run seven to thirty days.”

  “CVR?”

  “Cloud video recording. The monitor uploads through the home wireless provider. The parents can watch their child in real time, or download to review later. A lot of people like that feature because they can use it to capture stills for family albums, and if the camera is concealed, it also gives them a chance to keep an eye on nannies and babysitters.”

  “So you’re saying that even if you could identify the brand, any video footage of that night will be gone.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Nothing’s ever ‘gone,’ Laura. Purged, maybe, but not gone. Leave it with me.”

  “But how do we find out the brand? I can describe what I saw—the lens was like an eyeball on a black stand—but there must be dozens of brands that look like that.”

  “These people had money and they lived in Palm Beach. So they probably bought it at one of those high-end tech stores on Worth Avenue. These things all come with an automatic warranty, and all that information is stored electronically these days. We know their names, and when they expected to get their kid. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.”

  “Okay. And Dickie … remember the code?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  * * *

  It took some effort, but by the following morning Dickie had hacked every tech outlet in Palm Beach, found the sale, identified the brand, and determined what storage plan the Edens had paid for. He kept Laura up to date on different burners he’d picked up, while she kept a low profile in her room, living mostly on takeout and watching the street.

  That in itself was a problem. There would be no surer way of drawing attention to herself than by staying in her room 24/7, sending the maid away when she knocked. So on the first morning, she found a used bookstore and bought a couple of old textbooks on federal civil procedure and contract law. She told the day manager, a smiling and polite East Indian gentleman, that she was studying for very important exams and needed to be left undisturbed as much as possible. He arranged for her room to be serviced each morning at nine o’clock while she went for breakfast at a nearby diner. She left the books on her room’s small desk, along with a couple of pens, a colored highlighter, and a notepad scrawled with legal gibberish plucked at random from the pages of the textbooks.

  It took Dickie all day to drill through the baby cam manufacturer’s system and recover the purged footage from the night of the murders.

  He called just as she finished her Sunshine Sushi Selection Supper, which was basically a weird Japanese-American version of a Happy Meal.

  “Hi.”

  “Do you have Wi-Fi where you’re staying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you log on with that phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I’m going to give you an email address. The password is redemption, all lowercase. Go to Drafts. I’ve left a video link there. Watch it, but don’t forward it anywhere.”

  She could hear the relief in his voice.

  “Tell me!”

  “Just watch it, Laura. I’ll call later.”

  As prepared as she thought she was, the video was a shock.

  There was Agent Lockhart with the now-dead couple. Her heart froze as she watched herself staring into the crib. As eager as she was to see what Dickie had already seen, once again the rush of memory froze her attention. She missed several seconds of the footage and had to run it back. There she was, all brisk and professional again, asking the sharp question.

  “A baby camera, and no baby?”

  There were the Edens’ faces again, discouraged, resentful, apprehensive. She remembered that exact moment. She remembered struggling with herself, behind the cop façade, deciding how to deal with them, how to connect with them, how to handle this delicate situation when they returned to the living room.

  Eleven minutes later, by the time stamp on the film, two darkly clad figures walked past the crib without pausing. She couldn’t see faces, but she saw thick male bodies. By pausing and replaying a few times, she identified the grip of a handgun in the nearest man’s hand. A minute later, there was the faint sound of a shriek … a few seconds of silence … then two loud gunshots. A few minutes passed. Suddenly one of the males reappeared. He stared at the baby cam, then reached for it. His hand filled the frame. The screen went gray … then, black.

  Laura recognized the man.

  His nose was still taped.

  He was the thug who had snatched her off her chair at the restaurant in Catania.

  She now had a good idea what had happened: While one man held his gun on the Edens, the other pistol-whipped her from behind. Then they’d taken her service weapon and shot the couple. When they left the house, they’d taken her, the camera, and the Edens’ cell phones. It had never occurred to the investigators that there might have been a baby monitor in the nursery, so no one had followed the leads that Dickie had now followed, two months later.

  They’d dumped her in the back of that van and drugged her. They’d been taking her to Roland Lewis, probably for a friendly little gang rape, just before they finished her off and dropped her into Roland’s handy-dandy soup vat. But they’d both been killed in the collision that had robbed her of her memory, and Roland had seen his chance to turn a one-off rape and murder into a sex slave fantasy.

  Her phone rang.

  Area code 301. Bethesda, Maryland.

  It could only be Dickie.

  “I picked up another burner, but I’m not sure I needed to.”

  “I watched the video.” Laura’s voice shook.

  “Yeah.
I almost threw up. But that does it, Laura. You can clear yourself.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you mean? That video—”

  “There’s something I have to do first. And I’d rather not turn myself in and end up in a cell while some state attorney reviews ‘fresh evidence.’ I know how the system works.”

  “Laura, it’s a slam. You’d be out in a few days.”

  “More like a few weeks. And then what? Even if the mob doesn’t have me killed while I’m in custody, as soon as the FBI finish taping my statement I’ll be transferred to some field office in Alaska. They’ll bury me because no matter what I did, no matter what I uncovered, and no matter what happened to me back in February, I’m an embarrassment. I brought them clear evidence that this thing involved a corrupt U.S. consul, dirty Immigration officers, and mob connections, but they spent so much time passing the buck back and forth between CBP and ICE and USCIS that the whole thing came down on their heads. I’m not just an embarrassment because of what I know about the baby-smuggling operation. I’m an embarrassment because I’m living proof that they knew and they failed to stop it. They’ll never let me finish this investigation, and I think I know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it might lead higher.”

  “Higher in Homeland?”

  “Yes. Or straight to some politician.”

  Dickie was silent for a second. “What are you going to do?”

  “Stay out here and blow this thing wide open.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “I’ve got you, Dickie.”

  “You do. But I’m not much good on the street.”

  “I get that.” She was thoughtful. “That video link…”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I give you a name of a cop, could you find out if he has a private email address?”

  “Try me.”

  It didn’t take long. He called her back.

  “Your detective friend doesn’t use his name or even his initials in his email address.”

  “But you found him.”

  “Hey, this is me, remember? His email address is a telephone number.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Easy. It’s 2395552312@comcast.net.”

  “239 … that’s the area code for—”

  “—yeah, the whole southeast corner of Florida—Everglades City and Naples included. It’s not a landline, and the number’s not assigned to the sheriff’s office, so I figure it must be Jardine’s private cell.”

  Laura was silent.

  “Laura? What’s the plan?”

  “You sound like you’re enjoying this.”

  “I am. Kinda. It’s you, remember? What do you want me to do?”

  “You’re sure that’s him?”

  “I am. But there’s one way to be certain.”

  “Call him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll need to find a pay phone.”

  “No, don’t use any phone in that town unless you’re planning to get on your bike and hit the road right after you make the call. We don’t know what your trackers’ capabilities are.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?”

  “I’ll make the call.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. Listen. There’s an all-night coffee shop in Alexandria. It’s twenty minutes from here. It’s got free Wi-Fi and the signal’s strong. There are no security cameras, inside or out. I’ll drive there and park across the street. They change the password every few days, but it’s printed on the till receipt. I’ll buy a coffee, go back to my car, and make the call. I’ll say, ‘Is this Scott Jardine?’ If he says yes, I’ll tell him to check his emails and hang up. I’ll forward the link to him, along with your Oregon number, and then deep six the phone in the Potomac.”

  “That works.”

  “Okay. Now give me the license number of your bike.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can make sure no one’s running it.”

  She gave it to him.

  “Good. Talk to you later.”

  “Dickie…”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And I still want that kiss.”

  After he hung up, Laura picked up the orange card she’d retrieved from her vacuum cleaner. The logo on the card read WIND PIÙ VICINI.

  “WIND More Neighbors.”

  WIND was an Italian telecom provider. When she was in Sicily, she’d bought one of their twenty-euro prepaid SIM cards. When she got back, she’d added it to the collection in her vacuum cleaner because … well, you just never know. She popped out the embedded chip and loaded it into her phone.

  Dickie had said don’t make any calls from Clewiston. But he hadn’t said don’t make any calls from Italy. She dialed a number she had memorized months earlier.

  It was answered on the third ring.

  “Ja? Wer ist das?”

  “You could be a little more polite, Renate.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well … Laura Pace.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Yes. I thought you were dead.”

  “I nearly was. Not that you sound very concerned.”

  “I was, but then came the alarm.”

  “What alarm?”

  “Your fingerprints. And then the stolen cars. So I knew you were fine.”

  “I was on the run from the Mafia and the FBI, but you knew I was fine?”

  “I am aware of your abilities.”

  “The prints, the stolen cars … how did you know any of that?”

  Renate didn’t immediately reply. Laura could hear the sound of rapid typing in the background. “You’re calling from an Italian number, but I see you’re not in Italy.”

  What the hell?

  “And how exactly do you know that?”

  “You’re in Florida. Clew-i-ston? Have I pronounced it correctly?”

  Laura took a breath. “Don’t let the FBI get its hands on that software.”

  “They have it, but they need a warrant to use it. But in your case, they will have no trouble getting one. I would advise against using that SIM card again.”

  “I need some information.”

  “First, tell me what happened.”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Rome.”

  “Rome? Hell, Renate! It must be—what?—three in the morning? I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Four. And I was awake. So tell me.”

  “How much time will twenty euros give us?”

  “Summarize.”

  Laura did.

  “You said you needed information.”

  “Dominic Lanza. He’s a New Jersey Mafia boss. I think he’s behind all this. I’m guessing you can help me find him.”

  “That would be unwise.”

  “Trying to make me disappear was unwise. I intend to explain that to him. In person.”

  “The intelligence I have points to a different organization being involved.”

  “Don’t believe it! Nelthorp was working with Lanza on two parallel rackets—fake auto parts and stolen babies.”

  “I’m saying you are wrong. Do not risk your life on a false premise. Mr. Lanza is not the enemy. The time on that SIM card will expire in six minutes. Give me a number to call you back.”

  Something about the woman’s tone rankled Laura.

  And made her suddenly and deeply suspicious.

  She ended the call.

  She removed the chip from her phone, and smashed it under the heel of her boot.

  27

  Just after 1:00 A.M., Laura’s phone rang.

  Jardine skipped the formalities. “How did you get my email address?”

  “Is that important?”

  “No. Maybe.”

  “I have resources.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” More a droll statement than a question.

  “You’re calling this number, so I’m assuming
you watched the video.”

  “Yes! Are you ready to come in from the cold?”

  “No. Are you at work right now?”

  “Yeah. I’m off at eight in the morning.”

  “But you’re alone?”

  “I’m sitting in my car.”

  “Good. This call ends now.”

  “What?”

  “The first thing you do in the morning is buy a prepaid SIM card. Then call me back on this number.”

  “How’s that going to help? If the feds ever get suspicious of me—”

  “Destroy the card after the call. Do it, and call me back.”

  His 8:30 A.M. call woke her up.

  “Sarah, you need to come in! I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

  “I will come in … but not until I’m ready.”

  “I can make the car theft charges go away! Just tell me where you dumped the beater you stole from the casino.”

  “How do you know that was me?”

  “Because I’m not stupid.”

  “How do you know I dumped it?”

  “Because you’re not stupid.”

  “Maybe we could start a club.”

  The lame joke only frustrated him. “Sarah! For God’s sake, let me help you! That video footage tells the story. I need to give it to Turnbull, the FBI lead. It’ll put things in a whole different light.”

  “No. I want you to sit on it. Wait … did you say Turnbull?”

  “Alan Turnbull. He’s a real pain. Do you know him? He’s never mentioned that.”

  “We met once. And if he’s on the case, it’s a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “He and Phyllis Corbin, my boss at Customs … they’re close.”

  “Close, as in…?”

  “Yeah. That close.”

  Special Agent Alan Turnbull worked at the FBI’s Miami field office. Laura only knew this because a year ago she’d been invited to the dedication ceremony for the FBI’s gigantic new office complex in Miramar. Corbin and a few agents from her office, and a few from ICE, had attended. She’d noticed Corbin standing next to one of the Feebee agents. The body language was obvious. Curiosity aroused, she’d eased her way toward them through the crowd. She noticed their fingers were partially entwined behind his pant leg. Corbin’s quick release and sidestep when she spotted Laura approaching confirmed her initial impression. Trapped, Corbin had been forced to introduce her to Special Agent Alan Turnbull, a man who appeared to be several years her junior. “Old friends,” Corbin had said.