by C. B. Carter
James made a quick decision. He had to tell her a little bit of what was going on, but not enough to put her at risk. He would never tell her of the bank stealing part, but he needed her to know they were being watched.
He just said it, “We’re being watched.”
“Watched, what do you mean, like spying? Are you in trouble James?”
James decided to lie. “More like being investigated. You know, because of the accident.”
She didn’t know and stood in an instant of anger and distrust. She was hot now, her bull-shit meter pegged off the graph, and exclaimed in a normal voice, (which was much louder than the whisper James was hoping for) “What the hell is going on?”
He grabbed her sleeve and with his best puppy-dog look, silently begged her to sit down, to hear him out.
She reluctantly agreed, giving him a fierce once over while she took her seat and jerked her sleeve out of his hand.
Skepticism filled the distance between them and James could feel its coldness roll across his skin like a cold front from British Columbia. The beer bottle was quickly at her lips again, as she took a big gulp, trying to swallow her anger. “They don’t investigate car accidents, James, at least not to the point where they spy on you. What is going on?”
He paused momentarily, and then lied through his teeth, hating himself before he even spoke. “There was a little green in the car. The cops found it and now I’m under suspicion. Mr. Wright, the one that called when you picked me up at the hotel, he’s an employee investigator, and I’ve heard stories about how they take the smallest investigation to unheard of levels. OTS and bank security are ruthless.”
Bridget wasn’t sure she believed it. It did ring of truth, and she was sure there were employee investigators—after all, it was a government agency.
They were back to whispering.
“So why the questions about the internet café? What does that have to do with this?”
“I have friends I’d like to contact without even the remote possibility of these investigators knowing. Friends that may be able to help me keep my job.”
She nodded. She knew James loved his job. “Okay, then you’ll need a pre-paid cell phone. It doesn’t require a contract or a credit card and they would never know which one you purchased.”
“Yes, but I’m thinking of another route.”
“What’s that?”
“I want you to steal a phone from one of your co–wor—”
She was shaking her head before he even finished. “No, I will not steal from a co-worker, James. Are you crazy?”
“Okay, maybe steal was the wrong word. I want you to borrow a phone—you can even leave a note saying you’ll bring it right back. I only need it for an hour or so.”
“Why not just buy one?”
“Baby, it has to be secret. They can’t know and it would look suspicious if I suddenly bought one. It’s not like I can walk into a Best Buy and ask for the secret sales register.”
“I don’t know, James. I guess I could borrow Cindy’s, she never uses it at work, and she’s pretty laid back, so she won’t make a big fuss.”
James stood, gulped down the remaining beer, and grabbed her hand. He planted a thankful kiss on her cheek and whispered, “Follow my lead.” She just stared at him and finished her beer.
As he entered the living room, he said aloud, “Do I have to go? Can’t you go by yourself to get the schedule?”
Bridget quickly caught on, “Yes, James, you have to go. I’m not leaving you here, so you’re going with me or I’ll get fired.”
She grabbed the car keys and impatiently held the door open as James took his sweet time, his back still aching from being hogtied, and the beating didn’t help either. As he passed through the door, he whispered, “Beauty and brains.” She smiled and patted him on the butt.
* * * *
Mr. Wright’s team saw, heard, and recorded everything.
They saw James fold up the note and place it into his wallet. They watched Bridget’s arms flail about in the car and heard every single word as she told James of all her attempts to find him as she drove them to the condominium.
Mr. Wright got a great deal of professional pleasure in listening to her tale—and to think he had set this all up, starting with the murder of Karl Brownstone four months earlier. Every detail meticulously calculated and planned out. The best surveillance equipment black-market money could buy. It was his decision to choose Mr. Spain as the mark, his choice of professional associates. This was his team, his plan, and it was working perfectly.
He heard all the tender caresses in the apartment as Ms. Davies nursed James back to health (lucky bastard, well, lucky to have her anyway—not so lucky he was chosen for this job). Mr. Wright’s wife could no longer provide the type of intimate power a good woman could give a man. Ms. Davies’ attentive nature made Wright glad he was a man and jealous he wasn’t her man. Sure she was too young, but what better way to spend one’s imagination.
He watched James wake up on Sunday morning and heard the normal conversations of concern as she cleansed and bandaged his wounds. He heard them over breakfast and coffee. He heard every phone call of co-workers checking in to make sure he was okay.
He watched in real-time every webpage Bridget visited as she searched WebMD and other sites for the best way to care for James’s wounds. All of it, every conversation, every camera view, and every single action on any webpage were being recorded on an iron-clad network of servers just blocks down the street. Everything was indexed and searchable down to the room they were in and when they were in it. Yet even with all this technology, he missed a great deal of conversation as the couple sat on the balcony.
“Is the balcony bugged?” he screamed at the surveillance technician.
“Yes, it’s bugged. We have our best high-fidelity wireless devices in all the living quarters. We can hear and see everything.”
“Really? We can hear everything? Is that what you said? All I can hear is a bunch of shushes and whispering, sounds like a fucking funeral in there. Followed by her screaming, ‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask the same question to you.”
“It’s ... the mic is in the light—above—she stood and that’s why it was so loud,” stammered the technician.
This was followed by more whispering and the technician, as much as he wanted to, couldn’t get a clear voice path, the voices were too low and mixed in with the ambient noise of vehicle and city noise on the street.
Mr. Wright was losing his mind. Patience had deserted him long ago and he just sat writing a note as the whispering continued. He was fuming and tore up note after note, until he seemed pleased with the last one he wrote.
Finally, they could be heard again. They entered into the living room and apparently, a trip was in order to get a work schedule for the lovely Bridget, and Bridget, being the good girl she was, was not going to leave James behind. Mr. Wright stood. His hand made a circular motion in the air and three associates, not including the technician, jumped to their feet and began to mobilize. They were on the move.
Wright ripped the note from the notepad and handed it to the technician, it read:
“Get this fixed. If a cricket farts in that condo, or on that balcony, or in their car, I want to hear it, and you never know, I just may throw a gassed up cricket in there as a test.”
As Wright was leaving the room, the surveillance technician overheard him ask the associate holding the door open, “Do crickets eat beans?”
The associate replied, “Maybe bean leaves and stalks. Maybe cooked beans?”
Another associate replied, “I think crickets are carnivores.”
They were in the black Tahoe before James and Bridget made it to their car. The laptops were glowing and the planted GPS devices working.
“Target is a go, sir,” announced the associate in the back seat.
“Perfect,” Mr. Wright replied as he reached out and grabbed the drivers arm, “Now remember. We want him to
know we’re here, but not to know we’re here. We’re the spooky ghosts, right? When we’re not here, I want him to think we are, I want him to feel our icy stares on the back of his neck, and when we are there, it should be obvious.”
The associate started the Tahoe, all of the passengers waiting for the engine to warm.
“And we’ve taken care of the car radio?” Wright asked.
“Yes, the radio will only play the pre–recorded songs, per your request.”
“And we have a warm body at her job?”
“Yes, he’s taking his seat now, has a clear view of the front door, and will track her once she enters. We have another ready to track Mr. Spain if he enters the restaurant.”
“Excellent. Let’s let them know we’re here.”
The driver pulled out of the parking lot and stopped on 8th Avenue, turned on its fog lights and rolled down the driver side window, allowing the remaining light of the day to silhouette the three men inside.
The associate in the back seat piped up, “We could cover larvae of some sort with bean paste, but are we even sure a cricket can fart? I mean, just thinking—it—it would have to be a very high pitched fart, you know, because its butthole is so small.”
The other associates laughed. One finally replied to the open-ended question, “You eat beans and you’re going to fart—it’s a natural biological law of some sort.”
Mr. Wright watched James and Bridget intently and smiled as he listened to the banter between his associates.
Chapter Three
~ The Schedule ~
Bridget opened the passenger door and let James into the car. She then jumped into the driver’s seat and started the Honda Accord. Although the high of the day was in the mid to upper forties, the temperature had quickly dropped to forty as the sun began to set. They sat and waited for the engine to warm up, both eagerly wanting to crank up the heat.
Her current favorite CD, The Best of Concrete Blonde, spun in the CD player and began playing across the speakers. Neither thought to change it or eject it as they both loved the gut-wrenching lyrics and the powerful vocals of CB’s lead singer, Johnette. Unknown to them, they were unable to change the CD. They couldn’t even eject it or listen to the radio. Wright’s technician made her radio play all Concrete Blonde all day long.
James checked the contents of the glove box and was glad to see a flashlight. He quickly examined the rest of the interior. Nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of empty Starbucks coffee cups, a basket of her laundry in the back seat along with her Information Technology college books, and then he saw it, a little black dot stuck to the bottom of the mirror.
He motioned to Bridget and guided her eyes to the small device and she immediately knew it didn’t belong. This was her first new car and she knew it like the back of her hand. She nodded in confirmation, still unsure why an employee investigator would go to this length to investigate a car accident. The questions were stacking up in a queue in her mind.
The temperature drop had slowed and was hovering near a chilly 39 degrees. As soon as the car’s heater kicked in, the Honda was in drive and Bridget was off, a quick left onto 8th Avenue.
James noticed the black Tahoe with blacked out windows as Bridget turned on to 8th Avenue because its fog lights were turned on and windows rolled down. He could see the silhouette of the driver and someone in the passenger seat. It appeared to be Mr. Wright, but he wasn’t certain. He made a mental note of the fog lights and their placement on the vehicle. He was sure it was them and they obviously wanted him to know they were there. He just didn’t know who ‘they’ were. He instantly knew he was doing the right thing. He kept thinking he had to keep his friends close and his enemies closer—he needed to find out who he was up against, he needed to find a way out.
Bridget made a quick right onto Pine. James looked back, pretended to be collecting something from the back seat and saw the Tahoe tailing them. He eyed the laundry basket and came up with a quick idea. He told Bridget that he was thirsty and to pull into the next convenience store.
James was constantly checking behind them—all along Pine the Tahoe followed at a distance. Then moments after Bridget’s turn onto Union, the Tahoe appeared five vehicles back. Bridget was getting excited by the notion of it all, the cloak and dagger tone, but surprised they went to this detail over a little weed. The music coming across the car speakers only heightened the experience. “Okay, we can stop at N & W Shell near my job. That’s the nearest one I can think of, unless you want to back track to Madison. Or I can get you a juice from The Lounge.”
“The one near your job is fine. Let’s do it after you get your work schedule.”
By the time Concrete Blonde’s “Scene of a Perfect Crime” was playing, she was pulling into a little known alley street off Union. The Tahoe slowed as it drove by, then continued on Union, James lost sight of it and was somewhat thankful to see it go by and disappear.
Bridget opened the driver’s door, put on her coat, and was on her way to The Lounge before James whistled to get her attention. He got out holding up her purse. She rushed back to him.
Five months earlier, on Christmas Day of all days, the purse was the subject of their first argument, not an argument really, but a clash of minds. The purse was a Chloe knockoff that she purchased on the internet for herself as a Christmas present. It was a decent knockoff, but failed miserably under close inspection. He had purchased her a Cole tote for Christmas and totally missed her sense of style.
He now regretted ever buying the Cole and she had mixed feelings about the Chloe knockoff. Sometimes she liked the attention it garnered from the other girls. At other times, she despised it. Imagine having feelings for a purse, she thought, it went against who she felt she truly was: a modern day tree-hugger. But her lifestyle was changing back then. She acted impulsively and, in the big scheme of things, it was just a purse. James’s point centered on the fact she spent $590 dollars for the knockoff purse and he’d rather she not spend much at all or buy the real thing—why buy a knockoff at that price? It didn’t make any sense to him.
She looked at the purse, then eyed James. “Irony, huh? Bet you’re glad I bought it now.”
He placed the purse on the trunk of the car. “I’ll be glad when you’re back.”
He pulled her close and whispered, “Write the note to Cindy here, before you go into The Lounge, sign it with something vague, something Cindy would know, but others, strangers, wouldn’t. Grab the phone as quick as possible, also grab a work schedule. Don’t stay. Don’t get me juice. Leave your cell phone here. In and out, okay?”
She dug into the purse, found a pen and notepad, and set the purse on the trunk of the car. She curled the note in her left hand, grabbed the purse, and gave James a quick kiss. For the first time, James felt the purse situation was forgiven. He swore to himself, if they made it out of this alive, he would never buy a purse again.
Moments later, she entered the backdoor to The Lounge. Her co-workers were pleased to see her, but surprised she was there to pick up a schedule. She could simply call, but they were all in a rush to make money and didn’t linger on the small details.
She hurried to the locker room. It wasn’t really a room, more like a closet that had nine small metal lockers where the staff could store their items during shifts. There was a small table littered with notes, flyers, and old magazines along one wall. One wooden chair stolen from somewhere on The Lounge’s floor was tucked under the table.
* * * *
James waited for a few minutes and watched Bridget turn the corner and head toward The Lounge.
Seattle blocks were like most large cities, they were somewhere between square and rectangular and one could calculate the driving time to circle a block. He waited twelve minutes and didn’t see the Tahoe. James quickly jumped in the passenger seat and started removing all of his clothing. He removed his jacket, his shirt, his pants, and socks and stopped at his underwear. After a few moments of contemplation, he decided to
remove them, as well.
Even with the engine running and the heater at its highest setting, the forty-degree weather chilled him to the bone so he leaned into the backseat, grabbed a bed sheet from the laundry basket, and wrapped it around himself. He was still cold, but it would work. His plan, as crazy as it was, just might work.
* * * *
Bridget searched for a few moments, and found Cindy’s cell phone in an unlocked locker and replaced it with the note. She closed the locker and, for some unknown reason, decided to lock it with her own lock and key. The cell phone had just settled into her purse when a drunk busted into the room, almost knocking her over in the process.
“Oh, I’mma sorry—I’mma looking for the men’s rooms,” the drunk slurred and he smelt like a brewery.
“It’s the other way, down the hall to your left, go back the way you came.” She directed with her arm and index finger.
“Left? What?” stammered the drunk.
Bridget pulled the work schedule from the corkboard and said, “That way.” She pointed, as she pushed him out of the locker room and exited.
“Oh, okay, you aarre soooo pretty, what’s ya name?”
“Forget it, buddy, I have a man, and he knows where the restroom is.”
“Can’t blame me for tryin’, okay, so this way,” the drunk said pointing back toward the bar.
“Yes, you can’t miss it, that way and on your left.”
She had babied and built up the ego of many a drunk. She considered herself a pro at it and made a decent wage doing it, but she just didn’t have the time tonight. Drunks as a rule immediately landed on her shit-list at the number three spot. They quickly moved up if they touched her or became impolite. “That way, good luck,” she said, and headed toward the back door, the drunk nearly a distant memory.
She opened the door with the small of her back and noticed the drunk going back into the locker room. ‘God, don’t let him piss in the locker I use,’ she prayed and was out the door, into the back of house area. Minutes later, she was on the street heading toward the car.