“So, if Mr. Randall sent the letter, why would he not want to leave traces?”
“I think this proves the letter’s from someone else.” Catrina leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. “But, if Randall didn’t send it, who did?”
“Who has something to gain from Mr. Randall not being dead?” Abiba asked.
“Let’s see. Not Karen. If Randall is alive, he goes to jail. Karen can’t make the mortgage payments on her house and she can’t collect the insurance money. I guess the same holds true for her brother. I don’t think Dan Anderson has a dog in this fight.”
“I don’t see how it makes any difference to Mr. Randall’s sister or her husband.” Abiba squirmed in the uncomfortable chair. “They don’t have any financial stake here either.”
“That leaves Dick Jr.” Catrina put her cup down and flipped through her notebook. “If Randall is dead then everything goes to Karen. If he’s still alive then Dick Jr. can still fight her for control of the business.”
“Who else is there?” Abiba asked.
“Caglione, I guess. I can’t see him looking for any publicity in this affair. He’d take care of things himself on the quiet.”
Abiba sat back in her chair and rolled her eyes up into her head. “No, I think it must have been the son. He doesn’t think things through, just reacts. The boy must be feeling really threatened and is desperately trying to hold on. But, as you said, what does it mean?”
Catrina thought for a moment. “I don’t think it means anything. I think it’s just a red herring. We need to keep moving forward, open to either possibility.”
“You mean that Randall skipped town, or was murdered?”
“Exactly.”
Chapter 18
The buzzing door bell was a rude awakening for Karen. She threw on her bathrobe and ran for the door. It must be something important to wake her in the middle of her night.
“Mrs. Randall?” the short auburn-haired man in the gray suit said. “I’m Agent Mortensen.” He held up an FBI badge for Karen to see. “This is Agent Michaels, from the IRS. May we come in?”
Karen was stupefied. What did the FBI and IRS want with her? “Yes.” She pulled her bathrobe a little tighter around her neck. “By all means.” She stood aside to allow the two G-men to enter her living room.
Nine o’clock in the morning was a little early for her. She was a child of the night. Her entire professional career had started at seven in the evening and after show parties often lasted until dawn. She didn’t understand how people functioned at this ungodly hour of the day.
The shock of seeing two such handsome gentlemen at her door almost made up for the interruption of her beauty sleep. But she wasn’t prepared for gentleman callers. She didn’t have a drop of makeup on. And a frumpy terrycloth robe was not what she would have chosen, had she known who was at her door. Her blue silk kimono would have displayed her blue eyes to much more advantage.
Lesson learned. She should just get rid of the terrycloth robe and only have flattering clothes in her closet.
“Mrs. Randall, we need to ask you a few questions about your husband,” Agent Mortensen was saying. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
Karen tried to focus on the topic at hand. “Would you gentlemen like a cup of coffee? I haven’t even had coffee yet.” She led her visitors into the living room and motioned for them to seat themselves. “Good heavens, I haven’t even brushed my teeth. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather come back when I’m prepared to receive visitors?”
“Ma’am, this is important. We need your cooperation now.”
Ma’am? That made Karen feel positively ancient. What were these men, in their early thirties? Crap. They were young enough to be her sons, if she had sons.
“We can skip the coffee,” Agent Michaels, the good looking blond said. “When was the last time you heard from your husband?” He sat forward, notebook in hand, in the big green recliner.
Karen took a minute to look around the room and compose herself. This house was all Dick’s. She would never have gone for the faux-Mediterranean villa motif. And the wicker furniture? Come on, Dick. This isn’t the Bahamas.
“It’s been about three weeks now,” she said. “Dick came to Vegas that day then just disappeared. That’s the last time I saw or heard from him.”
“You sure you haven’t heard from him since then?” Mortensen had a ridiculous looking pencil-thin mustache. “He hasn’t called, texted, emailed?”
“No, I haven’t. Why? Why is the FBI interested in him?”
“Did Mr. Randall ever talk to you about any off-shore accounts?” Michaels asked.
“Off-shore accounts. You mean like Switzerland or something? No. You have to realize that we didn’t live together. I was in my house in Vegas; he lived here in Seattle. We didn’t talk much.”
Off-shore accounts? Had Dick been stashing away money somewhere? That made sense. If he really did fake his death then he’d need cash to get by on. And she knew Dick wouldn’t be satisfied with scraping by. He had to have stashed a bundle, enough to buy a villa on some Caribbean island somewhere.
How could she get her hands on that cash? She had to call her detective. Maybe that Flaherty woman could find it for her.
“Your husband was behind on his taxes,” Michaels said. “We have reason to believe that he was laundering money for the mob. Drugs, gambling and prostitution money.”
“No. Dick may not have been a model citizen, but to be mixed up with the mob? I don’t believe it.”
“Ma’am,” Mortensen said. “We have enough evidence to start proceedings to confiscate this house, all of his real property, including his cars and shut down his businesses. If you don’t want that to happen, you better come clean with us.”
“Are you threatening me?” Karen felt the heat in her face. “Are you really threatening me? Well you get out. GET OUT!” She hated her squeaky voice and it was never worse than when she yelled. She could have been a movie star if not for that voice. “You go back to your bosses and tell them who they’re dealing with. I spent a lifetime in Vegas, working for every kind of shady character you can imagine, and I came out on top. You tell your bosses that if they’re going to threaten me, I’m a pro. They’re going to have to drop their amateur standings.”
Karen stood and pointed to the door.
The two G-men looked at each other.
“Get out. NOW” Karen shouted.
The men slowly rose and headed for the door.
“Mrs. Randall.” Mortensen turned at the doorway to face her. “You’re making a big mistake. We’re not your enemy. We want to find out what happened to your husband as much as you do.”
“GET OUT!” she stomped her foot.
“If you can think of anything that can help us, help you, give me a call. Here’s my card.” Mortensen held out a business card.
Karen wrapped her hands around her midsection and just stared at him.
Agent Mortensen placed the card on a side table and left.
****
“Mr. Hardwick, I have a Mr. James Winston to see you.”
“Jennifer,” Chris said into the phone. “When are you going to stop calling me Mr. Hardwick? Every time you say that, I look around for my father.”
“I’m sorry... Chris... I know Mr. Winston isn’t on your schedule, but this might be important. Do you have time for a drop in?”
Chris rocked back in his black leather swivel chair. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“He says it concerns Clayton Johnson-White.”
“Shit. I guess you better show him in.”
Chris looked around his office. It wasn’t too out of order. The chairs were free from papers, but stacks of manila file folders were piled on his desk. What the hell. It gave him the appearance of a busy attorney.
He took a quick glance at the LeRoy Neiman painting he’d liberated from his dad’s house that now hung on his wall. Dad’s old boat, the Defiant, was clawing to windward,
with her crew, all dressed in red foul-weather gear, draped over the high side, white water everywhere. He loved that picture. The famous artist painted it when Dad won the South Sound Series back in the Eighties.
What could this Winston joker want with Clayton? Was he a Hollywood producer? Chris had fielded three calls from producers wanting to buy the rights to Clayton’s story this week.
“Mr. James Winston,” Jennifer said as she opened the door. She handed Chris Winston’s business card.
Chris appreciated the tall brunette’s long legs as she stepped aside to allow the mystery man to enter.
Chris sized him up. A small man, Winston looked extremely fit and wiry for his age. He looked to Chris like someone’s grandpa. His had an infectious, uneven toothed smile and walked with an air of self-confidence. Winston wore chinos, a short sleeve sport shirt and carried a tan jacket draped over his arm.
Chris looked at the business card. It said “James Winston, Fugitive Recovery Agent.”
“Mr. Hardwick. I’m glad to meet you.” Winston extended his hand. The small man’s voice was so deep and round, it sounded like it was coming from a three hundred and fifty pound lineman.
“Come in, Mr. Winston. Sit down.” Chris shook the proffered hand and waved towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. Chris didn’t know what the meeting was about, so he retreated to safety behind his desk. “And please, call me Chris. When people say ‘Mr. Hardwick’ around here, they’re talking about my father.”
Winston chuckled. “You can call me Jim.”
“I can see why,” Chris said. “When I heard your name, I expected the Alabama quarterback.”
“I had the name before he did. Besides, I’m the wrong color,” Winston chuckled again. “But I sure wouldn’t mind having his bank account.”
A jet on final for Sea-Tac International Airport caught Chris’s eye as it flew past the window. There were advantages to having an office on the sixty-fourth floor.
“What can I do for you Mr... Ah, Jim?”
The small man shot Chris a winning smile. “I’m looking for Clayton Johnson-White.”
“Aren’t we all?” Chris asked, immediately liking the man.
“I’m a bail bond recovery agent, Chris.”
“I can see,” Chris said, waving Winston’s business card in the air. “A bounty hunter.”
“Yes. I suppose you could say that. I make my living catching people who have skipped bail. On rare occasions I’m hired to find fugitives with warrants out for their arrest. Mr. Johnson-White is one of those occasions.”
“I see.” Chris said, but he didn’t see. Who would hire a bounty hunter to catch Clayton? He hadn’t jumped bail. “Just who hired you?”
“The good people of Island County,” Winston said. “They’re sick and tired of Mr. Johnson-White breaking and entering their homes, stealing their belongings and making a mockery of law enforcement.”
No need to give anything away to this guy, Chris thought. “Why hire a bounty hunter? Can’t the local police handle the job?”
Winston leaned back in his chair and pulled a roll of Lifesavers from his pocket. “Lifesaver?”
Chris shook his head.
“Apparently the police can’t.” Winston popped a lemon Lifesaver into his mouth. “Mr. Johnson-White is not their top priority. They only respond when they get a call. Besides, he’s out of their jurisdiction now.”
“If he’s out of their jurisdiction, why is anyone worrying about it? He’s someone else’s problem now.”
“The Camano Island residents take this personally. They want him caught. Apprehending Mr. Johnson-White is now my mission in life. I will do nothing else until I capture him.”
Chris stacked the papers he was working on and set them to the side. “I see. This is all very interesting Mr.... Jim. But why are you telling me this?”
“You’re his attorney. You can contact him. When you talk to him, tell him I’m coming after him. Turning himself in can make this a lot easier and more pleasant for him than if I have to drag him into the courthouse kicking and screaming.”
Chris took another look at the bounty hunter. “You’re what, five-six? Weight about one sixty? Clayton’s got to be at least six-one and must weight over two hundred pounds. I think you might have a little problem dragging him anywhere.”
Winston laughed out loud. “Don’t let appearances fool you, Chris. I’ve been doing this job for a long time. I’ve brought Hell’s Angels back in to court. I know what I’m doing.”
“You know, you can’t use deadly force.” Chris said.
“Not my intention. First of all, I have the same constraints on me a peace officer has. I can only use deadly force if my life or the life of another is in danger. But I have no intention of hurting Mr. Johnson-White. I just want to bring him back for trial.”
Somehow, Chris believed that this little man would have no problem bringing Clayton back, if he could find him.
“Do you know where your client is, Chris?” Winston leaned forward as if the two of them were sharing some great secret.
“Jim, you know I can’t tell you that. Even if I did know where Clayton is, it would be covered by attorney/client privilege.”
“But you can contact him?”
“I told you, I can’t answer that.”
“Well, if you do communicate with him, send him my message. It would be better for all concerned turn himself in peacefully.”
****
Federal Way, Washington reminded Karen of Vegas. Actually, it might be a little more like Southern California. The Beach Hut Coffee Shack was on Pacific Highway South, one huge strip mall just south of Sea-Tac Airport.
Since she took over running Dick’s business, Karen was a constant presence in all of her coffee stands. Her girls were learning that Mama was watching. No more skimming the profits. No more making sales without ringing them up.
“Shannon, how come you’re dairy is so high?” Karen asked her lead barista.
Shannon Worth, a thirtyish woman with drug store blonde hair and enormous silicone implants was nonetheless one of the smartest women Karen had encountered in Dick’s little tittie empire.
“Dick always insisted we do business with Northwest Farms. I kept telling him that they were stealing us blind.”
“Well, get on the phone today. Call Darigold and get their price list. Then call Northwest and tell them that if they don’t match Darigold’s prices, we’re switching vendors.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shannon beamed.
Karen knew that her prize employee was interested in more than running a barista stand. Karen had plans. She was going to legitimize Dick’s business. Be a good neighbor. No more lewd shows or Tassel Tuesdays. Sure, the girls could still strut their stuff, but it would be rated strictly PG-17. No nudity, no special shows.
She liked the idea that Judy up in Everett came up with. She had three interviews this afternoon. Chippendales. It would be a revolution in the sexpresso business. She would have as many women lining up at her stands as men.
With her brother, Danny’s, help, she was slowly turning the business around. They had better controls now. She knew what kind of revenue her stands were producing. Thanks to Danny, she could see which were profitable and which were not.
The Kent stand had been a mess. After she fired half the crew, it suddenly turned around. Danny sniffed out the cheats and found out who was stealing from her.
Satisfied with her visit, she picked up her purse and headed for the door.
“You guys are doing a great job. Keep it up.” She smiled at her baristas. “And Shannon, that boob job looks great. I’d never know those double D’s were fakes if I didn’t know.”
Shannon smiled and waved. “Thanks.”
Karen walked the few paces to Dick’s Ford Excursion. The big blue vehicle was a beast. More truck than car. Why anyone wanted such a monstrosity, she didn’t know. As soon as she could arrange to fly back to Vegas, she’d drive her Lexus back to Seattle.
It suited her much better. She could also sell the Excursion for big bucks. Every little bit helps.
Little by little, she was becoming accustomed to the idea that Dick was gone. Whether dead or skipping town, he wasn’t coming back. That left her free rein to fix his mistakes and make his little business a profitable money maker.
Her mind was a thousand miles away. She was listening to 80’s rock on an FM station and reliving her days on stage. She didn’t notice the black Lincoln Town Car following her.
As she came opposite the acres of parking lots around Boeing Field, the Town Car accelerated and pulled next to her. It honked its horn. The driver inched into her lane.
“Watch out!” Karen shouted, hit her horn and swerved to the right.
The Town Car crowded her even more.
Karen pulled onto the road’s shoulder.
The Town car continued to force her off the road.
A telephone pole loomed in front of her. She hit the brakes.
The Town Car slid in behind her, blocking her in.
She reached for her purse. She didn’t carry a gun, but she had a can of pepper spray and a cell phone.
A dark man in jeans and a leather jacket pulled open her door.
“Stay back,” she yelled, holding out the can of pepper spray.
The man laughed, took two steps back and pulled the biggest gun Karen had ever seen from under his jacket.
“Mrs. Randall, Tony Lamont wants to talk with you. Would you be so kind as to exit your vehicle?”
“Tony Lamont?” Karen’s resolve wavered. The man’s gun certainly trumped her pepper spray.
“Get out please,” the man said.
Karen grabbed her purse and climbed down from the big SUV.
“Right this way.” The man led Karen to the passenger side of the Town Car and opened the back door. “Get in.”
Karen couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4 Page 18