by Gina Cresse
I heard the heavy footsteps of three or four men walking around the small room. They banged the stall doors against the walls as they pushed them open. I held my breath and felt a drop of sweat roll down the side of my face. I didn’t dare move to wipe it off or I’d make a sound and give away my hiding place.
“She’s not here now. She must have slipped out while we weren’t looking.”
“What’d she do? She didn’t look dangerous,” the weasel asked.
I never heard their reply. They dashed out when they’d assumed I was gone. I lifted the lid slightly and peeked out. The coast was clear. I climbed back out of the can and slipped out through the door. The officers were outside, interviewing potential witnesses. I tiptoed down the hall and through the swinging doors into the kitchen, then raced through a doorway leading outside.
I stopped briefly to get my bearings—the ocean to my left, dry land to my right. I jogged down the wooden pier to the sidewalk, then disappeared into a group of tourists and stayed with them until we all reached the highway. The Pierside Cinema building appeared right in front of me.
I bought my ticket, a bag of un-buttered popcorn, and settled into a seat at the back of the theater. I’d come in just as the wicked stepmother locked poor Cinderella up to prevent her from going to the ball. My popcorn was completely gone before the glass slipper came off and caused all that commotion.
Chapter Seventeen
“I thought you were opposed to…let’s see…how do you put it? ‘Promoting unfulfilled fantasies that can only lead to disappointments due to unrealistic expectations by exposing young minds to senseless fairytales,’” a voice whispered. Jason reached into my empty popcorn container.
“Jason. You made it,” I gasped. He couldn’t possibly know how glad I was to see him.
“Ready to get out of here?” he asked.
“Just as soon as he puts the slipper on her foot.”
“Okay. What the heck’s going on” Jason asked as we left the theater.
“I’ll tell you on the way. Come on,” I ordered, grabbing his arm and leading him to the parking lot. As we approached Jason’s pickup, I made a conscious effort to reach the driver-side door first.
“Mind if I—“
“No. I’m driving,” he stated, emphatically.
“But—“
“I’m driving. End of discussion,” he blurted.
“Fine. I may as well sit on the roof so I can wave to the crowd,” I said.
“What?”
Right. Like he doesn’t know he drives slower than my 90-year-old grandmother. “You drive so slow, it feels like we’re in a parade,” I reminded him.
“Do I have to remind you that at eighty miles-per-hour, you’re no longer steering, you’re aiming?”
Gee. Where had I heard that before? Oh, yeah—from Jason—only a million times—make that a million and one. “And at fifty-five miles-per-hour, you’re crawling on the freeway while a bazillion other drivers pass you like a turtle in the middle of a rabbit stampede.”
“Ah. The old tortoise and hare analogy. You remember how that story ends, don’t you?” he pointed out.
I didn’t have the energy to argue. I was tired and beat. “Fine. You drive. Wake me up when we get there.”
“Where are we going—if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I think Los Angeles would be a good place to get lost for a while. Let’s find a public library. I want to see if Spencer has answered my e-mail.”
Jason put the pickup in gear. “Los Angeles, it is—but you’re not going to sleep until you tell me what’s going on.”
My shoulders slumped with disappointment as I read down the messages in my in-box. Nothing from Spencer. My worry was quickly turning to fear. Had I gotten Spencer into terrible trouble?
I turned to Jason, sitting next to me paging through the sports section of the Los Angeles Times. “You still have that old Motorola cell phone?” I asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Have it with you?”
“In the truck. Want me to get it?”
“Not yet. Let me see the entertainment section of that paper.”
I searched through the pages until I found the name and address of a popular local restaurant. I began a new message, addressed to Carissa West.
Meet me at the Outback Steakhouse near your office - tonight at 7. Devonie Lace.
I scheduled the message to be sent in twenty minutes. Jason reached for my hand and took it off the mouse.
“What are you doing? Didn’t you tell me she’s the one setting you up? You can’t meet her. It’s a trap,” he warned.
“I know. I have a plan. Let’s go. We’ve only got twenty minutes.”
We found a parking spot on the street in front of the U.S. Justice Department building. It was late afternoon and the sun beat through the passenger window with magnified force. While Jason fed the parking meter, I fanned my face with a map and rummaged through his glove box, searching for a small screwdriver. Nothing. How can an appliance repairman not carry a simple screwdriver in his truck? I checked my watch—time was running out. Jason slid back into the driver seat.
“Don’t you have a screwdriver?” I asked.
“Back at the shop, in my toolbox.”
“Geez. What if you broke down? What would you do?”
“I’d call a tow truck. What do you need a screwdriver for?”
“I need to get inside the phone. What about a pocket knife?”
Jason dug in his pocket and handed me his trusty Boy Scout pocket knife.
I removed the cover from the phone, then I took the gum out of the plastic baggie and used a short strip of tinfoil from the wrapper to enhance the capabilities of Jason’s old cell phone. He watched me, curiously, as I worked on the device.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m turning your phone into a scanner.”
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
I recalled a rainy afternoon, about three years ago, when Spencer and I worked together in the same office. Things were kind of slow that day and Spencer was bored. I’d watched him fiddle with a cell phone and asked him what he was up to. He was a snooper—not malicious—just nosy. He was listening to a cell phone conversation going on between our manager and some woman, obviously not his wife. Spencer’s knowledge of that conversation kept him employed with San Tel longer than he probably should have been. When he finally stepped over the line and modified some of his friends’ credit card records to reduce their debt, even our unfaithful manager couldn’t save his hide. “Spencer showed me how, back when we worked for San Tel. Only works for listening to calls on analog phones, but we may get lucky.”
“Who are you going to listen to?”
“Carissa West works here. I’m betting she’ll get on her phone when she receives my e-mail message.”
“What if she doesn’t use her cell phone?”
Another important bit of information I learned from Spencer was that government agencies are not very trusting, even of their own employees. He described some of the listening devices being “tested” in the State building where he eventually gained honest employment. “The call she’s likely to make, she won’t want any federal ears listening in on. The government’s notorious for spying on their employees at work. I bet there are more bugs on the phones in those offices than the Watergate Hotel ever saw.” I nodded toward the glass windows of the office building across the street from us. I completed the task of modifying Jason’s phone and checked my watch.
“There. Mission accomplished. She should be getting the e-mail message right…about…now.”
I held the phone to my ear and scanned through the channels, listening to any cell phone conversations taking place in the area.
“What do you hear?”
“Shh.” I held my finger to my lips.
Jason watched my face for any expression. He looked like an obedient dog waiting for his master to release him from the “stay command,
” so he could eat the dog cookie placed on his nose.
I scanned through the channels, stopping whenever I heard a promising conversation. “If Carissa is at her desk, she should have received my e-mail message about three minutes ago. That should be enough time,” I murmured to Jason.
My intuition told me to hold on the conversation I’d just landed on. A woman’s voice opened the dialogue.
“It’s me. She wants to meet.”
A man replied. His gruff voice overpowered her squeak. “When?”
“Tonight. Seven. You think she’s made the connection between Bates and Aziz?”
“Doesn’t matter if she has. You notify all the forces?”
“Not yet. I just got the message. Are we sticking with the original plan?”
I chewed my lip as I listened to the two of them plan my demise. I knew I was in trouble. These people had connections and skills that could keep me in hiding indefinitely. I fanned my face again. The sun seemed to be burning right through my skin.
“Yes. Bring her in.”
“It’s as good as done. I’ll call you after,” she promised.
The connection closed and I dropped the phone in my lap.
“What? What? Tell me what you heard?” Jason demanded.
“You ever hear of Mohammed Aziz? He’s an oil industrialist.”
Jason pondered for a moment. “No. What’s he got to do with this?”
“I don’t know, but there’s a connection between him and Bates. Let’s get back to the library. I’ll explain on the way.”
I searched on any document I could find with both Gerald Bates and Mohammed Aziz names in it. From all accounts, Gerald Bates had just returned from a business meeting with Mohammed Aziz the evening before he set sail on the Gigabyte, never to be seen again. The stories claimed he called ahead from the San Francisco Airport to his office to have the yacht stocked and ready to sail early the next morning. He apparently scheduled a last-minute vacation cruise to the Hawaiian Islands and wanted his crew prepared.
I nudged Jason with my elbow. “Have you seen any reference to where the Gigabyte was berthed in San Francisco?”
“No. Think your uncle might know?”
“He probably would, but he’s in Europe right now. George might know. Come on. Let’s go,” I said, as I jumped out of my seat and hustled toward to exit.
Jason hurried to catch up with me. “Who’s George?”
“One of Uncle Doug’s salesmen. Hurry.”
We climbed back into Jason’s pickup and I punched the number for Lace Marina into his cell phone.
“Lace Marina. This is George.”
“George. It’s Devonie.”
“Devonie! How are you?”
I have a standard answer whenever someone asks me how I am—I’m okay, or I’m fine, or I’m good—even when I’m not. I don’t know why that is. I’d like to think it’s because I don’t want to ruin anyone else’s day with my problems—or maybe I just don’t want to talk about whatever it is that’s wrong. At any rate, standard answer number one slipped out. “I’m okay, George. Listen—“
“I haven’t seen you for ages! When are you going to come by and visit us?”
“Soon, George. Listen, I need—“
“Your uncle said you’ve been sailing around the Caribbean for a few months. I bet that must have been a great trip.”
“It was, George. But, I need—“
“Did you take any pictures? I love pictures.”
I clenched my teeth. “George! Yes, I took pictures. You can have them all, but please let me finish a sentence.”
“Oh. Sorry. What’s up?”
I felt like I’d just kicked Lassie. “Thanks, George. Sorry I’m so cranky, but I need your help. Would you happen to know where in San Francisco the Gigabyte was berthed? That’s Gerald Bates’ yacht—the one that was lost.”
“Right. It was lost, but now it’s found.”
“That’s the one. I remember Uncle Doug talking about the guy who owns the marina where it was berthed. Do you know who that was?”
“Heck, yeah! Hugo Baumgartner. We call him Captain Huey. Great guy. You should’ve seen him dance on the tables at Scoma’s at the convention last year. Had us all rolling on the floor.”
“That’s great, George. Do you know the name of the marina?”
“Better than that. I can give you his number. I’ve got it right here. Let’s see. I’ve got it somewhere in this crazy thing. Now, where is that number?”
George hummed into the phone. I could picture him sitting at his desk as he searched through the huge rolodex file. “Ah! Here it is! Got a pen?”
I recorded the number as George recited it to me.
“Thanks, George. I’ll bring those pictures by just as soon as I get a chance.”
“Can’t wait. Any shots of island natives in bikinis?”
“Just male ones, George. You know it was me behind the lens.”
Jason had rolled the windows down in his pickup while I talked with George. The sidewalks were growing busy with passing pedestrians out to grab a bite to eat or catch a movie. The scent of a pepperoni pizza wafted into the pickup as a freckle-faced pizza delivery boy strolled by. Jason watched intently until the blue, red, and craft-brown cardboard container disappeared around the corner.
“You hungry?” he asked, almost drooling.
“I’m starving. Can we find a place with a salad bar?”
“You kidding? If we can’t find a salad bar in L.A., then we must be idiots.”
“Okay. Your mission, Mr. Walters, should you agree to accept it, is to find a place to eat where both you and I will be happy. In the meantime, I’ll put a call through to Captain Huey.”
“Captain Huey?” Jason questioned.
“Yeah. He owns the marina where the Gigabyte was kept.”
Jason drove while I punched in the numbers. Someone picked up on the third ring.
“Bay Marina,” the raspy voice announced.
“Is Hugo in?” I asked.
“Huey? Yeah. Hang on. He’s out cleaning a fish or something.”
I could hear the man yelling outside for Huey to drop that fish and come to the phone. I could also hear Jason chanting, “Salad bar…chili dogs. Come to Papa,” as he drove around the busy streets of L.A. with no idea where he was going.
“Yeah. This is Huey,” the abrupt voice blurted into my ear.
“Hi. My name’s Devonie Lace. Doug Lace is my uncle.”
“Doug? Sure! How the heck is that old far—codger?”
“He’s having a ball somewhere in Europe right now. I wonder if you can…I sort of got myself in a…well…I need some help.”
“You name it,” Huey broke in before I could finish.
“I understand Gerald Bates’ yacht, the Gigabyte, used to be kept at your marina?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you at the marina the morning Gerald Bates left for the Hawaiian Islands?”
“I was here. I’m here just about every day.”
“Do you remember seeing Bates?” I asked.
“No. Never saw him.”
“Did he leave before you arrived?”
“Nope. I was here. The Gigabyte wasn’t. Hadn’t been here for about a week. I figured they took it out to sea—big storm that night. El Niño, you know. Whole California coast was beat by that storm.”
My mind raced in circles as it tried to piece together what it had just learned. “So you never actually saw Gerald Bates that day?”
“Nope,” he confirmed.
“Well, thanks Huey. You’ve been a big help.”
Jason’s eyes lit up with excitement. “There! Victory!” he announced, pointing to the sign on the restaurant. “Joe’s Jungle—where carnivores and herbivores can meet and eat.”
I ordered a Southwest Grilled Chicken Salad with the dressing on the side. Jason ordered prime rib with lots of horseradish sauce and extra butter and sour cream for his potato. I sipped my water, trying to
keep the lemon slice at bay, while I watched Jason guzzle a glass of Diet Coke he’d poured from a can.
“You know the sweetener in that stuff’ll kill you,” I commented. I knew it was a useless effort to try to talk nutrition with Jason, but I always had to try. “And drinking out of aluminum cans is eventually going to cause the end of our civilization, just like the fall of Rome,” I continued.
“How do you figure?”
“Rome fell because all the people were brain damaged from lead poisoning,” I explained.
“I’m sure I’m going to be sorry I asked, but how did that happen?”
“It was the lead from the pewter cups they drank out of, and the plates they ate off of, and the pots they cooked in, and the plumbing they used to deliver the water to their homes. They were just pumped full of it. Who knows what kind of damage you’re doing to your body eating and drinking the way you do,” I lectured.
He squinted at me with his skeptical green eyes. “According to you, everything I eat’s gonna kill me. Tell you what—I’ll keep eating this way, and if I die, you can say you told me so.”
“Go ahead. Make jokes. Go through life fat, dumb, and happy.”
“I will. Now, can we change the subject?”
“Good idea. What about the Gigabyte? According to the story in the Chronicle, Bates should have boarded it on November fifteenth. I can’t find anyone who actually saw him or the yacht on that day.”
“He could have been shuttled out to the yacht on a small boat. Why is this bothering you?”
If I were a character in a comic strip, a light bulb would have flashed over my head at that moment. “Wait. That’s it. November fifteenth doesn’t fit.”
“What? What’s wrong with the fifteenth?” Jason asked.
“It can’t be. The Gigabyte was already on the bottom on the fifteenth.” I settled back in the booth as the realization hit me.
“How do you know?” Jason queried.
“Because Roy Hastings recorded the date he found the wreck on his GPS. I remember reading it. It was November tenth. That was the last entry. Bates couldn’t have boarded the Gigabyte on the fifteenth. It was already sunk.”