Gumshoe Rock

by Rob Leininger

  “Unless we go have a look, boyo.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A LOOK.

  That also sounded illegal, but Esther wasn’t the only one who knew how to skulk around under the radar. Ma and I had flown to Paris as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen T. Brewer. We still had those IDs and the credit cards and other wallet crud to match.

  “Just a look, Ma?” I asked.

  “Depends on what we find. If I find a safe deposit box full of cash, I might get Volker his money back.”

  Which, technically, would be stealing. We didn’t know for certain where that money had come from, though we were about ninety-nine percent sure.

  I turned to Lucy. “Might be time for full disclosure, kiddo. You said something the other day about having three IDs, two of them fake. Let’s hear it.”

  She shrugged. “No big deal. It was my dad’s idea. He got them for me. Driver’s licenses, credit cards, a few other things. One license is in my name, but it says I’m twenty-two. I use it if it looks like someone might hassle me about not looking my age. You’ve seen the other one. It says I’m Britany Taggart and I’m twenty-three.”

  “Your father got them for you?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s sort of … cautious. About his name and because of having quite a bit of money. The Taggart ID cost a lot, but it’s not like he noticed that or cared.”

  He wouldn’t notice if it cost him a hundred thousand. Not when he had over three hundred million bucks floating around.

  “That’s good for travel,” Ma said. “Car rental and motels. But to go into banks, I’ve gotta have an Arizona driver’s license in the name of Lara Rose Donndin. Wouldn’t hurt to have a Visa or MasterCard in her name, either, with my picture on it. Not an active card, just one that looks real.”

  “Alone?” I said. “You’re thinking of going into those banks solo?”

  “Got to. Lara Rose traveled alone. I think she went into the banks alone. And what would be the point of you going along? The less any of us are seen, the better.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That might work to check those accounts, but you said you want a look in her safe deposit boxes, if she has any. For that you need keys, which you don’t have. And you have to sign to get in. You don’t know what her signature looks like. How’re you gonna pull all that off?”

  She smiled. “Give a sly old broad some credit, boyo.”

  Lucy put an arm around my waist and pulled me closer. “That’s probably a good idea … boyo.”

  “We better get moving on this,” Ma said. “And fast. When Soranden’s skull turned up, Esther probably got nervous about the money. But she would also be leery about travel—drawing attention to herself when the FBI started nosing around, talking to everyone who knew him. Her being his sister, they would be all over her with questions. But once she figures she’s in the clear, I have the feeling that dame is gonna be out of Nevada and maybe out of the country like she was on fire.”

  * * *

  First step: Ma wanted another look at Esther, how she wore her hair, how she walked, what kind of clothes she preferred.

  “We’re about the same height and age. I might have a few pounds on her, but not a lot. Lara hasn’t gotten into the accounts in the past three months so it’s not likely she’s well known at the banks, but I’d like to do this right.”

  We got that look after just two and a half hours of rotating surveillance half a block up the street from Esther’s house. My Toyota took the spot for an hour, then Ma’s Caddy, then back to the Toyota. It looked and felt like a Chinese fire drill. Finally, Esther went out and got her nails done, hit a Walmart, a grocery store, and went through the drive-through of a bank, which made me nervous, then went home. Lucy and I took turns in Walmart videoing Esther as she wandered around shopping. We got her walk, front and back, hair, clothes, the works, including the kind of glasses she wore.

  First thing Ma did when we got back to Reno was buy a wig, same color and style of Esther’s hair, and some low-power readers that looked like Esther’s. Then she had me take a picture of her against a plain blue background and another one with her hair different against a light green background. She emailed the photos to Doc Saladin in Albuquerque, telling him she needed an Arizona driver’s license for a Lara Rose Donndin, and that it would be a duplicate license since one already existed. She gave him the license number and all the rest of Lara’s data, which she got off the DMV site. And, she wanted a Visa or MasterCard in the name of Lara Rose Donndin. And, she also wanted all of that for Donna Del Sarron, and she wanted all of it tout de suite—and if he didn’t know what that meant, she said she needed it no later than day after tomorrow. I figured that little dig meant she and Doc were pretty good friends, possibly drinking buddies. She told him to overnight the licenses and cards to her office, not to her home. The total cost, Doc told her, would be $8,000, which he said was a bargain since she was such a good customer.

  “Eight thousand bucks,” Ma said to Lucy and me. “This better be worth it.”

  She got on a genealogy website and had a good look at the Soranden family tree, closed it out after a few minutes.

  By then it was three fifty p.m. I’d phoned Rufus about noon and told him Lucy and I would be late. He told me that was okay, but that we would pay for it when we did show up.

  Which we did.

  Man, what a workout. I could barely stand when we were through. Even Lucy looked a bit wobbly.

  I think Rufus was still pissed about that knife takedown I’d given Ramon. First, he had me try to hit his hand while he held a rubber knife on me, same way Ramon held it. Just hit his hand, nothing else. First eighty or a hundred tries, I couldn’t do it, but I finally managed to slap his knife hand one time in five. Then he had me run through the takedown two hundred times while he threatened me with that knife. The first hundred or so times he killed me with it. Then I faked a grab and slapped his face with my left hand, not hard but it surprised the hell out of him. And I got in a good fake kick to his knee.

  He gave me a cobra’s smile. “That wouldn’t work in a real fight, dude. We were working on a routine and you broke it. In a fight, there ain’t no routine.”

  “Got you anyway.”

  Which proved that my mouth isn’t connected to my brain, because that’s when the entire workout really went south. Lucy got it too, for which she blamed me later. But it was a workout that could save our lives—repetition, building muscle memory, working on timing and speed. Lucy worked mostly on punches and kicks, didn’t get any Rufus slaps.

  Back in her Mustang, I said, “I’m not sure I can drive. Don’t think I can walk home either. And crawling that far is out of the question, so if you’ve got any suggestions, now’s the time.”

  Her eyes were closed. “We might die right here.”

  “Possible. Not much of a suggestion though. Want to call an Uber?”

  “They’ve got Uber hearses? When’d that happen?”

  And so on.

  But we finally made it back home. Too bad the bedroom was upstairs. We solved that by removing each other’s clothes on the first floor to keep from having to haul extra weight up a flight.

  Lucy looked at me. “Wow,” she said before we attempted that long, long climb. “You must be super extra tired.”

  “Quiet, girl. Don’t make me hurt you.”

  “Seriously? You have enough energy left to hurt me?”

  “I can wait ’til day after tomorrow, sneak up on you when your back is turned.”

  “No problem. By then you will have forgotten.”

  “Touché. Let’s go up. You first.”

  After getting clean, we collapsed into bed and slept as if dead for three hours. It was after eight by the time we regained consciousness, or what would have to serve as consciousness.

  “Hungry,” Lucy said.

  “That was an incomplete sentence, Sunshine.”

  She snarled at me. I escaped by crawling out of bed.

  “Stretchies,” Lucy said, moving slo
wer than usual.

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  “I’ve got to, after what we did. If not, I’ll tighten up like a bunch of banjo strings.”

  So, stretchies. Took her a while to get loose, but then she went into her octopus routine, sans handstands. Side-to-side and fore-and-aft splits. Laid on her stomach and touched the soles of both feet to the back of her head. Finally stood up and bent over backward and touched the top of her head to her butt. Watching her, I let out a sympathetic groan. By then I was able to touch my legs mid-shin, which was as loose as I was going to get.

  Before we went out to find a restaurant, Lucy had to help me get dressed, which was embarrassing.

  So, Great Gumshoe, tell me what you learned.

  Do not, ever, slap Rufus again.

  Got it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WE USED FAKE IDs to rent cars for the trip to Arizona. Even using those IDs, we didn’t want to travel by air. The cameras in airports these days must number in the thousands.

  Ma got a standard white Chevy Impala at Avis, and I rented a dark blue Taurus at Budget. We stayed in Vegas the first day out and made it to Phoenix the following day. Lucy drove Ma’s Chevy much of the time, probably so she and Ma could talk about me—okay, I know the world does not revolve around me, but I know those two gals. At times Ma rode with me. We went over what she was going to do in Phoenix, how she was going to approach the banks, and, of course, we talked about Lucy.

  “I know you got the license, but if for any reason you don’t marry that girl, I’ll fire you then kill you,” she said.

  “Glad we got that cleared up.”

  We rolled into Phoenix at three forty p.m., the thirteenth of October, a Saturday. The temperature was a balmy ninety-six degrees, sun blazing.

  “Nice,” Lucy said when we pulled up at a Super 8 motel on East van Buren Street downtown and got out. The place was orange-pink stucco trying to look like adobe. Spanish tile roof, free parking, all the dry heat you could use.

  Lucy and I got a room with a single king bed as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Brewer, same name I’d used to rent the car. Ma got a room with two queen beds, one more than she needed. She registered using an ID I hadn’t heard about, a bit more of Doc Saladin’s magic. She got the room as Ann Goode, wanted to keep the Lara Donndin ID out of it except for use at the banks.

  In the room, Lucy bounced on the bed, which I decided is what women do. My women, anyway.

  “Why do you bounce on the beds?” I asked. “You did that at the Midnight Rider Motel too.”

  “Make sure they’re strong enough,” she said.

  I gave her a look.

  “Hey, I’m young and in love, and I’ve recovered from that workout Rufus gave us, so if you’re not prepared you better tell me right now.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Okay, then.” She gave the bed one more hearty bounce. “This thing is good to go.”

  * * *

  The rest of Saturday and all day Sunday was spent doing basic recon work, checking out the locations of the various banks, and that one credit union that I didn’t think we’d go after since it was Darren Sandolon’s. Going after banks that had accounts in male names seemed iffy. Lara Rose had put money in those accounts in the past, but getting money back out might result in a different level of scrutiny. Also, it was unlikely that Lara could get into Darren’s safe deposit box if he had one. I would hate to see Ma marched out of a bank in handcuffs. She agreed with that. First we would go after Lara’s and Donna’s accounts, see if we could get Volker’s hundred grand that way. The fewer places we hit, the better.

  We traveled the interstate through Phoenix, all the major arteries near the banks, especially around Torrey Pines Bank and the Mutual of Omaha branch on Forty-Eighth Street.

  Our plan: I would drive in circles around the block for ten minutes. If Ma wasn’t out, Lucy would take over and circle for another ten. Then I would go again. We would go clockwise to stay close to the sidewalks. When Ma came out, she would walk around the block counterclockwise. When she saw one of us, we would stop and she would get in, fast, and off we’d go.

  That was the plan for outside. Inside, it was all up to Ma. She would get a burner phone going and keep it going the entire time. She wouldn’t talk to me, but it would be ready within two seconds if she needed me. I was hoping she wouldn’t need a fast getaway, nothing resembling a ’30s Bonnie and Clyde outing with bullets flying, sirens, roadblocks, the whole nine yards.

  “No gun play, Ma,” I told her.

  “I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

  * * *

  Monday morning at ten, I dropped Ma off a block from Torrey Pines bank where Lara Rose had an account. I started to circle the block while Ma ambled back to the bank and … this is Ma’s story. Let her tell it.

  * * *

  Yeah, I was nervous, but who was gonna seriously hassle a dingy forgetful old broad if they weren’t real damn sure I wasn’t who I said I was? I was ready to make a hell of a fuss if I needed to, get people thinking lawsuits if they gave me a hard time. I had a lawyer, Nathan Frasier, Esq., somewhere in Sun City who I didn’t know from Adam, but they wouldn’t know that. Bringing up a lawyer’s name was last resort. I was counting on tolerance and sympathy to carry the day. It should help that my right hand was wrapped in an Ace bandage.

  Mort drove me to the bank. I was worried he might throw up before we got there, the big wuss, all the “be carefuls” he hammered into me on the way. Last thing he said was, “If it goes bad, get out fast and run. They might think twice before tackling you on the sidewalk.” Typical Mort comment. He let me off on a corner out of sight of the bank and started circling the block.

  I walked back toward the bank carrying a quilted cotton purse the size of a Samsonite suitcase. It had knitting needles sticking out and two inches of knitting on one of the needles. I can knit and purl, but don’t ask me to cable knit. With my hand wrapped in a bandage, any knitting I did was going to be slow and clumsy and bump up the sympathy level.

  The Lara Rose wig made me gag when I looked in a mirror, but it fit well enough and looked natural. I wore an old dress and the running shoes I’d been using to walk around Reno the past month. Last thing I was gonna do was run, all this extra weight on me bouncing all over, but I could walk fast enough if it came to that. Anyway, old broads running attract attention.

  I pushed into the bank like I owned the place, took a look around, located the safe deposit area, nothing unusual there—a low, imitation-walnut door, well-lit open vault beyond. Maybe I would get that far, maybe not, but I wanted to get a look in her safe deposit box before trying to unload an account.

  I got in line for a teller, one person ahead of me, took the time to gaze mildly around, check the layout of the place, see the glassed-in cubicles where they kept the managers. It was quiet, just the usual subdued burble of banking conversation.

  Finally, it was my turn. The teller was a girl about twenty-three, pretty, gave me a regulation teller smile, so I smiled back and said, “I need to get into my safe deposit box, hon, but I … well, I lost my key. Actually, I think I accidently threw it out. I looked all over for it, but it’s gone, so I imagine I’ll need to talk to a manager.”

  Her name was Ginny. Her smile never faltered. “I’ll have to get Mr. Zimmerman to help you. If you want to have a seat in the waiting area, I’ll send him over as soon as he’s available.”

  “Of course, dear. Thank you so much.”

  This was good. A little wait would prove that I wasn’t in a hurry, and it would add to the theater. I took a sofa that faced a coffee table loaded with magazines, hauled out my knitting, and went to work, not doing too well with the bandaged right hand. Grandma, knitting a sweater or little blankie for one of her wee darlings.

  I stuck a faint smile on my face and knit two, purl one, knit two, purl one, and kept it up for about two minutes before a natty fellow in a gray suit and powder blue tie came up with the same pasted-on smile that
Ginny had given me. He was in his thirties, which was perfect. I was old enough to be his mother.

  “Hi, there,” he said. “I’m Andy Zimmerman. I understand you have a little safe deposit problem, Mrs….”

  “Donndin. Lara Rose, but I’ve always preferred Rose.”

  “Rose it is then. I was told you lost your key.”

  I gave him abject and embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so, so stupid. I didn’t really lose it. I threw it out. It was the silliest thing. I must be getting senile.”

  “Oh, no, no … uh …”

  He didn’t know where to go with that senile comment. I had two choices: keep on with the story and be a dotty old dame he’d like to satisfy and get rid of, or let him ask questions, give him answers, and see how it went that way.

  But I sensed that he had better things to do than deal with me, so I elected to go with dotty but nice, and mildly annoying. If I held him up, he’d want to get this moving right along. So, on with the story while I fussed with my knitting, wound up the yarn and stuffed it back in my purse. “I burned my hand. On the handle of a pot. I was heating soup and managed to dump it all into a kitchen drawer—you know, that drawer everyone has that holds all the junk you can’t bring yourself to toss out, like old rubber bands and pens and such.”

  He murmured that he did know. Glanced surreptitiously at a clock on the wall. Good.

  “It was just the biggest mess! A drawer full of hot soup, so I, well, I dumped it out, into the garbage. It was just old junk I didn’t know what to do with anyway. That was about a month ago. This morning when I found I needed to get into my box here, I realized I must have thrown out the key with all the rest of it.” I gave him a wretched look. “I feel so stupid. I know this is going to cause all kinds of trouble, but I really do need to—to get something out of that box.” I put a little break in my voice and darn near squeezed out a tear.

  “No, no, it’s okay, Mrs. uh, Donndin … Rose. We can drill it out and get your box open.”