Dead Wrong (19 page)

“Oh, man,” she continued. “The cops think there’s a connection. They think I had something to do with this fat guy. Maybe they think I hired him to kill Carl.” She stopped abruptly when she realized she was talking too fast.

“Did you?” asked Thomas.

“No, no, of course not.” She held up the phone. “This Ortega guy said he was coming to get his stuff. He said he knows where I am. He said if I stayed here and gave him his things, he would help me get away. He talked like he thinks I’m on the run from the police and that I’m on my own. Maybe the guy at the library never told him about Blue and Grace.”

“What stuff is he talking about? You gave up the laptop. So he’s hot after the cash and the phone. That’s all he wants?” Thomas frowned at Lynnette. “There has to be more. These guys wouldn’t be threatening you unless you had something way more important.”

Grace perked up at Thomas’s question and said, “She’s got that envelope with the papers in it. Don’t you, Lynnette?”

Los Angeles, California
Friday, January 24

Benny was packing his suitcase when his cell phone rang. His caller ID displayed a phone number he didn’t recognize. He considered not answering, thinking at first it might be the police, then decided he had no choice.

“Mr. Ortega, it’s Getz.”

Benny dropped onto the edge of the bed, so startled he felt as though his knees had given way. He tightened his grip on his cell phone. “I thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, well, it was close. There was a huge pileup on the interstate. When they finally pried me out of the car, they forced me into an ambulance. I’m still in the emergency room. Have a broken nose and two cracked—”

“I don’t care about your injuries. Are you able to continue?”

“Yeah, okay. I am. But the car . . . I need to get another car. And my cell phone got crushed between the console and—”

“Damn it, Getz. I don’t care! Find a way to get to that house in Fort Collins. Foster’s there for now, but I don’t trust her to stay put. Steal a car, steal a phone. I don’t give a fuck how you do it, but no more talking. When you find her, call me.”

Benny crossed the room to the bathroom door, pulled his fist back, and slammed it into the door. Then he punched the door again and again until the rough edges of the hole scratched his knuckles and drew blood.

Fort Collins, Colorado
Friday, January 24

Albert stood at the emergency room reception desk, the dial tone buzzing in his ear. He gently replaced the receiver in its cradle and pushed the twenty-dollar bill across the counter toward the receptionist. “Thanks,” he said, “this should cover it.”

The receptionist slipped the twenty into the center drawer of the cubicle’s desk.

“Am I okay to leave now?” he asked.

“Yeah. But the weather’s bad out there.”

He limped toward the sliding glass doors that led to the parking lot. He’d shoved his left arm back in the sling, and beneath the tape strips his nose felt like a baseball. He tried to take a deep breath but the tape pulled against his chest and the dull ache in his ribs grew sharper. He gasped. Now that he’d begun to move around, every muscle in his body hurt. It was hard to walk. He wondered if he’d be able to move at all in a few hours.

The only coat he had was his tweed jacket. He couldn’t get it all the way on. He struggled to push his right arm into the sleeve, leaned over to work the jacket over his left shoulder, and then used his right hand to clutch the jacket closed in the front.

If he planned to do anything Ortega had ordered him to do, it would have to be now. He wished he could walk away, but he found it difficult to give up. He wanted the money Ortega owed him, even if he didn’t need it, and he wanted to get close enough to Ortega to take him out of the game. To accomplish both those goals, he had to find the Foster woman and retrieve Ortega’s possessions.

As the first set of doors slid open, cold air seeped through from outside. When the second set of doors opened, a blast of icy wind threw a flurry of snowflakes into his face and down his neck.

This isn’t going to work. I can’t steal a car. I can’t even drive a car.

He returned to the warmth of the emergency room lobby, his eyes tearing from the cold and wind. He didn’t bother to wipe the tears away. “It’s much colder than I expected,” he said to the receptionist. “Could you call me a cab?”

He had to give her credit. Even though she looked at him as though he’d lost his mind, she made the call then told him the cab company had pulled all their drivers in until the streets were plowed. “The plows are only working the interstates for now,” she said.

Albert sighed and shuffled toward the waiting room. He looked at each of the four people scattered about, sprawled in the hardback chairs. A woman bundled in layers of sweaters and worn sweatpants bent forward, hacking hard enough to cough up her lungs. The three unshaven men wore soiled jeans and jackets and knitted caps pulled over their ears. One had blood on his hands. Albert cringed and took a seat on the other side of the room.

A television sat high on the wall. When he heard the words Miami, Grick, and Foster, he jerked his whole body so he could see the screen. The sudden movement sent pain like a machete slice through his body. He groaned and clasped his right arm to his ribs as though to hold his chest together. Tears flooded his eyes, blurring the newscaster who described the joint Glades and Miami police news conference that had just ended.

“You okay, man?” one of the waiting room occupants yelled.

“Fine,” Albert replied. “I’m fine.”

“Didn’t sound fine,” the man said.

Albert ignored him and focused on the news report. He couldn’t believe it. The woman who had Ortega’s stuff was not only a person of interest, she was a killer. He had thought he sought a ditzy female who managed to escape because she had a run of luck, but maybe she was a clever and ruthless thief who knew exactly what she was doing. Maybe she knew the fat man, even worked with him. Maybe she had planned to steal Ortega’s stuff from Grick all along. Albert wished he knew exactly what she had.

From what Ortega had told him, it looked as though there were four people in the Fort Collins house. The big question? Did they have weapons?

Who the hell are these people?

Albert tried to lean forward to put his head in his hands. He couldn’t. His elbow ached, his chest hurt so bad he couldn’t take a deep breath, and his face had begun to throb. He eased out of the chair and returned to the reception desk. “I need something for the pain,” he said.

“Didn’t they give you a prescription?”

Albert raised his eyebrows, looked toward the door, then at the receptionist. “Are you fucking serious?”

The receptionist drew in her breath and pushed back from the counter on squeaky wheels. Her crepe-soled shoes sucked at the tile as she rushed toward the treatment bays. In less than a minute, she returned with a doctor who looked about twenty and a security guard with fullback shoulders and no neck.

Albert leaned on the counter and tried to look apologetic. “I’m sorry I said what I did. I can’t stand the pain.” He turned to the doctor and held out the written prescription for Vicodin. “I can’t get out of here to fill this, and I’m hurting. It’s killing me to move my fingers and toes.” The doctor and the guard stared at his mouth. They frowned as though they hadn’t understood a word he said. Albert realized he was trying to talk without moving his lips. “Hurts,” he said, trying to enunciate clearly. “Hurts bad.”

The doctor left, then returned with two tablets and a glass of water. The guard escorted Albert to the waiting room. As he leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes, waiting for the painkillers to kick in, he heard the Miami/Grick/Foster story all over again.

No one mentioned the little kid or the teenager traveling with Foster.

Near Fort Collins, Colorado
Friday, January 24

Thomas turned to Lynnette. “What envelope? What’s inside?” He held out his hand.

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“Let me see the envelope. Right now. Otherwise, I take Blue and Grace and go to the police.”

Lynnette felt her inner reporter kick in. More than anything else at that moment, she wanted to protect her story. She wanted to contact Dave at
The Indy Reporter
and tell him she had probably stumbled into a huge crime involving theft and maybe bank fraud, and she had the evidence to go with it.

But there was nowhere to go until the storm ended and the roads were cleared. Stuck with the possibility Benny Ortega would show up as soon as the roads were plowed, Lynnette decided to play along. She pulled the brown envelope out of her purse, opened the clasp, and pulled out the checks. Thomas, Blue and Grace looked over her shoulder.

For only the second time since she had come into possession of the envelope, Lynnette went through the checks one by one.

Grace went back to her seat in front of the television.

Blue cleared her throat. “They’re checks. I thought you had photographs.”

Thomas didn’t say anything. Lynnette glanced at his face. His cheek moved as though he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“Wait. Show Dad that big check,” Blue said. “The one for five-hundred thousand.”

Lynnette found the one Blue wanted to see.

“That company’s corporate headquarters are in Pompano Beach. One of my roommates works there during the summer,” Blue said. “Looks like they’re paying for a few truckloads of office supplies.”

Lynnette held up another check. “This company is based in Fort Lauderdale. It’s a vendor for the bar I worked in. The check is made out to a company in Indianapolis that manufactures restaurant supplies—napkins, cups, paper towels.”

“Why would the fat man be carrying an envelope full of checks?” Blue asked.

“Checks that Benny Ortega says are his,” Lynnette added. “I think the checks were stolen and that Sammy Grick was supposed to deliver them to Ortega. I don’t know for sure, but it’s possible Ortega has a way to cash these things before the people who were supposed to receive them even know they’re gone. That would explain why he’s so desperate to get them back.”

“We need to get these checks to the FBI,” Thomas said.

“Wow,” Blue said. “You think so?”

“If they’re stolen, they’ve been transported across state lines, probably with the intention of using a bank where this Ortega guy has inside help. Those are federal crimes.”

“I can’t go to the FBI yet,” Lynnette said. “Neither can you, not if you want to stay out of trouble. Think about it. You’d have to explain about me, you’d have to explain about Grace, and then you’d have to explain why you let us stay with you in Fort Collins when you already knew Grace had run away and the police were looking for me. That’s too much risk for you and Blue, and at some point, I have to go back to Florida and try to straighten out my own problems. I can turn in the checks—”

“No!” Grace screamed. “I can’t go to Florida.” She threw the TV remote on the floor and ran to Lynnette. “If you try to take me back, I’ll run away.”

Lynnette reached out, but Grace backed away, her face red and her fists clenched. “I mean it,” she said. “I’m going to California, whether you take me or not.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Thomas said. “Nobody’s going to do anything that will hurt you, Grace. I’m sure Lynnette doesn’t intend to take you to Florida or turn you in to the police.”

Lynnette tossed the checks on the desk and leaned back, hands folded in her lap, her gaze on the child. Something wasn’t right.

“Grace,” Lynnette said. “Let’s talk.”

Blue said, “You’ve lied again, haven’t you? I bet you don’t have a dad who lives in L.A. I’ll bet you don’t even have an Aunt Maxie.”

Grace backed away from Lynnette and Blue and sat on the edge of the couch. “You don’t understand,” she whispered.

Blue’s jaw dropped open. “Am I right?” She reached out and grabbed Grace’s arm. “You little creep. Do you ever tell the truth?”

Thomas put his hand on Blue’s arm. “Don’t be too harsh. You don’t know the circumstances.”

“Bullshit, Dad. If she’s been lying to us all along . . . damn. Why didn’t I see it?”

Grace jerked her arm free and folded her arms across her chest. She glared at the floor.

Blue put her hands on her hips and stood in front of Grace. “Kid, I’ve talked to plenty of runaways while I’ve been working on my thesis. You are so typical. I can’t believe I didn’t catch on sooner.”

Grace continued to stare at the floor.

“See what?” Lynnette asked. She studied Grace’s expression and body language, thought about the stories Grace had told so far, and considered Grace’s threat to run away. “I’ve believed every story she told me for the last two days.”

“Didn’t you notice the way she watched you while she talked? Street kids do that. They know body language. They can spot a pushover a mile away. And remember all that stuff she said about Social Services and being in the system like she knew exactly what she was talking about? Twenty to one this kid is a runaway from a foster home.”

Blue put her hand on the top of Grace’s head. “And twenty to one, her foster family hasn’t bothered to report her missing.” She put her finger under Grace’s chin and nudged the girl’s head up. “What about it, Gracie? Am I right?”

Fort Collins, Colorado
Saturday, January 25

Albert woke up when two men entered through the sliding glass doors into the trauma center, stomping and wiping their feet on the mat. They stopped and chatted with the girl at the reception desk, then strolled into the waiting room, stripping off coats, hats, and gloves on the way.

“Phew, it’s cold out there,” said the older man.

“No shit,” said the other, who looked barely out of his teens.

“Think we can finish before five?”

“We can get this end done by four, if the wind don’t start up again.”

Albert struggled to his feet and approached the men. “You’re plowing now? Is the storm over?” He looked at his watch. It was ten after one. He’d slept a couple of hours.