Dead Wrong (21 page)

“I don’t know. We’ll see what Thomas has in mind.”

It was almost eight before they’d loaded the truck and warmed it up. They squeezed in the oversized interior with Thomas in the driver’s seat and Blue beside him. Grace sat behind Thomas. Since Thomas had to lower the blade and plow a path through the snow drifts, it was slow going.

Near Fort Collins, Colorado
Saturday, January 25

It was after eight when Albert left the western edge of Fort Collins and started up the road toward Horsetooth Reservoir on a new snowmobile equipped with a GPS. When he first left the Ski-Ride lot, he had tried to steer the vehicle with his right hand, but found his one-armed approach didn’t work. He removed the sling and stuffed it in a pocket, slid his left arm into the sleeve of his jacket, and yelped as he lifted his left hand to the vibrating handlebar.

He knew he would suffer excruciating pain every moment of his ride to the top of the ridge. It was stupid to keep going. He could turn around and walk away from this job, tell Ortega that Foster and her friends were already gone.

But after all he’d been through, he wanted that payoff. He cursed Ortega with every jolt and every bump. As he approached the steep road, he accelerated to avoid stalling at the bottom of the hill.

The sun rose above the storm clouds now menacing the plains to the east. Any other time, Albert would have stopped to admire the scene. Today he focused on the white landscape before him. He moved his left arm about, trying to relieve the strain on his elbow. Moving only made it worse. He replaced his hand on the grip and accelerated a bit more. The snowmobile stayed on track, no skid, no slide.

Halfway up the hill, the outside of the right ski caught the edge of a rock poking up through the snow. The impact sent the front of the snowmobile skidding to the left. The rear end slid to the right toward the hillside. Albert killed the engine and slid backward, slowly picking up speed. The snowmobile’s rear end rammed into the hill, spinning the front end outward toward the road and the steep downhill drop beyond.

He held his breath as he tried but failed to restart the engine, then glanced at the back end of the skis. One ski stuck in a small leafless bush barely larger than a football. Climbing off the snowmobile might send it careening down the hill, dragging him along with it. He tried to start the engine again. Nothing happened.

He sat still, listening. Another engine. He checked to the left, downhill, and then to the right. The sound came from above. The vibration could dislodge the snowmobile from the bush. He had no choice. He had to climb off the machine. Slow movements, no jerking, no bumping. He slowly lifted his right leg. The snowmobile shifted. The ski broke loose from the bush as if in slow motion. He jumped. The snowmobile slid a few feet and plowed into a snowdrift.

The vehicle drew closer. There was no place for Albert to hide. He tried to scramble toward the snowmobile, thinking he’d have an excuse to fiddle with the machine with his back to the road. The snow was too deep. He was ten feet away when he heard the vehicle behind him.

He could tell when it slowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver roll down the window. A girl’s voice shrieked from inside. The driver rolled up his window and drove on past, shoving snow to the sides and into Albert, pushing him backward and knocking him off his feet. As the truck passed, the plow completely buried the snowmobile.

Near Fort Collins, Colorado
Saturday, January 25

“That was definitely the same guy,” Blue said. “It’s a good thing Grace was paying attention.”

“No kidding.” Lynnette rubbed the fog from the window and tried to see the man and his snowmobile. He was no longer visible. She looked out her own window and saw the pink and orange sun and cloud display to the east. The city of Fort Collins spread out below. In good weather it would only take a few minutes for the Youngs to drive from their house to town. In the deep snow, with the blade down, they crept. Lynnette sighed with relief when Thomas reached Overland Trail and found two lanes had already been plowed. Thomas lifted the blade, drove past Overland, and headed east.

“There’s a coffee shop in the truck stop out by the interstate,” said Thomas. “Has free Internet access. I’ll stop there. If everything is working, we’ll make our calls. You can send your email to the cop and tell her you’re coming in.”

Lynnette nodded, but didn’t answer. Thomas was a lawyer and an officer of the court. Harboring a person of interest in a murder case and a runaway kid would land him in big trouble. If the police pulled him over, no matter how hard he tried to convince them otherwise, it would appear that he’d helped Grace run away from foster care and Lynnette run from the cops.

If she didn’t turn herself in, what would she do? Her first instinct, as always, was to run. She had always dealt with uncomfortable situations that way. She’d handled her attraction to a very married Dave Buchanan at
The Indy Reporter
by running to a new job in Florida. She’d escaped the grief and overwhelming burden of her father’s death by marrying the first guy who seemed protective and safe. It’s how she avoided conflict and dealt with fear.

Now she wanted to escape again, escape to the safety of Ramona’s home in the middle of Orange County, California. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself of her concern for Thomas and Blue, the truth niggled at her mind and raised a blush of guilt. She hadn’t locked the patio door! What if, somehow, the police knew she’d left the door unlocked and turned off the air conditioner? What if they thought her negligence was intentional? Would she be considered an accessory to murder? Or, even worse, a cold-blooded killer?

Lynnette wasn’t sure Thomas could help. She couldn’t guarantee that any of them could help Grace.

Once on his feet, Albert looked at the buried snowmobile and gave up without trying to dig out.

Now that one lane of the road was plowed, he could walk uphill without a struggle. The snow crunched under his boots, his hands grew numb in spite of the heavy gloves, and his whole body ached, the left elbow worst of all. He pulled the sling from his pocket, fitted it over his head, and maneuvered his left arm into a more comfortable position. The puffy lining of his jacket made the arrangement awkward, but his arm ached less than when it dangled at his side.

He finally made it up the hill and went first to the garage door where he peered through the glass panes. The little black car he’d seen in Denver was there, parked beside a larger sedan. The steps up to the front door had not been shoveled. Neither had the walkway to the back of the house, although the snow had been packed down in a narrow path around the side of the garage. He tried to raise the garage door, but it was locked.

He waded through the snow and knocked at the front door, in case someone had been left behind. No one answered. He rang the bell three times to be sure. He tried to kick the door in.

“Aw, shit!” He dropped to his knees and leaned his head against the door, tried to take a deep breath but failed. When the pain in his ribs eased, he stood. One of the clay pots near the front door lay on its side, the dirt and dried plant spilling onto the walkway. He heaved it through the nearest window and used his gloved fist to knock the remaining shards of glass free from the pane before climbing through the space.

For the next few minutes he owned the house. He took a hot shower with the drain stopper engaged so his feet would warm up as the tub filled. A search through the closets and bureau drawers produced underwear and socks, jeans, two flannel shirts, and another pair of gloves. At least he’d be dry and warm when he hit the road again. He figured out how to use the fancy coffeemaker on the counter and drank two cups of dark roast while he took a few cold puffs from his pipe. Grabbing ham and cheese from the refrigerator, he slapped together two sandwiches to take with him.

A careful search of the medicine cabinets in all three bathrooms led to the discovery of an expired pill bottle half full of Vicodin. He stuffed the container in his pocket.

Car keys hung from hooks by the door that led from the kitchen into the garage. He grabbed the set that had a key chain logo matching the burgundy sedan. Lights flashed and the car beeped when he pressed the unlock button. He raised the garage door and backed the car into the drive, leaving it there to warm up. Inside, he found a travel mug and filled it with coffee.

He pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. No signal. He left the phone on and shoved it in his pocket.

It took him less than ten minutes to drive down the hill on the plowed road.

As soon as he found a place to pull over, he tried to call Ortega. This time the phone worked fine. “They were gone by the time I got there,” he reported. He did not describe his own meeting with the truck and the condition of the new snowmobile. “They live on a big hill, but they have a snowplow. That’s how they got out. Where are they now?”

“I can’t stand it,” Ortega said. “Is there no one in this goddamned country who can carry out a job without screwing it up?”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“The tracker lost the signal,” Ortega said.

“How will I find them?”

“How the fuck do I know?” Ortega paused. “Look, I’m on my way to the airport. I have to go to Miami. I’ll call the tracker again before the plane leaves.”

Albert rubbed his neck, then stretched his head toward each shoulder. He didn’t say anything. He had hoped to finish this job and meet with Ortega while he remained in L.A. Flying to Miami meant he’d be on the rich man’s turf, surrounded by Ortega’s goons.

“I want you to keep looking for Foster,” Ortega said, “until I tell you to stop. Understand?”

“She’s got people helping her. They could be on the interstate already. They could be heading north to Wyoming, or south to Denver. Without the tracker, it’s impossible.”

“I’ll call you back,” Ortega said.

Albert remained by the side of the road, the engine running, and thought about Foster, tried to guess what her next move would be. Would she go to California? Denver? Return to Florida? Whatever she decided, she would most likely start out on I-25. The closer he was to the interstate when Ortega called, the better off he’d be. He remembered the big truck stop on the edge of town, close to the north and south ramps.

Thomas drove around to the back of the station restaurant where he could park the truck in a wide space near the eighteen-wheelers. “Stick together,” he said. “No wandering off alone.”

Lynnette glanced at him, saw he watched her as he spoke. Her eye felt twitchy and her mouth dry. What was he thinking? Did he expect her to run? Or was he concerned the guy in the tweed jacket would be hot on their trail?

“Better bring your laptop, Lynnette,” he said. “You need to get that email off to the police officer in Florida.”

She retrieved her laptop, placed the envelope containing the checks into her case, then stowed the case under the dash and followed Thomas into the building. As she slid into the booth next to Grace, she noted that Thomas had elected to sit in an alcove not visible from the front door. She placed her laptop on the table.

“I’ll be right back,” Thomas said. He headed to the back of the room where a Restrooms sign hung over a swinging door.

“I gotta go, too,” Grace said.

“I’ll go with you,” Blue said.

Grace put her hands on her hips. “Blue, I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

“Dad said we were supposed to stick together.”

“What about Lynnette? Who’s going to watch her?”

“It’s not to watch anybody, Grace, it’s to protect you.”

“I can pee by myself. I’ve been doing it forever, you know.”

“Blue, it’s okay,” said Lynnette. “Let her be. Go on, Grace. Hurry up.”

Lynnette pulled out her own phone and dialed Dave Buchanan’s number. The call went to voice mail. She didn’t leave a message. She started to punch in the numbers to call Ramona, then changed her mind and hung up.

“You better put my number in there,” Blue said. “Dad’s, too.”

Lynnette decided to check for new messages on the fat man’s phone, hoping she’d get some idea where Ortega was. She replaced the battery and accessed the voice mail. There were no new messages, both a relief and a concern. She shut off the phone and removed the battery.

The laptop’s charge level was dangerously low. She logged on to her email, opened the most recent communication from the female cop, hit reply, and typed her message:

I didn’t kill Carl. I want to come in, but I’m in trouble. A scary guy named Sammy Grick switched our laptop cases in Miami and he was chasing me. Grick had stuff that belonged to a man named Benny Ortega. These two men, and another one who showed up yesterday, threatened to kill me. I’m almost out of—

“Lynnette, Thomas called the FBI and told them where we are!”

Lynnette stared at Grace, unable to clear her mind of the message she was typing. “What?”

“I walked out of the restroom, and he was by a door at the end of the hall with his back turned. I heard him talking to someone he called Agent.”

Blue jumped up and started toward the restrooms.

Lynnette hit the Send key and powered off. She grabbed her jacket, purse, and laptop and followed Grace toward the door. Just as Grace reached out to open it, a burgundy sedan cruised past the front of the building. The man in the driver’s seat leaned forward, seemed to peer through the windshield at the parking lot beyond, then slowed and drove on. Lynnette grabbed Grace’s shoulder and jerked her back. “Wait,” she said. “That car that went by looks like the other car in Blue’s garage. Her dad’s car.”

Glades, Florida
Saturday, January 25

Officer Maggie Gutierrez’s email pinged. She opened her mail tab and saw the reply she’d been waiting for. Her excitement quickly changed to disappointment and then to anxiety when she saw that Lynnette had stopped mid-message. She snatched the phone and punched in the extension for computer support.

“Bill, can you tell where an email came from if I give you the email address?”