Dead Wrong (25 page)

“Why?”

“They didn’t say, sir.”

Benny looked at his cell phone and thought about the whole mess with Sammy Grick, Lynnette Foster, and Albert Getz. He wondered where his money was. He thought about the checks that his wife had painstakingly collected from clerks on the take at six different companies. Maria had made all the contacts, she had all the names. He’d have to start from scratch.

Did Getz have the checks? Or the Foster woman? What did it matter now? It was too late to launder them through one of his bank connections without getting caught. His life was over.

Denver, Colorado
Saturday, January 25

Grace looked up from the television. “Your boss didn’t want the checks?”

“No.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Turn them over to the FBI.”

“That guy still wants them back.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“I’m going to call Officer Maggie Gutierrez of the Glades Police Department in Florida.”

Glades, Florida
Saturday, January 25

Maggie sprawled on the couch in her apartment, too tired to cook and almost too tired to call for Chinese take-out. She wanted to stay awake, go over her notes on the Foster case, check on Carl’s background and see why he was under investigation at the time of his death.

She groaned as she rolled to her side and sat up.
Crappy-looking room.
She needed to get new furniture. Maybe something red or orange. Brighten up the place. She’d moved in eight months ago and had only a couch, a bed and cheap dresser, and a small kitchen table with two chairs. Books were stacked on the floor by the couch. One floor lamp lit the living room.
At least I could get a TV. And maybe a cat. A cat would be good company.

When her cell phone rang, Maggie jumped off the couch and hurried to the table.

“Gutierrez,” she said.

“Officer Gutierrez, this is Lynnette Foster.”

“Hey, thanks for calling in. Where are you?” Maggie inwardly groaned at her own cheery, conversational tone. She was talking to a suspected killer, for God’s sake.

“I didn’t kill my husband.”

Foster’s first five words were exactly what Maggie had expected to hear. “Okay,” she said. “Are you still in Denver?”

“We’ll get to that. First I want to tell you a long story, starting with last Wednesday when I walked out on my husband. Do you have time?”

“I have all the time you need.” Maggie sat at her little table, pulled out her notebook and grabbed a pen.

It took Lynnette Foster nearly an hour to tell her story. Maggie doubted she’d left out anything. She had even mentioned the possibility that she’d left the patio door in their home unlocked when she left. If that was true, whoever killed Carl Foster would have had easy access to the house, which would explain why there was no sign of forcible entry. If Foster’s actions had eased the way for a killer to get at her husband, it would explain her getting choked up when she talked about it, even though she’d walked out on the guy.

Wanting a person out of your life didn’t necessarily mean you wanted the person dead. Detective Prince, for instance. It wouldn’t break Maggie’s heart if she never had to work with Prince again. But if he were killed, it would be a tragedy.

Foster explained why her husband had been called to an Internal Affairs hearing. Beating up an unarmed kid for loitering, even if the kid belonged to a gang, was frowned upon by the public as well as the IAD. Bad press for the cops.

“How long had you been married?” Maggie asked.

“Just a few days.”

“And you didn’t know he liked to beat up people?”

“I thought I knew him. I was wrong.”

Another good lesson learned. Don’t marry a guy unless you’ve known him so long he couldn’t possibly have any secrets left. Maggie figured ten years would do it. Better yet, don’t get married. If you must have company, get a cat.

The references Foster made to Sammy Grick, Benito Ortega, the guy in Denver, and the switched laptop cases were inconclusive, but clearly the men were after Foster for a reason. Whatever she had was important. “Mrs. Foster . . . Lynnette . . . what was in the laptop case you found in your possession after the switch?”

“A cell phone and a laptop. The guy in the tweed jacket has those now.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. A big wad of cash. I still have all of it.”

Foster hesitated, then said, “There was also an unsealed brown envelope. I looked inside. It contained six checks drawn on South Florida companies. Big checks. I’m sure that’s what Ortega wants back the most.”

“Maybe the checks belonged to Ortega and he thought you were stealing them.”

“All he had to do was tell me that. Instead, he threatened to kill me. He clearly did not want me to turn the case over to the cops—”

“Which is exactly what you should have done.”

“That fat man screamed at me and said he’d kill me. I think the checks were stolen and Sammy Grick was a courier.”

“Where did you get an idea like that?”

“I’m a reporter. I keep up on the news. I read a lot. I know. More than one business has been tripped up by a check theft ring and had to sue a bank or the bank’s insurance company to get their money back.”

Lynnette Foster told Maggie everything she’d learned about the death of Ortega’s wife, the relationship between Grick and Ortega, Grick’s death, and what little she knew about the third man—the one who’d shown up at the library, the snowbound road to the house on the hill, and the truck stop.

“A man and his daughter helped you?”

“Yes.”

“What are their names?” When Lynnette didn’t reply, Maggie said, “It doesn’t matter. Ortega isn’t my case. Miami P.D. is working it. I’ll tell them about the connection between you and Grick—the laptop case and its contents. They’ll want whatever you still have in your possession. It might help make a case against Ortega. We need
you
to return to Florida so we can clear this up. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to come in on your own. After that, you’ll be the target of a nationwide manhunt.”

“I’m in Denver. Will I be able to use my driver’s license and credit card at the airport without getting arrested?”

“We have a watch on your credit cards, but that only results in an alert to our email here in Florida. We’ll know when you buy your ticket, but the Denver police won’t have that information unless we call them.”

Maggie waited through another long silence. Finally, Foster agreed to come in on her own. When Maggie hung up, she felt a mixture of relief and anxiety. If Foster came in as she’d promised to do, Maggie would meet her at the airport and take her into custody. She’d find out for sure if Foster was guilty or not.

On the other hand, if Detective Prince found out about Maggie’s actions and Foster reneged on her promise, Maggie’s career in law enforcement would probably be over.

Denver, Colorado
Saturday, January 25

“I have to go to Florida within twenty-four hours or the Florida cops will alert Denver’s police department,” Lynnette told Grace. “State police too. I can’t leave you here, and I can’t put you on a plane to L.A. unless I talk to your dad first. It would be better if you’d go to Miami with me. I’ll work it out so Thomas can come down to Florida and help you like he said.”

Grace nodded, although she kept her eyes on the television.

Lynnette let her thoughts drift to the stolen checks. It was interesting that Sammy Grick had been taking those checks from Florida to California, especially since Ortega’s home and business were in Miami. She wondered if Ortega had been in L.A. all along, perhaps to establish an alibi for the time his wife was murdered and to oversee transfer of the stolen funds. It wouldn’t take the cops long to figure it out. She had a feeling Benny Ortega would be in the news again real soon.

She turned to her computer and booked an early-morning flight to Fort Lauderdale for herself and for Grace.

After that, she wrote a long email to Ramona, explaining everything that had happened with Carl and the two thugs who had chased her around Denver, the unexpected appearance of Grace, and the help they had received from Blue and her father. She added a postscript to her message:
If I could do one thing over in my life, Ramona, I’d listen to you and not marry Carl.

Miami, Florida
Saturday, January 25

Benny sat on the plane, waiting. It had been thirty minutes since they’d landed, and they still had received no communication from the tower or the police. He called his tracker.

“Did you get another signal?”

“Hang on, I haven’t checked since your plane took off.”

Benny sighed. Nobody had any initiative anymore. If you didn’t tell the help to do something, it didn’t get done. If you didn’t tell them exactly how to do it, it might get done but it wouldn’t get done right. And if the going got tough, they quit.

“Hey!” Benny yelled into the phone. “I don’t have all day, you stupid asshole.”

The co-pilot appeared in the cabin doorway, his eyebrows raised. “Sir?”

Benny pointed to his cell phone and waved him away.

“Mr. Ortega,” the tracker said, “the phone has been reactivated.”

“Where is she? Is she still in Denver?”

“The phone’s in Denver, sir.”

Maybe Getz has it. Maybe Getz has it all. Is it possible he has my checks and is going into business for himself?

“Do you have a fix on the phone’s location?” Benny asked.

“Yeah, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Just tell me where the phone is!”

“Downtown Denver. FBI Building.”

Benny’s vision blurred. He dropped the phone in his lap.
It’s over. I might as well be dead.
He picked up the phone and dialed his lawyer.

When Benny exited the plane, two Miami police detectives stood at the bottom of the steps. One said, “Mr. Ortega, we’re taking you in for questioning in the murder of your wife, Maria Ortega.”

“I have nothing to say. I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”

Shoved into an interrogation room in a downtown Miami station, Benny tried not to cringe when two FBI agents appeared.

Where was his damned lawyer?

One agent sat in a chair on the other side of the table. The second leaned against the wall near the door, out of Benny’s sight. Benny didn’t like anyone standing behind him. He liked to sit with his back to the wall.

Where was his fucking lawyer?

The room was too cold. He was accustomed to tropical heat and humidity. He rubbed his arms, then blew warm breath on his hands. Walking around the room would have helped, but his ankle was chained to a table leg.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in the room. The cops had taken his watch along with his belt and shoelaces. He jiggled his legs, tapped his fingers, blew on his hands again.

The Fed across the table was staring at him. Sweat broke out on Benny’s forehead.

“Mr. Ortega,” the Fed said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Getz talked. When I get out of this mess, I’ll find him and rip him apart.
Benny crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the table.

“Two of our agents had an interesting conversation with a Mr. Albert Getz in Denver,” the Fed continued. “Do you know Mr. Getz?”

Benny shook his head.

“Mr. Getz spoke of you, also a Mr. Sammy Grick. Do you know Mr. Grick?”

Benny shook his head again.

“What about a woman named Lynnette Foster? Do you know Mrs. Foster?”

Holy shit, did Getz tell them everything?
“No,” Benny said.

“Mr. Getz told our agents that Mrs. Foster had an envelope full of checks he wanted to recover on your behalf. Is that true?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who is this Getz guy, anyway?”

Hours later Benny was locked in a holding cell with half a dozen low-life crooks. The cops hadn’t charged him with one single crime, nor had the Feds. It was Saturday. They didn’t have to do anything with him until Monday. Even his lawyer couldn’t do anything before Monday. Benny sat down in the corner of the cell, his back pressed against the wall. He pulled up his knees and, with an occasional quick glance around the room, checked out his cellmates.

Fort Collins, Colorado
Saturday, January 25

Albert felt pretty damned smug as he closed the door behind the two FBI agents. In exchange for Grick’s phone, Ortega’s phone number, and the name of the car rental company where he’d rented the now demolished car that might still contain Grick’s laptop, the agents let Albert go. He had been ordered to return to his home in California and remain there in case the FBI had further questions.

He knew they wouldn’t. They had bigger fish to fry. They thought he was a courier, at worst an enforcer. He didn’t think it had crossed their mind that he was a hit man. The word would get around, though. He’d screwed up, and no one would hire him. If the FBI did nail Ortega, they’d probably subpoena Albert and make him testify about his involvement. After that exposure, his anonymity would be down the toilet.

He’d have to live on his savings. At least he had the $250,000 down payment. He wouldn’t collect anything else from Ortega. He had no more jobs lined up. If Benny Ortega had been in the room at that moment, Albert would have crushed his windpipe and happily watched him struggle for the breath that would never come.