Dead Wrong (27 page)

The man at the desk picked up his phone and spoke into it briefly, then beckoned the two men to follow him through the door and down the jetway. A few minutes later, the agents returned, one walking beside Lynnette Foster and the other holding the hand of a young girl.

Maggie jumped up and hurried toward the men, pulling out her badge as she went. “Wait,” she said. “I need to speak to Mrs. Foster.”

The men stopped and looked at Maggie’s badge. “We’re taking her in,” said one.

“Who are you?”

The two agents displayed their identification. FBI.

Feds.
She was right. “I need to tell her something,” Maggie said. “Mrs. Foster, we’ve apprehended the gang members who killed your husband. There’s no warrant out for your arrest. But we do need to ask you a few questions.” She shifted her attention to the agent at Foster’s side. “Where are you taking her? Why? Who’s the girl?”

Lynnette pulled away from the agent. “It’s true?” she said. “I’m not a suspect?”

“It’s true. Why are they taking you in? Who’s the kid?”

“It’s a long story. For now, I need to make sure this little girl gets back to her dad.”

“When can we talk to her?” Maggie asked the Fed.

“It’ll be a while, I’m afraid.” He handed Maggie a card. “Call that number in a couple of hours and I’ll see what I can do.”

West Palm Beach, Florida
Sunday, January 26

As soon as Lynnette and Grace entered the FBI resident agency office in West Palm Beach, the second agent took Grace away in spite of her protests. The man who introduced himself as Agent Samuels guided Lynnette into an office and assisted her into a chair. He placed her purse and laptop case on a desk and asked her permission to examine the contents.

“I guess Thomas told you everything,” she said. “What you’re looking for is in the laptop case. Inside the brown envelope.”

Samuels went through everything in Lynnette’s case before removing the envelope and examining the checks. “Where did you get these?”

Lynnette told him the whole story, starting with Carl’s assault and ending with her flight from the man in the tweed jacket at the Denver airport.

“Stay here,” Samuels ordered.

When he returned he carried a laptop. “We’re going to the field office in Miami,” he said.

“Why?”

“Benito Ortega is in police custody in Miami. I need to talk to him.”

“What about Grace?”

“She’s coming with us.”

When they met by the front door, Lynnette hugged Grace to her side. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Grace said. “He gave me a soda and a candy bar. And we called my dad again. He’s going to meet us in Miami.”

Miami, Florida
Sunday, January 26

Benny had been stuck in the interrogation room at the FBI field office in Miami for over three hours before the FBI agent named Samuels returned with a laptop.

It only took a couple of minutes for him to open the computer and power it on, tap a few keys, wait a couple of seconds, then type something else. He turned the computer around so Benny could see the screen.

The image of a check for over $500,000 appeared. Benny reached out and used the touch pad to scroll down, examining the six checks one by one. They would have been worth more than three million dollars if all had gone as planned. Maria had done a fine job putting contacts in the company’s accounts payable departments and then timing the thefts. “I’ve never seen these before,” Benny said.

Samuels tapped a few more keys, then let Benny see the screen again. “There were three more checks inside the front pocket of your wife’s day calendar. They turned up during the search conducted by the FBI after Mr. Getz talked to agents in Denver. Does that surprise you?”

Benny could have sworn his hair stood up on the top of his head. Maria held out on him? He wondered how long that had been going on. Maybe she deserved to die. He tried to look dumfounded, but he couldn’t control his facial muscles. He figured shock and surprise showed all over his face. He began to laugh—stupid uncontrollable laughter.

“There was also considerable cash in Sammy Grick’s laptop case. Do you know anything about that?”

“No,” Benny said, almost choking on the word. He covered his face with his hands and bit his lip in an effort to stop laughing. When he finally took his hands down, he avoided making eye contact with the agent.

“I have to leave for a while, Mr. Ortega, but I’ll be back. You’ll be busy though. Officials are lining up to talk to you this afternoon. The Internal Revenue Service. Maybe Homeland Security since one of these checks is drawn on a company based in Havana. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, because one of the payees is a distillery. Can you think of anyone else who might want to talk to you, Mr. Ortega?”

Benny shook his head.

“Oh, yeah,” Samuels added as he shoved back his chair and stood. “There’s a homicide detective who’s anxious to have a crack at you. He says they found a Luger in Mr. Grick’s car at the airport.”

Benny’s shoulders began to shake.

Samuels frowned. “This is no laughing matter, Mr. Ortega.”

Benny placed his elbows on the table and cradled his forehead in his hands. There had to be a way he could hang this whole mess on his wife and that big-mouth bastard, Albert Getz.

Denver, Colorado
Sunday, January 26

Albert watched the two FBI agents who looked on with interest as the doctors examined the X-rays of his knee.

“Looks broken, Getz,” Agent Bailey said. “Bad luck.”

“What happened to the woman and the kid? Did you get them?” Albert asked.

“Nope. They got picked up when they arrived in Florida. Mrs. Foster told agents there how you tried to chase her down in Denver and again in Fort Collins. And Mr. Ortega says you must have been in cahoots with his wife to steal those checks. He says Sammy Grick worked for the two of you. He also said he heard his wife mention you were a hit man. Is that true?”

Ignoring Bailey’s question, Albert shook the rails of his hospital bed. “It’s been hours since I had a shot for this pain! I can’t stand it!”

“Looks like you need surgery on that knee,” Agent Bailey said, his voice oozing fake sympathy. “After the docs are done with you, we’ll be back for a nice long chat. There are at least three police departments that want their turn at you, too. Denver P.D. sent someone to sit outside your door and make sure you don’t hobble off on your own.”

Miami, Florida
Sunday, January 26

Lynnette sat inside the Miami FBI field offices and waited. Grace had been whisked away again, this time by a female agent. The first visitors to show up were Officer Maggie Gutierrez and Detective Mark Prince from Glades. The good news? They weren’t there to arrest her. The bad news? They filled her in on everything that had happened to Carl. When they finished, she felt drained. She put her head in her hands and wondered why she wasn’t sobbing her heart out. Was she in shock? Would she fall apart later?

“You don’t want to go in there by yourself,” Maggie said. “There are services that clean up crime scenes. We can send someone.”

“I’d appreciate that. What about Carl’s body?”

“His mother said she’d arrange a funeral. She’s waiting for the coroner to release the body.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

“No.”

Carl’s mother would grieve for a long time over her only son. She would have no sympathy for the daughter-in-law who had walked out on Carl and left him to face his killers alone. Lynnette rubbed her forehead. She’d still have to go to the funeral. Facing Carl’s mother would be one more test of her resolve never to run away from a problem again.

After Officer Gutierrez left, Agent Bob McCoy paid Lynnette a visit. He didn’t have Grace with him.

In spite of her exhaustion and apprehension, she paid close attention to Grace’s dad, trying to figure out if he was the good guy Grace said he was. He seemed nice enough, although a bit on the stern side, until Lynnette had told him more than half of her story. At the point she described Grace’s threat to run away in downtown Denver and her fear of Social Services and foster homes, McCoy’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he leaned back in his chair.

“I know I blew it,” Lynnette said, “but I was scared for myself and worried that Grace would take off on her own and something bad would happen to her. At the time I didn’t know Carl was dead. I thought he had put the Denver police on my trail. I figured if they caught me and I had Grace with me, I’d be charged with kidnapping. She got caught up in my paranoia . . . well, you know the rest.”

“Grace said there were people who helped you in Colorado. Thomas Young and his daughter . . . Blue?”

“Yes. I think Thomas has already been in touch with the FBI in Colorado. He wanted to help us by getting the checks to the authorities without telling them about Grace. Thomas’s plan got messed up when that guy showed up at the truck stop in Fort Collins and I took off with Grace.”

“Yes, she told me how you put the guy out of commission. To tell the truth, before talking to Grace this morning I intended to file kidnapping charges against you. After hearing her version, however, and then talking to you, I reconsidered. You didn’t make the best decisions along the way, but I’ll concede that you tried to protect Grace in spite of her tall tales and willfulness and in spite of your own fear. Thank you for that.”

“What happens to Grace now?”

“Her mother gets back tomorrow. I’ll meet with her and see what she intended when she took Grace to the airport. We already have a joint custody arrangement, so we might be able to work it out without going to court. I’d love to have Grace live with me. She’s a great kid and I love her like crazy.”

“Do you have to travel a lot?”

“I do now, but I can change that.”

“If Grace’s mother lets her go, when will you and Grace go to California?”

“Tuesday at the latest.”

“I’ll miss Grace very much, Agent McCoy. After I get my life together, would it be okay if I called to see how she’s doing? Or come out to see her?”

“Get your affairs straightened out first, and then call me.”

He stood up and walked out of the room. Ten minutes later the door opened again. McCoy stood aside to let Grace into the room.

She ran to Lynnette and threw her arms around her neck. “We’re going to be okay now, Lynnette. My dad promised.”

Lynnette hugged Grace and whispered, “I know. You take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will.”

“Come on, Grace,” McCoy said. “The agents need to talk to Mrs. Foster.” As he ushered Grace out of the room, he looked back and said, “You’ll be okay. I wish you the best of luck.”

Miami, Florida
Sunday, January 26

Agent Samuels rejoined Lynnette and told her she needed to tell her story one more time, beginning to end. A second agent came in to man the digital camera and record the interview. Samuels asked an occasional question but mostly listened.

When Lynnette finished, she glanced at her watch and realized she’d been sitting in that chair for more than four hours. “Okay if I stand up and stretch?” she asked.

“Sure. Actually, you’re free to go, Mrs. Foster. Where will you be staying?”

“In a motel. I won’t be able to live in my . . . Carl’s . . . that house.”

Samuels handed her a business card. “Whenever you change your address, please call me. You’re a witness in this case. Eventually you’ll need to testify in a federal court. You’ll receive a subpoena when that time comes.”

“A case against Benito Ortega?”

“And possibly against Albert Getz, the man you call the ‘guy in the tweed jacket.’ ”

“He worked for Ortega, right?”

“We have reason to believe Mr. Getz is a hit man, Mrs. Foster.”

Startled, Lynnette gasped. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

Samuels placed Lynnette’s laptop case on the table. “We’re keeping the checks and the cash, of course.” He leveled a stern gaze at her and added, “Keep an eye on your possessions when you travel. You’re lucky you didn’t have your identity and your savings stolen while your papers were in the possession of Sammy Grick or Albert Getz.”

Lynnette caught her breath but didn’t say anything. As events spiraled out of control before the weekend, she’d forgotten about her investments and bank accounts. She hadn’t contacted the banks or changed her passwords. Now she was anxious to get away from the FBI building and find a motel with an Internet connection.

As soon as she checked in to her motel room, she logged on to her accounts, checked the balances, and changed her passwords. With a sigh of relief, she acknowledged her close call. The fat man had died, so he’d never be a threat again. But the guy in the tweed coat had been in possession of her case and her important papers for several hours.

She drove to a nearby restaurant where she enjoyed her first leisurely dinner in nearly five days. Then she returned to her room and worked her way through her email. She’d received one more email from Dave, this one pleading with her to return to Indianapolis and promising to take care of her. Lynnette deleted it without answering.

The most recent note from Ramona said she was on her way to Florida to help Lynnette sort out her troubles.

Lynnette glanced at her watch, saw that Ramona’s red-eye flight had taken off more than an hour ago, and smiled. It was too late to stop her, and that was fine. Lynnette needed all the moral support she could get.

Running away was no longer an option.

Patricia Stoltey
grew up on a farm in central Illinois and has also lived in Oklahoma, Indiana, the south of France, and Florida. A retired accounts payable and inventory control manager, she currently resides in northern Colorado with her husband and precious Katie Cat. Her blog (
http://patriciastoltey.blogspot.com
) explores the writing life and regularly features guest authors from a variety of genres. Patricia is also the author of the Sylvia and Willie mystery series, including
The Prairie Grass Murders
and
The Desert Hedge Murders. Dead Wrong
is her first standalone novel. She is a member of Northern Colorado Writers, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Sisters in Crime, and Mystery Writers of America.