Dead Wrong (3 page)

She returned to the kitchen and opened the bottle of red wine she’d bought for their one-week anniversary dinner. Carl’s lunch sat on the table, untouched. She dumped the food, plate and all, into the trash.
What the hell’s the difference? I won’t be here.

Using a short water glass, she poured a small amount of wine. It tasted good, but she needed a clear head. She corked the bottle and left it on the counter. She carried a can of diet root beer and a glass to the patio and thought about the last two months, trying to figure out the exact moment she’d lost her common sense.

She had left her Indianapolis home and her friends behind and flown to Miami only a few weeks before, thinking she had a job in advertising sales with
The Miami Herald.
But the job no longer existed by the time she arrived. Budget cuts. The only job she found right away was in an oceanfront bar in Fort Lauderdale. The need to defend herself from intoxicated jerks while she took orders and served drinks led her to a self-defense class in nearby Glades, and to Carl.

Never in a million years would she have suspected him of being the kind of person who’d hit women. He’d been her instructor at the class. No one would expect a stealth attack from the very person who teaches you how to defend yourself!

She hadn’t been in Florida long enough to make new friends. The women in her self-defense class seemed nice enough, but she only knew their first names. It was hard to bond while they visualized each other as attackers to be fended off using elbow thrusts, thumbs to the eyeballs, and toe stomps.

The waitresses and bartenders where she worked came and went as fast as the weather changed. None of them had been around long enough to become more than a passing acquaintance.

Carl was a cop. That had seemed like a good thing. Now she remembered things she’d learned in her former job as a reporter for
The Indy Reporter.
She had covered two stories in different Indiana towns where a cop regularly beat the crap out of his wife.

If she called the cops on Carl, would it bring even more trouble into her life? Wouldn’t they all stick together?

Her new mother-in-law, a lawyer in West Palm Beach, wouldn’t help. Carl’s mother thought he could do no wrong.

Domestic abuse hotline? Shelter for battered women? Those organizations took care of victims. She refused to think of herself as a victim.

What then? She could try the old light-a-fire-in-his-bed alternative, of course. Or a bit of rat poison in his salad dressing. She chuffed at her inappropriate thoughts. She could imagine the prosecuting attorney’s question: “Why didn’t you just leave, Mrs. Foster?”

Her answer: “Because I was pissed off!”

Nah, that won’t fly.

It would have been nice if she’d come from a larger family. Her only living relative, if she didn’t count her soon-to-be ex-husband, was her stepmother. Ramona had moved back to her condo in a Southern California retirement community after Lynnette’s father died. They hadn’t been in touch since just before Lynnette and Carl tied the knot.

She glanced at her watch. A little after noon. She carried the can and her glass inside, shoving the patio door closed with her foot. Before packing her carry-on bag and her laptop, she changed into black jeans, a sweater and running shoes. Called a cab. Wrote a note and tossed it on the kitchen table.

Carl, I’m not coming back. I’ll get my finances in order and file for divorce as soon as I’m settled. I don’t want to talk to you. L.

While she waited for her cab, Lynnette went through the motions, doing the things she’d do on an ordinary day before leaving the house. She closed the blinds and pulled the drapes across the patio door, unplugged the coffee pot, dumped the grounds and rinsed the decanter.

A car horn honked. Before she got to the door, the cab driver honked again. As she placed her purse strap over her shoulder, she automatically checked the thermostat. The house would be hot and stuffy when Carl returned if she didn’t adjust the temperature. She didn’t give a rat’s ass. She shut off the air conditioner and fan, grabbed her bags, set the lock, and pulled the door shut.

Hollywood, California
Wednesday, January 22

Albert Getz studied the reference books in
To Die or Not to Die,
the newly opened mystery bookstore in Hollywood. All the new releases on forensics, police procedure, weapons, and poisons were there. He pulled down a copy of an older, well-known reference,
Murder and Mayhem
by D. P. Lyle, M.D., and opened it to the Table of Contents.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Albert looked over his shoulder, saw the man who earlier had manned the cash register at the front of the now empty store and answered, “I think I found it.”

“Just got that in yesterday. You a mystery writer?”

“No, but I wrote a book mystery writers use for research. I’m a retired professor. Used to teach criminal justice classes in the sociology department at Central CU.” Albert took off his reading glasses and tucked them in the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. He held the book next to his chest with his left hand and, with his right, fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. He pulled it out, stuck the stem into one corner of his mouth, and sucked in the sweet taste of cherry tobacco.

The shop owner raised his eyebrows.

“It’s not lit,” Albert said between his clenched teeth. “It’s never lit.” He took the pipe out of his mouth. “I quit smoking five years ago.” He tapped on the book he’d selected and added, “I’m going to do a website and a blog to help market my book. Need to see how this guy does it.”

“You’re going to buy that one?”

“Yes.” Albert’s cell phone rang. He stuck the pipe stem in his mouth and grabbed the phone out of his pocket. “Yes?”

Ortega the Cuban again. God, he hated that man. Getz turned his back on the bookstore employee and walked away.

“I have a job for you, Getz. You know Sammy Grick from Miami?”

“Fat Ass Sammy Grick? Sure. Doesn’t he work for you?”

“He does, but just for a few more hours. I need him killed.”

“When?”

“He’s on his way to L.A. with a package for me. I’d like you to be here, waiting for him. Where are you now?”

“Hollywood.”

“Call me when you get to Century City and I’ll give you the hotel name and room number.”

“Payment today?”

“As soon as the job’s done.”

After replacing the phone and pipe in his pocket, Albert strode to the front of the store, paid for the book, and headed toward the parking garage where he’d left his car.

Miami, Florida
Wednesday, January 22

It took nearly two hours for Lynnette’s cab to get to the departure ramp at Miami International. After she drew the daily limit of cash from one of the airport ATMs, she worked her way through the maze toward the Overland Airlines ticket counter.

Scooting her laptop bag along the floor and rolling her carry-on forward, Lynnette finally neared the front of the line. As she reached for her case, she brushed against the prominent rear end of the short, fat man in front of her. He turned and glared, studying her face with no change of expression.

“Sorry,” she said.

The fat man turned away. The line shuffled forward. He waddled to the counter, leaving his own case to block Lynnette’s path. She maneuvered around the obstacle. He gathered his driver’s license and boarding pass and turned, nearly bowling Lynnette over as he lunged for his case and hurried away.

“Butthead,” she whispered as she stepped to the counter. The ticket agent stared at Lynnette’s face, trying to compare it to the photo on her driver’s license. “Ma’am, would you remove your sunglasses?”

She did. “Car accident,” she said. “Sitting too close to the air bag. Won’t do that again.”

The agent nodded, regarded her face a little longer, then placed the license next to his keyboard.

“What’s the next flight out of Miami?” she asked.

“Where to?”

“Oh. LAX.” He had already begun to type when she added, “Or Burbank. John Wayne.”

The agent stared at Lynnette, then turned to his monitor as his fingers moved across the keyboard. “We’ll start with Los Angeles.” He tapped on the keys for a few seconds, then studied his screen. “I can get you on the 5:30 flight, but the only seats left are first class.”

“Direct flight?”

He shook his head. “One stop. Denver. Same plane takes you on to L.A.”

“How long is the layover?”

“Ummm. Looks like an hour.”

Lynnette said okay without asking the price. She booked the ticket with her Indiana driver’s license and her own credit card, both in her maiden name. The clerk barely raised an eyebrow, and the exorbitant charge slipped through the system without question. Too bad she and Carl hadn’t received the new joint credit cards they’d ordered. Her ticket would have been a small price for Carl to pay for her bloody nose and black eye. He shouldn’t get off this easy.

It took her almost thirty minutes to get through security. The short bank of seats for travelers to put on their shoes and reorganize their possessions was almost full. Lynnette set her case on one seat while she replaced her laptop and zipped it closed. Before she had a chance to move it, the fat man charged forward, grabbed her case and set it on the floor, put his own case and shoes next to it, and dropped into the seat with a grunt.

Lynnette shifted to one side when she felt the guy’s meaty thigh rub against her leg.

Taking the extra seconds to replace her identification in her billfold and zip her boarding pass into the outside compartment of her purse, she was still tying her shoes when the fat man left. When she arrived at the gate area, she saw him disappear into the men’s room. She shuddered and said a silent prayer he wouldn’t be on her plane.

With more than two hours to wait until her flight boarded, she needed something to do. At the newsstand she bought a paper and a bottle of water and settled down to read.

As soon as she could, she followed the line into first class, found her seat, stowed her carry-on in the overhead compartment and put her computer and purse under the seat in front of her.

The fat man she’d seen at the ticket counter and again at security entered the cabin. Without apology, he bumped the arms and shoulders of seated passengers with his case and bulky body. He stopped at Lynnette’s row, which caused her a moment of panic. She relaxed when he dropped his belongings into the seat across the aisle and struggled to remove his jacket. He threw it into the window seat, then leaned over and raised the armrest. With a grunt, he heaved his case to the floor and shoved it out of sight with his foot. From where Lynnette sat, it appeared the fat man’s butt spread into the window seat, even though he clearly intended to sit on the aisle.

Within minutes, the plane began its slow exit from the gate.

Lynnette didn’t have a solid plan yet, but she’d been working on it. She’d arrive in L.A. about midnight, so she’d find a motel room and get a little sleep before moving on. From Los Angeles, she could take a shuttle south to Ramona’s place. Carl might look for her in L.A., but he’d have a hard time tracing her movements if she didn’t rent a car. He didn’t know exactly where her stepmother lived, either. The complex was a gated facility covering hundreds of acres. Manned security gates guarded each entrance. Maybe by the time Carl showed up, Lynnette would have moved on. Or maybe Ramona would ask her to stay for a while. She sure as hell wouldn’t allow Carl in the door.

Ramona might say “I told you so.” Lynnette could live with that.

Miami, Florida
Wednesday, January 22

Sammy slid toward the aisle so the little rise where the two airplane seats came together didn’t push against his tailbone when he leaned back.
At least that bastard I work for booked me two seats in first class.
He was known all over South Florida as Fat Ass Sammy Grick for a reason. He needed that extra space. If there’d been only one seat or if he’d been back with the elcheapo flyers, Sammy swore he’d have taken Mr. Ortega’s loot and headed for parts unknown.

Nah, that was stupid. If he did something like that, Mr. O would send a couple of goons to track him down and cut him into little pieces.

He looked at the small space between his knees and the seat in front of him. “Like being in a submarine,” he said.

The laptop case he’d stuffed under the seat kept him from stretching out his legs. He used his feet to pull it forward, shove it toward the window seat, and push it back underneath. With one flick of his thumb and forefinger, he unfastened the button at the waist of his pants, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead and neck.

He needed a drink. The attendant call button was overhead, but Sammy couldn’t reach it. With enough force to send a jolt of pain up his arm, he banged his fist on the armrest, just once. He didn’t want to piss anybody off, get restrained with plastic handcuffs and dragged off the plane. That would be a disaster, in more ways than one. The appointment Sammy had in Los Angeles was too important. And considering what he had done just a few hours before, he needed to get his ass out of Miami as fast as he could.

Cooped up in this damn airplane and waiting for one of those broads to bring him a drink ranked right up there with all the rest of the things he hated. He belched, sour acid rising into his throat. God, he hated flying.

In the air
Wednesday, January 22

Lynnette celebrated her escape from Miami in the air, somewhere northwest of Orlando. Her second martini arrived with five olives, just as she’d ordered, accompanied by a sympathetic smile from the flight attendant who looked everywhere except at Lynnette’s battered face.

As she sipped her drink, Lynnette thought about Carl, thought about him coming home and finding her note. Would he be angry? Hell, yes. Throw something? Punch a hole in the wall with his fist? Probably. She held her icy glass against her cheek, as close to her nose as she dared. How had he kept his rage hidden all those weeks they’d talked and dated, planned the wedding, enjoyed the weekend honeymoon on Duck Key? He was so sweet, so sexy.