Dead Wrong (8 page)

The creep’s next words were drowned out by an announcement for the northbound bus to Fort Collins.

Lynnette asked the man on the phone to repeat what he’d just told her, listened to the guy’s response, and ended the call. She left the phone on, thinking she might call the police, thinking this guy would kill her if he found her, thinking Grace would be safer with the cops in Denver than she might be with Blue.

“Look at this,” said Grace.

Lynnette set the phone on the table before turning to see what Grace wanted. “What are you doing?”

Grace had the guy’s case on her lap and was thumbing through the stack of hundred-dollar bills.

“Put that back inside,” Lynnette said. She glanced around the waiting room to see who might have noticed. “You want me to get mugged or something? Hurry up. Your bus is going to board in a minute. You have to get in line.”

“Wait.” Blue reached for the money.

Lynnette grabbed the cash out of Grace’s hand and stuffed the wad inside the case. She started to close the zipper, but then peered at the brown envelope. She pulled it out, opened the clasp, and looked inside. Checks. Maybe a half-dozen large checks drawn on different companies and different banks. Two of the checks totaled more than a million dollars.

“What is it?” Grace asked.

“Just papers. It’s nothing.” Lynnette refastened the clasp and slid the envelope back into place. With one swift zip, she closed the case, set it on the floor, and placed it between her feet.

“Papers?” Blue said. “If it’s only papers, why are your hands trembling?” She shoved her chair back and looked under the table, eyeing the case with renewed interest.

“Is it something bad?” Grace asked. “Maybe you should call the Feds.”

Blue and Lynnette looked at Grace and then at each other. Grace had proposed something far more profound than what her childish experience would normally suggest.

Lynnette placed her hand on Grace’s shoulder. “What do you know about the Feds?”

“Lots. My dad—”

“Damn it all to hell, Grace. What does your dad do with the government?”

“FBI.”

Lynnette’s first emotion was joy. Grace’s dad could help. Her second was despair. It would be four days before he returned from Afghanistan. Her third was fear. What would happen to her if she didn’t return this case to the fat man and get her own case? If she went straight to the police, what would happen to Grace?

“You guys have got to get out of here.” Lynnette read the address, phone numbers, and email address written on Blue’s napkin, then stuffed it in her purse. “Go on, take your packs and get in line.” She sat at the table, watching, until they boarded the bus and the bus pulled away. As she gathered up her things, she discovered Blue’s wig lying on the floor next to her carry-on. She stuffed it into the outside compartment of her bag. She turned off the fat man’s phone and put it in her purse.

The plan, as she had outlined it to the girls and to the fat man, was to leave his case with a security guard, let the guard make the trade, and then she would board a bus to Fort Collins to meet up with Grace and Blue.

Now she wasn’t so sure. One glimpse at the checks had set her reporter’s curiosity on high alert. She had covered a check theft case a few years ago. The thief had never been caught, but a bank had been held liable for cashing the check. Lynnette wanted to know a lot more about the contents of the fat man’s case before she turned it over to anyone. She might need to take Grace’s advice and contact the Feds.

Sammy took the broad at her word and headed for the cab stand at baggage claim level. He walked forever, waited for the train, rode to the main terminal, struggled with the escalator, then walked another mile. She’d gone to the fucking bus station. How in the hell would he explain a trip to the bus station to Mr. O? He thought about what he would say, then realized he couldn’t get in touch with his boss until he got his case. Mr. O had programmed his number into Sammy’s phone, and Sammy never bothered to memorize it. The only other way he could find Mr. O involved calling every hotel in L.A. And even that wouldn’t work if Mr. O used a different name. Sammy gripped Lynnette’s case a little tighter and lumbered out the door to find a cab.

Denver, Colorado
Wednesday, January 22

Lynnette strode across the waiting room and entered the women’s restroom with the case and her purse, pulling her carry-on. The restroom was empty and reeked of lemon and bleach.

With her carry-on propped against her leg and her purse strap over her shoulder, she set the fat man’s laptop case on the counter and methodically went through all of the pockets, pouches and dividers. She pulled out the wad of cash and thumbed through the one-hundred-dollar bills, trying to estimate the total amount. Somewhere around $25,000, she guessed. She tucked the cash securely under the mouse.

Next she pulled the brown envelope out of the case, removed the checks and studied them one by one. They had to be stolen or counterfeit; she had no doubt about that. None of them looked computer-generated. All appeared to be hand-typed, a couple even had erasures as though correcting typos. What had she stumbled into? A two- or three-million-dollar heist?

She took a deep breath and slid the checks inside the envelope, fastened the clasp, and put it away. She zipped up the case and set it on the floor.

The fat guy could get here anytime. If he took a cab, he might be out there already, looking for his bag. He’d find the only security guard on the floor, check with him, get nothing, and be furious.

Even so, how could she justify letting a big-time thief get away just to save herself and reclaim her hopefully replaceable possessions? If she called her brokerage firm first thing in the morning, she’d get the password changed and a fraud alert placed on the account so nothing could happen to her savings. As for the friends and relatives listed on her phone and laptop, she’d contact them all and warn them to be careful. Lynnette shook her head. How in hell could all this happen in one day?
I’m tired, I’m scared, and I’m not thinking straight. I need to take a deep breath and—

A woman and two kids entered the restroom. The woman, who appeared to lay her makeup on with a trowel, looked at Lynnette curiously but didn’t say anything.

Lynnette no longer had any intention of going through with the trade. She wondered how she could get past the guy without him seeing her or his bag? She had the phone. Should she call the Feds as Grace had suggested? How would she do that? Dial information and ask for the FBI? In the middle of the night?

But if she did get the FBI, they’d confiscate the case. Not to mention hold her for God knew how long to ask endless questions. What would Blue do with Grace in the meantime? Blue might end up in trouble because of Grace. Whatever happened would be Lynnette’s fault, no matter what her intentions had been.

And if the FBI took the case, all the checks, and the cash, she’d never get her own stuff and her chance at a great story would vanish. If there even was a story. The fat man might be nothing more than a courier, delivering checks to avoid the delays of the postal system. Guarding them with his life.

Her old boss at
The Indy Reporter,
Dave Buchanan, would love the opportunity to find out. If they managed to stop a major crime before it happened, it would be an incredible scoop. On the other hand, if they held onto goods that rightfully belonged in the fat man’s possession, she and Dave could be the ones charged with a crime.

Lynnette shook her head in confusion. She wondered if the fat man played a role in a bigger conspiracy. Maybe he’d actually stolen the checks. She thought about him lumbering around various big companies, trying to remain anonymous while he snatched important documents from the hands of loyal employees. It was more likely he’d ripped off someone’s laptop case. Maybe he’d pulled a switch with someone else too. Maybe he didn’t even have her bag anymore!

She relaxed and let out a slow breath. He had to have her bag. She’d dialed her own phone number earlier, and he’d answered.

Thursday, January 23

Even with light traffic, it still took almost thirty minutes for Sammy’s cab to travel from DIA to the bus station. By the time the cab pulled up in front of the building, it was after midnight. Sammy would happily have beaten the cabbie senseless if he had so much as smirked at the puny tip Sammy included with his fare. As he struggled out of the cab with the woman’s laptop case, he almost tripped over the curb. He tried to recover his balance by grabbing the inside door handle. It didn’t work. He lurched against the cab and caught his hand in the door as it slammed shut.

The cabbie jumped out to open Sammy’s door. When he took Sammy’s elbow as though to help him onto the sidewalk, Sammy jerked his arm away and turned toward the driver, ready to punch him in the nose. The cabbie took one look at Sammy’s face and left Sammy at the curb.

“Fucking foreigner,” Sammy muttered. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat off his face and neck. Then he turned up his collar against the cold. His hand hurt. He couldn’t bend his fingers. He tried to examine the back and palm, but the lights outside the bus station threw off a weak, diffused glow.

Lynnette reached for her carry-on, retrieved Blue’s wig, and laid it on the counter. She combed her hair away from her face with her fingers, tucking stray ends behind her ears.

Focus.
How could she get away with the laptop case and its contents and get the whole package to someone who could figure it all out?

She’d call Dave at the
Reporter
and see if he had any great ideas. Maybe flying to Indianapolis from Denver made sense. She had Blue’s phone numbers. She could let her know. That way, Lynnette could turn the checks over in person, then leave. She and Dave could even meet with the FBI—right after they photo-copied the evidence.

But that didn’t solve the problem of Grace. She couldn’t put the responsibility for that on Blue.

Lynnette pulled on the wig and pushed her own hair inside. She arranged the wig until it looked natural around her face. Her face. Pathetic. There was no way to hide the still-puffed-up right eye and bruises. Nothing in her purse or suitcase would disguise her face.

Still carrying Lynnette’s case, Sammy entered the station and sat on the nearest bench. His hand throbbed now, even though it didn’t look too bad. One strip of skin across his knuckles seeped a little blood. He made a fist. The fingers closed without too much pain.

A quick glance around the station told him there were only two employees in the room—a counter clerk and a security guard. A few passengers waited, lined up in front of one of the doors. A few more walked about, and two men slept on benches. He didn’t see the broad from the plane.

The security guard watched him as though he thought Sammy might have escaped from the zoo. It pissed Sammy off, but his body didn’t seem to care much. He could hardly keep his eyes open. A nap on one of those benches wouldn’t be too bad. But business had to come first. He grunted as he struggled to his feet and approached the fake cop in his khaki uniform. The cop watched as Sammy lumbered in his direction. Sammy glowered to keep the cop on his toes, but tried not to go overboard.
Gotta keep my cool.

As soon as he drew close enough for the guard to hear, Sammy told his story—the mix-up at the airport and the phone call between him and the broad. He skipped the part about the threats he’d made that had spooked the woman so bad she wouldn’t meet him face-to-face.

The guard shook his head as soon as Sammy told him about the plan to exchange the laptop cases. Sweat broke out on Sammy’s forehead again. He launched into a description of Lynnette. The guard kept shaking his head.

Sammy’s voice grew louder. Beads of perspiration dribbled down the back of his neck. His injured hand began to tremble. He took a step back as he felt a wave of nausea.

“Hey, are you sick?” the guard said.

“No, I’m okay. I just gotta sit.” Sammy moved to the closest bench. Now he couldn’t take a deep breath. He set the case on the floor beside his feet. Another fucking anxiety attack, he thought. The third one in the last six weeks. Just one more sign he needed to see one of those damned knife jockeys.
Fuck!

“You want me to call an ambulance?” the guard said.

“No . . . don’t call an ambulance . . . I’ll be fine . . . I’ll sit here a minute . . . I’m just upset . . .” Sammy stopped and sucked in air. There. He could breathe again. He pulled his damp handkerchief out of his pocket and tried to wipe the sweat off his face, but his hand throbbed. His knuckles were more discolored now. Purple in places.

Holy shit. What have I done to deserve this?

“Maybe you ought to have a doctor look at that hand.”

Jesus. Would this guard never stop?
Sammy took a couple of deep breaths and wiped his hand across his brow. “I told you, I’m fine. If you want to help, get someone to look in the rest-room, see if there’s a broad . . . a woman in there with a case sort of like this one. You can’t miss her. Her boyfriend beat the crap out of her and messed up her face.”

“You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Yes, dammit! Just do what I asked so I can get out of here.”

The guard ambled toward the ticket counter. Sammy clenched his uninjured hand into a fist and pressed it against his chin.

Denver, Colorado
Thursday, January 23

The mom came out of the restroom stall with her kids, did a double-take when she saw Lynnette’s new look, but did not comment. They left the restroom, but in less than a minute the mom came back, alone. “There’s a guy out there looking for you. He said something about a woman with bruises and that she carried a laptop case. Are you in trouble?”

“Yeah.”
Oh, God, trapped in the restroom.
Lynnette stared at the floor, at her carry-on, the laptop, and remembered the time she’d attended a meeting and toted her entire computer case inside her suitcase so she’d have the convenience of wheels.