4 gigs of trouble, p.10
4 Gigs of Trouble, page 10
“No, you can’t,” she said, but the tone of her voice told me she was still taking a crap-o-meter reading. I needed to admit to a lie.
“Mom, I lied. I feel bad about it, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. And that’s really why I’m calling.” I told Mom I’d made up a story about Dad falling and her being worried. I said I’d told the authorities and Marla that same story. “I couldn’t tell the cops the truth, and I didn’t want to tell them one thing and the school another,” I said. “So if anyone from the school or Washington should call, well, I won’t ask you to lie, but—”
“What time are you getting in? You can eat dinner with us. I’ll make a nice lasagna.”
I smiled. If Mom was making lasagna, she believed me. If anyone called, she would cover for me.
“I’m not sure, Mom, but with the change of planes and time differences, I think I’ll just want to crawl home and go to bed, if you don’t mind.”
I could hear her disappointment in the silence.
“Could we have dinner Sunday night?” I said. “That will give me a few days; I need to do my laundry and go grocery shopping, but mostly I need to get some rest.” These were things my mother held in very high esteem.
“Sunday night it is,” she said, and the warmth in her voice said as much as her words. I hung up and could almost see the crap-o-meter dial, the needle resting safely in the green zone.
I was still smiling when the man sitting two empty seats away said, “It’s warm and sunny in San Francisco. Indian summer. Good place to be right now.” The voice came from behind an open newspaper, and I wasn’t sure whether the comment was directed to me. I ignored it.
The newspaper rattled as a page got turned; the voice returned, a little louder this time.
“It’s nice to have a mom who worries about you. The thing about worry, it goes both ways.”
I wasn’t ignoring the man now. Aside from his words, which were beginning to alarm me, there was something else: his voice. It sounded familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.
The newspaper rattled with another page turn, and the voice continued.
“Kids start to worry when parents grow older, become ill, die. Cancer. Heart attacks. Ischemic stroke of the right hemisphere leading to impulsive behavioral style and left-sided paralysis and neglect.”
I froze for only an instant, and then the inner-Marine took control. In one long and swift step, I was practically standing on top of the man; all six-feet of me was battle-ready, tensed to rip the newspaper from his hands and the larynx from his throat. The paper lowered to reveal the face behind it. I had never seen him before.
“Take it easy,” he said. A smile slowly curled his lips but did not reach the hard green of his eyes. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversations. It sounds like leaving DC and its problems is the best way for you to take care of your family. Sounds smart to me. But then school teachers generally are pretty smart.” He winked.
I was trained to put out an eye with one quick strike. My fingers itched to demonstrate that I could still do it.
“Who are you?” I said.
He lowered his voice to a soft whisper. “No one you’ll ever see again if you go home and mind your own business.” He stood, lightly brushing against me and causing me to take a half-step back. “You’ve made a good decision. Stick with it. Remember, we’re watching you.” He leaned into my face, and I could smell the coffee on his breath. “I’d hate for something to happen to your mother. She sounds like a dear, and your dad depends on her now.”
The man turned and walked away just as they announced my flight was boarding. My hand shook as I handed my boarding pass to the ramp attendant. I took several long steps into the ramp, paused, and looked back. Newspaper Man was gone, replaced by a familiar face.
Tortoise nodded his head, raised his hand as if waving good-bye, and subtly pointed his index finger and thumb. Not exactly a Glock, but close enough for me to get the message.
• • •
Drinking relaxes me. I flagged the flight attendant and asked for more. “Thirsty, huh?” she said, as she slid another Diet Coke off her cart and onto my tray table. I thanked her for the can and passed on the peanuts. The thought of chewing anything made the knot in my stomach cinch even tighter.
It didn’t surprise me that Tortoise and company had followed me to the airport. Much of what Newspaper Man said was easily picked up by simply listening to my cell phone conversations. But I hadn’t been specific about my dad’s condition, so where did he get the detailed information about that? The vast majority of strokes are ischemic, so Newspaper Man could have hit on that simply based on odds. But not every ischemic stroke is right hemispheric. Not every person who has such a stroke suffers from impulsive behavioral style. And not every stroke survivor suffers from left-sided neglect. To have randomly picked up all of that would be the chance-equivalent of winning the Lotto. Newspaper Man hadn’t taken an educated guess—he’d been educated. The same slimy fingers that had probed my military record had gotten into my dad’s medical records.
I moved my Diet Coke to the edge of my tray table and maneuvered my netbook out from underneath the seat in front of me. They were dragging my parents into it now. By making veiled threats against them, they were upping the ante and making a colossal mistake. I felt the knot in my stomach start to ease. I booted up my computer and looked anew at the files John had left me. I would stick with the plan Uncle Lester and I had made, but Tortoise and company weren’t the only ones who knew how to up an ante.
The schoolteacher was completely gone now. It was all about the Marine, who was determined and disciplined and, if need be, deadly.
Chapter Twenty-one
Adrenaline and anger propelled me through the first leg of my trip home, but the lack of sleep caught up with me. I changed planes at Dallas/Ft. Worth, and I was asleep just minutes after settling into my seat. Judging from the look I got from my seatmate when we touched the ground at SFO, I’d been snoring. Judging from the dampness on my shirt collar, I’d also been drooling.
I collected my luggage in baggage claim and considered my route home. I’d caught a ride with Marla to the school, where we picked up the bus to the airport, so my car was not waiting for me in the parking lot. Mom was at home in the Sunset District, which wasn’t far, but I wouldn’t stir up the pot by calling her for a ride. My friends were all at work. If I was going to a major hotel, I could catch an airport shuttle, but to my apartment in Larkspur? I figured I was on my own. I wheeled my suitcase to the BART entrance, thinking about the train, two buses, and cab I’d need to get home. Steve Martin’s character in Trains, Planes & Automobiles came to mind but didn’t make me smile. What did make me smile was nothing, or perhaps more accurately worded, no one. From the moment I stepped off the plane, I’d watched for watchers. There were none.
That I saw.
At 4:00 California time, I unlocked my front door and slipped inside quietly. I silently opened the entryway closet and reached for the Louisville Slugger I kept just inside. The Slugger and I visited each room, searching every closet, cupboard, and hiding space. The only recent visitors I’d attracted were a couple of dust bunnies lurking underneath my bed. Everything was squared away, just as I’d left it. I took a deep breath, dragged my luggage inside, closed and locked the door, and headed for the refrigerator. I’d been either too tense or too asleep to eat on the plane, and I suddenly realized my stomach was bubbling with acid. Before I spewed like Kilauea, I needed to eat. I was too tired to cook so I found an apple and a hunk of cheddar in the fridge and hoped it was sufficient to appease Pele.
I plugged in my netbook and cell phone to recharge their batteries and decided I needed to do the same. I set my alarm for 9:00 pm and fell asleep quickly, awakening almost five hours later only because the electronic beep of the alarm clock insisted. As grating as it was, its electronic “voice” paled in comparison to the “Lights! Lights! Lights!” of my drill instructor at recruit training. That was one part of being a Marine I was happy to move past. I got up, fed Pele another apple, indulged in a long, hot shower, and got dressed. While my printer churned out hard copies of some of John’s documents, I packed a change of clothes, toiletries, and other necessities in an overnight bag. When the printer was finished, I loaded the copies into my daypack, along with my netbook, my Garmin, and my Glock.
It was time.
• • •
According to my traveling companion “Jack Garmin,” I had 569 miles and almost nine hours of drive time ahead of me. I couldn’t do anything about the distance, but I could do something about the time. From the moment I got my driver’s license, I’d had a heavy foot. The first couple of times I got pulled over, once by the CHP and once by SFPD, I managed to cry my way out of a ticket. I must have gotten less cute or less lucky because in my early twenties I snagged an expensive speeding ticket from which there was no escape. For my birthday that year, I got a radar detector along with a whopping lecture about responsibility. It was one of Dad’s finest moments; he managed to acknowledge that while one might break the letter of the law, one must never break its spirit. I’ve replaced and upgraded detectors several times since then, but I’ve never replaced the advice that came with my first Whistler almost a decade ago.
Jack directed me to merge onto I-5 south. My large, ice-cold Diet Coke was still three-quarters full, though the burger and fries that came with it were reduced to greasy paper that still smelled good enough to eat, if you were really hungry. Miles of crops and grazing cattle were lit by an almost full moon, radiating a strange, ethereal peace. The traffic was light, and the freeway was straight and smooth. I glanced over at my radar detector and smiled. “I’m obeying the spirit,” I said softly, as if Daddy could hear. I pressed the gas pedal down, hard but steady, and my little Civic flew.
I crossed over to 99, the old California highway that cuts straight through the heart of the state, and pulled into a truck stop just before Bakersfield. I filled up the Civic as well as my stomach, did some stretches, took a bathroom break, and bought another large Diet Coke for the road. In thirty minutes, Jack and I were back on 99, cutting through Bakersfield and over to California 58. It was 2:30 am.
The climb over the Tehachapi’s took me past wind farms and into high desert, announced by dusty little towns like Mojave and Boron. Some people hate the desert, and though I’m not one of them, even on a moonlit night it did stretch out long and lonely. I glanced at the Garmin. In another forty miles I’d be to Barstow, where I would connect to the last leg of my drive.
Jack directed me to merge onto I-15 north, and my spirits started to lift. I put on some Black Eyed Peas and turned the volume up. There were a few more cars and trucks on the road, but traffic was still light, as one might expect in this no-man’s-land at five in the morning. I was zipping along to BEP’s electronic beat when I passed the sign for Zzyzx, a funky little place I’d once seen on Huell Howser’s California’s Gold. I smiled, remembering the time I mentioned it to Marla, thinking I’d tell the librarian something she didn’t already know. I didn’t, of course. She’d not only seen Howser’s piece, she knew about the Desert Studies Center there and, with a wicked gleam in her eye, also explained that Zzyzx was a focal point in one of Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch books. I had no idea who Harry Bosch or Michael Connelly was, but I nodded like I’d just remembered that myself and never mentioned Zzyzx again.
When I couldn’t stand the Black Eyed Peas any longer, I turned them off and asked Jack how much farther we had to go. I was becoming impatient. It was still dark, though the eastern horizon was starting to look more gray than black. Soon it would turn orange with the approaching sunrise. If I’d figured the timing right, I’d arrive about the same time as the sun.
With twenty miles to go, traffic started to thicken. The sun poked its head over the horizon, and the first of the day-jobbers were drinking hot coffee while making their way to work. I needed a hot breakfast, a clean bathroom, and a chance to review the printouts in my daypack. I got off I-15 just before the airport and pulled over to consult with my traveling companion. “Good job, Jack,” I said when the Garmin found me a Denny’s close to my final destination.
I opened my car door and unfolded my legs into the parking lot but hesitated before stepping out. My CCW, or California Concealed Weapon permit, wasn’t good in Nevada. If I carried my Glock inside my daypack, I’d be breaking the letter of the law. From my driving habits, one might assume this wouldn’t be a problem for me. One would assume wrong; there was a huge difference between a speeding ticket and a felony arrest. I’d read that Nevada allowed “open carry,” but I couldn’t see myself walking into a Denny’s packing a Glock in the front of my waistband. I pulled my legs back into the Civic and closed and locked the door. I lifted the tissues out of my full-sized box of Kleenex, placed my pistol at the bottom of the box, and covered the Glock with the Kleenex. It looked untampered and innocent, but if anyone lifted the box, the weight would give it away. I gently wedged the box partially under the passenger’s front seat, locked the car, and asked for a booth near the window. While I reviewed John’s printouts and feasted on a meat lover’s scramble, I kept an eye on my Honda.
By 7:34 I was keeping an eye on something else: the front door of the Desert Independent Review Board. The gung-ho employees started arriving at 7:45 and were followed by a steady stream, with the I’d-rather-not-be-here club bringing up the rear. At 8:03, I spotted the familiar face as she stepped out of her bright green Taurus and shuffled reluctantly to the heavy glass door. Judging from the pinched look on her face, she was a card-carrying member of the rather-not club, and if my guess was right, I could understand why.
I waited a couple of minutes and reconfigured the items in my daypack. I dabbed on a touch of lipstick, smoothed the driving wrinkles from my trousers, and headed for the glass door, daypack slung casually over my shoulder. This time my pack contained more than John’s printouts and my netbook—it contained a willingness to break the law, in letter and, if necessary, in spirit. I walked to the front reception desk, feeling the burden of my actions and the weight of my Glock.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Good morning,” I said to the size four behind the reception desk. “I’m here to see Alicia Cantrell. I hope you can point me to her office.”
Actually, I was hoping for a lot more than that. The fortyish redhead who’d just entered the building matched one of John’s thumb drive photos, but unfortunately, the photo wasn’t linked to a name. There were three female names possibly associated with this photo, giving me a 33 percent chance that Alicia Cantrell was the woman in the photo. It was a little risky, but those were better odds than a tug on the ubiquitous one-armed bandits surrounding North America’s gambling mecca.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”
Perhaps I should stick to slot machines.
“Oh, how embarrassing,” I said. “If my boss knew I’d made that faux pas, I’d be out on the street for sure.” I took a quick breath and aimed an unsteady smile at Four’s bright blue eyes. “Must have memorized the wrong name. I’m new.” I glanced at an imaginary entry in my pocket-sized appointment book and gave the second of my three possible names.
Size Four slowly shook her head and her bright blue eyes started to narrow. “I think you’re in the wrong building,” she said.
My instincts told me even if my third name hit the jackpot, Miss Blue Eyes would find it suspicious that I needed three tries to get the name of someone I supposedly had a business appointment with.
“6741 Vonham Drive,” I said with conviction.
She smiled. “Well, there’s your problem. Right number, wrong street.”
I thanked her for her time, wished her a nice day and got the hell out of Dodge. Back in the Civic with windows rolled up tight, I loosened up with a little aerobic swearing. There had to be a way to get in to see Janice Ritter, my third name and, by process of elimination, the person I needed. I reached for a piece of gum from my daypack, hoping to substitute the foul flow of obscenity with some minty-fresh mastication. As my fingers stretched to the bottom of my bag, they brushed against my wallet and my Glock. I stopped swearing, started smiling, and got busy.
“Excuse me. Again,” I said as I approached the receptionist. “On the way back to my car I nearly stepped on this.” I held up my own wallet. “Looks like it fell out of the lady’s purse when she got out of her car.”
Miss Four held out her hand. “I’ll give it to her,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t even know who it belongs to…” I let my voice trail off suggestively. “ID in the wallet says this is Janice Ritter’s. I’d like to return it to her.”
The receptionist gave me an icy blast from her baby blues. “Second floor, Records Department. If you think you’re going to get a reward from that one,” she said, shaking her head, “think again.”
I took the stairs slowly, adding up what I knew. Here, in Henderson, Nevada, a woman named Janice Ritter worked for the Records Department of the Desert Independent Review Board. John had her photo, a link to her company’s website, and her full name on his flash drive. Not exactly full intel, John, I thought as my feet hit the top stair. A dozen steps from the door marked “Records,” I remembered that John had also recorded GPS coordinates for the nearby Forum Shops, reasonably connecting the Forum Shops to Ms. Ritter. Still awfully sketchy, John. My feet stopped moving, my hand reached for the door handle, and my brain launched into overdrive.
I stepped inside the Records Department and surveyed the room: four sets of two work cubicles butted up back-to-back with partitions too short to provide any real privacy. Each cubby was armed with a desk, computer, and stacks of files. Not all of the cubicles were occupied, though they all looked to be in use, so apparently not everyone was in the office yet. A quick headcount came to four: one woman entering data, one man flipping through a three-inch file, one woman squinting at a compact mirror as she applied lipstick, and one woman surveying the contents of her purse with a very puzzled expression on her face.
