Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 01 - A Deadly Change of Course--Plan B (9 page)

“Thanks,” I said as I handed him the bag of groceries.

“What’s that?  A laptop computer?” he asked.

“Yeah.
  I had to buy a power cord for it today.  I picked it up at an auction earl
ier this week, but the battery’
s dead.”

“Your aunt told me you’re into buying and selling stuff like that.  Do you make a decent living at it?” he asked.

“Oh.  I get by.  Once in a while I make a really good deal.  When that happens, I can put a little something into savings.  Like last month
,
I bought this storage unit in San Diego.  It was full of all kinds of stuff that looked like junk
to most people.  Most of it actually was junk, but the guy who had rented it left a bunch of old movie posters behind.  They turned out to be collector’s items.  I found a dealer up in Hollywood who paid me top dollar for them.  But that doesn’t happen very often.”

“How long have you been in this business?” he asked.

“I started about a year ago.  I used to be a database administrator, but I discovered that I’m not cut out for the rat race. I had to change my lifestyle before I became
roadkill
on the corporate highway.  So, here I am.”

“I think it’s great that you’re able to do this.  I admire a person who can take control of their life and make changes like that.”

“I don’t know how much control I have.  I just know life’s a lot less stressful now.  I feel so much better
—
it’s unbel
ievable.”  I re
played what I’d just said in my head.  I sensed stress would be cree
ping back into my life
—
big-time
—very soon.  I only hoped I’d have the strength to handle it better than my history indicated.

“That’s great.  Hey, I guess I’m having dinner with you guys tonight.  Your aunt just called and invited me over.”

I laughed.  “She must have waited until she saw me pull into the driveway.  I’m sure she’s attempting a little matchmaking.  I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?
  Are you kidding?  I never pass up a chance at a home-cooked meal.  At my house, if it doesn’t go straight from the freezer to the microwave, it can’t be food.”

We both laughed.  When we got to the boat, I thanked him for his help.  “You go on ahead.  I’ll be right up.  I just want to put this stuff away.  Can you let Aunt Arlene know that I’ll be right there?”

“Sure thing,” he said.  He headed back up the dock toward the house.

I smiled and watched him walk away.  He seemed like a really nice guy
—
sort of a Jimmy Stewart-type character.  For some reason, I was reminded of the last serious relationship I’d been in.  It had ended nearly ten years ago, when my significant other of seven years informed me that he had finally met Miss Right, and she wasn’t me.  In one cruel instant, I learned a very harsh lesson
—
not to trust anyone with my heart, unless I was willing to have it broken.  I correlated the experience to running headlong into an electric fence, which I had done as a young girl growing up on a small horse ranch.  It’ll knock you flat on your rear, because you don’t expect it.  Then, every time you come up to any fence, even if you know for a fact that the fence charger is not on, you
can’t make yourself touch it.  I decided a long time ago that no man existed who was worth going through that pain again
—
although there was a small part of me that hoped I was wrong.

I dismissed those thoughts, trying to concentrate on putting the groceries away.  Finally, I sat down at the table with the computer in front of me and powered it up.  It prompted me for a password.  I shouldn’t have been surprised he would have secured the thing.  I was sure there
was
all kinds of incriminating information stored on it.  I tried a few things off the top of my head:
spy, killer, assassin,
but of course nothing happened.  It was just a shot in the dark, anyway.  I shut the machine down and put it back in the closet.  I would call Spencer, my hacker friend up in Sacramento, in the morning and ask for his help.   He could break into any computer system you sat him down in front of.  He’d been working for the state after getting caught adjusting credit card account balances for some of his friends.   He was given the choice to either work for the state in their information technology department, or spend time in the state’s own penal “hotel” for several years.  Spencer wasn’t stupid.  He chose the cushy state position, with all its benefits.  (That would be the job, not jail.)

Aunt Arlene made a great dinner.  My mouth watered as I smelled the sweet aroma of chopped apples and walnuts being sautéed with tender pieces of chicken breasts and seasoned with thyme.  I helped her halve the avocados she intended to stuff with the chicken mixture. 
Served over a bed of fresh greens, the meal looked almost too pretty to eat.  The deep purple of the cabbage contrasted perfectly against the dark green romaine lettuce and the ripe, red tomatoes.  You could have photographed the dinner table to create a perfect still life.  Uncle Doug opened a bottle of Merlot they picked up in the Napa Valley while on vacation.  I couldn’t remember the last time I had such a delicious meal.  For dessert, we had raspberry cheesecake.  A thin layer of dark chocolate hidden between the buttery crust and filling gave my taste buds an enjoyable surprise.  Uncle Doug told us it was Aunt Arlene’s own creation
—
called “Passion in a Pan.”

We retired to the living room with our coffee and talked while we admired the sunset on the Pacific.  Craig talked about growing up back in Kentucky, and how much he loved the West Coast.  He originally planned to return to Kentucky after medical school to open a practice in the small town he grew up in.  Two months before graduation, he took a weekend trip to San Diego and changed his mind.

“So, Craig…” Aunt Arlene started as she cleared the throw-pillows from the love seat to make room for Craig to sit next to me.  “How is it that a nice young man
like you
isn’t married yet?”

Doug
came
to Craig’s rescue by changing the subject before he had a chance to respond.  “Hey, I picked up a great movie at the video place today.  You guys want to watch it?” Uncle Doug asked
,
eyeing Arlene to be sure she got his drift.  “I think we even have some popcorn.”

“Sure.  Sounds great,” I said.

“I’ll second that,” Craig said.

A few silent moments passed, and it seemed Doug had been successful in diverting the direction of the conversation.  Then, poor Craig put it right back in Aunt Arlene’s court.  “How is it that I’m still single?  Well, I guess I just haven’t met the right girl yet.  My mother says I’m too picky, but I don’t think so.  I just have this feeling when I find the right girl, I’ll know she’s the one, and there won’t be any question about it.”

“How sweet,” Arlene said.

I was silent.  I thought to myself,
poor, naïve Craig—
he’ll be lucky if he even meets Miss Close, let alone Miss Perfect.  And then, she’ll probably tear his heart out. 
What a cynic I’d become.

It was almost eleven when Craig walked me back to my boat.  We laughed together about my aunt’s matchmaking attempts.  I kept the conversation light, careful to remain within my comfort zone.  I thanked him for walking me home and said good night.  It would have felt natural to give him an innocent kiss on the cheek, but that would have been like playing with fire.  I sent him on his way and retired to my galley. 

I tried a couple more times at breaking the password, but was unsuccessful.  I finally gave up then checked my little phone book to make sure I still had Spenser’s number.

After changing into the oversized T-shirt I slept in, I climbed into my bunk.  I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. 

I don’t remember if
I
was dreaming at all, but at two in the morning, I woke up, suddenly.  “That’s it,” I said as I jumped out of bed.  I tried to switch on the light, but nothing happened.  I had no power.  I grabbed a flashlight and walked outside to see if the power cord had come unplugged from the outlet on the dock.  Everything looked okay.  I glanced up at the house and saw the porch lights on.  The breaker must have blown, but I didn’t know where it was.  I could ask Uncle Doug to show me in the morning.  For the time being, I needed to plug in the computer and try something.  I slipped on some jeans and a sweatshirt and deck shoes, then I grabbed the laptop and carried it up to the house.  I plugged it into an electrical outlet located near the picnic table where I sat down.  I booted the little machine up and waited for the password prompt.  I said a little prayer,
then
typed in the name
Kerstin
.

“Yes,” I whispered as the Windows desktop appeared before my eyes.  I started moving the mouse pointer to the Windows Explorer button when it happened.

At first I thought the sound came from out on the open ocean, not the confines of the small harbor.  You just wouldn’t expect something with an impact that immense to happen so close.  The explosion was massive.  The sound would have ousted the entire neighborhood from their beds.  My attention was redirected away from the small screen of the computer to the inferno blazing in
the harbor.  For a brief moment, I thought it
must be one of my crazy dreams—
only it seem
ed much more realistic
.  I blinked my eyes several times to confirm I was, in fact, awake and what I was seeing was reality.  My beautiful boat had gone up in a mass of flames.  Debris flew through the air like little missiles.  The explosion destroyed half the dock, along with the
Plan B
.  I sat in a daze as I watched my home burn like a torch. 

Seconds later, Doug and Arlene came running out of the house to see what the blast was. 
“
Devonie
!
 
Your boat!”
Uncle Doug yelled, in shock.

I didn’t take my eyes off the flames.  “I know, Uncle Doug.  I know.” 

Chapter Ten

I
took a quick mental inventory of all my belongings.  Most everything I owned was on the boat.  Basically, all I had left were the clothes I was wearing, the computer I was sitting in front of, and my Jeep.  The Jeep would be completely useless to me at the moment.  The keys, along with all my credit cards, driver’s license, and any other forms of ID I had, were in my purse.  The last place I’d seen my purse was on the table in the galley of the
Plan B
.

“Thank God you weren’t on the boat,” Aunt Arlene said.  “Are you okay,
Devonie
?  I’d better go call the fire department.  Are you sure you’re all right?  What in the world happened?”

“Calm down, honey,” Doug said, in the most composed voice he could muster under the circumstances.  “You go call 911.  I’ll try to find out what happened.”

The situation grew more intense by the moment.  Neighbors bolted from their homes to see what all the
commotion was about.  Dogs barked furiously at small pieces of burning debris landing in their yards.

“I think I need some help,” I said as I frantically packed the computer back in its case.

“It looks like Pearl Harbor out there.  What’s going on,
Devonie
?  What happened to your boat?” he demanded.

“I can’t explain everything right now.  I don’t have time.  I need to get out of here fast.  In a nutshell, I bought the contents of a storage unit that apparently belonged to some sort of assassin.  I don’t know how in the world they found me, but it’s obvious they know where I am.  It’s just a miracle the electricity went out on the boat and I came up here to find a plug at the very moment she went up.  Someone up there must be watching over me.”

“That circuit breaker must have blown again.  I’ve been meaning to have an electrician come look at it,” Doug said.  “The lucky thing is that you’re alive.  It sounds like you’d be safer if everyone else thinks you went up with your boat, though.”

“Exactly.
  But I’ve got to move fast.  I can’t use my Jeep because I don’t have the keys.”  Then I remembered something.  “Wait.  The spare set Jason used to bring it to me.  I think I left those on the desk in your study.”

“You may have, but you shouldn’t use your Jeep.  They probably know it’s yours and they might be looking for it.  You can use one of my company cars in the meantime.  I’ve got a company credit card for a new salesman who’s starting next week.  You can use it, and
no one will be able to trace it back to you.  I’ll let everyone believe that you were on the boat.  Of course, I imagine when they start searching for your remains and can’t find them, they’ll come to some conclusions.”

“You’re probably right, but at least it may buy me some time.  I’ve been in contact with the FBI.  As soon as I get relocated, I’ll call the agent I talked to today.  I’m sure they’ll offer me some protection.”

“That’s a good idea.  Just give me a minute to get that credit card from my desk.  I’ll meet you at the big garage.”

I spotted Craig jogging across the immense grassy area that separated his home from Doug and Arlene’s.  I quickly ducked into the shadows of some large decorative bushes.  I wanted to avoid being spotted by him, or anyone else who might recognize me as the nice young woman who owned the boat that just blew up.  I quietly made my way along the wall to the corner of the house.  The “big” garage, as Uncle Doug called it, was a meticulously kept storage building for his impressive collection of classic and sports cars.  The everyday automobiles were kept in a standard two-car garage attached to the house, but the big garage was a detached building about one hundred feet away, on the other side of the driveway.  I couldn’t see a way to get from the house to the garage without being totally exposed.  I briefly scanned the area, checking for anyone who might be looking in my direction. Once he realized it was my boat on fire, Craig broke into a full run toward the dock.  He was obviously concerned and part of me wanted to
call out to him to let him know I was all right.  But I thought better of it.  It was no time to let my heart take control over my head.  I made a mad dash across the brick driveway and back into the shadows of the impressive building, designed to match the stately home it accompanied.

Uncle Doug was opening the last of three automatic garage doors.  “Take your pick,” he said as he motioned to his collection of company cars.  Parked there in the meticulously attired garage
was
a red Ferrari
Testerosa
, a metallic silver-blue BMW Z3 roadster, and a deep forest green Jaguar E-type convertible. 

“Gee, Uncle Doug.  Which one do you think will be the least conspicuous?”

“I’d go for the Ferrari myself, but I believe the BMW would suit you better.”

“
Then
the BMW it is,” I said as he handed me the keys.

“Now, the tank is full and there’s a car phone in the jockey box.  Here’s a credit card for gas and lodging and whatever else you might need.  You be careful and call us as soon as you can.”

“I will, Uncle Doug.  Thank you so much.”

I put the computer on the passenger seat next to me and started the engine.  Easing down the long dark driveway, I kept the headlights off until I pulled onto the main thoroughfare.  I passed a parade of fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance.  The flashing red lights blinded me as they passed.  I cringed at the blaring sound of the sirens as they hurled past my little roadster. 
Watching in the rear view mirror as they all turned onto the drive I had just come from, I went through the gears and sped off into the darkness, not sure where I was going.  I finally decided to head north.  I found a small, out of the way motel in San Clemente and checked in.  Exhausted, I decided to try to get some sleep before the sun came up.

Morning came too soon.  I tried to focus my eyes on the small blue numbers on the digital clock next to the bed.  I think it said seven thirty, but everything was still a little fuzzy.  After dragging myself into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face.  I decided to call Jason first
—
to let him know what happened.  I didn’t want him to see it on the five o’clock news and think I was dead.  I picked up the phone and dialed his number.  A woman answered.

“Oh, gosh.
  I’m sorry it’s so early.  I think I have the wrong number,” I apologized, ready to hang up.

“Are you calling for Jason?” the woman asked.

I hesitated.  Jason hadn’t told me about any relationships he was in at the moment, and I wondered who
that woman was
.  “Well, yes, actually.  Is he there?”

The woman’s weak voice cracked and wavered.  She sounded as though she hadn’t slept in days.  “Jason was in a car accident last night.  He’s in the hospital.  Are you a friend of his?” she asked.

“Yes.  Is he okay?” I asked, shocked at the news.

“He’s in a coma.  The doctors aren’t sure… aren’t sure he’s going to make it,” she bawled.  Once she regained her composure, she continued.  “I’m his sister, Jennifer. 
My mother and I just came over to get a few of his things, in case he wakes up.”

“What hospital is he in?” I asked.

“He’s at San Diego General.  He’s still in intensive care, so there’s no room number yet.”

“Do you know how the accident happened?” I asked.

“The highway patrolman said it was a single car accident.  Apparently, he was speeding when he lost control and drove off the embankment.  It was quite a drop.  He’s lucky to be alive.”  She sniffed and excused herself momentarily so she could blow her nose.  “If he wakes up, who can I tell him called?”

“I’m just a friend from his shop.  You have enough to worry about without having to keep track of messages for him.  I’ll keep checking with the hospital to see how he’s doing.  You just take care of him… and make sure they’re doing everything possible.”

“Oh, believe me.  We are.”

I set the receiver back in its cradle and stared at the phone.  Then I picked it up again and started to dial the FBI.  I got the first four digits dialed when I stopped and hung up.  Jason was not a radical driver.  If anything, he was too cautious behind the wheel.  I used to call him Grandpa whenever I rode with him because he drove so
slow
.  I knew that he didn’t just lose control and drive off a cliff without some help.  My mind raced through a dozen possible scenarios.  The only people who knew anything about Jason’s involvement with me
—
and the assassin’s belongings
—
were the FBI
agents we talked to
. 
Unless someone followed him from the marina when he brought me the Jeep?  How could I be sure?

I powered up the computer again.  I
’d
never had a chance to check it out before the explosion.  There were the usual shortcuts on the desktop.  There were also a couple of items I didn’t recognize.  There was an icon for something called
VideoService
.  It sounded like some sort of movie club.  I wondered if Mr.
Kephart
was into some sort of kinky stuff.  I decided it wasn’t worth investigating.  I navigated to the My Documents folder to search for anything useful.  The folder was totally empty.  I checked other folders, in case he had decided to use his own filing conventions, but found nothing.  I started to think there was nothing on the machine that would help me at all.  I opened up his E-mail and browsed the in-box.  It was empty.  Mr.
Kephart
was very careful about cleaning up after himself.  
Or at least he
thought
he was careful.  I navigated to his deleted items directory. 
Pay dirt.
  Apparently, nobody ever explained to him that deleted items weren’t truly deleted until they were
physically removed—
unless the defaults were set to automatically
removed
them upon leaving the system.  I opened the first file.  The screen came up with the photos of two men
—
David Power
s and Michael Norris.  They
were the two men killed in the plane crash.  The text of the document read:

Mr.
Kephart
,

These two men are agents for the DEA.  They are currently involved in an investigation
that will take them to Guadalajara City in Mexico during the first weeks of July.  They are working in cooperation with Mexico’s Federal Judicial Police
.
  It is vital that they do not return to the United States and continue with this investigation.  Do whatever is necessary to prevent their return and stop them from having any contact with any officials anywhere in the world.  In other words, Mr.
Kephart
, these two men must be eliminated.  It is vital that whatever happens to them appears accidental.  We do not want any speculation into the cause of their deaths.  Per your instructions, we have deposited $500,000 into the specified account in Geneva.  The remainder of the payment will be delivered to you after the assignment is completed.  Your reputation precedes you, and I am sure that I can count on your complete and total discretion in this matter.

C.H.

The sender of the document was identified only as CH.  Could that be the “Carl H” name I tried to read on the notepad from the brief case?  Who was “Carl H” and what reason could he have for wanting the two men dead?  What could his connection be with the Mexican drug operation?

The next file was also from CH.  The first page looked like an excerpt from an official FAA report on the plane crash that killed the two DEA agents.  It described an
unidentified electronic box found in the wreckage that was apparently stowed in the baggage compartment of the plane.  The report was signed by the official FAA investigator
,
and a copy of his card, with his office address and phone number, appeared in the corner.  The next page was brief and to the point:

Mr.
Kephart
,

This would appear to be a messy detail.  I thought I made it clear that there should be no reason for speculation into this matter.  I have been forced to use my own resources to take care of this potentially disastrous mistake.  Consider this your final assignment from my office.

             
             
             
C.H.

There were no other items of importance in the deleted items directory.  I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the FAA investigator identified on the report.

“Hello.  May I speak with Mr. Frank Eastwood, please?” I asked.

“I’m sorry.  Mr. Eastwood is no longer with us,”
came
the reply.

“He isn’t?  May I ask how I can reach him?”

“I guess you could try a séance
—
Frank passed away about a year ago.”