Cash & Carry (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 4) (14 page)

I had failed to mention the arrival of the bracelet in the mail to Matt. Partly because it was a gift from my husband, and as such, seemed a private matter. Partly because I knew Matt would ask questions I wouldn’t be able to answer.

So as far as Matt knew, Skip was still carrying it around in his pocket—a terribly incongruous item for a man on the run from both law enforcement and mobster enemies to keep. But I was perfectly positioned to do something useful with the bauble.

Aficionados talked to each other, right? I tried another hunch and went looking for online chat rooms or forums that centered on the highly prized JHM jewelry.

Bingo. I had my choice of several.

I snapped an intentionally blurry photo of the bracelet with one of my phones, created a new bogus email address, and anonymously posted in the most active forum. I made up a little story to go with the picture—that I’d just inherited the bracelet from my grandmother, was wondering what it was worth, and was trying to decide if I should sell it since I wasn’t a big fan of the style.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, Angelica darling.

It was a bit of a long shot, dangling bait. But maybe she’d be lured by what appeared to be a novice seller, someone who didn’t know how much to ask for the piece.

Hooking her was another matter. One which I’d worry about tomorrow if I got any nibbles.

I climbed into the bed, curled around Emmie, and heaped the comforter over us.

CHAPTER 18

A pile of thick blankets over your head doesn’t make a ringing phone any less annoying. I groaned and rolled out of the bed, hitting the frigid morning air with a stifled gasp.

I scooped up the phone and skidded over to the window, trying to keep my voice low. “Yeah?”

“He talked,” Matt said.

“Oh yeah?” I couldn’t suppress a squeak of exultation.

The lump under the blankets moved, and a pale face with two wide eyes emerged. Her newly shorn hair stuck out all over like dark dandelion fluff. I smiled apologetically at her.

“He straight-up confessed to taking Emmie. Kind of hard to hide the evidence all over his body. You guys really did a number on him. We had him admitted to the hospital overnight for observation. Slight concussion.”

I was absolutely unable to muster any pity for Rod Kliever. “And Bigelow?”

“Unknown. Kliever says Bigelow left about half an hour before he went to check on Emmie—a welfare check, he claims—and then had that altercation with you. He assumed Bigelow was going to deliver the money.”

“To Dirk Whelan,” I added.

“Whelan? No. Wait. What? He said to a guy named Squeaky, which seems to be an alias for a Simon Ramos. Those files I gave you? There are two Simon Ramoses. Whelan?” Matt sounded distracted, with uneven pauses between his comments, then there was soft thud as though he’d shut a door. “Dirk Whelan’s your Numero Siete.”

It was like remedial math and calculus all wrapped into one. “I know,” I said. “I’m still figuring it out, but Kliever works for Bigelow. Bigelow works for Squeaky Ramos, and Squeaky works for Whelan. I expect there are other layers in between, but I’m sure of the sequence and the direction in which the money will flow.” I walked over to the papers on the floor that I’d neatly arranged into the structural organization of Whelan’s syndicate.

“Do you have proof?” Matt jabbed.

“Just watch those serial numbers.”

“Speaking of which, where’d you get that money?”

“I found it.”

“I bet.”

If he only knew that I also had gold bars squirreled away in a storage unit. It was a weighty struggle to quickly parse which bits of fact I could reveal and which I shouldn’t. At some point, the wrong thing was going to pop out of my mouth. “The forest can hold secrets for decades, even centuries, and I happen to own a lot of forest. Things crop up.”

Matt grunted. “Yeah. Like that body in your cemetery. How long were you going to keep that a secret?”

I blinked. This was so not where I wanted this conversation to go. I hated sparring with him, but revealing too many details—about anything—would also bring up my dad’s hazy involvement in the complex tangle of opportunistic business relationships I was in the process of unraveling.

At least, I hoped I was unraveling it.

Besides, there was no way I could answer questions about the body of Giuseppe Ricardo Solano, otherwise known as Numero Tres.

Time to redirect the line of inquiry. “Can I get Dirk Whelan’s file?” I asked.

“I can probably answer all your questions off the top of my head,” Matt said. “Whelan’s on my turf—Seattle, to be exact.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” I grumbled.

Emmie was sitting on the bed cross-legged, the blankets poofed around her like hoop skirts. She had picked up the bracelet from the bedside table and slipped it onto her arm. She was so small that there was no need to unclasp the bracelet to do so.

“The first time his name ever came up between us was about two minutes ago—other than being on Skip’s list of clients, that is,” Matt countered, sounding miffed.

“You’re holding out on me.” It was my turn to jab. I imagined the color that was probably creeping into Matt’s cheeks. Although riling him up wasn’t usually to my advantage.

“I just offered to answer any question.” Matt blew out a breath. “He’s toward the bottom of the list. I like working top priorities first. Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Everyone on that list of money launderers is a head honcho,” I gritted out, “and needs to be taken out of action.”

“Agreed.” Matt paused. “Ask away.”

I snuggled in beside Emmie, and she rested her head on my shoulder while spinning the bracelet on her arm. It sparked a shower of starlight around the room.

“What’s he do?” I murmured, stroking her hair.

Someday, I would have to explain to her that phone chats with a dedicated FBI case manager before breakfast weren’t normal, weren’t usually how six-year-old girls and their legal guardians started their days. But she’d already been exposed to the worst, and although she was a sponge, she was so amazingly resilient. We’d tackle the truth together, one step at a time.

“Everything.” Matt let the word out as though he was relaxing. Maybe he was in his car—he’d probably been up all night. “He’s the consummate wheeler-dealer. He has a lock on all the unions involved in transportation on the West Coast. If anything illegal is shipped, or if a legitimate shipment is moved in an illegal way, Whelan knows about it and is profiting from it. He has his hooks in everything from Point A to Point B.”

“Why isn’t he in prison?” I asked. Obvious question if the FBI was so certain about Whelan’s activities.

“Because he has an army of smart lawyers and he’s very good at shadow operations that aren’t linked directly to him. His name’s not on any of the incorporation records or bank accounts. He has top-notch lieutenants that take most of the risk. Our forensic accountants are still mired in the paperwork we can get ahold of. There’s a lot more that’s still out of subpoena reach.”

“Squeaky Ramos Junior is one of those lieutenants,” I murmured. “I hope you’re bugging him. I mean that literally. Is Whelan violent?”

“He’s earned his chops.”

“How?” I turned my head, and thus the phone, away from Emmie. I didn’t want her to hear even the tinniest snippet of what Matt might say.

“We suspect him of at least five hits. Three brutal murders of rival gangsters whose bodies were intentionally displayed as warning messages. No witnesses ever came forward, and no identifying forensic evidence was ever found. Those were early in Whelan’s career. Two years ago, a close associate of Whelan’s was found in Puget Sound—the body had come loose from weights that were tied to its ankles, so that one was probably more of a personal vendetta. Again, no incriminating evidence. But the bigger mystery is Whelan’s uncle and the former head of the crime family. We still haven’t found his body, but Whelan’s been in charge ever since he went missing.”

So Whelan’s underlings would be afraid of him, and rightfully so. The cash had a long way to go. I had to hope that Clarice’s suitcase would safely make it through the relay handoff system and, when finally delivered, be impossible for the king of contraband to resist. Unmarked cash is the ideal currency because it’s entirely anonymous. Unless the FBI recorded the serial numbers forty years ago.

“He doesn’t take kindly to being double-crossed,” Matt continued. “He might give the appearance of being a gentleman mobster these days, hasn’t performed his own hits—that we know of—for the past couple years, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t order them, Nora. When he finds out you’re not in custody, that Kliever let you go—”

“He won’t,” I blurted. “Not for a while anyway.”

“This is the guy who knows everything about everything regarding shipments up and down the West Coast and in and out of all the ports. He’s plugged in. He will find out—and soon. This is not the Numero we thought was going to come after you, which means there’s a double threat, if not more. I want a protection detail inside the mansion with you.”

“No,” I ground out. “Wait. What do you know? Who else?”

“I warned you.”

“Not specifically.” I was almost shouting, and Emmie wriggled away, burrowed back under the covers. “I have a right to know what you’re hearing through the grapevine.”

“Numero Uno—Felix Ochoa—he’s been pulling in favors, holding meetings. Could be about something else, but it’s not really his style to have his people collaborate. Whatever he’s planning is big, and we don’t know what else on his radar could be bigger than you.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was so dry the lump didn’t budge. “So my time window is really narrow.”

“I’d call it non-existent,” Matt countered. “About the protection detail—”

“No,” I said again, firmer this time. “There’s something I need to do. I’ll call you back. Maybe.” And I hung up on him.

CHAPTER 19

I jostled the bed, and Emmie popped out from under the blankets.

“Are you mad?” she whispered.

My mouth was open, a lie on the tip of my tongue, and then I thought better of it. “Yes, I’m mad. But not at you.”

She wrinkled her nose and peered at me through lowered lashes. I had more explaining to do.

“Mostly I’m frustrated and sad and disappointed and scared and worried. And I wish I could wave a magic wand and make all our problems disappear. Does that clear things up?”

Emmie pulled off the bracelet and cupped it in both of her hands. Her voice was tiny, but so wise. “That’s not how it works in real life.”

Timely advice from a six-year-old. “I know, kiddo. But I’m hoping I can turn that—” I pointed at the bracelet, “into a greedy mistress of the underworld.”

That earned me another nose-wrinkle. “Or a donkey,” Emmie suggested seriously.

I grinned and picked up my laptop. “Or a donkey. So much more practical.” We had our respective genie wishes lined up.

In the jewelry collecting forum, nine enthusiastic, elbowing-each-other-out-of-the-way responses had been posted below my note about the bracelet. Several were from Europe, one from South America. The time zone differences explained some of the activity that had occurred in just a few hours, but these people were avid to the point of being rabid. As though they smelled the blood of an inexperienced seller in the cyber waves. I could have started a bidding war.

The most recent message—posted twenty minutes ago—came from California. She posted with a generic avatar instead of a real photo, but her username was AT. She was probably still in her dressing gown, with a mug of coffee in hand, perusing the chat rooms about her obsession. The wording in her message was just aggressive enough to give me hope that I’d tickled the fancy of one Angelica Temple. While subtle, the implication was clear—money was no object, and no pesky questions about provenance would be asked.

Which I thought was unusual, since I’d offered provenance in my original post—the whole grandmother story.

Unless I’d made a dreadful mistake.

I’d researched JHM. I had not researched this specific bracelet. Lazy. So very lazy.

I clenched my teeth and quickly scrolled through search results. Yep. I had a problem.

There were twenty of this particular style of bracelet—known as the Empire Emerald bracelet. Eighteen accounted for, two not—numbers 07 and 19.

No wonder I’d created a flurry by putting it on the market as an unknown owner. The assumption had to be that it was stolen. And probably it was. Wasn’t that how petty thieves unloaded their hot merchandise—at pawnshops? Was there some truth to that made-for-TV stereotype?

Regardless, Skip had known exactly what he’d been looking at in that particular shop, even better than the shop owners and their burglar client.

Clarice entered bearing a heavily laden breakfast tray while Emmie and I were tilting the bracelet this way and that, trying to find an identifying number embedded in the platinum. Emmie’s young eyes spotted it first—07.

No doubt about it now. I’d stepped in it. Way to have the San Antonio police department breathing down my neck, because the bracelet had to have been reported stolen at some point. Maybe. Unless the long-lost rightful owner hadn’t noticed yet. Or more likely, was dead—since she hadn’t cared to register her bracelet.

Emmie scooted off the bed and helped Clarice set up a tea party on the floor, stepping carefully around my organizational paperwork.

I fired off a note to AT, suggesting that we carry on a conversation privately. I set up yet another anonymous email address and included it in my message so she could reach me. Then I deleted my original post about the bracelet, crossing my fingers that none of the other eight responders would investigate further or report my faux pas.

All before breakfast. Yikes.

I’ve probably said it before, but I’ll say it again. Clarice is amazing. She has an absolutely perfect understanding of what constitutes comfort food in every kind of situation.

She’d prepared poached eggs, bacon, scones, tea and coffee with real cream, and little cucumber rounds piped with a red pepper and cream cheese mixture. I’m afraid I didn’t really take the time to savor these delights the way they deserved because my stomach was howling with impatience.

Clarice muttered something about my manners, but mostly the three of us were silent, chewing. Except I did fill Clarice in on a few pertinent details like Kliever’s statement and the bracelet’s questionable history.

I was spreading orange marmalade on a scone when an email message pinged on my laptop. I pulled it over so I could see the screen. “Wow,” I murmured around a mouthful. “That was fast.”

“No rest for the wicked?” Clarice said.

“It appears so. She wants to meet. This girl has itchy fingers.”

“Are you sure she’s really the infamous Angelica Temple?”

I allowed myself the luxury of a sly but hopeful grin. “Let’s find out.”

oOo

It was the first time I’d requested the use of Matt’s special talents and connections in advance. I’d been on the receiving end after the fact numerous times, and it’d be fair to say he’d saved my bacon more than once.

But this was collusion of a sort, even though his agreement was rather reluctant and tentative. It was awfully nice not to have to shoestring my plans along.

He’d gotten over his irritation at my omission of the bracelet’s arrival in the mail pretty quickly, although he insisted that I save the padded envelope for the lab to analyze.

“Any fingerprints are smudged beyond recognition,” I said. “The envelope’s been handled by everybody in this house plus all the mail carriers in between.”

“Quit arguing. What makes you think she’ll talk to you?” Matt asked.

“Why not? A couple girls who like jewelry and who both know the piece in question was obtained illegally. What’s not to bond over?”

“This is a long shot.”

“Has the San Francisco office sent undercover female agents to get close to her, befriend her?” I countered.

“She’s hyper-vigilant. They didn’t think it was a good use of the agency’s resources,” Matt replied. So very logical.

But not everything can be successfully screened by a cost-benefit analysis. “I’m free. No charge,” I said cheerily. “Hook me up.”

Matt sighed heavily into the phone. “When?”

“Saturday at ten o’clock at the—” I glanced down at the website I had open on my laptop, “Gas-N-Guzzle Truck Stop, just north of Longview on I-5 at exit 42. It’s close, but not too close. More my turf than hers—that’s for sure. I’ve had a lot of contact with semitrucks and their drivers lately—it’s getting to be old hat. Besides, I think Angelica would enjoy a little roughneck male attention, might distract her.”

Matt snorted. “
If
it’s Angelica.”

“Which you’ll know if you keep tracking her travel. At the very least, you can put somebody on her tail to see if she leaves the city Friday afternoon.”

“Be there two hours early. Oh—and I’d stay away from the biscuits and gravy if I were you,” Matt grumbled.

oOo

“Not like that, you aren’t,” Clarice announced when I told her about the confirmed meeting. “Angelica will take one look at you and running screaming in the other direction.”

Rats. I’d forgotten about the effects of my plunge through the woods yesterday. “It’s not that bad,” I muttered, rubbing the maze of crisscrossed, fine line scabs on my cheeks.

Clarice grunted and pulled out her phone. “Sidonie? We have an emergency. Bring the kids—and your sales kit.”

Sidonie Gonzales is the wife of my freight terminal manager, Hank Gonzales. I first met her when she stopped by the mansion under the guise of trying to sell us the Petal Hydration line of skin care products—one of those door-to-door, personal relationship marketing ventures. But in reality, she’d been scoping out the new neighbors in the hope of finding female friendship.

Clarice and I had definitely decreased the loneliness she’d been subjected to out here in the boonies, but I’d also exposed her husband to a drive-by shooting. Not exactly a fair exchange.

Sidonie arrived in a short amount of time that belied the fact that she’d had to trundle her infant twin sons into their car seats and pack her young daughter, CeCe, a little backpack full of treasures for a day of playing with Emmie. Plus her industrial-sized makeup case, plus a massive diaper bag. All while looking like a supermodel. A supermodel who drove a sputtering, faded Volvo.

But if anyone could pull off a miracle with regard to my appearance, it was Sidonie.

She started clucking the moment she saw me. In fact, she did a double take. “Nora? Good heavens. What happened to you?”

“I told you it’s a crisis,” Clarice growled. “She has to convince this broad—” she stabbed at Angelica’s photo on the Roman & Bernard website open on my laptop, “to divulge her criminal secrets.”

“I was fending off blackberries—and branches.” I cringed in apology, holding my hands in front of my face, knowing Sidonie had hours of hard work ahead of her.

That was a mistake. Sidonie pounced and curled my fingers around hers, pulling until they were inches from her disapproving scowl. “Your cuticles are disgusting too.” She pushed me into a ladder-back chair. “Don’t move.”

I was quickly smothered in some kind of goopy face mask, and my hands were sunk into bowls of conditioning potion. Sidonie tucked a plastic sheet into my shirt collar and slathered stuff on my neck too.

“What are you wearing to this—this spy session?” she asked.

I tried to tell her I didn’t know, but the plaster on my face had dried too much for decent lip mobility.

Sidonie glared down at me with her hands on her hips. “I just need to know if your toes will show.”

“Better do the whole shebang,” Clarice said in the background, with barely restrained glee. She’d spent the first few minutes cooing at the babies, then she’d been clanking pots and running water in the sink, under the pretense of cooking something. But really she just wanted to witness my humiliation.

Sidonie pulled off my boots and socks, rolled up my jeans, and then my feet were suddenly in warm, sudsy water. And I couldn’t help but relax.

I used to do this—all the time. Weekly trips to the salon, perfect nails, my own personal hair colorist who painted highlights with natural artistry, waxing, massages. It had been, what? Two months, three months? How quickly I’d forgotten what being pampered—and decently groomed—feels like.

Although what Sidonie had to do to make me presentable involved a whole lot of scrubbing in addition to the pampering. Like sandpaper. In stages—from rough grit to fine grit—she polished off the paper cut-type scabs and surrounding epidermal layers. She didn’t draw fresh blood, but I did look as though I’d been badly sunburned.

“The redness will go down in the next twenty-four hours.” Sidonie patted a cooling cream into my skin. “Good thing you called me today, because if we’d done this tomorrow, you’d have gone to your meeting looking like a lobster.”

I was getting delirious from the odors swirling around—chemicals for my beauty treatments and sugary butter smells from the oven.

At one point, the girls came charging into the kitchen, excited and breathless from a game of tag through the dusty halls. They giggled at me until Clarice loaded them with snacks and finger paints and sent them off to the big front room where floor-to-ceiling windows provided the perfect illumination for their artistic endeavors. It was the best possible thing—for Emmie to have a playmate today, for her life to return to normal as quickly as possible.

Then Sidonie tackled my hair. I’ve never been particularly attached to my locks, but I grew concerned watching them pile up on the floor.

“Umm—” I said.

“Shush.” Sidonie snipped close to my ear, and I froze in place.

Clarice pulled sheet after sheet of cookies out of the oven, even while the industrial stand mixer was gnawing through more dough.

And then it hit me. “The garage is finished, isn’t it?” I blurted.

Clarice chuckled. “Walt called a few hours ago. The carpenters are installing the trim in the last room now. The boys’ll be moving in tomorrow. I could have been doing party prep in their fancy new kitchen, but I figured I’d keep you company instead.”

I couldn’t suppress a whoop. Sidonie grabbed both my shoulders and pressed me back down into the chair.

More snipping while I fidgeted.

When she finally stood back and appraised her handiwork, she seemed satisfied.

Clarice glanced over from the counter where she was pounding shortbread crust into a pan for her famous lemon bars. “You won’t have to blow dry it.”