One Wrong Step (9 page)

Celie turned to John. “We need to talk.”

No shit. “I think that’s a good idea.”

He followed her into the living room and waited for her to sit down on the sofa so he could take the seat next to her. She wasn’t nearly as rattled as she’d been when she first got home, but John could see the nerves beneath the surface. And then there was the way she’d looked at him earlier, like she was scared of him or something.

It made him sick. And angry. And more than a little worried about what she had to tell him.

She sat cross-legged on the sofa and put a throw pillow in her lap. Her eyelids were puffy, and he could tell she’d been crying. He’d never seen her cry, not for herself anyway. The few times he’d seen her shed tears, they’d been for other people.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay to me.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m all right now. Dax says it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” He reached his hand out to stroke her cheek, just under the bruise. He barely touched her, but he could feel her tense up. “Tell me what happened.”

She cleared her throat. “Some guys carjacked me on the way home from the rental car place.”

“You were
carjacked
?”

“Not exactly.” She took his hand, which had dropped into his lap. “They made me drive into an alley so they could ask me questions about Robert. They had guns, so I did what they said.”

His heart clenched. “Did they hurt you?”

“Not like that.” She knew he was thinking of the last time she’d been forced into an alley by someone.

“What did they want?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as out of control as he felt. He wanted to kill somebody.

“They wanted money. I’m pretty sure Robert stole some money before he died. From Manuel Saledo.”

Fuck. He’d been afraid it was something like this.

“It was a lot. Two hundred thousand dollars. These guys thought I’d know where it was.”

“Why would they think that?”

She squeezed his hand. “Because I do.”

Rowe pulled up to Kate Kepler’s house and made a mental list of all the things he hated about it. Item one, lack of sufficient exterior lighting. Item two, overgrown hedges crowding entrance. Item three, yard sign touting security system provided by now-defunct company. Item four, shirtless male neighbor smoking home-rolled cigarette on the front porch next door.

Rowe got out of his car. Kate’s shiny black Beetle was parked in the driveway, which was nothing more than strip of shale next to her white adobe bungalow. She probably liked living in this eclectic neighborhood so close to downtown, probably thought it was charming. She most likely considered the homeless guy on the corner a “colorful character,” and maybe she hadn’t bothered to notice her house was five blocks down from a soup kitchen.

Rowe didn’t see her roommate’s car, but it hadn’t been there yesterday either. He walked across the weedy lawn to the entrance. The front steps were covered with blue and yellow Mexican tiles.

Item five, fake rock on top step containing hide-a-key.

Rowe rang the bell.

“Coming!” a female voice called from behind the door. It sounded like a perky version of Kate.

The door swung open, and there she was, wearing a smile that instantly turned into a frown. “What are you doing here?”

She had on tan cargo pants and a black tank top. No bra.

Rowe looked away. “You always open the door for strangers?”

“You’re not a stranger.”

“How do you know? I could be anybody. You didn’t ask.”

She crossed her arms and stared at him a moment, and then she seemed to decide not to get into an argument, which he easily would have won. “Would you like to come in?” she asked instead.

He stepped into the foyer and removed his sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket of his suit jacket. He resisted the urge to loosen his tie, even though she kept her house at a stifling eighty degrees or so.

“What brings you here?” Her bare feet brushed softly against the tile floor as she led him into the main room. After his eyes adjusted, he took in the comfortable brown sectional, the low coffee table. He could hardly see the top of it for all the CD jackets scattered across it—U2, Feist, Green Day. His gaze veered toward the breakfast room, where no fewer than five computers sat in various stages of disassembly.

He walked over to the machines, sidestepping a knee-high stack of
Wired
magazines.

“Hobby of yours?” he asked.

She shrugged and walked to the back door. A mangy-looking tabby pawed at the glass.

Item six, sliding glass door.

“More of a side business,” she said, opening the door, which of course was unlocked. The cat darted inside and jumped on the counter. Kate wandered into the kitchen after it and filled a cereal bowl with water from the sink. She placed it on the floor, and the cat jumped down and lapped at it.

“You’ve got a lot of expensive equipment here,” he said. “Ever think about getting an alarm system?”

“I’ve got one.”

“Ever think about getting a real one?”

She smiled and motioned to the table covered with dismantled CPUs. “If someone thinks they can put all this back together and sell it, they’re welcome to try. Most people wouldn’t bother.”

“You seem to know how,” he pointed out.

She tilted her head and smiled smugly. “I’m not most people.”

This was true. Truer than he’d realized yesterday when he’d first interviewed her, but he’d had a chance to do some digging since then. Kate Kepler had an interesting background, especially for a twenty-three-year-old. She’d lied about her age by two weeks.

In addition to being a recent graduate of Rice University with a double major in political science and computer science, she was the only daughter of James Kepler, the multimillionaire software genius who had designed one of the top-selling computer gaming systems in America. He owned a sprawling ranch on the outskirts of Austin, and he’d lived there like a hermit since a decade ago when he’d been investigated for tax fraud. The indictment never came down, but when word of the investigation leaked to the press, his reputation suffered permanent damage. Rowe was pretty sure James Kepler’s experience was the reason for Kate’s hostility toward federal investigators.

Her gaze skimmed over him. “Nice suit. Do they, like,
make
you guys wear those things?”

He ignored the question. “I read your article in this morning’s paper. Who’d you talk to over at the barbecue joint?” Someone—who of course wanted to remain anonymous—at a restaurant on Ranch Road 2222 had seen a man matching Robert Strickland’s description arguing with two guys in the bar just before his car wreck.

Kate smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t disclose my source on that.”

Rowe gritted his teeth. This was one of the many reasons he hated reporters. “We had an agent interview everyone on duty there. They all denied seeing anyone resembling the victim at the restaurant Friday night.”

Kate tilted her head to the side. “Maybe you guys need to work on your interview technique.”

“This is serious, Kate.” Shit. “Miss Kepler.”

“I agree.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “And so does the waitress who would probably lose her job if she admitted to law enforcement that she served a couple beers to a man who minutes later died in a car crash.”

Okay, so at least she’d told him it was a waitress. That was probably the best he was going to get on that topic. Rowe slipped some papers out of his pocket and unfolded them. They were pictures of pickup trucks, various makes and models, all from a rear view.

“We’ve found a gas station clerk who says a black pickup truck arrived at his store shortly after the estimated time of the crash.” He handed the pictures to Kate. “The lighting was good, and the clerk’s been able to provide a detailed description of the car. He also got a look at the vehicle’s occupants.”

Kate looked at the pictures. “Two males?”

Rowe nodded. “One got out to use the phone. They made a quick call, then left in a hurry. Any of those trucks look like the one you saw?”

Kate shuffled through the papers, pausing several times to study them closely. She wasn’t wearing makeup today—not that she needed it—and she looked even younger than twenty-three.

“This one,” she said, shoving a picture at him.

He cleared his throat. “The Avalanche? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s got that distinctive back part. I remember now.”

“Thanks.” He returned the pictures to his pocket, then slipped on his sunglasses.

“So maybe you can trace the phone call. From the gas station? It’d be interesting to see who they were calling. Seems like they would’ve used a cell phone, unless maybe they were worried about caller ID.”

“We’re working on it.” He headed for her front door. As he passed the hallway, he caught a glimpse of an unmade bed in one of the rooms.

“Your roommate out?” he asked, then wondered why in the hell he cared.

“I don’t have a roommate.”

He turned around. “That woman who was here yesterday? Silver nose ring? She told me I’d find you at Jiffy Lube.”

“That’s Amber. She lives across the street. She just comes over sometimes so she can use my Internet.”

Perfect. “And you gave her a key?”

“She uses my hide-a-key, mostly.”

He thought of a dozen things to say, and then decided not to say any of them. Kate Kepler’s personal security was none of his business.

Except that she was a witness, of sorts, in his investigation. His investigation of one of the most dangerous DTOs in Mexico.

Goddamn it.

“You need to be more careful,” he snapped.

“Excuse me?”

“Your house. It’s wide open. Anyone could get in here.”

She laughed. “Why would they want to? This place is a dump. I mean, it’s cozy, yeah. I like it. But it’s not like I’ve got diamonds lying around.”

“That’s not the point!” He was glad his eyes were covered by sunglasses, because he probably looked a little strange. And it
was
strange, coming over and getting all argumentative with this girl he barely knew. He needed to detach.

He took a deep breath. “Lock up behind me, will you?”

She had a “what’s with you?” look on her face, but she didn’t say anything. She just nodded and opened the door.

He looked down at her plastic rock and sighed. “And find a new place for your key, okay? You’re a smart girl, Kate. Use your brain.”

“You
know
where Robert stashed the cash? What, did he tell you?” John wanted to kill that prick all over again for getting her involved in this.

“He didn’t tell me,” she said. “I found it, actually.”

“You
found
two hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s right.”

“Where was it?” Not that it even mattered now.

“You remember that night down in Mayfield, the night the FBI and everybody came out to Feenie’s house?” she asked.

As if he could forget. Celie had found out her husband had helped try to murder her best friend, who’d just become hip to his money-laundering operation. She’d rushed over to tell Feenie. Robert had followed her over there, hoping to shut her up, probably. When Celie told him she’d called the police, he gave her a bloody lip and fled the scene.

“I remember,” he said now.

“Well, ever since that night, the FBI’s been grilling me about money. Where was Robert getting it? Did he have a stash hidden somewhere that he took when he fled the country? When he was living as a fugitive for so many months, he
had
to have something to live on.”

“I thought he emptied your bank account,” John said. “That’s what Feenie told me, anyway.”

“He did. But that wouldn’t have gotten him far, and the FBI knew it. They thought he’d taken off with some of Saledo’s cash.”

“Okay. So Robert took the money. Then what?”

She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “That’s the thing. He only took some of it. The rest he left back in Mayfield.”

“Why would he do that?” If he’d taken time to empty their account, why leave behind two hundred grand?

“Because he was in a hurry.” She sighed. “And because the money was hidden in a storage unit on the outskirts of town, and Robert’s key was missing.”

“His key?”

“Yeah, I’d found it in a drawer and put it on my key chain, thinking it was mine.”

She leaned her head against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I think that’s why when he came to Austin and went through my purse and saw that Public Storage card, he thought he could find the money there. I had to hide it somewhere, and it’s not like you can just show up and put that kind of cash in a bank.”

She was right. Banks paid attention to deposits over ten thousand, as did the federal government.

“Then Robert must have met with these guys and told them he knew where the money was,” she said. “Maybe he promised to lead them to it in exchange for some. Or maybe he was trying to buy himself off Saledo’s blacklist. I don’t know.”

The pieces were coming together. “So they killed him, took your keys and the card, and went after the money themselves?”

“That’s my best guess.”

John brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. “How about some aspirin? You don’t look very good.”

“It’s okay. I want to get this over with.”

He tried not to let that sting.

“So,” she continued, “Robert flees the country, and I’ve got this extra key on my key chain. It’s to this storage unit where we kept some furniture my grandmother had given me that we didn’t have room for. It was baby stuff mostly. A crib and a rocker, things like that.” She looked away. “We were saving it for when we had a baby.”

Thank hell that never happened. But John kept that opinion to himself. Celie probably wanted to be a mother. She was terrific with kids—her whole personality just lit up around them.

“So I went over there one day. I was feeling sad, I guess. About lots of things.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I was going through this box of old toys I’d saved. Underneath a few old dolls was just this
stack
of money.”