Time on the Wire (21 page)
Authors: Jay Giles
Marike had slept late that morning and breakfasted in the hotel’s restaurant before setting out in her rented car.
Her first stop was the Neckar River house. When she’d taken Albrecht to bed there, the two of them had been filmed. The plan had been to threaten Albrecht with exposure if he didn’t cooperate. Marike wanted to retrieve those tapes, eliminate any evidence linking her to Albrecht or, more importantly, to the owner of the house, Tom Ruhl.
She parked her car on the street, used her key in the front door lock, shut the door behind her. The house was silent, had that musty, closed-up smell. Marike let her eyes adjust to the dim light, made her way back to the closet in the guest bedroom. Inside, she found the camera, tapes. She gathered them up, took them outside, put them in the trunk of her car. She returned to the house, used a kitchen towel to wipe off any surface she might have touched. Satisfied, she’d eliminated any evidence of her most recent visit, she left, locking the door behind her.
She drove from the Neckar River house to the affluent area north of town where Albrecht lived. The houses there were large, old, set well back from the street on large, heavily-treed lots. She watched the house numbers, found Albrecht’s, turned into the long driveway, pulled up to the house, parked. The gothic-style house was a three-story, red brick with limestone trim. The windows had diamond-pattern leading with colored medallions. The front door had a high gothic arch at the top, small leaded-glass window at eye level.
Marike used a pick to open the door, entered, found her way to the garage. She opened the garage door, pulled her car in, closed the door. A strange car in the drive would attract attention. With the car concealed, she returned to the living quarters. Somewhere in here was a clue to Albrecht’s whereabouts.
Armed with Albrecht’s cell number, Brody worked at a Dell laptop, systematically hacking German cell providers. He was confident he could find the cell’s records, not so confident the cell would still be in service. “If he tossed it, best I’ll be able to tell you is where he used it last,” he’d explained.
Miles and Hanna watched over his shoulder for a little bit, but couldn’t make sense of what he was doing and returned to the sofa. Hanna put her head close to Miles, whispered, “What’s the story on these two? Why are they hiding out here?” The thumping of the rain on the corrugated steel room mixed with the whine of a generator masked their side conversation.
Miles nodded across the room at Billy Bob doing arm curls, said in a low voice: “Ex-NFL lineman, ran a small internet sports book from Costa Rica. Met Brody when Brody was vacationing down there. Brody was an internet strategist for Google. They got to talking over beers, Brody told him a bunch of ways he could make the sports book better. They teamed up, grew the thing like crazy, made millions.”
“Then why are they here? Hiding?”
“One of the rival sports books decided they were getting too big, planted a car bomb in Billy Bob’s Range Rover, blew up his girl friend.”
“How horrible.”
“Yeah, he hired bodyguards, of course. Didn’t do any good. He was having a pool party at his place when a helicopter appeared and began strafing the pool area. Killed a bunch of the guests. I think that was the turning point. He and Brody went into hiding, eventually made it to the states. They’ve been holed up here for awhile now.”
“Is the FBI after him?”
“Not that I know of.
“Then why didn’t you want me to know his name?”
“He thinks the FBI has been infiltrated.”
Hanna looked at him in disbelief.
Miles shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Aren’t they concerned I know Brody’s name?”
Miles chuckled. “They would be if it was his real name. Brody Pipe is the name on a fake passport he sometimes uses.”
Hanna shook her head, looked at the tattooed man hunched over the laptop, the giant doing squats. She had a hard time picturing either of them as millionaires. She whispered. “How much are they worth?”
“Hard to say. Maybe a hundred million between them from the sports book,” Miles told her. “Brody also owns a boat load of Google stock.”
“How do you know them?”
Miles had been waiting for this question. “Brody and I’ve been on a bunch of trips together. He’s our communications geek. Billy Bob I met in Costa Rica when the book was getting big.”
Hanna had more questions. But Billy Bob ambled over, a towel draped around his neck. “Beer?” He asked. Laced between the fingers of his big left hand, he held four Miller High-Life longnecks.
“Sure,” Miles said taking one.
“None for me, thanks,” Hanna told him.
From the computer, Brody held up his arm, said, “I’ll have hers.”
“You making progress?” Miles asked.
Brody took a pull on his beer, looked over at them, said, “Yeah, shouldn’t be too much longer.”
But it was.
To pass the time, Miles talked with Billy Bob, looked out the window at the rain, did some weights. Around 2:00 in the morning, he settled on the sofa, closed his eyes for an instant, felt someone shaking his arm. Wearily he opened an eye, saw Brody standing over him.
“Found him.”
From beside him on the sofa he heard Hanna ask, “Is the phone active?”
Marike started her search in the study, sorted through the papers she found on Albrecht’s enormous wooden desk. He had neatly organized bills, statements, past-due notices, receipts, correspondence. Methodically, she picked up each piece of paper, scanned it for any clue—however small—to Albrecht’s location.
Much of what she found revolved around payment for Anna Albrecht’s care. There were multiple invoices from the Clinic, letters from the Director stating ...if your account is not made current within 30-days, we have no choice but to... and listing dire consequences, not the least of which, was the removal of Anna to indigent care.
She also learned Albrecht’s bank was about to foreclose on his mortgage, he was two-months behind in his utility payments, had been cut off by both his grocer and wine merchant for lack of payment.
When she finished the desktop, Marike started on the drawers. She found his checkbook, the style with three checks to a page, in the center drawer. It showed an ending balance of $454. Working backward from that last entry, Marike reviewed the stubs for each check’s recipient, amount. She found three stubs—number 2478 for $5,000, 2490 for $1,819, 2661 for $18,880, all dated within a two-week period, four months ago—with no recipient listed.
Intrigued by this abnormality in an otherwise fastidious checkbook, Marike searched the other drawers for cancelled checks. Finding none, she moved on the credenza. Found none there.
The study had a closet. She found stacks of magazines, photo books, boxes of old broker statements, but no cancelled checks. Finished with the closet, she gave the rest of the room a once over, saw there were no other places things might be stored, frowned. She doubted Albrecht had thrown away his cancelled checks, left everything else. Thinking he must store them in some other room, she began a search, starting in the basement where a wall of shelves was filled with boxes.
Marike began with the lowest, easiest boxes first. She found Christmas decorations, old clothes, records, a beer stein collection. On the third shelf, in a box with a picture of a microwave on the outside, she struck pay dirt.
The box was filled with cancelled checks, each month’s batch wrapped by a rubber band. Marike sorted through them, found the month she wanted, pulled off the rubber band, eagerly found the checks: 2478 was to PV Sailboat Charters and was marked deposit. 2490 was to Lufthansa. 2661 was to PV Sailboat Charter and was marked balance due. She turned the checks over, smiled at what she found.
She knew where Albrecht had vacationed.
“Look at you. You look so different,” Albrecht said as he approached the woman standing beside the dark blue Mercedes sedan.
Monique Lazarr’s collagen-plump, shocking-pink lips broke into a smile. She’d been a dowdy house frau when Albrecht first met her at the Mayfield Clinic. But after three months of plastic surgery in Los Angeles, she’d gone from vapid to vixen. Her mousy brown hair was now golden blond. Cheek implants, brow lift, chin augmentation, and rhinoplasty had tightened, re-contoured her face. Lasik had eliminated her glasses. The biggest change, however, came below the neck. Monique, always flat-chested, had had breast augmentation. Her measurements were now the same as Pamela Anderson’s. Her outfits similar, too. Today, she had on a day-glow orange blouse with a low-scooped front that showed plenty of cleavage, short shorts, sandals.
She wrapped her arms around Albrecht, pulled him to her, pressed her new breasts against his chest, let him feel them. “And I would not have recognized you. You are so skinny,” Monique Lazarr said delightedly, kissing him. She pulled away, giggling, rubbed her face. “The beard, it tickles.”
Albrecht enjoyed the feel of her body against his, laughed, ran his hand over his beard. “You’ll learn to love it, darling.” He picked up his suitcase, carried it to their car.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, hugging his arm as they walked. “You said the time would pass quickly, but it has been an eternity.”
Albrecht opened the trunk of the Mercedes, put in his bag. Monique got in the driver’s seat, Albrecht the passenger’s seat. “Any problems?” he asked.
She smiled over at him. “Nothing I couldn’t manage.” She glanced at the rear view mirror for a quick check of her make-up, another new found skill. She started the car, drove away from the Marina.
Their friendship had begun two years before. Both were visiting spouses at the Mayfield Clinic. Albrecht there to visit Alma, Monique her husband Ernst.
Ernst, a successful investment banker, had suffered a major stroke five years earlier that had left him with brain damage, paralyzed on his right side. Although Ernst and Monique Lazarr had been wealthy at the time of his accident, the clinic’s costs—over five years—had stripped them of all their investments.
Albrecht remembered Monique saying, after an unpleasant session about increased costs with the clinic’s comptroller, “I wish I could run away and start my life over again.”
That was exactly how Albrecht felt.
He had told her so. Commiserated with her. Shared burdens blossomed into romance. One that would have stayed carefully hidden had it not been for two unrelated events that happened almost simultaneously.
Albrecht had been having a drink after work when a well-dressed blond woman took the bar stool next to him and began flirting. At first, he’d thought she was a call girl. But her jewelry and expensive clothes made him think otherwise. To his delight, she’d invited him back to her apartment.
They’d ridden in her car, a red Mazerati Spyder, to a small but smartly furnished house overlooking the Neckar River. The bedroom had William Morris willow pattern wallpaper, a Biedermeier dresser, a brass double bed on which they’d made love in ways he’d never experienced.
For Albrecht, that night had been the beginning of two weeks of intense pleasure. The more, the better, the kinkier the sex, the more Albrecht wondered what this woman wanted. He knew stunning blonds didn’t pick-up overweight, middle-age men unless they wanted something.
She’d been artful at that, as well. They’d been in bed when she’d whispered into his ear, “Lover, will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“You’ll like it. It will feel so good.”
“Anything you want.”
“It’s something that will make us both richer.” She’d rubbed her naked body against his. “Will you do it for me? Promise me you’ll say yes.”
When he didn’t immediately answer, she pulled away from him.
“Yes. There, I’ve said it,” he said pulling her back.
Later, lying there naked together, he’d asked her what she’d been talking about.
“I want you to help me steal $50-million,” she’d said with the confidence of a done deal. She rolled over, kissed him. “And you’ve already said yes.”
“That’s right, I did,” he said without conviction.
She’d rolled away from him. “Not good enough. No more sex until we get this settled.”
He’d grabbed for her. “Marike, not—”She’d eluded his hands, gotten off the bed. “Dieter, I must know you mean it. You must convince me.”
Frustrated, he said, “How can I? I don’t know what it is.”
She’d grinned, straddled his chest, explained exactly what she’d wanted done. Only after he’d sworn to it did they made love. Despite his assurances, Albrecht hadn’t taken her plan seriously until he’d received a hysterical call from Monique four days later.
“Dieter,” she’d wailed into the phone, “Ernst is dead. The Clinic phoned, there was an accident. What am I to do?”
“Calm yourself, dear,” he’d said soothingly. “Tell me exactly what they told you.”
“Ernst was alone in his room, in his wheelchair. He must have tried to stand up, fallen out of the chair, struck his head. They said the blow killed him, that he was dead when they found him. Doctor, himself, called to break the news. He said there was nothing that could be done for him.”
“I’m sure doctor was right,” Albrecht told her. “Ernst’s long struggle has ended. He’s in a better place, Monique. I know it will be difficult, but you must think of his passing as a blessing. Ernst is at peace.”
She wasn’t calmed. Her hysteria increased. “What about me, Dieter, what will become of me? For five years, I have done nothing but look after Ernst. Now that he’s passed, I have nothing. What am I to do?”
That was the moment Marike’s plan became real to Albrecht. “Let me take you to dinner,” he said comfortingly. “I have an idea I want to share with you.”
Hanna arrived at the Bureau at 9:00 the next morning. She’d had good intentions of being in at 8:00, but her hand kept finding the snooze button.
On the way to her office, she paused at Amy’s desk, asked, “Any word on Agent Shuloff’s arrival?”
Amy, working at her computer, swiveled around in her seat, began coughing. When the fit had passed, she said, “An office-wide email this morning. Says the trial he was involved with is over, should be here sometime today or tomorrow.”
Hanna mulled over the timing, decided she couldn’t wait that long. “See if you can get him on the phone. I need to brief him on the Beck/Lohse matters.”
“Ah, the proverbial late breaking developments,” Amy said with her usual wry grin.
Hanna nodded wearily. “Very late. I got home at 5:30 in the morning.”
Amy chuckled. “My secret formula will fix you right up.”
Hanna raised an eyebrow.
“Green tea with caffeine.”
“Perfect. Love a cup,” Hanna said, thanking her as she headed to her office. At her desk, she began organizing things that would need to be handled during her absence.
There was a knock at her door, Amy entered, cup of tea in hand. “Couldn’t get Agent Shuloff,” she said handing Hanna the tea. “It went to voicemail. Do you want to leave a message?”
Hanna debated, decided to leave a short voicemail, write up a detailed memo for his arrival. “I’ll voicemail him,” she told Amy. “Will you make me some airline reservations?”
“Sure. Where to?”
“Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. First available flight. Make a reservation in my name and one for Miles Marin.”
Amy’s wry grin returned.
“I know. I know. It’s why I have to be very careful what I tell Agent Shuloff.”