Never Again, Seriously Page 7

  Jake, confused, stood motionless. “But I didn’t—”

  A deputy pulled him down the steps and slammed him facedown into the marl. He went limp, and the officer cuffed him. He cried out from the pain of the officer’s knee pressed into his lower back. He turned his head to the home, and the officer pushed his head down and held it. The other two drew their weapons and went inside.

  After they came back out, a fourth officer appeared from behind the mobile home. “Nobody back there.”

  The one in charge bent and peered at Jake. After searching him, they frog-marched him to the back seat of one of their cars. A deputy stood over him. Jake slumped, tears forming in his eyes.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Jake felt his face tighten, tears from his eyes and mucus from his nose falling on his chest and his lap. He hunched over, and his knees began opening and closing in a violent tempo, all while he rocked back and forth. Long, eerie wails seemed to come from the air around him, but he knew they were his.

  “C’mon, buddy, you’re okay now. Sit back and take a deep breath.”

  His keening continued, deeper, with unworldly harmonic overtones.

  The officers called an ambulance.

  Chapter 8

  Jake was released from the ER Sunday upon his promise to take a taxi home and stay there. Imaging had revealed no fractures or lesions. He lied to the nurse, insisting his pain was lessening. He promised to call an ambulance if dizziness or severe pain returned and then make an immediate appointment with a neurologist.

  A taxi took him from the ER to his car in the company lot. At home, he awoke in the middle of the night. Yes, he should rest, but what if someone came across evidence of what he’d been doing, while he was out?

  He pulled in the company parking lot at 8:15 Monday morning, his throbbing head enveloped in layers of gauze. Each footstep sent a reverberation to his head, so he slowed his walk. He entered the one-story building, speeding up past the receptionist’s desk and down the hall to avoid questions from her.

  In Jake’s office, Willis Turek sat in a chair tipped back against the wall.

  “Why are you in my office?”

  “Just checking out your side chair. I need a new one. Think I’ll ask for one like this.” Willis studied Jake’s face. “I watched you coming from your car. You look like you’ve been rode hard and beat with a stick. Are you okay?”

  “I was mugged Friday night.”

  “That’s weird. Did you hear they found José Colón’s body Saturday out in the Everglades? He was sitting in his truck, and his throat had been slit.”

  “That’s terrible.” Jake needed to cut off speculation his head wound was connected to the murder. “Miami is getting more dangerous all the time, isn’t it? I was beaten and robbed while I was walking in my neighborhood. Bastard.” He placed his fingers gingerly on his lump.

  “Well, aren’t you the dedicated employee, coming in when you’re banged up like that. Running for head butt-boy, are you? Seems to me you’re still AFU.” Turek grimaced. “You’re in bad shape, man. I think you’d need to feel better just to die.”

  Assailed by vertigo, Jake mumbled, “Got to go to the bathroom.” He lurched past several small offices toward it. In the silence, his footsteps echoed on the tile.

  In the restroom, Jake sat, face in his hands, trying to collect himself. A detached part of him hovered above, looking down at his head swinging from side to side in slow motion. Despair came in waves.

  I wasn’t thinking when I came here. I’m too messed up, can’t think. What do I do now?

  He peeked out the stall to make sure no one else was in the bathroom and dialed Sharon. “I need to see you.” His voice trembled.

  “What’s wrong? You sound terrible. I’ve been worried about you—couldn’t reach you all weekend. Are you okay?”

  “Can’t talk now. Oh, my God, I’m confused. Where are you? Need to talk to you.”

  “Jake, what is it?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m working in North Miami. I can meet you at the Best Western in an hour. On Biscayne Boulevard, at Northeast 123rd Street. Room 428.”

  Turek was still sitting in Jake’s office when he came back. Jake said, “I have to go home. Please tell the boss.”

  “Do you want me to drive you?”

  “No, no, I can make it.”

  On the way to the Best Western, Jake turned on talk radio. Something was wrong. He couldn’t comprehend the jumbled words of the host and the callers. What were they saying? The host’s voice dwindled in volume to nothing, then roared. He turned it off.

  At the Best Western, when he walked past the reception desk, the clerk lowered his gaze to something behind the counter, and a voice intoned, “I know what you did.”

  Jake stopped and stared at the clerk, who raised his head and viewed him with eyebrows arched. “Never mind.” Jake nodded, setting the steel bearings in his head caroming around, and continued to the elevators.

  In Sharon’s room, he sat on the bed beside her and told his story, minus the strange experiences on the way to her. Nothing about that made sense.

  Sharon waited until he finished, eyes fixed on his face. “A local news bulletin said a José Colón was found in his pickup truck with his throat slit, parked on a road off Tamiami Trail. Killed sometime around eleven. You said he knocked you out and left you in a swamp.” Her eyes narrowed. “So who killed José?”

  “Oh, God. I don’t know. I don’t remember what happened out there. I wonder if it was those two guys that picked me up.” Jake’s breathing came in gasps.

  “Get hold of yourself, Jake. It’s a terrible thing, but I can’t see how a couple of rednecks would go back and kill him. They wouldn’t have a reason and wouldn’t know he was there, would they?”

  Jake shook his head, eyes straight ahead.

  “You didn’t do it, did you?”

  “I don’t know. I mean—just didn’t. Didn’t.” His vision became blurred and swimmy. He twitched spasmodically, unable to sit still. He said, “I’m okay.”

  She moved closer. “You’re not okay.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Yes.” She pushed gently on his chest. “You lie back and let me put a warm washcloth over your eyes. There’ll be time to figure this out.”

  Jake sighed, a rattling half sob. “I just want to be normal.” He settled into the mattress, allowing the soothing washcloth to relax him.

  In the warm blackness. Sharon’s voice floated to him from beyond his feet. “What happened to you?”

  “I told you.”

  “No, I mean, what happened to you in the past?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jake. I can tell something happened to you. In the war.”

  The corners of Jake’s mouth pulled down, and his throat tightened. Tears rolled past his ear and down to the bedspread. His chest rose and fell with labored breathing, and his head turned left and right in a child’s gesture of denial.

  Sharon picked up the washcloth, which had slid to the bed. “Please talk to me, Jake.”

  “I don’t—I just don’t—”

  “Talk about it, you mean? Have you ever talked to anybody about it?”

  “Just the VA.”

  Minutes passed. Jake felt his own heartbeat, heard Sharon’s faint breathing.

  “I’m going to wait, and you’re going to tell me,” Sharon said in a quiet voice.

  Jake sniffled and cleared his throat a few times. He looked out the window at a jetliner passing.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I was in the Fourteenth Quartermaster Detachment—reserves. We were mobilized for Operation Desert Storm. After a month of training, we were sent to Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, in February 1991. Our mission was to operate a water purification system. Nothing glamorous
.”

  Jake’s breathing returned to normal.

  “Suddenly, a SCUD came in and exploded above the barracks. It all burned in minutes. Our unit lost thirteen, and I think there were fifteen other soldiers deployed to help us who also died. I was just returning from a jog when the missile came in. I received minor injuries from shrapnel. I helped identify and move bodies. One of them was my friend, Lavan Williams. Because of all the blood on me, they sent me to the hospital, but all I needed was bandages.”

  “That must have been horrible beyond words, Jake.”

  He sobbed, wrenching with each spasm of his diaphragm. He turned on his side and pulled his knees up.

  “What else, Jake?” She put her hand over his. “There’s more.”

  “I laughed. As soon as I realized what had happened. If I had returned from my jog just a few minutes sooner, I would have been in that furnace.” He knuckled his cheeks. “I laughed, the way you would when you make a high-stakes point at the craps table. And I couldn’t stop, until somebody slugged me.”

  He sat up. “Why did you say, ‘There’s more?’”

  “You talk in your sleep.”

  Raj Shivani, private investigator, sat in his small second-floor walkup office, listening to the Miami traffic, deciding what to do.

  A month ago, he’d spent a lazy Saturday in South Miami Beach, people-watching and enjoying the ocean breeze. He stepped into a beachfront saloon and ordered a beer while he sat angled toward the open door. Two muscle guys were talking just outside. Sounded like they were arguing about who had done what the night before.

  But the conversation he overheard inside intrigued him more. The one guy sharing too much about his idea for a fraud, with a ponytailed man who wore shabby, dirty clothing. They’d introduced themselves, so he knew they weren’t together. The ponytailed man was paying more attention to his companion’s ramblings than he let on, Raj thought.

  Over the last few weeks, Raj had replayed what he’d learned, thinking about the opportunity. He wanted to be near the action. This guy, who called himself Jake, was about to embezzle millions from his employer.

  He thumbed through his Chamber of Commerce directory. Jake had said the name of his company—Globe —something? Got it—Global Source Enterprises, located in a warehouse area near the port. President, Malcolm Weaver. Aahh, there it is—Jake Foster, manager of logistics.

  Shivani needed to make a business call on Malcolm Weaver to introduce his services, without saying anything about the information he’d picked up in the bar. Later, he might offer to reveal the potential embezzlement, for a fee. Or there might be a better play here, something with a big-ticket payoff.

  Best place to start was with a few days’ deep investigation of Global Source and its owner, Malcolm Weaver. Then he needed to find this Jake Foster while he could still be found.

  Shivani walked across the street to a self-styled spy store, where he selected GPS trackers, three magnetic and three stick-on, plus three listening devices. They would allow him to track them with his cell phone. The proprietor raised his eyebrows. “Big job?”

  Shivani nodded.

  “Watching a lot of people?”

  “Need to be prepared for folks changing cars too.”

  Chapter 9

  Jake sat up, disoriented—the brown and orange décor of the strange hotel room, the cheesy beach pictures on the wall—where was he?

  Sharon came from the bathroom. “Are you okay now?” She put a hand on his forehead.

  He remembered coming to her in a panic after learning José was dead, and spilling his guts. “Oh, yeah. I must have dozed off. Still groggy.” His head throbbed.

  “You sure did. Now, listen. This situation is complicated. Time is not on our side. We have no choice but to figure out a plan and hope for the best. I see some things here we can try to work with.”

  Sharon gave his cheek a light pat. “I know you’re not 100 percent, but this is important, so stay with me. I’ve talked Malcolm into arranging for me to come back to the company for one more visit. Can you follow?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Then let’s figure out how to wind this thing up. See if you can put a million dollars more sales into the system. Spread it out over about twenty customers. Make up some new customers if you need more.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult. But the amount could attract attention.” Jake kneaded his eyes, inflaming them. “Another million is too much. They’ll catch us. And José. What if whoever killed him comes after me?”

  “They haven’t bothered you yet. Whatever their reason was, I can’t see how it involves you. If it did, wouldn’t they have murdered you too?”

  Jake hesitated, then gave a slight nod.

  “If we move fast, we’re good.” Her eyes narrowed. “You need to have all the invoices entered within the next four or five weeks. We’ll have enough time to create a loan against those receivables, take the money, and slip away.”

  Jake frowned.

  “Jake, I got Malcolm’s okay to return to the company, supposedly to do some more audit work. He’s eating out of my hand now. I can cover us, believe me. Don’t lose your nerve—we’re almost there.” She rubbed Jake’s neck and shoulders, and his body relaxed.

  “We’ve got other things to do too.” Sharon crossed to the window. “I heard the best IDs nowadays are coming out of Argentina.”

  “Argentina?”

  “Yeah. We’ll find someone who can provide passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and social security cards. Of course, if you’re pulled over, you must have your original driver’s license. The fake one won’t verify on their computer.”

  Jake straightened. “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ve been checking around. We can buy prepaid credit cards with cash. Oh, and by the way, no more cashing checks. The money guy can help us get cash out of the offshore accounts, but it will cost us. He said something about transferring it to a bank in another country and then having them ship it.”

  Jake ran his hand over his scalp. “I’d hate to have them put the old license in the computer during a traffic stop. What if there are warrants out on us? I’ll have to drive conservatively, no speeding or other infractions.”

  “I like the name Victoria Strauss.” Sharon tapped her chin. “How about becoming William Clawson? Bill and Vicki, nice couple. We’ll call each other Bill and Vicki.”

  She smiled. “Just a couple more weeks. “I can’t wait.”

  The next day, after visiting the money broker in Miami, Sharon went to a small office in Little Havana and met with a sour-faced ID specialist, a Mr. Cruz. Sixtyish, he wore his unnaturally black hair collar-length, swept back on the sides, combed over his bald spot.

  “You were sent by that money guy, Milas,” Cruz said. He had a New York accent. “I’m not close to him—and I don’t know you. So what do you think I can do for you?”

  “Mr. Cruz, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I had the impression Mr. Milas is very well acquainted with you. Please, I don’t have time for this. Is five thousand enough for a deposit on the work?” She laid a pack of bills on the table. “This money is clean, courtesy of your friend Milas.”

  Cruz was impassive, silent.

  She reached for the money. “I asked Mr. Milas to give me an additional name in case we didn’t reach an agreement.”

  Mr. Cruz put a finger on the stack of bills. “Milas told me what you want. Forty thousand total is what it will cost. This deposit is acceptable.”

  Two weeks later, Raj Shivani sat in his parked car with a view of the front door of GSE and waited for his quarry to come out. He followed Jake Foster home and parked at the end of the apartment parking lot where he could see Jake’s car. He settled in for a long wait, passing the time by reflecting on his visit with Malcolm Weaver. Weaver had been pleasant enough but didn’t
take the bait about Shivani being a specialist in internal fraud. Shivani’s offer to do a control survey of the company’s activities was met with studied indifference, almost as if Weaver didn’t want someone poking around. Still, he took a card and asked for Shivani’s personal cell number and said he’d hang on to the information.

  Fortune smiled on Shivani; he didn’t have to wait at all. Jake came back out to his old Mercedes after fifteen minutes. Shivani followed him to Lazy Life RV and eased into the back of the lot as Foster stopped in front of the sales office. When Jake entered the dealership, he parked in the shadow of a gigantic white Dodge dually. He watched Foster emerge from the office in the company of a salesman wearing a striped dress shirt, who escorted him in and out of several motorhomes.

  Rain clouds formed as the pair went back in the first RV. After twenty minutes, the clouds darkened and covered the sun. A wind began blowing as they stepped back down to the pavement. They regarded the Mercedes, talking about something. Shivani thought the salesman was informing Foster he’d need a new car if he wanted to tow one. The salesman continued talking, making hand gestures as they headed to the office, Jake nodding in agreement.

  Shivani eased his car to the motorhome the two had exited, parking on the side away from the office. He stepped out of his car and bent to fasten a tracking device out of sight in the wheel well. Frowning at the light sprinkle of rain, he strolled around the RV and in through its open door. He installed a bug and transmitter under the dinette table. As he stepped down from the unit, a salesman approached, hand extended.

  “Hi, I’m Greg Snyder. Let’s step over here under this canopy where we can talk without catching our death of a cold.”

  “Death of a cold?” Shivani was puzzled.

  “It’s a saying.”

  Shivani took his hand but didn’t give a name. “I have a little trailer, and I hope one day to own something like this. I wanted to check out how the other half lives.”

  “Well, I think this one’s sold, but we have many others. You might be surprised at what we can give you for your trailer. With interest rates the way they are, we can work out some payments on a ten-year deal. I can put you in a used coach along the lines of this one, just a few more miles on it—for under six hundred a month. Not bad, huh? Come on in. You can wait inside for the rain to stop.”