Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 11

  Which was probably true. I sat stunned for a second, realizing this child had put together several ideas that hadn’t even occurred to me yet.

  But Clarice was light years ahead of me. She whipped around and, before CeCe had a chance to reveal the identities of the patients currently in our makeshift infirmary, dispatched her on a task of made-up urgency that would take a long time for such a little girl. Clarice flashed a scowl at me and turned back to her cutting board.

  Right. I was falling down on the job.

  Then I realized Matt was staring at Emmie, and I could almost see the questions that were bouncing around behind his hazel eyes.

  I wrapped an arm around her and made room on my lap. There was no hiding her now, and I didn’t want to anyway. I helped her up and pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  I should have been doing this so much earlier. I’d brought her home with me and then left her alone while chasing my problems — and other people’s. She sat sideways and curled into me, her head under my chin. Her stiff body relaxed in slow increments under my caresses.

  “We had a conversation with the sheriff about that — about what happened to CeCe’s daddy,” Matt said. “But he’s convinced it’s a local issue. Said he’s had trouble with those boys before. Said they’re a known quantity. Their records backed him up — petty stuff. So we decided not to interfere with the locals.”

  “He told me.” I pressed my lips together to hide my thoughts. Good. Because I needed all the leeway I could get to interfere with the locals myself.

  “I thought it was a boys’ camp — on the property.” Matt ran his finger around the rim of his mug, frowning. His brows were bunched together, and he kept scrutinizing Emmie and me from under his thick lashes.

  “Foster kids mostly,” I said, trying to make my tone light. “Maybe you can satisfy my curiosity about something — the mechanics of Skip’s money laundering operation. Couriers. How did that work, exactly?”

  His eyes widened. He seemed surprised by my ignorance, which was what I’d wanted. Ignorance as diversion. I hugged Emmie even closer. She might already have firsthand experience with what he was about to explain.

  “Money laundering is basically a way of dealing with cash. All these, uh, businesses are strictly on a cash basis — wads and wads of twenties, fifties, hundreds, smaller stuff.” Matt hunched over his mug again. He still hadn’t taken a sip. “These guys don’t declare their income, at least not most of it, and they have no desire to support the government with taxes. But the cash is bulky and hard to move around, so the goal is to convert it into another type of asset, maybe several times over, before it’s recovered again either as cash that appears legit or something the original businessman wants instead like real estate or a boat or another business stacked up in his money-making coffers or a trip to Jamaica. Your husband performed this service and charged a hefty commission for his work.”

  “Allegedly.” I lifted a finger in the air, reminding him of that very important point. “But I want specifics. He couldn’t have done this by himself.”

  Clarice jammed a grapefruit half onto a glass juicer she must have found in one of the cupboards and ground it down on the ridged cone, squirting juice everywhere. Her face was flushed, her lips and brows perfectly parallel in fierce lines.

  “No,” Matt admitted. “It probably took a small army. We know he was using the company-owned carwash locations as collection points for his couriers. Some of his franchisees might have been in on it too.”

  There it was — couriers. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  Clarice finished twisting the mangled rind, slapped it on the counter and reached for another half. Bam, squeeze, squeeze, grunt, thump. Repeat.

  “A delivery service — like mules — but for cash instead of drugs.” Matt cast a frowning glance at Clarice and her sticky mess. “A rough business. You can understand what kinds of motivation were used to keep the couriers from absconding with their packages.” He tipped his head toward Emmie. He wasn’t going to go into the gory details in front of the child.

  I nodded. So Emmie’s mother had been one of the foot soldiers in Skip’s enterprise. I could see how it would seem easy, at first — a few pick-ups and drop-offs around the city on a daily or weekly basis. The perfect job for a college student with a flexible schedule or someone working several part-time jobs and still trying to make ends meet. You’d just need a car or a bike and an innocent looking face. But these kinds of arrangements usually came out of desperation. And once the couriers figured out what they were delivering, they were trapped.

  “Wretch like me,” warbled from the remote bedroom. “Loshht — mMMmm…HhmmhMm — found,” Dwayne slurred, way past remembering all the words.

  I only heard the faint refrain because I was waiting for it. I clutched Emmie and held my breath, scanning Matt for signs of recognition. I didn’t know if liquor production without a license was a federal offense, but I suspected Dwayne had other reasons, perhaps even more serious, for generally avoiding contact with law enforcement.

  Thump, bang, squeeze. Clarice dumped the accumulated liquid into a pitcher and slammed the juicer back on the counter.

  The skin around Matt’s eyes tightened, but he finally took a gulp of coffee. He looked as though he was starting to get a headache. “Skip had a myriad of accounts — you know that. I still can’t believe you emptied them. He did the shuffling, buying, selling, moving the money around so it was next to impossible to trace, then he’d park it wherever his client wanted him to — in a bank in the Caymans, for the deed to a thousand-acre ranch in the Utah desert, gold bars, cargo containers full of electronics, whatever.”

  Which would make a freight terminal business very handy, indeed. What if the goods he bought with his clients’ money had been stolen in the first place, or counterfeit, or tampered with as Hank suspected? A good way to make profit on both ends of the deal. The spokes of the spider web crisscrossed in my mind.

  “We’re tracking that next level now, with our own army of lawyers. Aside from Skip’s kidnapping and your short abduction, the reaction from his client list has been pretty placid. We think they’re hunkering down, waiting for this to blow over. But they will want their money back eventually. They’re not the generous sort.”

  “Tricky,” I muttered. “Following the money. Are you a lawyer?”

  “Nope.” Matt barked a short laugh.

  I couldn’t tell if he was offended I had thought so or if he was relieved not to be in that category — or both.

  “Although lots of FBI agents are,” he continued. “Everything we do has to stand up in court, which is a real pain in the—” he darted another glance at Emmie, “—backside. They accepted me even though I majored in chemistry. I double as a bomb tech.”

  “Ahh.” I almost winked at him. “I’ll let you know if I receive one of those.”

  Matt’s jaw tightened as his expression turned instantly, and severely, serious. “You might. Which is why I want the surveillance team to stay out there.” He jerked his thumb toward the main gate and the county road.

  I shook my head. “Your supervisor’s right. Let them go home. They’re not from around here, are they? Your office isn’t that big.”

  “They’re assigned out of the regional office in Seattle.”

  “And they hate it here.”

  “Kinda.” Matt chuckled reluctantly. “You have to admit there isn’t much to do unless you like shivering in the pouring rain and eating granola bars.”

  I shuffled Emmie to her feet, laid my hand on her head for a moment of reassurance, and showed Matt to the door. Not that he couldn’t find all eight steps of the way by himself, but I wanted him to know the impromptu interview was over. “Thanks for your concern,” I said.

  “So I guess I’ll wait to hear from you.” Matt paused at the door.

  “No news is good news.” I didn’t actually believe that, but I had to say something.

  He seemed a little forlorn, and
I had a fleeting thought that while he might have other cases, they probably weren’t as exciting as mine. I grimaced inside. I’d gladly trade with any of the people who were lower on his priority list.

  I watched him slowly back off the patio as though he was hoping that if he hung around a bit longer I’d change my mind. Then I latched the door firmly and lunged over to the window. I stood just to the side, barely peeking through a sliver of space between the curtain and the edge of the window frame.

  Matt took one more long look at the kitchen door, then he darted around Clarice’s Subaru and bent over near the rear bumper so I could no longer see his head and shoulders. I thought so. He was taking additional electronic precautions — which I would have to remove, later.

  CHAPTER 15

  I waited until the exhaust trail from Matt’s beefy, government-issue, unmarked sedan dissipated. Then I turned back toward the kitchen table and a domestic situation of unrivaled stickiness.

  “Are you trying out for a Vitamix infomercial, or what?” I asked.

  Clarice flashed a scowl that put all others to shame. “There wasn’t a card.”

  “Oh.” Understanding dawned. “And there wasn’t anything hidden—”

  She shook her head. “But we couldn’t have our own Special Agent Jarvis making that discovery, could we?”

  “Texas,” I muttered, picking at a stray sticker that had reaffixed itself to the countertop. “Does that mean something?”

  She didn’t speak — it was more of a movement, something to just barely attract my attention. I turned my head to the side and glanced straight into Emmie’s worried golden-brown eyes. She had pulled the grapefruit basket to her edge of the table and held a scrap of paper — an envelope — pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Emmie?” I skirted the table and knelt beside her.

  She pointed to the bottom of the basket where she’d pried apart a couple loose layers in the flimsy, laminated base that supported the wicker sides. Then she placed the envelope on my trembling palm.

  A large shadow hovered over us — Clarice blocking the overhead light. “Well?” she grunted.

  With shaking fingers, I peeled open the flap and pulled out a Polaroid picture.

  Skip — it was definitely Skip — thinner, tanned, squinting in bright sunlight, standing on a patch of short dead grass as though he was in someone’s unwatered backyard. He wore a pair of saggy board shorts and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and flip flops.

  Flip flops. His stubby toes—

  My eyes filled, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I made a choking noise.

  “Okay, now. All right.” Clarice grabbed my elbow and hoisted me into a chair. She peered over my shoulder and clamped her own warm, gnarled hand over mine to steady the picture. “Huh.”

  Emmie pressed against my knees, a look of distress on her pale face.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I whimpered. Here I was falling apart in front of her when I was supposed to be taking care of her. “It’s just someone I know.”

  “Uncle Skip?” she whispered.

  I really cried then. Blubbered, in fact.

  Emmie’s face swam, and I squeezed my eyes shut. But she climbed into my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck in a death grip. I heaved great sobs against her shoulder and clung to her just as hard.

  A few minutes later, the unexpected waterworks were over, and I was gulping air through my mouth. Clarice pulled the picture out of my hand and replaced it with a paper towel printed all over with blue teapots.

  Who thinks cutesy designs are a good idea for paper towels? They just get soggy and tossed in the trash, regardless. I blew my nose.

  Emmie stayed in my lap, her eyes glued to my face as though I might dissolve again without warning. I patted her knee, trying to comfort both of us.

  “I thought they went bankrupt,” I finally said when I could trust my voice.

  Clarice gripped the corner of the picture so hard her knuckles were bloodless. She was also staring at the image as if she could scare a confession out of it. “Huh? Polaroid? No. Well, yes, but somebody bought the rapid-development film technology and is still running that portion of the company. Too many nostalgic customers for it to go completely under.” She tapped the photo on the edge of the table. “Think about it. No digital imprint.”

  I blinked at her and blew my nose again.

  “The cameras these days, they record all kinds of information, particularly date and time. It’s in the digital file that’s saved on the memory card or in the internal memory of the camera. And if that camera’s part of a phone, it could be broadcast anywhere.” She waved the Polaroid between us. “They didn’t want a trace, no later evidence of an image saved in an electronic format.”

  “Proof of life,” I whispered. “Maybe now they’ll call for ransom money.”

  “They?” Clarice’s tone was thick with sarcasm. “He looks healthy to me. What if he’s trying to tell you he’s fine, that he knows what he’s doing?” She snorted. “Fine and able-bodied and very much on the lam.”

  “I have his passport,” I murmured. “If he’s in Texas, how’d he cross the border from Mexico?”

  I became aware that Walt was in the doorway leading from the bedrooms, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. The skin on his face was taut, pulling his sharp nose into high relief, his blue eyes piercing.

  Clarice noticed too and reached down for Emmie’s hand. “I expect CeCe needs some help sorting that laundry.”

  Emmie kept her gazed fixed on me as she trailed behind Clarice. I gave her a wobbly smile and nod.

  I couldn’t put Walt off with a wobbly smile, though. He picked up the Polaroid and studied it. But he didn’t say anything — he’s very good at that — and I didn’t know where to start.

  “How are Thomas and Bodie?” I asked instead.

  “Shivering, which is good. Their bodies are working hard to create their own heat. They’ll recover. But I want them to stay here tonight.”

  “Of course.” I nodded. “Dwayne?”

  The tiniest smirk eased across the tension in Walt’s face. “Snoring. He’s a tough old coot. I’ll redo the dressing every day, watch for infection. You’ll have to try to keep him off that leg until it’s cleanly scabbed over. Good luck.”

  “You’re going to dismantle his still?” I asked.

  “More than that.” Walt frowned and sat on the corner of the table, one leg swinging free. “I’m going to tear down his shack too. He’s been squatting long enough. He’s too fragile to be on his own like that. If he wants to stick around, he can stay in the bunkhouse with the boys and me. But—” Walt stared at a spot on the turquoise and white checkered linoleum tile floor, somewhere near his left foot.

  I tried Walt’s own tactic — role reversal with silent treatment — and just waited.

  Walt sighed deeply. “I’d like him to stay here with you, permanently — if that’s agreeable to both parties. He needs looking after, and so do you.”

  “In lieu of an FBI surveillance team?” I asked.

  I meant it to be funny, but Walt’s head jerked up, placing me squarely in his stern sights again.

  “They’re leaving?” His eyes narrowed, and he nodded slowly. “You’re up to something again, aren’t you?”

  I gestured vaguely toward the Polaroid still in Walt’s hand.

  “Then Dwayne and his shotgun are definitely staying here,” Walt said. “I’ll convince him. Do you know what you’re doing?” His tone was quiet, weary, but not accusatory.

  “I’ll blunder through,” I whispered.

  “This is recent?” He flicked the snapshot back onto the table, face up — a tanned Skip in a workaholic businessman’s idea of casual clothes.

  “It’s not dated, but I think so. How long have you — and the boys’ camp — been here?”

  “Close to five years.”

  “So he bought the freight terminal at roughly the same time,”
I muttered. “How’d you first connect with Skip?”

  “I was running the camp on another property not far from here — a ranch that was in the process of being foreclosed on. The property was tied up with the bank plus it had a couple liens on it, and the owner had disappeared. A tenuous spot, at best. One day Skip drove up and offered Mayfield rent-free if I — the boys and I — worked on improvements and did general caretaking. Dwayne was here when we got here — at least I think he was. We only had fleeting encounters the first year or so. Skip knew all about the boys’ camp. I figured he been chatting up Etherea or the loan officer at the bank.”

  “Did he tell you about his own childhood?” I asked.

  Walt nodded. “Some. Made sense — why he’d be supportive of an alternative living arrangement for a bunch of foster kids who’d slipped through the cracks.”

  I fingered the edge of the Polaroid, willing Skip’s image to talk to me, to explain his seemingly contradictory motives.

  “Are we starting a girls’ camp now too?” Walt asked quietly.

  I lifted my gaze to his. He was hunched over, leaning close, hands propped on his thighs. Sometimes his penetrating stare makes me jittery, nervous, uncomfortable, scrambling over my recent memories for something — anything — to confess, as though he knows my failings before I do. And sometimes his focused attention just warms me up, from a point in the center of my diaphragm through my lungs and all the way out my extremities, like the effects of a bowl of hearty soup on a cold day.

  “I couldn’t leave her.” I pushed the words out. “She wasn’t safe with that woman. I made arrangements—”

  Walt squeezed my shoulder with a warm, heavy hand. “We have a case worker from Children’s Services. She doesn’t make it out here very often. Mainly because she’s comfortable with what we’re doing, and because the rest of her cases are one crisis after another and she just doesn’t have the time. But we’ll need to have our stories straight before her next visit.”