Deceptive Practices Page 22

  “I know, I know,” he cooed. “It hurts, but you have to be smart now if you don’t want to go to jail.”

  “If I don’t want to go to jail?”

  He released her and took a step back.

  She whirled around. “What are you talking about?”

  “You hired Infidelity Limited to hurt Amy.”

  “Yes, to hurt her. Not to kill her.”

  “There’s premeditation here. That’s murder in the first degree. That’s a life sentence for you.”

  “But you killed her.”

  “On your orders. That’s all the cops will see.”

  “But I . . . I . . . I didn’t.”

  “The cops won’t believe you.”

  “No . . . no . . . no, this can’t be happening. What have you done?”

  He rubbed a reassuring hand over her shoulders and told her it was going to be okay. She tensed under his touch. He wasn’t offended under the circumstances. He was the bogeyman, after all.

  “What happened? Where is she?”

  “This is where we have to be smart. Now, Amy doesn’t have to be found. We can make it look as if she simply disappeared. You can spin whatever tale you like. You guys had a tiff over her out-of-control spending, and she cleaned you out and ran off with whatever she could carry. We know she’s dead, but the rest of the world doesn’t have to know.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Yes, I can take care of the crime scene and take some of her stuff to make it look like she ran out. I can leave a dummy electronic trail of her movements, and no one will ever suspect she’s dead.” He paused for effect. Actually, he quite liked this twist on his usual pitch. “Naturally, there will be an expense to you.”

  “Me? Why am I paying you? This is your mistake. Not mine.”

  He thought she was going to ask for a refund. He put that down to her CEO status, her business instincts taking over her emotions. He could dig that, so he responded in kind.

  “We might not have a written contract, but I was very clear at the beginning. All the risk is yours. Nothing is ever Infidelity Limited’s problem. We are not liable for any mistakes.”

  She stared at him openmouthed.

  “Right now, we’re at a crucial juncture. The situation is in stasis. It can go either way. I can make it go away for you, but if you don’t pay for it to go away, then I will lead a bloody trail of bread crumbs to your door, starting with Amy’s body.”

  He couldn’t actually make good on that threat since Olivia had disposed of the body so efficiently, but he knew without a doubt Heather would pay.

  “If you take me down, I take you down,” Heather replied.

  Of all the threats slung his way, this was the chart topper. He parried it aside with a laugh. Then he hit her with “the speech,” outlining how Infidelity Limited was an untouchable entity that possessed the power to implicate its clients. Although he’d spoken the same words time and time again, he didn’t tire of them, because they never lost their impact, and they didn’t this time.

  “Have I made myself clear?” he asked when he was done.

  Heather was silent for a long moment before she spoke. “How much?”

  “Four hundred thousand to sanitize the situation.”

  “You’re crazy. I only paid you five grand to take care of the situation. Now you want four hundred?”

  That wasn’t the response he was expecting. Normally, people feigned poverty. They never complained about overcharging. Heather was a hard-nosed businesswoman all right.

  “Arranging a beating isn’t the same as covering up a murder,” he said. “The price is nonnegotiable.”

  “You really are a son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Get me out of here.”

  He fired up the boat’s engine and steered it back toward the marina. They rode back in silence. As he eased the cruiser back into the slip, Carrington stepped forward, grabbing the stern line.

  “When you have the money ready, get in touch,” Roy said, “but be quick about it. Take too long and I will make sure Amy is found. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “My people will take you back to your car.”

  Heather said nothing and brushed by him. He grabbed her wrist. She tried to shake him off, but he tightened his hold.

  “Be smart.”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  Isn’t that the truth, he thought.

  Heather stepped off the boat, and Dolores escorted her back to the van. As Roy watched them go, Carrington fell in next to him.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Not sure. We need to keep an eye on her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Roy lagged a few blocks behind the van Carrington was driving with Heather Moore-Marbach and Dolores in the back. The moments after telling a client that Infidelity Limited had exceeded its remit and killed his or her loved one were crucial. Clients went one of two ways—they either manned up to the situation or fell apart and ran to the cops. That meant around-the-clock surveillance for a day or two, less if the clients could hold their shit together. His gut said it would be longer in Heather’s case. She was a privileged person, and he was gouging her for big money. She might think that privilege would work in her favor with the cops, considering the amount of money on the line. At this point, the situation was abstract for her, and she wouldn’t truly comprehend what was at stake. There was no blood, no body, and no detective to help her understand the black hole she was falling through. Olivia had gotten it in a snap. She had a corpse, a murder investigation, and the guilt to scare her straight. He might have to do something similar to Heather to help her come to the same realization.

  Carrington stopped the van in La Brea, and Roy pulled over half a block behind them. It was over a minute before Heather emerged, staggering away from the van. The second her feet hit the sidewalk, the van lurched back into traffic with a screech of tires.

  She watched the van speed off, looking bewildered and confused. Dealing with Infidelity Limited did that to a person.

  Roy’s cell rang. He answered.

  “She’s all yours,” Carrington said.

  “I’ve got eyes on her.”

  Heather staggered over to her Porsche Boxster and fell in behind the wheel.

  “You want us to stick around?” Carrington asked.

  “No,” Roy said. “I’m good. Just return the boat.”

  “Will do.”

  “Get some rest. We’re going around the clock for the next forty-eight. Rolling eight-hour shifts. The rotation is me, then Dolores, then you.”

  “Sounds good. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will,” Roy said and hung up.

  Heather continued to sit behind the wheel of her car. She didn’t call anyone. She just sat with her hands on the wheel and her head down.

  Looks as if it’s just sunk in, Roy thought.

  Finally, she got going, and Roy followed her to her flagship gym and head office in Beverly Hills. Moore Fitness had the corner lot, and it was a glass-fronted two-story billboard. Inside, dozens of people were getting fitter from the bench press and jumping jacks—and all thanks to Heather Moore-Marbach.

  She pulled into the private underground parking garage, forcing him to find street parking. He found a spot with plenty of shade that gave him a clear view of the garage exit and Heather’s corner office.

  He adjusted his seat and bedded in for a long wait. He had all he needed for a surveillance shift—water and soda for hydration, an empty soda bottle for dehydration, snacks, and change for the meter.

  After a couple of hours, it was pretty obvious that Heather was going to stick it out at work. He took this as a good sign. If she planned to run to the cops, she would have done it by now. So far, the only people to come to the gym were clientele. No cops and no lawyers.

  “Keep playing it smart, Heather,” he said to himself.

  He pulled out a small set of binoc
ulars, which looked childlike in his hands, from the Chrysler’s door pocket and aimed them at Heather’s office window. He dug out the burner phone and called her. He watched her stiffen at what had to be the sound of the phone ringing. She pulled the phone from her purse and answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, Heather.”

  “What do you want?” she barked at him.

  “It’s been an emotional day. Just checking in.”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “Can’t do that. We’re on the clock. Do you have an update on that money?” He chose to say “that money” and not “my money.” It gave the perception they were discussing an expense and not a payoff. “I can take cash, or we can set up a wire transfer.”

  “I can’t come up with that kind of money just like that. I don’t have that much cash on hand.”

  “Sell some things. Take out a loan. Do whatever you have to do. I can’t sit on Amy’s body forever. I may have to leave it somewhere it can be found.”

  “All right, you’ve made your point. You’ll get paid,” she said and hung up.

  Through the binoculars, he watched her make four phone calls. He hoped the calls were to her bankers. He wondered if Infidelity Limited should invest in a hacker or a telecommunications expert. It would be useful for him to be able to tap phone lines and monitor computer activity. He hadn’t needed to so far, but the world was always changing and upgrading.

  He noted down the time of the calls in his logbook. The logbook might seem like overkill—it did to Beth—but it helped him see changes in behavior should a client deviate from the path.

  At four, Heather grabbed her things and headed out of the gym. She was on the move. He quickly wrote down the time and put everything away.

  A few minutes later, she emerged from the underground garage with a smile on her face. Whatever she’d discussed in those phone calls had left her in a good mood. He started the Chrysler and slipped into traffic behind her.

  He expected her to drive home, but instead of picking up the I-10 west to her home in Santa Monica, she took it heading east.

  “Where are you going, Heather?” he said to himself.

  She could be on her way to meet a client for a private session. Reportedly, she still made house calls if you were willing to drop five hundred bucks an hour. But that grin told him otherwise. It was the wrong signal, and it just added to his disquiet about Heather. He had expected more emotion on the boat. What he’d first taken as shock could be read as indifference. Then there’d been the reluctant acceptance of the $400,000 payment instead of rushing to pay to make the problem go away. Finally, there was her snippiness on the phone. All of it just didn’t quite ring true for him. He’d dealt with enough clients over the years to know every one of them was different, but there were certain patterns of behavior. Even his strongest clients lost their rhythm when he clobbered them with the news that their loved one was dead. But not Heather. She had seemingly taken the news on the chin and carried on like normal, which made Roy nervous.

  Running an around-the-clock watch on Heather for an extended period of time would be a resource drain. He could force the issue by ordering her kill assignment now and watching how she reacted to that. Right now, she was living the life she wanted—without her leech of a wife. Her behavior might change if she had to get her hands dirty, though he wasn’t so sure about that. Besides, he still had Olivia in play. He made it a rule to manage client kills one at a time. To do otherwise was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. No, he’d have to ride this one out until he could draw a line through Olivia.

  Traffic was heavy going through LA, and he stayed tucked in behind her as they kept limping east. He kept expecting her to pull off, but she kept going, eventually switching to I-605 north. When she took the Foothill Freeway toward San Bernardino, it looked as if she was heading somewhere serious.

  He pulled out his cell and called Heather’s office.

  “Hi, this is Jeff Marshal from Nautilus,” he lied. “I’ve been talking to Heather all this week, and I was wondering if she could squeeze me in this afternoon. I know it’s short notice.”

  “Sorry, she’s out for the rest of the day.”

  “Damn. I was hoping to catch her. Is she in over the weekend?”

  “No, she doesn’t work weekends, but she’s back on Monday. I can squeeze you in on Monday afternoon.”

  Roy sucked air through his teeth. “That won’t work. I’m in Arizona all next week. You know what? I’ll touch base with her when I’m back in town. Thanks so much for your help,” he said and hung up.

  So Heather was going away for the weekend. That was interesting. She normally spent her weekends in Morro Bay. Going somewhere new didn’t make sense. Neither did her grin. Something was definitely wrong.

  He punched Carrington’s number into his cell. “You busy?” he asked when Carrington answered.

  “Nope. What do you need?”

  “Backup. Heather is heading out of town. I’m on the Foothill Freeway, heading east.”

  “I’ll be on the road in thirty.”

  “Good. I’ll keep you posted.”

  He hung up and settled into the drive.

  Heather’s car ate up the miles. She stayed on the freeway, bypassing San Bernardino and heading toward Highland. The way she drove, she was blissfully unaware of him following her. Roy was glad he made it a policy to start any surveillance with a full tank of gas. It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way a long time ago.

  When she turned off the freeway and took Highway 330 into the mountains, Roy knew exactly where she was going—Big Bear Lake. That was interesting, because she didn’t own any property there. He didn’t like not knowing things about his clients.

  The traffic got thick as Roy followed Heather into Big Bear Lake. Even so, he ended up with only a two-car buffer between himself and her. She was on her cell, laughing at the conversation she was having. He really needed to work out a way of tapping his clients’ phones.

  The traffic eased up when she took the road toward Big Bear Mountain and the resort area. There wasn’t much on this route other than vacation homes and the occasional shop or restaurant. After a mile, she turned left onto a private road that climbed into a forested area with a number of high-end rental properties.

  He couldn’t follow after her. With no other traffic, he’d stick out, so he kept going until he reached a scenic overlook. He got his gun from the glove box and pocketed it.

  He jogged back to the turnoff Heather had taken and walked up the road. It dead-ended half a mile ahead, but two roads intersected it before it did. Half a dozen widely spaced homes sat on either side of the road. Less than half the homes looked to be occupied, with no cars parked in front and no movement inside.

  Secluded and deserted, he thought.

  He didn’t see Heather’s Porsche parked on the street at the first intersecting road, but he spotted it on the next. It was parked in front of a two-story Swiss-style chalet. It had a great view of the lake and the street.

  He followed the road to the end, where a barrier blocked any farther passage with a sign that proclaimed “Fire Road—No Authorized Personnel Beyond This Point.” He clambered over the barrier and disappeared into the tree line, then traced a path to the rear of the chalet. Despite the expensive homes, there weren’t any fences separating the properties. He could simply walk up to the back door.

  When the chalet came into view, he descended the slope, traversing as far as he could while the trees still hid him. Using his pocket binoculars, he looked into the house and saw movement. Not just the movement of one person, but two. The other person was Amy Moore-Marbach.

  Rage boiled up in him in seconds. So much was at the heart of that rage. He’d known something was off, but he wasn’t expecting a deception as extensive as this. Worse, Olivia had played him when he thought he had her in the palm of his hand. Goddamn, he knew she was different from his other clients, but he never thought she had the balls to take hi
m on. Part of him wanted to congratulate her, but a much more seething part of him wanted to kill her. He punched the tree trunk next to his head.

  He yanked out his phone and called Carrington.

  “People have been lying to us,” he told Carrington. “Amy is alive.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Take those bitches back home to Morro Bay.”

  “Then what?”

  “Make a mess.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Finz was on his way back to his desk from lunch when Madeleine Lyon phoned him to let him know Olivia Shaw had arrived for her interview. He could have hurried back to the department, but he took his time. He wanted Olivia to sweat a little.

  He’d wanted to call her in straight after Richard Shaw’s funeral. Her sister offering to be a confidential informant set off the biggest warning flare in police history. The sisters were involved. But rushing to bring them in wasn’t the smart play. Police work was all about the long game. He made sure he had everything in place before he made the big push. He had approval to give Clare a deal, but he wanted that as backup. He wanted a shot at Olivia first. He thought he could break her, and if he couldn’t, he had Clare as insurance.

  He drove into the police lot and parked. He walked through the lobby to see if Olivia had brought any company in the guise of Andrew Macready or even Clare herself, but the lobby was empty.

  “Olivia Shaw?” he asked the officer working the reception area.

  “In an interview room,” he said.

  He grabbed the case file off his desk and stopped at the video-observation suite. Lyon was watching video feed from the interview room.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked.

  “She’s spooked.”

  That was where he wanted her. He’d hoped leaving her alone would make her sweat. There was something about putting suspects in a small room with no windows that always shook them up.

  He winked at Lyon. “Make sure you get all of this recorded.”

  Finz let himself into the interview room. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs. Shaw. Can I get you something to drink? We’ll be here for some time.”