Double Doublecross (11 page)

Sara felt panic coming on. What was she supposed to do with a sum of money like that? Conceal it in her room, was her first and only idea. What were the repercussions if she was caught with the money? Where did Carl get it? These unanswered questions flooded her brain. How could she sleep with all that money in her possession?

Sara sat on the bed and collected her thoughts. She unzipped the bag, grabbed two bundles of notes and stuffed them into her purse. Would Carl miss it? Probably not, considering the total amount ran into millions.

Now she had to figure out where to hide the bag. Yes, she could hide it in her bedroom closet at Rick's house. With the storm blasting away outside she ultimately fell asleep and awakened to a snow blanketed world.

After having breakfast in the small restaurant, she carefully loaded the suitcase into her trunk, checked out of the motel and tentatively made her way back onto the freeway that had been freshly plowed early in the morning before she was awake. The snow was falling more gently now and turning to rain, making driving a lot easier. It was possible to make the Northern California border by nightfall, stay overnight and make for home the next day provided she got an early start.

Carl gave a start when heard the doorbell ring, even though he was expecting this visit and a brief inquisition from the cartel concerning the missing money. Carl, making sure the Tourister bag was in plain view, slipped his shoes off and tried
to look as casual as possible. He walked slowly to the door and opened it cautiously and stared at the two men standing before him. He knew they were cartel enforcers.

“Hi, what can I do for you guys?” he said tensely.

“Hi, Carl,” said the larger of the two men gruffly.

“What's cooking?” Carl said, feeling insecure and his stomach turning over.

“We'd like a word with you,” said the big man brushing past him followed by the smaller man. Carl shut the door and looked at them apprehensively.

“Hey! What do you want? You can't just barge in here. Who the hell sent you?”

“You know us. My name's Harry and this is Daniel, Dan for short. Now the introductions are over. Where's the money?” said the big man.

“Money? I've got about fifty dollars in my wallet and that's about it. Here, take it,” Carl uttered. “It's all I've got on me.”

“You know what I mean—the big stuff. Where is it?” said big Harry Fennel.

“Look, I don't know what you're talking about. What is this, some kind of game you're playing?”

The smaller of the men, Dan Grover, stepped forward, gazed into the eyes of Carl and punched him hard in the solar plexus. Carl doubled over in pain. He sank slowly to his knees, gasping for air. He knew he would be questioned but hadn't expected immediate violence. After a few minutes he arose slowly into a stooping position, only to be pushed backwards over the coffee table spreading magazines and a bowl of peanuts across the floor.

As he tried to get to his feet, he didn't see Harry Fennel's fist that caught him on his left temple, leaving him unconscious
on the floor. A pair of hands seized him and threw him onto the large sofa behind the coffee table.

A stream of water hit his face, bringing him slowly back into his troubled world. His head ached and his knees felt weak. As he stirred, an open backhand slap to his mouth rocked his head violently backwards, and he could taste the blood in his mouth as he put his hands to his lips.

“The time has come to talk, Mr. Regis. Once again, where's the money?”

“I tell you—I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Don't hit me again. I don't know what you're talking about,” pleaded Carl through his swollen lips, trying to put an end to the beating and wondering if his plan was about to fall apart.

He knew if he confessed, he was dead meat so he would continue to play it dumb. He had nothing to lose.

“Search the place,” Harry Fennel said to Dan. “Start with that bag. It's one of ours. If it's not there, search the apartment from top to bottom. Get moving. We haven't got all day. They want results.”

Carl looked up and spoke through his battered, swollen lips, “Look, if I took all that money, whatever the amount was, I wouldn't be hanging around here waiting to get beat up. Don't you have other places to look for it?”

“Shut up. It's none of your business. We're checking you over. You're one of the last messengers to be seen in the area, but don't worry. Others will be scrutinized just like you,” Fennel said.

Carl sat back, nursing his face and wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. They were pulling his place apart, opening his closet and throwing his clothes on the bed, emptying every drawer onto the floor, leaving no
stone unturned. His leather furniture was ripped open and the padding ripped out onto the carpet. The Tourister bag that held his clothes was emptied onto the floor and then kicked into the corner.

“Okay!” said Harry Fennel. “Clean yourself up. We're going on a trip. By the way, where's your girlfriend? Is she staying at your apartment in California?”

“We split up. She was too expensive to keep. Who needs a dame like that?”

“Poor you. She was quite a looker. Okay, pal, you have five minutes to clean up, then we roll, so move,” Fennel barked.

“Where are we going?” Carl muttered through his teeth.

“For a long car ride. To your other apartment.”

“Why can't we fly?” Carl asked.

“You know we can't fly dressed like this,” Harry Fennel said, patting his breast. “Now hurry up and get ready. We've got a long way to go.”

Carl Regis washed his face, put on a fresh shirt and grabbed his warm ski coat from the floor of his bedroom. He knew they were going to his condominium in California—and then what?

‘They won't be able to trace Sara' he thought, and apart from the beating, everything seemed to be moving along nicely. He only hoped Sara would make it back to California safely, and he hoped she had the common sense to keep the money out of sight.

“By the way, we're picking up your partner, Phil Speed. He's getting the same treatment as you so you're not alone in this game,” rasped Fennel.

Carl was relieved that he hadn't brought Phil in on his scheme. He was a pretty boy and very vain about his appearance. One slap and he would have given the whole
game away.

Harry Fennel pushed Carl into the back seat of the car and moved in beside him while Dan took the driving position.

“We should make California in a couple of days so step on it but watch the speed limit. We don't want to be pulled over for something trivial like speeding,” Fennel said to Dan Grover. The car moved out slowly in the pouring rain and aimed for the freeway heading south to California.

In Oakland, Phil Speed had taken the same rough treatment in his own apartment as Carl. Speed was now in hospital with a fractured pelvis and multiple bruises sustained in a
fall from a stepladder
trying to retrieve an unspecified object from a kitchen cupboard. The hospital report said that he had managed to crawl to the telephone and dial 911 with great difficulty.

Phil Speed lay in the hospital thinking about the beating he'd taken for something he was totally unaware of. His adversaries had mentioned a theft of a large sum of money from the cartel but didn't specify how much or why they suspected him. To say the least, he felt both angry and fearful of what was to come regarding a robbery he knew nothing about.

His tormentors had warned him he would be under surveillance for a long period, and told him not to make any trips without reporting first to the
head office
. Somehow he believed Carl Regis was involved, but there was no proof of that. At that moment he didn't care. He was in too much pain.

In the meantime he needed to let Sara know where he was, but he decided to do it in a day or two when his mouth was in better shape. A fist had loosened most of his front teeth and split his lips.

S
ara approached Sacramento through a damp early morning fog. Peeling off the freeway, she took the ramp to the I-80 West, driving almost at a crawl. Traffic was not passing her, even though her speed was down to thirty miles an hour. She estimated she should arrive somewhere around midday, maybe earlier, depending on the traffic and weather conditions.

Mindful of the last three days activity, she longed to speak with Carl concerning her next move, but he had instructed her not to contact him. He would make contact with her. Her thoughts switched to the bag of money safely hidden inside the large suitcase in the trunk of the car. It was important to conceal it from Rick and act as casual as possible when she arrived at the house.

If she could have seen the physical state of Carl and Phil, she would have been scared out of her mind. The last thing she wanted was trouble. Unfortunately, there was an abundance of violence and death ahead of her.

Arriving at the house, she wondered what kind of reception was awaiting her. She had left in a hurry, let Rick down for the holiday dinner and had not made contact with him since she left. Playing it by ear was the only way to do it. Opening the trunk of the car, she lifted the suitcase out, made her way to the front door and rang the bell. There was no answer. He was probably at the office.

Using her front door key, she let herself in, made her way to her bedroom and lifted the large suitcase onto the bed. Unzipping it, she opened it and stared once again at the Tourister bag in front of her. A shudder went through her body. Where could she conceal it? Leave it in the large case—was the conclusion she eventually came to. Rick wouldn't think of looking there.

Zipping the large case up, she lifted it off the bed, and placed it at the bottom of her closet then placed three pairs of shoes on top. In the kitchen she picked up the wall phone and dialed Rick's cell phone, hoping he would answer. It would be easier to explain over the phone than confronting him face to face.

Rick picked up the phone immediately after it rang, not knowing who would be on the other end, “Hello, this is Rick Jacobs. How can I help you?” he said, expecting a call from a client.

“Hello, Rick. It's me, Sara. Sorry I had to fly off. My brother had a bad fall and needed help. I've just arrived home from the airport after a very slow drive in the fog. How was Christmas?” she said, getting off the subject quickly.

“Where have you been? I've called you several times and you never answered. I thought you might have hit some trouble.”

“Sorry about that. I packed my cell phone in my luggage
so I didn't have it with me. Then I left it in the car at my brother's place.”

Rick stopped to think and then said, “Well, it's good to know you're okay. I'll be home about six o'clock. Have some coffee brewing.”

“Okay,” she said abruptly and hung up.

Rick sat looking at the wall. What was wrong with her story? Puzzled, he commenced pulling together his year-end tax information and prepared his itinerary for Tom and Janet Hughes who would be arriving in a few days to look for property in the area. That wasn't going to be easy.

Few houses were for sale in the area and they had specifically said they preferred the location he had shown them. Looking up, he noticed that Stan Turner was getting ready to call it a day, and Pat James was looking busy but bored.

He knew he would soon need some more money to make ends meet, and it would mean selling the Land Rover, much to his dissatisfaction. He reached for his coat, mumbled, “See you tomorrow,” and walked to his car, ready for the drive home.

Rick felt sad. His holiday period was disappointing, leaving him with an empty feeling in his stomach. He had been looking forward to spending some time with Sara on his own. Now he felt despondent and very depressed.

Driving home, he started to think about her trip to Seattle and the fact she had not included her cell phone in her carry-on luggage. ‘At least she could have called me on the way home, maybe even used the telephone on the plane to say she was on her way,' he thought.

Rick instantly realized something and pulled off the road into the parking lot of a strip mall. Sitting there for a few moments, he mentally went over her story. She couldn't have flown back to Sacramento because of the poor visibility
caused by dense fog. He remembered that all flights from Seattle had been diverted to the Oakland or San Francisco International Airport, therefore she could
not
have picked up her car at Sacramento.

He couldn't remember her having said anything about her flight being diverted, but he could find out this evening if he played things cool. Rick started up his car and headed for home, agonized by the fact that he would probably discover she had been lying to him once more.

He parked the car in the garage and went into the kitchen. Sara was busy at the stove preparing a meal.

“Hi, Rick. How about a quick meal? Ham, eggs and hash browns okay? It's the best I can do at short notice. I found an apple pie in the freezer and we can have a couple of scoops of ice cream with it,” she said calmly as if nothing had happened.

“That's okay with me. I'll just get cleaned up and I'll be with you in a few minutes,” he said.

Over dinner they talked again about the economic situation, the weather and Rick's business. Sara didn't mention her trip to Seattle, and Rick wondered how he could draw her into the subject.

The dinner was over and Rick suggested they sit by the gas fire for coffee and a liqueur. He made the coffee, and producing a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream, poured her a generous helping, hoping once more to loosen her tongue. Finally the opportunity offered itself, as the subject of the miserable weather reared its head once again.

“This weather doesn't help business one little bit. It's the slowest I've seen it for a long time. I see it's covering the whole Pacific West Coast from Vancouver to Santa Barbara. The one good thing about it is that it will make skiing
conditions in Lake Tahoe superb. Maybe I should have gone to Seattle with you. By the way, how was the airport security? I hate going through that hassle. Was there much of a delay in Sacramento and Seattle?” he inquired nonchalantly as if it were no big deal.