Double Doublecross (43 page)

“No sweat. I'll be here waiting for you. Just get a move on. It's nearly eleven o'clock and I'm tired.”

Fennel returned after a few minutes. “It's all arranged. The car will be delivered to the casino in fifteen minutes. I've booked us a room so let's get the bags and then hit the hay.”

Fennel and Grover finished their breakfast early next morning, checked out and loaded up the rental car. They
were going to take the secondary highways to South Lake Tahoe, Sacramento and over to US-101. Their target destination was eventually Grover's townhouse situated in an upscale gated community ten miles south of Olympia, occupied predominantly by retirees and those preparing for retirement. Fennel lived further north of Seattle in Mount Vernon and decided it was too far to travel for their first stop. He thought it would probably be between thirty-six to forty-eight hours before they reached there, and they would prefer to enter the complex some time after midnight.

FBI agents Gary Johnson and Mike Wilson stared at each other across a sparsely furnished room in an empty townhouse next to Dan Grover's place of residence.

“We've been here nearly two weeks now and still no sign of them. What makes you so sure they'll come here first instead of going to Fennel's place?” said Gary Johnson.

“I've told you before, Gary, one of them got hit and this is the closer place of the two residences. I'm convinced they'll come here. We've heard through the grapevine there was a large sum of money stolen from the cartel some months ago. We found a part of the stash in the trunk of the car next to Speed's body that might possibly be a small portion of the whole thing. It's my belief they're bringing the loot back to the cartel,” said Mike Wilson with an air of conviction.

“I hope you're right. This waiting is driving me nuts. I'm tired of hamburgers, subs, pizza and cold coffee,” complained Gary Johnson.

“Me too,” said Mike Wilson looking at his watch. “It's nearly midnight, Gary. Why don't you get some sleep and I'll take first watch.”

Except for a small cot, two chairs, a lamp and a television set there was no other furniture in the two bedroom apartment. It was approaching twelve-thirty and Mike Wilson was weary of casting glances between the scene from the window and the television. From where he was sitting, he could see the manicured lawn and the gated entrance to the complex. He yawned and stood up to stretch his legs. He was getting stiff. Then he abruptly stopped and stared intensely at the gate. A figure was walking into the complex via the walkway. Rushing into the bedroom, he jolted agent Johnson out of his sleep.

“Someone's coming down the sidewalk by the front gate. Get your rear in gear. This could be it!”

Returning to the window he watched the figure walk towards the townhouse and stop about fifty yards away from the front door.

“Switch the TV and lamp off,” agent Wilson whispered.

Now the figure had stopped and was looking around. For a few moments, the figure stood quite still, then turned and walked briskly back in the direction of the gate.

“Looks like a false alarm. I think someone is lost, but he looked like a big guy to me,” Wilson said softly. They both remained vigilant and fully alert, waiting to see if there was any further imminent activity. After what seemed like an eternity, a car approached the gate. A figure leaned out and punched in a code and the gate swung open. Both agents had their weapons drawn in anticipation of the action to come.

They were a mile from their destination when Fennel gave a yelp.

“I've got it!” he shouted.

“Got what?” Grover said with a weary voice.

“The name of the bird Regis kept on the side in California—it
was Sara Martin. Blonde, good figure and angel face. I met her once or twice. She was the only person Regis trusted. He must have found a way of getting the stuff to her before we nabbed him in his Seattle pad.”

“Never met her, but he mentioned her quite often,” murmured Grover.

“Sara Martin! Well, well, well—would you believe it?”

Fennel pulled up fifty yards from the gated entrance and sat quietly thinking for a few seconds.

“I'm going to take a quick look at the place before we go in. You still got the end house on the left hand side?”

“Yup.”

“Got a back door?”

“Yup.”

“See you in a bit. Keep your eyes open and stay on the ball,” commanded Fennel. He walked cautiously on the walkway, through the entrance of the complex and stopped a short distance from the townhouse. Except for a couple of lights on in the next door window, everything was quiet and seemed in order.

He turned and walked quickly back to the car where Grover was sitting patiently.

“It's like a damn morgue in there. No movement, a couple of lights on and that's about it.”

“It's always like that. Most of them are retired in there. Ten o'clock is their midnight. What do expect at their age?” laughed Grover.

Fennel drove up to the gate and punched in the numerical code Grover had given to him. Pulling up in front of the garage opposite the house, he backed the car in facing the front of the house.

“Just in case we need to make a fast departure,” Fennel murmured nervously.

They unloaded the car and Grover opened the front door.

“Home at last,” he said dumping the cases in the hallway with a noisy thud.

“Quiet!” urged Fennel. “You'll wake the neighbors.”

“Don't have any. Place next door's just been sold. It's being stripped for the next owner. Paint job, new carpet, tiles and new Maytag appliances—in other words, the complete works.”

“But I saw the lights go out when I walked through just now.”

“Impossible, nobody's there.”

Fennel froze. He put his finger to his lips indicating he wanted silence. Putting his ear to the wall, he listened, but there wasn't a sound. He wasn't comfortable—he had definitely seen lights go off next door when he was doing the walkthrough before driving in. They couldn't take any chances.

“We're moving out,” he said softly, “I think we might have unwanted company next door. We can't take any chances. If they're there, they'll be watching the front door. Give me the bag, go to the back door, open it then slam it hard. I'll make a dash for the car and you get to me as fast as you can. Okay?”

“I don't think I can move that fast with this shoulder,” whined Grover.

“Here! For Christ's sake, take the bag and the keys. I'll slam the backdoor. Just make sure you have the car ready to roll when I reach you.”

He thrust the bag and keys into Grovers' hands and moved swiftly to the rear of the house. Quietly he opened the door, slammed it as hard as he could and ran through the house to
the waiting car.

The two FBI agents moved swiftly when they heard the backdoor slam.

“They're going out the back way! You take the back I'll cover the front!” yelled Mike Wilson.

Dashing to the front of the house, he caught a glimpse of the car heading for the closed security gate. He raised his Glock and fired twice. The rear window shattered before the car hit the gate just as it was opening. Dan Grover felt the steering wheel being wrenched out of his hands as the car crashed through some shrubs, coming to an abrupt halt in a shallow ditch.

Dan Grover crawled out of the car drawing his weapon as he got to his feet. He heard a voice yelling at them, telling Fennel and him to drop their guns. Spinning round, Grover aimed at the direction of the voice. Two shots were fired; Grover was dead before he hit the ground.

Clutching the bag, Fennel lurched into the ditch and started to run, firing blindly behind him. Three bullets crashed into his body hurling him to the ground.

Cautiously the two agents crept over to the body of Grover.

“He's gone. Better call for an ambulance and the sheriff. Let's take a look at the other one,” said Wilson.

They reached Fennel who had landed on his back.

“He's still breathing but just barely,” said Wilson.

Fennel's hand feebly reached for the lapel of Wilson's coat and started to say something in a weak voice. Wilson put his ear to Fennel's mouth then straightened up.

“What did he say?” said Gary Johnson.

“Didn't make sense to me. Better forget it.”

“What did he say?” said Johnson emphatically.

“He said—‘It was Sierra Martian.'”

“Yeah, it doesn't make sense.”

Mike Wilson frowned. “It could be a place or even a name. Sierra Martian—sounds weird … let's kick it around later.”

R
ick picked up the note from Sara and started to read. He flopped into his easy chair. Somehow he knew this was to be expected. They were never a complete item, even after the turmoil they had been through.

“Well, at least I'm debt free,” he said to himself.

He picked up the phone and dialed Stan Turner's number.

“Stan here.”

“Hi, Stan. It's me, Rick. Look, I won't be coming over for dinner tonight. Sara has left for good. I got a
Dear John
note.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Rick. I thought you two were getting along just fine.”

“Not really, Stan. I guess I'll stay in tonight and catch up on a few things. See you in the morning.”

Rick put the phone down and reached for the top drawer of his desk. He took out a small address book and started to thumb through the pages—then tossed it into the waste basket.

“Time to start over,” he said to himself.

As he entered the office the following morning, he was
greeted by Pat James. “Hi Rick. There's a client waiting for you in your office, a lady,” she said with a grin.

Entering his office, Rick was greeted by a slim, attractive woman with bright blue eyes, dark hair and a friendly smile.

“Good morning,” Rick said, “my name's Rick Jacobs. How can I help you?”

“Hi! I'm Jane Hooper, and I'm looking for a two bedroom condo in this area.”

“Take a seat while I get a few particulars from you. I need a place and phone number where I can contact you—price range and your availability so that we can set up an itinerary and viewing schedule.”

“I'm staying at the Hilton. Here's my card and I'm available at any time suitable to you,” she said with a winning smile.

“Will Mr. Hooper be accompanying us?” Rick asked.

“There is no Mr. Hooper.”

“Fine,” said Rick. “I'll start the search right away and call you later today, if that's okay with you.”

“That will be great,” she said, giving Rick a beautiful smile.

Rick felt his heart give a flutter. Suddenly everything started to look a little brighter.

Sara Martin stretched out on a poolside chaise at a Las Vegas resort. Right now everything looked wonderful. She had money. She had filled a position as a hostess in one of the large casinos and received modeling offers from several agencies. Nothing could possibly go wrong from now on. Many men had made advances to her and she was confident one of them would finally meet her needs. Life was beginning to look rosy.

FBI agents Gary Johnson and Mike Wilson sat facing each other across Mike Wilson's desk.

“You know, we found prints on the money other than that of Speed, Fennel, Regis and Grover, but they didn't match up on our search. I think there are others mixed up in this case,” Mike Wilson said.

“Yeah, but who are they? We don't have a clue,” replied Gary Johnson.

“What about those final words from Fennel. Is there a lead there?” questioned Wilson.

“Maybe, maybe not. We never really looked at them.”

“Well, let's kick them around. Something about a Martian wasn't it?” said agent Wilson.

“Sierra Martian,” said Johnson.

“It could be a place in the Sierras.”

“Don't think so—more like a name if you ask me.”

“Okay. Let's start with a few names. How about Sherry, Sherrina, Sara, Sarah or Shanna,” suggested Wilson.

“Just a minute. Let me jot those down. They'll do for a start,” said Johnson, grabbing a pad and pencil.

“Now what about
Martian
. Do you think we're into science fiction?” joked Wilson.

“Get serious, Mike. Could be a surname like Marchment or Maidment,” suggested Johnson.

“Or even Machen, Marsh, Martin or Marlin.”

Agent Johnson looked up at Wilson. “Let's put some of these names together and see if we can connect them to Speed, Fennel, Regis or Grover.”

“We could also review their cell phone messages,” said Mike Wilson. “We just might get lucky.”

James (Jim) Saunders was born and educated in Southampton, England. He was employed by IBM for fifteen years. In 1979 he emigrated to the United States of America. Experienced in programming, system design and analysis, he was employed by a prominent California bank. As Vice President of Systems Security, A. I. Research and Development, Jim managed the development of Artificial Intelligent Systems for the detection of wire transfer money laundering and ATM fraud, coordinating activity with local and federal law enforcement agencies.