For The Love Of Laurel (8 page)

“If you’ve got the code, Laurel, and no way to decode it, I wish you sweet dreams because when it’s decoded, your dreams may become nightmares.”

Laurel showered. Afterward, she went to the kitchen and made herself some tea. Mari was finishing the dishes.

“Leave it until tomorrow, Mari. You’ve done enough already.”

Mari beamed. “Happy to do it. It is so nice to see you having a good time with a man, even if it was just a pizza dinner.”

Laurel took a sip of tea. “I hate to disappoint you, but it was more of a business meeting.”

Mari shrugged. “I can still hope. I’ve known Dylan for many years and I think he is a fine, upstanding man. I see a light in his eyes if he glances your way when he thinks no one is looking. You and he could be a good match.”

Laurel laughed and kissed Mari’s cheek. “You are too much of a romantic, but I love you anyway.”

Mari hugged her. “I love you, too
.”

Laurel finished her tea and went to her room. She turned her radio to a classical station and let it play softly.
Adagio for Strings
by Samuel Barber was just beginning. It was one of her favorite pieces and its soulful melody fit her present mood perfectly. She got into bed and let the music wash over her as she tried to think of everything she had to do tomorrow.

But all she could think of was the evening. And him. She couldn’t get the feel of his strong arms around her and his slightly rough cheek against hers out of her thoughts. There was nothing sexual about it. Just one human giving unsolicited—yet, heartfelt—comfort to another, expecting nothing in return.

What a complicated man he was, caught up in a difficult situation, dealing with it admirably despite the danger and deceit that surrounded him every day.

He was absolutely closed-mouth about himself. Why did he tell her tonight? Had things changed between them because she found the emails? And what of the email she just saw?

“Oh, Dylan, I wish everything was the way it was before, when I knew nothing. And, Daddy, I wish you were here with me. I need you so much to explain all this.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on her nightstand and wiped away the tears that threatened to fall on her pillow.

She acknowledged the futility of her wishes as the last notes of Barber died away.
This is all your fault, Gloria.

Chapter 12

Laurel sat up in bed and put her feet over the side. Of course it wasn’t Gloria’s fault. Just because she would still have her sanity intact if Gloria hadn’t hired her, didn’t mean there was any intent or malice. Snooping into Gloria’s husband’s life had gotten her important information she wouldn’t otherwise have. It was her own choice to pursue the connection with Gerald and Dylan. Whether she wanted the information or not was a whole other question, and now that she had it, what was she going to do with it? However, she couldn’t do anything until tomorrow.

Sunday was usually a relaxing day. When her father was alive, he took time out of his schedule to spend Sundays with her, especially when she was a child. How many times had they gone to the zoo or Sea World or Disneyland? How often did they go to Belmont Park and ride the roller coaster, or to the museums at Balboa Park? When was the last time they simply walked barefoot on the beach, hand in hand? God, she didn’t realize how much she would miss him. Now Sunday was just another day she had to wait through until she could get back to work.

Monday morning, she had a cup of coffee and an English muffin then got ready for work. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a stack of business cards. She shuffled through them until she found the one she was looking for and stuck it in her purse. As she reached the gate, she stopped to program a temporary code for the gardeners. They were due tomorrow and she didn’t want to forget. Without giving it any thought, she programmed in 5895. She wrote it down so she could give it to Dylan and Mari when the gardeners called for it. She stared at what she’d written. God. It was the date of Sandra’s death. She reprogrammed the gate, tore the paper into pieces, and stuffed them into the ashtray.

She drove to the house where Miles had dropped off the woman. As she got out of the car, she pulled the business card out of her purse. She opened the gate to the front yard, glad it didn’t have a code. The yard was small as yards went in Rancho. Maybe most of the property was at the back of the house.

Eucalyptus trees swayed in the breeze. Shadows from two massive pines made the yard seem dark. There was a neat row of yellow mums planted along the front of the house. A woman was on her knees, her gloved hands cradling what appeared to be the last plant. Carefully, she situated the roots in a hole and covered them with dirt. She noticed Laurel coming toward her and stood, peeling off the gloves.

“Can I help you?”

Laurel gave her a friendly smile. “Your yard is lovely. Are you the lady of the house?”

“Thank you, and yes, I am.” She raised her eyebrows.

Laurel handed her a business card. The woman looked at it briefly. She was obviously used to being approached by sales people. “It’s blank.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I gave you the wrong card.” She gave the woman the right card, taking the other one back.

Politely, the woman scanned the card. “You’re a realtor, Ms. Slocum?”

“Yes. I’m trying to get started in Rancho Santa Fe. My territory has always been coastal—Del Mar, Encinitas, La Jolla—but I love these homes and I know I can sell them.”

The woman handed the card back, which was what Laurel was counting on. She didn’t want a non-existent name and phone number in someone else’s hands. “I’m sorry, but I’m not in the market to sell.”

“I understand. I’m simply introducing myself in the neighborhood, hoping people will remember me when they do want to put their houses on the market. I know from experience, circumstances can change when we least expect it.”

“You may be right, but I really don’t think that will happen. However, I wish you luck in your endeavors. And, if you don’t mind a little advice from a stranger, the market being what it is today, this might not be the optimal time to concentrate on Rancho Santa Fe properties.”

Laurel gave her sunniest smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your time.”

She left as quickly as she could. The woman was pleasant and once again, seemed familiar. Laurel knew her from somewhere.

She hoped she got a decent picture from the
blank
card camera she’d found on her dad’s desk. She had wondered where he got it, but no more. It was much more high-tech than anything she could get online and reeked of government. She kept promising herself she was going to clean out his office, but she could never quite bring herself to do it. The upcoming weekend seemed like a good time to tackle it. What other treasures might she find?

Gloria sat in the waiting room reading the latest issue of
Vogue.
Today, she had opted for an off-white pantsuit with a wide, red belt, a necklace and bracelet with red stones—probably rubies, Laurel thought, and red stiletto heels. Good grief. She was in a P.I.’s office. Did the woman have a clue how to dress down?

Silently reminding herself not to let Gloria get to her, she asked her to please come into the inner office and apologized for being late. Sue just rolled her eyes.

Gloria sat down as Laurel closed the door. “My tardiness may have paid off. I want to show you a picture and see if you recognize this person.” She indicated Gloria should come and stand by her so she could see the computer. When it was uploaded, the image was as clear as any she’d ever seen. It paid to work for the government if you could get all their latest toys.

Gloria stared at the picture. “Sure, I know her. That’s Ronnie.”

“Ronnie?”

“Veronica Bakersfeld. The ex-mayor’s ex-wife. We’re in the same bridge club.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not all you have in common.” That’s why she was familiar. Her picture was occasionally in the paper when she attended charity events. Since Laurel rarely bothered to read that fluff, Ms. Bakersfeld wasn’t someone she paid attention to.

Gloria’s eyes grew big. “You mean . . .
her
?”

“That’s how it appears.” She told Gloria about staking out the house and seeing the woman leave with Dr. Gunderson. She explained following them and finding out where Ms. Bakersfeld lived--a house that Gloria’s husband owned, and about her encounter this morning where she was able to get the picture.

Gloria shook her head. “I was right about him, but I thought he’d taken up with a younger woman. Ronnie’s at least my age, maybe older, and not very attractive. Sorry, I shouldn’t be so catty.” Laurel didn’t think she sounded at all sorry. “What could he see in her?”

Laurel printed the picture and handed the glossy photo to Gloria. “I don’t think there’s anything else I need to do. You can’t prove in court that he is with her, but it could be helpful with the alimony by just having your attorney show it to his.”

Gloria frowned. “That’s it? You can’t get proof? A picture of them together or something?”

“If I follow him around all the time, it’s conceivable I might be able to get a picture, but I have no clue how long that could take and you seemed eager to get him served. Did I misunderstand you?”

“Not at all.”

“Obviously, they are being careful. Show this to your attorney and tell him everything I told you. Get his advice. If he thinks he can work with what you have, great. If not, find out what more he thinks he needs and we’ll talk again.”

“Okay.” She clutched the picture as if afraid it would disappear. “How much do I owe you?”

“The retainer took care of it. I’ll walk you out.” She followed Gloria to the outer office. “Sue, would you please write Ms. Gunderson a check for five hundred dollars?”

Gloria gasped. “What for?”

“I didn’t do enough to earn the thousand you paid up front
.
”
But I got more than my money’s worth with what I discovered, thanks to your hubby’s computer.

As soon as Gloria left, Laurel logged on to her computer and looked up the DEA. Both Dylan and her father could well be Special Agents, but though firearm training was one of the requirements, it seemed like agents sent to infiltrate drug cartels didn’t have
carte blanche
to kill drug lords. The website was more about making arrests. It looked as though if a drug kingpin was murdered, it was usually by a rival cartel, often from another country. Could that just be a smoke screen? She didn’t suppose the DEA would advertise for hit men . . .
assets . . .
on a public website.

During further Internet surfing, she found other branches of government that her father might have belonged to if he was, as she thought, an assassin. Maybe the DEA was only part of it. Or maybe it was another of those
red herrings
planted in her mind by Dylan to throw her off her father’s real job.

Gerald spoke impeccable Spanish and could easily infiltrate a cartel in Central or South America. But neutralize not one but four people? The email said, “One down, three to go.” Did that mean her father had been sent down there to kill four people? If so, by whom or by what agency? Surely that couldn’t be. She refused to believe he would kill anyone in cold blood.

Dylan was at least twenty years younger than Gerald. Why wasn’t
he
down there killing bad guys? Maybe he didn’t speak the language. Maybe Gerald’s age and physical makeup were less of a threat than Dylan’s. Maybe the chauffeur/bodyguard persona was phony and he spent his nights with other DEA agents on raids and gathering intelligence. Maybe her imagination was out of control. She would probably never know the whole story.

The next item on her agenda was to make a call to an old college buddy and roommate. She hadn’t talked to Josh for so long, his number wasn’t even programmed into her phone.

She dialed four-one-one. As soon as the computer gave her the number, she called it. She got his answering machine. His message said the usual things then gave his cell number. She called it.

“Speak.”

“Josh? Josh Poole? It’s Laurel Avidon.”

“I saw your name on my caller ID, but didn’t believe it. How the heck are you?”

“Okay, thanks. Good to hear your voice. It’s been a long time.” She could picture him, tall and lanky, wearing jeans and a tee shirt that undoubtedly said something on it. He collected them—especially ones with clever or lewd sayings—and had even been known to show up at formal dinners and weddings wearing one. She doubted he owned a suit or dress shirt. Thinking along those lines she said, “What’s it say today?”

He guffawed. “My other shirt’s a Tee.”

“Nice. Not X-rated like many I’ve seen you wear.”

“Yeah, well, those are at the dry cleaners.” She laughed. “Hey Laurel, you in New York? I’ll take you to dinner.”

“An expensive one?”

“Uh . . . can’t. Not that I can’t afford it, you understand, but expensive restaurants frown on my choice of wardrobe.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

“It doesn’t now, either. It’s
them
that’s bothered. Of course, now that I think of it, all any of them mention for dress code is coat and tie. Nothing about a dress shirt. Hell, I probably wouldn’t go formal to
your
wedding, even if I was the groom. But when you get married, I promise to provide the entertainment by doing a tap dance in Morse code.

“You can do that?”

“No, but I’d learn. How hard can it be?” There was silence on the line before he asked, “You didn’t call to invite me to your wedding, did you?”

“Not hardly. I’m a confirmed bachelorette, and, no, I’m not in New York. I’m on the left coast as usual. I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I want to send you a code to translate.”

“You mean decrypt? I can try.”

“Don’t be so faux modest. It doesn’t suit you. Have you ever found a code you couldn’t break?”

“Yes, actually. One. But I don’t feel bad because no one else can, either. It’s called Kryptos, a sculpture at CIA headquarters that has yet to be completely decoded even by people better at codes than I am.”

“I’ve heard of it. If anyone can solve it, I’ll bet it’s you.”

“If I ever had the time to try it, maybe I could. Alas, instead I use my time decoding simpler things for the government and old friends. Now the computer does most of it.”

“Always? Can a computer decode anything?

“Not always—think Kryptos—but for the most part, yes.”

“Fantastic. Give me your email address and I’ll send it immediately. And, next time I’m in New York, I’ll treat you to dinner at the most expensive restaurant we can find. I’ll even bring you a tee shirt you can wear with your jacket and tie that will say, ‘I’m with Dummy’.”

They reminisced for a few minutes and exchanged email addresses. As soon as she hung up the phone, she copied and pasted the encrypted email and sent it to Josh.

Within a few minutes, he called her. “Where’d you find this code?”

“Online. Why?”

“Where online?”

“Uh, it was an email sent to someone who let me see it.”

“Do you know who sent it? The person’s email address?”

“I don’t remember it, but I can get it.”

“Do that and send it to me.”

“Why do you need the sender’s email address?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now I’m up to my eyebrows in work. Just send it and trust me, okay?”

She logged onto Dylan’s email. It had been sent by m78r01d20 at Gmail. She emailed Josh the information.

A few minutes later, he emailed her.

Was this the only message from m78r0ld20?

She mailed back:
Yes. Why?

After a bit, he wrote again:
Oops. The boss just handed me three hours (or three days, I never know until I get into it) of work. I’ll work on yours from home. Hope you didn’t need it yesterday.

Laurel sighed. Typical Josh. He hadn’t changed. He looked at the world as if it were one big joke that only he was in on. Yet he was privy to some of the most secret intelligence in the world. Maybe a skewed perception of things was the only way to maintain his sanity. His tone was flippant, as always, but during their time at school, she had often seen the serious part of him he kept hidden. She’d never told him she was onto him. He would just have denied it.