Free Dead Wrong by Patricia Stoltey Page A

even was a story. The fat man might be nothing more than a courier, delivering checks to avoid the delays of the postal system. Guarding them with his life.
    Her old boss at
The Indy Reporter,
Dave Buchanan, would love the opportunity to find out. If they managed to stop a major crime before it happened, it would be an incredible scoop. On the other hand, if they held onto goods that rightfully belonged in the fat man’s possession, she and Dave could be the ones charged with a crime.
    Lynnette shook her head in confusion. She wondered if the fat man played a role in a bigger conspiracy. Maybe he’d actually stolen the checks. She thought about him lumbering around various big companies, trying to remain anonymous while he snatched important documents from the hands of loyal employees. It was more likely he’d ripped off someone’s laptop case. Maybe he’d pulled a switch with someone else too. Maybe he didn’t even have her bag anymore!
    She relaxed and let out a slow breath. He had to have her bag. She’d dialed her own phone number earlier, and he’d answered.
    Thursday, January 23
    Even with light traffic, it still took almost thirty minutes for Sammy’s cab to travel from DIA to the bus station. By the time the cab pulled up in front of the building, it was after midnight. Sammy would happily have beaten the cabbie senseless if he had so much as smirked at the puny tip Sammy included with his fare. As he struggled out of the cab with the woman’s laptop case, he almost tripped over the curb. He tried to recover his balance by grabbing the inside door handle. It didn’t work. He lurched against the cab and caught his hand in the door as it slammed shut.
    The cabbie jumped out to open Sammy’s door. When he took Sammy’s elbow as though to help him onto the sidewalk, Sammy jerked his arm away and turned toward the driver, ready to punch him in the nose. The cabbie took one look at Sammy’s face and left Sammy at the curb.
    “Fucking foreigner,” Sammy muttered. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat off his face and neck. Then he turned up his collar against the cold. His hand hurt. He couldn’t bend his fingers. He tried to examine the back and palm, but the lights outside the bus station threw off a weak, diffused glow.
    Lynnette reached for her carry-on, retrieved Blue’s wig, and laid it on the counter. She combed her hair away from her face with her fingers, tucking stray ends behind her ears.
    Focus.
How could she get away with the laptop case and its contents and get the whole package to someone who could figure it all out?
    She’d call Dave at the
Reporter
and see if he had any great ideas. Maybe flying to Indianapolis from Denver made sense. She had Blue’s phone numbers. She could let her know. That way, Lynnette could turn the checks over in person, then leave. She and Dave could even meet with the FBI—right after they photo-copied the evidence.
    But that didn’t solve the problem of Grace. She couldn’t put the responsibility for that on Blue.
    Lynnette pulled on the wig and pushed her own hair inside. She arranged the wig until it looked natural around her face. Her face. Pathetic. There was no way to hide the still-puffed-up right eye and bruises. Nothing in her purse or suitcase would disguise her face.
    Still carrying Lynnette’s case, Sammy entered the station and sat on the nearest bench. His hand throbbed now, even though it didn’t look too bad. One strip of skin across his knuckles seeped a little blood. He made a fist. The fingers closed without too much pain.
    A quick glance around the station told him there were only two employees in the room—a counter clerk and a security guard. A few passengers waited, lined up in front of one of the doors. A few more walked about, and two men slept on benches. He didn’t see the broad from the plane.
    The security guard watched him as though he thought Sammy might have escaped from the zoo. It pissed Sammy