Free Dead Wrong by Patricia Stoltey Page B

off, but his body didn’t seem to care much. He could hardly keep his eyes open. A nap on one of those benches wouldn’t be too bad. But business had to come first. He grunted as he struggled to his feet and approached the fake cop in his khaki uniform. The cop watched as Sammy lumbered in his direction. Sammy glowered to keep the cop on his toes, but tried not to go overboard.
Gotta keep my cool.
    As soon as he drew close enough for the guard to hear, Sammy told his story—the mix-up at the airport and the phone call between him and the broad. He skipped the part about the threats he’d made that had spooked the woman so bad she wouldn’t meet him face-to-face.
    The guard shook his head as soon as Sammy told him about the plan to exchange the laptop cases. Sweat broke out on Sammy’s forehead again. He launched into a description of Lynnette. The guard kept shaking his head.
    Sammy’s voice grew louder. Beads of perspiration dribbled down the back of his neck. His injured hand began to tremble. He took a step back as he felt a wave of nausea.
    “Hey, are you sick?” the guard said.
    “No, I’m okay. I just gotta sit.” Sammy moved to the closest bench. Now he couldn’t take a deep breath. He set the case on the floor beside his feet. Another fucking anxiety attack, he thought. The third one in the last six weeks. Just one more sign he needed to see one of those damned knife jockeys.
Fuck!
    “You want me to call an ambulance?” the guard said.
    “No . . . don’t call an ambulance . . . I’ll be fine . . . I’ll sit here a minute . . . I’m just upset . . .” Sammy stopped and sucked in air. There. He could breathe again. He pulled his damp handkerchief out of his pocket and tried to wipe the sweat off his face, but his hand throbbed. His knuckles were more discolored now. Purple in places.
    Holy shit. What have I done to deserve this?
    “Maybe you ought to have a doctor look at that hand.”
    Jesus. Would this guard never stop?
Sammy took a couple of deep breaths and wiped his hand across his brow. “I told you, I’m fine. If you want to help, get someone to look in the rest-room, see if there’s a broad . . . a woman in there with a case sort of like this one. You can’t miss her. Her boyfriend beat the crap out of her and messed up her face.”
    “You sure you’re going to be okay?”
    “Yes, dammit! Just do what I asked so I can get out of here.”
    The guard ambled toward the ticket counter. Sammy clenched his uninjured hand into a fist and pressed it against his chin.

C HAPTER 13
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    Denver, Colorado
Thursday, January 23
    The mom came out of the restroom stall with her kids, did a double-take when she saw Lynnette’s new look, but did not comment. They left the restroom, but in less than a minute the mom came back, alone. “There’s a guy out there looking for you. He said something about a woman with bruises and that she carried a laptop case. Are you in trouble?”
    “Yeah.”
Oh, God, trapped in the restroom.
Lynnette stared at the floor, at her carry-on, the laptop, and remembered the time she’d attended a meeting and toted her entire computer case inside her suitcase so she’d have the convenience of wheels.
    “Can I do anything to help?” the mom asked.
    “Maybe.” Lynnette looked at the woman’s face, crossed her fingers and hoped she carried all that makeup in her purse. “My bruises. Do you have anything that will cover them?”
    “Oh, sure.” The woman opened her bag, dug around until she’d produced liquid foundation, eye shadow and mascara.
    A female janitor with ROSA embroidered on her pocket strolled in and unlocked a supply closet near the exit. An oversized black trash bag tumbled out. She dragged it toward the door and propped it against the wall. Rosa pulled a bottle of spray liquid cleaner from the closet, took a handful of paper towels, and wiped down the sinks. When she glanced at the two women in the mirror and saw the image of Lynnette’s face, she