His phones were tapped but he said nothing suspicious. There were cameras in his house but he did nothing out of the ordinary. They had a tracker on his car but he didn’t go anywhere unexpected. He’d led a straight-arrow existence, at least for the last three weeks. And unless he did something problematic in the next two days, they would likely have to cut him loose.
But at this moment, both agents were both more interested in snacks than surveillance. Cress had just snagged a piece of cheese for himself when his partner gave him a whack on the arm.
“Hold up,” Poulter said. “It looks like we have movement.”
Cress let go of the food and looked in the direction his partner was pointing. Voss lived in the back unit of a two-home townhouse. They saw a car emerge from the garage, ease down the long driveway, and turn right, away from where they were parked.
As he drove off, the driver waved at them through the open window. He didn’t seem to be trying to lose them so Poulter didn’t rush as he made a U-turn and began following the target.
*
Kyle Voss sat on the couch, watching the FBI agents on his extra phone as they drove off.
He knew the FBI had attached a tracker to his car, a blandly gray Toyota Prius. But in doing so, they had missed the small, web-enabled camera he’d installed in his back seat. The resolution was so good that he could see clearly through their windshield and knew when they were talking, making a phone call, eating, or even picking their noses.
When they were a couple miles away, he got up and went to the bathroom of the house he was in. Of course, it wasn’t his house but the one that backed up to his backyard. What the FBI didn’t know was that before he even bought the townhouse, his friends in the Monzon drug cartel had purchased both townhomes on the adjacent lot, one street over.
In the weeks leading up to Kyle’s release from prison, they dug a tunnel from the back townhouse on that lot, underneath the wooden fence separating the two backyards and into the guest bathroom of the townhouse Kyle eventually bought. The tunnel mouth opened into the cabinet below the bathroom sink.
As the cartel expected and Kyle confirmed after moving in, the FBI did not put a camera or bug in that bathroom, only the master upstairs. As a result, he was able to climb through the tunnel opening, crawl along it underneath the connected backyards and emerge in the laundry room of the house one street over.
He’d been doing it regularly for weeks now. The first time he’d gone over, he met the resident of that home, a man who went by “Rick” and who just happened to be a dead ringer for Kyle. They even took measurements to be sure.
Rick was slightly smaller than Kyle. At six foot one and 210 pounds, he was an inch shorter and five pounds lighter. But he had the same muscular build and their subtle physical differences would be lost on almost everyone. Their facial bone structure was similar, though Kyle’s nose was slightly more petite. The folks in Monterrey had considered having Rick get a nose job but decided the recovery time would be a complication, a risk not worth taking.
He had dyed his hair the same shade of blond as Kyle’s and shaved it to the same length so that both men were growing it back at the same rate. Rick had brown eyes but wore blue contacts outside the house just to be safe, even though he usually wore sunglasses everywhere.
He’d purchased the same wardrobe as Kyle and made sure to get sizes that gave the same snug fit. On the several occasions when Rick took the tunnel to Kyle’s house and left in his car, the outings had gone without incident. He made sure to wave at the agents as he left, though he always tried to pull out of the driveway in the opposite direction from them so they couldn’t get too good a look at him.
On this day, Rick was off to run a series of errands that wouldn’t require him to interact with many folks. He had Kyle’s regular phone so the FBI could keep tabs on his location. He was going to the nearby Claremont Colleges Honnold/Mudd Library to “read” a few textbooks to bone up on new finance regulations. Then he would make stops for gas and to the grocery store. Depending on what Kyle needed to do and how long it might take, Rick could make the trip plausibly last between two and four hours.
In the bathroom of the other townhouse, Kyle changed into appropriate attire for his planned outing, hopped in the Toyota 4Runner in Rick’s garage, put on his cap and sunglasses, and pulled out of the driveway, past the front house, which was also owned by the cartel and currently unoccupied.
He looked both ways for safety and to confirm that there were no FBI agents on that street. When he felt comfortable, he pulled out of the driveway and headed toward his intended destination, confident that he was free to do what was needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kelly Martindale was pissed.
She had spent a good ten minutes circling the streets of downtown Manhattan Beach, looking for anywhere to park. Exclusively residential streets needed permits. All the public lots were full. And there were no available meters other than the twenty-four-minute ones. She needed a lot more than twenty-four minutes.
Finally she saw a woman walking out of a boutique with both hands holding shopping bags and followed her slowly, basically stalking the chick until she got to her car, three blocks south of the main drag. She was pretty sure the woman took an extra-long time loading up just to spite her.
When she left, Kelly pulled in, paid the meter up to the two-hour maximum, and hurried down to Carl’s place. When she got to his massive mansion on the Strand, three blocks south of the pier, she was torn.
It was only six minutes until their planned meeting time and she wanted to be ready when he arrived. He’d been in New York since last week and was returning today. He’d told her he wanted to ravish her as soon as he got home.
But she also needed to be discreet. After all, Carl Landingham was married and Kelly was his mistress, not his wife. It was true that Mrs. Landingham—or Mrs. Landinghag, as Kelly called her—was out of town all week. But that didn’t mean the neighbors wouldn’t talk if they saw something juicy.
So despite both her urge to rush in and the sultry afternoon weather, Kelly pulled the hoodie on her sweatshirt over her head, strolled casually to the house’s side door, and used her spare key to get in. Once in the house, she moved fast.
She hurried up to one of the three guest rooms, where she changed. It was safer to do it in a rarely visited room, in case someone unexpectedly came over. She could stuff her clothes in the extra closet or even hide in the room if need be.
She undressed quickly, stripping out of the sweatshirt, top, and leggings. Then she pulled the lingerie out of her small backpack. Carl usually liked her to wear something elaborate. But considering the heat, he’d recommended she go with a light, silk teddy. She did as he asked but added a little something extra—a pair of sheer, thigh-high stockings she knew he’d enjoy rolling down her legs when the time came.
Kelly looked at her watch. It was exactly 1:29. Carl would be here any second. She rushed into the bathroom to give herself one last check and was immediately glad she had. Her long, black hair was still in a ponytail. She pulled out the tie and let her hair cascade down past her shoulders.
Under normal circumstances, she’d brush it out. But she didn’t have time and it looked sexy in casual, blowsy way. Everything else looked good. The teddy hugged her hourglass figure in all the intended places. The stockings ran up her long legs teasingly. Even before she put on the pumps, she knew she was bringing it today.