Chapter Three

~ The Schedule ~

 

Bridget opened the passenger door and let James into the car. She then jumped into the driver’s seat and started the Honda Accord. Although the high of the day was in the mid to upper forties, the temperature had quickly dropped to forty as the sun began to set. They sat and waited for the engine to warm up, both eagerly wanting to crank up the heat.

Her current favorite CD, The Best of Concrete Blonde, spun in the CD player and began playing across the speakers. Neither thought to change it or eject it as they both loved the gut-wrenching lyrics and the powerful vocals of CB’s lead singer, Johnette. Unknown to them, they were unable to change the CD. They couldn’t even eject it or listen to the radio. Wright’s technician made her radio play all Concrete Blonde all day long.

James checked the contents of the glove box and was glad to see a flashlight. He quickly examined the rest of the interior. Nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of empty Starbucks coffee cups, a basket of her laundry in the back seat along with her Information Technology college books, and then he saw it, a little black dot stuck to the bottom of the mirror.

He motioned to Bridget and guided her eyes to the small device and she immediately knew it didn’t belong. This was her first new car and she knew it like the back of her hand. She nodded in confirmation, still unsure why an employee investigator would go to this length to investigate a car accident. The questions were stacking up in a queue in her mind.

The temperature drop had slowed and was hovering near a chilly 39 degrees. As soon as the car’s heater kicked in, the Honda was in drive and Bridget was off, a quick left onto 8th Avenue.

James noticed the black Tahoe with blacked out windows as Bridget turned on to 8th Avenue because its fog lights were turned on and windows rolled down. He could see the silhouette of the driver and someone in the passenger seat. It appeared to be Mr. Wright, but he wasn’t certain. He made a mental note of the fog lights and their placement on the vehicle. He was sure it was them and they obviously wanted him to know they were there. He just didn’t know who ‘they’ were. He instantly knew he was doing the right thing. He kept thinking he had to keep his friends close and his enemies closer—he needed to find out who he was up against, he needed to find a way out.

Bridget made a quick right onto Pine. James looked back, pretended to be collecting something from the back seat and saw the Tahoe tailing them. He eyed the laundry basket and came up with a quick idea. He told Bridget that he was thirsty and to pull into the next convenience store.

James was constantly checking behind them—all along Pine the Tahoe followed at a distance. Then moments after Bridget’s turn onto Union, the Tahoe appeared five vehicles back. Bridget was getting excited by the notion of it all, the cloak and dagger tone, but surprised they went to this detail over a little weed. The music coming across the car speakers only heightened the experience. “Okay, we can stop at N & W Shell near my job. That’s the nearest one I can think of, unless you want to back track to Madison. Or I can get you a juice from The Lounge.”

“The one near your job is fine. Let’s do it after you get your work schedule.”

By the time Concrete Blonde’s “Scene of a Perfect Crime” was playing, she was pulling into a little known alley street off Union. The Tahoe slowed as it drove by, then continued on Union, James lost sight of it and was somewhat thankful to see it go by and disappear.

Bridget opened the driver’s door, put on her coat, and was on her way to The Lounge before James whistled to get her attention. He got out holding up her purse. She rushed back to him.

Five months earlier, on Christmas Day of all days, the purse was the subject of their first argument, not an argument really, but a clash of minds. The purse was a Chloe knockoff that she purchased on the internet for herself as a Christmas present. It was a decent knockoff, but failed miserably under close inspection. He had purchased her a Cole tote for Christmas and totally missed her sense of style.

He now regretted ever buying the Cole and she had mixed feelings about the Chloe knockoff. Sometimes she liked the attention it garnered from the other girls. At other times, she despised it. Imagine having feelings for a purse, she thought, it went against who she felt she truly was: a modern day tree-hugger. But her lifestyle was changing back then. She acted impulsively and, in the big scheme of things, it was just a purse. James’s point centered on the fact she spent $590 dollars for the knockoff purse and he’d rather she not spend much at all or buy the real thing—why buy a knockoff at that price? It didn’t make any sense to him.

She looked at the purse, then eyed James. “Irony, huh? Bet you’re glad I bought it now.”

He placed the purse on the trunk of the car. “I’ll be glad when you’re back.”

He pulled her close and whispered, “Write the note to Cindy here, before you go into The Lounge, sign it with something vague, something Cindy would know, but others, strangers, wouldn’t. Grab the phone as quick as possible, also grab a work schedule. Don’t stay. Don’t get me juice. Leave your cell phone here. In and out, okay?”

She dug into the purse, found a pen and notepad, and set the purse on the trunk of the car. She curled the note in her left hand, grabbed the purse, and gave James a quick kiss. For the first time, James felt the purse situation was forgiven. He swore to himself, if they made it out of this alive, he would never buy a purse again.

Moments later, she entered the backdoor to The Lounge. Her co-workers were pleased to see her, but surprised she was there to pick up a schedule. She could simply call, but they were all in a rush to make money and didn’t linger on the small details.

She hurried to the locker room. It wasn’t really a room, more like a closet that had nine small metal lockers where the staff could store their items during shifts. There was a small table littered with notes, flyers, and old magazines along one wall. One wooden chair stolen from somewhere on The Lounge’s floor was tucked under the table.

* * * *

James waited for a few minutes and watched Bridget turn the corner and head toward The Lounge.

Seattle blocks were like most large cities, they were somewhere between square and rectangular and one could calculate the driving time to circle a block. He waited twelve minutes and didn’t see the Tahoe. James quickly jumped in the passenger seat and started removing all of his clothing. He removed his jacket, his shirt, his pants, and socks and stopped at his underwear. After a few moments of contemplation, he decided to remove them, as well.

Even with the engine running and the heater at its highest setting, the forty-degree weather chilled him to the bone so he leaned into the backseat, grabbed a bed sheet from the laundry basket, and wrapped it around himself. He was still cold, but it would work. His plan, as crazy as it was, just might work.

* * * *

Bridget searched for a few moments, and found Cindy’s cell phone in an unlocked locker and replaced it with the note. She closed the locker and, for some unknown reason, decided to lock it with her own lock and key. The cell phone had just settled into her purse when a drunk busted into the room, almost knocking her over in the process.

“Oh, I’mma sorry—I’mma looking for the men’s rooms,” the drunk slurred and he smelt like a brewery.

“It’s the other way, down the hall to your left, go back the way you came.” She directed with her arm and index finger.

“Left? What?” stammered the drunk.

Bridget pulled the work schedule from the corkboard and said, “That way.” She pointed, as she pushed him out of the locker room and exited.

“Oh, okay, you aarre soooo pretty, what’s ya name?”

“Forget it, buddy, I have a man, and he knows where the restroom is.”

“Can’t blame me for tryin’, okay, so this way,” the drunk said pointing back toward the bar.

“Yes, you can’t miss it, that way and on your left.”

She had babied and built up the ego of many a drunk. She considered herself a pro at it and made a decent wage doing it, but she just didn’t have the time tonight. Drunks as a rule immediately landed on her shit-list at the number three spot. They quickly moved up if they touched her or became impolite. “That way, good luck,” she said, and headed toward the back door, the drunk nearly a distant memory.

She opened the door with the small of her back and noticed the drunk going back into the locker room. ‘God, don’t let him piss in the locker I use,’ she prayed and was out the door, into the back of house area. Minutes later, she was on the street heading toward the car.

By the time Bridget arrived at the car, James had burnt a gallon of gas and raised the interior temperature to a toasty seventy degrees. James knew Bridget would customarily balk at the heat. She enjoyed the cold and loathed the repulsive heat of summer. A Seattle native, she believed that seventy degrees was blistering heat. When the temperature hit about seventy-five, Bridget would almost shut down; she felt it was so oppressive. She had tried Bikram yoga, but bailed during the first ten minutes unable to deal with the one hundred plus degree heat and, in her mind, couldn’t fathom why anyone would do that type of yoga. Bridget was a struggling tree-hugger to be sure, but she was a devout snow-bunny.

She opened the door and instantly noticed her man, the guy she was going to marry and have children with, the man she was totally in love with, was buck naked under a bed sheet.

She settled into the driver’s seat, removed her coat, and purposely, sexually, far too slowly, placed her purse at his feet. “Well someone feels better,” she said, implying sexual undertones, totally intrigued with what she thought was on James’s mind. “I got the schedule. Luckily, I’m off on Monday,” she hinted.

James recognized the moment and so wanted to see where it would go. He definitely wanted to explore it. Bridget was a beautiful woman and had no fear when it came to sexual attitude, but he had an agenda and laughed it off. “Shush, do you remember the spot of our first picnic last July?”

“Yes.”

“Drive there.”

“Okay, baby, whatever you want, it’s a drive though, about thirty minutes,” she said, still mistaking his plan as sexual innuendo.

* * * *

The noise canceling programming worked like a charm. No matter what James and Bridget said in the car, with the cancellation CD of Concrete Blonde in place, what the surveillance tech called “the source,” all ambient noise was almost completely cancelled out by their sophisticated software. Simply put, as the associate bragged days earlier–‘...regardless of the volume of Concrete Blonde, it will be cancelled out and reduced to the level of low ambient noise.’ His sales pitch turned out to be true and the conversation between the two in the Honda was blasting across the laptop speakers in the Tahoe.

They heard the request from James to get a drink, the response that they would head to the Shell or get juice from The Lounge.

They heard Bridget forget her purse and, to the disgust of Mr. Wright, all of their technology was once again negated by whispers, apparently near the trunk of the vehicle.

He pounded the dashboard as he loudly criticized, “Why isn’t there a mic on the outside of the car somewhere?” The technicians responded to the outburst, swearing they could tweak the software parameters to the point where they could, in fact, hear what was said. He crossed his heart and assured Mr. Wright, “I can pull that conversation, sir.” The tech didn’t really believe it, and Mr. Wright knew it was a lost cause.

Parked on Union, just outside The Lounge, the tech was still working on the voice parameters as the other techs and Mr. Wright impatiently waited.

Impatience turned to panic as the next series of events exposed themselves.

“She’s in the building,” directed the technician in the Tahoe into the earpiece of the associate inside The Lounge.

“I have a clear view at the front door and I don’t see her. Where is she?” the associate asked.

“She’s entering the back of the house. She’ll be in The Lounge in minutes, move to the backdoor. She’s not at the front door—she’s entering the employee entrance, roger?”

“Got it, on my way to the back of house. I’ll find her.”

Moments later, they received an update. The associate had found her, she was in a hallway off the bar and heading toward a room.

“What do I do?” The associate asked to his team in the Tahoe.

“Pour beer on your hands and rub it over your face. You’re going to pretend you’re drunk and you are looking for the restroom. I don’t care, get into that room, and see what she is doing!” Mr. Wright yelled.

They heard the door burst open and the drunken conversation between the associate and Bridget. They giggled when Bridget shot the associate down after the ‘you’re so pretty’ line, but understood the associate was only doing his job and they, oddly, took pride in the fact he was successfully passing himself off as a drunken patron. And no one in the Tahoe could argue that she wasn’t pretty. More importantly, she was buying it and so were they.

“She’s exited the building, she left the way she came,” directed the pretend drunken associate.

“Very well, we see her now,” Mr. Wright responded.

“I find it hard to believe she was there to collect a schedule with today’s technology, a simple phone call and she can get it. It’s probably online somewhere. Mr. Spain is trying to get the upper hand somehow. She was there for another reason,” continued Mr. Wright.

“Turn that room, top to bottom, and let me know what you find. There is something there I can feel it.” Mr. Wright, in final contemplation, ordered, “She was there, they are here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with a damn work schedule. Find me something!”

“Yes, sir,” said the associate, who had successfully passed himself off as a drunk.

He turned the room upside down, looked for anything and after a few minutes realized he had no idea what he was looking for. He had checked the corkboard. It consisted of only notices of work schedules for the employees, shift trades, and the occasional babysitting job, followed by items for sale. The corkboard yielded little information and certainly wasn’t offering up any clues.

He turned and noticed the nine lockers and started pawing through each of the open lockers. He checked every purse, looked at every phone, and didn’t notice anything that would seem nefarious in any remote sense of the word.

He reported back, “The locker room is clean, boss. From what I can tell, she got her schedule and left. Two of the lockers are locked. Do you want me to bust them?”

“No, we don’t want to leave any hint that the room has been searched. Women take their privacy seriously, and they would complain if the locks are busted. Leave them and search the rest of the room.”

He pushed aside the newspaper and clutter from the small table that hugged the back wall of the locker room. He picked up a work schedule. It was the schedule of those working tonight, and took a seat in the only chair in the room. He perused the schedule and noted that five girls were scheduled to work tonight, a Bridget D., a Dawn J., a Tiffany K., a Keisha M., and a Cindy S.

“I have today’s work schedule, but it only shows the first name and last initial.”

“Take it, we’ll check on each and see if Bridget made contact.”

“Yes, sir.” The associate stood, gave the room a once over and grasped the door knob. At that exact moment, The Lounge’s hired muscle, a brute of a man with pectoral muscles so big they stretched the XXL security shirt to its breaking point, busted into the room.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he demanded as he clutched the associates’ collar jerking him into the hallway.

“Noth—Nothing. I was looking for the restroom.”

“Right, the nearest one is about two blocks away. Here let me show you.” The associate struggled with the bouncer, who delivered a well-aimed punch to the stomach. The associate hunched over and struggled to free himself, but it made little difference. He was escorted to the front door and impolitely pushed to the sidewalk.

“I’ve been thrown out.”

“Yes, we heard. Get your ass back to the truck, swap positions with the driver. Give the schedule to the driver. Driver two,” requested Mr. Wright.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get into The Lounge and find the last names of the staff on that schedule, just the ones who are working now.”

“Roger.”

“What’s our mark doing?” Wright asked the associate in the back of the Tahoe.

“Nothing much, it sounds like he’s moving around a lot. Maybe he’s seat dancing to the music or something. Ms. Davies just arrived back at the car.”

“They will be on the move in a couple of minutes heading to their first picnic spot,” the associate in the back seat announced.

“Do we know where that is?” Mr. Wright asked.

“No, sir.”

“Ah, great, just great! Okay, driver two, get those names. You,” he said as he placed his hand on the shoulder of the driver next to him, “get us in position. This time I don’t want them to know we’re tailing them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir, what about the cricket?” an associate in the back seat jokingly asked.

“What’s your number?” Mr. Wright demanded.

“Associate number three,” replied the young man, now fretting why he had even opened his mouth and wishing he could disappear into the darkness of the back seat.

“Well, Associate number three, let me be clear. Get!—The—Fuck!—Out!”

“What?” the shocked associate asked as he gripped the door handle preparing to make his exit.

Mr. Wright paused for effect, “That’s how you deliver a joke.” Wright laughed and the others nervously laughed with him.

The moment passed. “Let’s go!” Wright shouted, startling everyone in the Tahoe.