Dangerous Impostor Page 12

  Caleb supplied the word. “A celebrity impersonator.”

  Disappointment stabbed at Brent. The Hollywood Casino was full of celebrity impersonators. This man was probably one of Gaines’s stooges, on his payroll to spy on Brent and Lauren during the workshop. That information wasn’t going to help them solve anything.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Mush shook his head. “But that ain’t his real job. You don’t want to mess with that guy.”

  Brent’s ears pricked to attention again. “Why not?”

  Mush put an arm on the table and leaned forward. “He’s a collector, dude. Name’s Jarrell. He’s Cicalo.”

  Brent had no idea what that meant, but the caution in Mush’s tone, the way he lowered his voice when he spoke the word, told him it wasn’t good.

  Caleb broke the moment by leaning back in his chair and tossing his fork on his plate. “Man, if I eat any more I’m going to hurt myself. That was a good salad, Lauren. I can feel those vegetables making me healthy already.”

  The caution in the look he gave Brent warned him to drop the subject.

  With a visible effort, Lauren shook off her tension and replied without a tremor in her voice. “I’m not sure the salad could offset the grease in the hamburger, but it tasted so good it was worth it. Thank you, Caleb. To show my appreciation, I’ll do the dishes.”

  She half rose from her chair, but Caleb stopped her. “No way. We’ve got rules around here. You eat, you work.” He leveled a stern look on Mush and Jake, who immediately rose and started clearing the table.

  While the boys washed up, Brent remained at the table with Lauren and Caleb. They exchanged tense, silent glances, but Caleb’s heavy scowl warned them not to mention Gaines or the mystery collector again. Brent clamped his jaw shut, his tension mounting, until the dishes were cleaned and put away.

  “Good job. Thank you.” Caleb rose and approached the back door. “Now, scram. Come back in the morning if you’re not too good for a Pop-Tart.”

  “Thanks, Preacher Man.” Mush held a fist toward Caleb, who tapped his knuckles with his own.

  Jake nodded farewell in Brent and Lauren’s direction, and also knocked knuckles with Caleb on his way out. “See you.”

  Caleb closed the door behind them. He stood with his back toward Brent and watched through the blinds for a moment. A heavy silence filled the kitchen. When Brent saw the boys’ figures pass by the kitchen window on their way out of the yard, Caleb closed the blinds and twisted the dead bolt. Then he turned toward the table, his expression solemn.

  “If you two are mixed up with the Cicalo gang, you’re in a whole lot more trouble than I thought. They’re brutal.”

  A brutal gang? The hamburger turned to cement in Brent’s insides.

  Questions whirled in Lauren’s brain, but she couldn’t squeak any words through a mouth that had gone completely dry. One look at the worried expression on Caleb’s face, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers anyway.

  Brent’s fingers pressed white against the edge of the table. “Who are the Cicalo gang?”

  “Mafia.”

  The word sliced through the room. Lauren’s head went light, and faint buzzing began in her ears.

  Caleb returned to his chair at the table, turned it around and sat backward on it with his arms resting across the top. “I don’t know much about them, only what I’ve picked up here and there. They’re out of Chicago, but they have a strong presence in Vegas. Most of the Mafia organizations do. Word has it they’ve got fingers in just about everything—drugs, prostitution, illegal gambling, you name it.”

  Lauren found her voice. “I thought prostitution and gambling were legal in Nevada.”

  “They are, and they’re strictly regulated. But there are a million and one ways to circumvent the laws and avoid paying the taxes.”

  “What’s a collector?” Brent asked.

  “That’s the guy who comes to collect what you owe when you lose an illegal bet. They’re usually big, and always mean and ruthless.” His arms dropped over the chair back and his hands grasped to form one big fist. “I actually had a couple of job offers when I first moved here, before my reputation as a Christian spread.”

  Lauren could see why. If a guy as big and muscular as Caleb came knocking on her door, she’d scramble to pay whatever she owed in record time.

  “That doesn’t sound like this man at all.” She raised her cell phone to indicate the photo. “He’s on the small side.”

  “Yeah.” Brent eyed the size of Caleb’s shoulders. “You make two of him, maybe three.”

  “Collectors don’t have to be muscle-bound. It just helps. If you’re ruthless enough, word spreads and all you have to do is ask nicely. People will throw money at you to keep you happy.”

  Fear squeezed her throat. She remembered his calm glance when their eyes met during the workshop. “So this Jarrell guy is ruthless?”

  Caleb’s hands splayed open for a moment. “I have no idea. I’ve never heard of him. But if he’s in bed with the Cicalos, like Mush said, I believe it.”

  One piece of the puzzle snapped into place. Lauren placed a hand on Brent’s arm. She tilted her head toward the back bedroom where she’d taken the bag of money.

  “Frank was paying a gambling debt,” he said quietly, “and Jarrell was coming to collect the money.”

  Frank, an illegal gambler. She didn’t find that hard to believe at all. Though he’d never said anything to her that hinted of a tendency to break the law, Frank’s language had been offensive and his reputation of being a rowdy and frequent drinker was no secret. A technical genius, but not someone she would have ever chosen to spend her free time with.

  “That fits.” She weighed the scenario in her mind. Frank knew he was coming to Las Vegas for this conference months ago. He’d told her about it her first week of work and then also told her she’d have to take her predecessor’s place in copresenting the workshop with him. So he decided to place a bet, or maybe a few bets, with an illegal gambling ring in Vegas. There were certainly ways to place illegal bets in Atlanta, but maybe the stakes were higher in Las Vegas. Then when he lost, he brought cash to settle his bet.

  Something about it still didn’t feel right.

  Apparently Brent agreed. “But why would he ship the money to your attention?” he asked.

  She was at a loss to explain. “I have no idea.”

  “Ship money?” Caleb stared at Brent for a moment. His gaze switched to Lauren and then to the short hallway leading to his bedroom. “There’s money in that bag?”

  There’s nothing slow about this guy.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” Brent asked. “It might be best if you didn’t.”

  He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “I probably don’t, brother. But if I’ve got Cicalo money in my house, I think somebody had better tell me what’s going on.”

  She exchanged a glance with Brent. A wave of guilt washed over her. Caleb was a decent man, a Christian man. He spent his life helping people who desperately needed help. Could they drag him into a mess that could very well land him in jail? Or maybe worse, since the Cicalo’s reputation was so violent?

  On the other hand, did they have a choice? Apparently some very nasty people were after her, and since Brent had run away with her, probably him, too. Fear shuddered down her spine at the thought of being caught by a crooked cop, or worse, a Mafia gang.

  Brent watched her closely, waiting for her agreement to tell Caleb the details of their situation. They needed his help. If they didn’t figure out what was going on fast, they might all end up dead like Frank. She nodded.

  Brent laid his arms on the table’s scratched surface and began.

  EIGHTEEN

  Brent stared at Caleb’s monster of a computer monitor and watched as a gigantic list of codes scrolled across the screen. The main servers at Sterling Foods’ Atlanta headquarters had been working for hours to decipher Frank’s encryption code. Impossible to tell if
the program was making any headway or not. A call to the corporate attorney had proved frustrating. His cell phone was turned off, and as yet, he hadn’t returned the call. Since it was close to ten o’clock back in Atlanta, Brent wasn’t sure he’d even get the message before morning.

  His call to Mason had been almost as frustrating. Caleb had been far more understanding when Brent detailed their situation. Mason nearly exploded.

  “Are you insane?” The P.I.’s voice had carried from the little phone speaker all the way across the room. “Everybody’s heard of the Cicalo family. What has this woman gotten you into, Brent?”

  Even though he’d held the phone to his ear, the words were apparently discernable to the others. Lauren’s face had blanched, and Caleb had held a hand out for Brent’s phone.

  “Let me handle him while you get back to work,” he had said.

  Brent had gladly turned Mason over to Caleb and returned to the computer.

  He stared at the scrolling codes. Not that he could do anything except watch the program do its work.

  Lauren appeared behind him with two steaming mugs. She handed him one and leaned against the back of one of the padded living-room chairs nearby.

  “Chamomile tea.” She brought her mug to her lips and sipped. “Apparently it soothes your stomach when you’re detoxing from drugs. Caleb says it will help keep us calm.”

  “A two-hundred-eighty-pound construction worker with a ponytail serves chamomile tea and Pop-Tarts to drug users, and makes them wash the dishes.” He gave a soft laugh. “He’s quite a guy.”

  Brent blew the steam away from the surface of his tea and took a cautious drink. The flavor was mild, the odor faintly floral. From one of the bedrooms down the short hallway, the low drum of Caleb’s voice could be heard as he talked with Mason.

  “How’s it coming?” Lauren pointed toward the screen.

  “Okay, I guess. It’ll take time, that’s all.” He tilted back in the lopsided desk chair and propped his elbows on the arms, the hot mug in his hands. “I’ve been wondering about something. Your ex-boyfriend.”

  Spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. “I’d prefer to refer to him as my ex-boss.”

  For some unknown reason, her words pleased him. He hated to think she harbored feelings for a prior relationship. “Okay, but I’m wondering how he fits into all this.”

  She shook her head, clearly confused. “What makes you think he’s involved?”

  “Because him showing up in our workshop today is too weird not to at least consider.”

  “Well, he is involved in the computer industry and this is one of the biggest technical conferences in the nation.” She raised a finger to forestall his argument. “No, he didn’t have to attend our session, but I have a feeling he did that to intimidate me. That’s exactly the kind of thing he does.”

  Her explanation made sense, but he heard a note of hesitation in her voice. “You said he was involved in unethical business practices, right? Well, apparently Frank was, too. Don’t you find that strange?”

  Lines appeared in her forehead. “David didn’t gamble, at least not that I knew of. The questionable practices involved unreported income from clients.” Her expression grew grim. “Tax evasion.”

  “Didn’t Caleb say that was exactly the reason for illegal gambling in a state where it’s legal?”

  She gave a hesitant nod. “But I never heard David mention Frank, or vice versa.”

  Maybe he was being overly suspicious, but he couldn’t shake the idea that the two were somehow connected. What did they have in common? Maybe several things, but the most obvious was standing in front of him. “How did you learn about the job at Sterling Foods?”

  “I saw an advertisement on a professional search website, and applied online. The recruiter called and talked to me on the phone first, then invited me in for an interview.” She lifted the tea mug to her lips but spoke before she sipped. “That’s when I interviewed with you. I had to lie to David and tell him I had a doctor’s appointment, and I was taking off the whole afternoon.”

  An online applicant. Brent swiveled around in the chair and stared at the scrolling screen for a few seconds. Frank was the technical programmer in charge of supporting the company’s online applicant system, which meant he’d had access to all the resumes they received. Could he have done something to give Lauren’s application a higher priority, to bring it to the attention of the human-resources department? Yes, he could have, with a few keystrokes. But why?

  Wait a minute. He turned back toward Lauren. “Earlier you told me David questioned you if you took too long at the grocery store. He didn’t say anything about you taking half a day for a doctor’s appointment?”

  “No, but—” She stopped, and her expression became doubtful. “No, he didn’t. I wonder why.”

  Caleb strode into the room and handed Brent his cell phone. “Mason’s good with everything. He’s going to see what he can dig up about this Jarrell character for us. Have you gotten anything yet?” He pointed at the computer monitor.

  Brent and Lauren continued to stare at each other. After a moment, Brent looked away. Something wasn’t right about the whole David-Frank thing, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d think more about it later, but best stick to one thing at a time.

  He swiveled back around in his seat, but his reply that he’d made no progress yet died on his lips. The program had stopped. Frank’s encryption code was displayed on the screen.

  “I found something.”

  Excitement tickled the base of his skull as he highlighted the code and copied it onto the computer’s clipboard. No wonder he hadn’t been able to come up with it on his own. The code was an entirely random string of numbers and letters—the hardest code to decipher, as Frank obviously knew.

  He closed out that window and opened another one, this time accessing the most recent of Frank’s Las Vegas files. At the prompt for the encryption code, he pasted the contents of the clipboard and then clicked the submit button.

  A database opened. Columns of data appeared on the monitor. The first few were immediately recognizable as names and addresses, and the state abbreviations were from all over the U.S. Then came an alphanumeric code—another code!—followed by a formula. The last column was a number.

  Lauren and Caleb drew close to hover behind him and examine the data over his shoulders.

  “What does it mean?” Caleb asked.

  A new line appeared at the top of the screen, and a few seconds later, another one.

  “It’s a database,” Brent said, watching in fascination as the data expanded before their eyes. “And it’s updating while we watch.”

  “A real-time IP network application.” Lauren’s voice held a grudging note of admiration. “Just like you and I demonstrated today. Frank’s specialty.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” Caleb stabbed a finger at the screen, leaving a smudgy fingerprint over one of the columns. “Wait a minute. Those look like odds for a bet.”

  Brent’s pulse kicked up, and blood surged faster through his veins. Two dash one. Eight dash three. That formula did look like odds. And the number in the last column might be a dollar amount. But some of them were really big numbers. “Hold on. If we’re getting real-time updates, somewhere there’s a program that feeds information into this database.”

  He pressed a series of keys, and the program file opened. His eyes scanned the code until he found what he was looking for—the source of the constantly updating data. In a separate window he opened the internet and keyed in a website address.

  “WWW.Skorzbiz.com?” Lauren laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned closer to the monitor. “What is that?”

  With an effort, Brent ignored the sensations her contact stirred up. “If I’m not mistaken, Skorz means scores, as in sports scores.”

  The website opened. A banner flashed dollar signs in the corners, and giant letters proclaimed Bet on the Big Game! Win Big Money!

  “It�
�s an online betting website,” Caleb said.

  “That’s right.” Brent switched back to the program code. “And if the right passcode is entered in the ID field, the user is taken to a series of private pages that are not accessible to the general internet.” He turned the chair sideways and looked at them. “They are hosted, along with this database, in a protected area of Sterling Foods’ corporate computer system.”

  “Wow.” Lauren stepped back to lean against the padded chair. “Frank was running an illegal gambling ring on our company’s system.”

  “Not just Frank,” Caleb corrected. The big man’s expression sent a chill marching across Brent’s arms. “But the Cicalo Mafia family.”

  NINETEEN

  While Brent kept examining Frank’s program code, Lauren returned to the kitchen with her empty tea mug. Brent’s questions about David plagued her. Why hadn’t David pressed her for details about that four-hour doctor’s appointment? She’d been delayed in traffic for fifteen minutes once, and he’d almost gone ballistic.

  “I found another table in the database.” Brent’s voice held unsuppressed excitement. “This one records whether the bet was a win or a loss. There’s also another code. I think it’s supposed to identify the name of the collector, but I can’t see a translation anywhere. If I’m right, there are a bunch of collectors.”

  Lauren ran clean water from the faucet into the mug and swirled it around. They were uncovering some important evidence, no doubt about that, but what could they do with it? They certainly couldn’t call Detective Gaines. From what Brent said, he was in as deeply as the deceptively plain-looking collector, Jarrell.

  Her thoughts circled back to David. Was he somehow connected with all this? Earlier, when his malicious glare from the back row of the conference room had set her nerves on edge, she would have said yes without a second thought. But now, after she had time to consider the circumstances, she couldn’t see how.