The Good Life

A bank customer service agent and analyst has been stealing credit card numbers and selling them to the highest bidder until someone gets greedy, some get hurt, someone gets murdered.

The Good Life

By

    Elliott Laurence

The argument is at a boiling point�"Carter wants more money for his role in the con. By the time Kamila realizes her car is across the double yellow line, they are deep in the curve and it is too late to return to their side of the road without suffering some dire consequences. The eighteen wheeler’s headlights, on bright, fill the interior of the car, blinding them, the blare of the horn swallows them through the length of the curve and beyond.

Kamila applies the brakes and snaps the steering wheel to the right. At sixty-four miles per hour in a forty-five mile per hour zone, she quickly reaches the grass on her side of the road, still damp from the previous day’s thunderstorms. She continues to slide shredding grass, kicking up sticks, pine-straw, rock salt and red weeds until their final stop into a tree.

A Day Later…

Darren stood up off the love seat and released Kamila’s hand; frustrated she was showing no signs of consciousness. The hospital room, he felt, could use some sun to lighten the mood�"he walked the handful of steps to the window and opened the blinds. Previous incidents had Kamila pay a fine or do community service and all was forgiven. But this time, he knew donning the yellow vest of the department-of-corrections and picking up trash in ninety degree heat for ninety days and a $500 to $1000 payment to the court wouldn’t allow her to drive off into the sunset and back to weekends on the lake, or spur-of-the moment road trips to unknown destinations with him and friends.

  “You say you like to live life to the fullest, but when the drugs, the drinking, the partying, no sleep are over done…” Darren runs his hand down his face as if to wipe the pain away. “…I have no...answers…I feel it will be the last time I...look into those eyes…that trip to...Malta, we’ll never...”

His thoughts like a rushing river come so fast he can make no order of them: Can we reach its banks in time; not drown in this deluge, he thinks. I fear this time we’ve missed the cutoff point. Unless you wake up and tell me what happened last night we’re going over the falls. How far we fall--God only knows. “Keep talking to her,” the nurse and doctor say interrupting Darren’s desire to order his thoughts.

“To work all day and party all weekend is your prerogative, but there’s no food in the fridge. Breakfast: vodka and a cigarette. At worst it was the cold pizza you used to push on me. And the orange juice you stock in the fridge; where is it? Use to you would mix a little with the Smirnoff, now it’s two or three full glasses, straight, no chaser.  Sangria you blow through like pop. Gatorade, fruit smoothie, Red Bull, water… a distant memory.”

Darren doesn’t notice, but the doctor looks at the nurse and cringes, Kamila’s liver and kidneys’ his concern. The nurse nods an assuring ‘yes’ insuring the doctor of no alcohol poisoning. 

The incident at Kami’s condo play so vividly in his mind it’s difficult to separate imagination from reality. His high heart rate--worry for Kamila’s condition�"continues, beads of sweat cause his brown skin to glisten. His eyes, bloodshot. At the window he looks out over the town. The Amtrak train in the distance picks up speed as it crosses the bridge. Tracks next to a two lane highway. The bridge they would use on their drive downstate to the boardwalk amusement park; before all…this.

 “The condo complex is quiet,” Darren continues “as you’re well aware being a Saturday morning.  I’m walking to your door, the ambulance arrives the moment after the blue Dodge�"Charger; black tinted windows. Blue lights flash in the grill, plus the front and rear windshield�"detectives. “There you are lying in the doorway, your place�"tossed: couch cushions, mail, miscellaneous papers, your cellphone strewn up the hallway. Somebody in desperate need to find…What? We do well by our…associates, right? My blood runs more cold than it had become due to being bathed in flashing blue with red lights.”

“Something had urged me to sprint to your door�"make sure the medics weren’t there for you.  The detective driving jumps out. He glances my way as he runs the walkway to your door. He finds you the moment before I do. Your phone. Ringing. Tells me to answer it let him know who’s calling. His partner is walking slowly up the right half of the steps at the middle distance of the walkway, I can feel her peering at me through those wraparound mirror shades, hand near her gun.”

 “The EMT’s? She knows they’re coming up beside her. But you wouldn’t know it to look at her. ‘On your left’ one EMT says. More out of routine, I believe. She’s not in the way. Focused? Yes. Slowly making her way. Finger tips only on an unlocked holster and weapon; the windows, the gathering crowd, the corner of the condo, no doubt, already scoped. Her partner’s back? Covered; she is coiled, yet relaxed, ready to strike. What kind of response would my mad sprint to your door have had? 

“The analysts at the job, frantic. They plead, where’s Kamila? Or Kami; they prefer? She’s missed a lot of work,” they say. “We need to make sure she doesn’t get fired.”

 “Kamila, your boss says if your not in by noon you’re done. That’s it for that job. I doubt Dr. Benjamin will be signing any release papers today. If he did, would you be in any condition to actually do anything? Why am I asking you? You never listen to a word I say,” he says turning away from the window.

“Kamila, what is with you? You led me to believe those days you took off were use it or lose vacation. And then there’s the detectives, why would they show up with the ambulance at your place? And why does it seem they…know you?”

Darren notices two figures in the hospital room doorway. The few rays of sun shining through the window reflect off the sleeve of Detective Bram Kulp’s black leather jacket and brown skin. Detective Anna Ramirez shifts her shades to the top of her head, revealing hypnotic hazel eyes; they reveal their badges simultaneously.

“Nurse St. Sarai. Doctor…Benjamin, is it?” asks Det. Ramirez checking her notes. We’ve come to speak with Ms. Kamila Patric.”

“Hello again, detectives,” nurse St. Sarai replies. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, but considering Ms. Patric is still unconscious, I have to say your efforts won’t fare any better than Mr. Dunn, her fiancée, I think he said he is.”

“Yes. We’re aware of Mr. Dunn as well,” replies Det. Ramirez. “We have some added questions for him.”

“Can’t we do this another time detectives?” asks Darren. “I’m not at a place where I could give you any useful information. I’m hoping for a breakthrough with Kamila. Doc says some stimulating conversation could keep her from slipping into a coma.”

“Trust us, Mr. Dunn. What’s going on with Ms. Patric will have as much to do with your well-being the next twenty-four hours, as it does hers,” Det. Kulp replies as he slides his phone from its holder on his hip.

“Officer…?”

“Kulp.”

“Officer Kulp, no way it’s so bad it can’t wait another hour or so ‘til we know if Kamila will last the morning. Could you please explain it to ‘em doc?” says Darren moving away from the window, stretching his arms toward Kamila, walking over to the white chalkboard nurse St. Sarai is writing on and Dr. Benjamin is standing next to returning the text of a colleague. “EMT said, ‘she’s got a uh--bruised, maybe fractured sternum, broken hand, head trauma, other…stuff.

“Ocean Mutual Bank, Mr. Dunn, is yours, as well as, Kamila’s employer,” says Det. Ramirez.

“Yes,” answers Darren shaking his head at Ramirez’s persistence.

“Mr. Dunn, our murder investigation, in which your fiancée is involved, has led us to a friend of Kamila. Your familiar with Carter West?” Asks Officer Kulp holding up his phone. Bright clouds stand out against a light blue sky with twenty plus people standing behind a table decked with yellow balloons. Grilled cod is on the table, along with breaded butterfly shrimp, a large crystal bowl full of fruit salad sits next to a large rectangle cake with chocolate frosting and frosted yellow lettering that reads ‘Continued Blessings Brewton’. A handful of lit candles stand around the edge of the cake like torches on a castle. “Carter is in the second row, white male, burgundy polo, tan pants, black hair, blue eyes, six feet four inches tall. And that’s you in the left of the picture, yes?”

“Yes, but I don’t know this West guy,” replies Darren.

“Interesting…Mr. Dunn, Kamila was brought in for questioning, suspected of taking the credit card numbers of Ocean Mutual customers, creating fake cards and then selling them. We know that you didn’t sell the information, but Kamila informed us you wrote the program that identified those with more than five thousand dollars of credit and less than ten thousand. And why less than ten thousand, Mr. Dunn?” asks Ramirez. Darren looks toward the window, shakes his head, looks back toward Ramirez and Kulp.

“Because any transaction ten thousand dollars or more will get the attention of the IRS,” replies Darren...Can I have another ten minutes with Kamila before I spend the next three years in prison?” asks Darren. “Can I get that much?”

“You can have and will do more than that. Our focus is on Carter West, Kamila, and their buyers. If you didn’t recognize from the injuries her EMTs spoke of, and our nurse and doctor haven’t informed you, Kamila was in a car accident. Every indication shows that she was driving. There’s also indications she had a passenger. We believe the passenger was Carter West, and that he and Kamila were arguing; she was distracted and lost control of the car.” Det. Kulp taps his phone and the picture of a 2014 champagne Chevy Malibu with front end damage appears on screen. He taps the screen a couple more times revealing pictures of skid marks�"dashed lines beginning on the opposite side of the pavement leading to and through the grass up to the spot her car hit a tree on Stone Mountain-Lithonia Road.”

Another picture slides into view. Debris from the front end was scattered around the tree. The next and last photo showed the Malibu, abandoned, at a parking lot, up the street from Stone Mountain Park’s entrance; its fluid still draining from the collision. 

“If the accident caused all, this?” asks Darren waving his hand over Kamila as if he were a priest who forgot how to make the sign of the cross. “How did she end up in the doorway of the condo?”

“Her car was damaged, but not to the point it couldn’t be driven. There was alcohol on her breath so we’re getting confirmation if she went to the club, stayed a while and met Carter. Or she went home after work had some drinks then met him. We believe,” says Detective Ramirez scrolling up the notes on her smartphone. “Carter was also injured, but not to the extent of Kamila. And that he drove her home in the morning hours between five and seven, called 911 from her phone which...”

“Which was found lying next to her right hand, the broken one,” states Darren.

“Exactly,” say detectives.

“Why bring her home? Asks Darren. “Why not leave her? And to call 911…he’s trying to get…caught.”

“Detective Ramirez taps her phone…holds it up for Darren, Nurse St. Sarai and Dr. Benjamin to see. A picture of Kamila and Carter wrapped in each other’s arms smiling from ear to ear in front of a fountain. “This is in Rome, Italy in front of the Trevi Fountain. We believe this to be about four to five months ago.” With them still looking at the picture, she uses her right-hand forefinger to tap the screen.

The next picture scrolls into view. “This is them in San Marco Square, Venice, Italy a day or two later.” The caramel highlights in Kamila’s brown hair match her caramel skin. Kamila stands in the middle of the square arms stretched wide, slight breeze blowing her hair over part of her face. The pyramid of the bell tower sits within the full moon in its background. The only thing that can compete with her smile, the Cathedral of St. Mark, lit up, beside the Campanile.

Kulp’s phone rings. He answers while Ramirez continues to show Darren pictures and explain to him Kamila’s involvement in their investigation. Another picture slides into view. “This is Kamila and Carter having lunch outside at a café in Tuscany, the La Dolce Vita--the good life, no doubt--with two other people, a man and a woman, exchanging information. Most likely the stolen card numbers.”

“The other two people at the café with Kamila and Carter�"have any idea who they are?” asks Kulp. All the information Kamila has offered up concerning her buyer is a dead end. So either’s she’s lying or she was lied to.”

“No…no idea who they might be,” says Darren. 

The doctor and the nurse finished up and left the room moments ago. Ramirez and Kulp stare at Darren for a moment�"it seems like a lifetime.

“It’s the truth,” he says. “I’ve never seen or met those people.”

“No problem,” states Ramirez. Because you’re going to gather another 350�"400 hundred credit card numbers to sell. We’re going to announce you as the one who was in the accident with Kamila, left the scene of the crime and abandoned the car. You’re going to go on the run, as far as the media and anyone else is concerned�"but you’ll be with us. Safehouse. Then you contact Carter and set up a meeting with the buyer. Your story? You need to make some money to stay ahead of the police. They don’t necessarily have to be these two, because they likely work in groups. If they’re not part of the same group, it still gives us a place to start.”

“Granted your plan puts Carter at ease…,” says Darren. “I have no way of contacting him. Carter doesn’t work at Ocean Mutual. He simply appears out of thin air when it’s time to execute the final phase. Kamila is his contact.”

“Thought you weren’t familiar with Mr. West.” Darren gives no answer. “More and more we’re coming to the conclusion that eye candy West wants a bigger role in the game�"he wants to be MVP,” says Kulp. “Kamila simply likes him to be the front for the show. A happy couple on vacation...honeymoon. She’s also taught him enough so it seems he’s running the operation, for those times they come across men�"as well as women--who will not do business with a woman. When in fact she is the iron, the hustle, the charm. Carter doubles as the muscle. You write and speak computer. And she speaks Spanish, Chinese, Russian and exchange rates.” Darren walks away from Ramirez and Kulp to the other side of Kamila’s bed…takes his seat back on the tan loveseat. 

“I...know…at least I thought I… She can read and speak some Spanish, but nothing, fluent,” replies Darren rubbing the tension from his neck and back; his eyes red and glossed over as he looks up at the detectives. “Detectives, I don’t have the stomach for this face to face negotiating with sociopaths, that’s more Kamila’s specialty.”

“You’ll do fine,” states Ramirez. “since you have so much in common. We don’t have enough evidence as of yet, but together we are going to find out who exactly are these...sociopaths, that stole from and then executed one of the names on a list you provided; a list which makes you, Mr. Dunn, an accessory. And the ten minutes you requested with Kamila are up. Let’s go.”