WES’S PHONE RANG, BRINGING HIM BACK TO the here and now. He pushed himself up off the ground next to Mandy’s grave and pulled his cell out. It was Anna.
“We can call off the dogs,” she said.
“You found him?”
“Not exactly. But Dori saw him this morning. Said he was heading up to Mount Whitney for the day with some friends he’d met.”
“Thank God,” Wes said, relief washing over him. “Where are you?”
“We’re back at the hotel.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
As he drove away from the cemetery, he passed a sedan pulled to the side of the road. Thinking someone might have broken down, he slowed, but it appeared to be empty, and he didn’t see anyone around. He also didn’t remember it being there before, but of course his focus had been on other things. Tony. Mandy.
The past.
Half a minute later, he’d forgotten all about it.
LARS SPENT THE REST OF SUNDAY AFTERNOON in his office on the base. No one else was in, so he was completely undisturbed.
He was a party to the events that had taken the life of an F-18 pilot. He’d written the protocols per the commander’s instructions. These were the procedures the pilot was to follow as he used the system that had been specially installed on the aircraft. They’d been organized in a way that, if followed, everything would go fine. But two sequences had been left out, ones that would have made sense given the nature of the test flight. Lars had known it was a problem at the time, but with the commander’s assurances, he’d convinced himself that everything would be fine.
But everything had not been fine. Most pilots would have stuck to the protocols and followed orders. But not this pilot. For some reason, Adair had decided on his own to test the missing sequences. And, predictably, the plane had gone down, and a naval officer was dead.
Those damn protocols. If only he had listened to his instincts and refused to issue them. If he had, he wouldn’t be caught in a cover-up, ordered to do whatever it took to keep a friend quiet, just to keep his naval career from imploding and avoid spending the rest of his life in prison.
He could hear the distant echo of a voice in his head. Wes’s.
No, not quite Wes’s. It was a combo of Wes and Wes’s dad.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do—
He shut it off. He didn’t want to hear it.
Pulling his computer keyboard forward, he hit the space bar and woke up the screen. He brought up the website for the High Desert Tribune and searched for all articles pertaining to the crash. There were two more, both follow-ups to the original article. Nothing he didn’t already know. A wider Web search revealed that several national outlets had picked up on the initial crash story, but there had been nothing new since. If Wes had plans on leaking what he had to the media, he hadn’t done so yet.
Lars took a moment to think about what to do next, then logged on to the China Lake operations system, and used his clearance to access personnel records. In the search section, he typed in “Adair, Lawrence” then hit Find.
The name came up, but when Lars tried clicking on the link that should have taken him to the pilot’s personnel file, nothing happened.
He reloaded the page in case there’d been an error, but the result was the same.
He was just about to switch over to the Pentagon site when his desk phone rang.
“Lieutenant Commander Andersen,” he said.
“Sir, this is Lieutenant Tyler,” a woman on the other end said. “We’ve just received a notification that someone has tried to access restricted information from your computer.”
“Who is we, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Cyber Command, sir,” she said. “Are you attempting to access information concerning a Lieutenant Adair?”
Cyber Command? “Yes, I am. What’s the problem?”
“May I ask, sir, why?”
“I’m working with Commander Forman,” Lars told her. “The investigation into last week’s crash.”
He heard computer keys clacking, followed by a short pause.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but you’re not on the list of those with approved access.”
“Lieutenant, I’m on special assignment for Commander Forman. I’m sure he has access. Call him. He’ll confirm I should be allowed to view the file.”
“Please hold the line.”
Click.
Lars rubbed his fingers across his chin. Okay, yes, restricting Lieutenant Adair’s file made sense. It was standard during an investigation. But what was with the heavy-handed response?
The line clicked again.
“Thank you for your time, Lieutenant Commander.”
Before Lars could respond, the woman hung up.
He set the handset back in its cradle. What the hell was that all about? Did he have access or not?
Before he’d even removed his hand, the phone rang again. He jerked in surprise, then picked it up.
“Lieutenant Commander Andersen.”
“Lars, I just got a call from Cyber Command.” It was Commander Forman. “I understand you’ve been trying to look at Lieutenant Adair’s personnel file.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that it was restricted.”
“Why do you need to look at it?”
Lars’s mind kicked into overdrive. “I was looking for the reference to Adair’s distinguishing marks.”
The commander remained silent for several seconds. “Why would you need to do that?”
“Thought if I could print that out and show it to Wes, it would confirm what he’d seen this morning with Dr. Handler and Lieutenant Truax. Lieutenant Adair had a scar on his—”
“I’d rather not show classified documents to civilians, if you don’t mind,” the commander said, cutting him off. “Find some other way of convincing him.”
“Okay, sir,” Lars said. “If that’s what you’d like.”
“That’s what I’d like. I’ll inform Cyber Command that it was a misunderstanding.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
Lars hung up and stared at the phone for a moment. There was definitely something weird going on.
He looked down at the piece of paper on the desk.
Lieutenant Lawrence Adair.
He ripped it from the pad and stuck it in his pocket. He knew he couldn’t find what he was looking for in his office, so he headed out to his car.
His first stop was the temporary offices that had been set up as investigation central for the crash. He feared that Forman might have dropped in, but the commander wasn’t there. Only a skeleton crew of two lieutenants and a few enlisted men were present.
“Lieutenant Commander,” one of the lieutenants said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’d like to see the most up-to-date reports, please.”
“Of course. One moment, sir.”
The lieutenant retrieved a file from a locked cabinet and gave it to Lars.
“Thank you.” Lars took it into an empty office and shut the door.
The file should have contained any ancillary reports, whether preliminary or final, plus a draft of the overall status. But several of the items he knew should be there weren’t. Including a copy of Adair’s personnel record.
He tapped his index finger against the table absently as he worked through what he should do next. After a few moments he started a final pass of the report, then stopped when he noticed the signature at the bottom of the report on the DNA results. It was an approval signature. His signature.
Only he had never signed that report. He carefully scanned the others to see if his name appeared elsewhere, but this was the only place.
Why was his signature on the DNA report? And what about the reports that weren’t here? Was his signature on them, too?
A chill ran through him. He was already in neck deep because of the protocols, but it seemed that wasn’t enough. Commander Forman was making sure a big, fat arrow was poi
nting right at Lars.
He stared at a blank spot on the desk, paralyzed. He had to do something, but what?
He sat there for nearly ten minutes, his mind churning. Finally, he knew what he had to do.
With a deep breath, he closed the folder, and exited the office.
“I’LL GRAB SOME CLOTHES FOR TOMORROW and be over in a few minutes,” Anna said.
They’d just returned to the motel from dinner.
“Don’t be too long,” Wes said.
“Or what?”
“Or I might be the one who’s asleep.”
Smirking, she shook her head. “Should have taken that nap with me.”
While Anna went for her things, Wes let himself into his room.
The red light on the phone was lit. He made a quick stop in the bathroom, then retrieved the message.
“Wes, it’s Lars. I’ll … uh … I’ll call back.”
Wes stabbed a finger at the number three button, erasing the message. He then turned on the TV and climbed onto the bed. As he pulled out one of the pillows to put behind his back, he realized there was something stuck to the cloth case.
It was a neatly folded piece of newsprint, safety-pinned to the pillow’s cover.
Reluctantly he undid the pin and opened the paper.
Most of the page was the remnants of an article about school board elections. But whoever had left it had conveniently circled a smaller, one-column article in black ink.
BHS STUDENT DIES AT HOME
Ridgecrest emergency services were called to the home of the Johansson family on Rancho Street yesterday afternoon. Inside, they found a young woman in cardiac arrest. According to Fire Department liaison Lisbeth Klausen, EMTs immediately began lifesaving procedures, but their efforts proved unsuccessful.
A family spokesman indentified the woman as Amanda Johansson, 17-year-old daughter of Dean and Lauraine Johansson, and a senior at Burroughs High School. It is believed Miss Johansson was home alone at the time.
Wes could feel tears welling in his eyes. Two short paragraphs announcing her death were all that Mandy got.
It was so stark. So impersonal.
He wiped his eyes, then threw back the bedspread to make sure there was nothing else underneath. All he found were sheets.
A knock on the door startled him. He pulled the spread back onto the bed, then went to see who it was.
Anna was there, but she wasn’t alone. Behind her were Detectives Stevens and Andrews.
“What’s … up?” Wes said.
“Sorry to bother you so late on a Sunday evening, Mr. Stewart,” Stevens said.
“Did you find my stuff?”
“I wish that’s why we were here.”
When Stevens didn’t elaborate, Wes said, “Then what is it?”
“We’d like you to come down to the station with us.” Stevens smiled without warmth. “We have something we want to show you.”
“You can’t tell me what it is here?”
“Easier if you come with us.”
Andrews pointed at a sedan in the lot. “Our car’s right over there.”
DETECTIVE STEVENS LED WES INTO A SMALL, windowless office and motioned for him to take a seat in front of the desk. Andrews grabbed the other guest chair.
“We apologize for having to bring you all the way down here,” Stevens said.
“So what did you want to show me?”
“It’s actually more to listen to than show. I’m sure you’re familiar with anonymous tip lines?”
“Uh … sure.”
“We may be a small force but we have one, too. Most of the tips turn out to be nothing. You know, angry neighbor stuff, or someone just trying to mess around with us. I’ll be honest with you, we probably write off ninety percent of them the moment we hear them.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with me?” Wes asked.
“We received another call a little over an hour ago. Probably would have dismissed it, too, but, well … Can I play it for you?”
“That’s why we’re here, right?”
Stevens answered with a nod, then turned to his computer. “All right. Here we go.”
An initial hiss was followed by an electronic time stamp, then a moment of dead air. “There is a man staying at the Desert Rose Motel named Wesley Stewart. He has information about a crime that happened when he used to live here. You should talk to him.” A couple of clicks, then the speaker went silent.
The voice had been muffled. Monotone. No telling if it was male or female.
Stevens looked at Wes. “So what do you think?”
Wes tried to look confused but unfazed. “What do I think?”
Andrews chuckled. “Pretty crazy, huh?”
“More bizarre than anything else.”
“Any idea what it could mean?” Stevens asked.
Wes shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest. Do you?”
“What about the voice? Do you recognize it?”
“No. It could be anyone.”
“It mentioned you left town a long time ago,” Andrews said. “Is that true?”
“Yeah … I grew up here.”
“Right.” Andrews pulled out a notebook. “Grew up on base, right? Navy brat?”
“Yeah.”
“When did you leave?”
Wes narrowed his eyes. “A long time ago. When I was a teenager.”
“How long?”
Wes hesitated a second. “Seventeen years.”
“Wanted to get out of here as quick as you could, huh? Go start your career in Hollywood?”
“Something like that.”
Stevens asked, “So if you’ve been gone so long, why do you think someone would have called and said all that?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Wes replied. “Whoever left that must be pulling a prank on you.”
Andrews smiled. “I had the same thought, didn’t I, Stevens?”
“You did,” Stevens said.
“I mean, really, it’s kind of random. Maybe we should ask you about all our cold cases and see what you might have had to do with them.” Andrews looked at Wes again. “Of course, you have had a lot of things happening around you this weekend.”
Wes cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
“Come on. This isn’t the first time we’ve spoken since you came back to town. In fact it’s not even the second. So I guess we’re wondering why, if you lived here all those years ago, and are just in town to shoot an episode of …,” he flipped through his notebook, “Close to Home, an anonymous caller would use your name?”
“And I’m supposed to know the answer?” Wes said.
“We were hoping,” Stevens said.
Wes shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they saw my name in the paper the other day, and thought it would be fun to screw around with an out-of-towner.”
“Your name was in the paper?” Stevens asked.
Wes looked at Stevens, then at Andrews. Both detectives stared blankly back.
“The F-18 crash?” he said. “I was the first one on scene?”
“That’s right,” Stevens said. “I do remember reading that now.”
“Some jerk probably just went, ‘Eenie, meenie, miney, moe,’ and picked my name out of the article.”
“Perhaps,” Stevens said.
The two detectives shared another look, then Andrews said, “Two break-ins, an apparent car chase, a missing person, and now this? I don’t have a good feeling about you.”
Wes leaned forward. “Are you implying I might be responsible for any of those things?”
“We’re not implying anything,” Andrews said.
“My involvement in the break-ins and the chase were either as the victim or the friend of the victim, nothing more. And this message you received? It’s garbage.” Wes stood up. “So if there’s nothing else, I’m going back to my motel.”
Stevens appeared to be lost in thought for a moment, then he nodded and said, “I’m sorry we troubled you.”
Wes got the distinct feeling neither of the detectives was particularly sorry, but he refrained from saying as much, and turned to leave. “Excuse me,” he said to the still-sitting Andrews.
“You’ll need a ride back, Mr. Stewart,” Andrews said.
“I think I’ll walk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Andrews insisted, rising to his feet. “I’ll drive you.”
Wes started to protest, but stopped. Walking back would take him at least twenty minutes, while the ride would only last three. “Fine.”
They rode in silence. The only time the detective said anything was when Wes got out of the car at the Desert Rose. “Stay out of trouble, Mr. Stewart.”
Wes shut the door without replying. As the police car disappeared, so did the anger that had been masking the feeling of nausea he’d had since he’d heard the message in Stevens’s office.
The anonymous tip had definitely not been a prank.
ANNA THREW HER ARMS AROUND HIM AS HE walked through the door. “What did they want?”
“It was a joke,” Wes said.
Her face scrunched together. “Joke?”
“Well … not so much a joke.” He told her about the anonymous tip.
“That’s just weird,” she said.
“No kidding.”
“Couldn’t the police have asked you about it here?”
“They wanted me to hear it. They were hoping I could identify the caller.”
“Could you?”
He shook his head. “No. Whoever it was disguised their voice.”
“What did the police say?”
Wes hesitated, then decided to tell her about Andrews’s insinuation that he might be involved with the other crimes.
She stared at him dumbfounded. “You’re leaving out the punch line, right?”
“I wish I was.”
“That’s stupid. You didn’t have any—”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “I know. But it doesn’t matter. Right now I just want to take a shower and crawl into bed.”
He went into the bathroom and began to take his shirt off.
“Lars called,” Anna said. She was standing in the doorway.
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