Without Measure: A Jack Widow Thriller

by Scott Blade

  I asked, “What time is it?”

  Romey looked at her watch again, more out of habit I guessed because she had only just looked at it. She said, “It’s nearly twenty hundred.”

  “Call the locals first. They’ll get here faster. They can wait for your guys. Then you can take me to the base.”

  Romey didn’t respond. She just got inside the Mustang and started to make her calls. I stood outside the car for a moment. I stared up at the clouds. The nighttime chill stormed across my shoulders and neck.

  I started to think that if they’d never found Fatima’s body, she was probably still alive. But what would they be doing with her?

  The answers to that question entered my mind and I began to get angry, which was good because I didn’t want to think about how exhausted I was.

  CHAPTER 33

  ROMEY MADE HER CALLS and we waited for the local cops. First a couple of patrolmen showed up in two Ford Crown Vics. They were professional with Romey during the first part of the conversation. But when she told them we had to leave, they quickly fast-forwarded through professional courtesy and impatience straight to hostility. At which point, they were giving her grief about jurisdiction and what she was doing inside the house in the first place. That gave her a problem and I had been so clumsy that I hadn’t even thought of it or a way out of it. Then again, I doubted that she’d lie to them anyway.

  Instead, of answering that question, she ignored it. She cited a bunch of military statutes and then she informed them of federal ones as well. She argued about how she had every right to be there and to leave. She argued that technically it was just as much her crime scene as theirs. According to statute so and so, the military was in the right. She had told them.

  She was impressive and totally bullshitting. But I said nothing about it. I was on her side.

  In the civilian world, a tough female cop might’ve been just about equal to a tough male cop. No question. But in the end, a tough female Marine outranks a pair of tough male patrolmen any day.

  Romey got in the car and said, “Buckle up.”

  Which I guessed was her way of saying we were about to drive away—fast.

  CHAPTER 34

  ROMEY GOT US OUT of the subdivision and back to the base in less than twenty minutes, which was impressive. The crowd outside the base didn’t seem to care as much about us reentering as they had when we left. I guessed that was because the White House had already given a statement and called the base shooting possibly an act of terror. I hadn’t seen the broadcast. I didn’t know what they called it. I’m sure they would’ve condemned it and used strong language, probably the word terrorism, but then again, I wouldn’t bank on it. Missteps in White House language have led to more mistaken conflicts than almost anything.

  We returned through the gate and saw Kelly and two more military police cars behind him.

  Romey stopped on her side of the road and Kelly stopped on the way out. They talked through opened windows.

  Kelly asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the station.”

  “What about the Warrens?”

  Romey said, “The local cops are there now.”

  “Aren’t we keeping this all in-house?”

  “It’s too late for that. We’d have to cooperate with them anyway.”

  Kelly asked, “We didn’t have to at Turik’s house?”

  “We didn’t find any dead bodies at Turik’s house.”

  Kelly didn’t answer that.

  Romey said, “Go by Turik’s first and get me a photo of Mrs. Turik. Send the rest of the guys over to the Warrens’ place. Try not to step on the locals’ toes.”

  Kelly nodded and looked straight ahead for a moment; then he looked back at Romey. He asked, “You really think that Turik’s innocent?”

  “It looks that way. Looks like forced coercion. Probably.”

  Kelly said, “Even if it’s true, he still knew about their plans. He still helped.”

  Romey said, “We don’t know that for sure.”

  I said to Romey, “Let’s go.”

  She said, “Get over there, Kelly. I need that photo.”

  Romey buzzed her window up and we drove off.

  We took the same turns and stopped at all the same stops as before. I said, “You know he’s not totally wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “Turik isn’t completely innocent. Maybe he didn’t know that they were trying to murder Carl and maybe he did. We may never know that.”

  “As far as I can tell he was forced to help.”

  I said, “That doesn’t make it right. And he killed himself. Not sure if they asked him to do that or he did it out of guilt.”

  Romey said, “Maybe he thought we’d blame him. If it was his gun.”

  “Was it his M45?”

  She nodded and said, “Ballistics confirmed it was.”

  “That’s just more evidence that he’s a little guilty.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Cause I saw him with his M45. This morning. Remember? It was holstered at his side. That means that sometime after I saw him and after he entered Carl’s office, they took it from him.”

  Romey pulled the police Mustang into the lot to the police station and parked in her space. She shut off the ignition and opened her door and got out. I followed her up through the doors and back into the station that I had been in only this morning.

  Romey said, “We don’t know the M45 that you saw was his. We only know that his was used to kill Carl.”

  I said, “It was his.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That’s not an easy weapon to come by.”

  She nodded and led me back down the three open rooms that they were using as different departments.

  I said, “How come you guys have such a big department here?”

  “Big?”

  “Yeah. You got some state-of-the-art equipment here and a lot of manpower for such a small base.”

  Romey said, “As you know, this is a training base. Among the things we train are cops. We handle a lot of the forensics, information hunting, and analysis for the whole state.”

  I nodded. That made sense. The Marine Corps was like the rest of the military and the government for that matter. They liked to compartmentalize and specialize things to one location. More efficiency.

  I said, “Where are the secret service agents?”

  “I don’t see them.”

  Romey stopped in the second area and we headed to the right. She walked over to a small door that I hadn’t even noticed before and pulled it open. It led into an echoing stairwell. It was all concrete and steel, like a fire escape stairwell.

  It looked newly constructed.

  She said, “Come on.”

  I nodded and followed her. We walked upstairs to the second floor. I looked up the shaft and saw that the stairs ended on the third floor, which I figured must’ve been roof access.

  I said, “I didn’t even know that this building had a second floor.”

  “It doesn’t look it from the outside. We have no windows. It makes it feel more like a bunker than a police station.”

  “More like a prison to me.”

  She held the door open for me and smiled.

  I stepped through the door and realized why she was smiling.

  The second floor was smaller than the first floor. It looked to be about half the length. The walls were concrete, no coverings to make it even look like an office building. The reason for the barebones look was because on the main passage, to the right, were jail cells. Two of them.

  “This is a jail?”

  Romey said, “It’s just two holding cells. Which we hardly ever have need of, but we must have them. One of our features in this remote mountain location is that from time to time, we hold prisoners who are being transported. We also function as a stop between here, Camp Pendleton, and wherever. Marine bases have these all over.”

  I nodded.

&
nbsp; She said, “My office is also on this floor.”

  I followed Romey past the cells to another door. She opened it and on the other side I saw a couple of empty desks and one that had a man seated in it. He was a desk Sergeant. His nametape read: McKlee.

  McKlee stood up and saluted her as she walked in. Romey waved him to sit back down and asked, “You’re still working?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Cut the formalities. This is Jack Widow.”

  McKee stayed seated, but offered his hand for a handshake, which I took. I said nothing.

  Romey said, “Where are our special guests?”

  “They requested a couple of rooms for the night. We have them staying in Harriton.”

  Harriton must’ve been the name of one of the dorm buildings that I saw on the way in.

  Romey asked, “Did you have the floor cleared out?”

  “Of course, the guy from State insisted.”

  Romey said, “Call down to Gibson. Find out if she got me anything on Good Measure yet.”

  McKee said, “Do you want your messages?”

  “Save them. Before you call Gibson, call over to the State guy and tell him we’re coming over to talk to the agents.”

  McKee said, “They said they were going to call it a night.”

  Romey looked at her watch and said, “It’s quarter to nine. They’re not asleep. Just call them.”

  McKee said, “They said it like they didn’t want to be bothered. Not like literally.”

  “Just do it.”

  McKee nodded.

  I smiled. The order of command and the way business is done all came screaming back at me from the past. Luckily, I’d never had an office. At least I’d never been to it, if I had one. I had always been more of a guy-in-the-field type. I didn’t understand people who worked behind I desk. I guess it all made sense to them, like those were their jobs. They chose desk jobs. It was part of their careers and someone had to keep up with paperwork. I just wasn’t the paperwork type.

  Romey said, “Let’s go in for a minute first.”

  I nodded.

  She stopped at her office door, reached into her jacket pocket, and took out her keys. She unlocked the door and we walked in.

  Romey’s office was just like I pictured it the moment before we walked in. I saw the reverse side of an open laptop sitting on a desk. Behind the desk were neat cabinets, hung wall photographs, diplomas and military certificates of appreciation and recognition. All signed by commanding officers. All proudly displayed, but not overexposed like she was trying to overcompensate for something. It was all pretty standard for a high-ranking officer. I had seen it all before. And I’d probably see it again.

  The thing I did notice was how clean her office was. Military life held high standards of cleanliness for all of its occupants, but this was something even overboard for the military. Her office wasn’t just clean; it was immaculate. If cleanliness was next to Godliness, then Romey was trying to start her own religion. Not that I’d mind joining.

  Inside she didn’t request that I sit down across from her, but she did sit at her own chair. She started typing on her laptop, logging in I guessed. I didn’t watch her use her password, but I wondered if it was the same Boston81 password that she had used on the tablet earlier.

  She looked up at me and said, “Hopefully, we can get something on Good Measure. If you’re right, we’ll find it.”

  I shrugged.

  She went onto her laptop like she was checking email. I sat down and waited, which took me back decades to when I was a child waiting in my mother’s office. She had been a small-town sheriff. She was murdered. I didn’t want to think about that so I changed the subject in my mind.

  I said, “Romey, let me use your phone?”

  She looked up at me and started to speak, like she was going to ask me why or object. I figured that she had a thing about personal space and letting a total stranger use her phone, but she said nothing. She leaned back in her chair and pulled her phone out of her pocket. She handed it to me.

  I asked, “Is there a passcode?”

  “No. I use it too much to lock it.”

  I nodded. I took the phone and stared at the tiny keyboard again. I didn’t want to ask for help, just embarrassing, so I used my pinkie finger and dialed Maya’s phone number from memory. Just before I could hit the call button, the phone rang in my hand.

  Romey looked up at me. I read the name on the screen. I looked up at her and handed the phone back to her. I said, “It’s Kelly.”

  She took the phone, answered it. She said, “Kelly, what’s up?”

  I said, “Put it on speaker.”

  She nodded and said, “I’m putting you on speaker. Widow’s here.”

  She switched the BlackBerry to speakerphone and set the phone on the desktop between us.

  I heard Kelly’s voice. It was staticy. He said, “Guys. We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  Romey said, “What is it?”

  “I’m here at Turik’s house and I’ve been over the house with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t find a single picture of Fatima Turik anywhere.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “NOWHERE?” ROMEY ASKED.

  Kelly’s voice became more staticy, like he was on a radio and not a cell phone. He said, “Nowhere. I looked all over the place. I found photographs of Turik and some military pictures from Iraq, but not one photo of his wife. It’s weird.”

  I nodded.

  Romey said, “You double checked?”

  “I double, triple, and quadruple checked. There’s nothing. It’s like she doesn’t exist.”

  Romey looked at me and asked, “He’s married on file?”

  “He’s married,” I said.

  Romey shrugged.

  I asked, “Do you know anyone who knows what she looks like?”

  “I did.”

  I stayed quiet.

  She said, “General Carl knew what she looked like.”

  “He’s not going to help us. Turik didn’t have any other friends here?”

  “He was a quiet guy. He kept to himself.”

  I nodded.

  Romey said, “Kelly, just forget it. Go to the Warrens’ and help there.”

  Kelly said, “What do you want me to do there?”

  “Just help out. The locals don’t have the forensics that we’ve got. Supervise it. And be professional.”

  Kelly said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’re working on something here. I’ll call you later.” But Kelly had already hung up because the line was dead.

  Romey said, “What the hell does it mean?”

  I shrugged.

  “Did they get divorced maybe?”

  “No. I don’t think so. She must’ve been the leverage that they used against him.”

  “Why doesn’t he have any pictures of her?”

  I said, “Maybe they’re all on his phone. A lot of people don’t keep photo albums anymore.”

  “Yeah, but he would still have them in his house. He’s got other photos.”

  I didn’t respond.

  She asked, “Is it a Muslim thing? Like how they make their women cover up. Maybe they aren’t supposed to take pictures either?”

  I shook my head and said, “No. I don’t think so. I never heard of it.”

  “How are we supposed to ID her body?”

  “She’s Middle Eastern. So I guess she won’t look like anyone else from here.”

  Romey nodded.

  I said, “Give me your phone again. I was trying to call Maya. She can tell us what Fatima looked like. Maybe she’s got a picture.”

  Romey nodded and gave me the phone. I redialed Maya and waited through the ring. But I didn’t have to wait long because she answered before the second.

  “Widow?”

  “It’s me.”

  Maya said, “I have been hoping to hear from you.”

  “Are you back in San Francisco
?”

  “Yes. We are here, safe and sound.”

  “Good. I want you to stay home tonight and tomorrow too.”

  “Why? Is something happening? They’re saying he’s a murderer on TV.”

  I heard the fearfulness in her voice. I closed my eyes, pictured the terror in her eyes. I pictured her fear for her brother’s reputation, for her own reputation. More than that, I feared for her life, for Christopher’s life. Once people identified Turik as the shooter, it would only be a matter of time before someone connected Maya Harris, the famous atheist, to a Muslim and ISIS terrorist.

  I shook off this fear and said, “Just do it, okay? Keep Christopher home from school for a couple of days.”

  She asked, “Are we in danger?”

  I said, “No. Nothing like that. Better safe than sorry.”

  “So what have you found? Please tell me you found something to clear my brother.”

  “I can’t talk about it right now. We’re still investigating.”

  I heard her sigh from over the phone line. I didn’t wait for her to say anything else. I said, “Maya, I need a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t explain it right now. So don’t ask any questions, okay?”

  A long, long time ago, I learned a trick or two in dealing with witnesses, way back from the NCIS. One of those tricks was to make them feel like they were a part of our investigations. It could prove critical to the success of an operation.

  I was coaxing Maya into thinking that the success of proving her brother’s innocence could hinge on her staying quiet.

  She said, “Of course. What do you need?”

  “I need a photograph of Fatima. Do you have one?”

  Maya was silent for a long second. She said, “I think so. It’s in my email. Jimmy sent it to me once. He loved her very much.”

  Then Maya seemed to come up with her realizations about why I was asking and she asked, “You found her body? Need someone to identify her?”

  “No. No. Nothing like that. We just need a photograph of her. Can you send it to me? On this number, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll do it as soon as we get off.”

  “Good. Thank you, Maya. I gotta go now.”

  “Wait,” she said. And I waited. Maya said, “Have you made any progress?”