The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  “Jesus,” she whispered. “It makes perfect sense when you know the language.”

  “Mashburn, Ben. Tell me about him.”

  “Brad and he were buddies back before Darnell started to weird out. He started seeing things, hearing things.”

  “Darnell liked Catherine Maruyama a lot, right?”

  “Darnell had a crush on Cat. But one day he started screaming at her to, uh, fellate him. We never saw him again.”

  Novarro said: “We’ve got to keep you safe, Ben. You’re now staying with me, little brother.”

  Ben looked between his sister and me. “You think I’m part of this … this plot? That’s why someone tried to kill me?”

  Novarro looked at me for my thoughts.

  “Ben’s a target,” I said. “Maybe the last one.”

  “We better track down Maruyama as well.”

  I winced at the hours it could take to find the flight Maruyama flew out on, then the tracking job in Japan. I blew out a breath. “We’re gonna have to do it ourselves, Tasha. It can’t go through a system Escheverría seems to be watching.”

  “No Fish? He’s great at that stuff.”

  “Can’t risk it.” I thought a moment. The Meridien case was tied to the Bowers case. I pressed number one on my speed dial.

  “Yo, Cars,” Harry said. “What’s up?”

  “Things are breaking slow here, brother. But they’re breaking. Got a minute to talk?”

  38

  It took ten minutes for a PPD cruiser to pull across the street and park. Novarro let them in on the details and showed mugshots of Escheverría and his core crew. Ben fell asleep on the couch.

  Novarro’s phone trilled and she studied the screen. “Park Service,” she said, putting the phone on speaker. “Detective Tasha Novarro.”

  “Hello, Detective Novarro?” said a tentative male voice. “This is Mike Warman with the Park Rangers at Estrella.”

  “Of course. What can I do for you, Mr Warman?”

  “I’m not sure if this means anything, Detective, but there was a fire in the canyon yesterday; the call came in about six thirty in the morning. It burned almost a third of a mile toward the mouth before we cut a firebreak and stopped the damn thing.”

  “A fire? Where?”

  “At the far end, where the body was found. The Shackleton fellow.”

  Novarro shot me a look. “How did the fire start?”

  “Well, I’m not an expert on these things, but I smelled something at the head of the canyon, something pungent. Not gasoline, but more like motor oil. A heavy petroleum smell.”

  “How’s the area look?”

  “Burned over. Black. It hurts to look at.”

  “Thanks for the call, Ranger Warman. Much appreciated.”

  She rang off and stared out the kitchen window. “It could only be Ramon. He found out we’re poking around the Shackleton death scene and got antsy, thinking maybe someone left something incriminating at the scene – a handprint on a rock, a cigarette butt, who knows. So he calls for the place to be torched, just in case. The cholos go up there, splash some accelerant …” She caught herself and frowned. “Hmmmm, not working.”

  “Sounds good to me. What’s wrong?”

  “The upper canyon is a bowl and no wind gets down that far, not that there’s any breeze this time of year. They slop gasoline all over, the fumes accumulate in the bowl. The minute they light a match …”

  “An explosion,” I said, again impressed by Novarro’s analytical prowess. “They’re toast.”

  “Even if they don’t incinerate themselves, there’s smoke rolling into the sky, visible for miles. Bad news when you have to get back to the canyon mouth and disappear. Something’s missing.”

  “And why the day and not the night?”

  “That’s easy. Too hard to get back there in the dark. Plus they’d need lights on the ATVs. Too easy to see and report to the Park Service.”

  She had me. “So the muffled ATVs come in at first light, splash accelerant. That still brings up your point: Even with the wheels they’re twenty minutes from the canyon mouth. And that’s where fire teams will go in when the blaze is spotted. It’s chancy, and Ramon doesn’t do chancy.”

  Novarro’s nails clicked a rhythm on the tabletop as she thought. “Oh Ramon,” she said to herself, “you are one smart little psycho.”

  “What?”

  “Try this out: the cholos make their way to the top of the canyon and soak the area with a mixture not as volatile as gasoline or kerosene or whatever. They use, like Warman suggested, motor oil mixed with charcoal lighter, something like that. Fuels that burn readily, but don’t evaporate in minutes. They douse the canyon and haul ass.” She gave me a lifted eyebrow. “Got it yet?”

  I though it through. “You’re thinking when they’re nearly out of the canyon they make a phone call.”

  “And the guy standing on the trail high above makes sure no eyes are on him, and tosses a highway flare into the canyon. Whoosh.”

  “Ramon had his eyes on us again,” I said. “When did you file the report that mentioned going to the canyon?”

  “The next morning. Usually I write up my notes and whatnot as the last thing I do. Sometimes I go home, write them up, and send them in from there. But that was the day we drove to Tucson to brace Carazo and I was too worn to type.”

  “I think it’s time I had a little tête-à-tête with Mr Castle. Just kind of feel him out.”

  She grabbed her jacket. “Let’s go.”

  “This one’s mine,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be suave and diplomatic.”

  It was half past six and I figured that Castle might be at his home. He lived in a subdivision in West Tempe and as I approached I saw his vehicle in the driveway, a Dodge Ram pickup, and what wasn’t jet black was shiny chrome. I rang the doorbell and Castle answered a minute later, dressed in jeans and a strap tee and holding a can of Budweiser. His puzzlement at seeing me turned into amusement and he stepped out on the stoop.

  “Hey there, boy, you still in Phoenix? Don’t Florida need you?”

  “It’s a tough case, Officer Castle.” I paused for effect. “But you probably know that.”

  “I’d a thought ol’ Three-Point would have nailed it by now. There a reason you’re standing on my doorstep?”

  “I thought I’d turn to you for a little help.”

  Surprise. “Do what I can, Florida.”

  “See, there’s a problem, Officer Castle. Ramon Escheverría knows our every move. He’s wired in to the PPD.”

  A frown. “You saying he’s bought somebody?”

  “It’s the only way, amigo.”

  “Who you thinking?”

  I crossed my arms and pretended to think. “Could be anyone who has an active password to the PPD record-keeping system. Or maybe it’s someone without PPD access.”

  “Hunh-unh. They couldn’t log into the system. Plus it has safeguards.”

  “I’m thinking maybe it’s someone who doesn’t need to log in.”

  Confusion. “What … like a hacker?”

  “Not necessary. There are some folks outside the department who get copied on all materials. One seems to be you.”

  “Yeah, cuz Meridien was in MCSD’s jurisdiction. We passed the case over to PPD, but I wanted to see all of Tasha’s …” My inference finally sank in and the concentration turned to bunker eyes. “Wait, what the fuck you saying?”

  “It seems strange that you wanted Detective Novarro to send you her reports in the first place … you don’t have enough illegals to deport?”

  Not only were Castle’s eyes tightening, the muscles were, too. Including biceps like skin-upholstered cannonballs. “You better goddamn watch your mouth …”

  “Not an answer, Merle. Why did you specifically request Detective Novarro send you copies of her reports on a case involving Ramon Escheverría?”

  “Mister, you don’t know how close you are to …”

  “Again, Merle, not an
answer. Tell me about the reports. Detective Novarro thinks you wanted them to keep tied to her. I know y’all used to rock the mattress, and I also know that it ended, you being the only one clueless enough to miss the message. But maybe you wanted the reports so you could pass information on to —”

  He lasted longer than I’d expected, the punch thrown hard and fast and at my mouth. He was an iron-pounder and even blocked I felt the damn thing down to the soles of my feet. He was fast, too, and the second shot went for my belly and blew the wind from my lungs. I grabbed for the clinch, and we grunted and grabbled like a pair of wrestlers, him with a 20 lb advantage. He pushed me backwards into the truck and rocked my spine before pulling away and throwing a haymaker right that would have taken my head off if I hadn’t ducked. The momentum opened his right side to me and I laid everything into a low rib punch. He grunted and tried to wheel around to me, but I was slowed by pain.

  My next shot was a spear hand into the solar plexus. Castle gasped, staggered, grabbed at the shiny extended mirror of his truck, then went down.

  “The reports to you are over,” I said.

  “You’re … a stupid … fuck,” he said, trying to simultaneously talk and regain his breath.

  I bent over his semi-fetal form. “Here’s how it is with Novarro, Merle: Over. She’s truly not enamored of you.”

  “This ain’t … done,” he grunted as I walked away. “Not even … close.”

  39

  A tentative knock at the door.

  “Mmph?” I mumbled into Novarro’s hair, smelling of soap and lavender.

  Ben’s lowered voice: “You asked me to keep thinking about people I met at Meridien’s … people I met in groups?”

  I turned to the clock: 7.23 a.m., sun streaming golden through the curtains. My side ached from my fight with Castle. Novarro and I had discussed the incident when I returned, me thinking Castle’s flashpoint anger was over perceived insult and not the discovery of a dirty alliance. I doubted the Meat Cowboy was the leak.

  I roused Novarro for what was likely to be another long day.

  Fifteen minutes later we were in the living room with Ben, me just into khakis, sky-blue tee and cream jacket, Novarro in tight, low jeans with a black leather belt embellished with conchos and a rough-woven sleeveless linen blouse. I looked Miami, she pure Southwest. She checked the security patrol, still in place.

  “You remembered something else?” Novarro said to Ben, sucking down coffee after running cups out to the guys in the cruiser.

  Ben wore battered brown cargo shorts and a tee shirt advertising a local brewery, the comfort-with-an-arm-cast look. “There was this dude I met. He was in our group for a couple sessions, guy named Adam, I think. I didn’t care for him, he had issues.” Ben smiled. “But I guess we all did.”

  Novarro said: “Tell me about him.”

  “Skinny, regular height. Shaggy black hair. I think his eyes were brown. He was always strutting around like superior to everyone else – the Neanderthals as he called, well, about anyone not him. I took it that he was a computer whiz. But hearing anything he didn’t want to hear set him off on a tirade, or maybe a tantrum since he seemed stuck at age thirteen. Either he quit the group or Meridien didn’t think he fit. Like I said, I just saw him one or two times.”

  “Last name?”

  “I’m not sure I ever heard a last name.”

  “Think there’s anything there?” Novarro asked me.

  I pondered. “This is the first time we’ve heard the name. And he wasn’t in Darnell’s photo. Let’s stay on present track.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “I dunno, maybe we should—”

  Her cell rang and she pulled it from her pocket, hit speaker. “Larkin, our friendly CEO from DataSĀF.”

  “Could you come over here to our offices, Detective?” Larkin paused and added, “Please?”

  “Does it have to do with the Meridien files?”

  “I, uh, am wary of speaking on an unsecured line.”

  She shot me a raised-eyebrow look. “Sure, Mr Larkin. We’re on our way.”

  “What do you think this is about?” I said when she rang off.

  “Oho’no’t’odonho wa t’ndaho.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Kemo Sabe.”

  We were in the DataSĀF offices within fifteen minutes. Larkin was pacing the lobby, whispering to a dark-suited and fiftyish man with penetrating black eyes that seemed out of place in a gentle and avuncular face, his gray hair a fringe around a balded dome and longish, giving him a friarly air. Larkin looked anxious, but was polite. “Come back to my office, please.”

  We followed him to an expansive corner office, pleasantly sterile, with a wide view of Camelback Mountain in the distance. Above Camelback the sky was an aching blue. Larkin cleared his throat. “I want to apologize for my behavior on your previous visits. Sometimes I’m not good with—”

  Novarro waved his words away. “What’s happened, Mr Larkin?”

  “We know where the Meridien files went. We just don’t know why.” He nodded to the dark-suited man. “This is Malcolm Kent, a computer-security consultant and a specialist in finding breaches in systems. We flew Malcolm in from Palo Alto yesterday. He worked all night and struck gold an hour ago.”

  “Who swiped the Meridien account, Mr Kent?” Novarro asked, cutting to the chase. “Who broke in?”

  A twinkle in the green eyes. “No one did.”

  “How about you explain that?”

  Kent crossed the room and took a moment to study the distant Camelback Mountain. “Think of a castle behind four burning moats, detectives,” he said, his hands clasped behind his back. “Add a guard of fire-breathing dragons. And a phalanx of archers behind the battlements. The castle is impenetrable.” He turned. “Yet one day the king is found dead. How did the killer get in?”

  Novarro didn’t miss a beat. “He was already in. It was an inside job.”

  Kent shot a thumb-up. “I got deep into the software and discovered the Meridien files had been reviewed by a specific computer inside DataSĀF.”

  “Reviewed?” I asked.

  “Studied before destruction. DataSĀF uses a potent program to obliterate files of clients who go out of business or move to another storage facility, and that’s what was employed here. After the files were removed and the correct command given, the safeguards erased Meridien’s files from the server; the cloud.”

  “Whose computer was used to access the goods?” Novarro asked.

  “Follow me, if you will.”

  We jumped into Kent’s wake and he led us two dozen feet down the hall to another office. “That one right there,” Larkin said, pointing to a monitor and keyboard on a desk. We’d stood in this office before.

  “Candace Klebbin,” Novarro said. “The office administrator.”

  Kent nodded. “Ms Klebbin was accessing the Meridien data. Over months, it seems.”

  “It was against all rules,” Larkin growled, standing up for his company.

  “Where’s Klebbin now?” Novarro asked.

  “She hasn’t shown up since Mr Kent arrived,” Larkin said. “I wonder why.”

  “So the Meridien files are smoke,” Novarro sighed, not hiding her disappointment. “Patient names, appointment times, everything’s gone … including Klebbin.”

  A smile from Kent. “Gone from the main server. But let’s go back to my earlier analogy of the castle. Let’s say it has two hundred rooms. Most are orderly and much the same, arrayed down halls. Each holds thousands of file cabinets. But several rooms are willy-nilly, random. In high towers or low dungeons. Under stairways. Out in the stables.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Uh …” Our Mr Kent had a thing for metaphor.

  “Sorry. The main rooms hold the data of DataSĀF’s clients, large storage arenas accessible by those with a key. In this case, a password.”

  “And the other rooms?”

  “They hold the materials helpful in the
day-to-day operations of the castle. Servants quarters, guardhouses, broom closets.”

  “The operating system?” I ventured.

  “Precisely. Candance Klebbin simply copied the files to a broom closet. In this case, a program used for security. Then she completely erased the original files, leaving nothing behind but a digital void. Thus hidden, the files didn’t reside on her office computer, should anyone look. A very bright and cautious woman.”

  “A psycho,” Larkin corrected.

  “How long will it take you to pull Dr Meridien’s files out?” Novarro asked.

  Kent reached into his pocket. When he held out his palm we beheld a tiny oblong egg, a memory stick. “Already done,” he said. “A bit under a half a gigabyte: the entirety of Dr Leslie Meridien’s files.”

  “Did you check them?”

  Larkin stepped in. “We can’t open them for legal reasons. They’re private.”

  I nodded. “A court order is necessary.” I turned to the security pro. “Can we borrow you, Mr Kent?”

  “Go, Malcolm,” Larkin said. “Five hours or five days. I’ll pay for it.” He turned to Novarro and me. “Get Candace,” he said. “Nail that lying bitch.”

  40

  Catherine Maruyama slumped in Adam Kubiac’s car, fifty feet from the door of Hunters Supply and Range. Adam had been inside for forty minutes. He emerged a minute later, his arms full. He put packages in the trunk and slipped into the passenger’s seat.

  “Did you get, uh … what you wanted?” she asked.

  “An Ambush 300 Blackout rifle, ammo, an ATN Arrow 6—”

  “Arrow?”

  “A night-vision rifle sight. So I can shoot in the dark. Plus I got a suppressor—”

  “What’s that?”

  “It reduces the sound of the shot a whole lot. It’s more like a loud cough. It’s expensive stuff; I’m almost out of money.”

  “You were in there so long I got afraid.”

  “I used the range to try out the equipment. I saw Cottrell’s lying face on every target.”

  “Adam, are you really going to—”

  Kubiac spun to Maruyama, his features a rictus of anger. “All my life people have been screwing me over like I’m some little bitch. It’s gonna end. Hashtag: hadenough.” Kubiac pulled his cellphone from the pocket of his black jeans. “Time to sign the papers. You’re sure you can destroy them if I get you inside Cottrell’s office?”