Outside the Wire

by Patricia Smiley

  Vaughn walked to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee. “John Latham doesn’t have a brother. I suppose it’s possible he fathered a son who acted as his accomplice, but Angela couldn’t even confirm her brother has any children. The bottom line is we can’t prove anything.” He added powdered dairy creamer and held up the cup. “You want some?”

  Davie found an empty pot and filled it with bottled water. “Immigration still hasn’t confirmed Latham entered the country, right?”

  “Right. And we don’t know where he is.”

  She grabbed a teabag from the counter. “If he’s using another alias he could have returned to Asia from anywhere, even from Canada or Mexico. Lunds told us his boss is a former Ranger who recruited him into the company. Maybe Lunds can persuade the CEO to pressure Guardian into helping us locate John Latham.”

  “Don’t you think we should check with Quintero first?”

  She poured the hot water into the cup with the teabag and watched the water turn murky brown. “Like Bear always says, it’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

  35

  When Davie reached Dag Lunds by phone, he agreed to speak with her but not if Vaughn came along, so she had to call Quintero after all.

  When her partner heard she’d agreed to Lunds’s terms, he wasn’t happy. “Look, Lunds is a hothead. It’s risky for you to interview him alone.”

  “You’re right, but he has information we need. This isn’t the time to bargain about who’s in the room when he gives it up. I’ll ask Quintero to go with me.”

  Vaughn pulled car keys from his pocket and headed toward the door. “I still don’t like the idea, but call me if you need anything.”

  When she reached Quintero, he told her he was busy but agreed to send Striker to pick her up at Pacific. Davie hadn’t worked closely with Striker and was hesitant about doing the interview with him, but there was nothing to do about that now. They could talk strategy in the car.

  Striker arrived at the station a short time later. Davie slid into the passenger seat, inhaling the faint aroma of leather from his shoulder holster. As he turned toward her, the sunlight beamed through the window like a camera flash—bright and fast—illuminating the contours of his high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and blue eyes.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Not far.”

  A faint smile appeared on his lips, leaving her to wonder if he thought she was referring to something more than distance on a map.

  Dag Lunds was staying on a friend’s sailboat in a slip in Marina del Rey, an area in Los Angeles County where boatyards, high-rise apartment buildings, and restaurants shared a zip code with one of the largest small-boat marinas in the world.

  Once they arrived at the marina, they found the gate leading to the slips locked. Striker was tall, so he leaned over the chain-link fence to unhook the clasp, but his arm wasn’t long enough to reach it.

  He nodded toward the fence. “You want to climb over or shall I?”

  Davie considered her still-aching hip and bruised back. She held up her cell phone. “Let’s just text Lunds and save ourselves a trip to the ER.”

  His mouth twitched in a wry smile. A few minutes later, Lunds ambled up the ramp and opened the gate. He hesitated when he saw that Davie wasn’t alone.

  Striker preempted any challenge by extending a hand and introducing himself. “I’m sorry for the loss of your friends.”

  Lunds accepted his handshake and led them along a walkway to a boat that had a mast, two sails, and a confusing tangle of ropes. The vessel looked old but well cared for. It was just shy of forty feet, she guessed. Davie followed him up a two-step footstool to the deck of the boat. Striker climbed aboard behind her.

  Before they went below, Lunds pointed out several handholds and cautioned them to hang on at all times. “One hand for you, one hand for the boat.”

  Lunds scrambled down the companionway steps to a salon made of wood and fiberglass with Davie close behind. She noted the brass clock and matching barometer hanging on the wall, a gimbled oil lamp, and the faint smell of diesel.

  Lunds gestured toward a bench amidships. “Have a seat. I was just making Turkish coffee.” He scrutinized Striker. “Or do you want something stronger?”

  Both declined coffee. Striker’s broad shoulders forced him to turn sideways to descend the companionway steps. He hovered by the entrance, blocking any sunlight that filtered through the marine layer.

  Davie leaned against the mast in the center of the boat. “We’ve been trying to reach TidePool’s CEO. We were told he’s in the Middle East on assignment but would call when he had a chance. So far, he hasn’t responded. You work for him, so I assume he’d take your call. I’d like you to make that happen.”

  Lunds looked at his watch and then turned a knob on the stove. Flaming gas whooshed out of the burner under a pan of water. “If he’s still there, we’re dealing with a significant time change. He may be in the middle of something.”

  Striker’s tone was pleasant but firm. “We’re asking you to interrupt him, Mr. Lunds.”

  The two men exchanged a look that Davie recognized as alpha males battling for space at the fire hydrant. After a moment of tense silence, Lunds picked up his phone and punched in a number. Davie held her breath and waited.

  “Bro,” Lunds said as he dropped two heaping spoonfuls of coffee into the water. “It’s me. I’m with somebody who needs to talk to you.” He handed Davie his cell.

  Striker trained his eyes on Lunds while Davie spoke with TidePool’s CEO. She talked and listened while Lunds added sugar to the pan and stirred the mixture until it began to foam. By the time she ended the call, the coffee had built to a thick froth, filling the boat with a fragrant aroma.

  Lunds gently stirred the mixture. “Did he confirm my alibi?”

  “He told me you were in Kabul, just like you said.”

  “So, you believe me now, that I didn’t kill Zeke and the others.”

  Davie paused for a moment feeling the sway of the boat. She understood that Lunds had been bruised when her partner questioned his alibi, but asking the details was his duty, something Lunds should understand.

  “For the record, Mr. Lunds,” she said, “I never believed you killed Zeke or the others, but we can’t assume somebody is innocent just because he’s a nice guy or because he’s had a hard life. We had to eliminate you as a suspect. It’s nothing personal.” She moved toward the exit. “Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  Striker shot her a puzzled look. She’d been impressed about how thoroughly and quickly he’d familiarized himself with the facts of the case. He knew as much about Zeke’s murder as she did, so if he wanted to ask additional questions she assumed he would do so. Instead, he followed her off the boat and up the ramp. Just past the gate, Davie felt Striker’s hand on her arm, pulling her to a stop.

  His tone seemed casual, but she knew his mood was anything but. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

  She pulled away from his grip and held out her hands, palms up. “You want to talk here?”

  “It’s as good a place as any.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, “but let’s walk.”

  They moved side by side past rows of slips before stopping. Davie leaned against a fence and waited for the roar of a jet taking off from LAX to fade. “The CEO claimed he didn’t know anything about John Latham or Van Kuris, but he had lots to say about Alden Brink. Brink started having problems not long after he was hired. He was manipulative and obsessed with being right. Coworkers mostly tolerated his behavior until he got into a spitting contest with a former SEAL who didn’t appreciate Brink telling him how politicians had corrupted the military.”

  “He sounds like a borderline sociopath,” Striker said.

  “The CEO was ready to fire him—until th
e Guardian contract was dangled in front of his nose.”

  Striker stopped and crossed his arms over his chest. “What does Guardian have to do with anything?”

  The sun made the water shimmer as Davie delivered the news. “Guess who brought Guardian to the table in the first place.”

  Striker raised his eyebrows. “Brink?”

  “Brink told the CEO that Guardian was ready to do a major deal for security in areas not already covered by their own team, but only if he was involved. Brink was known for exaggerating his accomplishments but, turns out, this time he was telling the truth. He had an in with Guardian. The CEO wanted the business because it was worth a ton of money, so he decided to give Brink one last chance to redeem himself by sending him to L.A.”

  “Which begs the next question—is there a link between Latham and Brink?”

  “I’m not sure, but HR is emailing Brink’s personnel file. I think we should go back to headquarters and see what it has to say … that is, unless you have something better to do.”

  Striker’s tone was matter-of-fact. “The car is closer than headquarters.”

  He didn’t have to remind her there was a computer in the city ride, but she preferred to review the files at her desk, not reading over his shoulder in a stuffy car. But she had to admit he was right. When Davie settled into the passenger seat, she logged into her email and opened the attachment that contained Brink’s personnel file. His employment application alone was thirty-four pages long.

  “This is going to take a while,” she said.

  Striker leaned closer until their shoulders touched. “Then we’d better get started.”

  The car seemed hot, so Davie reached over and pressed the lever to open the window. When she returned her focus to the screen, she made sure there was distance between her shoulder and Striker’s. Her only hint that he noticed was in the smile wrinkles around his eyes.

  Davie began scrolling through the pages of Alden Brink’s personnel file. He’d been at the company for three years. His work product was mostly good, although not stellar, but he had a volatile temper and an aversion to admitting he’d made a mistake. The company disciplined him several times, mostly counseling, but also restricting his assignments to the in-house legal office at TidePool’s Virginia headquarters, supervised by a more seasoned attorney. There was nothing about a promotion to director of the real estate division as he’d claimed. Davie wondered if he’d fabricated the title or if it was a new development that hadn’t yet made it into his records.

  Davie and Striker continued scrolling through the pages, each of them pausing for the other to catch up. Near the end of the documents, Davie found a life insurance policy that had been offered by the company as an employee perk.

  “The payout amount seems high,” she said. “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Look at that,” he said pointing to a sidebar. “Brink is paying a monthly premium above the amount paid by the company. Looks like he picked up the tab to boost the amount.”

  Davie advanced to the next page. Her pulse quickened as she stared in disbelief. She pointed to a line on the bottom of the form. “Look at the name of his beneficiary.”

  Striker studied the page and turned slowly to meet her gaze. “Angela Latham.”

  Davie leaned against the headrest, breathing deeply to slow her racing pulse. “Alden Brink is John Latham’s nephew.”

  The puzzle pieces were falling into place. The Seattle PD had run Angela’s name through their databases. The search hadn’t turned up anything, but it had been limited to criminal records. She remembered meeting Angela Latham and thinking she looked familiar. Angela admitted she’d lived in Arizona for a time. Brink had graduated from an Arizona law school, according to the diploma hanging on the wall in his office. The DNA evidence also made sense. Latham’s father shared a Y chromosome with the person who left the blood in Zeke Woodrow’s house. She’d thought John Latham was that person, but now she believed it had been Alden Brink who stole Zeke’s computer and left blood on the door in his haste to get away. Brink knew his mother and grandfather would suffer if anything happened to his uncle or to him, so he upped the amount on the insurance policy death benefit.

  The door hinges groaned as Davie escaped the stuffy car and began to walk. Motion and fresh air helped organize her thoughts. Out in the main channel, a cluster of small sailboats raced around a buoy and a group of twenty-somethings partied on the upper deck of a houseboat, drinking beer and playing loud music.

  She waited until Striker caught up to her. “How long do you suppose Brink knew his uncle was working for Guardian?”

  As usual, he appeared calm. She wondered if anything ever rattled him. “Hard to say, but if he knew from the beginning, he had a vested interest in hiding his uncle’s war background from TidePool.”

  Davie jammed her hands in her pockets to ward off a chill as she continued walking and brainstorming possible scenarios. Brink’s job was secure until Zeke saw Van Kuris in Hong Kong and recognized him as John Latham, a deserter and a war criminal. Zeke went straight to Brink’s office when he got home. He must have told Brink that not only was he was about to blow up a lucrative contract with a major client, but he was also going to out Latham to the Army. Brink must have panicked. He couldn’t let the news get out. It would destroy his uncle, his career, and maybe send his mother to prison. That’s when he decided to eliminate the witnesses to his uncle’s crime. Getting their addresses wouldn’t have been a problem—he had access to TidePool’s employee files. He could easily plan the hits because he knew where they’d be.

  The sidewalk ended at a concrete wall. Davie turned around, not sure how long they’d been walking or how far they’d come. Striker’s lips barely moved when he stated what she already knew. “It’s a great theory. It might even be the way it happened. Now we need to prove it. Let’s do a follow-up interview with Brink. Press him for details.”

  “Good idea,” Davie said, “but there’s somebody we should talk to first.”

  36

  Fern Potts lived in a ground-floor apartment in an aging building just off Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, a hip and vibrant city carved into the middle of Los Angeles between Hollywood and Beverly Hills. In the early eighties, the LGBT community’s search for a homeland led to the area’s secession from L.A. and WeHo was incorporated as its own city.

  A wreath of dried flowers hung on the entrance to Fern’s unit. The temp answered the door in a pink terrycloth bathrobe and a matching towel twisted around her hair. Except for two white circles that exposed watery blue eyes, her face was plastered with cosmetic mud in a color Davie labeled sea turtle green.

  Davie willed herself not to comment on the ghoulish mask. “Remember me? Detective Richards? I stopped by your office a few days ago.”

  Fern pulled the robe tight across her chest when she saw Striker standing on the walkway. “I’m not senile. Of course I remember.”

  “This is Detective Striker,” Davie said with a nod of her head. “Do you mind if we come inside and ask you a few questions?”

  “About what?”

  “About TidePool and Mr. Brink.”

  “I told you, I’ve only worked there a few days.”

  “That’s okay. You might have seen something you didn’t think was important at the time but could help our investigation.”

  Fern conjured up an exaggerated shudder. “I heard you tell Mr. Brink that somebody died.”

  Davie stepped closer to the threshold. “Two TidePool employees were murdered in the past several days.” She didn’t mention that another man, a former employee, had been added to that list, making it three, and that a fourth had nearly been killed. No sense burdening her with the enormity of the loss.

  “Am I in danger?”

  “We don’t think so, but we’re being cautious. That’s why we’re here.”

  Fern c
hecked her watch. “I’m not due at work until two, but I have to wash this goop off my face in fifteen minutes.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  “Wipe your feet on the mat first,” Fern said and then waved them inside with a broad sweep of her arm.

  The apartment was about six hundred square feet and packed with oversized furniture that gave new meaning to the term shabby chic. There were several dust-coated silk plants dotting the room and a collection of owl figurines watching them with wide-eyed stares.

  Fern lowered herself onto an overstuffed chair covered in chintz that must have come from a much grander house. She pulled the bathrobe neatly over her legs. “So, what do you want to know?”

  “Were you working a week ago Monday when Mr. Woodrow came to the office?”

  She picked up an emery board and began filing her fingernails. “That was my first day. There wasn’t much to do. The phone wasn’t even hooked up. It’s still not hooked up, because Mr. Brink has been gone a lot. He gave me his mobile and told me to answer it if it rang.”

  Davie spent a moment jotting down the dates Fern claimed Brink had been absent from the office.

  “Did Mr. Woodrow have an appointment the day he came in?” she asked.

  Fern flicked her hand like she was batting away an irritating gnat. “He came barging in just like you did. I don’t know what his problem was but he almost knocked me over. Everybody is in such a hurry these days.”

  “Did you hear any of the conversation he had with Mr. Brink?”

  She straightened her spine and set down the nail file. “Don’t insult me. I’m not an eavesdropper.”

  “I saw you standing outside Mr. Brink’s door the day I was there. You weren’t listening?”

  “I was just walking by. And by the way, when he said I hung up on you? He made that up. I know how to use a cell phone. He was the one who cut you off.”

  Before Davie could remind Fern that listening to that conversation qualified as eavesdropping, Striker shot her a glance and crouched in front of Fern’s chair.