Halliday slid the glass of beer over in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes trailing the spill as it ran over the side of the table.
“Agent Solvano, if there’s anything you need to know, ask Agent Halliday,” Blankenship said. “You stick close to him. Watch, listen, and learn.”
Solvano offered a forced smile.
Blankenship winked at both of them. “That’s what they say, right?”
They nodded in unison.
“I have to get back to the control room. I received an updated SITREP regarding the Madam Secretary’s movement tomorrow. Unlike our previous illustrious leader the lady likes change. Briefing’s at 0700 hours.”
“Yessir,” Halliday and Solvano said, in concert.
Halliday gulped a few ounces of beer as he gazed past the back of Solvano’s head. They watched the boss part the crowd.
“Blankenship never mentioned this partnership to me,” Halliday muttered when she turned to face him.
“Is it standard protocol for the AIC to notify you?”
Halliday gave a terse reply, “Standard protocol? It’s an unwritten rule. Blankenship should have discussed this with me beforehand. I’ll warn you up front, watch what you say to him.”
She lowered her head and said, “You sound like you would have put up quite an argument if you had known.”
Her resolute stare revealed an agent aware of the difficulties ahead. This job wouldn’t be an easy task, but given that they had a Madam Secretary now, a woman fit in. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you, Solvano.”
She sat up in her seat. “You sure it’s not because I’m the first female agent ever on the DS team?”
“I was going to say it didn’t matter who they named as my new replacement.”
The word out of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security was that her appointment had been politically motivated. Gossip had it that her father, the Under Secretary of Commerce for International Trade, had pulled some strings. “Blankenship had no right bypassing me like that. I’ll let him know, in private, that his action was bush league.”
She lowered her eyes. “Jesus, Halliday, don’t lose your job over it.”
“Your first five minutes on the job and you’re lecturing me?”
Solvano caught the waiter’s attention. “Zwei biere, bitte,” she rapped in German.
“I ordered two more brews,” she said. “I understand Berlin law stipulates seven minutes.” She gazed behind the bar. “Looks like a row of one-armed bandits at Vegas, huh?”
Halliday kept a stoic face. “So?”
“So, if you don’t lighten up, in eight minutes I’ll march over to the control room and tell that stuffed shirt Blankenship that you are unacceptable as my partner.”
# # #
When the forest divulged no more secrets, Halliday lowered the binoculars. He made his way back to the clearing. Why in hell would Lamar Festus go to all the trouble to create this sham?
Gladstone returned, shaking his head, like a tight end had dropped an “in the chest” pass.
“That crazy old geezer vanished.”
“Did you notice anything unusual out there?”
“No, why?”
“Festus said he saw a green mass up on the ridge. Said it appeared semi-translucent. Maybe the old man had gotten too much sun.”
Gladstone jumped on it. “There’s a disease spreading among these old codgers. I heard a psychologist on one of those morning talk shows call it ‘absence of reality.’ My wife told me that some of her patients at Santa Reina Convalescent Home were going looney. They believe everything’s either a government conspiracy or involve aliens among us.”
“You talk as if it’s a mental ward, not for convalescents.”
“Speaking of green masses, one old fart from Redwood Bluff tried to convince me that he had seen translucent green creatures roaming the night. Maybe Festus is from Redwood Bluff or better yet, he escaped from Santa Reina Convalescent Home.”
Although humor had a place in a policeman’s life Gladstone’s over the top banter rubbed Halliday the wrong way. The science of investigation required seeking out truths amid lies, misdirection, ignorance, and one’s own misconceptions. The young man hadn’t yet demonstrated the patience required for such a tedious job.
Halliday replied, “Maybe you need to dig a little deeper into your ‘absence of reality’ theory.”
Gladstone dug into his pocket and produced a pack of gum. “You want a stick, boss?”
“No thanks.”
Gladstone popped the gum in his mouth. “Chewing,” he said, “It’s a great substitute for smoking.”
Halliday waited for Gladstone to comment on Festus.
“That’s right, you don’t smoke do you Halliday?” Gladstone looked him over. “You don’t have any vices do you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I never see you go out on dates or anything. Do you like women?”
Most of the personnel in the department had been against Gladstone’s appointment, claiming that the young man was a “politician,” a term Halliday abhorred. Behind closed doors, Halliday, against his better judgment, had argued in favor of Detective Leo Bergman’s request to give the kid a chance. He smirked. In the end, their opinions amounted to a hill of beans.
The kid was the Sheriff’s nephew.
Gladstone waited.
“Listen to me, Gladstone.” He stared deep into the lad’s eyes. “What I do during my off time is none of your business. Understood?”
Gladstone held up both hands. “Hey, boss, I hear you. I didn’t realize it was such a sensitive issue.”
Halliday debated whether Gladstone needed a good ass kicking or a mentor with a thousand times more patience than he possessed.
“What were you looking for besides the vagrant, up there under that big Sequoia, boss? The Green Lantern?”
Halliday grunted. No way would he mention a body. “Festus thought he saw a vehicle up at the top of the ridge. Go check COPLINK. See if you can locate a record on him. Last name, F-E-S-T-U-S. First Name, L-A-M-A-R.”
Gladstone rambled off toward the patrol vehicle that Halliday had signed out. He stopped half way and said, “Will we need the video camera?”
“What for? Festus is gone. No crime was committed. I have the old man’s prints on a Blackberry if we need to I.D. him back at the station.”
Due to a violent police brutality incident at Los Angeles PD, departments across the state had suffered. Videotaping crime scenes threatened to seal detectives into a box labeled “If you can see it, it happened.” This wasn’t always the case. Halliday believed that sometimes a less visible investigation had a better chance of uncovering the truth.
Gladstone checked for prior arrests. Halliday pulled out the Blackberry that Festus had lifted from the Genevive security truck. He poked the buttons through the evidence bag. Both incoming and outgoing call registers were empty. Lamar’s call to Halliday at Santa Reina PD had been deleted. Festus didn’t come off as a savvy Blackberry enthusiast.
Who had done the delete job? Genevive security? The men in black? Accessing the phone company would require special permission. The obvious answer seemed the simplest—a software glitch.
Rich Gladstone’s “absence of reality” theory made the most sense for Festus’s behavior. Halliday suspected that would change. He powered off the phone. A professional geek employed by the Fresno PD would analyze any records. The GPS mapping information in the phone might not have been erased.
Gladstone gave him a triumphant wave. The lad excelled at administrative duties. He wrote great reports.
“I’ve got a positive I.D. on Lamar Festus,” Gladstone said. “An attempted assault on a Genevive executive two weeks ago. The charges were dropped. The Redwood Bluff sheriff released Festus the next day.”
Gladstone paused.
When Halliday remained silent, Gladstone said, “Boss, what’s this all about?”
Halli
day shook his head. “We won’t know until we find Festus. Why the in hell did you have to stomp on the gas? I think that’s what caused him to bolt.”
Gladstone looked up into the sky. He hadn’t fumbled. The defense had committed unnecessary roughness, a ten yard penalty. His mouth opened but he didn’t say anything.
Halliday didn’t pursue it. “What else do you have?”
“Lamar Festus is no vagrant. He lives in Redwood Bluff.”
Halliday hid his surprise behind a stoic face.
Gladstone had more. Halliday knew it because he had spent his short career in the Diplomatic Security reading faces of would be antagonists against the Madam Secretary of State.
Halliday waited. The lad had exposed all twenty-six years of his existence in one facial expression.
Gladstone took a short breath. “Lamar Festus was reported missing last Thursday, the day after his release from jail. No one has seen him since.”
Chapter Three
Ten minutes later Halliday sped down Genevive Parkway after responding to dispatch. A priority callout required him to quell a domestic dispute in the south end of town.
Santa Reina Sur had been separated from the main town by a large aqueduct that fed the farm land on both sides. Aqueduct Road, running parallel, housed a row of Mexican establishments situated on the aqueduct mound like strawberry plants. Halliday occasionally bought homemade tamales at the Las Verdes Market. Alongside the market, a string of chalky hole-in-the-wall bars with names like Mucho Caliente and Margarita’s advertised Tecate cerveza.
Beyond the aqueduct, Sur, sometimes pronounced “sewer” by uneducated locals, stretched out hard and flat, like a tortilla left too long on the griddle. Several blocks of small bungalow houses built in the 1970s suffered from neglect. Spray paint covered more walls than did house paint. Small front porches harbored unemployed Latino men. Crime resulted from boredom more than anything else.
When Halliday arrived Sergeant Dave Garcia stood on the porch of a matchbox house yelling in Spanish at the inhabitants through the closed door.
“What’s going on Sergeant?” Halliday said in a voice so low that Garcia had to lean over and ask, “What’s that?”
“I said, ‘What is going on here?”
“Detective Halliday, I can handle this. I have an eviction notice. The neighbors said the couple has been arguing. Said the husband had a history of violence.”
Halliday nodded at the notice. “Did the chief authorize this? Let me see it.” He didn’t want to read it so much as he wanted to get it out of Sergeant Garcia’s hand.
“Yeah, it’s all legal. The new law stipulates that a sheriff—Chief Brayden—can authorize a law enforcement officer to deliver a final eviction notice.”
Halliday studied the frustration that had built up in Garcia’s eyes. The man’s fists were rolled into balls prepared to strike. Sweat drained off his face, into red creases in his neck, as if he had just swallowed some super hot peppers. His black boots aimed at the door.
“I’m going to force the damned door if they don’t open it.” Garcia repeated the sentence in Spanish for the occupants.
Halliday’s gut told him that Garcia’s frustration could blow a domestic dispute case into homicide.
He made a decision. “Back off Sergeant.”
The patrolman glared at him, his eyes glazed over.
“Sergeant Garcia, I want you to return to your patrol car. You’re my back up. If anything untoward happens, you notify dispatch ASAP. Maintain your position and await my instructions. Do you copy?”
The disbelief etched on Garcia’s face could not be measured.
“With all due respect, detective, I’ve been working Santa Reina Sur for two years. I know how these people think. I know how they act.”
Garcia’s past actions had garnered numerous complaints. “Your concerns are duly noted, Sergeant.” Halliday always put the job before the players, placing a higher priority on diffusing the situation than considering a police officer’s ego or his status in the eyes of the community. He wouldn’t allow Garcia to play the “Latino policeman” card or attempt to usurp his authority back at the PD.
“Any more questions, Sergeant Garcia?”
“No sir.”
Garcia’s cool reply held back an emotional explosion. The proud man headed to his patrol car to sulk. His straight arms swung at invisible targets. Black boots stamped out all adversaries.
Halliday stared at the door. If left unchecked disagreements progressed from arguments to threats to violence, and sometimes to homicide. He had seen the cycle. Alcohol, drugs and weapons fueled the fire.
This one was different. From what he had been told by the dispatcher, it involved two angry, frustrated people. His job was to slice through the anger using communication.
Instead of banging on the front door Halliday walked up to the window next to it. He glanced at the eviction notice. In a calm voice he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Martinez. My name is Detective John Halliday from the Santa Reina police department. I’m going to sit down here on the porch until you come out. I just want to talk. I’d appreciate it if you brought a glass of cold water with you. It’s hot out here.”
Moments later the window curtain pulled open at the corner.
A young girl peered up at him with her mouth open.
Halliday smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Maria.”
“My name is Detective Halliday, Maria. Could you ask your mom and dad to come out? I’d like to talk to them.”
She shook her head. “Mama won’t come out. You want me to ask her, if you can come in?”
“That would be fine.”
A moment later Maria returned and said, “Mom’s getting your water.”
“Thank you, Maria. Muchas gracias.”
“De nada, it’s nothing,” she replied.
No arrest ensued. Halliday had been able to communicate with the couple through their twelve year old daughter, Maria. A few phone calls later, he learned that relatives in Chowchilla were willing to take them in on a temporary basis.
The worst part of Halliday’s job was to advise people that they couldn’t live in their homes any longer. After releasing Sergeant Garcia to return to the PD, he helped the Martinez family pack. They loaded up an ancient GMC pickup that pulled a rusted six-by-twelve foot utility trailer.
When they finished, Halliday sat down with the Martinez family. The wife offered a simple meal of barbecued pork with rice and beans. Little was said. Señora Martinez didn’t touch her food. Halliday appreciated that they didn’t view him with suspicion.
After dinner Señora Martinez held a short one-sided conversation with her daughter, in Spanish. She glanced at Halliday. He noticed her sunken eyes and white complexion. Halliday thought the woman might be ill. Mr. Martinez, a proud man embarrassed by the whole episode, sat on the other side of Halliday. He had his say.
Maria stared at her sandals, embarrassed. When her mother prodded her the girl looked up at him and said, “Señor Halliday, do you believe in ghosts?”
“Ghosts?” He shook his head. “No, I believe in things I can see.” He glanced at Maria’s T-shirt. A Goth type character brandished fangs and razor sharp, foot-long fingernails.
Señora Martinez fired off several more words in Spanish that raised the eyebrows of her daughter. Maria translated, which brought a wry smile along the edges of her mother’s dry lips.
“My mother says that there are Indian ghosts in the valley. You should be careful to respect them.”
Halliday grinned at the young girl’s attempt to be grown up. “Yeah, I’ll be careful.” He crunched the empty can of Tecate beer and tossed it in the trash heap.
“Mother said the ghost lives in this house. She will not be coming with us.”
“Your mother doesn’t want to leave?”
The little girl gave a tight lipped smile and said, “No, the ghost is not leaving.”
Halliday had little time for ghosts. Especially th
ose of the female gender.
“Mother asks that you take care of her since you are alone. The ghost… she needs your help.”
The sadness in the little girl’s eyes reminded him of her lot in life. “I’ll do what I can Maria. Are you going to be okay?”
She looked at him with vacant eyes. The word “okay” held no meaning for her.
It was time to go.
Señora Martinez stood in the doorway of the matchbox house for a moment. Was she saying goodbye to the house or the ghost? Halliday followed her out the door. He locked it, keeping the key. The woman’s last glance over her shoulder told it all: It might not have been much but it was home.
Halliday followed the Martinez family out of the driveway. He didn’t pull them over regarding the burnt-out trailer brake light.
Chapter Four
The current PD building reminded Halliday of U.S. embassies he had visited in third world countries during his protective details with Diplomatic Security. The surrounding glass and steel city government buildings gave the old adobe structure an inferiority complex. Its clay tile roof required constant repair and most of the leaks occurred over Police Chief Matthew Brayden’s office.
Mayberry R.F.D., as it was affectionately referred to, had been earmarked to house the Chamber of Commerce. A block away the new Santa Reina PD’s steel skeleton promised a firmer hand. Scheduled for completion in a year, it would have not been constructed had it not been for a huge grant from Genevive Labs.
The duty sergeant sat in a glass box that jutted out into the lobby. He conversed with visitors through a microphone connected to loud speakers hanging from the walls. The Marine Guard had a similar arrangement in a third world U.S. Embassy. However, here, “Yes, sir” and “No, Ma’am” had been replaced by “Yeah, sure” and “Why you asking me?”
Halliday headed to door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
The standing rule applied: “No badge, no entry.” The absence of a badge required a document to be filled out, a task he had never had to perform. He swiped his badge across the scanner.
The door buzzed open.
Inside the squad room were two rows of computer laden cubicles edged by small offices on both sides.
Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold Page 2
