Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  She wondered if Dan had “loved” Carla from afar or if he’d actively tried to date her. If he’d harassed her, if he had tried to make her a victim, he should have known what was coming. He should have done a little more research on the Denboer family.

  Jolie called Cyril Landry, got his voicemail, and left a message.

  He called back immediately. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I just found out something about Dan Atwood.” She filled him in on the website Atwood had put up, devoted to Carla Vitelli. How he had stalked her. “It was more than just a crush. There were . . . production values. I’m sending it to you now.”

  “The webpage?”

  “Yes. Take a look at it. I’ll wait.”

  Silence on the other end. Then, “This is bad. Jesus, what was he thinking?”

  “It explains why Dan Atwood ended up in the Denboers’ bean field,” Jolie said. “One theory, anyway, but the one I’m going with. Atwood also had websites for two other women. Both of them are dead.”

  She let that sink in. “That makes three big dots, and they’re all connecting. This—what he did with Carla—is classic stalking behavior.”

  “He confiscated Jace’s Camaro,” Landry said. “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he was doing it because he could. In your face, you know? Maybe to enjoy the moment, piss Jace off. The only question in my mind is when Carla found out she was getting that kind of attention.”

  “That’s not the only question.”

  “You’re thinking she killed him, right? Carla or Jace.”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “Carla isn’t the kind to be a sitting duck. If she knew about the website, if she thought he was obsessed with her, she would have done one of two things. She’d either bring all the weight of her position down on his ass and put him in federal prison where the sun don’t shine, or she’d take care of it directly.”

  “From my experience,” Landry said, “she’s hands-on.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “The lady likes control. She hates rejection. She likes to—”

  “Mess with people?”

  “Yes. Another thought. She wouldn’t want to draw any attention to the farm.”

  “But why go after me?” Jolie asked. “I’m assuming she and Jace were together on that. Maybe it was all Jace. I still don’t know why Jace came after me. Maybe it was the Dan Atwood case. But I wasn’t getting anywhere. Not even close.”

  “She knew you wouldn’t quit.”

  “She was right. I’m still not done with them.”

  “Carla knew that. But if she could rattle you, find a way to get you out of there . . .”

  “There are other good detectives besides me.”

  “But she got you out of the way.”

  Just then she heard the blast of a horn. The Amtrak train came hurtling past. “Talk later,” she shouted.

  She got you out of the way.

  Jolie stood in the lurid red blur of the sunset and watched the train arrow past, the shapes of people in lighted windows whizzing by, and thought: You only thought you did.

  She had more work to do on the man who called himself Dan Atwood. Jolie didn’t give a rat’s ass about Dan Atwood himself—or whoever he really was—but she did care about his previous victims. She’d found freak sites for Anita Loyoza and Erin Locke, but hadn’t located one for Karin Stokes. Maybe it had been taken down. Maybe Atwood hadn’t gotten around to putting one up. But she now knew he was her killer.

  The families of the victims should know that the man who had stalked these women and killed them was now dead himself.

  If it were her loved one, Jolie would want to know.

  In fact, she’d be glad to hear he was dead. She would dance on his grave.

  That call, though, would be up to Detective Vicki Dodd.

  Jolie punched in Vicki’s extension; she answered on the second ring.

  “I’m sending you some more links,” Jolie said. “To websites. We’re a long way from proving anything, but it could clear the Stokes case, and probably some others. You can contact the detectives in Tucson and Albuquerque for the other two.”

  Vicki thanked her. “I can get a subpoena for these sites. This could be big. Atwood could be ‘The Inside Man.’”

  “Could be,” Jolie said. “I hope it is.”

  She knew Vicki would reap the reward for this, and that was fine with her. Anything to be away from that corrupt bottom-feeder of a county sheriff.

  They ended up talking about politics at the sheriff’s office and Detective Frankel, whose wife just had a new baby. And then Vicki asked her the million-dollar question. Was she coming back?

  Jolie said, “Maybe for a visit.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Vicki said. “Well. Wow. Thanks, for this. I’ll talk to whomever you want me to talk to, if you find a job—”

  “It’s probably best if you don’t.”

  “But you’re a cop. How are you going to get another job if we don’t clear this up?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Jolie said. She realized her voice was too bright, that she sounded just a wee bit on the manic side. Time to cut the cord. “Just make sure the survivors know what happened to their loved ones.”

  “You know I will.”

  “Yes, I do know you will. Thanks again, Vicki. It’s been . . . good.”

  She disconnected. She felt the sadness pulling at her the way the ocean had pulled away at the sand around her feet when she stood in it yesterday. Whittling it away from under you until there was nothing left to stand on.

  The train was gone. It was time to go in and feed Rocky and Rudy, maybe make a little dinner for herself while she was at it.

  On her way back up the beach, Jolie removed the SIM card from the burner phone. She chucked the phone in one garbage can and the SIM card in another.

  Ten minutes later she bought another phone in the drugstore on the corner, and transferred the very few important phone numbers from her thumb drive.

  She also had Cyril Landry’s and Eric the Red’s numbers on her new phone.

  They were all she needed for now.

  Chapter 30

  Middle of the night in his room at the Travelodge, Landry woke up. What woke him was the sound of not one, but two tractor-trailer trucks driving by.

  He checked his watch: three minutes past two a.m.

  Landry pushed back the sheets, stepped onto the cool tile, and went to the window. He peered through the gap between the curtains, saw the taillights of the second rig swaying past.

  No writing on the back, just double doors. The rig looked like every other semi truck he’d ever seen. A dull silver or pale gray, double doors from top to bottom, mud flaps, round red taillights on both sides. He hadn’t been able to see the top of the cab—it was just a blur in the darkness.

  This was the main route through town, and tractor-trailer trucks went through all the time.

  Still, he waited, expecting to see more of them drive by.

  None did, so he went back to sleep.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 31

  In the morning, Landry went to work as usual. He was driving the crimson Forenza now, which seemed to fit his station in life. He drove along the road past the spot where Dan Atwood was buried and likely met his end, and turned in under the arched wrought-iron gate to the Valleyview Experimental Agricultural Station. He followed the pristine blacktop to the employees’ parking lot and parked, even though there were only two other cars in the lot. One belonged to Denboer’s personal assistant. The other belonged to one of the farmworkers who tended the hydroponic plants.

  Landry checked his watch—seven thirty. Time to make his first round of the property before charging his sat phone.

  Usually, the lot was
about a third full by this time. Landry had grown to recognize the cars and had matched them to their owners. The lot usually held midsize, midpriced cars: Fords, Dodges and Chevys mostly, and a couple of Kias for the freethinkers. And trucks, the most popular choice among the maintenance crew. Now there were only two. Three, if you counted Landry’s Forenza.

  A tall chain-link fence decorated with concertina wire surrounded the maintenance and heavy equipment yard beside the parking lot. Usually, there were a number of vehicles in the lot: tractors, graders, dump trucks, service vehicles, go-slow carts, the water truck, a Kawasaki Mule. But today all the equipment was gone. The lot was empty.

  Landry stood in the bright light, feeling the heat bear down on the top of his head. Birds were singing. A grackle’s loud whistle grated on his ears. He felt a buzz in his gut.

  The sprinklers had been on during the night or very early morning—he could smell it on the grass, could see the drops like sequins in the sun. He stared at the pavement leading up to the front of the main building. Stared at the double entry doors to the glass box.

  No one was around.

  No noises. No tractors. No cars. No voices.

  Nothing.

  Landry stepped off the asphalt and followed the patch of lawn around the building to the right. He circled the entire building. Then he approached the front from the left side. Cop-like, weapon drawn.

  He was ninety-nine percent certain that he wouldn’t need his weapon. But all his life he had been trained to rely on more than just one layer of protection. Aside from combat, there was no reason to meet trouble head-on. Operators learned early on that it was best to think a couple of steps ahead, to work out a plan that might or might not be fail-safe, but would have enough layers and options to give him choices.

  He heard the hiss of car tires on the road across the fields: commuters driving past, toy cars on a conveyer belt. But there was nothing here, except for the birds.

  The place felt deserted.

  He reached the glass doors to the front building and gripped the handle. He had been certain the door would be locked, and was surprised to discover it wasn’t.

  Landry knew the moment he opened the door that the place was empty.

  Not just empty. It had been cleaned out. The counter separating the office from the public had been cleared of computers and other office equipment. Two desks remained. The western art was gone from the walls. The potted plants, gone. The posters, gone. Every piece of equipment, down to every cord and plug, had been cleared out. The break-room-slash-kitchen had been dismantled. The chairs gone. The little square tables gone. The burners, the microwave, gone. On and on, every piece of equipment, every stick of furniture: disappeared. The quad charger. The sat phones. The light fixtures.

  Julia, Miko Denboer’s personal assistant, came to the front desk. “Mr. Denboer told me to tell you we won’t be needing you for the foreseeable future.” She smiled and held up her hands. “Actually, we won’t be needing anyone. We’re in the process of remodeling.”

  “Remodeling?”

  “Yes, redecorating. He’s tired of the way the place looks.”

  “He’s not here?”

  “No. Mr. Denboer’s at home, handling all inquiries himself. For the foreseeable future,” she added. She used the words “foreseeable future” like a tire iron. She smiled, but Landry could tell she was worried. He glanced at the ceiling. A few twisted wires stuck out where the overhead light panels had been.

  Julia shouldered her bag. “I’m going home. Not much to do here.” Her voice full of false cheer.

  Landry nodded.

  “Make sure to lock the place when you leave,” she said. Then she walked to the double doors and pushed through, her heels clacking on the flagstone floor.

  He was left alone with the emptiness. He checked Denboer’s office. Same thing. As if the place had just been built. Good-bye to the plush Chinese carpet, the mahogany desk, the Tiffany lamp, the expensive western art, the potted plants, the large screen, the file cabinets, the computers, the extra chairs, the wall safe. The polished hardwood floor remained, but that was all.

  He spent the next hour and a half checking the farm. Every sign of human habitation, of the business—was gone. Not a tractor to be found. Not a plane in the big, voluminous hangar. The tractor-trailer trucks that moved vegetables and plants had disappeared. The sprinkler systems, inside and out, gone. The planes, gone.

  Only one thing remained: the hydroponic plants in the greenhouses. The hoses, the lights, and everything else had been removed.

  Landry walked back into the empty airplane hangar. It was dark and cool. The light fixtures didn’t work and he could see only due to the ambient light from the few windows. From there he walked on to Hangar B. The keypad needed to enter the hangar had been torn out—there were just a few wires: red, yellow, black. So who would stop him? There was no lock on the door.

  Hangar B was empty.

  But he did see something. Now that the planes were gone, he saw lines grooved into the floor. Long, straight, precision lines. Three sets of them. Each set of lines formed a long rectangle. Another line bisected the rectangle down its length, exactly down the middle. Landry walked over and paced one of the rectangles. He remembered the two rigs that rocketed by his motel last night. The outline on the floor was large and long enough to support a semi. Landry eyeballed the other two. All of them were exactly the same size. Three of them, side by side by side, divided by approximately ten feet. He’d never been allowed in this area, so this came as a surprise to him.

  A metal cabinet stood inside the door—a control panel. He walked over. There was a padlock but it had been bent, hadn’t completely closed on the latch. Landry managed to work it out of the latch and pulled the door open to reveal a row of switches inside. Three switches in particular stood out. “A,” “B,” and “C.”

  He pressed each of them in order, but nothing happened.

  Drug operations could pack up everything in an astonishingly short period of time. Minutes, not hours. Fifteen minutes, tops. They always had a contingency plan. If there was a threat, if law enforcement was on the way, they went to their battle stations. The whole thing was coordinated. They could pack it up like a circus in the night and be gone. Gone without a trace.

  Landry had seen an article about places like this. A warehouse in Barstow, California. It had belonged to a drug crew that had to leave fast. They’d taken everything down to the screws that fell on the floor. The place was a big factory, but after they were gone, there was nothing left but dust. Dust. Lots of it. Powdery dust that made the factory look as if it hadn’t been open in years.

  And a rusty padlock on the door.

  But there had been vehicles going in and out at all hours. Big semi trucks. Expensive cars.

  And there had been levers in the wall. The levers were gone but the wires had remained, and the recessed vaults remained. The levers triggered hydraulics that raised the vehicles to floor level when needed, up through double doors that opened outward. They could then be driven out of the building. When the FBI agent pulled one of the levers, the joint in the middle of the floor buckled upward and opened wide, two long doors that opened to reveal an oblong vault. And just below the top edge of the vault was the top of a tractor-trailer rig.

  And once it had been raised high enough, it could be driven right up a short ramp and out of the hidden vault.

  No way to know if that was the case here, but Landry guessed that it was.

  Once again he thought of the two rigs that woke him in the middle of the night.

  They could have been regular tractor-trailer trucks en route to their next stop, or they could have been Denboer’s trucks.

  Whether or not he’d seen the actual truck or not, he knew what had happened. Denboer and his crew had left like the circus in the night. They were in the wind.

  Chapter 32<
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  Landry called Jolie. She’d contacted him yesterday and given him a new number, and now she answered on the first ring.

  “Can you come out here?” he said.

  “When?”

  “ASAP.”

  Silence on her end. He didn’t blame her. He added, “Denboer’s going down. They all are. But I need you.”

  “Why me?”

  “I need three bodies.”

  “Bodies, huh?”

  Semantics. “I mean three good operators, if that makes you feel better.”

  “I’m a cop, not an operator.”

  “All the better. You’ll know the laws.”

  “What do you need me for?”

  “As I said, I need three people. Three people I can trust. One is me. The other is Eric. The third is you.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to pick a port of entry and watch the border.”

  A pause. Then, “Is this about the Denboers? Is Denboer going to make a run for the border?”

  “I think he’s going to make a trial run. In fact, he might make three trial runs. Possibly, they’ll try at each border crossing, which is why I need three people.”

  “You really think he’ll divide it up?”

  “He’s got three semis,” Landry said. “He might just choose the best place and send all of them through one point of entry. But we’ve got to at least scout all three.”

  “Which is where I come in.”

  “I need two people I can depend on. What do you know about the border crossings?”

  “Not that much,” Jolie said.

  “You still probably know more than me. Three ports of entry: Antelope Wells—”

  “Columbus, and Santa Theresa. I’ve been to two of them.”

  “That’s why I need you.”

  “It was a long time ago. I can’t remember much about either one of them.”

  Landry said, “What’s the best way to move drugs or other contraband across the border without getting caught?”