by J. R. Rain
“I think he’s more scared than hurt. Let me get going.”
“Okay.”
After we hang up, I stare at my computer, overwhelmed by the need to do whatever I have to do to keep my family safe. My brain’s going in spirals of worst-case scenarios and what I could possibly come up with to make sure none of them ever happen. If I have to track this ‘Marty’ back to Tijuana myself, so be it. None of my searches on home contractors or small ‘handyman’ companies give me anything promising. I run the number on the card and it comes back as being a residential number assigned to Newvox, a VOIP telephone service. That’s not too unexpected… a lot of small one-person businesses use the voice-over-internet phones because they’re cheap. Another potential red flag is that these lines aren’t married to a physical location. They can be even more phantom than a prepaid cell phone.
Another database search links the telephone number to a Mr. Haresh Kondapalli. A little poking around on the Newvox website tells me their primary focus is customers who use the service to make cheap international calls. Could be that the guy took ‘Marty’ as a generic name that people could remember more easily.
Test one. I dial out on our phone system in a way that presents a fake caller ID and name. If someone calls it back within about twenty minutes, it’ll transfer it to my desk, but the person I call won’t know the government’s sniffing around. Comes in handy sometimes when we don’t want to tip off suspects that they’re being investigated.
“Hey, you got Marty. What can I help you with?” says a rather energetic―and not-very-Indian-sounding man.
“Hi. A woman I work with gave me this number. She said you fix things around the house and don’t charge too much?”
“Ahh, yeah,” says Marty. “Have I been to your place before?”
“No. My water heater is on the blink and I need someone to take a look at it.”
“Hmm. Let me check my… oh. Looks like I’m pretty solid booked for at least two months. I can pencil you in for… say, September 18th?”
He’s clearly not interested, which sets off a red flag. I’m sure this line isn’t really used for requesting home repairs. “Oh, I really needed something faster than that. Sorry. I guess I’ll try to find another repairman.”
“I understand. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. I got more work than I can handle.” He chuckles, eerily friendly and honest sounding. A little too much so, like a snake oil salesman. “You have a good day, awrite?”
“Thanks, I’ll try.” I hang up.
Something tells me I did not just speak to Mr. Haresh Kondapalli.
I dial out again, this time using a normal line with the official Caller ID information, and call Newvox. Trying to skip their IVR menu by mashing 0 dumps me to a customer service queue and hold music so awful I think it should legally count as torture. Ugh.
“You okay?” asks Chad from across the aisle.
“Did you know that my call is very important?” I ask. “And that my estimated wait time is two minutes?”
Chad laughs. “Your computer broke or something?”
“Nope. Tracking down a lead.”
“Hello, and thank you for calling Newvox. My name is”―the woman mumbles something indecipherable but foreign sounding―“may I have your name and account number please?”
“Hi. I’m Agent Samantha Moon with the Federal Department of Housing and Urban Development. I need to speak to someone in your legal department, or to someone who can help me with the details of one of your customers’ accounts pursuant to an active investigation.”
“Do you have an account number?”
“I’ve got the phone number.”
“All right,” says Indecipherable. “May I please have the phone number?”
I give her the number from Marty’s card.
“Would you please confirm the security phrase for the account?” asks the woman.
Ugh. I lean back and stare at the drop ceiling panels. “I don’t think you can help me, Rita”―closest thing I can come up with to what her name sounded like―“I’m calling from the federal government regarding an ongoing investigation.”
“I’m sorry, miss. I cannot open the account without the correct answer to the security question. It is for your own protection and security. I can answer your general questions about Newvox.”
The pits and holes in the drop ceiling tile grow larger, like I’m falling upward in slow motion. “Can I please speak to your supervisor?”
“Hold on one moment.”
Awful music pummels my ears, the same eight notes looping. Four minutes later, a man with a similar accent comes on the line. “Hello. I am Srinivas, supervisor of Priya. How may I help you?”
I repeat my explanation while making zombie faces at the ceiling. This guy at least seems to be capable of actual communication and not simply reading from an index card of prefab responses. Wow, maybe I did actually get a supervisor and not the guy in the next cubicle. He transfers me again, and after eight minutes on hold, a woman with a southern accent picks up.
“Hello? Newvox, this is Ruth Ann.”
Hmm. Wonder if she knows my sister? Maybe there’s a double name club or something.
“Hi…” I say, more a sigh than speech. “I hope you can help me…” I repeat my explanation for the third time. Ruth Ann apparently works in some ‘advanced customer service’ capacity and can’t release their customer’s account information to a third party. Argh. However, she does transfer me to Newvox’s legal department where I get a wonderfully polite man named Corey on the line. I identify myself again, give him my badge number, and he agrees to help.
“Agent Moon, the number you gave me appears to be a secondary line on this account. I’m going back three years and it doesn’t appear to have ever made an outbound call. However, looks like they’ve got it set up to forward all incoming calls instantly to another number.”
“Can you give me that number? And the address to which the account is registered?”
“Of course.” He reads it off slow, and I jot it down. It’s local at least, judging by area code. The address is reasonably close as well, in Omaha Heights, a little northeast of LA. “Anything else I can help you with, Agent Moon?”
“Yes, actually. Would you be able to fax me or email me a list of inbound telephone numbers who’ve called the VOIP line?”
“I can, but for that, we’d need something official in writing.”
“Sure. That’s not a problem. Where can I fax you the warrant?”
Corey reads me off a number, which I also jot down.
“Thanks Corey. Please tell me you have a direct line I can get you back on if I need to?”
“I do.” He gives me a number and an email address. I’m nearly giddy. “I’m going to go submit the warrant request now. You’ll probably have a fax within a couple days.”
“Great. I’ll keep my eye out for it,” says Corey.
We hang up. I slouch back in my chair, in dire want of coffee. “Well, that was only severely painful.”
Chad leans into my cube, offering me a Styrofoam cup. “Black as you like. Dunno how you can tolerate it.”
“You’re a mind reader.” I grab the coffee, sniff it, and let off a sigh of adoration. Fresh, too. The man is a saint.
“Hardly. I merely observed the way you were attempting to burn the ceiling with your eyes.” He grins, sips his coffee and returns to his cube.
After sending my request to Nico regarding the warrant for the call activity, I plug the forwarding number into the system. Unsurprisingly, it comes back as a prepaid phone.
“Hah!” I pound my fist into the desk. “I knew it!”
Chad rolls back in his chair, staring at me past his cube wall, his coffee cup pressed to his lips.
“Marty’s part of this. Fake number forwarding to a burner phone.” I wave the paper with Haresh Kondapalli’s address on it at him. “We’re hitting the road…. After we get vests.”
Chapter Thirteen
&
nbsp; Wild Geese
The address Corey from Newvox gave me comes up in our database as a HUD-managed property, though the file hasn’t been updated in three years.
Nothing red-flags in the computer, and the tenant’s name is even Haresh Kondapalli. Finally, something that lines up. It’s odd that no one updated the record, but when you’re understaffed, underappreciated, and our budget is always under attack by conservatives, something getting overlooked here hardly surprises me.
I love my job, but is it a bad sign I’m showing early-onset cynicism?
After printing the file, I toss it in a manila folder and follow Chad outside. I feel like driving this time, so I walk a little faster than him (not difficult since he’s still nursing coffee) and hop in behind the wheel. He doesn’t react, taking the passenger seat without a word.
On the ride to Omaha Heights, I bounce what I’ve found so far off him.
“That is strange,” says Chad. “Why would a maintenance guy need a throwaway phone?”
“My point exactly.” I pull into the left lane in anticipation of a turn, and stop at a red light. “I’m hoping Haresh can help us out with that part. I sent a warrant request up the pipe for the inbound call records.”
“Think you’ll get it?”
I shrug as the light changes green. “I don’t see why not. Organized drug activity occurred at a property where we found that card, and a witness has been shot. The redirection on that phone number is highly suspicious. Maybe I can find some pattern with the numbers.”
“Or you’ll wind up having to hand it off to the FBI.”
A guy on a mountain bike nearly gives me a heart attack when he comes out of nowhere, flying in front of me as I turn. I jam on the brakes, missing the bike by inches. The guy looks back at me and has the balls to flip me the bird. Chad goes off, hanging out his window and giving the guy a master class in profanity. The cyclist keeps waving his middle finger at us, not looking where he’s going. I’m a half second from throwing the car into reverse and going after him, not that I have any authority over traffic laws, but before I do, the cyclist plows face-first into a street sign post and wipes out.
So that’s what instant karma looks like.
Screw it. With Chad still shouting at the guy about where he’s going to wind up wearing his little bike helmet, I step on the gas… and the idiot behind me decides I took too long, so he rides my ass. Easy fix for that… I flick on the emergency lights for a few seconds, which makes him back off. Let him think we’re undercover PD, assuming he doesn’t notice the federal license plates. Ugh. It almost feels like fate is telling me not to do this. Or maybe I’m moody and uncomfortable due to the bulletproof vest I put on under my shirt. It’s smaller and thinner than the tactical armor I wore at the raid, but it’s almost undetectable. Granted, if someone shoots me again, I’ll have broken ribs instead of bruised ones―but that beats a punctured vital organ.
No other irritations plague me on the rest of the trip. At least until I pull up in front of Haresh Kondapalli’s house and spot a pair of little girls running around the front yard in bathing suits, jumping over a lawn sprinkler. They appear to be about eight, and identical twins, utterly adorable blonde, blue-eyed angels. I’m no geneticist, but I don’t think Mr. Kondapalli is their dad.
The front door is open, and the flicker of an active television paints the plain white wall inside.
“What?” asks Chad, still wiping at his leg with napkins. “What are you staring at?”
“Unless Mr. Kondapalli has a young daughter who invited two friends over to play, I think I’m about to get frustrated.”
Chad leans closer to peer past me out the driver’s side window. “Cute kids. Why would they frustrate you?”
“Would you guess their last name is Kondapalli?”
“Oh.” Chad sits up straight. “Good point.”
I open the door and stand out of the car. The girls stop running about, watching me with curious expressions. When I approach the gate in their chain-link fence, the one nearer the house yells, “Mom, someone’s here.”
A blonde woman in her late thirties appears in the open doorway, wearing a pink half-tee and gym shorts. She’s as skinny as the kids and quite tan, gotta be a sun-worshipper. Who else in California leaves the AC off in July?
The kids resume playing with the water sprinkler, mostly ignoring us as we approach the porch.
“Who are you?” asks the woman, a hitch of nervousness in her voice.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” I hold up my ID and introduce Chad and myself. “I’m following up on an investigation. We’re looking for a man named Haresh Kondapalli.”
She makes a bewildered face and shrugs. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Why are you even asking me that?”
Chad clasps his hands in front of himself, his eyes locked on the woman’s feet. Her outfit doesn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, so he’s trying not to be creepy.
I open the manila and check the documents. “This is 4502 Cato Street?”
“Yes.”
“Are we in trouble?” asks one of the kids.
I smile at them. “No, sweetie. I’m just trying to fix some old records. No one’s in trouble.”
The girls grin at me and continue playing in the water.
“How long have you lived here, miss…?”
“Angie McCoy.” She looks up and to the side, biting her lip. Not a lie, but she’s probably not good at remembering specific dates. “Been a couple years now.”
“Would it be all right if we had a look around inside?”
She scrunches up her face. “Why would you need to do that?”
“This house is managed through HUD, which means we can perform inspections.”
“Oh.” Angie shakes her head. “You guys gotta update your system. We’re not receiving any kind of assistance. My husband and I bought this place on a foreclosure sale, ‘while back. Maybe the people who used to live here were on that HUD thing, but we aren’t.”
“Do you have a gun?” asks a childish voice to my left.
Both kids are standing by Chad, gazing up at him like Thor himself came to visit. Or at least Thor’s brunette brother.
“Looks like you’ve got a fan club,” I mutter.
Chad side-eyes me for an instant before smiling at the kids. “Federal agents are armed, yes.”
The girls take a step a back, though they still look awestruck.
“Hang on a sec?” asks Angie, before padding into the house. “I’ma call Chris and see if he remembers.”
My nerves prickle, for all I know, she’s going inside to grab a gun… but I have to hope she’s not going to do anything that stupid with two small girls here. Speaking of which, they continue to pepper Chad with question after question. At least he’s comfortable around children. If HUD doesn’t work out for him, he could get work as a mall Santa.
Angie wanders back into view with a cell phone against her head, muttering, “Uh huh,” over and over. After a few repetitions, she looks up at me. “Chris said he thinks the guy that used to live here was that Pally something. Place got foreclosed on or some such thing, and we got it at a cheap auction.”
Feels like she’s being straightforward. Grr. That should’ve been documented in our system, especially if someone receiving partial assistance defaulted on the payments. Oh, please be ineptitude and not complicity. “Have you ever heard of anyone named Marty?”
“Umm. I had a friend in high school named Marty. Chris works with someone named Marty, and I think the real estate guy was named Martin. That counts as a ‘Marty’ right?”
“Yeah.” I feel like slapping myself in the forehead, but I stay professional. “Thank you for your time. That’s all I needed.”
Angie nods. “Do you need any kinda documents about the mortgage?”
“Thanks, but I can verify that from the office.” Which I probably ought to have done before driving out here. “No need to bother you any more than we already have.”
>
“All right. Have a nice day.”
“You too. Sorry for bothering you.” My smile is only somewhat plastic, and as soon as I’m plodding back to the car and these people can’t see my face, I scowl.
Chad strolls beside me, making an exaggerated show of looking all around.
“You see something? What are you looking for?” I ask, my hand edging toward my sidearm.
He grins. “Wild geese. Or maybe just a goose.”
I glare at the clouds, shake my head.
When we reach the car, Chad shields his hand over his eyes, searching left and right. I pick my eye with my middle finger, which makes him laugh and get in. The second my fingers touch the door handle, my cell phone rings. I pull the door open anyway, and stand in the space between it and the car while answering.
“Hello?”
“Sam?” asks Mary Lou, sounding worried. “You got a minute?”
“Sure.” I sink into the car and sit. “Is something wrong?”
“Last night… I thought I saw someone prowling around the house. Ricky went outside to check. He didn’t see anyone, but the weirdest thing happened.”
I rub the bridge of my nose, my mood slam-shifting from frustration to anger in an instant. If those gang bastards go near my sister… “Weird how?”
“Well, like right before I spotted the guy, Ruby Grace just starts screaming outta nowhere. Like somethin’ scared the devil outta her. When I’m running down the hall to her room, I get hit with this overpowering feeling of fear. Like someone’s standing right behind me, about to stab me. I couldn’t move for a sec, but I screamed and ran back to our room ta wake Ricky. He went on and checked, and Ruby Grace was fine, just a li’l ol’ nightmare.”
My mind jumps back to how I felt in the woods, that ponderous feeling of impending doom, as if death itself hung on my shoulders. It’s too bizarre to even contemplate, so I push it aside. “You said Ricky didn’t find anyone?”
“No, Sam. No tracks, nothin’ outta place. He thinks I had one of those uhh, ‘waking nightmare’ things. Told me to forget it, but I keep thinking about Ruby Grace. If I had a nightmare, why was she screaming?”
