Malone got out of the car and waited for Chelmin to do the same. “I don’t know where she was born, but she’s a U.S. citizen. Works in the embassy. Mission essential, so she’s giving birth there and gets ten days off. Henderson will be back in about two weeks, assuming there are no complications.”
“So, it’s just you, a secretary, and a driver?”
“For now, My driver is a Marine MP. I’ll have him do some of the scut work that comes along with every investigation—I can drive myself.”
Chelmin’s phone rang, and he pulled it out, put it to his ear, then shook his head. “Damn thing drives me crazy. Rings, and there’s nobody on the line.”
Malone said, “Let’s go to my office, and I’ll take a look. If you like.”
Walking ahead, Malone pushed open an outer door and held it for Chelmin. It was cool inside the airconditioned building, and Malone led the older agent down a carpeted hallway to a thick security door. He put his palm on a pad, and the door opened with a loud click.
“Looks like the Marines know something about traveling in style, too,” Chelmin said.
Behind the first desk sat a woman somewhere north of forty, tall and angular, with dark hair pulled into a severe bun and broad features adorned with a lot of cosmetics. A high-necked blouse and dark slacks contributed to her slightly mannish appearance. She beamed at Malone, seeming not to notice his guest.
“Brenda Zeravla, this is Rudy Chelmin, Army CID,” Malone said.
Brenda turned her head to smile at Chelmin. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said in a well-modulated but surprisingly low-pitched voice, then turned back to Malone. A smile lit her face anew. “Your messages are on your desk, Marcus.”
Chelmin could barely contain his amusement. Brenda was obviously crazy about her boss, he realized.
Malone said, “Brenda, could you bring us coffee?”
Brenda rose to her feet, and Chelmin noted that she was an inch or so taller than he was. She smiled at Malone and headed for an alcove with a coffee maker.
Malone whispered, “She makes the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.”
With Chelmin close behind, Malone entered his private office, where he removed his rumpled sports jacket and hung it on a clothes tree. Gesturing toward a chair next to his desk, Malone sat down in what seemed to be an expensive office chair.
Brenda appeared, carrying a small tray with two cups, a carton of half-and-half, and a small bowl of packets containing sugar and artificial sweeteners.
Chelmin said, “Just black, thanks,” and took a cup.
As Brenda left, Malone quickly riffled through a small stack of messages.
“Nothing here that can’t wait,” he said. "Let me have a look at that phone.”
While Malone pushed virtual buttons and initiated a running commentary about what a mess the phone was, Chelmin looked around the office. Decor, with a singular exception, was General Services Administration Standard. The exceptions were half a dozen large framed paintings of flowers, the desert landscape, and desert wildlife.
“This all your work?” Chelmin asked.
“Such as it is,” Malone replied, concentrating on the phone. He looked up and smiled. “That’s how I relax,” he said, as his own phone rang.
Malone put Chelmin’s phone down on his desk and picked up his own instrument. “Malone,” he said.
After a few moments, he said “Oh shit” and looked at Chelmin.
“I’ll be over right away,” Malone said and hung up.
“Trouble?” Chelmin said.
“We’ve got a little museum here. Really, just one building. Marine memorabilia from every war from 1812 onward. Somebody broke in last night, and the gunny in charge just discovered it.”
“What did they take, if you know?”
“The gunny is taking inventory. But he thinks that a Chinese RPG—captured in Afghanistan—is gone. And maybe some other stuff, too.”
“Tell me that there was no live ammo in that museum,” Chelmin said, starting to get up.
“That’s the big deal. The gunny thinks there mighta been a few RPG rounds that EOD hasn’t disabled yet.”
Malone got to his feet, scooped up Chelmin’s phone and handed it to him, then grabbed his jacket from the pole and struggled into it.
“Brenda can set you up with anyone you need to interview,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
Chelmin watched him stride through the outer office, turning his head to wink at Brenda, who returned a radiant smile.
Something going on there, Chelmin told himself. And then, unbidden, his mind flashed to Noreen, his late wife. The way she moved, her smile, her scent. The feel of her body against his. It had been a long time, but he still missed her. And he hoped that one day he would find out how she had been in a sleeping bag that was not her own, in an area where sixty-eight-ton armored vehicles traveled. And with another man’s semen in her. The Marines had closed their investigation with a finding of “accidental death,” but Chelmin knew in his bones that his wife had been raped and murdered.
Abruptly, he returned to reality. Another woman was dead, and if Chelmin might never know who killed Noreen, at least he could find this lady’s killer.
§
With directions from Brenda, Chelmin found the base computer center. The data processing center was on the fifth and uppermost floor, a series of large rooms filled with small cubicles. With the assistance of a young man he encountered in the hallway, Chelmin found an open office occupied by a slim, very pretty, stylishly-dressed woman whose unlined face belied the fifty-four summers it had seen. A nameplate on her desk identified her as Rhonda Hawkins, Data Processing Manager.
Chelmin rapped lightly on the door. Hawkins looked up.
He held up his badge and said, “Special Agent Chelmin, Army CID. Can you help me, Rhonda?”
He was rewarded with a dazzling smile.
“It’s been quite a while since I heard that one,” Hawkins said. “Come in and sit down.”
Chelmin found the chair next to her desk and with a little effort slid into it.
Hawkins said, “What brings you to my parlor?”
Chelmin said, “Said the spider to the fly.”
They both laughed.
Chelmin said, “I’m here about Kendra Farrell.”
Tears filled Hawkins’s eyes, and she reached for a tissue from a box on her desk. “That poor girl. Do you know what happened to her yet?”
Chelmin shook his head. “That’s why I’m here. What can you tell me about her?”
“Well, she was very good at her job. She was well-liked, at least in this department, and…
“Excuse me, did you say you were Army?”
Chelmin nodded. “Army Criminal Investigation Department.”
“I thought that the Navy would look into this? There’s a mister Murphy—no, wait, that’s not it. Is it McCarthy? Maguire? I know it starts with an M.”
“Malone. Special Agent Marcus Malone.”
“That’s it. Anyway, why isn’t...Malone investigating her death?”
“It’s a joint investigation. The Army is involved because Mrs. Farrell’s remains were found on a train at Fort Fremont. In a boxcar full of boots.”
Hawkins looked thoughtful. “I understand now.”
“Did Kendra ever have trouble with anyone at work?”
Hawkins’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said and picked up the receiver.
“Rhonda Hawkins,” she said and listened.
“Yes sir, I understand, but I’m with a visitor, a Special Agent ...”
Chelmin said, “Chelmin.”
“Special Agent Chelmin is here, about poor Kendra. Yes, sir, of course.”
Hawkins put the phone down. “I’m sorry, Agent Chelmin, but I must ask you to come back. My supervisor wants me to come to a budget meeting, and I’m going to need a few minutes to get my ducks lined up before I go downstairs.”
Chelmin got to his feet. “Of course. I’ll come back.�
�
“Soon,” Hawkins said, smiling. “Come back soon.”
§
As Chelmin and Malone drove off in the Marine sedan, Will got in his black-and-white and called Barstow PD Dispatch for Kendra Farrell’s address. Five minutes went by before the operator called back: 40 Desert Mirage Drive, Apartment 503.
The Desert Mirage complex was east of central Barstow, a community of 800 apartments in twenty-one buildings set around a shopping center and a recreation complex with indoor and outdoor swimming pools, two gyms, a sauna, a climbing wall, outdoor batting cages, a miniature golf course, a go-kart racetrack, as well as a family-friendly area with a carousel, swings, a big jungle gym, and a picnic area.
Will found the leasing office and pulled into a guest parking spot. Inside the foyer, everything was spotless. Will ignored the pretty young woman at the reception desk and turned left to enter a door marked “Private.” Inside, behind a counter, sat a chubby, sweet-faced Latina in her twenties. She wore a security guard uniform and looked up from her comic book to frown at Will. “This area is off-limits to guests,” she said.
Will took out his Barstow PD badge. “I need Gelber?”
“Mr. Gelber is in a meeting,” she said, glancing sideways at a closed door.
“You mean, he’s sleeping off lunch. Wake him up. Police business.”
“Mr. Gelber left very strict instructions…
“Yeah, yeah,” Will said, pivoting and then advancing on the door.
“You can’t go in there!” she hissed.
Will tried the doorknob, then pounded on the door hard. Hearing nothing, he started pounding again until the door from the lobby flew open and the woman from the receptionist desk poked her head in.
“Police business,” Will said, showing his badge. “Go away.”
The receptionist withdrew.
He pounded on the door yet again, and his efforts were rewarded with a shout: “Blanca, I told you, no interruptions!”
“Harry, it’s Will Spaulding. Get yourself together. I need your help.”
“Will? What the hell’s going on?”
“Ten minutes. I’ll be out front, in my unit.”
Will turned to the Latina. “Blanca? Get him the keys to building 40, and to apartment 503, including the mailbox. I’ll also need a list of all building residents and their assigned parking spaces. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Make sure he uses mouthwash and his fly is zipped.”
§
Fifteen minutes went by, and just as Will was on the point of going back inside, Harry Gelber opened the door to Will’s car and climbed in.
Gelber was about forty, tall and dark-haired. But for crooked teeth, he was good-looking in a matinee-idol way. He had been Will’s training officer until his abrupt retirement for job-related stress, which is to say after he began coming to work reeking of whiskey.
“What’s going on, Will? I thought you were in the Army? What about that send-off we threw you?”
“Long story short, I’m temporarily in Army CID and working a murder. Kendra Farrell, apartment 503, at 40 Desert Mirage Drive.”
“Good-looking bottle blonde, with a little boy? Dead?”
“She’s dead. And I didn’t know her kid was here.”
“Used to see her taking him to daycare—every morning about 7:30.”
“There’s daycare here in the complex?”
“Lots of young stuff there, if you were to go looking at the right time of day.”
“That’s our first stop.”
“Back out and go left. Last building on this street.”
§
“Mrs. Farrell canceled her daycare contract the week before Christmas,” said Mrs. Choi, the chunky, fifty-something executive director of Mirage Cares. “She said that she and her husband were reconciling and that she was taking Spencer back to Texas until she could arrange a job transfer. She worked for the Marines here, I understand, but she was looking for a government job in the San Antonio area.”
“How did she seem to you, Mrs. Choi?” Will said.
“How do you mean?”
“Did she appear to be any different than on other times that you met?”
Mrs. Choi scrunched up her forehead and rubbed her broad nose. “Maybe. Yes. A little. She seemed tired, and just a little−−untidy. Usually, she was neat as a pin, and so was little Spencer. And she seemed, well, just a little stressed, maybe.”
“And that was the week before Christmas?”
Mrs. Choi consulted her computer. “Yes, December 18th. A Friday.”
Will had one leg in his squad car when Mrs. Choi came through the door, waving.
“Officer!” she called. “I just thought of something.”
Will pulled his leg back and headed toward Choi, pulling out a notebook as he went.
Mrs. Choi said, “I don’t know if it means anything, but Mrs. Farrell wasn’t driving her own car.”
“What kind of car did she usually drive, Mrs. Choi?”
“A 2014 Accord. My husband drives the same car. His is black, and hers is silver.”
Will wrote down “Silver 2014 Accord” and looked up. “What was she driving when you last saw her?”
“I think it was a Ford. Blue. Smaller than her Accord. It might have been a rental.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Choi. You’ve been a big help.”
Will got back in the car.
“Harry, do you keep a list of the models and license numbers of your tenants' cars?”
Gelber nodded. “Let me call Blanca. She’s a lot smarter than she looks.”
Fifteen
Will called Chelmin and told him that Kendra’s car was a 2014 Accord, not a 2013 Camry and that its license plate was 6 VPN908.
“Malone was wrong,” Will said, “except the color."
Chelmin said, “Maybe she got a new car. It might take months before those records get updated.”
“Maybe so. But now we know what we’re looking for.”
“Stay in touch,” Chelmin said and hung up.
As Will started the engine, Gelber’s phone rang. He glanced at the phone, then turned his back, and spoke so quietly into the phone that Will couldn’t make out what he was saying.
When Gelber turned back to Will, his face pale and his eyes flared, almost wild looking.
“This is as far as I go with you,” Gelber said.
“What’s going on?”
“That was my boss. I am ordered to escort you off the property and return to my office. Forthwith.”
Will considered this for a moment.
Gelber said, “Will, I know that stuff in the papers is all bullshit. You’re a standup guy, but I can’t lose this job.”
Will nodded. “Go. No hard feelings.”
Gelber opened the door and got out. On the seat he had occupied was a sheaf of paper, a key ring with three keys, a plastic key card, and a garage door opener.
Gelber said, “Just lose all that, will you?” He slammed the door and walked away.
§
Will left his squad car in the PD lot and went in through the detectives' entrance.
He sat down at his desk and booted up the computer. He found that Sun Property Management operated the Desert Mirage Apartments, but the housing complex was owned by Royal Development, a private partnership between Prinze Enterprizes and Bernardino Development Corporation. According to the California Secretary of State’s website, the officers of Prinze Enterprizes were Taylor Prinze, Lincoln Prinze, Alexa Prinze, and Archibald Prinze.
Will put out a BOLO for Kendra Farrell’s Accord, canceled the one for the Camry, and started calling Barstow’s rental agencies, of which there were precisely four. The manager of Hoffman Rentals, the third call, said that he thought that Kendra had rented a car from him and that he would check.
Half an hour later, he called back: Kendra had rented a blue Ford Focus on December 18th; she returned it December 29th with 4,000 more miles on the odometer.
Will asked the manager to hold the car and arranged for a County Sheriff’s crime scene investigation team to examine it. The car had been rented four times since Kendra returned it, and chances were slim-to-none that anything of value would be found, but Will wanted to leave no stone unturned.
§
An hour after dark, Will got into his own car, a five-year-old Camaro, stopped at the Chevron station on Main Street and filled its tank, and then drove back to the Desert Mirage Apartments. Forty Desert Mirage was on the outer ring of the complex, a five-story security building with underground parking. The remote that Gelber had left got him into the garage. He left his car in a guest parking spot.
The key card got him into an elevator. Up one level from the garage Will found a small gym, a laundry room with half a dozen clothes washers and dryers, and a snack area with dispensing machines that took credit cards or cash for soft drinks, chips, candy bars, and other convenience food. There was even a machine that dispensed canned goods, including vegetables, soups, and noodle dishes. Will went through every room on the floor, looking for a spot where Kendra might have been imprisoned, a lockable room. He found no suitable space.
Back in the elevator, Will went up to the roof, where a heated swimming pool was alive with children and young families. The only lockable roof space was a maintenance shed, but the door was unlocked, and the shed was jam-packed with folding chairs and pool supplies. Spider webs barred the entrance, and Will took that as a sign that no one had been in or out for days. He took the stairs down one floor and used the passkey to enter Kendra’s apartment.
It was hot, pitch dark, and reeking of rotting food. Will used the cell phone light to find a light switch, but it didn’t work. Advancing slowly into the apartment, he saw why: All the light bulbs had been removed.
That was only the beginning: The kitchen stove had been pulled out from the wall, ditto the refrigerator, which was open. Every kitchen drawer was open, its contents dumped onto the floor. Somebody had been here looking for something, Will realized. Somebody with expertise in searching a room.
Somebody, Will realized, like Harry Gelber.
Sixteen
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