On his way to get a flashlight from his car, Will called Chelmin’s cell. The call went to voicemail, but the message that Will heard said that the voicemail box was full.
In the elevator, Will sent Chelmin a text message.
When he reached his car, Will decided that going back to Kendra’s apartment at night was probably not a good idea. If someone was watching it, showing a light would tip his hand. Instead, he decided to spend a few minutes doing something that was so obvious that he and anyone else investigating Kendra Farrell’s murder had probably forgotten to try it.
In less than a minute, he found Kendra’s car. It was parked in her assigned stall, and one look inside told him why she had rented a car to take her son to Texas.
Every seat had been slashed and the upholstery pulled apart. The glove compartment door had been removed, the instrument panel pulled, every mirror smashed, the tires cut to ribbons, and the engine compartment was a wasteland of slashed tubes, wires, and belts. The damage went beyond a search: The car had been systematically vandalized.
Will took a few pictures with his phone, then headed back to the department, where he found his uncle waiting for him.
“What’s up?” Will said.
“Chief Bainbridge is missing,” Arthur Spaulding said. “He didn’t come home last night, and his wife can’t reach him on his cell phone.”
Seventeen
Before Will could answer, the door opened, and Chelmin limped in, looking tired and worn, and sat at an empty desk. “Have you had dinner?” he asked.
Arthur Spaulding shook his head, no.
“Not yet,” Will said, “but Chief Bainbridge is missing.”
Chelmin shook his head. “It never rains, unless it pours.”
Will asked, “Anything new, Mr. Chelmin?”
“Not very much. Malone got called away right after you and I spoke. He’s shorthanded, and he just got another case. That left me without transportation, and that’s a huge base.”
Chief Spaulding asked, “You walked here?”
Chelmin shook his head. “Called a cab. Took forever.”
Will said, “I’ve been trying to call you. Your voicemail message box is full, so I sent a text.”
Chelmin frowned. “I’ve been having trouble with this phone the last few days. Malone was trying to straighten it out for me when he had to leave.”
Chelmin turned to Arthur Spaulding.
“Chief, I’d like to grab a bite to eat, then find a room for the night. Malone did manage to lay on that chopper, and we’ve got to be at the airport, ready to fly, early tomorrow morning.”
Will got to his feet. “I know just the place. And I’ve got lots to tell you. Starting with, I found Kendra’s car. But we can still use that chopper to look for Chief Bainbridge.”
Arthur Spaulding smiled. “That’s good news. I’m going to put out a BOLO, but let’s hope Bainbridge got stuck out in the desert. He’s an old desert tortoise. Used to prospect for gold on weekends. Carries water and food in his car, and a sleeping bag, I’d bet.”
Eighteen
Will gave Chelmin the keys to his Camaro, then got a patrol unit out of the lot and had Chelmin follow him to the Bunkhouse, for Will’s money the cleanest, quietest, motel in town.
They each got a room, then met in the coffee shop restaurant next door. Between bites of his steak, Will filled Chelmin in on what he’d turned up that day, meanwhile working on Chelmin’s phone, emptying the voicemailbox of fifty identical messages that were nothing but several seconds of sixty-cycle hum. Then he switched the phone to ring whenever an incoming call arrived and showed Chelmin how to empty the voicemail box and how to access and send texts.
“Someone did a number on your phone,” Will said.
“Malone worked on it for ten minutes, meanwhile telling me how screwed up it was. Then he got a call and had to take off.”
“It’s working now. Be sure you charge it tonight.”
“Wilco,” Chelmin said. “I’ll meet you back here for coffee at 0530.”
§
Will entered the coffee shop at half-past five on the nose. As he slid into a booth, his phone rang—Chelmin.
“You downstairs?” Chelmin asked.
“Just got here.”
“It’s raining hard at Twentynine Palms and will be here, too, pretty soon,” he said. “I just talked to their Air Ops, and the ceiling is down to a hundred feet. Nothing’s flying.”
“I could go back to bed,” Will said.
“Got a better idea. Order me coffee, black, and a short stack, side of bacon. I’ll be there quick as I can.”
Chelmin arrived fifteen minutes later and slid in across from Will, who had started on his own pancakes.
“Is there a drugstore or 7-11 open at this hour?”
Will swallowed his food and nodded his head. “Right around the corner, a CVS. It never closes.”
“Good. We’ll buy a pack of light bulbs and go look at Kendra’s apartment.”
“I told, you, it’s been tossed by an expert.”
“Let’s have a look, anyway,” Chelmin said, then dug into his food.
§
It was just light enough to see outside when Will turned the key in the lock, stood to one side, and then pushed the door to Kendra’s apartment open. When nothing happened, he dropped into a crouch, drew his gun and ran through the door.
Nothing happened.
Holding a flashlight high over his head, Chelmin pushed in behind Will, then shut the door. When his flashlight beam found a floor lamp, he handed Will a bulb. When they could see, both men pushed into the apartment and stopped in the middle of the living room, looking around. Behind them and to the right they saw a kitchen, a jumble of broken dishes, open food containers, pots, pans, and eating utensils littering the floor. To their left, a corridor led to what Will supposed was a pair of bedrooms and a bathroom.
Something caught Will’s eye, and he ran forward to grab a small, cylindrical object half hidden behind two books atop a bookcase. He turned it around in his hand and pulled a cord out of its base.
“Security camera,” he said. “A red light just came on.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that it was turned on. Just a moment ago. Probably has a motion sensor.”
“So it might show what happened in this apartment before we came?”
Will turned the camera over and peered closely at it.
“No. It doesn’t have a memory card.”
“Then why would Kendra have it?” Chelmin said.
“Maybe it isn’t hers,” Will replied.
“Meaning?”
“Maybe someone is using it to watch this apartment. Probably streaming video over the Internet.”
“We need to get out?” Chelmin said.
Will cocked his head, thinking. “Maybe not just yet. If someone was watching this, it will take them a few minutes to get here. Before we go, let’s find out if this was streaming pictures and who’s watching them.”
“How?”
Instead of answering, Will removed several books from the top shelf, then held one aloft in triumph. He turned it over for Chelmin to see the phone attached to its back with duct tape. “The tech guys might be able to learn who’s on the other end of this.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows, followed almost instantly by the sound of raindrops crashing against the glass. Chelmin moved to the window to look. At that moment, a bright ruby appeared on his chest. Will leaped across the room and knocked Chelmin to the floor just before the glass shattered.
A hole appeared in the wall behind the spot that Chelmin had occupied.
Chelmin rolled away from the window, then knelt on his left knee and pushed his right trouser leg up until he could grasp his prosthesis. Then he twisted one side of it and came away with a two-foot long piece of plastic shaped like a rifle stock. He pulled his .357 from its holster. With one deft move, he jammed the grip of the long-barreled pistol into the front of the stock, creating a fun
ctional carbine.
Will said, “He’s in the next building. Maybe the roof?”
Chelmin said, “How far is that?”
Will shrugged. “About a hundred yards?”
“Meters. You’re in the Army.”
In spite of himself, Will giggled. “Meters, then. A hundred meters or so.”
“Keep him occupied for a bit,” Chelmin said. “I’m going up to the roof.”
Nineteen
As Chelmin crawled toward the door, Will crawled to the lamp and pulled the plug from the wall. When the light went out, the older man got to his feet, opened the door. The hallway light turned him into a silhouette as he scrambled through the doorway. A second shot shattered another pane, and the bullet buried itself in the doorjamb.
Will crawled to another window about ten feet from the shattered one and facing the same direction. He lay on the floor, feet facing the window, and raised his cell phone, the lens of its camera pointing at the window, and used two fingers to zoom in on the shooter.
The window shattered. The phone exploded in his hand.
“There goes $700,” Will mumbled to himself.
Another shot came through the wall below the window and blew a hole in the refrigerator.
Yet another bullet came through the wall. Will began to roll along the floor toward the bedrooms. Once inside the corridor and out of the shooter’s view, he got to his feet, drew his personal Glock 27, and cautiously peered around the corner—and jerked back when the laser beam brushed his cheek just below his right eye.
An instant later, a bullet hit the wall behind him.
Will stuck his gun around the corner and aimed in the general direction of the window and pulled off two shots before retreating.
A few seconds ticked by before Will realized that the shot he expected wasn’t coming.
Dropping to his knees, he peeked around the corner, gun raised. In the dim, pre-dawn light, he saw no one on the opposite rooftop. Will aimed at where he thought the sniper might reappear.
Half a minute went by. Then a dark figure with a scoped rifle popped up. As Will began to squeeze the trigger, the sniper leveled his piece at Will’s window.
A gunshot came from above Will’s head, and the sniper staggered backward, then stood erect. A second shot dropped him.
Will holstered his gun and ran for the stairwell.
Twenty
Will flung the roof door open and raced to the corner where Chelmin, soaked to the skin, was snapping the rifle stock back into place on his prosthesis.
“You hit him,” Will said.
“Twice. He was wearing body armor, so I had to go for a head shot. By the way, Agent Spaulding, you’re bleeding. Did he hit you?”
Will brushed his forehead and glanced at the blood on his hand. He smiled. “He got my phone—a piece of glass or metal must have hit me.”
“You were calling for backup?”
Will shook his head. “Let’s get over to the other roof and make sure he’s dead.”
Chelmin uttered that odd sound, something between a cough and a snort.
“I blew off the back of his head, Will. He’s not going anywhere. Let’s lock up the apartment and get back to the Bunkhouse for some dry clothes, and on the way, I’ll call the FBI.”
“Isn’t this a Barstow PD case?”
“Not after some half-assed, third-rate sniper tried to kill two federal agents.”
§
It was a little after 0800 and raining hard when, a tall, slender, white FBI agent named Thomas Blair rapped on Chelmin’s motel-room door. After exchanging IDs, Chelmin invited him in.
Chelmin said, “I assume you’re here for our statements and that you have the crime scene secured?”
Blair nodded. “There’s a team there now. This your partner?”
Chelmin said, “Yeah. Special Agent Will Spaulding. Spaulding is also a Barstow PD detective, on military leave, and his dad is chief of police here.”
Clair said, “I’ve been following your adventures in the San Bernberdoo papers, Spaulding. Any of that true?”
Will shook his head. “I stopped reading the papers the day I arrested Taylor Prinze.”
Blair pulled out a notebook. “Do you have an opinion about your shooter’s motivation? Was he after you because of the Prinze trial, or was it something to do with the Farrell murder?”
Again Will shook his head. “No idea. Never saw the shooter’s face."
Chelmin said, “I did. Dark-skinned Latino, about thirty. Five-eight or so, 180 pounds.”
Will said, “Sounds like half the guys I’ve arrested for drunk and disorderly. One thing, though: The Prinze family definitely knows that I’m in town and that I was in the Desert Mirage Apartments yesterday. They own that complex, by the way. Yesterday, I had their security guy, Harry Gelber, ex-Barstow PD sergeant, get me access to the apartment. Then he got a call and said he was ordered to escort me off the premises.”
“You think he set you up?” Blair said.
“No. He’s an alcoholic. Has been as long as I’ve known him—but I can’t see him having anything to do with that ambush. But I’m pretty sure he had to tell his bosses where I was headed.”
Blair wrote in the notebook, then turned to Chelmin. “Do you have any reason to suppose that somebody connected to the Farrell murder would try to kill you?”
Chelmin opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he opened it again. “Yesterday, I wouldn’t have said so. Today—I am not so sure.
“At first, this seemed like a garden-variety abduction and murder. I’m still looking for a motive, but from what I’ve been able to see in one day at the Marine base, there’s plenty out there that could interest terrorists or O.C. types—small arms, bombs, ammunition, rockets, explosives, uniforms, ground radar, night vision equipment—thousands of items, really. The victim was in data processing, and it occurs to me that, if you wanted to steal something really big, you might need a computer. And you would need someone to operate the computer.
“And one more thing,” Chelmin added. “The manner in which Farrell was killed was quite unusual: death by exposure. I would ask you, and if you need it in writing, you’ll get it—I ask you to run that particular M.O. through your serial-killer database.”
Will looked at Chelmin with renewed interest. That was the longest speech he’d heard out of the man’s mouth since they met.
Blair turned a page in his notebook. “OK. Spaulding, I’ll start with your boss’ statement. Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee and come back in half an hour.”
Will got to his feet. “Bring you guys back a cup?”
“Now you’re talking,” Blair said. “I was still in bed when the call came. Cream and sugar, and get some sweet rolls or doughnuts, too, will you?”
Twenty-One
His hands full, Will kicked the door, twice. A moment later, it opened, and there stood a slender man with thinning, sandy hair, and acne scars on his fair cheeks. “Who are you?” the man said.
“He’s OK,” Blair called from behind the man. “Army CID. Name of Spaulding.”
The sandy-haired man stepped back, and Will entered the room. He put the coffee and doughnuts on the dresser and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his face.
“Spaulding, this is Special Agent Rufus Hollingsworth, the ASIC of the San Bernardino office, and my boss.”
Will extended his right hand, and Hollingsworth gave it a perfunctory shake. “So, you’re the infamous Willson Spaulding,” he said. “I thought you were Barstow PD?”
“I joined the Army and was grabbed by CID.”
“They’re lucky to have you. Let me tell you something, Spaulding. I’ve known your old man since you were in diapers. In fact, I met his brother, your birth father, a little before he went off to war and got killed.”
“I don’t think Dad ever mentioned you,” Will replied.
“He wouldn’t. I was San Berdoo County Sheriffs, and we met on an undercover assignment. Anyway, what I want to say
is that, when that nonsense began to appear in the papers, I had to check it out, for both personal and professional reasons. And there’s nothing there. There’s no biker who knows you as anything except the S.O.B. cop who busted him and took him in. No meth head or drug cooker who says you robbed him of cash or drugs. There’s no informant who has any dirt on you. There’s no money or drugs missing from any of your busts. There’s no citizen with a beef about how you treated him. And believe me, we looked. Tried to find just one guy who would say that you were bent or brutal or anything but professional. And we couldn’t. Just so you know, Spaulding.”
Will smiled. “Thank you for that. But starting about two months ago, I put out feelers—job feelers—to other California agencies, including Highway Patrol, the A.G.’s office, San Berdoo police and sheriffs, Rialto Police, Palm Springs, the L.A. Sheriffs—about 30 agencies. And nobody was interested.”
“Because they didn’t want to be bothered with due diligence. It’s easier to say no.”
“I guess. Lets change the subject. Do we have anything on that shooter yet? And where did Chelmin go?”
Blair spoke up. “Chelmin is downstairs in our mobile communications center using the secure phone. We don’t have an I.D. on the shooter yet. If his prints are in our database, it could take a few hours to find them. He had gang tattoos associated with a Salvadoran gang that operates here, El Salvador, and Mexico.”
Will nodded. “You want my statement now?”
“In a few,” Blair said. “I’m going to have some coffee and one or three of those doughnuts.”
“Me, too,” Hollingsworth said.
§
Chelmin returned just as Will finished giving his statement. “The forecast is for rain through tonight,” he told the room. “I’ve laid on the chopper for tomorrow, weather willing.”
“To look for Chief Bainbridge?” Will asked.
“Sure, we can do that,” Chelmin replied. “But I mostly want to look at the Marine base and see how those rail lines are connected to the rest of the complex. Try to see how somebody could have put Kendra’s body on that train without being seen.”
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