M-9

by Marvin J. Wolf

  “Am I in danger, Rudy?”

  “I don’t think so. If Guerrero meant to kill you, it would have happened last night. On the other hand—Cheryl, do you have any vacation time saved?”

  “More than three weeks. I already put in for two weeks before Easter.”

  “Good. For now, just keep your eyes and ears open. Be a little wary. Don’t say anything to your boss, or your co-workers, about last night.

  “And I want you to buy a phone. A cheap, prepaid one. Use that one to call me and for nothing else.”

  “Got it. Rudy, I am so thrilled that we’ve reconnected. I want to see you again, soon.”

  “I’m working this case, the one I told you about, and it might be a few days or a week or longer. But we’ll talk every day, OK?”

  “Wonderful. And Rudy, you shouldn’t feel guilty about those men you killed. They would have killed you if you hadn’t stopped them. Please, forgive yourself.”

  Chelmin’s head spun. Nobody in thirty years had been so kind to him, so concerned with his feelings. “Sweet Cheryl,” he said. “It’s not guilt, but sadness. I don’t like the fact that those men are dead, that their families will never see them again. They were criminals, but also some mother’s son, someone’s sweetheart, someone’s father or brother. They were human beings, and I am sad that I had to take their lives.”

  “Rudy... Rudy... I wish...”

  “Me, too, Cheryl. Maybe... I have to go. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Fifty-four

  Was that a tear that Chelmin wiped away? Will wondered as he slid back into the booth across from his boss.

  “How did it go with Portillo?”

  “Better than I expected,” Chelmin said, signaling the waitress for more coffee.

  When she had refilled his cup, and taken Will’s breakfast order, Chelmin pulled out his notebook and briefed Will on what he had learned from Portillo.

  Then he summarized his visit with the FBI and Santa Ana police.

  “So, Portillo believed that this Marine was an associate of the M-9 leader—"

  “Dalton Guerrero. But Rafael Cardenas, the Santa Ana Intel sergeant, doesn’t believe it. He thinks that Flowers was freelancing and that he told his crew what they needed to hear to do business with a Marine.”

  “What do you think, Boss?’

  “I haven’t finished telling you about Santa Ana,” he replied, and to Will’s growing incredulity, Chelmin described the scene in El Vaquero with Dalton Guerrero.

  “I don’t understand,” Will said. “Why would he come out of the shadows and do that?”

  “Do you know any Shakespeare?”

  Will shook his head. “I remember a few lines from Hamlet, in high school English.”

  Chelmin raised his chin and in a faux British accent recited, "‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ And that is from Hamlet."

  “I’m a little dense. What are you trying to say, boss?”

  “I’m saying that there had to be a really good reason for Dalton Guerrero—if that’s actually who it was—to come forward and thank me for killing his crew leader. He said that I had done him a service, and he implied that, by trying to kill us, then killing a judge, a DA, and a few other people, Flowers had gone off the reservation and was acting entirely on his own.

  “Maybe that’s exactly what it was. Maybe Guerrero was trying to get me to prevent the wrath of the state of California, not to mention the full force of the federal government, from coming down on his organization, by convincing me that he had nothing to do with what Flowers and his crew pulled.”

  The waitress appeared with Spaulding’s eggs, toast and bacon, and for the next few minutes, Chelmin sat back, thinking and sipping coffee, while Will started in on his food.

  “What else could he be up to?” Will asked over his half-eaten meal.

  “That bothers me. Let’s look at a couple of possibilities. Maybe Flowers was not off the reservation. Maybe Guerrero sent this Marine to Flowers, as Portillo told me, and maybe that particular guy is somehow important to Guerrero. So, by telling me that Flowers acted on his own, he’s denying any organizational or personal connection to the Marine, the one who drives a white pickup. And that makes me wonder if this Marine could be part of something much bigger.”

  Will swigged a little coffee. “Maybe the Marine isn’t a business connection. Maybe he’s a friend or relative. A cousin or a brother-in-law.”

  Chelmin nodded. “That’s good. We might be able to check that if the Marine is actually based here at Barstow.”

  Will said, “If he has the ability to drive on and off without being searched, that argues that he’s known to the security force. So, he’d almost have to be stationed here.

  “Unless he’s stationed elsewhere but comes here frequently.”

  Chelmin nodded. “Good. That’s something else to check.”

  “So, what’s first?”

  “I’m going back to San Berdoo to see Blair at the FBI and tell him, face to face, what I just told you. There might be more to this than meets the eye, and he might have some ideas that we don’t.

  “While I’m away, I want you to run the DMV database for small white pickups registered to owners in and around Barstow. Then go see Malone and ask him for the list of white pickup trucks registered on the base that I asked his secretary to get for me. Her name is Brenda Zeralva, and I think she has the hots for Malone, though I can’t say if he reciprocates.

  “When you finish that, go see this co-worker that Kendra was involved with. Get Malone to set up an interview. What’s his name?”

  “Eugene Alter. He’s some kind of computer systems guy, near as I can tell.”

  “Good. And thanks for getting the phone company to stop those calls. Call me when you’ve spoken with Malone and had a chance to interview Alter.”

  Fifty-five

  Blair listened intently as Chelmin described his encounter with Guerrero, then exploded into laughter so loud that a secretary peeked into the office to assure herself that all was well.

  “What a story!” Blair said. “What did Barney Lynch have to say about that?”

  Chelmin shook his head. “I didn’t share it with him. And I’d like to tell you why.”

  “Oh, shit,” Blair said. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  It was Chelmin’s turn to shrug. “I went to Lynch first thing. He sent me to Cardenas, the Santa Ana Police Intel Sergeant, whom he described as the leading authority on the M-9. So, I went to see Cardenas, and he’s got this fancy PowerPoint show about the M-9. Very informative, in a classroom kind of way. When I told him about what I learned from Portillo—the banger we grabbed at the bank in Barstow—Cardenas pooh-poohed it. His take was that Flowers, the crew boss, was freelancing, that he told his crew that the Marine had top management’s blessing, but that Guerrero would never send an Anglo, much less a Marine, to work with one of his crews.”

  “And then a couple of hours later, Guerrero himself—or somebody pretending to be him—corners you in a restaurant,” Blair interjected, “and says what Cardenas said, but in a very different way.”

  “So now I have twice been told to lay off the M-9 because they had nothing to do with the attacks on the courtroom, the bank robbery, or the attempted murders of two federal agents.

  “My sister-in-law, who made the dinner reservation, is a parking-enforcement officer in the Santa Ana PD. She asked her boss, who might be Salvadoran, about a restaurant, and mentioned that she was having dinner with a federal agent,” Chelmin continued.

  “So, it’s obvious that somebody in Santa Ana PD is talking to Guerrero, or at least to his organization. The question is, could it be more than one someone?”

  “You think Cardenas is dirty?” Blair asked.

  Chelmin nodded. “It’s crossed my mind. And if he is dirty, what about Malone?”

  Blair made a face. “What about Malone?”

  “He went in to see Cardenas an hour before I did. Cardenas volunteered that h
e’s known Malone since they were in boot camp and that they stay in touch.”

  “Hold on, Chelmin. Just wait. If Cardenas is dirty and Malone is dirty with him, why would Cardenas let you know that they’re old friends?”

  “That’s the part that doesn’t track,” Chelmin said. “I have no reason to suspect Malone until Cardenas told me they were buddies. But maybe Cardenas thinks that I’d eventually learn that there’s this old connection between them—so it’s better that he tells me right away. So that it doesn’t seem suspicious when I learn that they know each other.”

  Blair held up his hand. “What if Cardenas is dirty, and he wants you to chase Malone?

  Chelmin nodded. “That, too, has crossed my mind. But, there’s another thing that doesn’t track. Cardenas says that he and Malone go way back. If that is true, then why would Malone need to ask Lynch what the FBI knows about the M-9?”

  Frowning, Blair stroked his chin. “Because he wanted to know if the FBI was tracking M-9 activities? If we have an open investigation on the gang?”

  Chelmin nodded. “That’s what I think. Would you mind doing some digging? Find out if Cardenas and Malone really did go to boot camp together?”

  “Easily done, Rudy. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Are you going to tell Lynch?”

  Blair frowned. “Not for now. I’m gonna have a look at Cardenas. Check out his finances, his travel, his phones—the usual. If there’s even a hint of something, I’ll put him under surveillance.”

  Fifty-six

  “You wanted to see me, Dad?” Will said, standing in the doorway to the Chief’s office.

  Smiling, Arthur Spaulding beckoned to Will to come in.

  “Couple of things, son. The department’s insurance will cover your Camaro. Full replacement value, the adjuster said.”

  Will frowned. “I put only two grand down. Is the insurance going to be enough to cover what I owe the bank?”

  Arthur smiled back. “I had a word with Ralph Lyons at the bank, and if there’s a balance after the insurance payout, they’ll work something out with you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “One more thing,” Arthur said, holding up a small manila envelope. “This is what the Sheriff’s Evidence team recovered from your car.”

  Will took the envelope, hefted it, shook it.

  “It’s your keys, son, and a couple of odds and ends that didn’t burn. Your church-key, for example.”

  Will blushed. “I’d forgotten it was in the glove box.”

  “Back to work,” Arthur said, smiling.

  §

  Will tossed the envelope on his desk and headed for the parking lot. Malone was expecting him and had promised a print-out of all the white compact pickup trucks registered on the base.

  He climbed behind the wheel of a squad car, adjusted the mirrors, then drove a block to Main Street before heading east toward the Marine base. He stopped for the red light in front of the burned-out Chevron station. The scorched surface had been leveled and the concrete removed. An enormous hole in the ground revealed where the gasoline tanks had been. Half a dozen men worked on the site, hauling away rubble and cutting the ruined tanks into scrap steel with acetylene torches. Will remembered that he had asked Chelmin to call Abuela Guadalupe at the Café Jalisco and made a mental note to remind him.

  The light turned green. As Will crossed the intersection, to his amazement he saw a white compact pickup truck stopped at the intersection to his right.

  He drove ahead until he found a place to pull over and waited until the pickup passed. Then he pulled into traffic, two cars behind, and followed it east.

  He was close enough to see that the driver wore a camouflage uniform.

  The truck slowed as it approached the base, then turned into the right of two incoming lanes at the checkpoint. A military policeman waved the pickup through but stopped Spaulding’s squad car.

  “Your business on the base?” the MP asked.

  Will held out his Barstow PD badge. “Special Agent Marc Malone of NCIS is expecting me,” he replied.

  “I’ll just be a minute, sir,” the MP replied and ducked into the guard shack. True to his word, he soon returned, handing Will a visitor’s pass with tape to put in a corner of his windshield.

  “End of this building, hang a left and park anywhere.”

  “Thanks,” Will replied, then drove forward.

  Instead of turning left behind the MP station, however, Will followed the main road, hoping to catch up to the white pickup without exceeding the posted speed limit of twenty-five mph.

  He drove more than a mile with no sign of his quarry until he came to a fork in the road. He mentally flipped a coin, then followed the left-hand road. As he approached the railhead, he saw a dozen refrigerators, each the size of a small house, and to their left a construction site. An enormous hole in the ground was filled with men in camouflage uniforms and white hard hats. Two giant cement trucks were engaged in pouring their loads into the foundation hole; behind them stretched a line of trucks, awaiting a turn to pour.

  And to the left of all this activity was a makeshift parking lot. In it were at least a dozen compact white pickup trucks, each with a logo on its doors.

  A tall, burly man in camouflage and a hard hat approached Will’s car.

  “Need some help, officer?” the man asked.

  Will looked at the man’s uniform. At first glance, he seemed to be a Marine. But the insignia on his cap was different. On his left pocket was a silver badge, a wreath of leaves beneath a crossed bayonet and a bolt-action rifle. Behind them was a big anchor, and on top of the weapons was a cartoonish bumblebee wearing a white sailor’s cap and carrying a Tommy gun.

  “You’re not a Marine,” Will said.

  The big man laughed. “Hell no, I’m not a Marine! Master Chief Petty Officer Ralph Dunahoo, United States Navy. I’m a Seabee.”

  Comprehension dawned on Will.

  “Of course,” Will replied. “I’m Detective Spaulding. I’m investigating that Chevron station fire.”

  Dunahoo nodded. “A helluva thing, that was.”

  “A white pickup was seen near the station about the time it blew up,” Will said.

  Dunahoo frowned. “First I heard of that.”

  Then he smiled. “Wait a minute. As I recall, that was around 0900 or so. We had four or five men who came down from our Port Hueneme base that morning. Two trucks. Could have been one of those.”

  Will nodded. “I’d like to interview those men,” he said. “I’m working with Malone, the base NCIS agent, and he’ll set it up.”

  “Always happy to cooperate. I’m the job site foreman here, and this is where you’ll find me most all day.”

  “Where are your men billeted?” Will asked.

  “I’ve got close to a hundred hands. Sixty-two—the lower enlisted ranks—bunk with the Marines in visitor quarters. The petty officers and I are on per diem, and we’re in motel rooms around town. A few are up the road in Victorville.”

  “Why do you need so many pickup trucks?”

  “I take it that you’ve never worked construction?”

  Will shook his head.

  “Well, first of all, this is an enormous base. Nothing is close enough to walk to, so, at chow time, we shuttle eight men at a time in each truck to the mess hall. Those of us who are staying in motels need transportation back and forth. And finally, every twenty minutes or so, somebody needs something from another part of the base, or something heavy needs to be moved halfway across the job site, or somebody drives a nail through his foot and needs the dispensary, or somebody is sent on an errand.”

  Will nodded his understanding. “Thanks, Master Chief. I’ll be in touch.”

  Fifty-seven

  “Here’s the list that Rudy Chelmin wanted,” Malone said, handing Will a two-page computer printout. “We have 162 vehicles listed.”

  Will glanced at the page. “The first one is a Toyota Tundra. And then there’s a GMC De
nali.”

  “Okay.”

  Will shook his head. “I guess Brenda misunderstood. Mr. Chelmin wants a list of compact pickups, white compact pickups.”

  Malone smiled. “Brenda understood just fine. Our database has categories for the manufacturer, model, type, color, and registered owner. It’s a motorcycle, it’s a sedan, it’s a truck. Those are the ‘type’ choices. No category for compact trucks. Sorry, but that’s the way the Marines built that particular database.”

  “No problem,” Will said. “I’ll just take a pass through and cross out the full-size vehicles.”

  “Great. Anything else we can do to help?”

  “Yes, Agent Malone. I just found out that there are about a dozen white compact pickups over at the Seabee construction site. Are they on this list?”

  Malone shook his head. “No, because they’re temporary. Each one of those vehicles has a thirty-day visitor’s pass. But while we’re on the subject, I’m pretty sure one of the Seabee trucks was stolen from a motel parking lot in Victorville a few days ago.”

  “That didn’t show up on Barstow PD’s BOLO.”

  “Probably because the vehicle is Navy, and it’s registered to the Port Hueneme base.”

  “Who reported it stolen?”

  “The petty officer who probably left it unlocked in the motel parking lot.”

  “Mr. Malone, you might know that I’m new to the military. How would that report have been filed? How did you learn about it and when?”

  Malone searched across a desk, piled with papers. He extracted a sheet from the pile and glanced at it.

  “Reported four days ago to the Seabee chain of command. Lieutenant Commander Charles S. Forester, battalion commander. The report went to him at Hueneme. The master chief on the job site here…”

  “Dunahoo?” Will asked.

  “Right. Master Chief Ralph Dunahoo reported it to this office yesterday. The vehicle was found last night in a dry wash near Pearblossom, up by Edwards Air Force Base. It had been torched.”