“You were on good terms with Kendra?”
“Yes. We were good friends.”
“If I may, what led to your divorce?”
Farrell snorted. “That’s on me, but Kendra would have told you that she was also at fault.”
“Were you unfaithful to each other?”
“No! Kendra was never... at least as far as I know... I had no reason to suspect her of seeing anyone else. And really, neither of us had the time or the energy.”
“Could you explain that a little, please, Doctor?”
“We married after I graduated from college. A year later, after Kendra graduated, we both found jobs here at Fort Sam. Two years later, she got pregnant. Around that time, Uncle Sam offered to send me to graduate school for a Ph.D. in pharmacy. In return, I had to sign a contract committing me to work for the Department of Defense for another five years after graduation.”
“That sounds like a good deal,” Will said.
“It was. But Kendra was pregnant, so she had to cut back to part-time. I worked half-shifts, six days a week, and between us, we made just enough to keep up with our student loans, car payments, rent, and groceries.
“Then Spencer came. Kendra took thirty days' maternity leave, then went back full time. Meanwhile, I’m still in school. We rarely saw each other.
“Then she got a job offer—in Barstow. A promotion to GS-11.”
“She took it, obviously.”
“I encouraged her to. The idea was that, when I finished grad school, I’d find a Defense Department job—Army, Marines, Air Force—whatever—and we’d live within commuting distance of both jobs.”
“What happened?”
“When I graduated, I was offered the position that I have now. It’s a great job, never any overtime, a GS-15 ranking, and I’m on a career track—within four to six years, I expect to take over the hospital’s Pharmacy Department, which includes five facilities the size of the one I run now. But I’d have to stay in San Antonio. We had a big argument, Kendra and me, and she said that she wasn’t going to give up her job in Barstow and move back to San Antonio and start over. She wanted me to come through on my promise of finding a DOD job in Southern California. But there was nothing available that was comparable to what I had here.
“Well, by that time, we had grown apart. I had my life here, she had her life there. So we split up. We didn’t fight over property because we had nothing.”
“But you stayed in touch?”
“Sure. We’d talk for an hour or so, maybe longer, every couple of weeks. I called and spoke with Spencer every three or four days.”
“Doctor, when Kendra was in town for Christmas, did she talk about moving back to San Antonio?”
“Yes. She was anxious to do just that. Even if she hadn’t lined up a job here, she was coming.”
“So you two were getting back together?”
“Uh, no. No. Both of us had moved on. I remarried last year, and we’re expecting our first child in June.”
“Did she say why she was interested in moving back?”
“She was very frightened. She had to leave Barstow.”
“Frightened of what?”
“She didn’t say, except that her car was vandalized, and she had received death threats at work.”
“And she didn’t report any of this?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Did you have a sense of who or what she afraid of?”
“She said something, and it was kind of technical—computer stuff—and I asked her to explain, and she said to forget it.”
“What exactly did she say, if you remember?”
“I’ve thought about this a lot, since the last time she was here, and the best I can make of it was she thought somebody had maybe hacked into the base computer system and was stealing stuff. Although she made an effort to tell me that she wasn’t sure how it was done.”
“Did she say who was doing this?”
“She hinted that it might be one of her bosses. Or somebody very high up with a lot of power over her.”
Ninety
Before leaving his motel room that morning, Chelmin had spent nearly an hour talking with Cheryl on the dedicated cell phone. She felt safe, but she was bored and lonely; most of her waking hours were spent behind drawn shades in Scotty’s house, leaving it only to go shopping with Sula or play tennis with her on one of the base courts. Chelmin wished that he could tell her that his murder case was close to being solved, but in truth, he thought they were not much closer than on the day Kendra’s body turned up at Fort Fremont.
After reassuring Cheryl of his love, Chelmin ended the conversation, then called Scotty to ask if he could find something useful for her to do until he closed his case and returned to Fremont. Scotty agreed that this was a good idea, and he said that he’d put a few feelers out.
Hardly had he rang off when his other phone rang: Blair.
“How’re they hanging, Rudy?” Blair began.
“Tight and snug,” Chelmin said. “What’s up?”
"Flaco Portillo was murdered last night.”
“In federal custody?”
“U.S. Marshals were transferring him to a Federal facility in Arizona.”
Chelmin said, “Tell me more.”
“Portillo was in cuffs in the back of an unmarked sedan. It was rammed by an SUV stopped at a red light one block from Interstate 15. Witnesses say that a death squad rode up on three motorcycles, a driver and a shooter on each. They shot Portillo six times, and each shooter rode off in a different direction.”
“What about the deputy marshals?”
“One with a GSW to the head, fifty-fifty that he lives, two with lesser wounds. One of those guys took seven rounds to his Kevlar vest.”
“The SUV?”
“Stolen a few hours earlier in Whittier, if you can believe it, from a dealer’s lot.”
“That sucks. Not that we were going to get much more out of Flaco, but he was a kid. Didn’t deserve to die.”
“Live by the sword ...”
“Yeah, yeah. But still. One thing we know from this: The M-9 bosses felt like they had to silence anyone who might have seen that Marine.”
Blair said, “I agree. Cardenas is under active surveillance. We’ve got wiretap warrants for his office, home, and cell phones.”
Chelmin said, “Surely he’ll use burner phones if he’s talking to anybody we’d be interested in.”
Blair said, “Probably. So, we’re contacting every shop where you can get a prepaid phone within ten miles of his home and his office.”
“That will take forever.”
“It will take as long as it takes. Oh, and we’ve got Wellington Maradona under surveillance, as well.”
Chelmin said, “That’s the head of Parking Enforcement in Santa Ana?”
“Yes. And get this: He and Cardenas live on the same street in Temescal Valley. That’s east of Santa Ana, about an hour’s drive from the Santa Ana Civic Center. They usually carpool to work together.”
“You‘ve checked out who else is in that carpool?”
Blair made a strangled sound. “Shit. We’ll get on that ASAP.”
“What else you got, Blair?”
“Not much. You?”
“My partner is talking to Kendra’s ex-husband today. He’s in San Antonio, Texas. And I’m going back to the Marine base and talk to some of Kendra’s supervisors.”
“Careful, buddy.”
“Always,” Chelmin said and ended the call.
Chelmin left the motel a bit after 10:00 a.m. En route to the Marine base in Scotty’s battered Subaru, he decided to stop at the Café Jalisco and see what Abuela Guadalupe wanted to say. As he pulled into a parking space across from the restaurant, Chelmin observed Señor Huerta walking toward the shuttered business.
Chelmin waited until ten minutes had passed, then got out and entered the cafè. Smiling, Huerta pulled on an apron and hurried to greet his visitor.
“
Señor Agent Chelmin,” he said, extending his hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Chelmin replied.
“Do you wish to eat? We are not open yet, but if you are hungry, I will make you something,” Huerta said.
“No, no. I came to see Abuela Guadalupe.”
Huerta nodded his understanding. “I will telephone,” he said. “My home is not far away.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I make you coffee,?” Huerta asked.
Chelmin smiled. “That would be wonderful,” he said.
Ninety-one
While Chelmin drank coffee at Café Jalisco, Will was waiting for Eugene Alter to return his call. According to the woman who had answered Alter’s phone, he was in a meeting. Will decided to use the wait to clean his desktop, which was littered with files, envelopes of varying sizes, pens, pencils, manila folders, and the remains of a long-forgotten breakfast burrito.
After five minutes of tossing trash, stacking files, and examining envelopes, he came to a small sealed manila envelope. His name was handwritten across one side, but the envelope didn’t register with him—he had no idea where it came from. He ripped it open to find the scorched remains of the keys to his apartment and his late Camaro and one smaller one that he recognized as a mailbox key.
But what mailbox did it open?
Then he recalled where it came from: It was among the keys that Gelber had given him, along with a garage door opener and a passkey that opened Kendra’s apartment and apparently, others in that building.
He spent a long minute silently kicking himself for neglecting to check her mailbox—there might be something in it that would help lead him to her killer.
He dialed Alter’s number again, and the same woman told him that Alter was still in the meeting. “I’m going into the field,” he said and recited his cell phone number so he could be reached.
Filled with excitement, Will checked out a squad car and drove east. Ten minutes later, he pulled up in front of 40 Desert Mirage Drive, left the car at the curb in a red zone, and used the apartment key to enter the lobby. Excitement building within him, he searched for Kendra’s box and found it near the right end of the bottom row.
The key went in the lock. The key was twisted. The box was opened.
The box was empty.
Ninety-two
Dressed in an elegant black dress with a large gold crucifix on a heavy gold chain around her neck—and despite her deeply wrinkled face looking nothing like the casually dressed woman who Chelmin had rescued from the gas station—Abuela Guadalupe swept into Café Jalisco with the dignified grace of a queen.
Chelmin rose from his chair and accepted the hand that she proffered.
“It is so good to see you, Señor Agent Chelmin,” she said in heavily accented English. “I owe you my life,” she added.
Señor Huerta said, “Everyone in our community is very grateful for what you did.”
“Please, let us sit,” Abuela Guadalupe said, and lowered herself into the chair that Huerta pulled out.
She then spoke in rapid-fire Spanish.
Huerta said, “Abuela would prefer to speak Spanish, and I will translate.”
“Por favor,” Chelmin said.
Huerta beamed. “Then you speak Spanish, Señor Agent?”
“Un poquito,” Chelmin replied. “Only a little.”
Abuela Guadalupe smiled, then spoke to Huerta.
“Again, I thank you for my life.”
Chelmin said, “I only did what any man would do.”
Shaking her head, Abuela Guadalupe burst into laughter. “No, no,” she said. Then she spoke again in Spanish, several sentences this time, and then paused.
“She says that the men who tried to kill you and to kill her, were bad men. They are not members of our community. They are Salvadorans, and they came from Santa Ana, and they also tried to rob the bank. Many in our community keep their money in that bank. I am told very reliably that you and Detective Spaulding stopped that robbery, that you killed one of the robbers and that you captured another. Once again, we are in your debt for this.”
Chelmin shook his head. “Your money was safe. It is all insured by the United States government, up to $250,000 in each account.”
Huerta’s eyes widened. “Is that true?”
Chelmin nodded. “Es verdad,” he replied. “It is true.”
Abuela Guadalupe smiled. “That is good to know,” she said in English. Then she switched back to Spanish and spoke again to Huerta.
Huerta said, “The reason that I wished to speak with you, as well as to thank you, is that we believe you are still looking for the Marine who was with the Salvadoran bandidos.”
Chelmin nodded. “I haven’t been able to find him.”
Abuela Guadalupe opened her purse and took out an envelope. Again, she spoke in rapid-fire Spanish.
Huerta said, “She said, ‘The day after the fire, the day after they destroyed my family’s gas station, I spoke with the heads of every household in our community. I told them that they had to help you find that Marine, that they were to spread the word that if anyone knew his name or could identify him, they were to tell me, and I would reward them.’”
Abuela Guadalupe passed the envelope across the table to Chelmin, and again she spoke in Spanish.
Huerta translated. “We do not know the name. But someone in our community saw this Marine in the Wal-Mart, and they took a picture with their phone.”
Chelmin said, “I’d like to talk to the person who took the picture.”
Abuela Guadalupe shook her head. “That is not possible.”
Chelmin said, “Please, why is that?”
Huerta said, “He has no papers. And yesterday he was taken by La Migra, the ICE.”
Chelmin said, “If you give me his name, I will try to get him released.”
Huerta said, “His name is Guillermo Esteban Hernandez.”
Chelmin took out his notebook and wrote the name.
“How old is he?”
Abuela Guadalupe shook her head. “Maybe twenty-five. Or a little younger.”
“How sure is Señor Hernandez that this was the Marine?”
Huerta smiled. “You have met Guillermo. He was one of the men who was parked in the alley when the Salvadorans shot the rocket at you. He told me that he would never forget that Marine.”
Chelmin picked up the envelope and tucked it into his shirt pocket, then climbed to his feet.
“Thank you very much,” he said.
Again, Abuela Guadalupe spoke rapidly in Spanish.
Huerta said, “Abuela asks what is wrong with your leg.”
Chelmin smiled. “I lost it in the Gulf War. In Kuwait, many years ago.”
Tears came to Abuela Guadalupe’s eyes. “You are a very brave man,” she said and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
Embarrassed, Chelmin shook hands again with the old woman and with Huerta and slowly walked back to his car. When he had climbed in and sat behind the wheel, he took out the envelope and removed the picture. It showed several people standing in a checkout line. Only one was facing the camera.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
Chelmin pulled out his phone and called Blair’s cell, but the call went straight to voicemail. Chelmin left a simple message: “This is Rudy Chelmin. Call me, ASAP. Important.”
Then he called Blair’s office, where a secretary told him that the agent had just left: His daughter-in-law was having a baby in a San Francisco hospital, and her husband, Blair’s son, was out of the country on government business.
“If he calls in for any reason, ask him to call me, ASAP,” he said and broke the connection.
Next, Chelmin dialed Malone’s cell. The call went to voicemail. After a moment’s hesitation, Chelmin hung up without leaving a message.
Finally, he called Will’s cell. Again the call went to voicemail. “This is Chelmin,” he said. “Call me as soon as you get this.”
Ninety-three
While Will was on his way back to the police department, Alter called.
“You want to speak to me again?” Alter said. “I’ve already told you everything I know about Kendra,” he added.
Will’s phone beeped once, and the incoming call went to voicemail.
Will said, “That might be true, Mr. Alter, but I still have a few questions. Have you had lunch?”
“Just going now.”
“I’ll buy. Where are you headed?”
“Town and Country,” Alter said. “It’s on the base, just north of the Interstate.”
“Ten minutes,” Will said.
§
Will found Alter standing outside the entrance and followed him inside, where they found a corner table. When they had ordered, Will took out his notebook.
“I had a long conversation with Matthew Farrell this morning,” he said.
“Her ex?”
“Yes. He told me a couple of things that I’d like to chat with you about.”
“Shoot.”
“Around Christmas, when Kendra was back in Texas, she told him that she thought one of her bosses might have been hacking the computer system to steal stuff.”
Alter’s eyes widened, and his face went a shade lighter. “He said that?”
Will nodded. “You seem a little shocked.”
“Kendra confided that to me. I told her that she was mistaken, that nobody could have done what she said she thought was happening.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I led the team that designed the system. It’s not connected to the World Wide Web. It’s on dedicated Marine Corps servers that can only be accessed from Marine and Navy installations ashore.”
Will nodded, thinking that a guy who builds something often thinks it’s perfect. “What else?”
“I said that, if she was to accuse people without proof, she’d be labeled a malcontent, a troublemaker, and she’d cook her own goose, career-wise.”
“When did you tell her to keep quiet?”
“About Halloween, I think.”
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