M-9

by Marvin J. Wolf

  This time, she opened a desk drawer, pulled out a small booklet, and thumbed through it. “It’s the Naval Combat Wound Research Center, Santa Ana, California.

  “I’ve never even heard of that,”she said.

  Will struggled to understand. Santa Ana. Hadn’t Agent Blair just told him that the Intelligence sergeant in the Santa Ana police was missing, that he had gangster friends and was suspected of corruption?

  Hawkins opened another desk drawer to get a phone book. After a minute or two spent leafing through the pages, she stopped and stabbed an entry with her index finger. “Here it is. It’s in area code 714,” she said and dropped the book back into the drawer.

  “What else can we tell about these shipments?” Will asked.

  “Just the date and the operator who entered the data. Kendra put an operator ID number and the date in each entry.”

  Hawkins peered at the list. “No, that can’t be right.”

  “What?”

  “According to this, the data was entered by Angela Wong, Eleanor Murphy, and Nicholas Konstantin. Their individual entry codes are by each item entry. And all these entries were made on July 4, September 8, November 25, December 25, or December 31.”

  Will said, “Independence Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, and New Year’s Eve? Could those people have come in on any of those days?”

  “Not likely. We fired Eleanor last October. Came to work high once too often. Nicholas quit six months ago to take a job in Los Angeles, and Angela hasn’t worked here in three years.”

  Will said, “You’ve been a big help, Mrs. Hawkins.”

  “Don’t you want to look inside the other pictures?”

  “I’ve got to go now. What I’d like you to do right now, please, is to save all the files to your computer, and give back the micro disc.”

  Hawkins smiled. “Of course, Will.”

  She took the mouse, used the cursor to highlight the files on the micro disc, and dragged them to a folder on her desktop. Then she used the mouse to select an icon on the bottom of the screen.

  Hawkins pushed a release button on the face of the computer, and the micro disc, still in its adapter, popped partly out of the drive receptacle. She withdrew the disc and adapter, and as she pulled it out, the adapter flew out of her hand and landed on the floor beside her chair.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said, rising from her chair. Her skirt had ridden up to almost mid-thigh, and as Hawkins straightened up, Will caught a tantalizing glimpse of her slim, shapely legs; as she bent to retrieve the disc, the fabric of her skirt tightened to display the outlines of a slim, taut and exquisitely shaped derriere.

  Hawkins seemed blithely unaware that Will was blushing when she straightened up and handed him the blue plastic square. He put it in his shirt pocket.

  Will said, “Thanks, Mrs. Hawkins. When I leave, please call the FBI in San Bernardino, ask to speak with Agent Thomas Blair, and tell him that I told you to call him and that you have documents that pertain to our investigation. He’ll come himself or send someone.

  “While you’re waiting, please see what else you can find in those other picture files. Maybe print out that spreadsheet and anything else that you find in the other files.”

  “I’ll do that, Will. But before you leave, please help me understand what we just did.'

  “Can’t this wait until later?”

  “Will, how could all that data be hidden in the picture, but when we looked at the picture, there was no trace of it? Not even a little out-of-focus area, or a spot—something?”

  Will sighed. “Mrs. Hawkins, how big is a jpeg file?”

  She consulted the computer and moved the cursor until it rested on the file in the folder directory. “About thirteen megabytes.”

  “That’s 13 million bytes of data?”

  “Correct.”

  “Mrs. Hawkins, how much data do you suppose is in that spreadsheet?”

  “About 2,000 bytes?”

  “That’s your answer. Two thousand is a tiny fraction of one percent of 13 million.”

  Hawkins gasped. “Of course. Sorry.”

  Will said, “I’ve got to find Mr. Chelmin and Agent Malone. Where would all those prescription drugs be stored prior to shipment?”

  “In a warehouse. Probably one with temperature control so they don’t get too warm.”

  “How cold would pharmaceuticals be kept?”

  “If I remember correctly, they’re stored just above freezing. About thirty-eight degrees, I think.”

  “Just cold enough so that a nude woman would die of exposure,” Will mumbled.

  “What was that, Will? You’re mumbling.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Where do I find that refrigerated warehouse?”

  “Oh Will, I hardly go anywhere on this base except to this building. You’ll have to ask someone else.”

  “Of course,” said Will. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Hawkins.”

  “Any time,” she replied, but by then Will was out the door.

  One Hundred Five

  By the time Will had slid behind the wheel of his squad car, he remembered what he’d seen just east of the massive construction site where he’d met the Seabees. A Cyclone fence, on the other side of which were several huge refrigerators.

  He drove to the construction site, saw the fence, saw the refrigerators, eleven in all. The way to get to them, he realized, was to either climb that fence or go around to the warehouse.

  He got back into his car and followed the gravel road out of the construction site. He came to a paved road and looking to his left saw an enormous warehouse about half a mile ahead.

  He left his unit in front of the warehouse, walked in the front door, threaded his way past rows of crates and ceiling-high bins until he saw a back door.

  “Hey, you!”

  Will turned to find a civilian in a hard hat, sitting in a forklift and holding a Thermos.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he said.

  Will turned and approached the man, holding his badge in one hand.

  “Special Agent Spaulding, Army CID. How do I get to those big refrigerators?”

  The man pointed the way Will had been going. “Straight through there. About a quarter-mile, next to the construction site. What are you doing here?”

  “No time to explain. Call NCIS or the MPs and tell them Special Agent Spaulding is looking for Special Agent Chelmin,” he said and turned on his heel.

  He jumped off the loading dock and ran toward the refrigerators.

  There were eleven, each double padlocked.

  Cursing himself for not asking the warehouseman which one stored drugs, Will walked around the first, pounded on each of its four sides in turn, then put his ear to the metal wall to listen. He was on his third refrigerator when he sensed someone standing behind him and whirled to find a uniformed security guard holding a shotgun leveled at his midsection.

  “Oh, shit,” the guard said. “It’s Detective Poison! I heard you were back. And only six days after the biggest going-away party in Barstow PD history.

  “What are you doing here, Will?”

  Will smiled. “Patrolman Stanton Lyman Riley! A.K.A. Casanova Riley. Just the man I’d hoped never to see again. Put that blunderbuss away. I need to find someone to unlock these reefers. And what are you doing here? Does Chief Spaulding know that you’re moonlighting?”

  Riley lowered the shotgun and took his finger away from the trigger.

  “I asked for overtime—Nancy’s due next month—but your dad said there’s no room in the budget. But then he made a couple of phone calls. They gave me three swing shifts a week, so I’m still able to work night patrol. And they pay pretty well.”

  “That’s great, Stan. Give Nancy my love. Right now, I’m looking for my Army boss—Special Agent Chelmin. For the last three days, he hasn’t answered his cell. Same with the NCIS agent—Malone. I think that they might be in one of these reefers.

  “Is there someone y
ou could call and find out which one of these stores pharmaceuticals?”

  “There’s no cell reception down here,” Riley said, pulling a radio from his belt. He spoke into it while Will went to the fourth reefer. He pounded on each side with his fist, then put his ear on the warm metal and listened. Hearing nothing, he went on to the next one. And then the next.

  On the back side of the ninth refrigerator, he heard three faint taps in response to his own three blows. He moved around the giant box to its next side and pounded again three times, waited a moment and then pounded again. His ear flush on the metal, he heard three taps, a pause, and a fourth.

  “Riley! He’s in this one.”

  “Mr. Klein is on his way. Three minutes, I think.”

  Will paced before the locked door, growing more and more anxious. Finally, he heard the faint growl of an engine and turned around to see a big man with a hard hat riding a three-wheeled all-terrain vehicle with a large basket behind the seat.

  The ATV slid to a stop, and Klein slowly dismounted. He was in his fifties, with a weightlifter’s arms and shoulders, an impressive beer belly, and a red face that showed how he’d come by the belly. “I’m Klein, inventory manager,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

  Will produced his CID badge. “Special Agent Spaulding, Army CID. I believe my boss is locked inside that reefer.”

  “That’s impossible,” Klein said. “That box is our emergency reserve for antibiotics. Nobody goes in there except twice a year to rotate stock.”

  “Spaulding’s also a Barstow PD Detective,” Riley said. “His old man is Chief of Police.”

  “That cuts no ice on this base. How do you know he’s in there?”

  “Someone is in there. Come around the back,” Will said, leading the way.

  “Watch and listen,” he said and pounded on the wall, two and then two. Riley and Klein put their ears to the metal and listened. The reply came, two and two, but fainter.

  “By God, you’re right!” Klein said. “Damn, it’s colder than hell in there.”

  “Then let’s get him the hell out,” Will said and ran toward the reefer door.

  Klein followed at a fast walk, fumbling with a ring of keys. When he reached the door, he glanced at the numbers on the reefer’s frame, selected a key, and tried to insert it into the first lock. When it wouldn’t fit, he tried another. After fumbling with each lock in turn, he glanced at the key, then examined the lock.

  “Somebody must have changed the damn locks.”

  Will said, “Do you have tools? Can we take the door off?”

  The big man shook his head. “Look for yourself—the hinges are on the inside. I’ll have to get a bolt cutter.”

  “Hurry,” Will said.

  As Klein roared off on his ATV, Will turned to Riley. “Can you switch that to the PD frequency?”

  “Why?”

  “We’re gonna need an ambulance. Maybe two.”

  “What frequency?”

  “Try channel 158 or 159.”

  Riley fiddled with the radio, looked at it carefully, then shook his head. “This thing’s got four frequencies. None of them are marked except by channel.”

  “Start calling, channel by channel, get somebody with a telephone who can call the PD and an ambulance.”

  Riley called on each channel, in turn, getting no response.

  “The battery must be dead,” he said. “Nobody can hear me.”

  The minutes ticked by until Will could stand it no more. “We can’t wait. Give me that shotgun, Stan.”

  Riley handed him the weapon and Will checked the magazine. “Five shells. You got any more?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Then five will have to do.”

  “Wait!” Riley yelled. “You can’t blow the locks off!”

  “Watch me.”

  Will moved to the reefer door, cocked the gun and put the muzzle two inches from the first lock. “Stan, there’s gonna be ricochets. Come over stand behind me.”

  Riley hesitated, frozen.

  Will yelled, “Stanton, get thee behind me!”

  Giggling, Riley moved until he stood inches behind Will.

  Will aligned the gun and pulled the trigger.

  Though pitted from nine, double-ought gauge pellets, the lock held.

  Will moved the muzzle until it was almost touching the juncture of lock body and hasp and fired again.

  The lock shattered.

  Handing the shotgun to Riley, Will pulled a wide-bladed folding knife from his belt, opened it, and pushed it into the lock’s shackle, then pulled downward.

  The remains of the lock fell to the ground, and Will pulled the damaged shackle off the door guard.

  He handed the knife to Riley, took the gun, made sure that Riley was safely behind him, and with two more blasts blew apart the remaining lock.

  He swung the door open and was greeted by a blast of frigid air. The interior was filled with boxes piled floor to ceiling. A narrow lane along the right side allowed access. A single overhead light bulb in a heavy steel mesh security cage provided the only illumination.

  Will pushed his way in with Riley, clutching the shotgun, at his heels. At the end of the aisle, Will encountered a wall of boxes that ran to the ceiling.

  “Help me move these,” he said and leaned forward, hands extended, trying to grip the topmost box.

  His hands encountered only a smooth surface. He fumbled for the corner, unable to find it. “Stan, point your light over here,” he yelled.

  A moment later, the wall in front of Will was bathed in bright white light from the LED flashlight. Will felt the wall in both directions until he encountered a small raised area. It felt like a hinge.

  He straightened up. “This isn’t a row of boxes. It’s a painting of a row of boxes. A technique called ‘trompe l'œil.’ And now I know who killed Kendra Farrell.”

  The roar of an approaching engine came through the door.

  “That’s Klein,” Riley said. “He’s gonna be pissed that we didn’t wait.”

  “I could give a shit,” Will said.

  “Give me the knife,” Will said, reaching back over his shoulder until Riley laid the knife across his palm.

  “Put some light down here,” Will said, kneeling to feel the wall in front of him. Four inches from the end, he found a crack, camouflaged as the side of a box. He stuck his blade in the crack and pried it open. A floor-to-ceiling door opened a few inches.

  “Riley, can you grab a couple of those boxes and carry them outside, so I can swing this door open?”

  “Sure,” Riley said. He handed the Will the flashlight, laid the shotgun on top of a box, and headed for the door with both.

  Will pulled the door as far open as he could. The stench of urine was almost overwhelming.

  But the door was not open enough to peer inside. Riley returned for the shotgun, pulled a box off the floor and made his way toward the door as the rumble of the arriving ATV filled the reefer.

  Will pulled the door open and shined his flashlight inside, revealing what seemed at first glance a pile of rags. Then one of the rags stirred and a pale, bearded and pinched face appeared.

  Will said. “Mr. Chelmin. Are you okay?

  Chelmin said, “Spaulding?”

  Will said, “You were expecting maybe Matt Damon?”

  Chelmin replied with a wan smile, then raised his bound hands.

  “Cut me loose,” he said.

  Guided by the flashlight in his left hand, Will used his knife to slice through the sash cord. When his hands were free, Chelmin pushed himself into an awkward sitting position, his back against the wall, one leg extended through the partly open door, the other rising from the floor at an impossible angle.

  “Shot me with my own gun,” Chelmin said. “Smashed my leg.”

  Will asked, “Is Agent Malone in here with you?”

  Chelmin said, “Of course not.”

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Chelmin?”

  “Like
week-old dog shit. And you can call me Rudy.”

  A gunshot echoed outside, followed instantly by a shotgun blast.

  Will got to his feet as a human silhouette in Marine camouflage utilities filled the door.

  “Freeze, Spaulding. One move and I’ll blow your head off,” the silhouette said.

  One Hundred Six

  That voice! In a nanosecond, Will made the connection: Zeravla is Alvarez spelled backward.

  Will said, “Brenda, put the shotgun down.”

  Behind him, he heard Chelmin stirring.

  Squinting against the light coming through the door, Chelmin saw only a blurred silhouette against the painful brightness outside.

  The silhouette edged closer.

  “Brenda,” Will said, “It’s finished. Over. Put the shotgun down.”

  Behind him, Chelmin whispered, “Spread your legs a little wider, Will.”

  As he relaxed into a shooter’s stance, Will slowly spread his legs but left his Glock holstered.

  Brenda said, “Very slowly, take your gun out, and place it on the floor in front of you. Try anything funny, and I’ll blow your head off.”

  Will pulled his gun from its holster and aimed at the silhouette.

  A dull, metallic click came from the shotgun as the hammer fell on its empty chamber.

  Brenda dropped the shotgun, reached behind her and came back with a long-barreled revolver.

  Will and Chelmin fired at the same moment.

  Brenda fell backward.

  Will turned to look behind him and saw Chelmin holding a tiny .380 caliber Beretta.

  Will said, “Where the hell did that come from?”

  Chelmin grinned. “I keep it in my leg. I should have carried a bottle of water instead.”

  Will said, “Let’s get out of here. Can you walk?”

  Chelmin shook his head. “Not anymore.”

  After holstering his Glock, Will stepped forward and squatted just inside the doorway. Reaching under Chelmin’s arms, he hoisted him over his shoulder, noticing as he rose to his feet that the older man was much lighter than expected.

  Will backed out of the space, then unable to turn around, made his way to the doorway. Stepping backward, until he was able to turn in the doorway, he found Brenda’s feet just inside the door, her head rested on the ground a foot below. A small hole in her chest and another in her forehead oozed blood. Her eyes were open. Chelmin’s .357 was clutched in her right hand.