Will stepped around her and moved to the ATV, where he sat Chelmin in the passenger seat. He took off his own suit jacket and wrapped it around Chelmin, then found a water bottle in the compartment behind the seat.
He held it to Chelmin’s lips and watched as he sipped and gulped.
Only then did Will rush to where Riley lay on his back near the ATV. He knelt and with his fingers to Riley’s throat, felt for a pulse.
Riley was very much alive.
Will said, “Riley! Riley, damn you, open your eyes. I forgive you for stealing Nancy. I was gonna break up with her, anyway. Open your damn eyes!”
Riley opened one eye. “Fucking vests,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. They don’t ever tell you how much it’s gonna hurt to stop a slug.”
“So you’re okay?”
“Hell, no, I ain’t OK. Feel like I was kicked by a horse. A big horse. Like one of those Budweiser Clydesdales. But I ain’t bleeding, I don’t think.”
“Hold on, Riley, I’ll see if there’s a radio on that ATV.”
“Will, wait! Did you mean that? That you forgive me for marrying Nancy?”
“I was over that a long time ago. But I still enjoyed breaking your balls about it.”
Will ran to the ATV and found a handheld radio behind the seat. “Can anybody hear me?” he said.
A long minute passed in silence.
Will tried again. “Can anybody hear me?”
“Identify yourself,” a metallic female voice said.
“This is Special Agent Spaulding, U.S. Army CID, badge 2171. I need an ambulance for two, a coroner, and an FBI crime-scene investigation team at the refrigeration area near the rail siding on the Marine Supply Base in Barstow.”
The voice said, “This better not be your idea of a joke.”
One Hundred Seven
Blair found Will waiting in the corridor outside the intensive care ward at Barstow Community Hospital.
Blair said, “What kind of shape is he in?”
“Not good. But the ER doctor said that he has a good chance of survival.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was drugged and then locked in a giant refrigerator. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one where Kendra was held until she died. Maybe Chief Bainbridge, too. Chelmin said he found Kendra’s clothing in there, and that might be why he’s still alive—he used her dress and coat as blankets—kept him a little warmer than otherwise. And for a while, he could move around a little, generate some body heat. Kendra was pretty much hogtied.”
“How did he seem to you? Coherent?”
“Mentally, he’s in great shape. Exhausted, of course.”
“Malone’s secretary did this?”
“I don’t know if she was working with a gang, if she was freelancing, or if she was in cahoots with Malone. Her name is Brenda Zeravla—that’s Alvarez spelled backward. Can’t be a coincidence. Chelmin told me about a gangbanger named Alvarez who knew a Santa Ana police sergeant from when they were in the Marines. Maybe Brenda was Alvarez’s wife, or his sister, a cousin—something.”
“Could be. The guy that Chelmin mentioned is Sergeant Rafael Cardenas, and he’s in the wind. He disappeared with a carpool neighbor of his, Maradona, who runs the Santa Ana Police Department’s Parking Enforcement Division. Maradona might be your mystery corpse.”
“Why do you think that?”
“His wife recognized a photo of an unusual tattoo on his penis. He also had an artificial knee joint, which matches what she told us. It’s got a serial number, and that’s going to be in a manufacturer’s database. We should have confirmation in a day or so.”
An attractive woman of perhaps forty in pale-green scrubs came out of Chelmin’s room.
“I’m Doctor Huff,” she said. ‘Which one of you is Agent Spaulding?”
Will said. “That’s me.”
“Can you tell me what happened to Agent Chelmin?”
“He was drugged with GBH and imprisoned in a walk-in refrigerator that was set to about thirty-eight degrees. No food or water. No lights.”
“For how long, if you know?”
“About three days.”
Huff nodded. “He wouldn’t have lived another day. He is malnourished, severely dehydrated, and his core is dangerously cool. Right now he’s getting pre-warmed, humidified oxygen, heated saline and dextrose, and he’s swathed in warming blankets. Because he’s at risk for several complications, including cardiac arrhythmia, we’re monitoring him very closely. He needs rest, so he’s sedated.
“He should sleep through the night. Come back tomorrow afternoon, and if he’s awake, you can visit him. Barring complications, we’ll move him to a standard room in a day or two. If his vitals check out, he’ll probably be released in a few days.”
Will said, “Thank you, Doctor Huff. And thank you for taking good care of him.”
Blair held out his credentials. “Special Agent Blair, FBI. I need to speak with Chelmin as soon as possible.”
Huff smiled. She looked at Blair. She looked at Will. She said, “Agent Spaulding, please explain to your FBI friend what it means when a doctor says that her patient is sedated.”
Blair said, “Was that really necessary, Doctor?”
Huff smiled sweetly, winked at Will, and walked back into the ICU.
One Hundred Eight
Will said, “Do you want to get some coffee?”
Blair said, “Good idea. Do you have a car?”
Will shook his head. “I came with Chelmin in the ambulance—left my patrol unit in front of a warehouse on the Marine base.”
Blair glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s almost 7:00. Let’s get dinner, and then I’ll take you to your car.”
A few minutes later, as Will climbed into Blair’s SUV, he remembered his conversation with Mrs. Hawkins. “Did you get a call from a Mrs. Hawkins today? Out at the Marine base, in Data Processing?”
Blair shook his head. “No calls from any Mrs. Hawkins. Why would she call me?”
“I told her to. Because I think I know why Kendra Farrell was murdered.”
“But that’s not an FBI case. It’s CID and NCIS.”
“The murder, yes. The reason for the murder is going to blow your mind, and it is definitely not an NCIS case because Brenda Zeravla has compromised that agency. It’s an FBI case, and a big one.”
Blair said, “Tell me.”
Will said, “Better if I show you. We need to go back to the Marine base and find Mrs. Hawkins.”
“Can’t you call her?”
Will pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
“Will—how nice of you to call,” Beth Spaulding said.
“Mom, do you have Mrs. Hawkins cell-phone number? Or her work number?”
“I can get it for you.”
Blair said, “Your mother knows this woman?”
Will smiled. “Barstow isn’t that big a place, Agent Blair. And her husband is chief of police.”
After a few minutes, Beth Spaulding came back on the line. “I called Rhonda’s cell, and it went right to voicemail. Then I called her home, and her husband said that she’s working late, that she’ll get some takeout for dinner and will be home by 9:30 or 10:00. So she might have parked her car to get the food is not answering the phone.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Will looked at Blair. “She tried to call her and can’t get an answer. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Dinner can wait. We should go to her office and check up on her.”
Blair started the engine and pulled out of the hospital parking lot.
“Tell me what you found,” he said.
Will said, “I don’t have the whole story yet, but this is what I think happened: Kendra was a data entry supervisor. Somehow, she became aware that someone was hacking the base computer system to divert narcotics—I’m talking about prescription drugs, opiates, cocaine derivatives, tranquilizers—stuff that on the street brings way more per unit than heroin or coke or meth. And they were ship
ping them, I’m guessing, to a Salvadoran gang. In boxcar quantities.”
Blair asked, “How?”
Will said, “The Marine Supply Base, as one of their guys explained, is like Amazon.com to the Corps. Units order what they need, they pay by debiting their unit’s account, and the base ships the item.
“Someone on the base created a shipping code and a phone book listing for what I’m pretty sure is at least one fictitious unit, the ‘Naval Combat Wound Research Center,’ in Santa Ana. Then someone in Data Entry made reference to nonexistent requisition numbers, tapped some budget source—somewhere in the Marine Corps there’s probably dozens or hundreds of units that will find themselves a few thousand dollars short at the end of the fiscal year. And the goods were shipped.”
Blair said, “Wait. If they could create fake unit shipping identifiers, how hard would it be to hack the collection side and create a fake account?”
Will said, “How would they get money into it?”
Blair said, “Think bigger. What if you could buy what—oxycodone or Rohypnol? At the price that the federal government pays the manufacturer. And sell it retail through a legit drug store? Wouldn’t your profit margin be a lot more than if you had to buy from a legit wholesaler or a jobber?”
Will said, “You’re right. And what if you sold it on the street to bring even more profit?”
Blair said, “If this is going on, then they’re actually buying at substantially less than wholesale from the Marines. That’s a sweet grift. It could go on forever. Any audit on the base will look good: product goes out, and money comes in.”
Will said, “They shipped drugs to an address in Orange County, I think, by rail. Today I learned that Kendra had hired a private eye to research privately owned rail sidings in Orange County.”
“First, why does it matter if they went by rail? And second, how do you know all this?”
Will said, “It matters because it will make them much easier to find. We just have to find all the private rail sidings in Orange County—I have a map—and then see who’s got a warehouse or loading dock on one of those sidings.”
Blair nodded. “Go on.”
“I went through Kendra’s mail today. Her boyfriend had been keeping it for her. Before she left Belize, she mailed herself a micro disc. Mrs. Hawkins and I looked at the files on the micro disc. Look like ordinary vacation photos, a few selfies, taken in Costa Rica, Belize, and at the base. But they were more than that. Do you know what steganography is, Agent Blair?”
“I think so. Information concealed in a text, right?”
“Exactly. With Mrs. Hawkins’s help, I found a spreadsheet hidden in the first image file that we looked at. The spreadsheet had dozens of shipping orders, and they were all entered by people who no longer work at the base. Entered on days when the base was closed—Christmas, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July. And every shipping order was for drugs ordered by this fictitious Naval Combat Wound Research Center in Santa Ana.”
Blair said, “You’re definitely onto something big. What was in the other pictures on that micro disc?”
“I don’t know. I asked Mrs. Hawkins to look at them while I tried to find Chelmin. I told her that she should call you at your office, have them patch her through, and ask you to send someone to get the micro disc.”
“She never called.”
Five minutes later, Blair badged his way past the base MP on gate duty and followed Will’s directions to where he had left his squad car.
Back behind the wheel, Will led Blair to the Data Processing Building, which was dark, except for a few lights burning in what Will knew was the computer center, and one on the top floor that Will thought was Hawkins’s office.
The front door was locked.
Will called his mother again and politely asked for Hawkins’s cell phone and office numbers.
“I’ll call her for you,” Beth Spaulding said.
“No, no. I need to speak to her. Official business. I need her numbers.”
“She asked that I not give these out, son.”
“Mother, this is official. It’s a matter of national security. If you don’t give me those numbers right now, I’ll have to call Dad.”
Blair covered his mouth to keep from laughing.
“Your father is much too busy. Give me a moment.”
She recited the number to the office phone and Will repeated it as Blair dialed on his cell. Then she recited the office number, and Will thanked her, hung up, and dialed the office.
Blair said, “The call went to voicemail.”
Will listened and in a few seconds got a recorded message with the office hours.
Will said, “The office hours recording. Now I’m worried.”
He hunted around the door jamb until he found a button to push, and after a few minutes, a man’s voice issued from a hidden speaker.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
Blair said, “FBI and Barstow police. Special Agent Blair and Detective Spaulding. Open up.”
“Wait,” the voice said.
A few minutes went by before an MP sedan pulled to the curb behind Will’s squad car.
Two Marines with MP brassards got out of the car. They shined flashlights at Will and Blair.
“IDs,” the senior MP said.
Will displayed his Barstow badge and ID, and Blair his FBI credentials.
“Why do you need entry?” the first MP said.
Blair said, “We think that one of your supervisors may be in trouble. She was assembling some evidence for us and was supposed to call me. She didn’t, and now we can’t reach her. We tried her cell phone and her office, and there’s no answer.”
Will said, “I also called her home, and her husband said that she was working late.”
The MP grinned. “Maybe she’s stepping out on the mister.”
Will said, “I’ve known Mrs. Hawkins my whole life, and that isn’t funny. Please open the building and come with us to her office.”
One Hundred Nine
The department door was locked, as Will expected, and the MPs opened it. Will led them past a large room filled with cubicles and computer monitors to Hawkins’s office. He tried the door. He knocked and got no answer.
“Stand aside, sir,” the MP said and used his passkey to open the door.
The lights were on and the room was a wreck. Every filing cabinet was open, and its contents had been dumped on the floor. Hawkins’s desk had been ransacked.
A gaping hole in her computer showed where the hard drive had been removed.
Hawkins was gone.
Will looked around the room. He reached into his shirt pocket and came out with a blue plastic square—the micro disc adapter. It was empty—the micro disc wasn’t in it. Will probed his empty shirt pocket with a finger and found nothing.
He paced the room, thinking.
Blair said, “Will, what’s going on in there?”
Will held up a hand, palm out and paced more.
Blair’s phone rang. The agent stepped out of the office to take the call.
Will ended his pacing and called his father, explained what he’d found in Hawkins’s office.
The Chief said, “What would you like me to do?”
Will said, “Put out a BOLO on her and her car. Mr. Hawkins can give you the license plate and the make and model.”
Chief Spaulding said, “If she’s been abducted, why do you think she’d be in her car?”
Will said, “I don’t think she’s been abducted.”
Blair returned to the room, holding his phone.
Will said, loud enough for Blair to hear, “Dad, I know this will upset you, and that it will make Mom cry, but I’m pretty sure that Mrs. Hawkins wasn’t abducted. I’m equally sure that she’s a fugitive. That’s why we need to find her, ASAP.”
Chief Spaulding asked, “Are you absolutely certain?”
Will said, “I’m certain that she’s a suspect in fraud, embezzlement, and possibly murder.”
“I hope you’re wrong, but I’ll put out the BOLO.”
Will broke the connection. Blair said, “Did I hear you right? Your mother’s friend is a suspect?”
Will nodded in the affirmative. “I like Mrs. Hawkins. She was always good to me. I’ve known her pretty much my whole life. But I know when I’ve been had, and boy howdy, have I been had.”
Blair said, “Tell me.”
Will said, “Let’s let the MPs secure this crime scene, and let’s get out of here.”
Blair turned to the senior Marine. “You probably should call your boss. This is going to take some manpower. Thanks for your help.”
The Marine looked stunned. Then he pulled out his radio and, as Blair and Will left the room, called his supervisor.
One Hundred Ten
Will and Blair regarded each other across a table in the Bunkhouse coffee shop.
Blair said, “You’re on. Convince me that your family friend is a criminal mastermind.”
Will pulled a face. “This is painful. Imagine how I’m going to feel when I have to tell my parents.”
“Think of this as your rehearsal. Now, quit stalling before I start to think that you’re trying to put something over on me.”
Will raised both hands. “Never, Agent Blair. Never.
“OK. First, when we found the spreadsheet hidden in one of Kendra’s photos, Hawkins' reaction was to go pale. She was not just surprised, she was shocked. She was afraid. She had the same reaction a little earlier when she asked me if Chelmin was married—she said she was trying to find someone for a widow she knows—and I asked her if she was planning to leave her husband. She turned pale. Not red with embarrassment. White with fear.
“Then, when we looked at the entries in the database, each was identified only by the log-in ID of the operator who made the entry. She recognized each individual ID. Didn’t have to look them up.
M-9 Page 25
