M-9

by Marvin J. Wolf

  “A little while ago, when we were in her office, I started to think about that, and I realized that there was probably no one else in all Creation who knew all those log-in IDs by heart. And by the same token, she was the person best situated to pull something like this off. She had five supervisors under her, and they might—probably did—know the log-ins for their own operators but not for any of the others. She was the only person with the opportunity to create a scheme like this and make sure it was running smoothly.

  “Next: She tried to make me think that she was a simple keypunch operator supervisor who didn’t know that much about computers because she didn’t have a degree in computer science, as Kendra did. But she must have forgotten that I knew, had seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears, how much she really knew about computers. She taught my mother, then my father, how to use a home computer, how to install and use several kinds of software. My mother was forever calling her about computer issues, and she never once said, ‘Hold on, I’ll go get one of my computer science graduates.’

  “So, the mere fact that she was selling herself as barely capable of operating a computer system, in hindsight, seems suspicious, as if she was trying to avoid suspicion. I should have caught it when she said it, but I was focused on something else.

  “Then there’s something that I learned from Kendra’s boyfriend, Alter. He was part of the team that designed the present base system. Maybe redesigned is the proper term. Anyway, he told me that the data processing system, the parts of the base computer setup that dealt with inventory, ordering, accounting and billing, shipping, etc., were isolated from anything that connected outside the base. They were isolated from the Internet and from outside connections. So all data inputs could only come from within the system.

  “And I happen to know her home situation. Her husband, Greg Hawkins, is fifteen years older than her. Was one of her college professors. He’s got MS, multiple sclerosis, and it has progressed. For the last few years, he’s been in a wheelchair.

  “Mrs. Hawkins is a beauty. She’s in her early fifties, but dressed the right way, her hair just so, if she told you she was in her thirties, you’d probably believe her. Great complexion, nice, slender figure, good hair. She tends to dress very conservatively, but I’m sure that, if she wanted to, she could look like a movie star.

  “She’s scheduled to retire in a few years, my mother once mentioned, as a GS-13. Not a great retirement to look forward to. They’ve got a small house—they never had kids—in a nice part of town, but it’s nothing special. With Mr. Hawkins in a wheelchair, she’s got very little to look forward to except bridge nights and changing his diapers.”

  Blair said, “So far, all circumstantial.”

  Will nodded. “There’s more. When I was about to leave to look for Chelmin, I asked her to copy the files from the micro disc and give it back to me.”

  Will reached into his shirt pocket and took out the blue plastic square.

  “This is the adapter. The micro disc goes inside, and they both go into the disc reader.

  “When she took this out of the computer drive, she dropped it. Then she fumbled on the carpet and picked it up and gave it to me. And she made sure to show me a little leg, to let me get a good look at her very nice ass when she bent over to get the adapter. A little while ago, when we were in her office, I took the adapter out of my pocket—and the micro disc was missing.

  “I’ve dropped an adapter with a micro disc in it, plenty of times. Once a micro disc is locked inside, the only way to get it out is to push it straight in. So, it didn’t just pop out by itself. She stole it.”

  “You don’t have a copy?”

  “Not of the micro disc. But I made a copy of all the data that was on it, and it’s on my work computer at the PD. And that’s backed-up to the cloud.”

  Blair said, “One day you’re gonna have to explain to me what exactly the cloud is. But not now. So, what else you got?”

  “One more thing: Her office. She left the light on, she locked the door, and she left. How do I know this? Because she took her purse and her coat. And because the office was too messed up. If somebody was searching for something in that office, it would be on the computer. It wouldn’t be in a file cabinet or a desk drawer. And if you were going through those file folders looking for something, you wouldn’t just toss the whole folder on the floor. There’s no reason to do that unless you’re trying to trash the office.

  “Then there’s the small matter of when Brenda showed up. I told Hawkins that I was going to the refrigerator area to find Chelmin. Half an hour later, Brenda shoots Klein, the inventory manager, who had left the refrigerators on an ATV to get a bolt cutter. She rides the ATV back to the refrigerators, shoots poor Riley, and comes after me and Chelmin.

  “How did she know where I was? It’s a mile from the NCIS office to those refrigerators. So I’m guessing someone called her, and that someone was probably Mrs. Hawkins.

  “And last, there’s a video camera pointed at the front door and another one at the entrance to the parking structure. We should get someone to go through that video and see if she left alone under her own steam or if she was being dragged.”

  Blair nodded. “Persuasive arguments for picking her up, but nothing that would stand up in court.”

  Will shook his head. “She’s gone. I asked my dad to put out a BOLO, but I Ieft her office about 3:30, and we didn’t get back there until after 7:00. Three and a half hours. She could be anywhere nowI’ll bet she drove to Las Vegas and hopped a plane out of the country.”

  Blair smiled. “I think you’re right about that. Exactly right. And the reason I think that is because, while we were in Hawkins’s office, I got a call from one of my team. He went over to Victorville to look for Malone, who hadn’t been seen for three or four days. The house was empty. I mean, not a stick of furniture. Neighbors said that, around noon, a moving van that had been parked in front of Malone’s house since the night before drove away. Neighbors said that Malone left right after that.

  “Las Vegas PD found the van and the car in a Walmart parking lot next to the airport there. And they were burning. Someone torched them.”

  Will made a face. “Hawkins and Malone? Now it makes more sense. But I’m disappointed. She could do much better than Malone.”

  Blair said, “One more thing. You were right about Brenda. She served four years in the Marines, and she was Sebastian Alvarez’s cousin. She was also the first wife of Sergeant Rafael Cardenas. They divorced about nine years ago but were on good terms.”

  A waitress came to their table. “Ready to order?” she asked and smiled at Will.

  Will said, “The rib eye steak, rare, baked potato, salad.”

  Blair said, “The same.”

  When the waitress left, Blair leaned forward. “Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’ll see you at the PD, and you can give me that railroad map and a copy of those picture files with the hidden texts.”

  One Hundred Eleven

  Chelmin opened one eye. It was bright, much too bright, and he closed the eye. Then he opened it, accepted the pain, waited. He opened the other eye. The bright light slowly coalesced into a dimly lit room. Where was he? He remembered firing at a silhouette. Who was that? Did he hit the target?

  Then he remembered Spaulding—yes, the kid had found him. A miracle, he thought. He remembered a little more, especially the cold. Oh, God, it was cold. He’d never been that cold.

  Now he felt good. Maybe even a trifle warm, he thought. He moved his head, saw the bags of saline and dextrose, the tube leading downward and disappearing. He felt something taped to his arm.

  “I’m in a hospital,” he said aloud.

  Cheryl. Cheryl must be going crazy, he realized. How long had he been in that black hole? Two days? Three? He had lost track of time in the darkness. His only guide was what he could hear from outside. For hours at a time, there was the noise of trucks and hammering, faint but clear. Then it stopped, and all was silent. Th
en, a long time later, the noise had returned.

  He remembered the helicopter, and getting up, and finding the clothing.

  A man’s face appeared almost in front of his. The man smiled.

  “Welcome back, Agent Chelmin,” the man said. “You’re in the Barstow Community Hospital, in the intensive care ward, and you’re going to be just fine.”

  Chelmin closed his eyes. When he opened them again, it was later. His room was brighter than before. He turned his head and saw someone smiling at him. A woman. A pretty woman.

  “I’m Doctor Huff,” she said. “Can you tell me your name?”

  Chelmin said, “If I do, will you bring me something to eat?”

  Huff giggled. “You’re hungry! That’s a very good sign. I’ll have some food brought in right away. Now, tell me your full name.”

  “My name is Rudolf Franklin Chelmin. But you can call me Special Agent Chelmin. Or just Rudy, that’ll be fine. I’ll have a twelve-ounce Porterhouse, blood rare, baked potato with sour cream and chives, and some spinach with a little salt and butter. And a Schlitz. That’s the beer that made Milwaukee famous, you know.”

  Huff laughed. “Not yet. You’ve been starved. That much food would make you sick. You’ll have to settle for something a little easier to digest.”

  “If I’m still a prisoner, I’ll have to settle for whatever the warden allows.”

  “It’ll be a few minutes. In the meantime, there’s someone here to see you.”

  Huff withdrew. Chelmin heard a gentle whirring sound and felt the bed move as his upper body rose several inches.

  Spaulding appeared. “How are you, Mr. Chelmin?”

  Chelmin said, “You can call me Rudy. You’ve earned that, at least.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Not a lot. The cold. Hunger. The stink. I had to piss in the corner. And after the second day, I guess it was two days, I couldn’t even do that anymore.

  “Spaulding—I think I shot someone. A silhouette is all I remember.”

  “Brenda. You shot her with your little Beretta.”

  “That was Brenda? She drugged me, I think.”

  “She did. Brenda was the ex-wife of Sergeant Cardenas and the cousin of Sebastian Alvarez. She put something in your coffee. GBH, I think.”

  “And she shot me, with my .357. Busted my wooden leg. What happened to that gun? And to my Beretta?”

  “I’ve got both your guns at the police station. Locked up. I’ve got your prosthesis, too, and someone here in the hospital thinks it can be repaired. And I’ve got your wallet and your badge. The Marine MPs drilled Malone’s office safe, and that’s where we found them.”

  Chelmin asked, “Have you been in touch with Agent Blair? The FBI?”

  Will said, “Yes. He wanted to be here, but he’s down in Santa Ana with a joint FBI/DEA task force. Sometime tonight, they’re going to raid a warehouse on a rail siding. It belongs to a big pharmacy wholesaler we think it’s a front for M-9.”

  “Will, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Before I hung a badge on you, I went over your enlistment documents. Why did you enlist for flight school?”

  Will pursed his lips for a long moment. “It’s complicated. My father was an Army aviator. His father flew helicopters in Vietnam, and his father, my great-grandfather, flew Corsair fighter planes off an aircraft carrier.”

  “Do you still want to go to flight school?”

  Will shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “When I’m back on my feet, we’re gonna talk about how you can get into CID.”

  Again, Will shrugged. “Do you want to hear about what the FBI is doing now?”

  “You’re gonna tell me about that, every detail about how you cracked this case, but right now, while I’m feeling up to it, I need to make a call. What happened to my phones? I had two cell phones.”

  “We didn’t find any phones in Malone’s office or in his safe, Boss.”

  “You have a phone?”

  “Sure.”

  “Dial this number and let me borrow your phone.”

  Chelmin recited Scotty’s number, Will dialed, then handed him the phone.

  “I’ll give you some privacy,” Will said and left the room.

  One Hundred Twelve

  Supported by Will, Chelmin hopped on one leg into his Fort Fremont office and sat down behind the desk. “I have a secret mission for you,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  Chelmin opened a desk drawer and removed a key ring, from which he selected two keys.

  “This is my car key,” he said, holding it up. “And this is my back-door house key.”

  Will nodded. “What can I get you?”

  “In my spare bedroom, off the kitchen, there’s a big closet. The only thing in it is a leather carrying case for a hunting rifle.”

  “That’s where you keep your backup leg?”

  “You might make a detective yet, Spaulding. Bring the case and everything in it. In my bedroom closet, up on the top shelf, you’ll find a small suitcase with a change of clothes. Bring the suitcase.”

  “Where do you live, Mr. Chelmin?”

  “In Salinas. Near the Steinbeck Library.”

  “Address is on the registration in the glove compartment?”

  “In a sleeve behind the sun visor. That fancy phone of yours have a GPS?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you’re all set. Park in the alley behind the house and use the back door.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Ask Emily to get me a cup of coffee, black, and one of those glazed doughnuts she’s always buying.”

  Will left the room, and a moment later Emily appeared in the doorway. “That was a glazed doughnut you want,” she said, not bothering to mask her surprise.

  “If you have one.”

  “I’ll just be a minute, Mr. Chelmin,” she said and hurried away.

  Emily returned with the coffee and a doughnut on a paper plate to find Chelmin peering at an electric razor with a grim expression on his face.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Chelmin?”

  “Do we have any batteries?”

  “I can look.”

  “I need three, size AA. Then call Major Prendergast at the Replacement Depot and ask him when the next basic training cycle begins.”

  “Right away. Uh, Mr. Chelmin, can I ask you a personal question?”

  Chelmin smiled. “What do you need?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just—you never asked for a glazed doughnut before. You always eat the plain. And I’ve never seen you shave in the office.”

  “When Mr. Spaulding comes back, he can tell you why I need to shave.”

  “And the glazed doughnut?”

  Chelmin started to smile, then stopped. “Do you know what a bucket list is?”

  §

  Chelmin finished the doughnut and the coffee and called to Emily.

  Emily stuck her head through his open office door. “Did you like the glazed doughnut, Mr. Chelmin?”

  Chelmin smiled. “It’s very sweet. Pretty tasty, actually. But now that I’ve tried one, I probably won’t have another. At least for a while. Emily, I’d like you to find me the requirements for the award of the Soldier’s Medal. And for the Army Commendation Medal.”

  “The Soldier’s Medal and the Army Commendation Medal? Where should I look for that information?”

  Chelmin stifled a sigh. “We probably don’t have the regulations, and I wouldn’t want to trouble you to call the Adjutant General’s office and ask. Why don’t you use that Google thing that everybody talks about? Do you know how to use that?”

  Emily smiled. “Of course. Who is getting these medals?”

  “Only active duty service members are eligible.”

  “Oh. Then you must mean Mr. Spaulding.”

  “Not a word about this to anyone, and I mean Mr. Wagner and Mr. Spaulding.”

  §

/>   Will put the suitcase on the floor next to Chelmin’s desk and laid the rifle case against the wall next to the chair.

  “You need any help with that, Mr. Chelmin?”

  Chelmin shook his head. “By the way, you report to the replacement depot next Tuesday morning and will start basic training the next day. Until then, you’ll stay in the MP Company and work here.”

  “Yes, sir. Is that it? ”

  “No. Sit down.”

  Will sat in the chair next to the desk.

  Chelmin said, “I heard from Tom Blair just now.”

  Will asked, “They nabbed Malone and Hawkins?”

  Chelmin shook his head. “Not yet. But, the FBI found more texts hidden in those pictures. In Kendra’s vacation pictures. I don’t know how, and neither does Blair, but she obtained details on three overseas bank accounts, one in Costa Rica and two in Belize. Blair thinks they belonged to Malone, Hawkins, and Zeravla—Brenda. Together, that’s about $11 million. The U.S. has good relations with those countries, and since we can prove that that money was stolen from the federal government, there’s a good chance we can recover it.

  “That means that someone is in line for a reward—probably 25 percent.”

  Will said, “Kendra located that money. Any reward should go to her kid.”

  “I told Blair that you’d say that, but he wanted me to hear it from you.”

  “Of course,” Will said.

  “Two more things about the case: The DEA recovered about $16 million worth of narcotics and other stolen drugs from the warehouse raid. They’ve arrested more than thirty people, so far.”

  Will said, “Dalton Guerrero?”

  Chelmin shook his head, no. “They also seized $3.5 million in cash, plus enough firearms to outfit a small army. A Marine rifle company, anyway.

  “And finally, thanks to Kendra’s snooping, the DEA has unraveled another mystery. It seems that there’s a cosmetics company based in Panama—"

  “La Princesa Fiorella,” Will said.

  “Yes. The DEA has long suspected that they were involved in drug smuggling, but they never found any hard evidence. Kendra figured it out: They ship a few hundred cases of beauty products to that Santa Ana warehouse every month. It’s just what it seems—face cream, powders, all that lady stuff. M-9 then wires the manufacturer payment. All legal. But the beauty products are crap. The M-9 pays a hundred times what they’re worth. That allows them to move money to Costa Rica, Panama, Beliz—anyplace with a La Princesa Fiorella factory—without attracting attention. Princesa pays various individuals with cash disguised as legitimate salary or contractor payments.”