"Not really, no. Just wondering."
"Did you investigate this crime at all?" Francesca asked. Jake noticed how sarcastic she sounded. "I mean you did have presence of mind to at lease log it into LInX."
"The incident report said this occurred night before last. Who discovered it?" Asked Jake.
"Alabama man named Darrell Blanton. Came out to visit a relative's plot early yesterday morning and saw the mess. Called it in, so I sent a deputy out to have a look. He took the pictures, said he thought it was kids just messing around. I told our County Manager, Smiley Lee, to buy a new casket and put Chastain back in the ground."
"You didn't get a funeral home to do it?" Francesca asked.
"No. Cheaper if the county did it. Just scooped everything out of the old casket and stuffed it in the new one. Didn't need a PhD. to figure it out."
Jake and Francesca walked around the perimeter of the cemetery looking for anything that might be of interest in their investigation but nothing was obvious. Any evidence left by the culprit had long since been destroyed by county vehicles and workers.
"We're done here." Jake motioned toward the car. "Let's go to Dahlonega. If we get there early, maybe we can get finished early and won't be so late getting to Florida."
An hour and fifteen minutes later Jake pulled into the entrance of the Mt. Hope Cemetery in Dahlonega, Georgia. The older part of the cemetery was built on a hill that overlooked the historic town and campus of North Georgia College and State University. It soon became apparent that Dahlonega law enforcement had treated this incident as a serious crime, protecting the scene with the same care and diligence as Arlington and Andersonville. Jake pulled the car to a stop near the yellow flagging tape that cordoned off the scene. Jake noticed a man in uniform walking in his direction. He was mid-thirties with dark hair cut in a flattop and a physique like a linebacker.
"May I help you?" The man called out as Jake and Francesca got out of the car.
"I'm Jake Pendleton. This is Francesca Catanzaro." Jake motioned her direction. "We're looking for Sheriff Klicker."
"I'm Klicker." He looked at his watch. "I wasn't expecting you so soon but earlier is better than later."
This sheriff had a professional, calm demeanor and seemed the polar opposite of the sheriff in Hiawassee.
"You two come on." The sheriff motioned by swinging his whole arm. "I'll give you a full briefing."
Klicker led them to an old section of the cemetery where a wrought iron fence was attached to the top of a small two-foot high concrete wall outlining a large family burial plot of at least a dozen headstones. "This is the Elliot family plot. Roy Elliot Sr. was a pillar in the community back in the 30s and 40s. And this…" Klicker pointed to a destroyed brick vault. The vault was half above and half below the ground. The concrete vault cap had been busted and moved to the side. "…is Roy Elliot Jr.'s grave. Or what's left of it."
"When did this happen?" Jake asked.
"Three nights ago. One of my officers was patrolling and saw a car up here. Figured it was teenagers making out. Been known to happen from time to time. He followed the access road this way." His finger outlined the deputy's route following the road. "Then the car sped away from here and out the exit over there." He pointed toward the main gate. "He used his spotlight to scan the area, noticed the broken capstone, and called it in."
"Did he get the license plate?" Francesca asked.
"No, I'm afraid not. He couldn't identify the make and model in the dark either. Just headlights and taillights."
Jake walked closer to the grave. The casket was covered with a tarp. "Elliot still in there?"
"Haven't moved a thing, it's exactly like we found it. The perpetrator broke into the sealed part of the casket and moved the remains."
"You think it was kids. Practical joke, maybe?" Jake asked.
"Not many practical jokers would go to this much trouble. They had to have brought along a hell of a big sledgehammer to break that glass, it's pretty thick. And there are some other peculiar things about it as well."
"Such as?" Francesca had deliberately stood back but now she walked over to the grave, lifted the tarp and looked in.
"Let me show you." Klicker pointed to small circular areas that had been marked to keep people out. "We had two people digging." He pointed to the footprints inside the marked off areas. "We took impressions. I have one of my officers searching a database to match the tread to the brand of shoe. Notice anything substantial?"
Jake looked at the footprints. "Two people with small feet. Could be kids."
"Or women," Francesca interrupted. "I recognize this tread. The multi-directional raised tread pattern is characteristic of hiking shoes. Looks a lot like the tread on my Keen hiking boots. Not a lot of kids wear hiking boots"
"That's what we ascertained as well," Sheriff Klicker said. "I'll have my deputy run down the Keen tread."
"What about fingerprints?" Jake asked. "Did you lift any from the scene?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"Gloves or wiped down?" Francesca asked.
"Gloves, for sure. Even then, with these surfaces, prints would have been difficult to lift. But we gave it the old college try." Klicker rubbed his chin. "I was surprised to get a response on my LInX report so fast. What else is going on?"
"Similar case in Hiawassee." Jake leaned down next to Francesca and lifted the tarp. Broken glass littered the bottom of the casket, Elliot's mangled remains covered in shards of glass. His mind was racing with questions. Not for the sheriff, but about who would be raiding World War II caskets after nearly seventy years and why? It was the 'why' that troubled him the most. "Except the sheriff in Hiawassee had already re-interred the remains. At least he had sense enough to take pictures. That's all we got to go on." Jake paused. "Was Elliot white or black?"
"Is that relative?" Klicker asked.
"We also had disturbed graves down at Andersonville and at Arlington."
"Mr. Elliot was Caucasian."
Jake stood and Francesca followed suit. "Sheriff, we need a copy of everything you have so far and we'll get out of your hair."
Sheriff Klicker handed Francesca his folder. "This was for you anyway. I have another copy at the station. One question though if you don't mind me asking?"
"Not at all," Jake said.
"Are you guys Feds or something? I got a call from the governor's office telling me to cooperate fully and assist any way I can."
"We're not Feds so I guess that put us in the something category. Our assignment came through different channels." Jake looked at Francesca then back at the sheriff.
"The governor said it came from the top. Does that mean what I think it means?"
Jake lowered his head momentarily and smiled at the sheriff's question. He gathered himself and said. "All I'll say is this. Two World War II soldiers' remains were disturbed at different United States national cemeteries within a three-day period. You take it from there."
18
Jake and Francesca made it to the airport hours ahead of schedule. Fifteen minutes later the Citation lifted off from Gainesville, Georgia destined for the Fernandina Beach Municipal Airport on Amelia Island, Florida. The club seat arrangement allowed Jake and Francesca to sit across from each other with a small table between them.
"Ever been to Amelia Island?" Jake asked.
"No. My only trip to Florida was last year when we were on assignment in Jacksonville." Francesca said. "Not one of our better moments. The lab blew up before we got there."
"I remember. We were lucky. We'll be north of Jacksonville this time. Fernandina Beach is on Amelia Island in Florida's northeastern corner. I think you'll like it. Throughout history it has flown under eight national flags. And at one point it was a haven for pirates. We'll be staying in the historic district, a couple of miles from the cemetery."
"What about food?" Francesca asked. "I'm getting hungry. Any good places to eat there?"
"Plenty of good restaurants. Afterwards we'll
go by the fudge shop then relax with a drink at the Palace Saloon." Jake paused, then pointed to the folder. "What do you think?"
"I don't know, Jake. Just when I think we can draw a connection, new evidence raises more questions."
"Like what?"
"For instance, why were there no footprints anywhere but Dahlonega? Why was the glass broken on two caskets and left untouched on two?"
"The graves at Arlington and Andersonville were out in grassy plots. Whoever dug up those graves was careful not to step on anything but grass. No footprint evidence to lift. No telling what evidence was destroyed in Hiawassee. That investigation by the locals was a fiasco. The sheriff is either incompetent or just didn't care. In Dahlonega, the cops surprised the looters and they didn't have time to cover their tracks." Jake pulled out four photos, one from each cemetery. He laid them side-by-side on a table between the jet's club seats. He spun each photo around for Francesca to view. "Notice. Both Arlington and Andersonville have guards patrolling the grounds all night." He pointed to two photos. "These don't."
"Which seems to be another coincidence," she said. "Two black. Two white. Two broken. Two intact. Do you still think it's the same people or perhaps random acts of vandalism that are not connected at all?"
"I don’t' know. But my patience is wearing thin." He knew Francesca was right; it could be four unrelated incidents. But, Jake reasoned, more likely two. He was convinced the grave disturbances at Arlington and Andersonville were interconnected. He wasn't so sure the incidents in Hiawassee and Dahlonega were related to each other or to the national cemetery break-ins.
At Arlington, and again at Andersonville, the top liners in the caskets had fallen, or were pulled, from the same corner and folded underneath when the casket lid was closed. Too much of a coincidence not be connected. He didn't buy the story about the liners coming loose due to the caskets being buried in the ground and not in a vault. He didn't know much about caskets and decay or what years underground would do to the interior of the casket, but he did know that the lid had been opened because the liner was creased and folded back. That could only have happened if the lid was opened and then closed with the liner hanging down. What puzzled him was nothing appeared to have been removed from any of the caskets. The glass seals were never breached. So why would someone go to the trouble and risk going to jail if they weren't robbing the grave. What was he missing?
Jake opened the folder to review the crime reports again but within seconds his mind had wandered. He reminisced about Beth and the fun vacations they'd shared together in Fernandina Beach. Thinking about the casino cruises, picnics at Fort Clinch State Park, and the long romantic walks on the beach made him smile. He loved Beth. Her tragic death a year and a half ago left him feeling guilty and with an overwhelming emptiness inside. He never thought he could feel happiness again.
Then he met Kyli.
He wished Kyli was with him now. He felt cheated out of his time with her. He had put a wall around his emotions after Beth died, vowing never to let anyone in. Never to take down the wall. Was it too soon to let go of his feelings for Beth?
Kyli was different in so many ways. She made him feel alive. And it felt so damn good. Beth had been dependent on him, even needy at times, but he overlooked it because they always had good times together. Kyli was the polar opposite. Independent, light hearted, and a practical joker. A little on the wild side. Her tears at the Maldives resort was the first time he'd seen Kyli cry. Was it possible to fall in love with Kyli while he was still holding on to his feelings for Beth?
Their vacation cut short for this—investigating grave robberies. Not even robberies. Disturbances. Vandalisms. Never had anything been identified as stolen. He understood the President wanting to avoid a racial issue with the national cemeteries but why involve Wiley? Why couldn't Rudd's people handle this issue? It didn't add up.
The buzzer on the flight phone interrupted his thoughts. He picked up the receiver. "Yeah Mike?"
"We're starting our descent now, sir. We'll be on the ground in ten minutes."
Jake hung up the flight phone and looked at Francesca. "We'll be on the ground in ten so let's pack up this stuff." He paused. "You like seafood?"
"I'm from the southern tip of Italy. What do you think?"
* * *
By the time Jake checked into the hotel and met Francesca in the lobby, the sun was disappearing in the western sky. The last of the day's burnt orange rays skipped across the waters of Fernandina Harbor. Shadows of sailboats moored in the harbor dotted the sparkling waters. Harbor sounds filled the air. Halyards clanged as sailboats rocked from the wake of a passing motorboat on the Amelia River. Its tiny engine hummed as it drove by. Screeching seagulls flocked behind an incoming shrimp boat, begging fishermen to throw scraps overboard.
Jake and Francesca walked down the sidewalk past the Palace Saloon, one of the town's feature landmarks.
"This is the place you wanted to come for drinks after we eat?" Francesca asked.
"Yeah."
"I'll pass. Smells too much like cigarette smoke."
"We'll just have drinks at Brett's Waterway Café." He pointed toward the sun. "If there is a breeze the gnats won't be bad and we can sit outside on the patio."
"I like that idea better."
They walked past a bookstore. An author sat at a table on the sidewalk signing his latest thriller novel. The setting sun glistened across beads of sweat on the author's bald head. Florida heat in early September was referred to as the dog days. And with 90% humidity, it felt like a sauna. Hot, sticky, and muggy.
The patrons sitting outside on the patio looked miserable, constantly wiping the sweat from their faces with their napkins. They opted to dine inside the cool air-conditioned restaurant.
"I'm sorry about your vacation with Kyli. She was really looking forward to it. I'm sure you were as well." Francesca brushed her hair behind her ear and smiled. "She had a big surprise in store for your second week."
"What was it?"
"Sorry. Not telling. She may still surprise you with it."
Jake ordered his second Margarita while Francesca drank white wine. While they waited for their drinks they sat silent, like an old married couple who had been together many years.
"Jake?" Francesca's voice went softer. "She's in love with you, you know?"
"We have feelings for each other but let's not get carried away. What makes you think that anyway?"
Francesca was about to speak when the waitress brought their drinks. Jake stirred his Margarita with his straw.
"Look, Jake. A woman can tell these things. I could see it in her eyes when she was telling me about the things she had planned for you two."
"I think she was just excited about the trip. Kyli wanted it to be an adventure."
"Wake up, Jake." Francesca's voice changed again. "Kyli is head over heels in love with you and you better start thinking about how you feel about her and how you're going to handle this when it comes up." She raised her finger. "And it will come up. Probably sooner than later."
"I'm a big boy. I can handle it."
"Well, keep one thing in mind." Francesca shook her finger at him. "Kyli is your boss's granddaughter and if it comes down to it, he'll pick her over you any day."
"I already know that." Jake took a long draw from the straw and swallowed. "He made that point perfectly clear last year on Ios Island."
"Then don't you dare break her heart." Francesca picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. "Or I swear to God I'll shoot you myself."
* * *
The doorbell caught him by surprise, especially at this late hour. Evan Makley glanced at his watch and strode toward the door, pausing only long enough to check his appearance in the foyer mirror. His still had on his slacks from earlier in the day; his starched dress shirt untucked but still holding its press. He was barefoot, but it was his apartment after all.
The box above the door chimed again and again in rapid succession. Whoever it was, w
asn't very patient. He stuck his eye to the peephole and saw a familiar woman's figure standing in front of the fisheye lens, Abigail Love. A flood of worrisome thoughts made him shudder.
Makley jerked the door open. "Abigail, what are you doing here?" He leaned out of the doorway and craned his head left and right. "Did anyone see you come in the building?"
Love pushed him to the side and walked in his apartment. "For crying out loud, Evan, give me a break. I'm not an amateur."
"Of course, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply—"
"Shut up and close the door."
Makley turned around and closed the door. She was wearing a long black trench coat with black leather boots that disappeared mid-calf behind the fabric. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her brilliant green eyes bore in to him. "Do you have any news?"
"Not yet." She tossed her bag on his couch. "What about you and the President? Anything new happening that could be of use to me?"
"No. Rudd is worried about a few graves being disturbed in a couple of national cemeteries, that's about it." Makley let his eyes run up and down her torso. Her trench coat was cinched snug at the waist accentuating her figure. "If you don't have any news, why are you here?"
"A couple of reasons actually."
"I'm listening."
Love stepped closer to him. "I heard about your wife leaving, Evan, and taking your girls with her. You know, I can take care of her if you want me to…but it'll cost you."
"No. As tempting as it sounds, I'll pass. The girls need their mother, besides they're older now. One's even driving so I get to see them more often. The divorce really wasn't unexpected either. We hadn't been together as husband and wife in over a year before we split."
"Over a year? Damn. You are a frustrated man." Love removed the tie around her ponytail and let her hair fall to her shoulders. She shook her head to give her hair an unkempt look. She stepped close to him. "Which brings me to the other reason I'm here."
She was close enough he could smell her perfume. She put her hands on his chest, palms flat, and gently worked them in small circles. An instant twinge of excitement
Breach of Power (The Action-Packed Jake Pendleton Political Thriller series Book 3) Page 12
