Brains

  “Better call Mitzi and see if she knows anything,” she advised.

  Hal groaned. “Really, you should call her. You know, woman to woman.”

  “Make the call, Hal. I'm going to call Lieutenant Choi. This sounds fishy, and he and Frank are tight. I'll tell him you're there waiting for him.”

  Hal had known Mitzi Lenz literally her whole life, and could hardly have been less enthusiastic. He pulled her number off his contacts list, and rang her office. She didn't answer. He found himself in one of those government phone trees designed to push the unstable into a homicidal frenzy. After who knew how many steps, her clipped voice intoned, ”Dr. Lenz. Leave a message.” He left a simple, “Hal Jensen here. Call me regarding Frank ASAP,” and his number.

  He sat on Frank's porch enjoying what was likely one of the last warm days of the fall. A blue sedan pulled up, and Dan Choi walked up the path. “Hey Hal, what's up? Alice said Frank is missing. Thought I'd come by myself and check it out.”

  Hal took him on the tour. Choi was careful, treating the house like a crime scene. After twenty years in Homicide, he treated EVERYTHING like a crime scene. He looked at the boarding pass. “How long do you keep YOUR boarding passes?” He asked.

  “Not a clue. Usually toss them when I get home and empty my pockets, I guess.”

  Choi pulled an ivory pair of chopsticks from his jacket pocket and manipulated the passport open. “Great picture. Makes him look ten years younger.”

  Hal looked over his shoulder. “It's almost ten years old. From before when Jill died.”

  Hal's phone rang, or rather whistled. The theme song from The Andy Griffiths Show. Lieutenant Choi rolled his eyes. Hal answered on speaker. “Hello.”

  “Mitzi Lenz here. What's the problem?”

  “Hi Mitzi, it's Hal Jensen. Frank didn't come into work today, and we are getting worried. Have you talked to him lately?”

  “Friday morning ten days ago.”

  “So, he was home in Minneapolis?”

  “No, on his island, riding out the hurricane. He called to discuss a case that turned up there.”

  Choi broke in “Are you sure he was on the island? His boarding pass says he came back to the U.S. the Monday before that.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Choi of MPD.”

  “Yes, I'm sure he was on the island, he was calling on a friend's satellite phone. Tell me exactly what you are finding there.”

  Hal described the place.

  “Dad would never walk out of the house without his wallet. EVER. Not even to take out the garbage. And he always put his passport in his firebox the instant he got home. ALWAYS.” They could hear her typing.” I am flying out this afternoon. Process the house, Lieutenant. What's your fax? I'll send you a formal missing person's report, he's been missing more than forty-eight hours, along with a copy of my power-of-attorney to access all his records. He signed it to me right after Mom died.” She hung up.

  Choi raised his eyebrows towards Hal. “She seemed, uh, forceful.”

  Hal laughed grimly. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  ◆◆◆

  United had a flight out of Newark at 10:40, and Mitzi landed in Minneapolis at 12:55. She was at the house by two. There was a uniformed cop barring the door, but he was able to get Lieutenant Choi on the phone, who drove over. Mitzi was seething.

  Choi shrugged. “You asked for a crime scene, you got a crime scene. You can come in with me, just don't touch anything.”

  She looked at him. “I have been working FBI crime scenes for a dozen years. I know the drill.” They put on the lint-free shoe covers and went in. There were two techs dusting the kitchen and bathroom for prints. “What about the boarding pass?” she asked.

  “Sent to the lab with the wallet and passport.”

  They went to the bathroom, where the towel was still on the floor. “Dad always threw his towel over the shower door, never on the floor.” Choi showed her where the wallet and passport had been. “Impossible, impossible, impossible,” she muttered. Next she asked to look at the garbage. The two slices of mummified pizza were still there. “Ham and pineapple. That's not right. He only ate ham and pineapple in the spring. Fall is pepperoni. Look,” she pointed, “no receipts stuck to the boxes. These were carry out, not delivery. Dad ALWAYS got delivery. I've seen enough. Let's go to the lab.”

  Choi obligingly drove her down to the crime lab, where the items from Frank's house were still in bags. She pitched a fit until the tech examined the boarding pass. Clean, no prints. “Fresh out of a printer,” she muttered. The wallet and passport were covered with smudged prints, as expected.

  Choi's cell rang, and he picked it up. “Choi.” He listened. “Thanks.” He hung up.

  “That was one of my detectives who was following up with immigration. The system shows him coming in through Miami at the right time. He's checking with the airlines now.”

  “Waste of time.” Mitzi was annoyed. “He was never here. I spoke with him on the island four days after that flight. The real question is why someone bothered to make it look like he was here. What was the point? Thanks for your help. I'm heading back to New York. I'll be flying to Antigua tomorrow.”

  Choi watched her leave. She was probably right, but he still would run down the few loose ends in Minneapolis. Definitely an enigma.

  ◆◆◆

  Cameron Hansen sighed as he looked at his phone. Mitzi. What now?

  She was exhausting. Most people with that level of intensity burned out quickly, but she seemed to just go on and on.

  The text was simple enough. “Pick me up 11:42 p.m. EWR Delta 5573 from MSP. Boarding now. No excuses. Phone off.”

  He checked the time. 7:45. Maddening. He HAD a life, after all. And it was not like she was his girlfriend. THAT thought brought a shiver. He was not even sure that “friend” really described their relationship, although he was certain that Mitzi would quote some definition that she would claim proved it did. Go-to-colleague-who-you-can-depend-on-to-have-your-back would be a good descriptor. Which, on reflection, he had to admit sounded suspiciously like “friend,” after all.

  In any case, there was no question of not picking her up. It really was not like he actually did have a life, anyway.

  As he sat in the cell phone waiting lot at Newark, Cameron asked himself how it had come to this. Working as an analyst in the New York Homeland Security Anti-Terrorism Unit was boring. He had not joined the CIA with the plan of sitting in an office. He stretched out his right foot, testing the ankle. Still, every day above ground was a good thing. So, here he was, waiting for Mitzi.

  He had met Mitzi working on a joint FBI-CIA team on a case involving a cell of would-be bombers who had succeeded in setting their own apartment on fire. Mitzi was the forensic pathologist, and they became acquaintances. The kind that discussed both cases and personal issues professionally and with complete objectivity. Mitzi's mother had just died, and to hear her talk about it, the only thing that really bothered her was that she had not been able to do the autopsy herself. She was beautiful, in an icy blond nordic way, and he had tried to flirt. Her apparent immunity to his usually persuasive charms initially convinced him she was gay, but eventually he had decided that she was simply asexual. He had finally come to the conclusion that embracing her would have about the same satisfaction level as embracing a floor lamp, except with less warmth. More like a bookshelf. So, when she invited him to come to her apartment after their third autopsy, he had been completely unprepared for her raw passion. He was even less prepared for the fact that, afterwards, she never changed her demeanor towards him whatsoever. Just a half-dozen sporadic encounters over the course of a couple of years. Weird. Like some Vulcan who was a robotic android except during mating season. He finally told her “no more,” which also did not seem to change their relationship in any noticeable way.

  His phone chirped. Mitzi was at the curb. He sighed and drove up to the terminal. Mitzi jumped in. “Something happened to
my dad. Someone tried to make it look like he was in Minneapolis when I know he was in Barbuda and I'm sure it had to do with the body he told me about when he called.”

  Cameron interrupted. “You're welcome, nice to see you as well.” Mitzi did not look amused.

  “Fine, forget the amenities, but please start at the beginning.”

  Mitzi took a deep breath and recounted the events of the day. “There is no way he was ever back in Minneapolis.”

  “Fine, I'm convinced. It certainly seems plausible that something happened in Barbuda that someone is covering up. You said you talked to him. What do you remember about the conversation?” Mitzi glared. She then repeated what Frank had told her, verbatim. Cameron mused.

  “What would be the point of mounting a connector to the spine?”

  “Nerve stimulation. It is the only thing that connects the dots. Some sort of cerebral harness used to transmit signal to the lower spinal cord. Like for lower limb reanimation.”

  “Does something like that even exist?”

  “I'd bet you a dollar.”

  Cameron was silent. He NEVER bet against Mitzi.

  ◆◆◆

  He drove to her building. “Come in,” she ordered. He tried to object, it being one a.m., but she was having none of that. She booted up her computer and logged into her Verizon account, checking the call log. “He called me from Barbuda on the morning of the twenty-third.”

  “If he was even in Barbuda. With a sat phone, there is no way of actually knowing where he was,” Cameron pointed out.

  “He told me he was in Barbuda. There is no conceivable reason he would have lied about that.”

  “That we know of.”

  Mitzi opened her mouth, then shut it again and turned back to her screen. She retrieved the number of the satellite phone. She dialed the number, but it went straight to a message stating it did not accept messages.

  “It's 2:30 in the morning in Barbuda,” Cameron noted. “Plus, most people only turn them on when they are someplace with no regular service. Did he tell you the name of his friend?”

  “I'm quite sure I already recounted our entire conversation in detail. All 796 words, 812 if you count contractions as two words.” She did not add “idiot,” for which he was grateful. And a little surprised.

  She grabbed her bag. “Let's go downtown. You can get to the phone records at the office.” Before he objected, she continued, “And since the provenance was outside the U.S., and involves falsifying immigration documents, this clearly falls under ATU jurisdiction. Let's go.” Cameron followed her out.

  ◆◆◆

  The Anti-Terrorism Unit never slept, but there were only a relatively few analysts there, since nothing in particular was brewing. Cameron went to his desk, and logged into the system. The satellite phone was registered to Bill's Beach Bar in San Diego. No answer at the business number, just a cheery recording stating that they opened at eleven. Twenty minutes later he had tracked down the number for the bar's owner, Gabe Sinclair. No answer on his land line, just a message that said “Don't leave a message, we never check this phone.” Cell phone went straight to voice mail, which was full.

  “We'll have to wait for the bar to open,” Cameron remarked. Mitzi did not answer, just scowled and went to the break room, curled up on the couch, and was instantly asleep.

  ◆◆◆

  Mitzi was up at eight, and started calling Gabe's home and mobile numbers every ten minutes. She was fuming. “Who doesn't answer their phone?” she demanded. Cameron foolishly started to answer, “People who run bars,” but her glare was a clear indicator that there was no need. She busied herself booking them on the 10:55 a.m. non-stop to Antigua, arriving at 4:10.

  Cameron was unsure. “I think we should verify the phone owner’s whereabouts before racing off. Could be a waste of time.”

  “That was clearly Dad’s last known location, so we will need to go there regardless.”

  “I still think that talking to witnesses is more efficient than literally flying off half-cocked.”

  By nine, there was still no answer, and it was time to go. “Look,” Cameron said, “if we are off line on a plane, we won’t be even able to talk to anyone in California, and the plane takes off before the bar opens.”

  “Fine.” She canceled their reservation. “I’ll book the next flight.” She tapped and waited. Then howled and pounded her fist on the desk. “The next flight does not get there until 12:10 in the afternoon tomorrow, going on Air Canada via Toronto!” She continued to tap. “AND I can't rebook this close to the one you just made me lose.” More typing. “We are on the last flight that makes the Toronto connection, 9:00 p.m. out of Newark. We will be on that flight. Info or no info.” Her tone did not encourage further discussion.

  Gabe himself finally answered at the bar at 1:45, fifteen minutes before opening time in San Diego. Cameron snatched the phone from Mitzi. “Hello Mr. Sinclair, this is Federal Agent Cameron Hansen calling regarding a satellite phone registered to your name.” Mitzi was trying to grab the phone, but he batted her away. “Yes, sir, there is a missing person who was last heard from on that phone on September twenty-third. We think he was in Barbuda.” Cameron was nodding and writing. “Have you spoken to him recently? Uh hum, uh hum. Is your wife available to speak to us? Thanks.” He covered the mouth piece. “It's his father-in-law, William Jacobs, lives on Barbuda. His wife talks to him every Sunday. Doesn't have any other phone, only turns the satellite phone on to make calls. Been living there for twenty years, finally agreed to the weekly calls a couple of years ago.” Cameron was back on the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Sinclair, yes, this is Agent Hansen calling. Did you speak with your father this past Sunday? Good, good. Did he mention any friends or acquaintances on the island? Is that so. Anything else? Do you have any other way to contact him? No, ma'am, we have no reason to believe he is in any danger. Do you have another number that we can use to reach you?” He scribbled it down. “Thank you so much, have a nice day.”

  “Apparently it was the usual quick call, more a 'proof of life' than a conversation. She asked about the hurricane. He said he was fine, but the whole island was a mess. Nothing about any friends or any further details. I guess we're headed to the island.”

  “Wasted a day,” Mitzi replied.

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday, October 5

  Antigua

  Cameron was still grousing about his night trying to sleep in a chair in the Toronto airport when they landed in Antigua. “We would have only been two hours later if we had left this morning through Miami,” he grumbled.

  “We would have been here yesterday if you hadn’t pushed me to cancel that flight.”

  He had no further response.

  They went straight to the St. John's constabulary, showed their credentials, and were introduced to the duty officer.

  “Look,” he said, after listening to Mitzi, “I’m sorry about your father being missing, but the islands were hit hard by the hurricane on the twenty-first and twenty-second, things were a major mess both here and on Barbuda.”

  “Were you in touch with Barbuda on the twenty-third?” Mitzi insisted.

  “As I said, the phones were out.” He consulted a log book. “And the duty officer did not record anything about any wireless transmissions that day.”

  “Can we speak to him?” Mitzi asked.

  “'That would not be possible,” came the reply. “Afraid the poor chap died that day. Neck broken. Still under investigation, but it looks like a homicide.”

  “Are there a lot of homicides here? Seems like a tropical paradise to me,” Cameron asked.

  “Well, we had ten last year, all but one related to drug trafficking.”

  “How about on Barbuda?”

  “Last murder there was in 2007. Tourist-on-tourist crime.”

  “Who do we talk to on Barbuda?”

  “McCabe is the constable there now. May not be too much help, though. He took over after the hurricane. I'll ring him up
for you.”

  “Just let him know we're coming to see him,” said Mitzi. “I want to get over as soon as possible.”

  “Well, the boat heads over at nine in the morning. Unless you charter a helicopter, which is about a thousand dollars, you won’t be going until then.”

  “Where do I charter a helicopter?”

  ◆◆◆

  Mitzi hated helicopters. The noise was bad enough, but the way it felt like her bottom slipped around as they left the ground always made her queasy. As they climbed to a thousand feet, the pilot, a chipper fellow with a shocking mass of orange-dyed dreadlocks, offered to give them an aerial tour of Antigua. “Just get me to Barbuda ASAP,” Mitzi snapped. He shrugged and pointed out a dot barely visible near the horizon to the north. “There she is, missy, about fifty kilometers away. Have you there in a jiffy.”

  ◆◆◆

  As soon as the pilot dropped them off at the tiny Codrington airfield, he radioed the Compound. Santiago took his report, and went upstairs to talk to el jefe.

  Juan Carlos Perez was in the pool, swimming with powerful strokes from his massive arms. Santiago waited at the shallow end. One did not interrupt el jefe during his swim. Perez did six more laps, then waved him over.

  “Speak.”

  “Two Americans, a man and a woman, urgent helicopter jump from Antigua to Codrington. Didn't seem like a couple, did not go to the resorts. Seemed from their conversation that they were going to speak with the constable about someone who went missing after the hurricane. The pilot didn't get much more, but he thought he should call it in.”

  “Who do we have on Barbuda?”

  “Marcello is working at the Caribbean Jewel. And Alyssa is there, I think.”

  “Marcello is clumsy. Leave him out of it. Have Alyssa watch for them at the constabulary, see if she can learn anything. Tell her to keep it simple.” He resumed swimming.