by Rick Chesler
Tara straightened and tapped keys to close the e-mail program. She knew when the whale’s GPS would be broadcasting again; she didn’t need a room full of cops to know it too. “Checked out recently opened documents. Just routine fax and memo templates. Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”
She was glad to see Anthony exit the server room, heading in her direction. She excused herself from the police detective and pulled the producer aside. Lowering her voice, she asked him, “How long do you think it will be before people can see the whale-cam online again?”
“Wish I knew. Few hours, at least.”
“As I recall, Trevor said the data on the servers wasn’t backed up anywhere else. Is that true?”
“Yes. The entire site will have to be built from scratch.”
“Can you get a bare-bones version of the site back up sometime today?”
“In theory, but it depends how long it takes to assemble a technical team and acquire the equipment.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better get going.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He turned to leave but then paused, adding, “Hey do me a favor, will you?”
“Depends on the favor,” she said, smiling.
“If you talk to Anastasia—I know you’re consulting her to look for the whale—don’t mention I said it might take a while for the site to be back up. I’m already catching enough crap from her Dad. I don’t want to hear it from her too. She’s got some meeting at the university today, after she gets through editing, so hopefully I can have it running again by the time she’s free.”
“No problem. If she hears about it, it won’t be from me.” Anthony left and Tara wondered if he’d meant any innuendo when he said she was “consulting” Anastasia.
Tara walked past the server room, samples of blood on the floor now being collected by crime scene technicians. She flashed upon her conversation with Trevor.
Anastasia . . . Anastasia’s lab . . . A.N.A.S.T.A.S.I.A . . . Data on the university computer . . . but no video. . . . Forget the video, GPS is data! . . . We can find the whale!
As technicians photographed a blood-spatter pattern, Tara recalled something else Trevor had said about Anastasia. “She doesn’t want anyone to get the tag . . . Interrupt her precious data stream? No way.” She found it hard to believe anything Trevor Lane had said. This was, after all, a man who had gone to great lengths in order to deceive her. But there was such conviction in his voice. . . .
Tara could see no advantage in going to Anastasia for the GPS coordinates yet. Too early. And it would tip everyone else off about the Coast Guard testing. Better to use the time to organize an FBI dive team. When the whale-cam’s GPS started broadcasting again, she would be ready with her own marine force. No more riding shotgun.
She would end this today.
Tara stepped outside and threaded her way through a gathering crowd of onlookers to her Crown Vic. The coroner unit was on scene now loading Trevor Lane’s sheeted body onto a stretcher.
CHAPTER 30
FBI FIELD OFFICE, LOS ANGELES
“I told you to keep me informed,” Tara’s boss exclaimed as she entered his office. He was holding the phone, receiver cupped in one hand.
“Trevor Lane’s been murdered,” Tara said, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of Will Branson’s desk.
Branson nodded and continued speaking into the phone. “Have him call me back. I’m in a meeting.” He started to hang up when Tara could hear his secretary trying to tell him something. “Then cancel it!” He slammed the receiver in its cradle.
Branson leaned back in his chair. “I heard, Shores. News agencies around the world are picking up on this whale murder. We’re flooded with calls. I hope you’ve got some leads on this.”
“That’s what I’m here for, sir,” she said.
“Tell me.”
“It’s not apparent who killed Lane, or even if his death is related to the whale-cam murder. But in the course of investigating Lane’s office, I learned that the GPS malfunction of the whale’s telemetry unit was caused by scheduled U.S. Coast Guard GPS interference testing.”
“If it was scheduled, how come the TV show didn’t know why their GPS was out, or were they bluffing?”
“They didn’t know it was out because Trevor Lane didn’t tell them. He received an e-mail from the Coast Guard but never passed the information on.”
“Why wouldn’t he pass it on?”
“Maybe by the time he saw it he was under too much pressure to get the tag himself. Something related to the blackmail he was involved in over the whale-cam’s core technology.”
Branson tented his hands, looked around his desk at the growing stacks of inquiries regarding the whale case, his blinking phone lights, and sighed. “So now what? What’s our next move? I need something solid for the press.”
“Sir, I’d like to put in a request for the FBI’s underwater unit to take me to the whale’s location as soon as its GPS coordinates are known again.”
Branson started to protest, then caught himself and changed tack. “Wait a minute. I’ve been getting reports that the whale’s web site has been taken down.”
“Right. Lane destroyed the servers in his office before he was killed. At least I’m pretty sure it was Lane. Blood work will confirm that.” For some reason the image of blood drops spattered across broken electronic equipment caused her to shudder involuntarily.
“So even if the GPS is working, how would you see the coordinates without the site up?”
Tara smiled. She was glad she worked for a smart man. “Excellent point, sir. But I’ve thought of that. Dr. Reed, the nature show’s host, has a lab at USC. I have yet to confirm this, but I was told she has a computer there that receives a telemetry data stream—data that would include GPS—from the whale.”
“And who was your source on that?”
Tara hesitated before coughing up the answer. “Trevor Lane.” Now there's a pillar of reliability.
Branson said nothing. He simply stared at her as if he might be evaluating her in some way. He broke the silence as Tara was about to speak in self-defense.
“I expect a UCLA gal might be able to find her way over to SC, am I right?”
Tara smiled at his reference to the storied football rivalry. “I know the way, sir.”
“Good.”
Tara got up to leave.
“Just one more thing,” Branson said.
“Sir?”
“Once you get the GPS coordinates of the whale’s position, assuming that pans out, I want you to turn them over to the underwater unit and let them handle it from there.”
Tara sank back into the chair as she let the words register. Let them handle it from there. After all she’d been through, she wouldn’t even be on scene when the crown jewel of evidence in the case was recovered.
“I don’t understand, sir,” was all she could manage. But of course she did understand. Perfectly well. He lacked confidence in her, or was trying to protect her.
“I don’t want you going back out on the water, Agent Shores. You’ve been through enough. Let the professional underwater people recover the video camera, then they’ll give it to you so you can continue your investigation.”
So I do all the work and some sea-going glory hounds get to come in at the last minute and take all the credit. “Very well, sir.” She made no attempt to disguise her disappointment.
“You get us those coordinates, Shores, and I won’t forget that.”
“I’ll have them in”—she checked her watch—“four hours.”
“Good, Shores. Anything else?”
She wanted to tell him to let her go with the team, that it was the only way to . . . A part of her was glad she wouldn’t have to go, however, and so she told Branson about her visit to Imaging and the victim’s dolphin tattoo.
“Excellent. That lead to anything yet?”
“I ran the dolphin tattoo against missing persons reports. I’m awaiting result
s now.”
He nodded his approval. “Get some rest if you can. You look like hell, if that’s possible. I’ll coordinate the underwater team.”
SOUTH ROBERTSON, LOS ANGELES
Even before Mrs. George Reed stumbled out of her car into the alley behind the office of Roger Carr, P.I., her black Mercedes convertible attracted attention. The South Robertson area of L.A. was not one she normally frequented. Broken glass and trash littered the street below a canopy of graffiti-strewn billboards. Mrs. Reed was certain that any number of drug deals were taking place right now within a one-block radius.
Beverly Hills was home to plenty of private investigators, and with much cushier offices than Roger Carr’s, Mrs. Reed might add, but with the unsavory surroundings came privacy, and privacy meant not having to suffer the humiliation of her fellow socialites and tennis club pals knowing that her husband had cheated on her. Again.
She made her way to the back door of Mr. Carr’s establishment. She had told Carr that on occasion, when she must stop by, she would only use the back door. Explaining her presence here would be difficult. Not that it mattered much anymore. The look on George’s face when he saw the photo had made it all worth it.
One more visit. She would have George tailed for one more week, just to make sure he wasn’t up to anything else, keep the pressure on. Then she would sweep this whole business under the rug. She wanted to have the upper hand for what he’d done to her, but secretly, she didn’t want to ruin their marriage. For years they had drifted apart, but when Wired Kingdom had started she’d begun to see a difference, especially in their relationship with Anastasia.
Inside, Mr. Carr looked at the black-and-white closed-circuit TV monitor on his desk and cringed. He took the phone off speaker and grabbed the receiver. “I don’t know how I’m gonna spend all the money yet, Marty, but I do know there’s a couple of island girls waiting for us in Aruba, okay? Oh, listen,” he said, put-ting an end to the hearty laughter on the other end of the line, “I gotta go—a client just walked in.”
Mr. Carr hung up the phone and stood behind his desk as Mrs. Reed entered. “Elsie, I wasn’t expecting you today. How are you?” Carr knew that Elsie wasn’t Mrs. Reed’s real name, but she insisted on using an alias.
“You just took pictures of my husband cheating on me, Roger. How the hell do you think I am?” She looked at Carr, an aging hippie-type in a loud Hawaiian shirt with longish blond hair and a face rough with stubble.
Mr. Carr cowered back into his ratty desk chair. As soon as he was seated he wished he had remained standing, for there, just beyond arm’s reach on the edge of his desk, was a magazine he wanted Mrs. Reed to see least of anyone.
“Well, I mean how are you, all things considered?” Carr managed.
“I want you to follow my husband for one more week.”
She tossed a roll of bills on the desk. Almost as if hypnotized, Carr couldn’t stop his eyes from watching the money’s progress as it rolled to a stop on the edge of the magazine that had just changed his life. The detective-for-hire knew it would seem out of character for him not to count the cash right away, so he reached across the desk, as if for the money. He couldn’t help but glance up at Mrs. Reed as he started to pull the magazine toward him along with the bills. Their eyes locked.
Then Mrs. Reed snatched the glossy magazine out of Carr’s hand and read it: CAUGHT CHEATING! trumpeted the cover in ridiculously large type. There was still room on the page, however, for a small inset photo of Mr. Reed in a tuxedo, raising a glass with Mrs. Reed at some after-party. And there was also space for a much larger picture of a semi-nude George Reed with his arms wrapped around a shockingly younger, bikini-clad woman.
It was the same picture Mrs. Reed had shown her husband earlier today, taken by Roger Carr, P.I.
She read the headline a second time, tears falling. Carr kept starting to say something and then stopped himself, as if thinking better of it. “I . . . It’s just . . . I didn’t think—”
“Tell me, Mr. Carr, private investigator,” Mrs. Reed said, the last two words dripping with sarcasm, “how much did this sleazy rag pay you for this picture, this picture that I paid for you to take, and therefore own?”
“Look, Mrs. Ree—I mean Elsie . . . ” He shifted his eyes from those of Mrs. Reed while stalling for something to say, and they landed on his two small suitcases in a corner. A Caribbean travel guide lay on top of one of them. Mrs. Reeds’ eyes followed his until she too was looking at the packed bags.
“Interrupting your travel plans, am I?”
Carr gave up all pretenses. He looked around at the crappy little office where he’d labored to get by for so many years—the rust stains on the ceiling, the shabby furniture scavenged from alleyways and thrift stores, the hard-to-reach corners that served as thoroughfares for unseen vermin. He pictured his once-anemic bank account now bubbling with funds thanks to a few beach shots he never would have taken had it not been for his angry client. Then he conjured up a mental image of his new bank balance and he imagined himself floating away on that delightful train of zeroes, all the way to some tropical island where he could drink and screw himself to death at his leisure and never pick up another camera as long as he lived.
“Sorry, Mrs. Reed,” he said, walking out from around his desk. “I’m no longer in business.”
“You can’t just leave! That picture is mine! You had no permission to sell it to anyone!”
“So sue me,” Carr said, picking up his bags. He walked out with his suitcases and just left her standing alone in his office. She could have it and everything in it, for all he cared.
CHAPTER 31
MEDICAL CLINIC—LOS CABOS, MEXICO
A doctor hovered over a young girl lying on an operating table. Unconscious and barely breathing, her condition had taken a turn for the worse over the last few hours. An EKG machine fluttered, alarms rising in pitch, then flatlined. A nurse stepped to the table with defibrillator paddles. “Clear . . .”
Minutes later the doctor shook his head, removed his mask, and exited the operating room.
In the waiting room outside, a grieving mother jumped to her feet upon seeing the doctor. Even before he spoke, his body language told her the news. “We did everything we could, señora.”
MEXICAN-AMERICAN BORDER
The mood in the Cessna was jovial as Héctor crossed back into American airspace. Two new recruits rode with him, one up front and one in the back. The man in the rear shared floor space—the seats had been ripped out to create sufficient cargo room—with a host of new equipment. A heavy, oblong crate occupied the tail section.
Héctor held up a hand to silence his divers, who were high-fiving each other on crossing from Baja California into California, U.S.A. The radio was making noise.
The pilot listened closely to the marine band for any signs of news about Juan and Fernando, whom he regretted leaving behind. There was plenty of the usual fishing and boating chatter, but the frequency he had set aside for Juan and Fernando remained stubbornly silent. He did not let this worry him too much. They were, after all, still very far away.
Héctor's satellite phone began to ring and he checked the caller ID: his wife. He had not even had time to see her while he was back in Mexico. She would not be pleased. He was about to answer the sat-phone when he heard new voices on the marine radio. She will have to wait. He silenced the sat-phone. He had to monitor the radio for every possible shred of information that might help them locate Juan and Fernando. The trio became quiet as they settled into the flight and contemplated the unusual mission that lay ahead.
As they flew north, Héctor was blissfully unaware that his personal motivation to obtain the whale’s tag no longer existed.
ABOARD PANDORA’S BOX
The decks of the schooner Pandora’s Box were awash in midday sun. Drifting lazily under the crew’s watch, the boat followed the offshore current south. Not knowing where the whale was, Ocean Liberation Front and the two castaways they had
picked up had no immediate destination, but liked the idea of a pleasure cruise while they decided on one. At some point Eric Stein had thought it a good idea to ply Juan and Fernando with tequila.
In between radio checks, the Mexican divers traded shots with the OLF crew who were not on immediate duty. Everyone knew there was drinking on OLF cruises, but Pineapple urged Stein not to have anymore tequila after he had nearly shot his girlfriend’s companion. Stein initially took offense to this, but they reached a compromise when Stein agreed to have margaritas instead of shots.
Those on board had clustered themselves into three main groups. The largest group, occupying the stern deck, was centered around the Mexican divers. Stein and Pineapple continued to converse with them in Spanish, interpreting for the rest of their inner circle and a few hangers-on.
Stein’s girlfriend was being consoled by several of her friends who sat cross-legged in a loose circle on the smaller bow deck. The guy she’d been with in the bathroom also sat in their group, although not next to her, to avoid inciting Stein any further. The third group was the on-duty crew, who kept track of the ship’s position and monitored the radar screen and radio channels.
Stein had just finished telling the Mexicans yet another story highlighting the heroic deeds of his organization while patently ignoring the criminal derring-do they were infamous for, when Juan looked at his dive watch. He signaled Fernando. Time to check the radio again. Fernando said he would go after finishing his beer—he was grateful for the cold Tecates and got a healthy laugh from the crew when he told them he would have traded his dive gear for a six-pack.
At the radio Fernando monitored several channels he knew their pilot would know to use. He could hear the others holding their voices down while they strained to listen.