Night Strike

by Michael W. Sherer

  July 27—Suitland, Maryland

  Chief Warrant Officer Janet Tolliver contemplated the papers on her desk for the tenth time, papers that, if properly filled out and filed, would put Reyna on administrative leave, and essentially strip her of her ability to look into the accusations against her. Janet had already procrastinated for half a day to buy Reyna some time. But she could seriously jeopardize her job if she delayed any further.

  She needed this job. Ever since she’d divorced Ron, the scumbag, for sleeping with his secretary at his lobbying firm, life had been tough for her. Making ends meet on only one salary in this town presented enough challenges, but one thing after another had gone wrong in the past few years. First, her car’s transmission blew three months after the warranty period expired. That added three grand to her credit card debt.

  Next had been her “female” troubles. After months of tests and visits to the gynecologist, they’d finally diagnosed endometriosis, which was one of the reasons she and Ron had never had children, apparently. Thank God for that. But the pain she’d simply lived with all those years got worse, and when hormone treatment hadn’t worked, doctors had advised skipping a laparoscopy or laparotomy and undergoing a hysterectomy instead. While her insurance had covered most of it, her recovery had been long and slow. Without enough sick days to cover her recuperation, she’d gone without pay so many times that she’d barely scraped enough together each month to pay bills.

  The final straw had been her mother’s sudden, unanticipated death the year before. With no personal time or sick days to deal with all that accompanies someone’s death—Burial or cremation? Funeral or memorial? Sort through her things or simply donate it all?—Janet had never really grieved. And during part of that time, Reyna had been gone, off saving the world, making Janet’s job both easier and harder at the same time. She’d had to pick up the slack.

  Money wasn’t the only thing, though. She liked this job. She liked the responsibility, the knowledge that she was doing worthwhile work, helping her country. The job fit her skills and temperament, and she accomplished it well. The job made her feel good about herself. She needed that sense of fulfillment as much as she needed the paycheck, maybe more.

  She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and quickly covered the papers with a SSBI case file. She looked up, startled by the sight of Captain Hinson striding purposefully down the long corridor of office doors. Tall, lanky and Cary Grant handsome, Paul Hinson had risen to the post of COMONI—commander of ONI—by virtue of the fact that people underestimated him. Janet definitely thought of him as a pretty face, blushing now at the silent admission, but also knew how shrewd and intelligent the man was. She wondered what he was doing in their neck of the woods until he turned abruptly to Captain Farley’s office door and knocked loudly.

  Rising from her chair, she straightened her uniform skirt. With thoughts and heart racing, she steeled her resolve and walked into Reyna’s cubicle. Riffling through Reyna’s “out” box, Janet quickly found the interoffice envelope with Capt. Hinson’s name on it containing a report Reyna and Janet had worked on. She hesitated only briefly before Hinson’s voice spurred her on.

  “What’s going on, Todd? Is any of this true?”

  Janet quickly moved across the hall and stood next to Farley’s door, out of sight.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Farley said. “We haven’t had time to investigate.”

  Hinson went on as if he hadn’t heard. “And why the hell did I overhear this from a middy in the cafeteria? Why didn’t you inform me that NCIS put one of our people under a microscope?”

  “I, uh… It didn’t seem pertinent at the time, sir. I didn’t consider it important enough to bother you with.”

  “We just gave the woman a Commendation Medal, for chrissakes. If she’s involved in this NCIS mess you don’t think that’s going to look bad for us? Don’t you think that’s something I should know about?”

  “Well, yes, sir. I suppose so.” Farley sounded cowed.

  Janet almost smiled as warmth spread through her at the sound of Farley’s dressing down. But she pulled herself together and put on a serious face. She stepped away from the wall and hovered a few feet from the door, looking away as if disinterested, but no longer trying to hide.

  “When are you going to get on this?” Hinson said.

  “Right away, sir. I’ll put our best people on it.”

  “Good. So, what’s your gut tell you? Is she involved, or is NCIS blowing smoke?”

  “I’m not sure, but she is romantically linked with this Sanders guy, and he’s the one NCIS is interested in.”

  “Sanders may be a nut job and a civvy, but he’s helped us out on more than one occasion. I wouldn’t judge Commander Chase based on whatever her relationship is, or was, with Sanders. Oh, and Todd, don’t go out of your way to help NCIS on this one.”

  “Are you asking me not to cooperate with law enforcement, sir?”

  “I’m asking you to conduct your investigation and let NCIS conduct theirs. If they want one of our people, they can damn well build a case on their own. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hinson barreled out of Farley’s office, his face a thundercloud, eyes unleashing bolts of lightning, and nearly ran into Janet. She backed up a step, regained her balance and snapped a salute. He paused and returned it, looking at her curiously.

  “This is a report you wanted, sir,” she said, handing him the envelope. “I saw you come down the hall and figured this was faster than interoffice mail.”

  Hinson took the envelope. “Thank you, Chief. Tolliver, isn’t it? You work with Commander Chase?”

  “Yes, sir.” She leaned in and dropped her voice. “She’s innocent, sir. I know her.”

  “I hope so, for both your sakes,” he said, and turned away.

  Janet watched his form grow smaller as he moved down the hall, then swung her gaze toward her desk, briefly meeting Captain Farley’s through the open doorway, his mouth turned down in annoyance. She hurried out of view before he had a chance to say anything.

  As soon as she sat at her desk, she pulled the orders putting Reyna on leave from under the folders, opened a drawer, stuffed them in a random spot and shut the drawer firmly. She needed to find out exactly what the NCIS investigation entailed and why they thought Reyna was involved.

  Chapter 20

  July 27—Seattle

  Lodestar LLC, the company where D’Amato had worked, was located in a boxy white low-rise building in Bothell on the northeast side of the lake. The website described it as, “a 69,000-square-foot manufacturing facility currently producing military-grade electronics and our proprietary products, accommodating initial small runs and serving as a template for development of manufacturing processes that satisfy higher volume requirements.” The jargon didn’t tell me much, but when I read further I learned that Lodestar was “dedicated to research, development and production of advanced optics.”

  Three stories of concrete dimpled with glass, the facility resembled any of a hundred others in a one-mile radius, places where thousands of people disappeared each day to mark time as they tried to earn a living. As tenuous as my income was driving a paper route, I’d actually felt relief after I’d lost my high-octane job in public affairs. Despite good relationships with my clients and relatively successful programs on their behalf, I’d gone to the office each day feeling like a fraud, convinced that someone would find out what I didn’t know, and point out that while I might head a tiny empire, the emperor had no clothes. It never happened; instead someone at the firm set me up to take the fall for embezzling a client’s campaign funds. Water down the storm sewer.

  Set back from the street on a large lot, the building was surrounded by neatly trimmed grass that gently sloped down to a four-foot boxwood hedge fronting the sidewalk. Small trees and bushes broke up the building’s bland exterior with splashes of green. In a nod to environmentalism—or tight budget, more likely—the grass hadn’t bee
n watered, and like most of the area that time of year had sun-burned to an ashen brown. Plunked down in the outlying areas of Las Vegas or Phoenix and the grass would have been verdant green. I was so tired the irony failed to amuse me. The asphalt drive wound past a reflective glass façade above the main entry to a large parking lot at the back of the building. I couldn’t find a shaded spot so I parked next to an SUV that cast a shadow over at least half the little Toyota.

  I’d called ahead to make an appointment with the head of the HR department, leaving my reason sufficiently vague that she’d feel compelled to keep the appointment, to save her own ass if nothing else. The security guard at the front desk checked a clipboard, told me where to go and waved me over to the elevators as he picked up the phone to let HR know I was on the way up. When the doors opened, a large woman the color of an espresso macchiato stood in the hallway just outside the elevator, a manila file folder under one arm. Her eyes took a long walk from my face down to the tips of my loafers.

  “Mr. Sanders, I’m Shauniqua Caruthers.” She spoke with the unaccented intonation of a television news anchor.

  She stuck out a hand as I stepped off the elevator. Her grip was soft, her large hand warm and moist, the handshake like kneading bread dough.

  “I’m glad you could see me on short notice.”

  Her big hips rolled from side to side as she turned and waddled down the hall, looking at me over her shoulder. “Happy to make time, especially where one of our employees is concerned.”

  She waved me into an office with a view of the parking lot. Then again, I realized, they all had views of the parking lot. She shut the door behind her and squeezed around the end of her desk. The big chair screaked a complaint as she lowered her bulk into the seat. Placing the file on the desk, she folded her arms over it, guarding its contents.

  “As much as I’d like to help,” she said, “I’m not sure how much I can tell you. Explain to me again why you’re here.”

  “The law firm handling Anthony D’Amato’s estate asked me to look for heirs.” The lie that kept on giving. “Since he worked here…”

  “EEOC rules prevent us from asking the question, but I can tell you that he wasn’t married, and he didn’t have children. At least none that we’re aware of.”

  “Benefits?”

  She nodded. “He never listed any withholding allowances on his W-4 form, and never listed any dependents for any benefits, not as recipients for healthcare or as beneficiaries of his company life insurance, IRA or any other program he signed up for. And I’ve already told you more than I should.”

  “He’s dead, Miz Caruthers, and it sounds like there wasn’t anyone else who would give a damn.”

  She pressed her lips together and gave me a stern look.

  “What did he do here?” I said. “Can you tell me that?”

  Her fingers toyed with the edge of the folder, but she didn’t open it. “He was a scientist, one of our top researchers. We’re going to miss him.”

  The career explained D’Amato’s professorial look, but not his penchant for anonymity. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, reminding myself to be patient. “What did he research?”

  “He worked on a number of our government contracts, which I can’t go into. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Generally speaking.” I glared at her.

  She pulled her chin back, creating two more below it, and blinked. “We build lasers here, Mr. Sanders. So, I guess you could say his specialty, his area of expertise, was lasers. But I don’t know how that helps you find anyone related to him.”

  “It give me a clearer picture of who he was, which might help. If this was an easy task, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I suppose you have a point.” She pulled open a drawer and slid the folder into it. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I’d like to see his office, if you don’t mind.”

  She looked startled. “His office. I, ah… I can show you his office, but you can’t touch or take anything. And I’ll warn you that he didn’t spend much time there. He worked in the lab most of the time. And no, you can’t see that lab. We work on classified projects.”

  She pressed down on her forearms and levered herself out of the chair, and edged sideways past the end of the desk again. I followed her out into the hallway. She led the way to the elevator. We descended one floor, and headed the opposite direction this time, stopping about ten doors down. She opened one and waved me in, hovering behind me as I stepped inside. In ten seconds I’d seen everything there was to see. His desk and workspace were bare, clear of papers or files. A wide, two-drawer file cabinet suggested the tidiness wasn’t for lack of paperwork. Like his apartment, D’Amato’s office contained nothing personal—no photos, no desk calendar, no handwritten notebooks. A large potted plant stood in one corner, the only nod to color or something more animate than a chair. I guessed it belonged to the company, or was leased, and taken care of by a plant service.

  I pivoted, startling Caruthers so much she backed into the doorframe.

  “That was fast,” she said.

  “Not much to see.” I shrugged. “Have the police spoken to you?”

  She glanced past me and nodded. “Yes, but they didn’t take anything. They said they would send someone later to box up his files—at least the ones that aren’t confidential.”

  For a brief moment something like sadness twisted her features. Then she was all business again as she let me push past her, reached back inside for the door handle and shut the door on whoever D’Amato had been.

  I drove back to the park with the orcas to look for Masha and try to convince her to put me in touch with Anya, if that was her real name, so I could talk to her about the girl. The lunch hour was long past, but with nowhere else to go I toured the perimeter of the park. When I reached the bench where I’d found her the day before, she wasn’t there, but the old woman was standing nearby putting trash in a container. Her bag sat on the bench. I stepped up my pace.

  “Hello!” I called from a few yards away. “Remember me?”

  The woman turned, squinted through rheumy eyes and bobbed her head. “Da. From yesterday.”

  “Have you seen Masha today? I know she and Anya are friends.”

  “Who is Anya?” The woman’s smile turned south.

  “The mother of the little girl in the photo I showed you. I saw her yesterday, going to meet Masha at a restaurant, but she ran away before I could talk to her.”

  “Maybe is good reason she run away.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not it. Whatever trouble she might be in I’m not part of. I’m trying to help. Please, that little girl is in some kind of danger.”

  The woman stared at me for a moment. “Why you so interested in helping this girl? What are you?”

  “I’m nobody. Just a newspaper carrier.” I paused. Something in her eyes made me go on. “The man who gave me her picture was on my paper route. He died before he could tell me who she is, but he made me swear to find her and protect her. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “Masha not here today. But she work near here. Maybe you find her there.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Is flower shop, next to mall.”

  “You know the address?”

  She laughed, a short sharp bark. “Who I buy flowers for? Go look. You find.”

  Developers had strung strip malls like costume jewels around the shopping center with lots of glitter but little substance. One of them likely housed a flower shop.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Ursula. And you’re welcome.”

  “I’m Blake. Blake Sanders.” I turned to go then changed my mind, scribbled my name and number on one of Molly’s cards and handed it to her. “If you ever need anything, you call me.”

  She took the outstretched card reluctantly, so I pressed it into her hand and hurried away.

  The flower shop turned out
to be literally around the corner from the restaurant where I’d confronted Masha in the next building over, a strip mall on the edge of the shopping center’s parking lot. A bell over the door jangled when I walked in. The interior was cool and dim compared to the warm sunshine outside, but the earthy, floral scents nearly overpowered me. Two women and a nervous teenage boy stood in line while a harried girl behind the counter retrieved an order from a shelf and made change for the first woman. Through a doorway, a short balding man with glasses cut and arranged flowers in a vase in the back room.

  I waited until the three customers had been served and stepped up to the counter. The girl looked up at me from under a shelf of bangs dyed pink with eyes blackened with mascara.

  “Help you?” she said. Her fingertips, nails painted dark green, rested on the lip of the counter, the knuckles white from pressing them down so hard.

  “Is Masha here today?”

  She shook her head, the bangs swinging like tassels on a girl’s bike.

  “Do you know when she works again?”

  Her eyes still on me, she called over her shoulder. “Mr. Smulski?”

  “She didn’t come in today,” the little man said loudly from the back room. He didn’t look up from his work. “Who’s asking?”

  “My name’s Sanders. Will she be in tomorrow?”

  Smulski sighed, brushed off his hands and came around his worktable through the door. He stopped and looked me up and down, hands on hips.

  “What I mean is she never showed up for work. Didn’t call in sick, either. She was supposed to handle flower arrangements for a bat mitzvah and an engagement party today along with helping Sheila here behind the counter. Busiest we’ve been in months, and she waits until today to pull a no-show.”

  “I really need to speak with her. Can you tell me where she lives?”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Smulski said. “I can’t tell you that. For all I know you could be a jealous ex-boyfriend.”

  Sheila rolled her eyes, but her back was to Smulski so he couldn’t see it.

  “Maybe she had a rough night and slept in,” I said. “Or maybe she can’t get to the phone and needs help. Tell me where she lives, and I’ll go check on her.”