PMadriani 12.5 - The Second Man

by Steve Martini

  “It’s the right address,” says Herman.

  I park at the curb, turn off the engine, and we get out. We make our way through the gate out front, close it behind us, and walk ten feet to the front porch. There are a few children’s toys stacked up in one corner next to a small bicycle and a skateboard with one of the wheels off.

  Herman tries the doorbell. We hear it ring inside, a single quick “ding-dong” and what sounds like a dog barking somewhere way off in the distance. We stand there waiting. There is no sound from inside. Herman punches the button again, and we wait. “Looks like nobody’s home.”

  I look out from the porch across the front of the house. The attached garage is at the end of a short driveway outside the chain-link fence on the right side as you face the house from the street.

  “Let’s see if there’s a car inside,” I say.

  We head out through the gate. Herman goes down the driveway and tries the garage door, but it’s locked. He looks along the side of the garage for a window, but there isn’t one. “Wanna go around the back, take a look?”

  Just as he says it, a woman comes out of the house next door. “Are you looking for Allyson?”

  She is kind of frumpy, heavyset, with dishwater-blond hair dried-up and frizzed out by enough bleach that it looks as if it’s been struck by lightning.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Akers,” I tell her.

  “She’s not home,” says the woman.

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Have no idea where she went.” The woman makes her way slowly from her front porch across the lawn to where I’m standing in the driveway. “Her kids didn’t show up at the school bus stop today or yesterday. It’s right across the street. I can see it out my front window. No one’s been around for a couple of days. Usually, Allyson calls if she’s going away. Sometimes she has me watch their dog. But she must have taken it with her. I’m Joanna Boggs.” She holds out her hand. I take it and shake it.

  “And you are?” she says.

  “I’m Paul.”

  “Does Paul have a last name?” she asks.

  “Madriani.”

  “Thank you. Very melodious,” she says. “I’m thinking she probably went up to see her sister. Lives up north somewhere. Could’ve taken the kids and the dog with her. She’s done that before.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Akers?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him around for quite a while. Last time was right after they moved in.”

  “But he lives here, right?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Not that I know of. He hasn’t been around for, I’d say at least two months now.”

  “You mean they’re separated?”

  “Can I ask what your business is?” she says.

  “I’m a lawyer. I have some business with Mr. Akers.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “Not that I know of. You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives?”

  “Can’t help you there.”

  “When did they break up?” I ask.

  “I don’t know how much I should tell you. Are you his lawyer?”

  “Not exactly. I just need to talk to him, that’s all.”

  “Can I ask what it’s about?” she says.

  “It’s confidential.”

  “I see. Well, like I say, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but they were having some troubles. Young couple. It’s a shame,” she says. “Allyson is a real nice girl. And the two kids, Cam Jr. is eight and little Jamie is gonna be six in another month or so. Cute kids. Real nice. I don’t know all the details, and I really probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Allyson, I think, has had just about enough.”

  “Enough of what?” I ask.

  “I think it’s his job. I don’t know exactly what type of work he does. Her husband, I mean. She wouldn’t tell me. I know he was gone a lot. But whatever it is, it’s dangerous.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “About two months ago, she told me she thought some people were after him, trying to kill him. I’m thinking maybe he’s into drugs or something. You know, the border being this close and all. She told him to stay away from the house. When he wouldn’t listen, she got a lawyer and went to court. I told her she was doin’ the right thing.”

  “You mean she filed for divorce?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. God only knows why not,” she says. “She got a piece of paper says that he can’t come near the house.”

  “A restraining order.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what she called it. He can’t see her or the kids without special permission, and he has to stay clear of the house. I’m sure that’s why he’s not around.”

  “That would probably do it,” says Herman.

  “She was very worried. I think she loves him. But what are you gonna do? She’s got the two kids. She’s gotta protect them.”

  “You don’t happen to have a phone number for her?”

  “I tried her cell phone, but there’s no answer, and her voice mail isn’t set up. You know how you get that message every time you call?”

  “Yeah, I hate that,” says Herman. “She’s lucky to have a neighbor like you.” He glances at me, a sly smile passing across his lips.

  “I feel sorry for her,” she says. “I do what I can.”

  I pull a business card from my wallet and hand it to her. “Listen, will you do me a favor? If you see her or hear from her, can you give me call at that number? I’d like to talk to her if I could.”

  “Sure.” She looks at my card. “If I hear from her, I’ll let you know.” She smiles pleasantly and heads back to her house. Herman and I turn and walk toward the car.

  “It’s a good thing we weren’t looking to whack him,” says Herman. “With a neighbor like that, you wouldn’t need to set up surveillance. Ask her nicely, she’d probably shoot him from her kitchen window for you.”

  “Why don’t you check the courthouse and see if you can find the file, any information on the application for the restraining order,” I tell him. “We need to find out what the hell’s going on.”

  Chapter 12

  AKERS SHOOK HANDS with two of the men standing near the large UAV. One of them was a Stanford researcher he had worked with on other visits. The other was from Grumman, the aircraft manufacturer. The third man he didn’t know. There were smiles all around.

  Joselyn couldn’t hear everything said because of the persistent, high-pitched whistle from the craft’s idling jet engine. If they kicked it up, she would have to plug her ears or lose her hearing.

  Cam kibitzed around for a few seconds until the guy from Stanford introduced him to the third man. Joselyn edged in closer, trying to hear.

  “Charlie here’s from Langley. He’s out visiting.”

  “I take it you’re the money?” said Akers.

  “Part of it,” said the man.

  “Good to meet you. My name’s Cam.” Akers held out his hand.

  The other guy hesitated.

  “He’s OK,” said one of the other guys. “He’s with DEVGRU.”

  “Ah!” The mystery man loosened up. “Good to meet you. I’m Chuck Henley.” They shook hands. Henley was tall and lean, about six foot two, a shock of short, sandy-colored hair that stood up on top of his head like a stiff-bristled brush. He wore tan slacks, a red polo shirt, and a light blue windbreaker zipped about halfway up his chest, as if he might lose the thing later in the day when it turned warm.

  Joselyn was surprised how many people didn’t know that Akers was out of the military. But then, as she thought about it, it made sense. Unless the military sent out some kind of an all-points memo, how would people know? He’d been out only a short time, a few months. It would take a while for word of mouth to get around.

  “Who’s your friend?” Henley looked over Akers’s shoulder.

  “I’m Joselyn.” She reached out and took his hand.

  “She’s a friend,” said Ake
rs. “We were out for a ride heading up the coast, thought we’d stop by. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “You’re here now. So I suppose it doesn’t matter. Just don’t take any pictures,” he told them.

  “How is she doin’? Have you seen her in flight?” Akers turned the question toward one of his friends from Stanford.

  “Had her up yesterday, testing out some of the avionics, shook out some of the bugs,” said the guy. “Sent her down to Palmdale, from there over to Edwards and back. Climbs right up to altitude. Gonna have to send her back to Palmdale tomorrow for some maintenance.”

  “We’re working off a list of fixes,” said the man. “But she’s coming along nicely. Some programming stuff. The usual glitches.” He looked toward the guy from Grumman, and said: “Why don’t we cut the engine and check it out?”

  The other man turned toward the van parked out on the apron not far from one of the helicopters. There was a small dish-antenna array on the roof. He made a gesture—the fingers of one hand drawn across his throat. A few seconds later, the drone’s jet engine began to die. It took a few more seconds, then went silent. Joselyn could finally hear clearly again.

  “Well, we know that works,” said Akers.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to use it when it’s airborne,” said Henley. “From what I can see, the glide ratio on this one’s not great. I don’t want to have to call home and tell ’em they just lost a billion in R&D against a hillside in California.”

  “I take it your background is Air Force?” said Akers.

  “Who else would the ‘Company’ hire to monitor this beast?” said Henley.

  The CIA recruited from all of the military branches, depending on the expertise they needed. They recruited regularly from DEVGRU, turning SEAL operators into field agents in battle theaters and elsewhere.

  “So I take it you’re the project manager?” said Akers.

  “Guilty,” said Henley.

  “Lemme guess; you’re over budget and past delivery date?”

  “That doesn’t take a crystal ball,” said the man from the CIA.

  “You flying it out of there?” Akers gestured with his head toward the parked van.

  “For the time being. But I’m trying to get them to move flight control to one of the hangars over at Moffit, so we can give it a more thorough test.

  “We’re getting there,” said the guy from Stanford. “Just give us a little more time. You can’t rush these things.”

  “Oh, you can,” said the Grumman man, “it’s just the results may not be pretty.” He motioned with his hand like a plane flying into the ground.

  Joselyn looked toward the engine mounted in the rear. It looked similar to the Triton and the Global Hawk. She assumed it was the same power plant, a single large fan-jet. What looked different were vents underneath the fuselage, what appeared to be rotating nozzles, probably directional jet exhausts that would give the vehicle lift on takeoff for short runways. She wanted to ask, but she didn’t dare. If she could see it take off, she would know.

  “Excuse me.” The Grumman man moved toward a closed compartment at the rear of the drone. She moved aside to let him get by.

  Joselyn already had a list in her mind of at least a dozen questions, the first being about radar. But she knew that if she asked, the man named Henley would give her the third degree, want to know what she was doing here before he handed her over to the MPs. Better to play the dumb date. In the meantime, she glanced toward the underside of the UAV at the nose, the round ball turret with its various lenses and data-gathering gizmos. The radar was not likely to be there. Assuming it functioned in the traditional way, it was more likely to be housed inside the fuselage behind a protective dome, either in the porpoise-like nose or the underbelly.

  “Don’t let us get in your way,” said Akers. He motioned for Joselyn so that they could move to the other side of the aircraft, where they might get a better look and get away from Henley.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Henley started talking to the Stanford engineer. “I don’t mind the SEALs, but I wish they’d keep their frog hogs at home,” he said.

  “What’s a frog hog?” whispered Joselyn.

  “Shhh!” Akers didn’t want to tell her it was a term used to describe a female SEAL groupie.

  “Who is he?” said Henley. “Guy didn’t give me a last name.”

  “That’s Akers. I told you about him. He helped us a lot in the early going, some of the early craft with field tests. Guy that went to Abbottabad.

  “That was Cam Akers?”

  “Yeah. I thought you knew.”

  “I know the name. I heard he got wounded. Something about a medical discharge.”

  “Apparently not,” said the man from Stanford.

  Akers leaned into Joselyn’s ear, and whispered: “I think we better go. Come back tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be gone.”

  Joselyn didn’t want to leave. She wanted to see the thing fly. But Akers had her by the arm, with a grip that was cutting off circulation.

  They went around the back of the aircraft this time. Joselyn could tell that Akers didn’t want to talk to Henley anymore.

  When they cleared the v-shaped tail fin at the rear of the drone, the guy from Stanford looked over and saw them. “Cam,” he said. “You didn’t take a wound on a recent mission, did you?”

  “No. That’s a rumor goin’ around. Don’t know who started it, but if I find him, I’m gonna kick his ass,” said Akers. “Listen, we gotta run.”

  Henley turned and looked at him. “Good to meet you. You too, miss. Have nice ride up the coast.”

  “Where are you staying?” asked Akers.

  “Here on the base,” said Henley. “Place called the Hacienda.”

  The sigh from Akers was palpable. Joselyn could feel the hot exhaust as it came out his nose.

  “How long you gonna be around?” asked Cam.

  “Not sure yet. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering. Take care. Have a good flight back.” Akers and Joselyn moved toward the car. “That cuts it,” he said.

  “Cuts what?” she asked.

  “Never mind. Tell you about it later,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  BACK AT THE office, in our conference room that doubles as a law library, Harry, Herman, and I are brainstorming where we go next. Without some lead, we are helpless to figure out where Joselyn and Akers might have gone. We can’t even be sure they’re together. But if not, where is she?

  Herman has struck out on the latest information, the court file regarding the restraining order on Akers keeping him away from the family home.

  “I talked to the clerk,” says Herman, “but he couldn’t find the file.”

  “Why not?” says Harry.

  “They tell me the US Attorney’s Office intervened in the state-court proceedings. They obtained a federal court order sealing the file.”

  “On what authority?” I ask.

  “They cited a section of federal law,” says Herman. He hands Harry a slip of paper with a number on it. Harry gets up from the table and goes to the stack of books behind his chair. A few seconds later, he is back with one of the volumes. He looks up the section, then he flips a bunch of pages and checks the title. “It’s part of the Patriot Act, national security,” says Harry.

  “Why would they do that?” I ask.

  “Have to assume there was something in the file, perhaps something said during the hearing, they didn’t want made public,” says Herman.

  “Could have been something in the wife’s petition. Especially if Akers had been talking up details of his missions,” says Harry. “Think about it. She’s under the gun. She’s afraid he’s gonna end up saying something that draws some fanatic lone wolf to their front door bent on revenge. The petition could be loaded with details the government didn’t want out there.”

  “Who represented Akers on the Order to Show Cause?” I ask. Maybe I can call the lawyer and find out what’s going on.
/>   “Without the file, we have no way of knowing,” says Herman.

  I pull out my cell phone. When all else fails. I try calling the landline at my house, hoping that Joselyn will pick up. Instead, it rolls over to voice mail. I hang up and check the messages. There are two, neither of them from Joss. I try her cell phone. It rolls over immediately and goes right to her voice mail. There’s no answer.

  Herman looks at me. I shake my head. He is also on his phone, listens for a moment, then pushes the button on the screen and hangs up. “What’d you get?”

  “Her phone is either turned off or outside the service area,” I tell him.

  “Same here,” he says. “Don’t want to bust your balloon, but I’m guessing she’s with Akers. Otherwise, one of them would have answered by now.”

  I get out of the chair and go to the computer in the corner of the room, take a seat in front of the screen, and move the mouse until it flickers on. I remember Akers and Joselyn that evening at the Brigantine. In between jibes over Sex on the Beach, they talked about UAVs, unmanned aerial vehicles. Only a weapons groupie like Joss and a constant commando like Akers could get it on talking drones over drinks. One of them, I can’t remember which, had mentioned something about DARPA and Stanford.

  I punch up Google and plug in some terms: UAVs, DARPA, Stanford. When the page pops up, I look at the sites, but nothing sets off any bells. I hit the image button at the top of the screen. Among the pictures is one that catches my eye. The words Stanford researchers . . .” appear in the abbreviated cut line beneath the picture. I open the image. It shows a man in civilian clothes working with an early UAV, a primitive, boxy, handheld toy model you could probably pick up today for a few hundred bucks at any hobby shop. But this was back then.

  I click on the VISIT PAGE button. When it opens I read the article to get more information and there, in the middle of the piece, are the words: “Fort Hunter Liggett Army Garrison in California.” And I remember. Akers had his tongue halfway into Joselyn’s right ear when she asked him: “Where?” His answer was Hunter Liggett.

  I turn to Harry and Herman and ask if either of them have ever been there.