Spurs opened her purse and took out a six-inch fingernail file she’d sharpened to a razor’s edge. She pulled the scarf away from her chest and carefully slipped the homemade knife under her bra, then tossed the purse back into the front seat of the car.
“I won’t,” she said and turned toward the motel.
After breathing in a good sample of the cool morning air, she took two steps and her right heel went sideways causing her to stumble. A hundred feet away, the wino frowned at her as if he were an astrophysicist disturbed while in deep contemplation of the origin of the universe. The drunkard, who was probably between thirty and fifty years of age— hard to tell on an alcoholic, especially such a dirty one—pulled his paper bag to his chest. After a moment of consideration, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his olive drab, Marine Corps issue overcoat and hung his head with eyes closed.
As she approached, Spurs could make out what used to be a bright-red patch with three green stripes and crossed rifles through the filth on his sleeve. She wondered if he’d found the coat after it had been discarded, had been given the coat by some benevolent, former-Marine sergeant, or had actually earned those three chevrons himself. She began to feel sorry for the man, wondering what kind of life he’d had— what atrocities he’d witnessed that could have driven him to such despair, until, as she passed, the man yelled out, “incoming!” and tossed his empty wine bottle in front of her. She stopped in time to avoid the green bottle itself, but emerald shards and a mist of warm wine covered her feet. Her left foot went sideways again and the derelict chortled.
“Another confirmed kill!” he said, snorting back mucous as he laughed.
The man deserved a good slap upside his stocking-capped head, and if it weren’t for concern of a bacterial infection, she would have given it to him. She paused only long enough to shake the glass fragments off and then continued at a somewhat swifter pace toward the nearby motel, feeling the prick of at least one sliver of glass that had slipped down the front of her right shoe.
Upon reaching the Sleepy Eye courtyard, she wondered how Henry Dubain could expect her to know which room he would be in. Checking the front desk was an option, but she preferred not to appear as a whore to anyone more than necessary. With the secrecy Dubain seemed to deem important, he might not have used his real name to register anyway. She stood on one foot and leaned against the large post supporting the Sleepy Eye’s marquis. After slipping off her shoe, she turned it upside down and shook it out while glimpsing over the red doors of the old, two-story motel. The well-weathered roof was rippled and the white walls chipping. All of the doors looked the same.
She quickly brushed her bare foot with her hand, dropped the shoe and slipped it on, then took care of the other one as well. Stepping closer, she scanned from left to right, then saw markings on one of the doors toward the middle on the second floor.
Below the room number 223, drawn in what appeared to be white toothpaste, was a semicircle resting on a horizontal line with a dot in the center. The drawing might remind someone of the sun setting on the horizon, but seafarers knew it as the symbol for the naval term, dead reckoning—an inexact calculation of a ship’s position using speed, time traveled, and direction, but only estimated values of wind and current.
She went to the wrought iron stairway, climbed it and approached the door. After three raps on the hard wood, the chain lock rattled and the dead bolt clicked. With the opening of the door came a pungent mix of body odor and a men’s cologne she thought might be Brut. A small but muscular man in his early twenties greeted her wearing only a towel around his waist. He stroked a short, adolescent beard while looking her up and down, eyes wide and grinning, then stepped back.
Spurs asked, “Mr. Dubain?”
“Come in,” he said, again in the flirting tone.
As soon as she complied, he wiped the toothpaste from the door with his hand and quickly closed it. After cleaning his palm on the towel, he hooked the chain and flipped the deadbolt lock back into place, then turned to her and leaned against the door, still smiling.
“You’re better than I’d hoped for!”
Chapter 3
IF THE SHOE FITS
SPURS CASUALLY TOUCHED her chest, ensuring that the fingernail file was still there and smiled back. Henry Dubain couldn’t have been more than five foot five, dark hair with a narrow face and slim build. In her three-inch heels, they were eye to eye.
It was a move she hadn’t expected. He came at her like a rattler. Spurs instinctively grabbed his right wrist with her right hand before he’d made contact. She directed his force to the queen-size bed. He fell into it, face first. She raised her eyebrows pleased at the hand-to-hand she’d been taught in Officer’s Candidate School.
He rolled off the bed angrily, stood and glared back at her from six feet away.
“Hey, what is this?” he said. “I thought we had a deal.”
“You’ve been too long at sea, Dubain. This was our ‘deal’; I need information. You were going to give it to me. That was our ‘deal.’”
“It’s no deal then,” he snarled back. “No play, no pay!”
Dubain was too much like so many of the rest. The schoolyard bully that used to wrestle her down in fifth grade and spit in her face. The boys in high school that tricked her into a barn at a party and then got handsy with her. Dubain would not be one to trick her; he would not spit in her face. She had been determined ever since, that no boy—no man— would do that again.
“Listen, Dubain. There’ve been people dying on the Atchison. You might be able to help before more lives are lost. You sailed with them. They were your friends.”
“I sailed with them, but they weren’t my friends. I learned damn quick. You can’t trust any of ‘em. Not one from the Captain on down. Now, get naked or get out!”
“Why couldn’t you trust them?”
“I said, get naked,” he said and lunged at her.
This time he snagged the top of her scarf dress above her right breast and pulled down.
Spurs brought her left arm up, blocking his hand away, and then grabbed his wrist again. She forced his back to her by this time circling his forearm around to between his shoulder blades where she held it high and as firmly as possible. She pulled the fingernail file from her bosom and pushed the point against his right jugular.
“I’ve had about enough of you, Mr. Stud Duckling. I don’t know what kind of hormonal disease you’re suffering from, but I assure you, I’m not going to be your cure. Unless, of course, you leave me no other choice but to bleed you like a pig in a slaughterhouse. Now, would you like to face charges of assaulting a federal officer or would you like to be nice and talk to me?”
He struggled for a moment, trying to jerk away, but Spurs kept the pressure, thankful that she had the advantage and didn’t have to go against him face to face.
“All right, all right. We’ll talk.”
She released his arm hoping it would make him more cooperative.
He pulled away and turned to her, rubbing his wrist, but he wouldn’t make eye contact.
“Look, if they know I’ve talked to you, I’m dead. They’ll kill me like they did the others.”
“Who’re they?” she asked, tucking the file back in place.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. It could be anybody on that ship—it could be anybody any-where—even you.”
“Then why would they kill you?”
“Because I know about the drugs.”
Spurs frowned. It was like pulling teeth from a Brahma bull. “How? What drugs?”
“The supply officer, Ensign Ingrassias, told me. I was assigned to him. He said the ship was being used to smuggle some kind of new synthetic cocaine back to the states.”
“Is he involved?”
“I couldn’t tell. It was like he wanted to be, like they’d approached him, but he wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk. I think he was afraid of the guys doin’ it.”
“Why did he tell you?
”
“We were kind of buds, ya know? We burned a few together, snorted a little.”
“This was on board ship?”
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. That kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore on navy ships. But you don’t understand. You don’t know the Atchison. It’s one fucked up boat. Everybody’s weirded out. It’s like a hand-picked crew of misfits.”
“What about the officers?”
“It’s the same. The XO, Lieutenant Commander Reeves, might be all right. I can’t really tell. But the rest of ‘em, including the Captain, Commander Naugle, I wouldn’t trust as far as I could heave ‘em. I think the skipper’s been tryin’ out too much of the stash he’s runnin’. And the ship’s lieutenant, Lieutenant North, he’s like always watching you, like if you make a move you’re not supposed to, he’ll keelhaul you or something.”
“What about Ensign Nader?”
“Yeah, Ensign Nader.” Dubain sat down on the bed and stared at the floor, shaking his head. “Nader was one of those gung ho Annapolis types. Straight as a cannon barrel, but he was a good guy. When he found out we were homies—you know, both of us born and raised in South DC—he kind of cut me some slack. I don’t think he was in on the drugs, but knowin’ him, he probably tried to do something about it. He was a fool. I stayed out of it and finally got the hell out of there.”
Spurs stepped in front of him and stood five feet away. “How long had the smuggling been going on?”
Dubain cocked his head and looked toward the door. He didn’t answer.
“Please, Mr.—please, Henry.”
He lowered his head and stared down at her feet. His eyes rose slowly, taking in her calves, knees, thighs, crotch, waist, then stopped at her breasts.
Spurs felt a shiver and shifted her weight. She folded her arms across her chest.
“Henry?”
He licked his lips, his gaze still below her neck, and finally said, “Everyone acted strange since we left Charleston four months ago. I’d say there were drugs put aboard by the time we dropped anchor in our second foreign port, Marseilles, France. We had liberty there three more times while I was aboard, but I don’t think that was the only place we picked the stuff up. I wouldn’t doubt if it was everywhere we cast lines.”
“Did you ever see any of it?”
He finally looked higher and stared hard into her eyes. “No, and I’m glad I didn’t. I think that and the fact that I got the hell out of there is why I’m still alive.” He shifted on the bed and once again looked at the door. “The dope would be pretty hard to spot anyway. It’s supposed to be really unheard of stuff, like a pinch will get a dozen guys as high as a pelican.”
Spurs glanced at her watch. She’d have to run through the airport, as it was, to catch her flight.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
He seemed to think for a moment.
“Yeah, two things. The first, keep me the fuck out of this.”
Spurs frowned at him. “I see no reason to get you involved at this point. And the second thing?”
“You got a nice ass,” he said and sprang forward, bringing one hand up under the scarf.
A rattler with tentacles.
He pushed her against the wall, slamming her head hard and knocking over a lamp on the nearby dresser. He pinned her there with his legs in between hers and groped under her panties. Spurs shook off the stars as Dubain pressed his mouth to hers. She felt the towel he’d had around his waist fall to her feet and she jerked her head away.
This time, he had her good. She tried to talk tough, but her words came out in a feeble pant. “You’re a persistent little bastard.” But she couldn’t show her fear.
“Come on, bitch,” he breathed, “you won’t regret it.”
She struggled for a moment but testosterone and more time in the weight room won out. Maybe going along with him briefly would award her with the opportunity to get away. “Okay, Henry. You’ve got me.”
Nose to nose, he kept his full weight against her.
He reminded her of the schoolyard toughies who picked on her as a child. Dubain would not be another bully to spit in her face.
She said softly, “You want a little piece of me? Huh, Henry? You want some?”
He grinned showing green-edged teeth.
She took a long breath then cringed at the Jack Daniels saturating his. Raising her eyebrows she forced a smile back. “You really want it, don’t you, Henry? You know, I might even like it.”
His smile grew into childlike glee as she kicked his discarded towel out of the way then placed the three-inch heel of her right shoe against the top of his bare foot for good aim. She brought her foot up.
His eager anticipation cleared from his face, his expression going dumb as realization came, but not soon enough.
She stomped her heel into his foot as hard as she could.
With an agonizing cry, he let her go and tumbled to the floor wearing nothing but a grimace and a hard on.
“Henry, you really know how to please a girl,” Spurs said as she went for the door.
Writhing on the bright red carpet, he did not try to stop her. She was outside before realizing she’d lost Miss Barnes’ right shoe and wondered if it might still be buried in Dubain’s foot.
Chapter 4
FLIGHT OF THE INVESTIGATOR
April 30, 1330 - American Airlines Flight 634, One Hour Out Over Atlantic Ocean
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, this is your captain speaking. Due to some unexpected storms in the North Atlantic, I’m afraid we’ll have to deviate our course a little. We’ll be flying into London’s Heathrow Airport for a short layover before flying on to our destination, Madrid. I’m sure it will delay us only a couple of hours. Madrid is aware of our change of flight plan and will post the delay to insure that any parties meeting you at the airport won’t worry and will be able to make other arrangements. Again, we’re sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Oh, wonderful,” the elderly lady sitting next to the aisle said, clutching her purse as she had been for the past sixty minutes. She wore her salt and pepper hair in a bun on the top of her head and a large floral-print dress that fit like a sack on her squat little body.
Spurs had dressed in her summer-white uniform to start “feeling the part,” like an actor or an undercover investigator should. She reasoned that the two jobs weren’t all that different except, as an actor, if you didn’t perform convincingly, the audience probably wouldn’t kill you. She smiled at the woman as she finished stitching up a small rip in the sleeve of one of her uniform blouses.
“Don’t worry,” Spurs said reaching over the empty seat between them and patting the old woman’s hand, “I’m sure it’ll be only a short delay as the captain said.”
“Oh, I’m not worried, but I’ll bet my son will be. He always worries about his old mother.” She looked at Spurs with wide smiling eyes. “He’s in oil, ya know.”
“Ooh, that sounds slippery,” Spurs said.
The old woman just looked at her, puzzled.
“I’m sorry, it was supposed to be a joke. Not a very good one, I suppose.”
The woman gave a slight curve of the lips and nodded.
Spurs said, “I tend to joke when things get tense or worrisome. Sometimes, it’s a curse.”
“Are you worried?”
Spurs sat back. “Just a little anxious. I’m going to Spain to meet my ship. It’s got a lot of problems that I’m supposed to fix.”
“You’re a mechanic?”
“No, ma’am, just a problem solver.”
The old woman nodded again and laid her head back on the headrest. After a moment, she closed her eyes, and Spurs gazed out the small, round window next to her. Between wisps of clouds were the ocean waves—tiny white lines on the blue-green mat 30,000 feet below. The butterflies still played in her stomach as they had when she’d boarded the plane, and she felt a slight case of the shakes. It reminded her of the first time she’d calf-roped i
n the rodeo at age eleven. There was so much to remember, so much to do, so much to be responsible for. But finally, the months of training would soon be put to practice.
* * *
Spurs thought back to when she’d been given her assignment the previous morning. NCIS Director Harley Burgess had called her at her cubicle and requested her immediate presence in his office. His voice was blank of emotions. As she gathered up a notepad and pen and walked down the long echoing hall to meet him, she wondered what she’d done to deserve a reprimand from the boss.
She’d never really met Director Burgess before, just shook his hand at the brief graduation ceremony after she completed the NCIS Basic Agent Course at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia. But he seemed to be a pleasant man, bald and chubby, not what someone might think an ex-CIA spook would look like.
Burgess was on the phone when his secretary ushered her in. He leaned back in his leather swivel chair behind a highly polished, cherry-wood desk, his waxed crown reflecting the sunlight flooding through the large picture window behind him. It was like a beacon, and she had to squint and suppress a laugh—although a nervous one—as she approached his desk.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” he said into the phone, “I have one of my best people on it.”
She was reminded of the man’s position, and it made it easy to forget his lighthouse forehead. Was it the Secretary of the Navy or the Secretary of Defense he was speaking to?
She glanced around the room while waiting for permission to sit. It was like a photo gallery. Lining three walls, above the many bookcases, were dozens of framed pictures of Burgess shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with various foreign and US dignitaries. Burgess shaking hands with the Shah of Iran, with Golda Meir, Margaret Thatcher, with Presidents Ford, Carter, Reagan, Clinton, and both the senior and junior Bushes. Pictures with people she didn’t recognize, all regally dressed. On the far wall hung a mounted, seven-foot-long swordfish, its tail curled out and mouth open as if still fighting its fate.
Burgess’ desk was clear of pictures, cluttered with stacks of folders and the usual desk paraphernalia. But on each side of his desk were two small stands, each dedicated solely to a single 8X10 sitting on top. On the right was a photo of Burgess and a lady who was probably his wife, both of them in evening attire.
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