Outside the Wire

by Patricia Smiley

  “Are you saying Van Kuris is really an MIA named John Latham?”

  “No wonder Zeke was upset,” Lunds said. “He was staring at a ghost.”

  Kuris wasn’t part of the talks, but when Zeke saw him standing in the lobby of the hotel, he must have realized the guy looked familiar. The Guardian CFO believed Kuris had had cosmetic surgery. If so, his attempt to look younger might have made him easier for Zeke to recognize.

  Davie’s mind churned with all the unlikely scenarios that included several farfetched assumptions: that Zeke had known Latham in the US Army, that he knew he was MIA, that he ran into him in Hong Kong after almost fifty years, and that he recognized him despite all that time and the cosmetic surgeries.

  “All of you knew Latham from the war?”

  Lunds bolted to his feet, his breathing shallow. “I’ve got to get some air.”

  Davie wanted answers but knew they would come to her faster if she gave Lunds some space, so she led him outside to the picnic table on the parking lot median. Vaughn followed but hung back in the shade of a tree, watching.

  Lunds didn’t sit at first, just paced, obviously under duress. She waited patiently as he worked out whatever was troubling him. A moment later, he sat on the bench and rested his head in his hands.

  She reached out to him but pulled back at the last second. It was unlike her to touch a witness, because she never knew how they might react. “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  When he finally spoke his voice was low and stripped of emotion. “The four of us were on patrol in the jungle, looking for the Viet Cong unit that was ambushing our troops. We heard small arms fire in the distance—a lot of it. We thought it was the enemy, so we ran toward the sound until we came to a village. The gunfire had stopped by then. We saw bodies. Everywhere. A US soldier was bent over a dead girl who looked about five years old. His eyes were bloodshot like he hadn’t slept for days and he was laughing like a psycho. I could tell he was juiced up on some serious shit.”

  “John Latham?”

  Lunds nodded. “He was a second lieutenant. He wasn’t wearing his bars, but a lot of officers stripped them off their uniforms in case they got captured by the enemy.”

  “Did you find out what happened?”

  “They’d just moved into the village. The little girl ran toward them with something in her hand. Everybody had seen things like that before. You couldn’t tell who the enemy was. During our first week in Nam a young kid walked into a bar where some of the guys hung out. He pulled the pin on a grenade and blew up everybody in the place. So, when Latham saw that child, he started shooting. His men started firing, too. They didn’t stop until they’d wiped out the whole village. The body count wasn’t as bad as My Lai but it was bad—fifty people, mostly old men, women, and children.”

  Lunds pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Davie held her breath and waited for him to continue. “I was looking for survivors when I heard someone screaming like a wounded animal. I ran toward the sound and saw Zeke kneeling next to that dead girl. That’s when I noticed what was in her hand—a mango. All those people dead—because of a piece of fruit. Of all the horror we saw in all those wars, Zeke never stopped thinking about that little girl. I think that’s why he was so protective of his own daughter.”

  A wave of anger and revulsion washed over Davie as she realized Van Kuris/John Latham was a war criminal. “So, what did you do?”

  Lunds broke off a splinter of wood from the table and inspected its sharp point. “Zeke and Juno wrestled Latham to the ground and grabbed his weapon. He was pissed, to say the least. He threatened to shoot us for dereliction of duty, assaulting an officer, and just about anything else he could think to throw at us. He knew when we reported the massacre his life was over.”

  Vaughn stepped out of the shadows. “So, what did happen when you reported it? The Army must have investigated.”

  “There wasn’t time to report it. We knew the gunfire would draw the enemy, so we left the dead where they lay and led the rest of the unit toward the nearest LZ. About two clicks outside the village, we ran into an ambush. The Viet Cong had us surrounded. We radioed for a gunship but in the chaos, we lost track of Latham. The unit was evacuated. Zeke made the sergeant promise to report the incident to the commanding officer. We assumed he did, but we never followed up. Once everyone was safe, we went back into the jungle to complete our mission. It wasn’t until later that we learned Latham was MIA.”

  Vaughn walked over to Lunds and hovered over him. “You expect us to believe Latham sees Zeke in Hong Kong and decides to kill the four of you? What about the sergeant and the other members of his unit? He’d have to wipe out every single witness to be safe.”

  The same question was floating through Davie’s mind.

  Lunds leaned back as if distancing himself from Vaughn’s aggressive posturing. “You’re assuming they all survived the war. Let’s say they did. I can’t speak for them, but they weren’t innocent. They participated.”

  Davie rose to her feet, because she was unsure about Lunds’s emotional state and she wanted to be ready for whatever happened next. “How did he get out of the country?”

  “After he disappeared, we assumed he was either captured or killed by the Viet Cong. Now I suspect he used the chaos of the mortar attack to make his way out of the area to safety.”

  Vaughn glared at him. “Who is Van Kuris?”

  Lunds glared back. “I don’t know. Latham could have pulled a dog tag off a dead soldier and used his identity to avoid capture or he could have just made up the name like he made up his Canadian citizenship. You’re the detective. That’s for you to find out.”

  “So,” Vaughn said, “after Latham killed Zeke he cut off one of his dog tags because he considered him a battlefield casualty?”

  “All I know is Zeke wore his tags to Hong Kong. I imagine lots of people saw them.”

  Davie asked a question to cut the tension. “When Zeke flew back to L.A. he went from the airport to Alden Brink’s office. You think he told Brink that one of Guardian’s employees was an Army deserter and a war criminal?”

  “Brink is a lawyer not a decision maker. Zeke was a loyal guy. He’d warn the CEO first, because there’d be fallout from the Army’s investigation. Juno might have seen Latham also, and I believe Zeke tried to tell me when he called the night before he was killed. I just wasn’t there to hear his story.”

  “Did Zeke tell you he was planning to retire?”

  “No. I brought him into TidePool. He wouldn’t retire without letting me know.”

  Again, Davie wondered about the logistics of killing four men but she knew everything was doable if the killer was motivated. Latham/Kuris worked for an international defense contractor and must have had access to weapons and contacts all over the world. He could have killed Zeke and Juno before they left Hong Kong, but the death of two Americans would draw unwanted attention. Better to make the hits in remote parts of the US and hope law enforcement didn’t put two and two together.

  “If Guardian had contracts with the US government,” Davie said, “wouldn’t Latham need a security clearance? How could he get one if he was an Army deserter living under an assumed name?”

  Lunds bent his head and stared at the ground. “Documents can be forged for a price. They must have accepted whatever he gave them.”

  “Can you account for your whereabouts in the past two weeks?” Vaughn said.

  The question was so abrupt Davie was thrown off balance. Lunds jerked his head upright. His fists balled. A vein in his forehead pulsed as he shot out of his seat. “You mean do I have an alibi for the time my three closest friends were murdered?”

  His angry outburst was so sudden and unexpected that by reflex Davie’s hand covered her weapon. She was still, barely breathing, anticipating
what might happen next. “We had to ask.”

  “No,” he shouted, pointing to Vaughn. “He had to ask.” Lunds must have sensed the situation was spiraling out of control, because he inhaled deeply to regain his composure. “For the record, Detective, I was in Kabul on assignment for TidePool. Check with the CEO if you want to verify my alibi.”

  Vaughn’s hand hovered over his weapon. “Don’t worry. We will.”

  31

  Lunds stormed to his car. Vaughn watched him drive away, his body still juiced with adrenalin. “Didn’t I warn you?” he muttered. “That guy is trouble.”

  After her partner went back inside the station, Davie remained at the picnic table to process what had just happened. She was no shrink so she couldn’t make a diagnosis, but she knew the symptoms of PTSD included sudden outbursts of anger. Given Lunds’s past history with the condition, coupled with the murder of his friends and the attempt on his life, she wondered if all those events had triggered a relapse.

  Back at her desk in the squad room, she searched the Internet for every scrap of information she could find on the Vietnam War. Over 58,000 soldiers had died, another 150,000 wounded. She found her uncle’s name on one website. Davie could still visualize his face in the photograph on the fireplace mantel of her parent’s house where the family had lived before her parents divorced and everybody went their separate ways. Her mother still had the photo but over time it had been relegated to a dresser in the spare bedroom.

  She returned to the MIA website that Lunds had shown her and was shocked by the number of military personnel still unaccounted for. She pulled up John Latham’s photo again and noted that his hometown was listed as Seattle, Washington. Latham’s parents might not still be living, but he could have other relatives waiting for his remains to be found and one day returned to them. Davie had to find them.

  The first order of business was to confirm if Van Kuris had entered the US in the last ten days. It seemed farfetched that he had orchestrated these murders in such a short time, but she had to start somewhere. Eliminating possible suspects was part of the job, as well. She called Quintero and filled him in on the new lead Dag Lunds had provided, and the Seattle angle.

  “I’ll ask Striker to follow up with Immigration.”

  She ended the call and told her partner what Quintero had said.

  Vaughn threw up his hands. “Why Striker? It’s our lead. Quintero is making the Mounted Unit sound better and better.”

  “Giddy up.” She grabbed her notebook and walked toward the parking lot.

  When they arrived at PAB twenty minutes later, Davie checked in with Quintero and then hunkered down at her desk, searching for information on Latham’s Seattle relatives. Vaughn wandered off to take a phone call just as Detective Striker walked through the door. His jacket was off, his tie was loosened, and he was carrying a stack of papers.

  He stopped at her desk and handed them to her. “You may be interested in this. It’s a credit report for Latham’s father, Robert. He’s still living in Seattle with a younger woman. Could be a second wife, but I think it’s his daughter.”

  Davie thumbed through the pages of the report. “That was fast. It’s only been thirty minutes since I called Quintero.”

  “No reason to sit on the information.”

  Davie flipped through the paperwork. “Robert Latham has a lot of credit cards.”

  Striker rolled a chair over to her desk and sat. “And a lot of debt. But the balance on each card is paid in full every month. Mr. Latham is in his eighties, and I can’t find any other sources of income except social security and a small pension from a former employer.”

  “You think John Latham is sending money to help support his old man?”

  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. His head was bent, his eyes on the page, giving her a perfect view of his long dark eyelashes. “I ran a title search on Robert Latham’s house. He and his wife borrowed money for a second mortgage shortly after their son went missing. I’m guessing if we get a search warrant for bank records, we’ll find they wired that money to a bank somewhere in Asia right after they got it.”

  “Wired it to their son?”

  He sat up and crossed his arms over his chest. “Latham was on the run and didn’t speak the language. He needed money to survive, at least until he established his new identity and melted into the population. I’d guess the parents supported him until he got settled.”

  Davie kept reading. “This says they paid off both mortgages in the Nineties. Where did they get the cash?”

  “Latham was probably established by then. I’m guessing he gave them the money as payback for helping him and maybe continued supplementing their income over the years, especially when they got older.”

  Quintero hustled into the room and stopped at Davie’s desk. “What’s going on?”

  Striker leaned back in the chair and let Davie tell Quintero about the credit report. It was a generous thing to do.

  Quintero turned to Striker. “Did you contact Immigration to see if Kuris entered the country?”

  “They’re checking. I’m still waiting to hear back.”

  Quintero ran his hand through his hair and paced. “If Latham, or Van Kuris, is back in Hong Kong, he’s out of our reach. Even if we ask local law enforcement to arrest him, they won’t and for sure they won’t extradite him to L.A., especially if they know the death penalty is on the table.”

  “If he’s our suspect,” Davie said, “I don’t think he’d leave the US while Lunds is still alive. We need to go to Seattle and interview Latham’s dad. If he supported his son until he got established and is receiving money from him now, the two are still close. If Latham is in the US, it makes sense he’d stop in Seattle for a visit. Even if he didn’t, the dad might know where his son is now.”

  “Okay, Richards,” Quintero said. “You and Striker fly up there and see what you can find out.”

  Davie didn’t have to look at Jon Striker to know he was staring at her with that unreadable expression of his. “It’s more efficient if I go with my partner.”

  Quintero pointed his finger at her. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not in charge here.”

  Striker stood, towering over both of them. “I agree with Detective Richards. She and her partner are used to working together. You should send them to Seattle. I’ll stay here and serve a search warrant for records at a local branch of Robert Latham’s bank.“

  “You think you’re going to find records from that long ago?” Quintero said.

  “A lot of organizations are digitizing old records,” Davie said. “Latham’s bank might be one of them.” Davie’s temple pounded with tension as she waited for Quintero’s decision.

  He gave Striker a hard stare and then shook his head. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to travel with her, either.”

  She wondered if Striker’s intervention was another magnanimous gesture to a colleague or if Quintero’s assessment was closer to how he felt. It didn’t matter whether Striker wanted to travel with her or not, because knowing she’d be going with Vaughn eased the pressure in her head.

  “I’ll call the travel desk and get permission forms,” she said. “Then I’ll book the tickets.”

  32

  Davie stared out the window as the plane approached the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. All she saw under the gray cloud cover were green trees and water. The scene was a pleasant change from the dead lawns and dusty streets of Los Angeles.

  Before she left L.A., she’d called the Seattle Police Department as a courtesy to let them know she and her partner would be in town on police business. The detective told her to call if he could be of assistance. She and Vaughn had no luggage so after the flight landed, they went directly to the rental agency and picked up their Toyota Corolla, the cheapest car they could find.

  Davie entered Robert
Latham’s address into a navigation app on her cell phone and followed the directions to the freeway. Traffic was heavy on the 5, as bad as any day in L.A., maybe worse. It was 9:30 a.m. when they arrived at the destination and parked on the narrow street.

  “It’s raining,” Vaughn said.

  Davie opened the car door and pulled her jacket over her head to protect her hair from the downpour. “It’s Seattle. Let’s go door knock the place.”

  The house was a small one-story in the Ballard district, not far from Shilshole Bay. It was set high above the street with a driveway that led up the hill to a detached one-car garage behind the property.

  The rain came down in sheets as they ran up the steps to the porch. Neither had brought a raincoat. Davie was born in L.A., and she wasn’t even sure she owned one. They ducked under an overhang above a porch that was supported by two round wood pillars, both in need of paint. The wood landing sagged and creaked under their weight.

  A woman answered her knock. She was in her late fifties and rail thin with strawberry blonde hair streaked with gray and gathered into a ponytail by a fluorescent pink stretchy band. A black sweater was paired with a gauzy black dress that seemed flimsy for the cool weather. She looked vaguely familiar but Davie wasn’t sure why.

  Davie flashed her ID. “Ms. Latham?” She was guessing. She hadn’t been able to confirm who the woman was.

  “Yes,” she said, glancing at the badge with a wary expression. “What do you want?”

  “We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department, here to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Robert Latham.”

  The woman’s expression soured. “Why?”

  “It’s about a homicide investigation.”

  “My mother died two years ago. My father isn’t well. Neither one of them have ever been to Los Angeles. So, why are you on the doorstep, asking about a murder they know nothing about?”