“Okay, good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah, good. Just as long as the Saint Mary folks, or whatever they may be called, aren’t here now. That’s good. Let’s go, gimpy.”
Entering the building behind Holcomb, Harrison immediately noticed a cluttered reception counter several feet away and began to scan the office. At first, no one appeared present, but the sound of rustling papers drew his attention. Ahead of Holcomb, behind the counter, a short man hunched over a gray metal filing cabinet. The man, whose back was turned, seemed preoccupied with his search.
While Harrison stayed back some, Holcomb approached the man and said, “Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Spencer?”
Without halting his examination of the files inside the cabinet, the man said, “Yeah, that’s me.”
Holcomb waited briefly. Harrison expected that his partner would give Spencer at least five seconds of quiet patience. It ended up being less than three.
“Federal agents, sir,” Holcomb said.
Spencer sighed, then reluctantly stood and approached Holcomb. Spencer stood at best five feet, five inches tall. He was deeply tanned, pudgy, and middle-aged with thin blond hair. In his beige overalls, he looked very much like a small sand dune. Squinting at the credentials in Holcomb’s outstretched hand, he said, “What brings the bureau out here on a Sunday afternoon?”
“A matter of utmost urgency and discretion.” Holcomb sauntered around the office, inspecting his surroundings. His gaze drifted between Spencer, the ceiling, the furnishings, and the floor. “We felt the weekend would be the best time to follow up on a lead we’re working. You know, fewer people around and all.” Holcomb nudged his way through the small gate attached to the counter and strolled over to the open filing cabinet that Spencer had been searching. He closed it. “We were told you could assist us.” Holcomb then sat on the cabinet.
“I wasn’t informed that you’d—”
“Good, very good,” Holcomb said. “This is a highly classified case. Very few people know about it. I hope we can count on your confidentiality.”
“Of course, I just assumed the military authorities would be involved.”
“Ah, that’s the sad part, Mr. Spencer.” Holcomb stood and stepped closer to Spencer. He placed a hand on the man’s low shoulder and leaned way forward. “You see, they are involved, but I’m afraid they are the ones who are the subject of this investigation.” Whispering now, Holcomb said, “The FBI has recently received word from an informant that a particular terrorist group is operating in the United States with the assistance of certain military authorities.”
Spencer gasped.
“I know, it is shocking,” Holcomb said. “But all the more reason for us keeping it hush-hush. Apparently, the informant believes that some equipment may have been, well, stolen from this storage area.”
“From the boneyard? What kind of equipment?”
Harrison swiveled his head away from Holcomb and Spencer and gazed out a window, hiding a smile.
“An aircraft, sir,” Holcomb said.
Spencer’s voice grew hoarse. “No, sir, not from this base. That’s not possible.”
“Well, let’s hope so. Not that it would be your fault or anything like that. I’m sure you keep very good and accurate records of what’s out there.”
Harrison rolled his eyes.
“But you see, Mr. Spencer, we have to take these kinds of leads seriously. I think you’ll agree.”
The little dune migrated to a nearby computer terminal. “What kind of plane are you looking for?”
“An F-4 Phantom,” Harrison said, stepping up to the counter and granting Holcomb a reprieve from his performance.
“We have a lot of those.”
“I know, I’ve seen your postcards.”
“Seven hundred and sixty-eight.”
Harrison held out an open black notepad for Spencer to see. “Fortunately, we have very specific information. This is the serial number of the aircraft in question.”
“Ah, uh-huh, hmm, yes, row A, section twenty-seven. If we have an F-4 with that serial number, it will be in row A, section twenty-seven. Follow me.”
Harrison raised an eyebrow at Holcomb, and the two men followed Spencer outside.
“Row A, section twenty-seven,” Spencer said, pointing. “Drive past that first group of planes, those F-104s, then turn right. After about half a mile you’ll come to some of the F-4s. Look on the right side of the road and you’ll see painted letters and numbers on the ground. Look for ‘A twenty-seven.’ If we have that plane, it’ll be in that row. You go on out. I’ll check the records some more, see what we have on it, if anything.”
“Thanks, Mr. Spencer,” Holcomb said. “Remember, hush-hush.”
“Yes, sir.”
They followed the directions, both anxiously checking the odometer after passing the F-104s. In just under half a mile, the familiar, heavy frames of the Phantoms appeared on the right.
Harrison watched the ground. The orderliness of the row numbers, painted in bright yellow, and the prospect of achieving a small victory brought a wry smile to his face. He grabbed the camera. “Okay, turn right here. A twenty-seven.”
Holcomb turned, creeping by the fighters. There were easily thirty F-4s lined up ahead of them. Their serial numbers were roughly in sequence except for a few intermittent breaks.
“Nope,” Holcomb said after passing each jet.
“Okay, ET, your credibility is on the line here,” Harrison said.
“Maybe they already got to it. What do you think?”
“I think…” Harrison paused and cocked his head. The goose bumps came again. “I think you should stop the car.”
For several seconds, neither Harrison nor Holcomb got out. Both stared at the F-4 sitting a few feet away.
“Doesn’t look too bad for having crashed into the Pacific Ocean,” Holcomb finally said.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
On foot, they circled the plane and reread the serial number on the fuselage and tail. “Keep an eye out, Art.”
“Sure, just hurry it up a bit.”
Twenty-four photographs later, Harrison had captured multiple views of the fighter. Close-ups of the serial number, long shots of the plane neatly aligned in its row, medium shots showing most of the plane with its serial number in view, two with Holcomb standing in front of the starboard intake, the plane’s serial number and the special agent’s credentials clearly in view.
After a hasty return to the boneyard’s administration building, they found Spencer smiling in front of his computer screen. “Just found our records on the plane you were looking for.”
“I knew you would,” Harrison said. “We found that bird right where you said it would be.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You said it.”
Holcomb leaned over the counter next to Spencer and said, “So, are these the records you were talking about?”
“Yes,” Spencer said, grabbing a file folder from the cluttered countertop. The file contained several pages of documents, one of which he removed. “This is a storage report we fill out whenever we get a new plane. As you can see, that F-4 has been here for a while and, obviously, still is.”
“How long has it been here?” Holcomb said.
Spencer looked at the document and said, “Oh, well, since 1989. Let’s see, uh-huh, transferred from Rhein Main in Germany, in April, 1989. Been here ever since, unless some terrorists borrowed it then returned it without us knowing about it.”
Holcomb laughed. “Right. Oh, say, Mr. Spencer, could I take this storage report for our case file? We’ll return it once this is all wrapped up.”
“Sure. It’s all on the computer anyway.”
“Thanks, you’ve been more than helpful,” Holcomb said. “The bureau appreciates your diligence. Your cooperation is truly commendable. You’re a good American.”
“Let’s go, Art,” Harrison said, holding the door open.
Holcom
b thanked Spencer again, and then exited. Outside, he said, “So, what’s next?”
“The way I see it, it’s time to locate a dentist and, maybe if needed, get some saliva too. Ever been to Wichita this time of year?”
Chapter 29
The Greater Wichita Dental Association
Nick Ridley finished an uneventful and routine Sunday shift at 11:00 p.m. But given his experience in the desert with Harrison and Holcomb, he was unusually tired, more mentally than physically. Halfway up the steps to his apartment, he stopped and pulled the keys from his coat pocket. A sudden creeping of anxiety writhed its way through his mind and body, causing him to twist around and scan the area behind him.
He saw nothing unusual, but he felt like someone watched him.
Ridley returned his attention to entering the apartment and locking the door behind him. As tired as he felt, he found himself growing increasingly agitated. Stuck, with no clear direction to go, he pulled a business card out of his wallet. “First things first, I guess.” He grabbed the phone and dialed.
The voice mail message from Harrison’s cell phone greeted Ridley.
A faint noise outside, similar to footsteps, tugged Ridley’s attention toward the door. A beep from inside his phone prompted him to speak. “Vegas PD not advised.” He hung up the phone and then stepped toward the door.
A voice inside his head whispered to him. “Relax, it’s nothing.”
In response to the mental scan, Ridley’s eyelids fluttered, and then he stopped in his tracks. “Relax it’s nothing,” he said, convincing himself nothing was wrong.
The internal voice came again. “Relax, and sit.”
Ridley walked into the living room. With each step, he felt tiredness seep ever deeper into his extremities. He plopped into an easy chair feeling as if he had no strength left to hold himself up.
“Just relax. There’s nothing you can do.”
Mindlessly, he picked up the television remote and flipped through the channels. He leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table.
“That’s it.”
With his mind cleared, he set the remote aside.
“Eric.”
Ridley sighed, and his eyelids fluttered. “Eric, what did you want to tell me? I could have helped. Was it the communications failure? The incident Harrison talked about?”
“Wait, who is he?”
“Private investigator.”
Other questions pulsated through Ridley’s mind. He gave up the answers.
“Tucson. Anonymous informant. Military incident involving advanced hardware. Airman allegedly committed suicide. Don’t know about it. Followed them. Harrison and Holcomb. No, FBI. Out to the desert. Yeah. Flying saucer? Area 51. Escaped. Bag of bones. Don’t know. Back to Tucson. Vegas PD not advised. No. No one else.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
Ridley’s eyelids stopped fluttering, and he closed his eyes.
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At eight o’clock the next day, while driving to the Tucson International Airport, Harrison informed Holcomb of Ridley’s phone message. Both felt a sense of relief while they went over last-minute details and security precautions. They discussed the case, devised a rudimentary code for telephone calls, and made plans to meet up after Holcomb returned from Wichita. Both agreed that Echo Tango intended the Wichita postmark on the boneyard postcard as a clue to where they may well locate Major Blair’s nonmilitary dental records. They surmised that due to operational security reasons, Echo Tango opted not to broadcast that fact and risk losing the records to Saint Mary’s representatives. The next-of-kin notification, which Echo Tango had also provided, indicated that Blair’s parents lived there, and Harrison hoped they could assist Holcomb.
“Be tactful,” Harrison said to his former partner when he dropped him curbside. “And be careful.”
On the drive to the office, Harrison stopped and rented a storage unit. Inside, he left the rucksack and other equipment from their dig. After arriving at the office, he made photocopies of Echo Tango’s latest documents, the F-4 storage report, and the gate sign-in sheet. He deposited them, along with a thumb drive of digital images, in his safe-deposit box at the bank. A personal advertisement in the Tucson Sun Times came next. The simple and concise message read: “ET, got it.”
After these errands, Harrison’s cell phone vibrated, alerting him to an incoming call.
“Good morning, Willy, my boy,” Zemdarsky said.
“Pete, sorry for not calling you sooner.”
“I’ll bet. Hey, look, I still have your dog. He’s halfway to California right now.”
“Huh?”
“Seeing as how I hadn’t heard from you, Mandy and I decided to take Beano with us on a trip to see the boys out in California.”
“That’s very generous. I owe you, buddy.”
“No worries. But whatever you’re up to, Billy, just remember to get paid in full.”
“Payment seems to be the easy part on this one.”
“Good to hear. Well, if you get lonely, you know where to find us.”
“Thanks, Pete.”
“Happy, happy! Bye now.”
Harrison chuckled and hung up the phone.
Less than five minutes later, the phone buzzed again. Thinking it was Zemdarsky calling back, Harrison answered, saying, “She farted one too many times and you’ve decided to leave her at the side of the road.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Harrison. It’s time for us to meet. Three p.m. today, Agua Caliente Park. Make sure you aren’t followed.”
“What?”
Silence.
Harrison checked his watch. Less than two hours remained before the requested meeting.
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From a phone booth in Wichita’s airport terminal, Holcomb dialed the number for Robert and Noreen Blair. The next-of-kin notification only listed their names and address, but he easily found their number in the phone book. He had completely ruled out using his own name or any reference to an FBI investigation. Although he preferred a direct approach, he did not want to arouse suspicion or, worse, renew painful memories for the family. As the phone rang, he thought of the questions he would ask, and hoped his chosen strategy would work.
“Hello?” an older woman’s voice said.
In his most sincere and polite manner, Holcomb said, “Good afternoon, may I please speak with Robert or Noreen Blair?”
“This is Noreen.”
“Please let me introduce myself. My name is Alan, and I’m calling on behalf of the Greater Wichita Dental Association.”
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t think I’m interested.”
“I understand, but I’m not selling anything. In fact, I have been authorized to send you a complimentary coupon book, a twenty-dollar value, good toward the purchase of dental care supplies, just for answering a few quick survey questions.” Holcomb tightened his grip around the phone.
“Well, I guess maybe. Will this take long?”
“Hardly two or three minutes of your valuable time, Noreen. May I call you Noreen?”
“Yes, go ahead, Alan. I have a few minutes. That’s all it will take, won’t it? Just a few minutes?”
“Less than that,” Holcomb said, feeling a twinge of guilt. Noreen sounded like his own mother. “First, could you please tell me what brand of toothpaste you use?”
“Well, my husband uses Polident Dentu-Creme, and I use Colgate.”
“Okay. And the next question, about how many times a year do you visit your dentist?”
“Oh, my, my, do I have to be honest about that?” Noreen shared a laugh with Holcomb, and then said, “At least once a year.”
“Do you have a family dentist?”
“Yes.”
“And how many years have you been seeing your current dentist?”
“Let’s see now. Bob and I were married in 1965 and moved here when Jeffrey was a teenager. I guess it’s about twenty-five, going on thirty years.”
“Oh my, ma’am, tha
t’s very loyal of you. Your dentist must be very, very good.”
“He is, he definitely is. We wouldn’t think of going to anybody else. Dr. Crenshaw is wonderful. I don’t know what we’ll do when he retires.”
“Dr. Crenshaw? Why, many of our respondents have said just the same thing about him, Mrs. Blair.”
“I’m not surprised. We’ve been quite happy with him. He’s a good neighborhood dentist. Goes to our church, too.”
“I want to thank you, Mrs. Blair, on behalf of the Greater Dentists, uh, Greater Wichita Dentistry Committee for your time answering our survey. We’ll be sure to get those coupons out to you right away.”
“Okay, well, thank you. Have a merry Christmas.”
Holcomb hung up the phone and wiped a thin layer of sweat from his forehead. He grabbed his smartphone and entered a search. He quickly found the listing for Dr. Crenshaw—“Your Neighborhood Dentist since 1981”—and he wrote down the address.
After renting a Ford Taurus with GPS, he drove to Crenshaw’s office. Inside, he found the office trimmed with Christmas decorations, and stereo speakers emitted an instrumental version of “Silent Night.” Noticing no patients in the waiting room, Holcomb approached the young blond receptionist who sat behind a large Formica counter.
“Hello, I’m here to see Dr. Crenshaw.”
The receptionist smiled, and in a soft, light voice, she said, “Did you have an appointment? We are about to close for the holiday.”
“I got here just in time then. Actually, I’m here on official government business,” Holcomb said, watching the receptionist’s reaction.
“Oh, very good, we’ve been expecting you. I’ll get the doctor right away for you, sir.”
Holcomb nodded and watched the receptionist disappear down an adjacent hallway, where she started an inaudible conversation with someone.
Expecting me?
Uneasy now, Holcomb hummed along to the music. He stopped when he thought he heard the words, “air force.” He gripped the counter and stared toward the now silent hallway. A thin, elderly man in a blue smock emerged, followed by the still-smiling receptionist.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 22