by J. K. Scott
Wheeler barked, “Don’t ask.” He flung open a steel door that led to an alley barking, “Run fast and far!”
The door closed with a thud. Reactively, I took off in a full-blown panic. Blood pumped through my veins, and sweat drenched my skin as I sprinted past numerous buildings and ran under a freeway overpass, questioning what had spooked John in the report and how fearful I should I be.
The merciless dry heat slowed my pace. I had to purge the fluid Dr. Matthew had given me. Frantic Cascade knew my whereabouts, I hustled to a drugstore to buy a tonic to induce vomiting. Within minutes, I located a gas station, hunkered down in a disgusting bathroom stall, and uncontrollably heaved.
In a weakened state, I meandered over to a cyclone fence that safeguarded a steep canal along Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard. I struggled over the fence and then crawled along the canal’s edge. I secured my wallet and tumbled down the steep slope into the warm water. I swam west toward a nearby shopping area to buy a burner phone. Under a vehicle overpass, I wrestled out of the canal and hid among concrete pilings to dry off before leaving for an electronics store.
With the burner phone, I called my friends at Ronzo, a family-owned business that provided security services for members only. Ashley’s sweet voice answered. I gave her my emergency code and was immediately transferred to Lee, one of the owners. I briefed Lee on my situation, knowing he would provide me a hotel room, a vehicle, and personal needs. We decided to meet at a nearby convenience store within thirty minutes.
I left for the store, which was only ten minutes away. I bought a vitamin drink and then hid behind the black garbage bin to wait for Lee. I spotted him as he turned into the parking lot. I left the cover of the bin and slid into the front seat, still sweaty and damp from the canal. “I am glad you’re here.”
Lee responded with concern about my situation as he took out a RAD detector and scanned me for any implants. The nodule on the RAD glowed green, and we both released sighs. I wiped the sweat off my brow, noting that Lee was immaculately dressed in khaki shorts and a spotless white collared shirt with an expensive fragrance.
Grinning, Lee lowered the auto windows. “How was your sewer swim?”
Lee’s humor amused me. It was a trait that attracted women, along with his polite demeanor, wavy brown hair, expressive brown eyes, and olive tanned skin. A decade ago, I’d met Lee and his brother, Anthony, while working for a defense contractor. We’d frequently discussed the need for private protective services for whistle-blowers and others. These talks developed into Ronzo Company, which included their sister, Ashley.
All business, Lee said, “Anthony reserved a room in your covert name, William Sargent, private investigator from Portland, Oregon. Anthony will be here shortly, driving a rental jeep with the tracking sensors removed. Also, he has a bag with a military computer and personal items for you. In the shaving kit, you’ll find three thousand in cash and several RAD detectors. Also, I’m in a borrowed vehicle in case I’m being followed. I’m sure Cascade has alerts everywhere.”
“You’re right. This is really serious, and I don’t know what I don’t know.”
“I hear you. With your skills, I understand how this could be happening to you. We are passing on a mil-spec compact computer. It will need to be guarded since it’s classified. You will need to memorize a lengthy internet protocol address and a few codes to access our server. Anthony will instruct you on how to access our independent server used in emergencies.”
“Thanks, Lee. I hope I don’t compromise your server or network.”
“Dak, don’t worry. Recently, we installed demagnetizing storage with remote recovery. Plus, we now have hardened composite firewalls with triple-coiled rebounders in the IP addresses. I’m sure your work will be secure.” Lee patted my shoulder. “Dak, we have you covered.”
“This sounds reassuring, but my situation may be very dark,” I said, knowing Ronzo’s expertise. It concerned me that I had to involve them in an unknown situation. A decade ago, we’d worked together on a classified program for a covert company. We’d wondered if we were aiding the enemy, because the program was so deep and dark.
That same year, a close friend of Lee and Anthony’s had uncovered illegal activity with a government contractor. Their friend had blown the whistle and run into serious trouble. On the lam, their friend had called them in desperation. By the time they’d arrived to rescue their friend, he was dead. The unknown powers documented his death as an overdose. Anthony and Lee had testified that their friend feared for his life without any suicidal thoughts, but their testimony had been buried along with their friend. The tragedy had prompted Lee and Anthony to create Ronzo, a company that provided private membership protection with twenty-four-hour emergency services.
Lee reiterated, “Your safety is our priority.”
I expressed my gratitude and then silently waited for Anthony.
Within minutes, Anthony pulled into the parking lot, driving a brown desert jeep. He politely asked me to join him. I slid into the passenger seat. With a coy smile, Anthony asked, “Dak, is this about women trouble?”
Responding to his jibe, I said, “I wish.”
Anthony pushed back his stylish black hair and cocked his head, and his dark brown eyes gave me a second glance. His eyes widened. “Man, you look like you ran a marathon. This must be serious.”
I said, “That’s for sure,” aware that Anthony would never have been caught looking like a vagrant.
Anthony said, “This is the plan: I’m driving to a nearby park for cover to instruct you on the mil-spec computer.”
“Anthony, before I forget, could you do a search for me on a John Wheeler. He’s a high-level security administrator at Cascade, and I can’t risk doing the search.”
Anthony grinned. “Sure I’ll use death-knell caution.”
Years ago, Anthony and I had been responsible for a serious infraction. We’d overlooked a technical glitch that had caused our client’s conversation to be intercepted by his enemy. We referred to this incident as a painful lesson to always use death-knell caution, which prompted me to say, “I need to advise you that if anything happens to me, my problem is about an old camera card found on a dead man in the desert.”
Anthony replied, “I read about it in my daily news report, but there wasn’t any mention of a camera card.”
“The camera card is my problem. And, Anthony, if anything happens to me, it’s because I abruptly left Cascade without proper protocol while I was working on the images.”
“Hey, Dak, nothing is going to happen to you.”
Anthony pulled into a shaded area of the park, assuring me they would cover for me. He pulled the mil-spec computer from its canvas bag and began giving me instructions. I memorized the codes and IP address and passed Anthony’s series of tests. He then gave me the emergency four-letter code to permanently erase all data on the computer. I released a sigh, imagining such a situation.
Deeply grateful for my friends and with Ronzo’s protection, I said goodbye to Anthony as I drove the jeep and dropped him at an office building nearby, saying, “I’ll be in close contact with you.”
I arrived at the hotel and parked the jeep. I glanced around suspiciously, knowing that a high-caliber camera lens could be in a woman’s eye on a billboard or in a letter on a sign, or a small bird could be a drone. The world had become a spy nation ever since the historic 9/11 catastrophe decades ago, along with nuclear threats.
In the hotel room, I welcomed the opportunity to shower. It was still early afternoon. I called the Department of Law Enforcement at the Tonto National Forest and inquired about the recent finding of bones in the forest.
5
MY AFTERNOON CALL to the US Forest Service’s office netted me the hiker’s name, which would be released on Monday. I learned from my mil-spec computer search that Trevor Sampson lived in an apartment in Tempe and leased a bla
ck Ford Raptor. He worked in Scottsdale at a nearby golf course on Hayden Road.
At five thirty, I called Trevor’s work to confirm he was still there, claiming I had neglected to tip him. I left the hotel for the golf course and was directed to where Trevor briskly cleaned carts alone. He was tall and tan, with distinctive bushy red hair.
I waved. “Hey, Trevor!”
Trevor stopped washing the cart and looked at me with apprehension as I walked toward him.
Quickly, I said, “I’m Will Sargent, a private investigator from Oregon.” I pulled out my new silver-plated ID card and flashed it at Trevor.
Glancing around, Trevor shoved back his bushy red hair. “The authorities have my report. I’m not talking to you or anyone else.”
I dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the cart’s seat. “My client believes the bones in the desert could be his missing brother. My client claims his brother never talked about his work but told him he carried a camera card with his identity. By chance, was there a camera card found with the bones in the desert?”
In a defensive mode, Trevor said, “I’ve been advised not to talk to anyone about the case.”
“Come on, Trevor. My client has been searching for his brother for years.”
“Why don’t you talk to the police?” Trevor said suspiciously, lifting his hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun.
Desperate, I continued with more blatant lies. “Well, the police informed me that it was an active investigation and that my client had to contact them. I passed the information to my client, and he immediately notified the Portland Internet Press that possibly the bones discovered in Arizona might be his brother. Also, he reported that his brother always carried an SD camera card with his identity. My client released this information before submitting his DNA or traveling to Phoenix. Afterward, my client was beaten by two men who wanted more information on the SD camera card.”
Trevor’s attitude changed. He stepped from the cart with a panicked expression.
I added, “If you know anything about the SD card, you might be in trouble too. I might be able to help you. My client gave me a description of the men who beat him. He said these guys aren’t ordinary punks; they were professional.”
Under the bright sun, Trevor’s face turned white. He flinched as a voice yelled, “Trevor, are you finished with the carts?”
Trevor wiped sweat from his forehead and yelled, “I’m almost done!” He then told me, “I can’t talk now. I need to finish washing the carts. I’ll meet you at the Herb Café at the DC Market in thirty minutes.” Without another word, he grabbed the hundred and jumped into the cart to park it with the others.
Quickly, I said, “See you at Herb Café,” confident he’d meet me. I left for the café to wait for Trevor. It was a familiar place that Melanie and I had dined at during better times. I suspected Trevor had friends there.
Sitting across from the horseshoe-shaped bar, I ordered a beer from an attractive girl attired in black shorts and a white T-shirt. She seemed carefree, while my problems weighed upon me.
The happy-hour crowd packed the bar from nearby offices and golf courses. It seemed to take forever to get a beer, and another twenty minutes passed before I saw Trevor’s sandy-red hair in the distance. I stood to get his attention. He waved at me. He continued talking to the barmaid before joining me with a bottled beer, probably advising her to watch in case he needed her help.
Trevor glanced around. “I don’t get it. How did you get my name?”
“It’s public record.”
Trevor sighed and angrily said, “The police said they wouldn’t release my name until Monday. What do you want from me?”
“My client wants closure on his missing brother. He claims the camera card would identify his brother.”
Trevor leaned in closer; I smelled alcohol on his breath, stronger than what was in the bottle in his hand. He said, “The police told me the camera card would be withheld from the public. Then, yesterday, I received a call asking if I had the camera card. And now you show up insinuating I know something. What’s going on?”
I leaned back from Trevor and noted sweat had stained his white shirt. Cautiously, I asked, “How did you discover the camera card?”
Trevor turned away and took a long swig. Obviously, he didn’t want to answer my question. I suspected he’d compromised the SD card before delivering his findings to the police, or the images were really damaged.
I pressed him again. “Did you make a copy of the SD card? If you did, I understand. I would have been curious too.”
“If I have a copy or the original, are you buying?” he asked casually.
“My client is willing to pay a hefty price for closure.”
Trevor looked around. “How much would it be worth to your client?”
“A thousand now and another thousand when I get a copy,” I said, hoping to make it easier for him to admit it. I hoped he had the original.
“I need ten thousand for the original,” Trevor said firmly.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said reactively, relieved to know he had tampered with the SD card. I couldn’t believe the police or FBI couldn’t confirm any compromise.
“I need to leave town,” Trevor said.
“I will pay two thousand dollars for the SD card, or my client will send another bulletin that the hiker has a copy of the SD card.”
“I’ll be long gone.”
Discouraged by his comment, I asked, “Did you take or find anything else at the site?”
“No,” Trevor said sarcastically.
“Trevor, you’re seriously messing with your life.”
Trevor swirled his empty beer bottle. “Not if you pay me ten thousand dollars.”
“Do you have another buyer?”
“Maybe,” he said with a smirk.
“Trevor, you are admitting you tampered with evidence and withheld it from the police. My client was beaten for mentioning the SD card.” I let my words sink in while I took a long swig from my beer, which had become warm.
Trevor snapped, “You’re offering to buy the card!”
“My final bid is a thousand now and another thousand for the original SD card.”
Trevor looked around as if he thought he was being watched. “I’ll take a thousand now and another thousand delivered at the golf course at nine o’clock this evening for a copy.”
“Trevor, you’d better be there. And if I were you, I’d be cautious. I found you, and others can too.” I unrolled a twenty to pay my tab and discreetly passed $1,000 to Trevor, discouraged he’d said he had a copy but not the original.
Trevor stuffed the roll in his pocket. “I totally get it.”
“Good,” I said.
I left the café suspecting he would renege on the deal. I’d memorized his license plates earlier. I found his black Raptor truck in the parking lot and waited for him.
Thirty minutes later, probably after another beer and possibly a phone call, Trevor walked around, searching for his truck. Maybe he suspected I’d follow him. After a few minutes, he climbed into his truck. I knew his address and waited a few minutes to follow him, hoping he maintained the speed limit with the few beers under his belt.
6
ON THE FREEWAY, I kept close to Trevor’s truck. I noted he passed the McKellips exit, which meant he wasn’t going home. I tailed him to University Avenue, where he parked in the loading zone. He momentarily ran into an electronics repair store. I assumed he was collecting the original or copies. The sun was setting, so I parked with the sun away from me and still maintained visibility from the rearview mirror. Minutes later, Trevor dashed from the shop and climbed into his truck.
I was prepared to follow him, but unexpectedly, a van swiftly pulled alongside Trevor. I shifted into park, grabbed my burner phone, and ran toward the truck’s passenger side. The
van driver gunned his engine and peeled away, leaving rubber skids.
Trevor opened the passenger window and yelled, “Man, what the hell are you doing?”
“I thought you were in trouble!”
“He’s a friend.”
I didn’t trust Trevor, as I looked inside the truck and saw two memory sticks in his right hand. Realizing he hadn’t been able to make an exchange, I furiously yelled, “What the hell, Trevor?”
“My friend is helping me.”
Pissed, I yelled, “You mean the other buyer!”
I grabbed the door handle, hoping he wouldn’t take off, but he yelled, “Get out of here!”
I said, “Two thousand for the two memory sticks, or I call the police.”
Trevor snapped, “Ten thousand, or get the hell out of here!”
From my pocket, I pulled a roll of twenty hundred-dollar bills with a rubber band and thumb-fanned the hundreds in the open window. My other hand pointed the burner phone at Trevor as I recorded.
“Trevor, you’ve got big problems. Cash now or I report you to the police.”
Sarcastically, he moaned, “Hey, you are a buyer too.”
“For the police,” I said.
Unexpectedly, Trevor pulled a gun from the center console. “Give me the cash.”
I let the cash fall onto the seat. I lifted my burner screen for better viewing. “It’s recording, and with one click, it goes to the police.”
“Don’t!” he yelled. He handed me the two memory sticks as he held on to his gun.
“If the images are not on the memory stick, I’m returning with the police to talk to your friend in the electronics store.”
Trevor steadied the gun. “I passed the original SD card to the police after the images were copied. We had a few problems, but the images are there. What’s the big deal? The SD card only has a bunch of dots and blobs.”
“The images better be on the memory sticks!” I shouted as I stepped back from the truck. I noticed that a burly man from the electronics shop had stepped outside. “Take care, Trevor.” I calmly left for my jeep, hoping a bullet didn’t penetrate my head. Trevor revved his engine and peeled from the loading zone. The electronics man went back inside. I wondered if he had a copy too. And why had Trevor given me two copies instead of one? I assumed they were copies and assumed he had more.