by Matt Lincoln
CHAPTER 4
Meisha plugged the thumb drive into her secure laptop and used the code the CIA agents emailed to open it. I understood her wanting to protect Holm, but I wasn’t happy to exclude him from the first pass on this intel. Nor was I thrilled about one-on-one time with Special Agent Davis, especially when he felt the need to tail me out to the Suburban.
“I’m getting the gun case,” I told him. “It’s a suitcase. With guns inside.”
“You know that’s not why I came out here with you,” he told me.
Davis’s next words were drowned out by a rattling whoosh that made the ground vibrate under my feet. I looked up in time to see a pair of fighter jets fade into specks toward Pearl Harbor. That was holy ground that I needed to visit, but later, when Holm’s sister was safe.
“I didn’t catch that last bit,” I told Davis.
“I said we need to be on the same page.” His hazel eyes reflected the wide blue yonder. “This is like any other MBLIS case, and that’s how we’re going to treat it.”
“It’s not like other cases for the rest of us, and you know it.” We reached the SUV and opened the back hatch door. I grabbed the hard-sided suitcase and pulled it out. “We’ll give it the same treatment we always do but don’t expect us to compartmentalize our feelings so much they disappear.”
Davis stepped in front of me and blocked the door back in.
“Your feelings are the problem. Feelings don’t belong on the job. That’s what gets people killed.”
I narrowed my eyes. If he had anything to say about the underwater fight that almost got Holm killed, we’d have a bigger problem.
“Our feelings give us the ability to push further than we could’ve ever imagined,” I insisted. “You just gotta channel those emotions in the right direction.”
“Can you do that?” Davis folded his arms across his chest.
I set the suitcase on the sidewalk. “I served with distinction in the SEALs. Now I serve through MBLIS, and I’ve done a damn fine job. Do you have a problem that a decorated veteran can’t handle?”
Davis looked utterly unimpressed. “Normally, no. Tell me, former SEAL Marston, have you ever been on a mission involving the rescue or recovery of a loved one?”
That brought me up short, and Davis must’ve seen it on my face.
“You get it now,” he said. “I want to know your people won’t do stupid shit while we’re on this case.”
I raised a brow and picked up the suitcase. “I always pull stupid shit.”
“Figures, coming from a SEAL.” He chuckled and uncrossed his arms before opening the door to hold it for me. As I went in, he added, “Semper Fi.”
“Meisha!” I called out as I marched inside. “You didn’t tell me you were working with some jarhead Marine. What am I gonna do with you?”
“Stow it, Marston.” Meisha’s serious tone got my attention. “The CIA left us with better intel than they suggested.”
“I’ll be over there in a minute,” I told her. “Gotta take care of something first.”
I set the suitcase on a table and opened the combination lock. My, Holm’s, and Stark’s service weapons were still secure in their separate cases. Their teeth were in smaller containers. I pulled out my holster, my Sig Sauer P226, and its magazine out of the ammo case, and then armed myself. My badge had been in my wallet, and I pulled that out and clipped it to my belt. If I was going to be on duty, I better look and feel the part.
“I’ll update the others later,” Meisha informed us before looking to Davis. “I know Robbie as well as anyone but Ethan. We need to keep an eye on him as we get more details.”
“Yeah, I’m worried, too,” I admitted. “I wish we hadn’t brought him. I thought we’d have a look at places the old Ronnie might go, but this? Even if Robbie wasn’t hurt… Scratch that. He’d be even worse if he weren’t injured.”
“Send him to the hotel, under guard if needed,” Davis suggested.
I snorted. “Would that keep you out of it if it were someone you loved?”
Davis pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. No, it wouldn’t.”
“Ethan’s right,” Meisha said. “We keep an eye on him, give him stuff to do here in the office.”
“Okay.” Davis shook his head. I felt him there. Nobody liked cases like this. “So, what do we have?”
He pulled a chair over to Meisha’s desk. I joined them on the other side of said desk. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be all that close to Davis. It wasn’t the friendly rivalry between SEAL and Marine. It was his attitude.
“Taking this from the top…” Meisha scrolled and clicked on her laptop. “An insurance agent approached the CIA several months ago. She was asked to draw up a policy for an artifact that originated from the American Southwest. The owner, Tom Zimmerman, wanted to insure it for three hundred and fifty thousand. This agent had an interest in archeology, and she felt the item wasn’t worth more than two thousand dollars. After a little research, she refused to insure it and walked away.”
“That alone wouldn’t trigger an investigation on this level,” I pointed out. “What tipped the scales?”
“This agent had an associate who told her about a similar experience in another city,” Meisha continued. She looked at each of us. “Both potential clients mentioned trips to Honolulu to meet the sellers. Our insurance agent did some discrete asking around. She learned that there were a handful of cases around the country, but with artifacts from different places all over the world. Some of her peers questioned the value or authenticity of the artifacts, but the experts they brought in okayed them. In one instance that she knew of, someone had two suspicious artifacts insured.”
“These experts who verified the values, any chance the artifacts’ owners got to them with bribes?” I ventured.
Davis leaned forward. “It’s logical. Someone laundering hundreds of thousands at a time would have the means to do just that.”
Meisha nodded. “It’s the prevailing theory. Bribes, maybe threats.”
“We need to talk with these buyers and sellers,” I said. “Do we have other names?”
“Zimmerman is the only one, but we do know who the sales facilitator is.” She closed the laptop harder than necessary. “His name is Herman Jones, and we need to talk to him.” She folded her hands on her desk. “The CIA brought Zimmerman in and got him to talk. That character told everything he knew. Zimmerman was part of a crime family and had to pay off a cousin. He’d heard of Jones and how to meet him. It turned out that Jones had a contact who’d get an artifact from somewhere or another, make it clean, and then have it delivered to his cousin, the ‘seller.’ Zimmerman bought the artifact, and his cousin got clean cash.”
“That’s why Ronnie went undercover,” I mused. “If all they wanted was the laundering, the CIA had what they needed, but to get to the person procuring the artifacts, they needed her to get on the inside.”
“That’s the sum of it.” Meisha stood and squinted at the bright light streaming in through one of the windows. “I think our crew is back.”
Holm and Stark rolled in and set some good-smelling bags on the desk next to Meisha’s laptop.
“Only the best Hawaiian mix-plates for everyone,” Stark announced as she and Holm moved aside for a third person.
“Hey, Jo,” Davis said. “I assume these two told you about our visitors.”
“Yep.” Josephine “Little Jo” Kahale answered in a blasé tone. “CIA, missing person, all that. I got it.”
“That’s one way to sum it up,” Holm grumbled.
As her nickname implied, Little Jo was a petite person. She’d dyed her hair a brilliant blue while leaving the undercut black. Piercings in one eyebrow, both ears, and a nose ring completed the modern punk look. Well, those plus the choker with a raven charm, and a shirt with some band I hadn’t heard of called Halestorm.
Jo set two drink holders on the desk next to the bags. A second look told me those weren’t drinks. They looked like a cross between ice cream
, Froot Loops, and Kona Ice.
“Have some shave ice,” Jo said in a bored voice. “I’ll get you po’e some caffeine later.” She went over to an unoccupied desk and took a chair. She leaned back in the chair and kicked her feet, which were clad in combat-style boots, up on the desk.
Holm loomed over the food bags as everyone took a plate lunch. I opened the cover of one and waved it under his nose. Rice, kalua pig, two kinds of poke, plus a manapua made for a meal hard to resist. He pushed my arm away, and I almost dropped the container.
“Hey, watch it,” I complained, but he ignored me.
“What’s the plan?” he demanded. “Do we have what we need to find Ronnie?”
Meisha stood. “We play this like any other case. I get that we all want her back yesterday, but we need to do this by the book.” She pointed to Stark, who had taken a large bite from the manapua in her hand. “You and I are going to talk to a guy who facilitates the artifact sales, Herman Jones. We’re going to see what we can get out of him.”
“I’m going with you,” Holm interjected.
“No,” I told him. “Come on, man, you know better. Stay here, recuperate. It’s no good if you tear up your insides before you’ve healed.”
He started to protest, but Meisha held up her hand. “He’s right. Besides, we don’t want to tip them off that we’re looking for her. As far as they’ll know, MBLIS is looking into the artifact sales. We’re coastal and open water types, so this shouldn’t link to Ronnie.” Meisha gave Holm a significant look. “If his people have Ronnie, asking about her could get her killed.”
No one was dumb enough to suggest openly that might have happened already.
Holm gave us a quiet nod before he took a food container and found a table at the far end of the former engine bay. Locals used to use the space for neighborhood meetings and other gatherings. Since buying it, MBLIS had brought in several old desks for agents it hadn’t assigned yet and had the existing tables shoved out of the way to where Holm had retreated.
“Tomorrow morning, Stark and I are going to visit Jones,” Meisha announced before turning to Stark. “Be ready at o’eight-hundred hours.” She then pointed at Davis with one hand and me with the other. “You two are working together during this case. Play nice. Ethan, you’re in Kyle’s sandbox. Don’t you forget that. When we have what we need, you two are going to pose as buyer and seller. I’ll get the details to you as soon as our CIA friends get that part of the case to us.”
“I always play nice in sandboxes,” I joked. Meisha rolled her eyes. “Seriously, I get it. This is your turf, Davis.”
“Damn straight it is.” The man crossed his arms and kept a level gaze on me.
Meisha’s eyes darted to Holm and back to me. “Get Robbie out tomorrow and do some sightseeing or check out the library’s Dragon’s Rogue display I told you about.”
Holm glowered from where he sat. Damn, he was lost. Despite the gap in their ages, or maybe because of it, he and Ronnie had always been close. I’d never known them to do more than disagree over silly things. In most circumstances, the two were a united front. Hell, the entire family was chill.
I walked over to him. “We’ll find her,” I promised.
“Yeah, Ethan, we’ll find her.” Holm’s glower went from dark to forlorn. “I just hope she’s alive when we do.”
CHAPTER 5
Davis volunteered to take us around Honolulu the next morning, which wasn’t a bad idea. Holm and I had been to Oahu before, but it’d been years earlier for a training mission. We barely had breathing time back then, let alone windows for vacations.
“Tell me about this pirate ship Meisha mentioned,” Davis suggested as we met in the lobby. Now that he was off-duty, he was more relaxed and less reserved. “She told me it’s your passion, Marston.”
“My grandfather looked for clues to the wreck all his life,” I said as we went out to the parking lot. “It’s an inherited sickness.”
“He gets the Miami team all jazzed every time we learn something new,” Holm told Davis. “We’ve found more in the past year than ever.”
Davis shrugged as we approached a white sports car. “Mine is not to reason why,” he misquoted. He clicked on his key fob, and as the white car flashed its lights, I got a good look at it.
“Woah,” I said with appreciation. “That just came out.”
Davis’s brand new Corvette had sleek lines and looked thirsty for speed. Those lines were accentuated by thin black stripes that drew my eye the entire length of its body. If any car looked like a sexy woman, this one sure tried.
“It came in a few days ago,” Davis said with a proud grin. “I was first in line for the waitlist. I’d offer you guys a ride, but I’m just showing off.” He winked and pointed to the Impala from his office. “I met Little Jo here, and she’s waiting for us in the other car.”
Holm stuck his head in the Vette’s door and sniffed. “Ah, yeah, leather. At least they haven’t taken that away from us yet.”
The man had a point. Pleather seats for everyone? That sounded like a nightmare.
“Why didn’t Jo come into the lobby with you?” I asked as we went over to the Impala.
“She’s not the most outgoing person in the world,” Davis said. He stopped us just before the car. “Don’t let her fool you, though. She’s good people. You won’t find a more loyal friend or colleague.”
As predicted, Little Jo didn’t have much to say when we got underway. Since we missed the morning rush, the short drive went quick. The library was toward the center of Honolulu. It was a mid-twentieth century stone building with a peaked roof and large windows above the entrance. Inside, the space was modern and roomy with bright island colors.
“How may I help you?” a librarian asked when we approached the counter.
“I’m here to see the pirate display,” I told her with a smile. “I heard it focuses on a ship I’ve been researching.”
“Of course.” She walked out from behind the counter. “I’m Erika, and I helped put the display together.”
“I’m Ethan, and these are Robbie, Kyle, and Jo.” The guys said hello, and Jo nodded. “Lead the way, Erika.”
She took us to the back of the library, where a reef motif had been carved into the woodwork and painted onto a few surfaces. This set the stage for a simulated treasure chest made out of a large bookcase enclosed by Plexiglass. In the middle of the display was a model I had never seen done before.
“Ethan, is that really the Dragon’s Rogue?” Holm asked in awe.
I blinked. The model had been expertly crafted down to the tiniest spar, possibly by the same person who’d done the motif work in the same room. The sails were painted close to how I’d always imagined, and someone had crafted and painted acrylic waves that made it look as if the Rogue was under sail along the Bahama Banks. A frog landed hard in my throat, and I had to clear it several times before I could speak. Poor Erika must have thought I was choking, but she had the grace to give me a minute.
“Yeah, Robbie, that’s her,” I rasped in a low voice. “God, I wish Gramps could’ve seen this.”
“Excuse me, but what’s your interest in this ship?” the librarian asked.
“It belonged to my ancestor,” I answered. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened into a little o-shape. “Lord Jonathan Finch-Hatton. Mad Dog Grendel stole the Dragon’s Rogue on its maiden voyage. Historians think it went down in a storm, and no one’s ever found the wreck.”
“Oh my God, I have to call Sadie,” Erika exclaimed. “She’s the one who found the journal. Can you stay for a while?”
I glanced at the others. Holm looked almost excited. David managed to look mildly interested and shrugged. Jo tried to look bored, but I thought I saw a glint in her eye.
“I think so,” I told Erika.
I don’t think my answer would’ve mattered. She already had her phone out to text this Sadie person. An answer pinged back almost as soon as she finished the first message. Another ping, the
n more followed.
“Why don’t you just call her?” Davis asked with an eye roll out of Erika’s view. “Might save time.”
“She’s working,” Erika answered. “I have to text first to make sure she’s not out on a call…” The notifications stopped. Once she read through the messages, she nodded and looked up. “Her partner was driving them to an accident scene. She’ll text you after they’re done if that’s okay.”
“Is she a police officer?” I asked with mild interest.
“No,” she answered with a head shake. “She’s a paramedic. If they have to transport a victim, it’ll be a while. Otherwise, she might call soon. You two should meet and talk about this.”
I gave her my number and then snuck a photo when she wasn’t looking. The signs said not to take pictures, but this was a special consideration. At least I felt it was. Holm rolled his eyes when I showed him the image I’d taken. This reaction was an improvement from the glumness he’d been carrying around.
My phone vibrated, and I checked the ID. I walked into an aisle between bookcases and took the call from Diane Ramsey, Director of MBLIS’s regional office in Miami.
“Hey, Diane,” I answered.
“Hi. How’s Robbie?” she asked. Like Meisha, Diane had a tendency to mother-hen us a bit. “Do not let him go after the people who have Ronnie.”
“So-so, and I know,” I answered in a vague, yet specific, manner in case Holm was listening. “How goes it at your end?”
“TJ is trying to get info on Jones’s clients,” she explained. “Tom Zimmerman didn’t have information about other buyers or sellers. He claims to have heard about Jones through a ‘business’ connection in Massachusetts. We have agents en route to question this person now.”
“Okay. Thanks, Diane.”
“Do you want me to send someone out?” she asked. Even though she was the boss, she sounded uncertain for a moment. “I know that the office is understaffed. I can loan you a couple of people. Muñoz and Birn have a light caseload right now. Or maybe Bonnie and Clyde?”
“I sure wouldn’t mind,” I admitted. “The thing is, we’re better off keeping everyone there. This office has minimal resources, but it has great online service. We just need more computers.”