M-9

by Marvin J. Wolf

  Will shrugged. “Unless I can find out where it came from, and we don’t know that it even exists, that’s a dead end. There’s one more thing. Her boyfriend said she seemed worried and anxious to leave California. She wanted to go back to Texas, and she asked him to come along. He was expecting a big promotion, and he’s got kids here from a previous marriage. He liked Kendra, but not enough to throw everything away to go with her.”

  Chelmin said, “Let’s try this another way. She works with computers at the base. Data entry. A supervisor. We now know that an important international gang that traffics in such things as weapons might have had, and maybe still has, a senior Marine in their pocket.”

  Will shook his head. “Do we know that for sure?”

  Chelmin frowned. “Not that we could prove, no. But I’d bet my pension they’ve got somebody on that Marine base. What if Kendra somehow stumbled on their little fiddle? Maybe she can’t go to her boss because her boss is in on it. So, she plays Nancy Drew, looking to find out where the money goes. Down in Costa Rica, she finds something that suggests that Belize is a better place to look, and comes back from there anxious to leave town. She takes her kid back to stay with her folks, safe, far away, not here.

  “Before she can split, the guy she’s stalking grabs her up and kills her. Then he puts her body on the train.”

  Will said, “But why wouldn’t she go to the cops? To NCIS on the base?”

  “Maybe she didn’t have hard evidence. Or she was afraid to approach authorities because it might look like she was involved. So, when she finally figures out what’s going down, she panics. Tries to leave town. But by then it was too late.”

  Chelmin signaled the waitress and ordered a slice of peach pie.

  When she had brought it and left, he took a bite, then looked at Will. “Here’s what I’ve been doing,” he said and briefed Will on the events of the previous twenty-four hours: the boot camp connection and a possible tie between a Santa Ana police intelligence sergeant and someone in the M-9 gang; the car bomb; and the shooting at the FBI safe house. He omitted any mention of his romantic involvement with Cheryl, and where she was staying.

  Will shook his head. “Today, someone called me a righteous cockroach,” he said, bringing a rare smile to Chelmin’s face.

  “Then I guess that’s both of us,” he said.

  “Where did you wind up stashing your sister-in-law?”

  Chelmin shook his head. “Ordinarily, I share everything with my partner. But these are not ordinary times, and this is no ordinary investigation.”

  Will said, “So it’s better if I don’t know?”

  “Nobody, outside of me and Cheryl, know where she is. She’s safe, and I’ll leave it at that.”

  “What’s next, Boss?”

  “In the morning, I’m going over to Twentynine Palms and interview an old Marine about old times. Then I’m going to pay a visit to Agent Blair and see what he has to tell me. You stay here and work Kendra’s murder. See what you can find out from the Secret Service, DEA, and Homeland Security. Ask if they have an open money-laundering investigation involving the Marine base and if they have anything on Kendra Farrell, a file, an information card, anything.

  “One more thing,” Chelmin added. “We don’t want to forget about Santiago. He’s in the Arrowhead Burn Center in Colton. Two days ago, he was in a coma. Call over there and see if he’s conscious and can speak.”

  “And if he is?”

  “Then call me. One of us should ask him to describe the Marine that helped Felon Flowers steal that RPG and the automatic weapons. Maybe Flowers called him by name. Maybe there was a name tag on his uniform. At least get a description.”

  “That reminds me,” Will said. “Have you gone to Café Jalisco and spoke with to the old Mexican woman that you saved from the gas station? Abuela Guadalupe?”

  “Not yet. But I haven’t forgotten.”

  Chelmin slid out of the booth and stood up. He took out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table. “I’m going to sleep now. Talk to you tomorrow, whenever one of us knows anything new.”

  Eighty

  Will found the email from Lopez in his inbox when he logged in at 8:00 the next morning. The list of tenants at 241 Avenida San Martín ran to four pages, single-spaced. Will printed it out and went line by line, crossing off tenants that seemed unlikely to have anything to do with moving money. On the building’s first and second floor were more than two dozen retail shops offering clothing, shoes, jewelry, coffee, food, cosmetics, and paper products. He crossed them all off. He found nine manufacturing concerns and, supposing that their presence in an office building signified a headquarters, crossed them off, as well.

  By noon Will was hungry and had Googled every one of the remaining sixty-three establishments—and come up empty. There were no corresponding entities to be found in Belize. He turned his computer off and headed out to lunch at the Cafè Jalisco.

  Eighty-one

  Chelmin had wanted to be on the road by 8:00, but he slept through his alarm, and it was almost an hour later before he was headed south on California 247. Thirty minutes later, Blair called; rather than fight the narrow road one-handed, Chelmin pulled off onto a shoulder. Blair had dug up boot-camp-era mug shots of Alvarez, Cardenas, and Malone, and now he sent them to Chelmin’s phone.

  “Anything else turn up?” Chelmin asked.

  “It’s looking hinky for Cardenas,” Blair replied. “So far, I’ve found four properties—two apartment buildings and two upscale homes—in his wife’s name, or in one of his three kids’ names. That’s about $6 million in real estate, and no mortgages, or none that I can find. He owns them outright. How does he do that on a police salary?”

  “Maybe his wife came from money?” Chelmin asked. “Have you checked with the California Lottery?”

  “We’re checking that now. We did find that his wife inherited about $30,000 from her mother’s life insurance, four years ago.”

  “Let me know if you find anything else,” Chelmin said and ended the call.

  It was almost noon when Chelmin found the visitor’s gate at the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in Twentynine Palms and parked behind a small, one-story building. Inside, he showed his credentials and asked to speak with someone from NCIS. Ten minutes later, he was given a vehicle pass and directions to the NCIS office.

  A young female Marine escorted him from reception to a nicely appointed office and an attractive, forty-something woman whose desk nameplate said she was Special Agent Burwell Puller.

  “Welcome to Twentynine Palms,” she said, rising from the desk and moving around it to shake Chelmin’s hand. “How can the Marines help the Army?”

  “I’d like to see Sergeant Major Ed Bailey,” Chelmin said.

  “Is this official?”

  “It is, but I hasten to add that Bailey is NOT a suspect. I want to talk to him about some of the men that he knew in boot camp at San Diego.”

  “That would have been during the Spanish American War?” Puller said, straight-faced.

  “A little before. Three years after I was a boot at Perris Island.”

  “Ouch,” Puller said, in mock horror. “Do you want us to bring him here, or do you want to go see him?”

  “Might be better if you called and told him he had a visitor, just a visitor, and then we met in the Senior NCO Club.”

  “Our club is called Hashmarks.”

  “Ask him to meet me there in half an hour.”

  “How will you know him?”

  “Not too many sergeants major on any base. And, I was his squad leader in the Third Marines. But don’t tell him that.”

  Smiling, Puller took a base phone book from a desk drawer and dialed a number.

  “Sergeant Major Bailey, please,” she said.

  “Sergeant Major, this is Special Agent Puller, NCIS.

  “I’m very well, thank you. Sergeant Major, I have an Army CID agent here in my office. He’d like to meet you at Hashmarks in thi
rty minutes or so?

  “He hasn’t told me what it’s about. Except that you’re not a suspect.

  “He’ll know you, Sergeant Major. Trust me.”

  Puller hung up the phone. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, Chelmin?”

  Chelmin smiled. “Compartmented investigation. All I can tell you is that it has nothing to do with your base, now or earlier. Bailey may know something that might help me identify a suspect in an ongoing investigation. That’s as much as I can tell you.”

  “I see,” Puller said. “It will take you only a couple of minutes to get to Hashmarks. Can I offer you a cup of coffee while you wait?”

  Chelmin smiled. “Very kind of you. Thanks.”

  “Have a seat, and I’ll be right back.”

  When Puller returned, she carried a tray with two cups, a selection of sweeteners, and an open carton of half-and-half.

  “How do you take yours?” Puller said.

  “Black is fine,” Chelmin said.

  When they had each sipped coffee, Chelmin smiled at Puller. “I’ve got to admit that I’m very curious about your name, Agent Puller. Are you related to Chesty Puller? General Lewis Burwell Puller?”

  It was her turn to smile. “My grandfather was his younger brother.”

  “That must have been a heavy load to carry when you were a Marine.”

  “How did you know that I was a Marine, Chelmin?”

  “I can’t explain it, but I just knew. Maybe it takes one to know one.”

  “What did you do when you were in the Marines?”

  “Trained as an infantryman, and trained some more, and trained still more. That’s peacetime in the Marine Corps. Then came Desert Storm. I went into Kuwait with the Third Marines, Task Force Taro, and lost a leg. That was pretty much the end of my Marine career.”

  “And Ed Bailey was in your squad?”

  “He was a rifleman. After I was wounded, I was evacuated to a hospital ship. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Where are you based now, Rudy?”

  “Fort Fremont. Near Salinas.”

  “Shall I walk you over to Hashmarks?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’d just as soon go alone if you don’t mind.”

  eighty-two

  Sergeant Major Bailey was tall and wiry, with the beginnings of a paunch under his belt. He pushed open the door to Hashmarks and stepped from the desert heat and glare into the cool interior. It was a little before the noon meal rush; aside from a barman, the room was almost empty. In the far corner, somebody stood up and waved.

  “Over here, Beetle,” Chelmin said.

  Bailey headed for the corner, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dimly lit room.

  There was something familiar about the man, Bailey thought, but he didn’t quite recognize him. Chelmin put out his hand, and they shook.

  “I know you, don’t I?” Bailey asked.

  “Third Marines. Second Battalion, Hotel Company. First squad, second platoon.”

  Bailey took a half step backward. His face went pale.

  “Can’t be,” Bailey said. “You died. Stepped on a mine.”

  “Lost a leg, but here I am. You passed up a chance for a Navy Cross.”

  “I did what?”

  “You froze. In all fairness, that’s probably what I would have done. Corporal Shippen didn’t freeze. He ran forward, slapped a tourniquet on my stump, carried me out of that minefield. Four hours later, I was on a hospital ship. Shippen got the Navy Cross. I got a Purple Heart, a promotion to Staff Sergeant, disability retirement, and, eventually, an artificial leg.”

  “Sergeant Chelmin, I’m really sorry. I thought that you were dead, and there was nothing we could do…”

  “Sit down, Beetle. That’s all ancient history, and I bear you no hard feelings.”

  The barman appeared. “Lunch, gents?”

  Bailey shook his head. “Just coffee,” he said.

  Chelmin said, “I’ll have a glass of iced tea.”

  The man withdrew, leaving Bailey to stare at Chelmin. “Why are you here?” Bailey asked.

  “I’m with Army CID now, Beetle. I’m working a murder case in Barstow, but there have been all sorts of complications. I came to talk to you about some of the guys you might have known in boot camp, at MCRD San Diego.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Chelmin pulled out his phone and showed him a picture of a young Sebastian Alvarez.

  “Do you remember this guy?”

  “Alvarez. Sure, I remember him. What’s this about?”

  Chelmin thumbed over another photo and showed Bailey.

  “How about this guy?”

  “Cardenas.”

  “What do you remember about them?”

  “Those two were asshole buddies. If you saw Alvarez, then you saw Cardenas. They moved their bunks so they could be next to each other. Toward the end of boot camp, we had a long road march, and Cardenas hurt his leg. A greenstick fracture, what they called it. He went on light duty. I’m pretty sure that he was recycled. What about them?”

  Chelmin showed him the third photo, Malone.

  “What about this guy?”

  Bailey frowned and shook his head. “I’m not sure. He looks like half the guys in our boot company. What’s going on? Why are you asking about these guys?”

  “Cardenas never finished boot camp and got a medical discharge. A few years later, he became a deputy sheriff in Orange County. Around the same time, Alvarez ran a crew in one of the local street gangs.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Not a thing. There’s an element of my case that may involve official corruption, and I’m just trying to get the connections clear.”

  “You think Alvarez is involved with Cardenas in some corrupt way?”

  “Alvarez is dead. But if he and Cardenas were doing stuff together back then, Cardenas might be doing stuff with someone else in that gang. Or some other gang.”

  “So that’s it? You came all the way to ask me if I knew Cardenas and Alvarez?”

  “No. To see if they knew each other and if they were close.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “Not exactly. Now that I’m here, I’d be interested to know how you went from Marine Sad Sack to a highly successful noncommissioned officer. Not many make sergeant major.”

  Bailey stared at Chelmin for a long moment. Then he laughed. “You’re right about that. And the answer is—you. I thought you died, I told you that before. And that really got to me. For the first time—I’d been in the Corps more than a year when we landed in Kuwait—but for the first time, I really got it. I’d been treating the Corps like it was kind of a game. Nothing to get excited about, nothing to worry over. Just a game. We dressed up like Marines, we had guns and stuff, and we played war games. Games. Shine my boots? If I had to. Clean my rifle? Why? I’d just get it dirty again tomorrow.

  “Then you went down and it wasn’t a game anymore. You were the toughest guy I’d ever met. And nothing scared you. If you could get killed, then suddenly it was real. It was life and death. One minute, you’re a living breathing human being, and the next, you’re a pile of dead meat. Or so I thought. I got my act together. I did what was expected of me, and then I did more, as much as I could. When you went down, Shippen took over the squad. I was the senior man in the fire team, so he put me in charge. And suddenly it wasn’t just my ass that I had to look out for; it was the other three guys, too. I had to keep them straight so that all of us were straight.”

  Chelmin sat back in his chair. “If you’ve got time, I’d like to buy you lunch, Beetle.”

  “Hell, no. I’m buying you lunch.”

  Chelmin beckoned to the barman, who came over with menus.

  “Give this man a New York steak,” Bailey said. “I’ll have the same.”

  “Baked potato or fries?” the barman asked.

  “Fries,” Bailey said, and Chelmin nodded agreement.

  “Make mine medi
um rare,” Chelmin said.

  “Drive mine by, and I’ll bite off what I need,” Bailey said.

  Eighty-three

  After lunch, Will headed back to the PD. He was almost there when his phone rang: Agent Lopez calling from Costa Rica.

  “How’s it going?” she asked by way of a greeting. “Any luck on those company names that we sent?”

  “I struck out,” Will said.

  “You checked all of them? Every single one?”

  “No, no. I ruled out all the retail shops and the manufacturing companies.”

  “That might be a mistake,” Lopez said.

  “Why? Do you know something?”

  “There’s a Panamanian company that manufactures and retails its own line of beauty products. I happen to know that there’s an open DEA investigation into this outfit, and they have a store in that building.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “La Princesa Fiorella,” Lopez replied.

  “Can you tell me anything about the investigation?”

  “DEA isn’t saying much, except that they noted that the company makes frequent, mostly small, international shipments. Mostly within Latin America and that the volume of those shipments doesn’t seem to square with their earnings. Their products are far from the top of the line, and they don’t do much advertising, even in Latin America. Also, some of the company’s top people have familial ties with known or suspected narcotics traffickers.”

  “I’m an idiot,” Will said. “How could I miss the connection between cosmetics—powders and creams—and narcotics.”

  “Live and learn,” Lopez said. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not only an idiot, I am also an ungrateful idiot,” Will said. “How can I ever repay you?”

  “Day after tomorrow, I’m flying up for a couple weeks' vacation. I’ll be staying with my parents, in Riverside. You can take me to dinner, Señor La Cucaracha Justos.”