The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2)

by Martin Roy Hill

  "Yes, sir."

  ☼

  The notary public's second-story, walk-up office was on the outskirts of downtown San Diego in a neighborhood that bypassed by the city's redevelopment district. The business occupying the first floor was a bail bondsman that promised fast service for any offense. Two tough-looking youths with long hair and shiny badges clipped to their belts walked out the door as he passed by. Agents of the bail bondsman, Schag assumed. Bounty hunters.

  Schag took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, prodded by the stench of stale beer and piss. At the landing, he paused, looking up and down the corridor at the office doors until he found the right one. He rapped twice on the door and opened it.

  The office was small and crammed with a desk, a desktop computer with an aging cathode ray tube monitor, and a scanning device Schag recognized as the type used for making live-scan fingerprints. A plump, middle-aged woman sat behind the desk, typing on the computer's keyboard. Her hair was mousey brown, curled, and sprayed in place. She peered at Schag over half-moon reading glasses.

  "May I help you?" she asked, smiling.

  Schag's credentials were already in his hand and flipped open so she could read them.

  "Sandra Goodkin?"

  "Yes," she said. She held out her hand. "May I see those a little closer, please?" Schag handed the ID wallet to her. "There are so many people running around with badges these days, you can't be too certain who's who. Navy? Well, that's different. Never met an NCIS agent before. Not in real life. Just that show, you know?"

  Schag rolled his eyes as Goodkin handed the wallet back to Schag, and he replaced it in his flight jacket pocket.

  "How can I help you, agent?" Goodkin asked.

  The agent handed her the affidavit. "That was delivered to the commanding officer of a Navy unit this morning. It contains an allegation about one of the officers under his command, and it appears you notarized it. Do you recognize the document?"

  Goodkin flipped to the last page and studied the signature and notary mark. "Yes, that's my mark and signature," she said.

  "So you recognize the document?"

  "I didn't say that, agent," the woman said, handing the papers back to Schag. "I said it was my signature and my mark—my state number."

  "But you don't recognize the document itself?"

  Goodkin reached into a drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes, chose one, and lit it. "Agent," she said, blowing smoke, "I don't read every document that comes across my desk. If I read every business contract or bond agreement I notarized I'd have a bigger headache than I have now. All I do is witness the document being signed, check the signer's ID, and stamp it."

  "If you don't recognize the document, would you recognize the people?"

  She took a drag on her cigarette and thought about it. "Maybe," she said. "Why? You got a picture?"

  "No, but it was a man and woman," Schag said. "Older man, short and stocky, Marine Corps haircut, and graying. The woman was younger, tall, thin, with long black hair, maybe pulled back?"

  "Oh, them," Goodkin said. "Yes, I remember them. Came in here late last night, just before I closed. The guy called and asked me to keep my door open."

  "Do you know him?" Goodkin shook her head. "But you kept your business open for him?" She nodded. Schag was growing weary of this game playing. "Look, Ms. Goodkin—"

  "Mrs. Goodkin," she corrected, dangling her left hand out so Schag could see her wedding ring.

  "Mrs. Goodkin," Schag said. "I'm investigating a case involving a man who is impersonating a federal agent. If you don't cooperate, I'm going to start thinking you might be an accomplice. That's a federal felony."

  Goodkin sat back, no longer amused. "Who said I wasn't cooperating? I never saw the man before, agent. But the girl called him Mr. Riley."

  "We know that's not his real name. You have no idea what the man's real name is?"

  The woman pulled more smoke into her lungs and considered the question. She exhaled and said, "Okay, like I said, I never saw this guy before. But he paid me cash and as he was taking money out of his wallet, I noticed he had a badge. Next to the badge was a private investigator's license. PIs are good business for me around here, being so close to the courthouse. I didn't want to rat him out if he was going to do return business with me."

  "Did you get his name?" Schag asked impatiently.

  Goodkin nodded. "Just a glance of his last name," she said. "It was Gavin. Nice and short."

  ☼

  "What do you mean he was impersonating me?" demanded Riley. He, Schag, and Parker were sitting in the NCIS conference room.

  "He identified himself to the petty officer as Special Agent Tom Riley." Schag answered. "But all she saw was a badge. She didn't know the difference. She'd never seen an NCIS badge before."

  "Why me?"

  "Have you ever met a PI named Gavin?" Schag asked.

  Riley shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. Who is he?"

  Schag sat at one of the computers in the conference room. "There's only one private investigator in this area named Gavin. Full name is Terry Gavin. Has an office east of here in El Cajon." He typed a command into the computer and a service file flicked to life on the wall screen. It showed a heavyset man in his late thirties with closely cropped hair and wearing the khakis of a Navy chief. "He retired from the Navy a few years ago as a chief master-at-arms. In fact, his last duty station was this base. I should say he was allowed to retire."

  "Allowed?" Riley repeated. "Caught with his hand in the cookie jar?'

  "Something like that," Schag said, nodding. "Originally, Gavin was an IT specialist. But he got bored in that rate and switched to master-at-arms. He used his computer knowledge a lot in his MAA investigative work. Got praise for it, too. Then he hacked into a suspect's personal email to look for evidence. He found it. The defense attorney discovered how it was obtained and got the case kicked out. The suspect walked, and Chief Gavin was forced to retire."

  Riley nodded. "I remember that case now," he said. "NCIS got called in to investigate Gavin's action, but when he agreed to retire, we dropped the case."

  "That before you became SAC?" Schag asked. Riley nodded. "That's why he called himself 'special agent' instead of your current title. He didn't know about your promotion." Schag typed more instructions into the keyboard. Another photo of Gavin appeared on the wall screen. In this one he was older, the stubble of hair grayer. "After retiring, he got a state PI license and opened an office in El Cajon. He doesn't seem to have learned his lesson, though. His practice is a bit shady and he's got a few complaints filed against him, but nothing that could be substantiated so he's never had his ticket pulled."

  "What kind of complaints?"

  "Hacking personal computers, email, and social media accounts."

  "Same kind of stuff he did with Commander Clarke," Parker said.

  Riley grunted. "He should have gone to work for the NSA."

  "There have been some physical altercations, too," Schag continued. "He's not afraid to get his hands dirty—or bloody."

  "Well, I guess we should have little talk with Mr. Gavin sooner or later. Tell him to stop pretending he's me." Riley rapped the table and stood. "But, unfortunately, it's too late for your good doctor and her girlfriend. That train's already left the station."

  "I think sooner rather than later," Schag said. "In fact, I was planning to pay Gavin a visit this afternoon."

  Riley tensed. "Why?"

  "Someone hired him to rat out Commander Clarke," Schag said. "I want to know who and why."

  "To what end?" Riley demanded again.

  "Because I think it has something to do with Bill Butcher's case," Schag said. "I can't say why I think that, but I do. She shows up at the sheriff's briefing and the next day this scumbag is spying on her. It's too coincidental. I think it has something to do with why Bill went rogue."

  "You mean that medication stuff," Riley said, his voice tightening. Schag nodded. "It's still not our case
, Lin."

  "Well, technically, this is our case," Parker said. Riley shot him an angry look. "I mean, this guy is impersonating a federal law enforcement agent. That's a federal felony. And if he impersonated an NCIS agent, that makes it our case."

  "You heard the lad, Tom," Schag said, smiling.

  Riley's face was red with anger, but he took a deep breath and relaxed.

  "Fine," he said. "Go talk to this guy. However, if you find anything out that has anything to do with Butcher, you bring it to me, and I’ll give it to the sheriff. And that's it. Understood?"

  Schag nodded, unable to hide his grin. Riley looked at the agent once, twice, then shook his head and walked out of the conference room, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 15

  THURSDAY

  Office of Terry Gavin, Private Investigator

  El Cajon, California

  1400 Hours

  SCHAG, WITH PARKER RIDING SHOTGUN, found Gavin's office in an industrial area a few blocks from Gillespie Field, El Cajon's municipal airport. The office sat between a computer repair shop and a pilot's supply store. Parker read the sign on the glass door aloud. "Special Investigations. Terry Gavin, Chief Investigator."

  "There's nothing like truth in advertising," Schag said as he parked the car on the street a few doors down from Gavin's office.

  As the two agents walked past the pilot's supply store, a customer stepped out and eyed Schag's flight jacket.

  "Nice jacket," said the customer, a man wearing a navy-blue ball cap. Across the front of the cap, embroidered gold letters said: FLIGHT INSTRUCTOR. "You a Navy aviator?"

  Schag shook his head and kept walking. "Nah. I won it in a poker game."

  "Oh," said the man, disappointed.

  The glass door to Gavin's office was unlocked and the two agents walked in. The office wasn't much bigger than the notary public's. A variety of computers and monitors cramped what space there was, the screens flashing with data either being scanned or downloaded. An electronic bell chimed in the back of the office, activated when the door was opened. Gavin appeared through a door that led to a back room, dressed in khaki pants and a loose-fitting beige polo shirt. He was chewing something. When he saw Schag and Parker, he stopped chewing and swallowed hard, trying to force the food down his throat so he could speak.

  "May I help you gentlemen?" Gavin's eyes shifted warily from one man to the other.

  "Terry Gavin?" Schag asked. Gavin nodded. Schag pulled his credentials wallet from his jacket pocket and flashed his badge. "NCIS. You were identified as a man who misrepresented himself as an NCIS agent to a Navy petty officer in order to trick her into signing an affidavit confessing to an improper relationship with a superior officer."

  Gavin looked at Schag's badge, then at Schag and Parker. His mouth turned down into a half moon, and he shook his head. "Nope, not me," he said. "Don't know what you're talking about." He sat in a chair and looked at one of the computer screens. "Now if you'll excuse me."

  "You were seen with the petty officer at a notary public," Parker said. "The notary saw your PI license when you paid her in cash. She saw your name."

  Gavin shook his head, not looking at the two men. "Some other guy named Gavin," he said. "Lots of Gavin's around."

  "Only one PI in this area is named Gavin," Schag said. He leaned across Gavin's desk and pressed the power button on the monitor he was watching. Leaning close to the detective, he said, "We showed the petty officer your photo, chief. She identified you."

  Gavin blanched. Whether it was news that Clarke's lover identified him or the use of Gavin's former Navy rank, Schag couldn't tell. He knew, however, Gavin's facade was starting to break.

  "We know about your Navy record, Gavin," Schag said. "About your use of computers to get evidence illegally." Gavin's eyes flicked up to Schag's face, then away again. "We figure you used similar skills to find out about the petty officer's relationship with Commander Clarke. Are we right?"

  Gavin sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, I did a job for a client," he said. "That's no federal case. You've got no jurisdiction."

  "We do since you identified yourself as an NCIS agent," Parker said.

  "I did not!" Gavin protested. "I never told her I was NCIS. I said I was with criminal investigations. I showed her my PI badge. If she misunderstood me, that's not my fault."

  "Criminal investigations?" Schag repeated.

  "Well, I do criminal stuff," Gavin insisted. "Employee thefts and stuff like that. So I stretched it a little. It's still no crime—and it isn't no federal or Navy crime. So you still have no jurisdiction."

  "You used Tom Riley's name with the petty officer," Schag said.

  Gavin shrugged. "Who's Tom Riley?"

  "He's the NCIS agent who investigated you for computer hacking before you retired," Schag said. "He's now Special Agent in Charge of the entire NCIS Southwest Region—and you've really pissed him off."

  Schag may have exaggerated Riley's reaction, but the impact on Gavin was plain to see. The idea he used the name of a powerful Navy law enforcement agent made the detective visibly shrink in front of the two agents.

  Schag smiled. "Look, chief," he said politely. "We're only here to ask you a few questions. That's all. Like who was your client and why?"

  "You know I don't need to tell you squat, agent," Gavin mumbled. "That's privileged information."

  "Which are you impersonating now?" Schag asked. "A lawyer or a priest?"

  "I've got privilege, too," Gavin insisted.

  "Only if you're working for an attorney," Schag said. "So, is your client an attorney, chief?"

  Gavin's eyes brightened. He started to answer, but Schag held up a cautionary finger. "Remember, it is a federal crime to lie to a federal agent when he is conducting a line of inquiry into an official matter."

  Gavin's face darkened. "What are you talking about. What official matter?"

  "The matter of William Butcher." Schag replied.

  Gavin jumped to his feet. "That guy they're looking for? The guy with The Butcher's Bill?" Schag nodded. "I got nothing to do with that!"

  "Commander Clarke was assisting NCIS and the local authorities with the Butcher case, chief," Schag said smoothly. "I think whoever hired you wanted to discredit the commander and shut her up. Now, who hired you, chief?"

  "That's bullshit!" Gavin yelled. He was sweating heavily now. "You're bullshitting me. I'm not falling for that. Get out! Get out of here now!"

  Schag shrugged. "Well, if you insist," he said calmly. He picked up one of Gavin's business cards from a holder on his desk. "You know what they say, chief. Don't leave town. We'll be back in touch."

  Schag waved the card at Gavin and motioned Parker toward the door with nod of his head.

  They sat in their sedan and waited. Fifteen minutes later, Gavin stepped out of his office and locked the door. He turned from the door, slipped on wrap-around sunglasses, and glanced up and down the street before rushing off toward the parking lot.

  "He looks like he's in a hurry," Parker observed.

  "Yeah," Schag said. "Just for kicks, let's follow him."

  ☼

  Aidan Black was driving west on Interstate 8 when his cell phone chirped. He closed his eyes as if in pain, and reached for the phone. The last few days had made him wary of phone calls. They'd all brought bad news.

  Without looking at the caller ID, he answered the phone. "Aidan Black." The voice on the other end was nervous, uncertain.

  "It's me, Gavin. I just had a visit from two NCIS agents asking me questions about that damn Navy doctor of yours."

  Shit! Black thought. After a moment, he asked, "How did they find you? I thought you said nothing could be traced back to you."

  "That fucking bitch of a notary public saw my name when I paid her. They talked to her and traced me."

  Black pounded the steering wheel, trying to vent his anger. Another foul up.

  "What did you get me involved in, Aidan?" Gavin demanded.
<
br />   "I don't know what you mean. What did they tell you?"

  "That this Navy doc was involved in helping the cops trying to catch that Butcher guy," Gavin said. "The guy that attacked your compound the other night."

  Jesus Christ! It just gets worst, Black told himself.

  "Where are they, the agents?" he asked.

  "I kicked them the hell out of here," Gavin said. "But they said they'd be back. What did you get me into, Aidan?"

  "Nothing, nothing. Just relax. We'll meet and talk this over." Black paused for a moment, deciding on a good meeting place. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere not crowded. "You know the national cemetery?" he asked. "Meet me there . . ." Black checked his watch. "In an hour and a half. The bay side, at the Bennington Memorial, okay?"

  Gavin agreed. Black hung up and dialed a number. "It's Black," he said. "You still following that NCIS agent?"

  The man at the other end of the call sat in the front passenger seat of black Ford SUV parked in the trolley station outside the main gate of the 32nd Street Naval Base. His name was Gott and he shook his sleeping comrade as he spoke. The other man, a tall, thin operator named Kasitz with mousey brown hair and a thin moustache started cussing, but Gott put a finger to his own lips to shush him.

  "No, sir," Gott said. "We trailed him from the coroner's office back to the Navy hospital, then to a notary public. We reported that already. Then we tailed him to the 32nd Street Navy base. We've been waiting at the main gate since then. But he could've have left by another gate."

  "He did," Black told him. "He and another agent. I've got another job for you. I have a meeting with a guy, and I need to be alone with him. Schag and that other agent might be following the guy I'm meeting with. I need you to cover me and run interference for me. Are you two up to it? It might need to be dirty."

  Gott turned to Kasitz, who was listening in on the call. Kasitz shrugged and nodded. "We're up to it, sir," Gott said calmly.

  "Good," replied Black. He gave them the details of what he needed done. When he finished, he ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. He reached under his seat, removed a 9mm Berretta concealed there, and slid it into the back of his waistband.