“Sir, I have to go. I'll get back to you.” He terminated the connection.
Red strobe.
Dan hadn't said anything about the number of visitors that'd dropped in on him. The colonel asked him “Were they both killed?” That set off a small concussion in Dan's mind. Considering the I.D. they carried, the Colonel’s question... What were the odds that this was a sanctioned assassination and that it was sanctioned by the Colonel, or at least with his knowledge? This was going to need some serious noodling.
83. HUMPTY DUMPTY HAS FALLEN
“Sir, we have a problem," the Colonel wasted no time in contacting Moore. "It seems that we have a witness to the Turner situation.”
“What do you mean, a witness?” Moore snapped back with an acrid tone.
The Colonel gave a synopsis of the phone call he'd received from Hardesty. He didn’t go into details about a rather long and complicated history he had with the man as a SEAL operative.
“Colonel, must I remind you how dangerous developments like this can be to our organization? Or on a personal level? For you in particular,” he didn’t need to add, “the personal dangers involved...” his voice tapered away.
“No Sir, I realize how volatile this is. I believed it was important enough to bring to your attention.”
“Oh yes, Colonel,” Moore replied, “it was vital that you did so, as opposed to remaining silent. Are you going to be able to handle this development?”
Faulkner assured him that it would be taken care of and confirmed that he'd be reporting back. The call terminated, but not his thoughts about it.
He could do nothing yet. He'd provided a name and address, which went to the field operator, and it appeared that'd gone fubar. Now, through Frieda, the contractor had the same information. If that resource didn’t clear this up, he'd need to get his hands muddier still.
Something else I can do. A fresh investigation's underway in Santa Barbara, involving the disappearance of one of its premier citizens. I'll sprinkle a couple tips, and maybe the local law could help muck up some of this. Even better, maybe incriminate whichever loose cannon that'd fucked this up? Yes, that'd work. If it didn't actually incriminate, at least he could add enough smoke, obfuscate the scene. Haze the view back to him, the agency, or the Alliance.
He got the number for the Santa Barbara Police Department, wrote it on a small sticky note. Picking up a throw phone, he left the building. He needed to think, a quiet background, away from this damned office. Times like these, need to walk, draw a curtain against distraction.
There was a small, developed park nearby. Picnic tables, barbeque pits, grassy areas and a playground. The park had become his closest tropical island option. While he couldn’t get that cheap beer the bowling alley offered, he could still get lost for a bit.
Faulkner walked to an isolated bench on a small rise overlooking the picnic area and sat. He dialed the SBPD number, asked to speak to the detective assigned to the Yacht Harbor murder investigation.
“What's your name, please?”
“I'll give any information I have to the detective assigned to the case.”
A pause, followed by a miffed-sounding, “One moment,” that had lost all pleasantness. A couple minutes later, the infomercial about joining the police department was interrupted.
◆◆◆
"This is Officer Rivera. May I help you?"
“Officer Rivera, I asked for the detective investigating the Yacht Harbor murder investigation.”
“Yes, Sir,” Miguel replied, “I'm assigned to that case, directly involved with the investigation. Who am I speaking with?”
“Officer Rivera, you may have noticed that this call is coming in without caller identification data. This is not by accident. I work for a United States Government agency. I'm not at liberty to divulge my name or specific agency. I assure you that the information I have is important to the investigation and might even be pivotal. Shall I continue?”
Miguel was already making notes, even though the call was being recorded. “Please go on.”
“I've got information that links an individual to involvement with the homicide that took place on the MV Mantis. As I understand it, the Mantis home ports at Santa Barbara Yacht Club.”
He wanted eyes on this guy! A face can often tell as much as the words coming from it. “Can we make an appointment to meet? I’d like to get your complete story.” Miguel knew reports hadn't mentioned the name of the boat. There were other ways to find out that information–Listening to scuttlebutt around the marina was one. He didn't get the feeling that this was the method used by the caller.
“Sorry, Officer Rivera. There won't be a meeting.”
“Sir,” he countered, “you have to understand. Legitimate evidence and information has to be processed through the right channels. I can’t take what you tell me over the phone without knowing more about how you came to have the information. After all, ..." His sentence was cut off.
“Fine. We’re done.” Click. Dead air.
◆◆◆
That didn't go as well as he'd hoped. He had to come to grips with what looked like a worst-case scenario, unless the contractor cleaned this up. If not resolved, he'd have to arrange for Hardesty to come in, meet him somewhere safe. Hardesty wouldn’t have any suspicions about his own controller. The next series of thoughts caused beads of sweat to pop on his forehead.
It's been a long time, seems like another life ago, since I actually killed someone. That'd been on foreign soil, operating under orders from a commanding officer during wartime. His abdominal muscles had all the memory needed to crank the gut wrench into a pretzel, salted by emotions. Another thought bloomed in his mind. If there was ever a time to get supplemental life insurance, this is it. It'd help Claire and kids into a future without him.
He made a mental note to call to his insurance broker, then decided he'd had enough for the day. Time to get home, hug his family.
84. BACK HOME
Twenty minutes later, Dan drove into his neighborhood. Joe and Sandy’s place came before his on the road. As he approached their driveway, he activated the remote, drove up, into the garage. As he neared the back, he hit the button, so the door would close behind him. Joe was standing in the doorway leading into the house from the garage. Dan shut off the engine. As the door closed, Joe trotted upstairs.
◆◆◆
He picked up Sandy's wallet and car keys, went to the living room where she was reading a story to the kids.
"Hey, you guys. Mom wants to go to the store. She said if you're good, she'd get some burgers, maybe ice cream?" He winked at his wife. He'd already given her head's up that Dan was coming back.
"Yay!" Elizabeth turned to her little brother. "Brodie, you want some ice cream?" He was up off the couch, the storybook bunny rabbits already fading into the distance. Sandy rolled her eyes at Joe.
“Alright, let's get going." She set the book down, stood up, hand out to accept the stuff from Joe. Softly, to him, "You know where the Brod-ster's gonna be focused, don't you!"
"Thanks, Sugar-Pie." He planted a kiss on her cheek. She smiled at him, nodded. They left through the front door.
◆◆◆
Dan got out of the car when the garage door closed. When Joe came back downstairs, Dan caught his eye, put a finger to his lips. They walked upstairs into the kitchen. Dan went to the sink, blasted the water on. Back at the kitchen island, he picked up the pen, wrote on the pad “Shhh”, then "want to cover bases".
Dan leaned in, whispered "Day to day has gone from busy-relaxed to fuckin' shit storm crazy!" Then he penned, "news about local killing?”
Joe's eyebrows twisted, questioning, shook his head, mouthed, "No." He wrote, "Trip okay?"
“Exciting, then laid back. Best part, with pal for food and brews."
Joe gave a thumb's up.
Dan wrote, “Going to house, not sure what I’ll find, back in twenty or so.”
Joe pantomimed to go with him but Dan shook hi
s head, then wrote, “Not back in 30, call sheriff.”
His friend took the pen, wrote, “You go to back door while I ring bell?”
This was a good idea, but Dan had no desire to drag Joe any deeper into this mud hole. If all was good at the house, no big deal, but if uninvited guests were there, Joe’s safety and perhaps his family’s safety were in jeopardy.
He wrote, “No. Better here as back-up than there, kay?”
Joe read the note, nodded in agreement.
85. BACK INTO THE FLUME
Dan returned to the garage, retrieved his .22 pistol, tucking it into his waistband. He went to the hatchback and opened the strongbox, removing one of Tony’s flash bang grenades. He slid it into his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket. Clumpy, a bit heavy, but it would have to ride there, like it or not. He returned to the kitchen to find Joe closing the battery compartment on one of two small walkie-talkies.
As he handed one to Dan, he whispered, “In case you need me…” and he pointed into the corner where his M-1 Garand leaned, ready.
Dan nodded, mouthing “Thank you.” They took a couple steps toward the back door, then Dan stopped, turned back, to whisper to Joe.
“Maybe you could provide a diversion." He held up the two-way. "How about when I double-click , you call my house phone. Leave me a nice message, chit chat a bit. That'll give me some time to approach the house."
“Good idea,” Joe whispered back. “I’ll have number set to call, give me ten seconds from transmit." They nodded, nothing more to say and chest-bumped, shoulder thumped, as brothers do.
Dan slipped out the door and down the steps into the yard, trotted quietly to the back plank-fence. Seconds later, he was outside the gate and moving.
Low and slow upslope, merging with, and dropping down into the culvert. He continued the easy grade up in a crouched profile, quicker now, with some cover from the back of their common neighbor's place. It had two, humongous old live-oaks that provided umbrella-ish sun cover to the property's corners and then some.
In less than a minute, he crouched at the far end of that shade, peeking over the lip of the ditch into his own yard. A quick scan of the rear windows, noting curtains drawn. The blinds on the slider were closed too. They weren't closed when he left through that door. He steeled himself with a couple breaths, then double clicked the transmit button.
Buried under quiet breath, he did a slow count, focusing on sounds. A handful of seconds later, he thought he heard the first ring of his phone. He scrambled out of the flume, crouched low, and hurried through the yard with cover as possible until he stopped, back to the wall, between where the bathroom was and his office/den space, up next to the slider. The fourth ring activated his outgoing message. He waited until that ended, could hear Joe’s voice begin to talk, and he placed hands against the slider and pushed. It started to slide in the track and he could hear Joe’s voice more clearly.
“Yeah, anyway, I was wondering if this weekend might be the time to tackle that shower pan issue.” Dan slid the door enough to slip inside. “I could work on it with you Saturday and Sunday if we need to.” Dan moved to the den’s doorway, peeked around the jam to look the short distance down the hall. It ended in the foyer, the kitchen doorway up, slightly to the left.
Someone standing there. A right shoulder, part of their back. As he processed this, the person turned right, glanced toward him and dove past the hallway and into the living room.
He heard the clear metallic sound of a slide action. The guy was ready. Dan’s pistol was out, but he didn’t relish sneaking down the hall without cover, waiting for this ass to pop back into the hallway, shooting. He didn’t know if there was one trespasser, or more.
He pulled out the flash-bang. Might cause a fire… oh, fuckin’ well… where’d he squat? Behind the couch, maybe a little cover... need an easy roll, just past the corner.
Dan positioned his arm back, pulled the retaining pin, and as the lever popped, he rolled the cylinder softly down the hall. He judged its stopping point for about a second… looks good… turned his head and shoulders, hunched, squeezing eyes closed. He placed his left palm against his left ear. His right hand, holding his gun, came up and the heel of his palm pressed against his right ear.
BANG! The light pierced eyelids, even squeezed closed and head turned, but the sounds wasn't too bad.
He turned back and raced to the hall's end, turning into the living room with his pistol ready. At the end of the couch, squatted down, the man was wobbling. Blinking his eyes, blood starting to run from his nose and down across his mouth.
Dan moved forward like a place-kicker, with speed. He connected with the man’s chin in a sweeping up-kick, sent him flying backwards, deeper into the living room. The pistol he'd held flew loose into the air, off to the side.
Dan dove onto his torso, ready to pistol-whip him if need be. The guy wasn't out, but he wasn't moving much either. The ball cap he'd been wearing had gone flying somewhere, over by the couch.
"Well, look who's here," Dan taunted. "It's Scarface'!"
Dan used his pistol butt and clocked him hard above the left ear. That stopped residual movement. He picked up the loose pistol, trotted into the kitchen and returned in a few moments. He had some cordage and loose zip-ties that lived in his junk drawer. A minute later, his visitor was prone, hog-tied with the plastic ties that secured both wrists and ankles. He took the rope and looped it around wrists and ankles, drew them closer, knotted it. Alright, Houdini!
He stepped back into the kitchen, pulled the walkie-talkie. "Dan here. All good. House secure, but work to do."
The radio came back, "Heard a loud noise. That you?"
"Roger that. Have visitor, tied up now. I'll call in a bit. Out."
He switched off the radio, returned to the living room. He could see small movements, his guest straining at the ties. He walked over to stand next him. The guy turned his head to look up at Dan.
“What you gonna do with me?”
Dan hadn't figured that part out yet, but instead began asking his own questions. His visitor wasn't raised to believe replies were polite or necessary. Dan asked about the Mantis and about the Senator but received only icy stares in response. It was only when Dan asked about his partner that the man’s demeanor broke, along with his look. He turned a bit more, straining at both wrists and ankles, to look squarely at Dan.
“You’re gonna suffer for killing him.”
Dan smiled. It wasn’t to be cruel, and in fact, not done consciously. It simply illuminated a bit of the darkened space around this guy.
“He was special to you, huh?” More ice.
“So, what? You’ve worked together a long time? That’s cool. I can relate to that.”
“You can't relate to me, mother fucker,” he blurted.
Suddenly, brighter light.
“Was Dickhead family?” His eyes came back to laser into Dan’s, saying nothing, saying so much.
“Your son?” At that, the man turned his face away.
“Do what you’re gonna do.”
Dan had been bent over, watching him closely, and at that, he stood up.
“What I'm going to do, asshole, is turn you over to some folks who've got a long list of questions for you. I believe you're going to find that our little face to face has been easy, compared to what your future holds. Been to jail before?”
It appeared that his visitor was done talking.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’ve seen the inside of a cell or two. I'm guessing your next visit is going to be less cushy, maybe longer than you're used to. In fact, if I'm right, you might never see the light of a jail-free day again... I bet there are folks who're going to be very unhappy with the fact that you and I've met, talked.”
That last thing must have hit a tender spot. The glare that shot back reflected not only anger, hatred, but from deeper down, a little bit of a cornered rabbit’s fear.
86. THE RABBIT
The man’s bindings were still tight, a bit t
ighter in fact, no problem. Dan stuffed a small kitchen towel into the man’s mouth, wary of possible bites. He watched the man breathe through his nose. Good. A pat down found no wallet, no identification, no surprise. He felt something in a back pocket, protruding a bit. A pen? What had felt like a pen was a nasty-looking, nearly eight-inch long, hard plastic spike. This sticker was lethal in a hand that knew how to use it. Frisking front pockets produced a car key, a folding knife. No other weapons squirreled away. The pistol that had been in possession was now sitting on Dan's kitchen table.
Dan left him there, stepped out from his kitchen into the carport, giving a quick glance to be sure there were no other surprises waiting for him out front. He extracted the cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number for the Santa Barbara cop shop from memory.
“This is Mr. Smith, calling for Detective Simmons. If you'll inform him who's calling, he'll be grateful.”
“One moment please.” In less than a minute, he heard the detective’s voice.
“Mr. Smith, thank you for calling. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. How's your investigation going?”
“Little by little. Forensics reports still in process. You have anything new for me?”
“It’s funny you should ask, Detective. I have something very new, something you should be extremely happy to get. Unfortunately, I can't give it to you over the phone. How would you feel about getting a person of interest in the case?”
“Who's that?” Alex asked. He'd still not located the Senator.
“Would you believe the very same I guy I told you about, the one I wounded who jumped into the harbor? He showed up at my place.”
“Mr. Smith, at this point I'm likely to believe whatever you tell me, at least initially. You're certain this person is the same one? Your activity on the boat sounded like it all happened fast. Maybe this isn’t the same guy, just looks like him, and what? You've detained him? And how do you think he found you?”
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