New York Strip

by W. J. Costello

  A pause.

  “Rank makes no difference here. It doesn’t matter whether a student is an officer or an enlisted service member. All students are on equal footing. They must all pass our rigorous exams in order to graduate.”

  I nodded.

  “Sam Battles,” I said. “That name familiar to you?”

  “Sergeant Battles. He’s one of our graduates.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s no longer in the military.”

  “What else?”

  “What else do you want to know?”

  “You got a current address for him?”

  Captain Vance compressed his lips.

  “I’m sorry but we can’t give out that information.”

  “Can you at least tell me if it’s the house in Albany?”

  He frowned. Then checked his computer again.

  “Yes,” he said. “Albany.”

  “He’s not living there anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Any guesses about where he might have moved to?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Captain Vance probably wanted to ask me why I wanted to find Sam. But he refrained from asking. He knew better than to ask. A high-ranking official at the Pentagon had given him explicit instructions. Instructions to cooperate with me. It pays to have connections.

  “How about friends?” I said. “Was Sam close to anybody in particular when he attended here?”

  Captain Vance sat back in his chair. His lips pursed. His eyes searched the ceiling. As if searching his memory. Flipping through the Rolodex of his mind.

  I waited.

  I thought about humming the Jeopardy! tune and then thought better of it.

  “There was a woman,” he said finally. “A girlfriend.”

  “You remember her name?”

  He searched the ceiling some more.

  “Janet Steel.”

  “She was a student here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea where she’s working now?”

  “No. But I can probably find out.”

  “That’d be useful.”

  He picked up the phone on the desk and punched in a number. He spoke briefly into the phone. He paused to listen. Then he thanked the person on the other end of the line and hung up.

  “You’re lucky, Mr. Lane. Miss Steel isn’t far from here. She’s working for the Bay County Sheriff’s Office Bomb Squad.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I’ll pay her a visit.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No. I think I’m done here. Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  He stood up from the desk and shook my hand.

  “Take care, Mr. Lane.”

  “You too, Captain.”

  He seemed relieved to see me go.

  CHAPTER 44

  AIR BRAKES HISSED. The bus shuddered to a stop. Bus doors hissed open.

  I got onto the bus.

  Bus doors hissed shut again. Air brakes hissed again. The bus’s engine growled. The bus lurched forward. The passengers lurched back.

  Ten steps down the aisle and I found an empty seat. I sat down and stared out the window. Wishing I had a book to read. The books I had packed for my trip to Florida were still back at the hotel.

  The bus ride from Eglin Air Force Base to Panama City would take two hours. The bus would go right past my hotel in Destin but I doubted the driver would stop and wait for me to run to my room and grab a book. I decided not to ask.

  The Bay County Sheriff’s Office is located in Panama City. Janet Steel worked there and I needed to talk to her. Thus the bus ride to Panama City.

  In hindsight I should have rented a car as soon as I got to Florida.

  Hindsight. What good is it? Not much. Foresight is what matters. Unfortunately I possess more of the former than the latter.

  I had made no appointment with Janet. I planned to show up unannounced. Sometimes that is the best way. Especially when you plan to ask nosy questions.

  The bus drove along the Emerald Coast. A scenic ride. Past beach after beach. Miramar Beach. Rosemary Beach. Panama City Beach.

  At noon the bus went past a WELCOME TO PANAMA CITY sign.

  Air brakes hissed. The bus shuddered to a stop. Bus doors hissed open.

  I got off the bus.

  Bus doors hissed shut again. Air brakes hissed again. The bus’s engine growled. The bus drove away.

  Noon. Lunchtime.

  My eyes searched for restaurants.

  None in sight.

  So I walked to the waterfront. There I found a floating restaurant. A place called Just The Cook.

  “How’s your crab cakes?” I said to the cook.

  “They were featured on the Cooking Channel.”

  “Must be good.”

  They were.

  After lunch I taxied to the Bay County Sheriff’s Office.

  I entered the building and walked over to the clerk at the desk.

  “Janet Steel in?”

  “She’s around back. Everybody’s out there. They’re doing a practice drill.”

  So I exited the building and walked around back.

  The parking lot behind the building looked like a crime scene.

  Bright yellow CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS tape stretched from one end of the parking lot to the other. A crowd of spectators stood behind the tape.

  A truck with SHERIFF BAY COUNTY printed on the side sat in the middle of the parking lot.

  Beside it sat a white Chevrolet Impala. Both doors on the driver’s side stood open. So did the trunk lid.

  The trunk had something in it.

  I stepped closer.

  I saw a device in the trunk. A device with wires snaking out of it. A fake bomb.

  The whole scene looked like a realistic situation.

  Two members of the Bay County Sheriff’s Office Bomb Squad headed toward the Impala. They wore protective suits that made them look like astronauts. Astronauts in black-and-green space suits. Not white ones.

  The protective suits looked hot. The day was hot. The two bomb technicians in the suits must have felt like hot burritos wrapped in aluminum foil.

  A spectator whispered to me.

  “People on bomb squads must be nuts. They actually sign up to do this kind of work. Can you believe that?”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “Fortunately not me.”

  The bomb technicians went to the back of the Impala and dropped to the blacktop. They looked under the car. They touched nothing.

  I expected them to send in the little robot. But they didn’t do that. I wondered why.

  If I were working as a bomb technician, I would always send in the little robot. Better for a robot to get blown apart than me. I like my parts. I plan to keep them.

  The bomb technicians got to their feet with difficulty. The thick protective suits restricted their movements.

  They circled the car once. Lumbering like bears. Then they returned to the back of the car and bent over the open trunk and looked in.

  The bomb hadn’t disappeared. It was still in the trunk.

  Damn.

  They huddled. Consulting with each other. No doubt debating whether to send in the little robot.

  Nobody asked for my advice. Too bad. I had good advice to give.

  The bomb technicians straightened up. One went to get a toolbox while the other stood waiting. A minute later the former returned to the back of the car and set the toolbox on the blacktop.

  The toolbox opened. A gloved hand reached in. It came out with a pair of wire cutters.

  My phone rang.

  I looked at the screen.

  Sheriff Cooper.

  I stepped away from the crowd to answer the call.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff Cooper.”

  “Mr. Lane. How are you?”

  “No complaints.”


  “Where are you?”

  “Out of town.”

  “Where?”

  “Not in Rising Falls.”

  A pause.

  “Mr. Lane, I thought I told you not to leave town.”

  “That’s not exactly what you said. You told me it’d be suspicious if I left town. But you never told me not to leave.”

  “Semantics.”

  “You phoned me for a reason?”

  “I wondered what happened to you. Haven’t seen you in a while. You haven’t been monitoring the progress of the missing-persons search. I expected you to be in here at least once a day. What happened? You lose interest?”

  “You find Kelly yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then keep looking.”

  I hung up.

  CHAPTER 45

  BY THE TIME I got back to the parking lot the two bomb technicians were taking off their protective helmets.

  They had already diffused the fake bomb. I had missed the show.

  Thanks, Sheriff Cooper.

  Three men got out of the SHERIFF BAY COUNTY truck. They wore dark blue T-shirts with BAY COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE BOMB SQUAD printed on them. They walked over to the bomb technicians and gave them a round of applause.

  The crowd of spectators joined in.

  The female bomb technician bowed as gracefully as she could in her thick protective suit. Her male counterpart just waved.

  Minutes later I approached the woman.

  “Janet Steel?”

  “Yeah. Who’re you?”

  “Rip Lane.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Got a few minutes to talk?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Gimme a minute.”

  I watched her take off the protective suit. One of her coworkers helped her. The process took longer than a minute. Not that I was timing her or anything.

  Sweat rolled down her face. Her wet T-shirt clung to her body. She picked up a towel and bent over and toweled her hair dry. Then she ran fingers through it and straightened up.

  “Rip?” she said and slung the towel over her shoulder. “That’s your name?”

  “It is.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “Sam Battles.”

  Her expression changed. Not for the better.

  “Sam?”

  “You know Sam. Right?”

  “We used to date.”

  “You still talk to him?”

  “Not since he got married.”

  “When was that?”

  “Three years ago? Something like that.”

  “Sorry things didn’t work out between you two.”

  “Me too. Sam’s a good guy. Good husband material.”

  “The good ones always get away.”

  “I blame myself. When he got deployed to the sandbox I started dating other guys. I was young and stupid.”

  “Weren’t we all.”

  “Some more than others.”

  “Who’d he marry?”

  “A woman who had her legs blown off by a land mine.”

  “A double amputee.”

  “He met her on a trip to Russia. Fell in love with her. Brought her back to America and married her.”

  Russia.

  I made a mental note.

  “She’s a beautiful woman. A mutual friend showed me their wedding photos. They both looked happy.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Nika.”

  “Nika Battles?”

  “Yeah. She took his last name.”

  “You got any idea where they’re living?”

  “Nope.”

  Janet didn’t ask me why I wanted to know. Most people would have asked. That would have been the natural response to a nosy question.

  I wondered why she didn’t ask.

  She didn’t seem the least bit interested in who I was or why I was asking questions about Sam or how I had found out about their former relationship.

  That seemed odd.

  “I visited the Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal this morning,” I said. “That’s how I found out about you and Sam.”

  “Oh. Okay. You in the military or something?”

  “Used to be a deputy U.S. marshal. I’m retired now.”

  “You still carry a gun?”

  Odd question.

  I responded with a lie.

  “No need to carry a gun anymore. Not in retirement. I still shoot off my mouth now and then. But that’s the only shooting I do nowadays. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  I nodded.

  We were quiet.

  The crowd of spectators had dispersed.

  The other members of the Bay County Sheriff’s Office Bomb Squad stood huddled at the far end of the parking lot. Probably talking about how the practice drill went.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said. “Guess I’ll hit the road now.”

  “So you’re trying to find Sam?”

  “I am.”

  “Maybe I can help you.”

  “Any help would be greatly appreciated.”

  “When I get home tonight I’ll phone some of our mutual friends. See if anybody knows where Sam is. How do I reach you?”

  “I’m staying at the Destin Beach Hotel. You can phone me there. Just ask for Rip Lane.”

  “Will do.”

  CHAPTER 46

  BACK IN MY hotel room I picked up the bedside phone and punched in the number for the front desk.

  “Destin Beach Hotel.”

  “Good evening. Can you phone me right back? I want to make sure this phone works. I’m expecting a call.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Moments later the phone rang.

  “It works. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, sir. Have a good evening.”

  Janet had behaved oddly during our conversation that afternoon. I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant something. Either way I had decided not to give her my personal phone number. She could phone me at the hotel.

  But I couldn’t just sit around waiting for her call. It might not come. I had to be proactive. Not reactive.

  That meant doing some online research.

  I had left my laptop back in my RV in New York. The hotel had a computer in the lobby but I didn’t want to use it. No privacy in lobbies. So I decided to use the browser on my phone.

  But first I needed to eat dinner.

  I ordered room service.

  Twenty minutes later knuckles rapped on the door.

  I nibbled on the food while I searched online.

  An article in the Times Union in Albany popped up on my screen when I thumbed in the names Sam Battles and Nika Battles. The headline said EXPLOSIVES EXPERT MARRIES VICTIM OF LAND MINE.

  I read the article:

  At first glance they look like any other newlyweds. But take a closer look at Sam and Nika Battles and it becomes clear they have a unique marriage.

  Two years ago Nika lost both of her legs when she stepped on a land mine in Cambodia. She was doing volunteer work at an orphanage there.

  It took her two months to recover in a small hospital in Phnom Penh. Then she returned to her home in Russia.

  At the time Sam Battles was visiting Russia. The former U.S. Army sergeant had worked for years as an explosives expert. When he visited the Museum of Nuclear Weapons in Sarov he met Nika.

  “I wouldn’t have been at the museum if I hadn’t stepped on that land mine,” Nika said. “And I wouldn’t have met Sam if I hadn’t been at the museum. So stepping on the land mine wasn’t all bad. Something good came of that incident. I wouldn’t take it back even if I could.”

  Soon the couple started dating. One year later they were engaged. Last week they were married.

  When Sam scooped Nika into his arms and carried her across the threshold of their new home in Albany she was surprised to see that it was a wheelchair-accessible house. Sam had done the work himself in his spare time. He had built ramps and retrof
itted both floors of the house so Nika could get around.

  “Sam sometimes physically carries me but he always emotionally carries me,” Nika said. “That’s who he is. That’s why I fell in love with him.”

  “The first moment I saw Nika at the museum that day I knew she was the one for me,” Sam said. “Her personality shines through everything she says and does. After a while you forget about her medical condition. She inspires me. The way she handles her situation. Her positive outlook on life. She makes me want to be a better person. I like who I am when I’m with her.”

  I set down my phone and stepped out onto the balcony.

  Warm Florida evening. A gentle breeze. Moonlight glittering on the surface of the sea.

  I drew a long breath.

  Sam had met Nika in Russia. I wondered about the Russian connection. Was Boris somehow involved?

  Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

  Sam and Nika weren’t in Albany anymore. They had left the little house that sat on a green lawn on a narrow street where other houses sat on green lawns. They had moved somewhere else.

  But where?

  I stood out on the balcony for a long time. Thinking about Kelly. About Blake. About my promise to him.

  After a while I got sleepy. I yawned into my fist. I stretched my arms. I knuckled my eyes.

  The hunt for Sam could wait until morning. I would be fresh then. My mind would be alert.

  I stepped in from the balcony and crossed the room.

  The bedside phone sat silent.

  I had expected Janet to phone me.

  The call never came.

  CHAPTER 47

  MIDNIGHT.

  I woke up and found myself face-to-face with the muzzle of a gun. The black hole looked cold. Indifferent.

  The man behind the gun stood silhouetted against the blue glow of the muted TV. His dark eyes glittered. He held the gun with a steady hand. As steady as his gaze.

  You never know in advance what thoughts will run through your mind when death stares you in the face. My thoughts went to my nakedness.

  I sleep naked. Nothing wrong with that. But it does present a problem when you wake up with a gun in your face.

  I could picture the headline: NAKED MAN SHOT IN HOTEL.

  My clothes were out of reach. So were my guns.