by Russell Fee
“So, you think the drone and rifle fire together on Bland’s property were an innocent coincidence?” The sarcasm in Amanda’s voice was obvious.
“Still too many ifs for me to think anything else right now. Let’s start eliminating some of them. I want you to go back out to Bland’s. Tell him you suspect someone is hunting on his property, and, if it’s him, you want to make sure he has the appropriate hunting licenses. If it’s not him, then ask if he has given anyone permission to hunt on his property and, if so, who? If he hasn’t, then someone is trespassing; and we need to know about it,” said Callahan.
“And if he still won’t talk to me?” Amanda cocked her head and held her hands out in front of her, palms up, in a silent what then?
“Let’s see how persuasive you can be,” responded Callahan.
* * *
As Amanda approached the bunker, she drove slowly, scanning the sky above and beyond it for any drones. She only stopped her search when she parked the cruiser and adjusted the rearview mirror to check her hair. She wanted to look as professional as possible and had even stopped by her apartment to change into a fresh uniform before heading to Bland’s. She was overdoing it, she knew, but the change of clothes made her feel more confident; and, after her last run-in with Bland, she needed all the confidence she could muster. Her nod to vanity had been to have the uniform slightly tailored so as not to totally hide her figure. It was enough to turn the phrase There’s something about a man in uniform completely on its head, and she knew it.
When she felt composed, Amanda got out of the cruiser and walked to the entry door of the bunker. She was halfway there when the door opened.
“Good morning, Deputy Gillespie. Please come in,” said Bland, smiling. He turned and stepped back into the bunker, waving over his shoulder for Amanda to follow. He walked down six semicircular stairs that expanded onto the floor of a massive living room, flanked on the left by a glimmering indoor swimming pool. As she followed Bland, Amanda caught the lingering scent of his cologne and was instantly transported to a place both exotic and earthily pleasurable. She’d never smelt anything like it before. The noise of the door shutting automatically behind her brought her back to reality. When she focused back on Bland, he was gesturing toward someone else in the room, standing off to his side and behind him. Amanda directed her attention to a tall man in his mid-thirties, bronze-skinned and handsome with a trimmed black beard. Like Bland, he was casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Unlike Bland who wore flip flops, he sported expensive tan, soft-leather loafers.
“This is Abdullah bin Ra—”
“No need for formalities, just call me Abe,” said Abdullah, cutting short Bland’s introduction.
“Abe is being modest. He is here from Dubai and is Emirati royalty,” continued Bland.
Amanda turned and looked at Bland quizzically.
“A prince,” he said.
“Oh,” said Amanda and, despite herself, sounded like a little girl opening a birthday present. She blushed in embarrassment.
“Please don’t be impressed,” said Abdullah. His words flowed with a smooth enunciation, but his sentence ended in a slight clip. “There are many princes in the United Arab Emirates, and I am a very minor one.”
“Abe and I go way back.” Bland gave a conspiratorial wink to Abdullah. “We were roommates at Harvard.” When Amanda responded with a wan smile, Bland abandoned his casual tone and became more formal. “Please, won’t you sit down?” he said.
Amanda looked around for a seat and took in the room for the first time. The floor was polished stone of some kind. In the center, a large thick plate of cut glass sat atop a low sculpted marble slab of intertwined writhing bodies. Amanda found it both elegant and disturbing. Steel-framed leather furniture surrounded this center piece. Long thin windows stretched along the tops of the walls separating them from the ceiling and giving the impression that the roof of the bunker floated above the room. Below the windows, framed modern art decorated the four walls.
“Perhaps here,” said Abdullah, pointing to a chair by a white leather couch.
Amanda walked to the chair and sat down. As she did, Abdullah sat down on the side of the couch nearest to Amanda. Bland took a chair across the table from the two of them.
“We’re investigating the death of a girl found on the beach—Susan Gibbons,” said Amanda.
“I’ve read about the death in your local paper. Tragic,” said Bland.
“Yes,” said Amanda. “So far, it appears that she was caught by the propellers of a large boat. We suspect that she either fell overboard or was swimming or diving when it happened.”
“And you are telling me this because. . .” said Bland.
“Because you have a large yacht that was on the lake when and where she died,” responded Amanda.
“I see. You’re not suggesting foul play, are you? Abe is a Harvard law grad. Should I ask him to represent me?” Bland flashed a sly smile.
“No. Of course not. I mean, what we’re doing now is eliminating possibilities. We want to know if Susan Gibbons was a guest on your yacht at any time, and if you or your crew suspected your yacht may have hit something in the water recently.”
“I have no idea who Susan Gibbons is or was and can tell you that she was never on my yacht. I have no knowledge of the yacht hitting anything. However, if my word is not good enough for you, then, if he has no objections, you may question Abe. He has been my constant guest on the yacht since it set sail on the lake this summer.” Bland eyed Abdullah and shrugged as if asking, Any problem?
Abdullah took the cue. “It would be a pleasure, but I can assure you now that Ms. Gibbons was never on the yacht when I was on board, and our sail, so far, has been perfectly smooth with no notable events at all.” Abdullah grinned, cocked his head toward Bland, and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “With apologies to my host, but it has been rather boring,” he said to Amanda.
“If you’re still not satisfied, you’re free to interview my crew and captain,” said Bland. “You’re even welcome to review the yacht’s log and manifest. I want to be of whatever help I can. I live on this island too, you know.”
“Thank you. Can we board your yacht tomorrow to interview the crew?” asked Amanda.
“Three of the crew stay here at the bunker when the yacht is docked: the chef and two deck hands. The captain and the rest of the crew stay on board. I will make everyone available at your convenience,” said Bland.
Amanda stood up. When she did, so did Abdullah. Bland stayed seated. “One more thing,” she said. “A drone was seen over your property the other day. Is it yours?”
“Is flying a drone illegal here?” asked Bland.
“Only if it’s being used to hunt or harass hunters,” said Amanda.
“Well then, the drone is mine, and it is used for security surveillance. I don’t hunt, and no one hunts on my land,” said Bland.
“Rifle fire was heard coming from your property the other day,” said Amanda.
“That would’ve been me. I try to keep proficient in several weapons and have a firing range on my property. I don’t shoot at anything but paper targets.” Bland eased himself out of the chair. “I’ll show you out,” he said.
“Allow me,” said Abdullah, and stepped quickly to Amanda’s side. “A pity. Your stay has been too brief,” he added as he escorted her to the door.
Amanda was not sure how to respond, so said nothing.
When they got to the door, Abdullah opened it; and, as Amanda was about to leave the bunker, he said, “There are many beautiful women in my emirate, but permit me to say that your beauty would put them to shame.”
Chapter 7
Julie scooted her chair away from the filing cabinet, wheeled it over to her desk, and answered the station’s non-emergency phone number with her standard salutation, “Sheriff’s office, how may I help you?”
“Hi, Julie. This is Stephanie over at the school.”
“Hi, Steph. How a
re you this morning?”
“Good, good. I don’t have much time. I’m on a quick break, but I wanted to let you and Matt know that there is someone here at the school asking the principal questions about Susan. He came to my desk wanting to see the principal. I, of course, wanted to know why? As secretary of the school, I can’t just let anyone in for any reason. The kids must be protected. You can’t be too careful these days. He said he was here to inquire about Susan’s death. I called the principal out, and the guy showed him some sort of ID; and the principal invited him into his office and closed the door. That’s all I know except I took a picture of the license plate of the car he parked in the school lot. I can text it to you. Also, he’s a man of color.” This last sentence was whispered.
Julie rolled her eyes. Stephanie Rankin was the town gossip. Totally incorrigible in Julie’s opinion. She wondered how she kept her job as the school’s secretary with all the drama that swirled around the students, parents, and staff that had to be kept confidential: cheating, bullying, domestic violence, rumors of affairs, infighting, backbiting, jealousies—even an occasional theft of school supplies or petty cash. The list was endless, yet somehow Stephanie survived. Probably because of the skinny she had on everybody, thought Julie.
“Thank you, Steph, but that won’t be necessary. I’m sure he will come and see Matt soon,” said Julie.
“Well, just in case he doesn’t, I’ll text you the license plate number anyway; and if I find out who he is, I’ll call you. Have to run now. Bye.”
Julie’s personal smart phone dinged with the text seconds later.
* * *
Callahan glanced up at the telephone message slip clipped to the cruiser’s sun visor and then back at the license plate of the car in front of him. The number Julie had written on the slip matched the midnight blue Hyundai Elantra that had strictly followed the speed limit for the last two miles. Callahan turned on the cruiser’s siren and light bar. The Hyundai pulled over to the shoulder of the road and stopped. Callahan rolled to a stop behind it. He immediately stepped out of the cruiser and walked over to the driver’s side of the car, not bothering to run the plate through the cruiser’s computer first.
The driver lowered his window, and before the glass had disappeared into the door, Callahan saw the startled look on his face. The flesh-colored plastic mask that covered the left side of Callahan’s face triggered a confused surprise in those who saw him for the first time. Revulsion shoved aside surprise in those who spotted the purple mounds of flesh protruding under the edges of the mask and snaking down his neck. Acid thrown from a bottle had burned away half his face and left wounds that would never fully heal.
The driver looked away, and in the few seconds it took him to look back at Callahan, he had recovered his composure. “What’s going on Sheriff? I’ve broken no laws. I wasn’t speeding, the car’s license and registration are current, and I know for a fact my turn signals and brake lights work,” he said.
“I agree,” said Callahan.
“Then what is this, a case of DWB?”
“You mean Driving While Black,” stated Callahan.
“You got it right,” said the driver.
Callahan smiled. “No, it is not. It’s simply a case of curiosity,” said Callahan.
“How so?” asked the driver.
“As to why someone would be interested in a death in my jurisdiction—a death my office is investigating—and not come to see me about it first,” said Callahan.
The driver said nothing.
“I see. Then this is a case of DOS,” said Callahan.
“DOS?” Now it was the driver’s turn to query Callahan about an acronym.
“Distrust of Sheriffs,” answered Callahan.
The driver laughed and shook his head. “My name’s Miles Jackson, and I’m a federal marshal. I saw a diner just down the road. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Maybe we can help each other,” he said.
* * *
The exchange of pleasantries at the diner was at first perfunctory: a handshake, an introduction with a plea to call each other by their first names, a description of the delights of the diner by Callahan, and a nod to the mildness of the weather. But soon they each recognized in the other’s demeanor a common background—they had both been police detectives. That broke the ice.
“So how long were you with the Detroit police, Miles?” asked Callahan.
“Five years. And you with the Chicago Police Department?”
“Fifteen,” answered Callahan.
“So now you’re a sheriff.”
“Yes—long story, but it involved this.” Callahan tapped the plastic prosthetic mask hiding the acid burns that disfigured the left side of his face. “And how about you?”
The waitress came by with a pot of coffee and nodded at the two of them. Miles raised his cup for a refill. When she left, he said, “My story’s not so long. The US Marshals Service was looking for diversity. The Service wanted to recruit me. I said yes. Glad I did. I’m happy where I am now,” answered Jackson.
“So, why’s the US Marshals Service interested in Susan Gibbons?” asked Callahan.
“Her name isn’t Susan Gibbons, and I suspect that most of what you know about her isn’t true.”
Callahan leaned forward and placed his elbows on the Formica table. “This is getting interesting. Please continue,” he said.
“She was in the Witness Security Program. We gave her a deep cover identity and put her on this island because we thought she would never be discovered here. We may have been wrong.”
Callahan slouched back into the seat of the booth. “Why was she in the program?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, the answer begins for her as an all too familiar story. She went to Thailand to teach English right out of college. She was young and beautiful but naïve. She was targeted, seduced, shackled by drugs, and then imprisoned in the high-priced sex trade in human trafficking. But then her story changes. She got smart fast and saw an opportunity when one of the kingpins took a shine to her. She eventually gained his confidence and used him to work her way up in the trade, ultimately helping to run its US connections. Then she escaped. But she’d learned too much. She knew they’d eventually find her, so she came to us for protection. She proved to be a gold mine of information, and we were using her to bring down the organization here in the US”
“You think they found her?” said Callahan.
“Could be. That’s what I’m here to find out,” said Jackson.
Chapter 8
Amanda was transcribing her notes from the interview with Bland for the Gibbons file and wondered how much of her impressions she should include with the facts. Almost from the beginning, the atmosphere in the bunker made her uncomfortable. It was not the physical surroundings, but the atmosphere created by what she saw as a sly, confidential joke between Bland and Abdullah that made her feel both excluded and the joke’s object. It was also the way Bland had introduced Abdullah to her, like a senior would introduce a freshman girl at a college frat party, expecting giddy adulation. And Abdullah’s play on that introduction, especially his last remarks to her as she was leaving the bunker. Were they treating her like that because of her age, the fact that she was female, a contempt of her position as a mere deputy in Podunk, or was it all her imagination? And somehow Remy’s crude remark about Susan Gibbons’ sexual proclivities was intertwined in all of this. For a reason she did not quite understand, she found it abusive; and she was now sorry she had not confronted Remy about it. She was still struggling with these thoughts when Callahan entered the station and walked over to her desk.
“You can stop looking into the background of Susan Gibbons because the one you’re going to find doesn’t exist,” he said.
Amanda looked up, both surprised by his sudden presence and puzzled by his out-of-the-blue statement. “What does that even mean?” she stammered.
Callahan took a deep breath. “Just had coffee with the mystery man from the school. He’s a
federal marshal investigating the death of Susan Gibbons, who isn’t Susan Gibbons but a witness under a false identity in the Witness Security Program, giving the government evidence against a human trafficking outfit. Or, at least, she was a witness.”
It took a moment for Amanda to take this in until the consequences of it hit her. “Damn. That must mean that most of what I’ve found out about her background is useless,” she said.
“Yep, pretty much. Unless you found out she was in the Witness Security Program,” said Callahan.
Amanda shook her head. “Did not do that,” she sighed.
“I guess that’s proof the program works,” teased Callahan.
“What now?” asked Amanda.
“Now we work with Miles Jackson of the US Marshals Service,” said Callahan. “Seems like a nice guy,” he added.
* * *
Callahan was driving along the lower stretch of road that edged the west side of the island. The dust had been tamped down by the spray of a water truck, and the dirt road glistened in scattered pools of reflected sunlight. The summer had been unusually dry, and besides the nuisance of thick plumes of dust from traffic on the web of dirt roads throughout the island, the threat of forest fires was at its height. He was looking for campsites outside designated camping areas, a common cause of fires on the island.
The roadway darkened as Callahan plunged into a long tunnel of trees whose branches arched over the road, and he almost didn’t see the man standing in the middle of the road ahead waving his arms in a signal to stop. Callahan jammed on the brakes and skidded the cruiser onto the shoulder. He powered down the window and shouted, “What the hell are you doing, Sully? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Jack Sullivan jogged over to the cruiser and lowered his head to face Callahan through the opened window. The smell of tobacco and stale sweat wafted into the cruiser.
“Sorry about that, Sheriff. But I didn’t want you to scoot by me. I was just about to call into the station. You’ve got to see this.” Sullivan opened the door to the cruiser and slid into the back seat. “Turn left up the road where it intersects with McCauley’s Way. It’s just a short jaunt on from there.”