A Dangerous Identity

by Russell Fee

  Amanda gave him a quizzical look.

  “A place of drunken revelry,” he said.

  Her look changed to one of skepticism.

  Chapter 26

  The bent man had registered at the hotel under the name of Tre Howard. He had paid cash for the room and shown a driver’s license as an ID. Neither the name nor the driver’s license belonged to him. Both had been skillfully manufactured to pass even the closest scrutiny, as had his several passports. To anyone who had a need to inquire, he was an American citizen and a resident of the state of Illinois. In fact, he was neither.

  He had gone to the Arranmore Pub because he knew Callahan would be there. He had wanted his first encounter with the local sheriff to be in a public place when he was off duty and his guard would be down. He had learned in that encounter that Callahan was never off duty and that he had the instincts of a seasoned lawman. Callahan had sensed when he was being observed and that the bent man’s scrutiny was more than a prurient curiosity about his face and mask. He had acted upon his instincts in approaching and appraising the bent man. The observer had become the observed. The bent man was now certain that he had to be very, very careful of Callahan.

  Chapter 27

  The first evidence of the oil leak appeared as a mysterious coating on the sand and rocks of the beaches on the northeast tip of the island. Owners of the summer homes above the beaches also noticed a sheen on the water of the lake when it was calm. At first, they assumed it was some noxious discharge from one of the passing freighters. Then the news broke in the mainland media. An oil pipeline spanning the Straits of Mackinac along the floor of Lake Michigan had ruptured. It had been built in the early 1950’s to bring oil from Canada to the refineries in Detroit and placed in the storm swept waters between Lake Michigan and Lake Huron. Inconspicuous, invisible, and silently operated by its owner, Peninsula Point Oil and Gas, its existence long ago erased from public memory. But not from the memory of the governor of Michigan. Empowered to shut the pipeline down by the same Michigan law that had approved it, he had refused to do so and was now defining the rupture as a minor spill that would be quickly repaired. But the specter of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill still loomed large in the public’s mind, and many of the forty million people who depended on Lake Michigan for their drinking water were beginning to get nervous.

  And so was O’Donnell. He pressed the remote’s power button, and the TV news channel vanished in a blink. He picked up his cell phone and dialed the sheriff’s office. Julie answered the phone.

  “Hi Julie, it’s Collin. Is Matt there?”

  “You’re in luck. He just finished another call. I’ll connect you,” she said, and after a short wait, Callahan answered.

  “Matt, I just watched the news for an update on that oil spill. It’s worse than they originally suspected. The rupture’s not under control, and they’re reporting that the volume of the discharge is massive.” O’Donnell paused for a moment and then continued. “If the bulk of that oil reaches our beaches, all hell’s going to break loose.”

  “If anyone should worry about their shoreline, it’s the people on Mackinac Island. The prevailing winds will take the spill in their direction, not ours,” said Callahan.

  O’Donnell detected a note of exasperation in Callahan’s voice. He knew Callahan thought he was an alarmist, but he felt he was right this time about the island’s reaction to the spill. “The winds shift. They do that here, you know. And besides, the oil doesn’t have to flow in this direction for there to be trouble. The island is already in an uproar about the brine used on the roads and the drilling on Tom Egan’s land. This will just add fuel to the flames. And not to be crass but elections are not that far off, and I want to keep this job. So do you,” he said.

  “Well, consider this: if things get bad enough for the governor to declare the oil spill a disaster, just think of the federal relief funds that could become available to the island,” said Callahan.

  “Hmmm,” muttered O’Donnell.

  “Would this be a good time to ask for another deputy?” said Callahan.

  “A choice expletive would be appropriate, but I won’t use it,” said O’Donnell and hung up.

  Chapter 28

  Callahan and Amanda were at the emergency medical center finishing their training in identifying opioid overdoses and administering the antidote naloxone when they received the call from Julie about a possible break-in at Susan Gibbon’s cottage. Ben McIntyre was waiting for them on the front deck when they arrived. He hurried over to the cruiser as they got out.

  “Come around back,” he said and began leading them along a dirt path to the rear. “Today’s the day I check the vacant rental properties,” he called over his shoulder. “Soon as I came around back here, I saw this.” He stopped and pointed to the back door. One of the glass panels was shattered. “I called the station right away. I didn’t go in or touch anything. Thought it best I didn’t.”

  “You did the right thing,” said Callahan.

  “Been here since I called the station. Doesn’t appear anyone is still inside the house if it’s a break-in. I didn’t see any movement inside,” McIntyre added.

  Callahan put on his latex gloves and turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked. “You wait outside while Amanda and I check the cottage,” he said to McIntyre and then pushed open the door and stepped over the pieces of broken glass on the floor. “Careful of these,” he said to Amanda who was right behind him.

  At first glance, the interior of the cottage showed no signs of an intrusion and no evidence of ransacking or wild partying. Sometimes teens would pick a vacant rental property to drink and party in. Nothing appeared out of place, no up-turned cushions, no open cabinets or drawers, no empty bottles scattered about the floor.

  “I’ll look in the bedroom,” said Callahan. “You check the kitchen. See if anyone’s been staying here and cooked or used the plates and silverware.”

  The bedroom looked the same as when he and Jackson had been in the cottage. The bed was still made, and nothing appeared to have been disturbed. He left the bedroom and climbed the stairs to the loft.

  “How you doin’ down there?” he called to Amanda.

  “No dirty dishes, open cans, or empty cereal boxes. Even the garbage can is empty. I’ll go over the living room again,” she called back.

  Callahan surveyed the loft. None of the pictures seemed to be missing. All were where he had remembered them, including the painting of the trilliums that had so intrigued him. He picked it up and turned it over. The multi-folded note that he had reaffixed to the frame was still there. But it was not adhered with the original tape that he had reused. Instead, it had been folded only once and inserted between the canvas and the frame.

  * * *

  After McIntyre left, Callahan waited in the cruiser while Amanda finished dusting the door knob and surrounding area for fingerprints. She had already pulled out the small splinters of glass that remained in the glazing bars around the pane. She would check them for blood when they returned to the station. Callahan was now determined to find out who had been in that cottage.

  Chapter 29

  Callahan needed Remy in a good mood. He wanted him relaxed and receptive. Experience had taught Callahan that the way to lure Remy away from his busy schedule as the island’s doctor and county medical examiner was with a good lunch courtesy of the county. The bait was a table at the posh Brunswick Inn with a view across the strait to Paradise Island. The hook was a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc accompanying the whitefish almandine. Remy held his head back until the drop of wine slid down to his lips, and then he wobbled the empty glass over the table as a signal to Callahan for a refill.

  “I know you don’t want to sleep with me, Matt, so what’s this all about?” he said as Callahan poured.

  “I appreciate all you do for the county and for my office,” said Callahan. “I just don’t express that appreciation as often as I should.”

  “Well, this is awfull
y nice of you. I didn’t mean to be cynical.” Remy paused. “Still, what is it you want?”

  “Okay,” said Callahan, throwing up his hands in a surrender of all pretense. “Your good company should be enough, but there is something I want to run by you.”

  “This excellent wine has bought you my attentive ear at least. Shoot,” said Remy.

  “It’s Susan Gibbons,” said Callahan.

  “I thought it might be,” said Remy.

  “I’m investigating her death.”

  “Why? She died in a boating accident,” said Remy.

  “I’ve reason to believe her death may not have been an accident,” said Callahan.

  “How strong a reason?” asked Remy.

  “A strong suspicion,” answered Callahan.

  “In other words, no reason at all,” said Remy.

  Callahan ignored his comment and got right to the point of their meeting. “If her death was declared a homicide, I’d have a legitimate reason to go deeper into this. I could subpoena evidence, get search warrants, detain and question suspects or persons of interest, even—”

  Remy cut Callahan off. “You can’t be serious. Are you asking me to declare her death a homicide? You know I can’t do that. Not based on the autopsy I performed.”

  “No wait. Hear me out,” pleaded Callahan. “All I’m asking is that you take another look. You found that plastic in her wounds. Maybe there’s something else her body can tell us.”

  Before Remy could respond, the waiter arrived with their entrees. “Enjoy your meal,” he said as he glided Remy’s plate to the table.

  But it wasn’t just a plate. It was a china canvas containing a work of culinary art. The whitefish gleamed under a golden crust cradling a wreath of shaved almonds shrouded in a burgundy mist of paprika. The vegetables formed a balance of complimentary colors and textures which surrounded the fish and gave it an aura of succulence. And it smelled delicious.

  “Ah,” said Remy. “Presentation is everything. If this fish tastes as good as it looks, I may give your request serious consideration.”

  Chapter 30

  Max held a pebble in his hand and stared down into the shallow pool of black water. He’d discovered the pool the last time he and the dog walked on the beach. Today, he came straight to it when Julie had dropped them off while she shopped. He loved to stroll the beach with the dog in the late afternoon when everyone had left for the day. He felt the beach was his special place then, and now it was even more special since he had found the pool. He was glad he could visit the beach again. For a while he couldn’t. Something had happened, and Callahan had said no one could go on the beach until he said so.

  Max raised his arm and held it over the pool a moment before he opened his hand and dropped the pebble. The instant it hit the water, a black cloak of resting tadpoles exploded, sending hundreds of the tailed amphibians skittering and wiggling over the bottom in every direction. Max laughed, and the dog ran over to him, circling the pool once before it ran off again. Max turned away from the pool and began following the dog down the sand.

  As he walked, Max noticed a man come through the grass and onto the beach between him and the dog. The man appeared to be searching for something, looking down at the sand. Max became worried. This was his beach now. He was the one who was supposed to find things, not someone else. Max stopped, uncertain about what to do. The man looked up and saw him. Then he began walking toward him. Max didn’t recognize the man and wondered if he should leave, but stood until the man reached him.

  “Hi,” said the man.

  “Hi,” said Max.

  The man smiled. “You come here often?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” said Max.

  “Do you find things on the beach? I like to do that too,” said the man.

  “Yes,” said Max.

  “What kind of things do you find?” said the man.

  “Things,” said Max.

  “Of course,” said the man. “Me too. What do you do with them?”

  “I hide them,” said Max.

  “Really? I like to hide things too. Where do you hide your things?” asked the man.

  Before Max could answer, the dog ran to his side. It bared its teeth and began to growl.

  “He doesn’t seem very friendly,” said the man.

  “He’s my friend,” said Max, emphasizing my.

  The dog started to bark and snarl, and the man stepped back. “Well, it was nice to find another explorer. Maybe we’ll meet again,” he said and turned and walked away.

  Max watched him as he lumbered through the sand, head down, as if still searching for something.

  * * *

  When Julie and Max returned to the house, Max ran straight to his room and shut the door. He waited until he could hear his mother opening and shutting the kitchen cabinets as she put away the groceries. He then went into his closet and removed a piece of the floor molding exposing a gap between the wall and the floor. The gap was high enough to reach his hand through and big enough for hiding behind the wall all the treasures he found on the beach. There were the bleached skulls of birds, beautifully colored feathers, a gold ring, lightening glass, coins, smooth stones with perfect holes bored through the middle, and now this. He slid it from behind the wall and held it in his hands. He studied the words on it. He couldn’t read them all, but knew if he could, they would tell him what it was. He didn’t dare ask anyone for help. Then they would know about his treasure and might take it away. It had happened to him before, especially when he was younger. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

  Chapter 31

  Not long after Nick’s arrival at the university’s biological and environmental station, he had begun campaigning for a secured system for the input, retrieval, and exchange of data and communications within the facility. To call it a campaign was being diplomatic. It was a war, a series of battles that nearly jeopardized his fledgling employment and his relationships with his bosses. The opposition to what he viewed as critical was an armory of competing economic priorities, ignorance, and arrogance—arrogance being the primary weapon. Oddly, he found that scientists were the ones most adverse to new technology foreign to their area of expertise. It took enormous effort to convince them that cyber security was a crucial element of their research. He had emerged from the conflict bloodied but victorious. Sort of. He hadn’t been given all the funds he wanted, but they, plus the skills he had acquired at the NSA, proved to be enough to protect the site.

  Now, he was engaged in another battle, defending their system against a persistent hacker. It proved easy compared to what he had combatted at the NSA. He was even able to trace the origin of the hacking—the IP address of a government computer in Lansing, Michigan.

  * * *

  Nick sat across the desk from Artem Zakaryan, the head of the university’s biological and environmental station. Lou Simon filled the third chair in Zakaryan’s small office. He was the second most senior staff member of the institution next to Zakaryan and Nick’s immediate boss.

  Nick still felt uncomfortable around Professor Zakaryan. Unimpressive physically with a voice raised barely above a whisper, Zakaryan had the habit of pausing a moment too long before responding to what anyone said to him. This, combined with a long-ago bout of Bell’s palsy that permanently tweaked his face with a slight sardonic smile, gave everyone the sense that they were being intensely judged. Zakaryan was aware of this but did nothing to dispel anyone’s discomfort. Nick had been forewarned of Zakaryan’s idiosyncrasy and advised to ignore it, but he had trouble heeding the warning. Zakaryan stared at him, smiling.

  “So, someone is hacking us,” he finally said.

  “No. Someone is trying to hack us. So far, they’ve been unsuccessful,” said Nick. “At least presently,” he added. “I’m not certain yet what may have occurred before I installed our new security system.”

  “Then this may have been going on for a while?” Simon had let Zakaryan ask all the questions up to
this point.

  “That’s definitely possible,” answered Nick.

  “And you believe it’s someone connected with the government in Lansing?” said Zakaryan in a way that sounded to Nick like an indictment of his conclusions rather than a question. He resisted the urge to be defensive.

  “A government computer is being used. I’m certain of that,” said Nick.

  “Can you tell what they’re after?” asked Simon.

  Nick was waiting for this question and hoping to use the answer to reveal subtly his counterintelligence expertise. “Whoever is doing this is very skillful but not what I’d consider a professional,” he said. “They’ve left a trail that I was able to uncover. They’re interested in our upcoming Ecological Evaluation of Lake Michigan Shoreline Tracts and the data that was used to make our evaluations for the report.”

  “What?” said Simon. “That report will be publicly published next month. It contains the data we used and our research methods and results. There’s nothing confidential about it.” Simon shook his head, perplexed, then looked at Zakaryan for his reaction.

  Zakaryan emitted a quick laugh. “I’m flattered that someone is interested in our work,” he said to Simon. Then he added, “We have to assume that we have something that someone in Lansing wants to know about before that report is published. We just have to figure out what it is and who wants to know.”

  Zakaryan turned to Nick and stared at him. When he remained silent, Nick instinctively looked at Simon who shrugged.

  “Good work,” Zakaryan finally said. “Keep at it.”

  Chapter 32

  Jackson decided to jog in the mornings. He needed exercise, and he wanted to keep his mind clear and his emotions on an even keel. The owner of the small beach-side hotel where he stayed recommended a trail through the woods that paralleled the shoreline for two miles and then jutted inland for another mile to Bartlett Lake. A six-mile circuit was perfect.