“As you can see it’s semi-automatic, but I’ve re-tooled the entire lower receiver and loading system and there’s practically zero possibility of a jam or misfire as long as the ammo is up to snuff.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, she’s my finest work. Want to give her a try?”
“Love to.”
He grabbed eyes and ears for the three of us then handed me a fully loaded magazine and grabbed his spotter’s scope. We all stepped outside and took up residence on a small patio covered in artificial grass. I assumed the prone firing position and sighted in the scope on the most distant target.
“I’m assuming the far target is about a thousand yards,” I said.
“Good guess, though if you click the button on the right side of the scope, it will activate the laser range finder.”
I reached up and clicked the button and saw that it was exactly one thousand yards. I checked the scope’s settings and was happy to see it was already zeroed in for that distance. I glanced at the surrounding grass and figured the wind to be around five MPH from the east. I did a little mental math and adjusted my aim accordingly, so now it was about controlling my breathing and slowing my heart rate. When I could feel the space between each heartbeat, I gently slid my finger over the trigger and waited. Thump, thump, thump, then squeeze, and the rifle went off, and, a split second later, my shot impacted the very edge of the bullseye at the center of the target.
“Pretty nice first shot. Slightly right, and when I say slightly, I mean about a millimeter.”
“Obviously, I’m just a rookie at this.”
“Obviously, you’re full of shit and have done this before.”
I smiled.
“Once upon a time.”
“I looked over and saw Violet staring at me.
“What?” I asked.
“I can’t help but wonder what it is with me and sharp shooters.”
“You’re a hell of a target, obviously.”
I settled back into firing mode, readjusted my aim, and squeezed off another shot, though this one went dead center.”
“Bullseye!” Walther exclaimed excitedly.
I decided to test the semi-automatic action and fired off four more shots in quick succession, and the spread pattern was about an inch, as all landed within the bullseye.
“Sweet mother of God is this fucker smooth,” I said.
“My crowning achievement.”
“That was truly a pleasure.”
We stood up, and I handed Walther his baby back, and we re-entered his main workshop, and he went over and lovingly placed the rifle in its cradle before turning his attention back to us.
“So, anyone thirsty?” he asked.
“Actually, yeah.”
“How about a sparkling water?”
“Love one.”
He went to a small refrigerator and looked inside to find it empty.
“I’ll have to grab some from the kitchen.”
Walther left us, and, as I looked around the room, my eyes fell upon the little test chamber over in the corner. I suddenly had an idea but wondered if I would have enough time. As luck would have it, Walther’s voice came echoing down the hall.
“How about some cheese and crackers?”
“Love some,” I yelled back.
“Are you crazy? We just ate like pigs!” Violet whispered.
“I know, but I’m trying to by us a little time.”
I raced over to the test-fire chamber and opened its access door to see it was filled with ballistics gel that contained a number of rounds. I grabbed a screwdriver off the shelf and started digging, and Violet realized what I was trying to do and took up residence by the hallway and watched for our host. I managed to get all but one round out, and we could hear that Walther was about to leave the kitchen. Violet told me to get my hand out of the chamber, but I struggled to push the screwdriver deeper—all the while doing my best not to mar the bullet. I finally dug a deep enough channel and was struggling to reach it, when I heard Walther’s footsteps coming closer. Violet again told me to get the hell away from the chamber, but I was so close that I decided to continue on, and beads of perspiration formed on my forehead. I finally managed to get my fingertips on the bullet, and I snatched it up and slipped it and the others into my pocket and quickly stood up beside Violet and tried my best to look as innocent as I could. At that very moment, Walther came walking in carrying a tray with cheese, crackers, and three mineral waters.
“You look a little parched,” he said.
“It’s this hot Hawaiian weather.”
“Indeed, so what say we take our little picnic outside, so we can have a little fresh air and a nice view.”
“Lovely,” I said.”
“We exited out a side door and stepped out onto a little lanai that looked over the range, and it fortunately had a table and chairs and several tall palm trees that provided plenty of shade. Everyone took a seat, then Walther passed us each a bottle of sparkling water, and I took a sip and turned my attention to the cheese platter. Fuck, the thought of eating was almost making me feel sick to my stomach.
“I don’t get a lot of opportunity to entertain these days, so dig in! No need to be polite,” Walther said.
I was as full as a tick, but I figured I should partake just to be polite. To that end, I grabbed a cracker and spread on what appeared to be some kind of chèvre goat cheese. It was pretty tasty in spite of the fact that I’d never felt less hungry, but I forced it down with a sip of mineral water. Sweet Lord, what in the hell had I gotten myself into? Fucking Violet and her pulled pork sandwiches.
“Oh, Violet, you have to try the cheese. It’s delicious!” I said.
“Here, let me make you one,” Walther said, as he piled a shitload of cheese on a cracker before handing it to Violet.
She took it and placed it in her mouth and smiled at Walther before giving me an icy glare. As a show of solidarity, I ate another one, and this cycle of tortuous eating continued, though, while Violet and I were forcing it all down, Walther was actually hungry and therefore happy to be eating. But, the more he ate, the more talkative he became, which was a very natural response, as digestion released chemicals in the brain that stimulated memory. That, in turn, stimulated conversation, and, Walther, after having consumed half a bowl of goat cheese and countless crackers, was literally chatting like a magpie and recounting endless stories from his past.
“Did you know I was in Vietnam?” he asked.
“Yeah, it was in your file, and it also said that you in were Special Forces.”
“Yeah, I was in an A-Team.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t anything like the television show.”
He smiled.
“No, it wasn’t. We didn’t have a tricked out van, and our plans rarely came together. It was just us, the jungle, and the Viet Cong.”
“All combat tours suck, but I suspect Vietnam sucked even more.”
“Yes it did. I take it you were also in the service.”
“Yeah, once upon a time I was a Parajumper and served all over the world but finished up in Afghanistan.”
“That probably would have sucked equally.”
“Yeah, conflict is a motherfucker.”
“Indeed, so when I got out, I returned to the only thing that made sense to me. Weapons.”
“I believe it was the family business?”
“Yeah, it was taught to me by my father. He originally worked for SIG before emigrating to the States, where he opened up his own shop.”
“SIG, or SIG Sauer as it came to be known, was a subsidiary of L&O Holding, and they had been around since the mid eighteen hundreds and were extremely capable at designing and building firearms. The odds were therefore pretty good that Walther’s father was a master gunsmith, which in turn meant that Walther was also very likely a master gunsmith, though that was pretty obvious having just fired his magnificent rifle. It also stood to reason that Walther’s extensive background and o
bvious skill meant there was very little doubt that he was also the person who built the silencer for Jessica’s Beretta.
“And that’s how you learned your craft?”
“Primarily, though I also have a masters degree in mechanical engineering and a PhD in metallurgy from Texas Tech that certainly helped.”
“Yeah, both of those would certainly help.”
“So, Tag, what did you do after you left the service.”
“I worked with another branch for a bit.”
Walther smiled knowingly.
“Yeah, I suspect we might have had the same boss.”
Now it was my turn to smile.
“Yeah, and he can be a real asshole.”
“Yes, indeed. So, have you managed to find a normal life after leaving government service?”
I thought for a moment and noticed Violet waiting for my answer.
“I’m still working on it. How about you?”
“I did—eventually—when I met a wonderful woman, married her, and moved to Hawaii. Unfortunately she passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but we had a good life together while it lasted.”
“Have you gotten back in the saddle and met any nice women since then?” I asked.
“I have actually, and she lives over that ridge and owns the second most remote ranch on the island.”
“And only a mountain to keep you apart.”
He laughed.
“Most days, I actually jog over to her place.”
I looked at the mountain then back at Walther and realized that he did indeed have the physique of a runner. He was lean but had well defined sinewy muscles, and it made sense he had been in Special Forces, as they liked their people smart and fit.
“So, you’re a private investigator now. How did that come about?” he asked me.
“Well, I decided that I wanted a quiet life, so I returned to Northern California and became a private investigator.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It can be on occasion.”
“Like now.”
“Pretty much.”
We sat and talked for a bit longer, then we told Walther we needed to get going, and he led us out to our car then stood at the window.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“I understand, but I think you should know that people connected with this investigation are dying at an alarming rate—and not by natural causes, so I suggest you be very careful.”
“Thank you, I will. I’ve managed to survive this long, so I figure I can squeeze a few more years out of this life.”
“I certainly hope so.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Return to Nerd Island
WE BACKED OUT, turned around, and began the trek out of Walther Zeibt’s lovely ranch. Seven minutes later, we were back on the main road, and ten minutes after that, we were on the H2 heading south. My iPhone rang, and I looked down to see that Frank was calling, so I hit the hands-free answer button on the Suburban’s steering wheel.
“Finn here,” I said.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Pretty good. No one’s tried to kill us yet today.”
“That’s good news.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, we’re on for the barbecue, and everyone who is anyone is coming. Do you have a pair of eighties jogging shorts and a Hawaiian shirt you can wear?”
“I do, and I’ve grown a hell of a mustache.”
“Excellent, how does five o’clock sound?”
“Perfect, we’ll see you then.”
I hit the end button and looked at Violet.
“Finally, I get to see the fictitious home of my television alter ego.”
“What should we do in the meantime?” she asked.
“We need to go to the Police lab to get these bullets examined.”
“You know that they were acquired illegally and are therefore inadmissible as evidence?”
“I do, but I just want to find out if Walther is officially our guy. If so, he may very well be our last and only remaining lead.”
“Yeah, but you heard what he said. His life depends upon his discretion.”
“I know, but I think if it comes down to it, he’ll eventually give up his client’s name for the greater good.”
“Maybe.”
“He seems like a good guy in spite of his unusual profession.”
“He does, but he probably works on a lot of guns, which means those bullets are a real long shot—so to speak.”
“The silencer would have likely been fabricated within the last week, so I’m hoping he hasn’t had a lot of projects in the meantime.”
Twenty minutes later we pulled into a nice shady parking space in front of the Honolulu Police department, and we stepped out to see the entirety of the forensics department all carrying cups of Starbucks coffee as they arrived at the police station entrance. Obviously, they had all been on a break, and Velma, upon seeing us, smiled and stopped.
“Oh, hello, Finn and Agent Kalili,” she said.
“Hello, sexy temptress of the Honolulu Police nerd contingent. How are things in the lab?” I asked.
“Good, how’s your case coming along? Have you discredited us yet?”
“No, but I’m working on it.”
“Wonderful, so, what brings you by?”
“I have some bullets I’d like Bert to check out.”
Bert stepped forward and looked excited.
“Cool! Come on in, and I’ll take a look!” he said.
We followed the herd of nerds inside and left the afternoon heat and headed down to the cool temperate recesses of the basement. The nerds fanned out to their various stations, and we followed Bert back to his desk, and I handed him the bullets.
“So, what have we got here?”
“Some bullets we’ve come across, and I’m hoping one of them will be a match to Jessica’s gun.”
“Oh, can you tell me where you found them?”
“Sorry, not yet. Unfortunately, due to recent events, we need to keep our investigation on the extreme down low.”
“I see—well let’s go ahead and have a look,” he said, enthusiastically.
He placed each bullet in his microscope and took multiple pictures before transferring the images to his computer, at which point he started comparing the results and hit the jackpot on number three.
“We have a match!” he said.
“Hot fucking tamales!” I blurted out.
“Here, take a look,” he said, pointing at his screen.
The two bullets were side by side, and the marks from the barrel lined up perfectly, which meant I had indeed found my gunsmith, and, in turn, a solid lead.
“So, you really can’t tell me where you found these?”
“No, but I can say that they were in a gunsmith’s test-fire chamber.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, so now I know who built the silencer.”
Just then, Alan Kamakana, the chief detective on the case, strolled in.
“I heard you were here, and I was hoping to talk,” he said.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
“I heard that two people related to this case have died.”
“I believe the word killed would be more accurate.”
“Meaning?”
“The first was run down and killed right in front of us.”
“Yeah, but I hear the spear fisherman drowned.”
“So it appears, but he spent his entire life in the ocean, so why would he drown now? It’s not a stretch to think he was probably killed because of his part in this conspiracy.”
“Yeah, and to that end—who, other than the vice president of the United States and his fiancée, would have the means to perpetrate something like this.”
“Come on, detective, you know as well as I that a man about to run for president wouldn’t have anything to do with all this.�
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“Or perhaps he would, as he obviously has a lot to gain.”
“Maybe a typical sociopathic narcissistic politician, but not John Matheson or his bride to be.”
“Well, you’re still going to need to find something more conclusive to get your lady friend off the hook.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting harder with all my leads dying.”
We stood there a moment, and Alan turned his gaze to the screen.
“You still going over the ballistics?” he asked.
Bert was about to answer, but I interrupted.
“Yeah, I had a few more questions for Bert.”
Bert glanced at me, unsure what to say, but he thankfully remained quiet. Considering how things were going, I figured it was prudent not to give out any more information than necessary.
“So, the guy hit by the car. What was his story?” Alan asked.
“His name, as you probably already know was Rudy Rafael, and, interestingly, he was seen talking to Jessica Thurman in the bar on the night of the murder, and, according to the bartender at the resort, he is known as Roofie Rudy because of his proclivity for dosing women’s cocktails.”
“Hmmm—that is interesting.”
“Yeah, but too bad he and my other lead are both dead.”
“People around you have an odd habit of dying, so, do me a favor, Finn, and don’t visit me unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“No problem. I won’t bug you until I have some really important news—such as the name of the real killer.”
Alan Kamakana left, and we were again alone with Bert.
“Any reason that you didn’t tell him about the gunsmith?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m trying to keep my last lead alive.”
Bert thought for a moment then looked a bit apprehensive.
“Shit, does this mean I might be next?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, Bert. You’re safe, as you’re inadvertently working in the interests of the powers of evil at the moment.”
“How reassuring.”
“Well, thank you for your time. Now, we’re off to see Velma.”
He laughed as Violet and I exited his office and walked a short distance to find Velma at the water cooler.
“Large coffee and now water? You’re going to be peeing like a racehorse.”
The Poi Predicament Page 22