by Wolf Riedel
Mark sensed a mild rebuke in the comment.
“Must be nice to be able to sleep in like that,” said Anderson.
Not so mild.
“We’ve found,” said Mark, “that when you’re organized you can get your work done during normal working hours and don’t have to show up early.”
Anderson laughed.
“Coming in early has its benefits when you get paid overtime,” he said. “Anyway, Wayne thought we should give you a quick call. Our guys finally got a usable print out of the Lewis car. Got an IAFIS hit on a guy out of Tampa that’s been run in a couple of times for pimping. Guy by the name of Adolfo Herrera. Manages a bar in the Beach Park area of Tampa.”
“Man! I thought that everything would be burned up in that.”
“What can I say. We either got really shit-hot crime scene techs or every once in a while the Good Luck Fairy throws one your way. We got lucky but it took a while.”
“You guys getting Tampa PD on him?”
“Yes and no,” said Anderson. “Seems our boy Adolfo got himself a little dead two nights ago. Him and one of his putas in his suite above the bar.”
“Tampa PD homicide on it?”
“Yup. Spoke to them this morning. They do overtime too. Some broad named something-or-other Baumgartner.”
“Sage, Detective Sage Baumgartner,” said Mark.
“That’s it, Sage,” said Anderson. “You know her?”
“Yeah. She killed someone once before he could kill me.”
A pause.
“You kiddin’?”
“Nope,” said Mark. “She’s a bad ass. A good cop and a friend.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
“Didn’t think you did. Anything on this Herrera guy yet?”
“Not much. Baumgartner said that they pulled an all-nighter on this one and just confirmed that our boy was MQ-27.”
“MQ-27?”
“Yeah,” said Anderson. “That mean anything to you guys?”
“It could,” Mark replied. “We’ve been talking to Tampa’s drugs and gangs guys and they believe there’s a turf war going on between MQ-27 and an as yet unidentified gang over, amongst other things, automatic weapons. Tell Wayne that you guys and Dunn over at Marion County should meet with Baumgartner. This sounds like the best lead we’ve had so far.”
“You guys want to be in on that meeting?”
“Not sure if we got time,” Mark said. “Sal and I are heading out to New Orleans and Mexico to see if we can nail down more on this unknown gang. We may not have time. Send me a text or email once you’ve nailed down the details and we’ll let you know.”
“New Orleans?” said Anderson. “Hell, that’s better than overtime any day of the week. Geez. You guys get to sleep in and get nice trips too.”
“Livin’ the life, man,” said Mark. “It’s not just a job; it’s an adventure.”
“Wasn’t that a Navy slogan?”
“What can I say? Hooah didn’t really seem to cut it.”
A quick call to Sal had set matters in motion. Sal and Tony DiAngelo were waiting for Mark in the corridor at the door to his office when he arrived just after eight.
“Sage is on standby waiting for us to call her on her cell,” said Sal handing Mark a slip of paper. Mark took it as he strode past them and sat down behind his desk. Sal and Tony followed him in, closed the door behind them and took the two chairs facing the desk.
Mark engaged the speaker on his phone and punched in Sage’s number. The phone rang three times before she answered.
“Baumgartner,” she said.
“Hi Sage, It’s Mark. You free to talk?”
“Give me a sec. . . . Yeah, I’m good, just needed to get away from some noisy people. What’s up? Sal said we needed to speak in a hurry.”
“Did Anderson or anyone from Ocala PD call you back in the last half hour.”
“Nadie,” she replied.
“Shit!” Mark scowled. “I told him to get in touch with you to set up something with you and them and the Marion County Sheriff’s office.”
“What’s up?” she asked. “Something new on this Herrera guy that I spoke to Anderson about earlier today?”
“Yeah. How much did he tell you?”
“Nothing really,” she said. “He was talking to someone else in the office trying to get a current address on Herrera and was directed to me. I confirmed with him that Herrera was dead and that we just connected him with MQ-27. That’s it.”
“I think that there’s a lot more to this than that. Did he tell you why they needed to speak to Herrera?”
“Nah,” she said. “This was like a thirty second call, Mark.”
“They found Herrera’s print in the Lewis car, the one that was taken from our murder scene and in whose trunk the girls were for a while.”
Sage made the connection immediately. “So you want me to work with Ocala on their case?” she asked.
On the phone Sage couldn’t see Mark’s jaw tightly clenched nor his eyes staring up at the ceiling.
“Mark? You still there?”
“Yup,” he answered. “Just trying to put my thoughts in order.”
He paused another few seconds.
“The way I see it,” he said, “is that this case is about Tampa. The fact that the Lewises were killed in Ocala is purely serendipitous.”
“Serendipitous?” she asked. “Isn’t that a big word for an Army guy?”
Across from Mark, Sal was trying to smother a grin.
“We have our moments,” Mark said.
“The way I figure it,” he continued, “is that this whole thing turns around that war between MQ-27 and that unknown gang that Platt told us about. Our theory is that Lewis was part of that gang and that they’re selling weapons to the Los Zumas. Herrera, being from MQ-27, probably took Lewis out. That would fit.”
“So who took out Herrera?” she asked.
“Probably payback from Lewis’s pals,” offered Tony.
“Or maybe someone inside MQ-27 not happy with the way things went,” Sal threw in.
“Or maybe it’s just someone that didn’t like the quality of the whiskey or whores he was getting at Herrera’s bar,” said Sage. “It’s all pure speculation.”
“Yeah,” said Mark. “But it’s a lot more speculation than we had yesterday. More important is that this may be the only lead we have to finding the missing Lewis girl.”
“Crap,” said Sage. “I’d forgotten all about her.”
“You asked me before if I wanted you to work with Ocala on their case,” said Mark. “I think what I really want you to do is to co-opt Ocala’s case. For the sake of argument let’s take it as a given that MQ-27 in general, and Herrera in particular, killed the Lewises and kidnapped the girls. MQ-27 and Herrera worked in Tampa; the unknown gang that Lewis probably belonged to is in Tampa; and for all we know Megan Lewis is in Tampa.”
“The murders and abductions were in Ocala, Mark,” she said. “Your theory has an awful lot riding on one fingerprint.”
“Yeah, Sage. I know. And I’m happy to let Ocala keep going with whatever they have. Jim, Carlie and Emma Lewis are dead and there’s nothing I can do about that. For me what’s important is that the focus be on finding Megan and the unknown gang that’s at war with MQ-27. That’s all in Tampa. You’ve got a murder there, you’ve got your gangs and guns guys there not to mention that you’ve got a whole lot more resources than Ocala. On top of that my undercovers and those from the Air Force are already working the gang angle. If we grab those aspects of the case by the balls then the solution to the murders in Ocala will probably shake out all on their own.”
“So you want me to tell Ocala and Marion County we’re taking the lead here? Why don’t you do that?”
“Geez, I’d love to but Sal and I are flying to New Orleans and to Mexico tomorrow,” Mark said smiling at Sal and Tony. “We’re trying to track down connections for our no-name gang.”
“Must
be nice.”
“Seriously, Sage,” said Mark. “It’s not so much that I want you to tell Ocala or Marion that you’re taking the lead. What we really need is a point of central contact, coordination and management to keep all the moving parts together. I was hoping that with what we’ve got here and what with this Herrera thing that you’ve got going that your department and you in particular would be where everything comes together. Besides I know that your substantial talents for southern sweet-talking would go a long way to getting them on board.”
“You want a Tampa-based task force.”
“Yup. Built up on top of the one that we’re already running on the drugs and gangs stuff.”
“When are you leaving for New Orleans or Mexico or whatever?” she asked.
Mark looked over to Sal with raised eyebrows.
“Southwest at 1350 tomorrow,” said Sal.
There was a pause on the line.
“I’ll talk this over with Platt and a few of the folks here and let you know. One of us might join you on your road trip if we can find it in the budget.”
CHAPTER 29
DFAC, Kandahar AF, Afghanistan
Tuesday 13 Mar 2007 1830 hrs AFT
Kurt walked into the main DFAC’s seating area and let his gaze wander around. Their travel plans had changed. Rather than choppering to LAGMAN today, they would spend additional time in Kandahar before going out by road.
The main supper-hour rush seemed to be over but he could see clumps of soldiers of various nationalities still scattered around the tented spaces. He finally found Shirazi and O’Donnell sitting off to the side, amongst a group of men who were mostly in beards and mostly in mismatched uniforms. Kurt pegged them as Special Forces from TF 31 sharing war stories with O’Donnell. Shirazi gave Kurt a small wave.
Kurt casually waved back, made his way to the coffee urns for a cup, and then picked his way over to the group.
“Feeling better, Sir?” asked Shirazi.
Kurt nodded and took an empty seat next to his sergeant major. It had been three hours since they landed and he’d made his way to his assigned barrack hut where he had racked out immediately. He actually was feeling better. Over-and-above the steady stream of Tylenol Severe Cold capsules he had taken an extra snort of Otrivin Nasal Decongestant spray. He knew he was over-medicating and risking rebound congestion but relief was relief and at the moment he was feeling a hundred percent better.
O’Donnell made quick introductions all around but it was obvious that the team there wasn’t too comfortable in the presence of an officer, a foreign colonel at that, and quickly made their excuses and drifted off.
As they were leaving, O’Donnell gave Kurt a sideways glance and hooked his eyes in the direction of the departing team. Kurt replied with a shallow nod and O’Donnell also left to follow the team out.
Shirazi, now alone with Kurt, watched them go.
“They were talking nicely until you showed up,” he said.
“My wife used to tell me that I can kill a party just by walking into the room,” Kurt replied deadpan. “I guess I’ve just got that effect on people.”
“Yeah, well they’re a tight group and weren’t too open with me either,” said Shirazi. “O’Donnell knew a couple of them and I think he’ll get further with them now that the big bad Canadians are gone.”
They sipped their coffees in silence for a minute.
“You gotta eat too” said Shirazi pointing at Kurt’s coffee cup. “Feed a cold, feed a fever.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that saying goes,” said Kurt.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve gotta eat. You’ve gone the whole day without food and you’ll keel over on me if you don’t. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to carry you over to the Role 3.” The Canadian run, but internationally staffed, Role 3 Multinational Medical Unit was just up the road a bit.
Kurt gave in.
“Yeah. I will,” he said but didn’t get out of his chair. “I meet with commander TF 31 in an hour. I’ll grab something before then.”
“Am I invited?” asked Shirazi.
“Nope, neither you nor O’Donnell. I need this frank and, for the time being, off the record. Do you have other plans for this evening?”
“Yeah. If there’s nothing else I’ll go over to 2 RCR’s lines and see if any of my old friends are there.
Kurt sat back in his chair.
“What do you think of the RCR?” he asked.
“The chicken fuckers? Good guys. There were a few of them with us at Dwyer Hill,” he said.
The origin of the Royal Canadian Regiment’s detested nickname had slowly become lost in history. It may have been the unit’s notoriety for stealing chickens when they were encamped at Bloemfontein in South Africa in 1900 or the white feather hackles worn by the unit’s reserve force 4th Battalion behind their cap badges during the later part of the 20th Century in honor of the battalion’s fusilier heritage. In any event, the linkage to sexual congress with fowl and the the allegation that RCR really stood for Run Chicken! Run! had been the cause of uncountable punch-outs in the Junior Ranks Club in Petawawa.
Shirazi suspicion was aroused.
“Why do you ask?” he said.
“I’ve been asking around about you,” Kurt said. “About where you stand as far as promotion goes.”
“I haven’t been looking for it,” Shirazi replied.
“Yeah, well, I have,” said Kurt. “Your performance evaluation scores have been outstanding but . . . well I’ve spoken to the Van Doos’ Colonel and he’s put it quite plainly that your time with JTF2, while interesting as he put it, won’t get you promoted. You’ll need to fill a company sergeant major’s slot in a line battalion first.”
Shirazi held his peace. He’d been away from the R22eR—the French-Canadian Royal vingt-deuxième Regiment; the Van Doos—for far too long.
“As you know,” Kurt continued, “the 3rd Battalion is doing preparatory training for their deployment this August; their slots are locked up for this summer. The 2nd is slated to come over here in February ’09 and the 1st in 2011 assuming the government extends the tours. The problem is, all their slots are already all spoken for.”
“So my chances of ever getting a combat tour would be slim to none,” Shirazi said.
Kurt nodded. “And so would be your chance of promotion to chief warrant officer and appointment to be Regimental Sergeant Major of a battalion.”
Shirazi nodded grimly.
“I figured I was going down the tubes when they stuck me in DLR in Ottawa.”
“Got a plan though,” said Kurt.
Shirazi looked up.
“It’s a bit of a strange one, I have to admit,” said Kurt. “3rd RCR is coming over here in August ’08. I spoke with their CO designate and he’s got a slot for a CSM open for you if you want to go over there this summer.”
“Who is he?”
“No names; no pack drill,” said Kurt. “The word’s not officially out yet but let’s just say that he and you have worked together while you belonged to a shadowy organization at Dwyer Hill.” Kurt gave him a minute to digest the news. “There’s no guarantee that you’ll get a battalion with the Van Doos but at least you’ll have run a company during a real shootin’ war.”
Kurt looked up and saw a familiar figure approaching down the rows of tables. He put his hand over Shirazi’s wrist.
“Go over and have a few hours with the RCR. Stop calling them chicken fuckers and think about whether or not you want to spend the next few years of your life with them.”
“Kurt! I’d heard you’ve been promoted. Congratulations.”
Kurt accepted, with pleasure, the extended hand of the tall, blonde officer wearing Brit desert DPM—disruptive pattern material—pants, casual desert boots, a pullover sweater with the crown and pip insignia on the shoulder designating a lieutenant-colonel, Special Air Service pattern parachutist wings on the right shoulder and the red-blue-yellow-blue-red striped stable belt of t
he Royal Artillery around his waist.
“Chris! Long time, no see. Sit down. Sit down,” said Kurt pointing to a chair.
“Certainly, but I need a quick bite,” he gestured to the serving line at the end of the tent. “Care to join me?”
“Sure,” said Kurt and rose. “How’s Carol doing?” he asked as they headed over to the food.”
“Bloody brilliant. Having a great time in the City with her old schoolmates now that I’m out here.”
Carol was Chris’s wife. Chris was Lieutenant Colonel Chris Radcliffe, a Royal Artillery officer who had been serving with 22 Special Air Service Regiment in 2002-2003 when Kurt had been an exchange officer to that unit. The City was London where the Radcliffes had taken up an apartment when he had been posted there to the UK Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre. In the interim they had themselves rented out their own estate in the country to a rock star.
The Radcliffes, in the understated vernacular of the upper-class, were comfortably off and heavily connected to British nobility as an offshoot of the De La Warr barony. The family’s fortune had been made when Robert Radcliffe, as a lieutenant to Thomas West, the 3rd Baron De La Warr, landed at the Virginia colony in 1610 as part of the Baron's force of 150 soldiers. Their aim was to save the colony from the Powhatan Indians during the first Anglo-Powhatan war. One lasting outcome of De La Warr's tenure was that many things in the Americas including a river, an Indian nation, and subsequently a state, bore the name of the baron albeit now spelled Delaware.
When the Baron returned to England, Robert Radcliffe stayed with the colony for a number of years and quickly became a senior administrator for the Virginia Company earning a substantial fortune from the company’s ventures in both Virginia and Bermuda. Throughout the subsequent four hundred years Radcliffes had stayed in the forefront of British colonial business ventures with occasional forays into the fields of military or civil service. Chris had taken the family’s military option.
Kurt and Chris had quickly loaded up their trays and had seated themselves at a quiet, isolated table.