PMadriani 12.5 - The Second Man (6 page)

 

Chapter 13

B
ACK AT THE
office, in our conference room that doubles as a law library, Harry, Herman, and I are brainstorming where we go next. Without some lead, we are helpless to figure out where Joselyn and Akers might have gone. We can't even be sure they're together. But if not, where is she?

Herman has struck out on the latest information, the court file regarding the restraining order on Akers keeping him away from the family home.

“I talked to the clerk,” says Herman, “but he couldn't find the file.”

“Why not?” says Harry.

“They tell me the US Attorney's Office intervened in the state-­court proceedings. They obtained a federal court order sealing the file.”

“On what authority?” I ask.

“They cited a section of federal law,” says Herman. He hands Harry a slip of paper with a number on it. Harry gets up from the table and goes to the stack of books behind his chair. A few seconds later, he is back with one of the volumes. He looks up the section, then he flips a bunch of pages and checks the title. “It's part of the Patriot Act, national security,” says Harry.

“Why would they do that?” I ask.

“Have to assume there was something in the file, perhaps something said during the hearing, they didn't want made public,” says Herman.

“Could have been something in the wife's petition. Especially if Akers had been talking up details of his missions,” says Harry. “Think about it. She's under the gun. She's afraid he's gonna end up saying something that draws some fanatic lone wolf to their front door bent on revenge. The petition could be loaded with details the government didn't want out there.”

“Who represented Akers on the Order to Show Cause?” I ask. Maybe I can call the lawyer and find out what's going on.

“Without the file, we have no way of knowing,” says Herman.

I pull out my cell phone. When all else fails. I try calling the landline at my house, hoping that Joselyn will pick up. Instead, it rolls over to voice mail. I hang up and check the messages. There are two, neither of them from Joss. I try her cell phone. It rolls over immediately and goes right to her voice mail. There's no answer.

Herman looks at me. I shake my head. He is also on his phone, listens for a moment, then pushes the button on the screen and hangs up. “What'd you get?”

“Her phone is either turned off or outside the ser­vice area,” I tell him.

“Same here,” he says. “Don't want to bust your balloon, but I'm guessing she's with Akers. Otherwise, one of them would have answered by now.”

I get out of the chair and go to the computer in the corner of the room, take a seat in front of the screen, and move the mouse until it flickers on. I remember Akers and Joselyn that evening at the Brigantine. In between jibes over Sex on the Beach, they talked about UAVs, unmanned aerial vehicles. Only a weapons groupie like Joss and a constant commando like Akers could get it on talking drones over drinks. One of them, I can't remember which, had mentioned something about DARPA and Stanford.

I punch up Google and plug in some terms:
UAVs, DARPA, Stanford
. When the page pops up, I look at the sites, but nothing sets off any bells. I hit the image button at the top of the screen. Among the pictures is one that catches my eye. The words
Stanford researchers
. . .” appear in the abbreviated cut line beneath the picture. I open the image. It shows a man in civilian clothes working with an early UAV, a primitive, boxy, handheld toy model you could probably pick up today for a few hundred bucks at any hobby shop. But this was back then.

I click on the
VISIT PAGE
button. When it opens I read the article to get more information and there, in the middle of the piece, are the words: “Fort Hunter Liggett Army Garrison in California.” And I remember. Akers had his tongue halfway into Joselyn's right ear when she asked him: “Where?” His answer was Hunter Liggett.

I turn to Harry and Herman and ask if either of them have ever been there.

“Passed the sign a hundred times,” says Harry. “It's up off 101 somewhere north of San Luis Obispo.”

“Isn't that Camp Roberts?” said Herman.

“As I recall, they're a few miles apart,” I tell them. “Nothing else there. A lot of open country, away from the coast.”

“You're thinking that's where they are?” says Herman.

“You sure the place is still open?” asks Harry. “I thought it got caught up in the base closures a few years back and was shut down.”

I type in “Fort Hunter Liggett, California.” Sure enough, at the top of the list is an official Army website. I open it. “It shows as an active training site according to this. A hundred and sixty-­five thousand acres. The only dirt landing strip for C-­17s in the US. IED training, as well as training for allied nations. I'd say they're open for business.”

“What makes you think they're there?” says Harry.

“Because Akers used it to lure Joselyn away the night at the Brigantine. It's where they developed some of the early drones. From what I gather, they're still using some of the facilities. To Joselyn, that's like shooting her up with meth. Tell her there's classified military weaponry on display, something the Gideon Foundation hasn't yet seen, and that you can get her into the show. Akers becomes the Pied Piper.”

“I think you got a hard-­on for this guy,” says Herman.

“I admit I don't like him.”

“I wouldn't either if I thought he was out there somewhere with my woman,” says Herman. “Sorry I said that. I'm even sorrier I brought him by the office.”

“Too late now,” says Harry.

Herman looks at him, and says: “Paul's taking it better than you are. You'd think it was your better half.”

“I'm my own better half,” says Harry.

“How far away is this place?” says Herman.

I check the mileage on Google maps. “If we leave now, we could be there late tonight,” I tell him. “Says six and a half hours from San Diego to Hunter Liggett.”

“Is there some way to make a phone call?” says Harry. “Save yourself a trip. Somebody we can call, to see if they're there?”

“Who?” I ask.

“I don't know,” he says.

I look at the website again. There is a general information number. I call it. When they pick up, I ask the male military voice on the other end whether he can tell me if a former Navy SEAL by the name of Cameron Akers has checked in on the base. He tells me to hold a second. When he comes back he wants to know who's calling. I lie. I identify myself and tell him I'm Akers's lawyer and that I need to talk to him. He tells me that no one by that name shows up on the current roster. He says they don't get the morning roster 'til later in the day.

I think for a moment, then I tell him. “He's meeting with some researchers. They're working on a drone system up there. . . .”

“Oh, yeah. Those guys are over at the heliport. I can connect you.”

I look at Harry and smile. A few seconds later, I hear the call as it is ringing through. It's answered by a PFC. I don't catch his last name. I run Akers's name by him.

“Nobody here by that name,” he says. “But he might be outside.”

“Can you check for me?”

“Sorry, I can't leave the desk,” he says. “I can take a message. If he shows up, I'll give it to him.”

I think for a moment. Then I tell him I'll call back later. Akers is not likely to return a call based on a message from me. And if he finds out I've located them, he's likely to come up with some other lure to take Joselyn on another adventure.”

“Are they there?” says Harry.

“I think so. Can't be sure,” I tell him. “But given what I know, if I had to guess, I'd say yes. Can you hold down the fort?” I ask Harry.

“Would it matter if I said no?”

“No,” I tell him.

“Get the hell out of here.” He smiles. “Go find her. We all know you're not going to be worth a damn until you do.”

I grab my coat. Herman gets his. One of the secretaries asks where we're going as we race for the exit.

“Talk to Harry,” I tell her.

“When you gonna be back?” Harry yells from the library.

“Tomorrow!” I tell him. Herman and I are out the door before Harry can ask any more questions. We get to the parking area behind the building. I head for my sedan.

“You wanna drive?” says Herman.

“Thought I would.”

“Then gimme a sec. Gotta get something out of my car.”

It was a good thing I didn't bring the old Jeep today. Herman heads to his Buick. He pops the trunk and fishes around for something inside. When his hands come out, he's holding a pistol in his right hand, what I know to be his compact .45 auto. As he moves toward my car, I see him check the loaded clip. He slides it into the grip of the pistol and slaps it home. He doesn't pull the slide to chamber the first round. Herman is careful with firearms.

When he gets into the car, I ask him: “Do you really think we're gonna need that?”

“You never know. But better me than you” he says. “Feeling the way you do, you'd probably empty the clip into Akers the second he says hello.”

 

Chapter 14

J
OANNA
B
OGGS STOOD
at her kitchen sink, doing the dishes and looking out the window at Allyson Akers's backyard. She hadn't seen hide nor hair of her neighbor or her children in three days. She was beginning to worry, wondering where they were or why they hadn't come home or at least called.

She looked down for a moment at the dishes in the sink, looked up, and said: “What in the world?” She reached up with a wet hand and flexed the venetian blinds to get a better look. Boggs thought she glimpsed something moving in the yard next door. Whatever it was had disappeared down below the bushes that ran along the other side of the fence separating Boggs's property from Allyson's backyard.

She watched for a few seconds, then realized that she wasn't imagining things. Some of the low branches on one of the bushes were moving. She glanced down to rinse some suds off a plate, and when she looked back up, there it was, standing in the middle of the yard, scratching its paws on the grass as if it had just taken a dump.

“Gypsy!” Maybe they came home, thought Boggs.

The small ball of fuzz was perched on four tiny legs that moved with the speed of bristles on a sonic toothbrush. Before Boggs could dry her hands and head for the door, the mutt had disappeared through the doggie hatch and back inside Allyson Akers's house.

Boggs was anxious to find out where they'd been. She headed out her front door, across the lawn onto Akers' porch, and rang the doorbell. She waited, but there was no answer. She rang it again. Still nothing. She tried to peek through one of the windows but couldn't see anything. It was dark inside. The afternoon sun was hitting the front of the house, creating glare on the glass.

She went out through the front gate, turned, and looked back at the house. She walked up the driveway and tried the garage door. It was locked. They never locked the garage door when they were home. But if they hadn't come home, what was the dog doing in the house? Something was wrong. Boggs knew it.

If Allyson and the kids had gone away overnight, they would have either taken the dog with them or asked Joanna to watch it. Gypsy was a pound pup. The two kids had fallen in love the minute they laid eyes on her. Allyson had no idea as to its breed or the precise pollution of its gene pool. She called it a “rat-­terrier,” saying it was a cross between the two.

Boggs walked along the side of the garage, unlatched the chain-­link gate that led to the backyard, and closed it behind her. She tried the back door, but it was locked. She looked through the glass window that formed the top panel of the door. This looked in on the ser­vice porch. She could see through to the open kitchen door, but there was no one there.

She bent over and pushed the neoprene flap that sealed the doggie door until it opened a little. She held it there. “Heeere, Gypsy, come on. Come see Joanna. Come see Grandma.” She made some kissing sounds, rattled the door, and waited, then did it again.

After a few more seconds, a blond, furry ball showed up at the opening. Its delicate pink tongue darted through the wild bouffant of fur that covered its entire body. The dog's tongue licked Boggs's fingers with all the fury of a butterfly having an orgasm. Joanna reached inside, scooped the animal up in one hand, and straightened herself up. “What are you doing here all alone?”

She cradled the small mop of wiggling hair close to her bosom and continued talking to it as if the animal might talk back. “Did they abandon you? We're gonna have to talk to them when they get back, huh? Yes, we are.”

She continued to clutch the dog as she took another look through the glass in the top of the door. She saw nothing out of the ordinary, except one thing. An old washing machine, dented and peppered with pits of rust stood against the wall. On top of it was a pile of dirty clothes waiting to be washed.

The open wicker hamper was empty, as if Allyson had been called away in the middle of her chores. Maybe they left in a hurry, she thought. Perhaps a family emergency.

“How's my baby?” She looked back at the dog. “I think you need some food. You come with me.”

She headed through the side gate around the front, across the lawn, and back to her own house. Boggs didn't put the dog down until she closed and locked the front door behind her. She went into the kitchen, grabbed a large handful of kibble from a bag in the cupboard under the sink, put it in a small bowl, and placed the bowl on the kitchen floor.

Before she could turn to get some cheese to put on top of the kibble, she heard the crunching as the dog's tiny teeth went to work gnawing at the contents in the bowl. This wasn't like Gypsy. Usually, you had to force-­feed her. Joanna realized that the animal hadn't eaten in days.

She wasn't sure what to do. But she knew something was wrong. She couldn't call the police. What could she tell them? Dog abandonment. First-­degree dirty clothes. They'd think she was crazy. She put a little mild grated cheddar on top of the kibble and watched the dog as it chowed down, devouring the soft cheese. She filled another bowl with water and put it on the floor next to the food.

As she stood up to put the cheese back in the fridge, Boggs saw the business card on the counter where she had left it earlier that morning. She picked it up and looked at the name—­Paul Madriani. They had at least shown interest, the two men, the lawyer and his much larger African-­American friend. She thought about it, then laid the card back down on the countertop. If she overreacted and did something foolish, Allyson might get angry. Joanna could lose a friend or worse, contact with the children she loved. That would be stupid. She glanced down at the dog. The cheese on top was gone, as was most of the kibble. If Gypsy kept eating like this, she would consume half her body weight. She watched the dog for a few minutes. It started acting really strange. It wouldn't settle down. It scratched at the back door, then went to the front door and did the same. She figured it needed to relieve itself. She opened the backdoor and let the dog out. What happened next sent her into a tither.