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April 29th, 2002
As soon as Ken got Will home and settled down a little, he called me. Diane and I ferried his BMW 325i over to Will's house, me in the Rover and Diane in the BMW. It took us just under an hour, moving smartly along on a Monday evening. When we arrived, Rachel was crying and looked as if she'd been crying since Will got home.
Diane spent some time with Rachel getting her calmed down while Ken, Will, and I sat at the kitchen table. I asked Ken about the driver of the pickup.
"He seemed to know what he was doing," Ken said in a matter of fact tone. "He anticipated Will's braking action after the first impact, matched our speed, and came in for the second hit. His gun was, maybe, six or seven feet from Will's head when he fired the shot. And missed. So he either missed on purpose, or wasn't a pro."
"You missed yourself," I reminded Ken, but I smiled when I said it.
"I didn't have the angle. The rear pillar behind the pickup's passenger window was in the way from my position in the back seat. I think the two rounds that missed were deflected by the metal. The other two went through the rear window glass and the driver's head rest. Now you know why I carry that .357 Magnum. Not a pea shooter like yours." Ken smiled back at me.
In a few minutes, Diane brought Rachel out of the bedroom, and Rachel looked much better. Rachel poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down with the rest of us, working up to a weak smile. Will looked at me like a puppy, but a defiant puppy.
"What do we do now, Mister Hadron?"
"You pack up and move to Puerto Rico. Change your name. Cover your tracks. We'll shut the door behind you."
"Is that what you would do?"
"That's what I think you should do." I looked at Will straight in the eyes. I knew he was scared, but I also could tell from the tone of his voice that he would entertain no such thought.
"No," Will said flatly. "We're not moving. Instead, I want you to find out who's behind this and stop them."
Rachel reached out her hand and clutched Will's forearm. "Maybe Max is right..." Will abruptly put his other hand on top of hers and shook his head. "Everything will be fine. I trust these three people. We'll get through this."
I declined to argue. So we worked out a strategy. On weekdays, Diane would stay with Rachel and Ken would accompany Will to work. Ken would enter Campbell Hall at a different entrance, read in the library, and generally shadow Will. I would take care of the leg work. In the evenings, Ken would sleep in the Pattersen's guest room, and Diane would come back home. We started out with an exception: on Tuesday, Will would work from home. As a concession to Rachel.
I double checked the Beretta .380 that Diane carries in her purse, with a permit, and declared it ready. After some more coffee and croissants, Ken and I went outside to wire up his BMW with some of our motion sensor toys, and then Diane and I headed home.
The next morning, bright and early, Diane headed over the Pattersen's in her new Honda S-2000 and I, armed with Will's list of all his graduate students and colleagues, drove up to the Berkeley campus to ask some questions. During the drive, I called Bryan Whitcomb to see if he could scrounge up an ID on the driver of the pickup. And if so, check out phone logs for anything suspicious.
It was a cool, breezy morning with scattered clouds, and I asked myself as I cruised along in the Boxster whether we were doing the right thing. But Will can be pretty pig-headed. He would have to call the play and decide when to declare a time-out.
I spent the whole morning and the early afternoon in Campbell Hall talking to students. I told them what had happened to Will the night before, and that got most of them chattering away. None of the professors who were there and not in class were very helpful. I have this big, oafish, boat bum kind of look with a deep tan, which I have developed and refined over the years. And with still a trace of west Texas drawl, I can usually put people at ease - or raise their hackles if they are feeling in a pompous mood and decide that my tan says I don't really do anything important for a living.
One of the graduate students who worked with Will was Edward Anwar. He told me that he had, in fact, mentioned Will's research to his father, Dr. Phillipe Anwar who works at the NASA-Shepard facility at the other end of the bay. I asked him if his father had any particular reaction to the nature of their research, but Edward just shrugged and said he couldn't recall. Most of the time, he said, whenever he talked to his dad, the man just grunted.
I found an Arby's near the campus and wolfed down two roast beef sandwiches and a quart of iced tea. While I was eating, Bryan called. The Walnut Creek police had been able to get an ID on the pickup truck driver with a facial pattern match against their criminal database. They identified him as Rupert Samura, a small time gem dealer in Sunnyvale with a minor criminal record. They checked his phone records and found one suspicious cell phone call to another cell phone in Las Vegas. The other phone belongs to a fellow named Cal Freeler, the head of security at the Star Trak hotel in Las Vegas. Bryan invited me to follow up on it because they were understaffed, but asked that I keep him advised.
On my way home, I detoured over to Sunnyvale to drop in on Samura's gem shop. When I got there, a young man in his early twenties appeared to be packing up things and closing down the business.
"We're not really open," the young man said.
I unzipped my windbreaker, let him see my shoulder holster, and pulled out and flashed a convincing looking ID. "I'm just here to ask some questions."
"The police were here all morning. I already answered their questions."
"What's your name, son?"
"Alan."
"Look Alan. I'm not here to waste your time or mine. I just have a few questions, then I'll be on my way."
"Who did you say you were with?"
"The California Bureau of Investigation." My own branch, of course.
"What do you want to know? I'm pretty busy."
"Did Rupert Samura have any friends in Las Vegas?"
"I wouldn't know. I'm just... I was his store clerk. Part time."
"Did Rupert keep funny hours? Have any unusual weapons? Things like that?"
"Well. Every few months, he'd get a call on his cell phone. He'd hurry into the back room. I guess so I couldn't hear. Then he'd go off on some weird errand. Be gone for a day or two. Usually come back looking a little frazzled. That's about it."
I took out my Official Max Hadron Investigator's Note Pad and started writing all official like and humming as I wrote. "Mind if I look at the phone bills? This Las Vegas thing? It might be important to find out what happened."
Alan was young, but he was pretty sharp. Probably a student working part time. "Do you have a warrant?" he asked smuggly.
"Oh, I don't really need a warrant for that. I'm not going to search the place."
"I think you do need a warrant."
"Well, I'll check into that. Anyway, anthing else you can think of I should know?"
"Not really. I need to get back to work here."
I called Diane and told her I was on my way home. When I got there, she had dinner all ready: spinach salad smothered with red onions, red peppers, mandarin oranges, grilled salmon and a touch of Feta cheese. And a huge loaf of French bread. After dinner, Diane sat down with her iBook and did some research. Just what databases she has access to, in addition to what Bryan lets her use, is beyond me. I just smiled, poured another glass of Pinot Grigio, and waited for her to make her pronouncement. In about ten minutes, she gave me the home address of a mister Cal Freeler in Las Vegas. Wife's name: Molly. That's all I wanted to know.
Then I called Will to see what was happening and tell him about Edward Anwar. Will agreed that Edward was probably the channel up to higher levels in the government, but where things would go from there was anybody's guess. I told Ken I was heading for Las Vegas in the morning. Later, Diane and I took the Boxster over to a friend's house for safe keeping. I started doing that after Jesus was killed by a bomb planted in the old Corvette, a bomb meant for me, awhile back.
We turned in early.
Wednesday morning, March 6th, I was up very early. I found a suitably official looking suit with a suitably sincere tie and my white cowboy hat. Put on my alligator cowboy boots. I loaded up the Rover with my travel bag, toiletries, a cooler filled with some sandwiches, cookies and a few bottles of water. I left at 6:30 am, just about the time Diane was ready to head for Walnut Creek. I double checked the alarms and took my time driving. I've learned that when I'm traveling with my toys, it's never a good idea to have an encounter with the highway patrol. Keeps things simple.
I found Cal Freeler's house about 1:30, Las Vegas time. I sat in the car for a second and called the hotel. I asked for Cal Freeler. They said he was busy, and I hung up. The house was an ordinary ranch home, brick, in the usual kind of overly built-up suburban neighborhood. I knocked on the door. A small and slender woman, somewhere in her mid 30s, with short blonde hair answered the door.
"Molly?" She was surprised that this stranger knew her name.
"Yes?" It was guarded.
I reverted to my best west Texas drawl. "My name is Spenser Parker. I'm conductin' an investigation of your husband?" You see, every declarative sentence in the south ends with that upwards inflection. It's a social grace. It says, "Am I okay with you?". I flashed another one of my custom IDs.
"What for?"
"Seems he's requested a special clearance with the FBI. Is your husband home? It would be convenient to talk to him here."
Molly swayed a little. She seemed to decide that a bluff wasn't necessary. "He's at work."
"At the Star Trak?"
"Yes," she smiled, just slightly, for the first time.
"Well, then I'll just check with him later. Would it be alright if I asked you some questions? We could do it outside, here on the porch. If that makes you feel more comfortable, ma'am." I tipped my hat and smiled.
Molly opened the screen door and came out onto the porch. She was a woman who looked weary and had seen better days. She wore faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Her pale blonde hair was disheveled. As she sat down next to me on the steps, I could see a few unusual marks on her face. Abuse marks. I'd seen those kind of marks before. She looked at me with puffy, pale blue eyes, then broke eye contact. She sat, slumped, with her hands between her knees.
"I think I already know what I need to know."
"Huh?"
"Cal beats you, doesn't he?"
Molly pulled herself into an even smaller ball. "How'd you know?"
"It's fairly obvious."
"Really? Cal's a good man. Honest. He doesn't do it very often."
I knew better than to contradict her and condemn her husband. And "not very often" is usually too often for a woman like Molly. Instead, I offered an escape route. "I'm headin' back to California tomorrow. I have friends in the state government. Family services. If you like, I could take you there and you could sort things out." I pulled out a business card. This one was genuine. "Call these people. Tell them you want to stay with them for awhile. Tell them Spenser is here with you." Spenser was a code name. They would know who I was.
Molly got up and went inside. I could hear her talking on the phone. After a few minutes, she came back out on the porch. "Okay. I checked directory assistance against your card. Then I called them. They said I could trust you. And they would have a safe place for me to stay. What can I take?"
"Everything that'll fit in my SUV over there." I pointed towards the Rover.
"When?"
"Like I said. Sometime tomorrow. Around noon. But there's something you need to help us with. Does Cal wear a gun?" I paused, and she looked at me for only the second time.
"Yeah. Every day. It's his pride and joy."
"We need to do two things to insure your safety. First, you don't want to tell him I was here. Next, I need you to place this little widget inside his holster. Just shove it down between the leather and the barrel." I produced a small disk, the size and thickness of the piece of paper from a 3-hole punch. It was stuck to a piece of waxed paper the size of a postage stamp.
"What's that for?"
"It'll warn me if Cal tracks you down."
"He locks his gun in the truck every night. I think maybe he's afraid I might use it someday while he's asleep. He thinks I don't have a key. But I do. I can do it after he goes to bed. He turns in awfully early. Cal gets a kick out of walking into work at six in the morning. Some of the guests haven't even gone to bed yet when he arrives."
"Okay. We're all set then. You're doin' the right thing Molly. A pretty lass like yerself shouldn't be hit on. It's plain wrong. My friends in San Jose will take good care of you."
I made sure she knew how to peel off the disk and stick it to the inside of the holster. Molly slumped as she stood up and started to go inside. She leaned on the screen door and gave me a shy smile as I walked to the Rover.
So far, so good.
I checked into the Star Trak hotel with an AMEX Platinum card as Spenser Parker and asked for a room with a balcony on a low numbered floor, claiming fear of fire. No problem. It had been a long day, and I was hot and tired. I took a cool shower and changed into khaki slacks and a Hawaiian wedding shirt, brought just for this occasion, that screamed of tourist, and faded running shoes. As I entered the casino, the quarter slots seemed to be a good place to hang out and assess the surroundings.
My plan was to move around frequently and try to listen in on conversations for a few hours, hoping to pick up some intelligence about the security operations or personnel. But nothing panned out, so I went to the sports bar and had a ho-hum burger and fries. I knew better, but I ordered lemonade anyway. It had that stale, overly sweet, was-just-thawed taste. Sigh. No one really understands lemonade anymore. Nothing panned out in the sports bar, so I went back to my room and watched The Curse of the Jade Scorpion for $7.99 plus tax. Geez, I wish I hadn't done that either.
Knowing Cal's habits, I decided it would be a good idea to catch him rather late in the morning. I wanted to give the appearance of being the late-bird that didn't get the worm very early or very often. About 10:30 am I called him on his cell phone.
"How'd you get this number? It's private."
"I'll tell you when we meet. And it's very important that we meet."
"Why's that?"
"Rupert Samura told me to look you up."
"Never heard of him."
I paused for a second, lowered my voice and spoke more slowly."Do I sound like one of the tourists? My name is Parker. Meet me at the big pool in five minutes. I'm tall. Gray suit with a white tie. White hat." I hung up before he could think about it.
Kids were everywhere, and tourists were doing their thing, splashing around in the pool. Some very nice looking women in very skimpy bikinis and platform shoes were walking around with trays, serving what looked like (at a minimum) orange juice to the people in the pool. I walked around until I saw a large, heavy set man walking towards me. I sized him up as he walked.
"Parker?"
"Yep."
"Have a seat." He pointed to one of the umbrella covered tables with white, wrought iron chars. This was par for the course. Get the opposition seated, subservient. I took off my hat and moved so I could sit down with my back to the sun. I tried to look sleepy and slow. I tossed my hat toward the table and intentionally missed. I picked it back up and wiped imaginary sweat from my forehead.
Freeler, I decided was more fit than I had first thought. He moved gracefully for a man of his size. He wore dark pants, a white short sleeved shiirt, and had a belt full of security toys: cuffs, flashlight, extra clips, and a radio. In his shoulder holster, I could see the hand carved wood handles on what looked like a .45 automatic. He had a short, dark hair and a goatee. His thighs bulged as he sat down, and he was visibly annoyed having to look into the sun.
"State your business," he said flatly. His eyes were dark, hard, and hard to read.
"Like I said, Rupert Samura sent me."
"Maybe I know him. Maybe I don't. I can't recall. So what?"
"I talked to him Sunday. He said if I needed a certain kind of job done, I should look you up." There was no discernable reaction to this. Freeler gazed into the distance and then pulled a pair of wrap-around sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. He took his time and formed his words carefully.
"Mister Parker. You have greatly annoyed me and wasted my time. I am told you are a guest in this hotel. I suggest you leave immediately. Listen to me carefully. If we meet again, it will be a very unpleasant experience for you. Have I made myself clear?"
I wiggled in my seat, in a kind of subservient way and coughed. "Sure. It was my mistake. Sorry to have bothered you mister Freeler."
Freeler slid his chair back and stood up, peering at me through his sunglasses. I leaned over on my left arm, scratched my head nervously with my right, and did not look at him. Satisfied, he walked away, moving like a cat that had just finished a finch for breakfast.
Back in my room, I gathered my things and got ready to check out. But before I left, I wandered out onto the balcony and looked around. The balcony faced the front of the hotel and people below were mostly blocked by the canopy. Drivers out on the road were too far to see much.
I took out my little digital toy, the size of my iPod, and peeled off the adhesive back. The bottom edge of the cement balcony looked like a good place, so I sat down, reached my hand around the edge, and stuck the device to the bottom side of the slab. I made sure the solar cells opposite the adhesive back faced the bright white canopy. With that done, I collected my things and checked out on the hotel TV.
On the way out of the hotel, I was carrying just my overnight bag. Under the canopy, as I emerged from the revolving door, I had a familiar sensation, something I'd picked up from seventeen years as an Army Ranger. One of the Bell Captains approached me from behind, just a little too quickly. I looked for shadow on the ground, but the canopy shielded the sun. I would have to base it on timing.
The Bell Captain raised his hand and tried to put a fist into my back, just below my neck, squarely on the spine. "Here, let me help you with that," he said smartly. I stepped aside just as he brought his hand down and stepped into him with my weight lowered. As I stopped his motion with my leg, I slid my hip into him, rose up smartly, and threw all I had into his hip and stomach. I dropped my bag and swept my right arm onto the back of his head as leverage. The poor fellow went up, tumbled forward, and landed squarely on his back with a thump. His head hit on the concrete, and he clutched his head wincing.
A couple of the other Bell Captains came running over to see what had happened. It was clearly an accident, you see. The nice young man was going to help me with my bag, I told them, but the poor fellow had tripped and fallen. It was entirely my fault. I'm a clumsy kinda guy. I asked what I could do to help, but they urged me on my way, staring at me with a puzzled look.
I left the hotel, found the Rover unmolested where I had parked it, and pondered my good-bye present from Cal Freeler.
On the way out of town, I picked up Molly Freeler. She had packed very few things, basically two suitcases and a large cloth purse. Yes, she said, everything went smoothly the night before, and she had planted the disk.
As we left town, I had a feeling that I would be seeing Cal Freeler again, very, very soon.
Previous adventures of Max Hadron:
The Case of the Extraterrestrial Redirect (June 10, 2001)
The Case of the Paperless Portfolio (Nov 12, 2000)
The Case of the GoogolPlex Smackdown (June 25, 2000)
The Case of the WWDC Murder (June 13, 2000)
Copyright 2002 by John
Martellaro, All rights reserved. Quantum Threads banner
artwork by Tracy Haynes. This is a work of fiction. All
people, places, entities, and events are the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
About the Author
John Martellaro lives in Colorado at 2,800 meters above sea level with a Ph.D. wife and two cats, Nikki and Data. He holds a B.S. in Astrophysics and an M.S. in Physics. His hobbies, include amateur astronomy, downhill skiing, bicycling, and listening to piano solos. His personal Macs are a B&W G3/400 with a flat screen Studio Display and a TiBook.
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