Carl’s Jr. It had been a very long time since breakfast. If she and Gilbert Morris were going to be stuck in a car on a long stakeout, Ali was determined not to starve in the process.
San Diego, California
While Ali pulled the Mercury into the drive-up line at Carl’s Jr., Gil was busy having his ass chewed. Over strongly voiced protests, his call to the desk sergeant had been put through to the chief’s office. Unfortunately Chief Jackman was in.
“Do you realize I have not just one but two hysterical women here in the department, both of them raising hell?” Jackman demanded.
“Two,” Gil echoed.
“Yes, two. Someone named Dawn Carras showed up an hour or so ago with a worthless little dog that seems to want to take a piss on every chair leg in the waiting room. When Sergeant Lawson couldn’t reach you, she called me instead. Thanks a lot. So I was here handling that crisis when Janet Silvie shows up. Now they’re out in the lobby having a screaming match. You need to get your butt in here right now and take care of it.”
“I can’t,” Gil said.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I’m in San Diego.”
“San Diego?” Jackman roared. “I told you to take the day off. I didn’t say you could go to San Diego.”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Gil said. “And if you’ll look on the roster, you’ll see I won’t be in tomorrow either. It’s a comp day. I worked eight days straight.”
“Detective Morris, that sounds a lot like insubordination.”
“It’s sounds like time to file a grievance to me,” Gil returned, and ended the call.
Pulling out of the drive-up, Ali handed him a bag with a burger, fries, and a soda. “I guess it’s safe to assume that didn’t go too well.”
“Actually, I think it’s fine,” Gil said. “Leaving Randy Jackman to deal with two hysterical women and a pissy little dog is exactly what the man deserves. Now where are we?”
“That’s Engineer Road right up ahead,” she said, driving into a maze of streets lined with similarly constructed office buildings and warehouses. “We’re going to drive around and see if we can see any sign of either the Cadillac or the Lincoln. If she traded that Lincoln of hers for a rented Cadillac, she might have left the Lincoln parked somewhere nearby.”
When Gil’s phone rang again a few minutes later, he expected it would be Jackman again. It wasn’t.
“Detective Manuel Moreno with the Imperial County Sheriff’s Department. I understand you called my department to say you might have some information in regard to my Salton City homicide. So I have two questions. Who are you and what kind of information?”
“I’m Gilbert Morris, a homicide dick with the Grass Valley Police Department. I’m investigating a homicide too, one that happened on Friday of last week. I have reason to believe you and I share a suspect. So let me ask you about Mark Blaylock. You know his death is a homicide rather than a suicide?”
There was a pause. Gil could imagine Detective Moreno staring at the cubicle wall in front of his desk, wondering if he should answer the question or tell Gil to go to hell.
“It could be suicide,” Moreno said. “We found an empty bottle of Ambien in the trash and took it into evidence. What we didn’t find was any kind of suicide note. At all. The coroner says the victim died sometime overnight last night, probably right around midnight. This morning his wife gets up bright and early, locks up the house, and then takes off for parts unknown without bothering to dial nine-one-one and without mentioning that her beloved husband is dead in their bed. And if it hadn’t been for someone encouraging a nosy neighbor to go check on Mr. Blaylock’s welfare, it could have been days or weeks before anyone found him. So what do you think, homicide or suicide?”
“I think the same thing you do,” Gil said. “Only for a lot more reasons.”
While Gil laid out to the Imperial County detective what they knew, what they thought they knew, and when they knew it, Ali did her best to ignore the telephone conversation and concentrate on driving.
The streets of the once-thriving business park wound around and around in seemingly never-ending circles. A lot of the buildings were tagged with graffiti. Many of the lights that should have illuminated the street addresses printed on the buildings were broken or had burned out. There were weeds in the grassy medians and trash blowing around in the gutters and up beside the buildings. The parking lots beside the buildings were mostly empty. That could have been because it was night, or it could have been because the business park was close to being a ghost town. There was no way to tell.
Driving past the two Rutherford units, Ali saw that one of them had a loading bay as well as a regular walk-in entrance. The other unit had only a single door. She drove to the end of the street, counting doors and units as she went, then she traveled up an alley on the far side of the building, counting in reverse. Both Rutherford units had back doors, which meant that both front and back entrances needed to be watched.
Before Gil finished talking to Moreno, however, Ali’s phone rang. “UAVs,” B. said. “I’ve had one of my friends take a look at the schematics. Stuart tells me that according to the background check, Rutherford International was hired to dismantle a bunch of UAVs.”
“Yes,” Ali said. “I remember seeing something like that. A statement, signed and sworn by some government inspector, saying that the UAVs had been properly disposed of.”
“Then it’s likely the inspector lied,” B. returned. “According to the files on the thumb drives, someone-Richard Lowensdale, most likely-was tinkering with the guidance system files and making changes in their code as recently as two weeks ago.”
“Who would want to buy UAVs?” Ali asked.
“Who wouldn’t want to buy UAVs?” B. responded. “Anyone with a beef against the United States could be in the market for UAVs.”
Ali had pulled over and stopped in a parking place that allowed her to see both Rutherford doors. Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the window near her head. Outside stood a uniformed rent-a-cop who had arrived silently on a bicycle.
“This is private property,” he said. “You need to move along.”
Gil started to respond, but Ali stopped him. “We’re waiting to meet with a leasing agent,” she said, glancing at her watch. “She’s running late, but she’s supposed to be here any minute.”
“What was that all about?” B. asked into her ear.
“A security guard just paid us a visit,” she said. “Trying to give us the bum’s rush.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside the front door of the two remaining Rutherford facilities in San Diego.”
“Who’s there with you?”
“The security guard is here, but he’s not really with me. The other guy is Gil Morris, a homicide cop from Grass Valley,” Ali answered.
“Shouldn’t you have some local backup?”
“So far we don’t have any grounds for backup,” Ali said. “Nothing that would stand up in court.”
“You can tell your friend that we don’t have an arrest warrant at this point,” Gil said, “but Detective Moreno from El Centro is currently en route. He says that if we can locate Ermina, he’ll be able to question her as a person of interest in her husband’s death. That’s not an arrest as such, but if she’s planning on leaving the country, that should at least slow her down, maybe long enough for arrest warrants to be forthcoming.”
“All right,” B. said. “I suppose that, as usual, you’re armed?”
“And dangerous,” Ali said with a smile. “So is Gil for that matter-armed and dangerous-and we’re both wearing vests.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better,” B. said, “especially since you’re on one side of the country and I’m on the other.”
Ali could hear a lecture coming about her putting herself in harm’s way. Even if it was true, Ali didn’t want to hear it.
“I’m going to have to hang up now,” she said. “My Carl’s Junior burger is getting cold.”
She ended the call and rustled open the bag, but for some reason, she discovered, she was no longer hungry. Even without the lecture, B.’s question had gotten to her. She and Gil were armed, but there was no telling if their opponent, who might or might not show up, would be armed as well.
