Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand
“We do now. Soon as we had her name I went looking. Turns out she had a small contract with the Department of Defense five years ago. And ever since 9/11 all contractors must be fingerprinted. It took a call from our Captain to get DOD to let us have a peek but they gave it up this morning. All we’ve got is one finger but that’s all it takes.”
“Nice work! Take the rest of the weekend off.”
“I think I will. Want to join me?”
“Wish I could. I’m about to get on a plane for New Mexico.”
“To get your kicks on Route 66?”
“We’ll see.”
“Remember that line from Hill Street Blues?” Her tone turned serious. “Be careful out there.”
Chapter 69
Albuquerque
When Crowe disembarked in Albuquerque, a man in military cap and jacket stood waiting in the arrivals lounge. As Crowe approached, he saw Military Police insignia. The officer fell into step beside him but not for a moment did Crowe think this might be Brian Hunter closing in for another kill. Crowe had spent some flight time studying the chart he’d produced this morning. He believed Hunter was no longer in active service.
“Mr. Crowe? I’m Captain Mack Loomis, Kevin Blaikie’s friend. Please follow me.”
They left the main terminal concourse and entered a short corridor where Loomis keyed open a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. On the other side was a longer corridor whose walls and ceiling were a uniform pale blue. A security camera tracked them all the way to the end where Loomis used his key on another door.
They stepped outside. Loomis took from his pocket a security badge with a number and a bar code, and clipped it to Crowe’s lapel. They descended some stairs and walked to a nearby military Jeep. Loomis opened one of its cargo bins and Crowe slung his bag inside. They climbed into the Jeep. Loomis shot off along a service lane paralleling the north side of the airport terminal.
“How do you know Blaikie?” Loomis asked.
“I do some work for him.” Crowe liked to keep it simple. “I’m a one-man lost-and-found agency.”
Loomis glanced at him. “He said if it weren’t for you the police still wouldn’t have a clue what happened to his sister.”
“He’s just being generous.”
“That is his nature,” Loomis agreed.
“And you? Known him long?”
“Since grade school.”
“That’s a longstanding friendship.”
“He’s a really good guy. We got into some trouble during university. I would have ended up in jail if it hadn’t been for him.”
Crowe remembered Blaikie having told him this story. “Way I heard it, you saved his life from a crack addict with a knife, paralyzed the guy with one punch to the neck.”
Loomis was silent for a moment. “I guess that part’s true. But when the guy got out of hospital he tried to get me arrested for assault. If I’d been jailed, it would’ve been bad news. My parents had no money for a lawyer and the arrest would have ended any hope of a law enforcement career. But Kevin insisted he threw the punch in self-defense so the police arrested him. He called his dad in New York and two hours later he was out on bail. The case was dismissed a week later.”
“Lucky break.”
“Goes beyond luck. I owe him big time.”
They arrived at a security gate where two soldiers in combat gear flanked the gate with machineguns. A sign above the security hut read Kirtland Air Force Base – Security Clearance Only.
An officer emerged from the security hut and tugged his cap snug on a close-cropped skull. He pointed an electronic gun at Crowe’s security badge. A red line flickered across the barcode and the gun beeped. The officer checked the readout and gave a thumbs-up to someone inside the hut. The gate swung open.
“Go ahead, Captain Loomis.”
After parking the Jeep and passing through another security desk at the main entrance, Loomis led Crowe down a broad corridor. Crowe saw lots of Air Force personnel but almost as many civilians, everyone wearing security badges.
Once inside Loomis’ office and behind a closed door, Crowe said, “I was surprised to see so many civilians in here.” He looked out the window. On the tarmac a hundred yards away were four Lockheed F-22 Raptor fighter jets.
“Twenty thousand people work on the base. Defense company contractors, government people, our own civilian support staff…”
“On a Saturday?”
“Defense is a twenty-four-seven operation.” Loomis turned on his computer. “Kevin said you’re looking for information on someone in the service…”
“Used to be in the service. I’m pretty sure he’s no longer active.”
“Why are you interested?”
Crowe told Loomis about the three almost-simultaneous murders in New York, San Francisco and Los Alamos, and how one of the main beneficiaries was brutally snuffed out yesterday in San Rafael.
“You think the guy behind that was ex-military?”
“That’s my thesis.”
“Based on…?”
Crowe hesitated. “If I told you, you might not be convinced.”
“Let me be the judge.” Loomis had a wry look on his face. “Kevin said you were an astrologer…?”
“You find that amusing?”
“No. My aunt read palms. She was so good it was scary. She told me I’d end up in the military, get married twice, and have three kids. All true.”
“What made me think this guy was ex-military was something I saw in a footprint.”
Loomis nodded. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Brian Hunter.” Crowe approached the desk. “Mind if I look over your shoulder?”
“After I put in my password.” Loomis tapped the keyboard. “Okay, pull up a chair. I’m now in the Military Police system. We have an offense reporting system, a vehicle registration system and a correctional reporting system. We maintain files on sensitive geographic areas, unlawful activities, specific individuals and criminal investigations. We also cooperate with other law enforcement agencies, especially the FBI and the DEA, and have access to the National Crime Information Center.”
“But if this guy never ran afoul of Military Police…?”
“I can access his general personnel file, which includes service history, performance ratings, promotion/demotion events, location of assignments and payroll data.”
“Do you have fingerprints on file?”
“Yes, along with blood type and DNA.”
“What do you have on Hunter?”
Loomis worked the computer. Turns out there were three Brian Hunters in the system. One was age 68 and retired; one was age 22 and currently active in the Middle East; the other was age 32.
“Let’s see what we have on this last guy.” Loomis browsed the online file. “Three years National Guard, joined the Army in ninety-eight, made Private First Class, assigned to 32nd Battalion... Uh-oh, wait a minute. This guy’s dead.”
“Since when?”
“Drowned two years ago in a boating accident on the Colorado River.” Loomis turned to Crowe. “How’d you get this name?”
Crowe told Loomis how the San Rafael Police had cross-referenced flights originating in New Mexico against white Sunfire rentals in San Francisco. Plus, Brian Hunter’s use of the serviceman’s lounge in Skyport International.
“Might be a case of identity theft,” Loomis said.
Crowe took out his phone. “Can we have a quick look at the other guys in his unit, particularly during his last year of service?”
“What level of service?”
“How big’s a platoon?”
“About forty.”
“Let’s start there.”
“Give me a minute.” Loomis worked the computer. “Now what?”
Crowe referred to the chart of Dr. Cassidy’s car bombing. “If my reasoning is correct, the guy we want is dysfunctional in some way. Anyone in Hunter’s platoon discharged for medical, psychological or criminal reas
Loomis brought up a new screen. “Out of forty, only six guys meet your criteria. Seems low in the law of averages but that could be lucky for us. Three discharged for medical reasons. First guy developed diabetes, hereditary causes; second contracted Hep C from a hooker; third suffered spinal injury during live fire exercises. Number four had a nervous breakdown, discharged as psychologically unfit. The fifth guy was charged with theft of ordnance. And the sixth was discharged for striking an officer.”
“Tell me more about that last guy.”
“Stuart Namath, age 33. Joined the Army in ninety-nine. Disciplined in oh-one and oh-two for substance abuse. Couple of DUIs. Disciplined again in oh-three for facilitating prostitution on base. Involved in a bar brawl in oh-four, both an officer and a military policeman, court-martialed and dishonorably discharged.”
“Where is he now?”
Loomis took several minutes to search the military system and then the NCIC before he came up with an answer: “He was running a meth lab, got taken down by the DEA two years ago. Currently serving seven to ten in Yuma prison.”
“That leaves only the thief.”
Loomis searched the record of the other man from Hunter’s platoon. “Ezekiel Zabriskie. Five years National Guard, joined Army in ninety-nine. Trained in demolition, served six months in Bosnia. Made corporal in oh-two. Demoted in oh-four for threatening an officer. Charged with theft of ordnance in oh-six, court-martialed, convicted and dishonorably discharged same year.”
“Don’t tell me he’s in prison too.”
Loomis worked his way from one system to another. “Looks like he’s managed to stay out of trouble since then. I’ve got nothing on him.”
“Back to Hunter a minute. Do you have an accident report for his drowning?”
Loomis checked it out. “Date, location, witnesses, brief description of circumstances, name of the coroner who wrote the death certificate.”
“Witnesses?”
“Three guys from his platoon, looks like. Dunbar, Snodgrass and… Zabriskie.”
“Maybe you were right about the identity theft.”
“Ideal set-up,” Loomis agreed. “Guy drowns, you help recover his body and when no one’s looking you swipe his wallet. Things get lost in the water so no one thinks twice about it. But Zabriskie walks away with military ID, driver’s license and social security card – stuff he can use later.” Loomis shook his head. “Soon as we’re done here I’ll flag Hunter’s ID in the system, classify it as stolen identity.”
“Wouldn’t there be a bar code or electronic strip that would register invalid when Zabriskie tried to use it in a place like an airport serviceman’s lounge?”
“It’s not hard to replace a photo and get a fresh lamination. Most places, they just glance at the ID card, see the right face and you’re in.”
“So Zabriskie could be the guy. What have you got on file for last known address?”
Loomis looked it up. “A rural route number in Jemez Springs.”
Crowe wrote down the address, recalling the name of the town he’d seen last night on the map of the Jemez Mountains.
“You’re not going up there to see that guy alone, are you?” Loomis said.
Crowe didn’t answer. “Can you get me a number for the local FBI office?”
Chapter 70
Bernalillo
Carrie Cassidy woke up alone in Unit 6 of Sandia Vista, a three-star motel on the outskirts of Bernalillo. She’d slept with the Glock at her side but hadn’t slept well. Intuition had told her not to return home to Santa Fe. Intuition also said she had to do something about Zeke and it didn’t involve giving him more money.
She parted the window curtain. A swath of undeveloped land sloped away toward the Rio Grande. Her Z4 was parked behind the motel, hidden from the road. She splashed water on her face, lit a cigarillo and took a sip from a pint bottle of tequila. Breakfast of champions, she thought. Every champion has her day and perhaps today was hers.
All last night, in and out of her restless sleep, she’d turned her options over in her mind until her brain felt like one of those rotating grit-filled drums in which rock-hunters polished the garnet, hematite and turquoise they found in the hills. And what did she have to show for it? A headache. Whether that was from too much drinking or thinking was a moot point, but it pissed her off she was still at an impasse. She had to make up her mind pretty soon, even if it came down to a flip of a coin.
Stockwell worried her. She’d always figured Munson for the weak link, so no surprise he’d started unraveling at the first sign of trouble. But she’d made an executive decision on that one and sent in the commandos. One flank secured. But what if the police leaned on Jeb? Scarcely tougher than Munson, he could handle no more heat than a marshmallow. He had so much to gain, fifty million or more, she’d hoped he wouldn’t cave under pressure. Her security hinged on his hanging tough. Unfortunately there was only one guarantee of silence and it was lying here at her side. She touched the reassuring weight of the Glock.
But she didn’t want to go to New York. Returning there with an active investigation still underway would be downright stupid. She needed to head off in the other direction, south and across the border, to disappear in some beachside village until things cooled off. In her stead there was only Zeke. A number of flights out of Sunport in the early afternoon would put him in New York late evening. He could do Jeb and that’d be the end of that. It would cost her plenty but every form of freedom had its price. Was it worth the risk?
She stubbed out her cigarillo, unzipped her suitcase and took out a change of clothes. She showered and toweled off, ran her fingers through her wet hair and dressed. She decided to wear her running shoes instead of her cowboy boots. When she looked in the mirror she knew she wasn’t getting any younger or any smarter. Just more determined than ever to play the cards Fate had dealt her. Despite all their difficulties, her mother had drilled one thing into her over the years – she was special and didn’t need anyone’s approval to do what she had to. Just do it.
Her mind was now made up and from here on out the rest was all downhill. She stowed everything in the BMW, pulled out onto Highway 550 and headed west.
~~~
Jemez Springs
Zeke Zabriskie woke up alone as well, although he felt as rested and content as a coyote in his own burrow with a bellyful of roadkill. After Carrie left the restaurant last night, he’d had a couple of tamales and another Corona and flirted with the jailbait waitress until her father came out from the kitchen, a cleaver in his greasy hands, and that was the end of that. Zeke had driven back to Jemez Springs, minding the speed limit so as not to attract a state trooper in his DUI-condition. Back home he’d popped a Coors and smoked a few Marlboros as he counted the two wads of bills she’d passed him under the table. Twenty grand, present and accounted for, sir. And more where that came from. After a few years of hardscrabble work doing odd jobs on the marginal side of things, burglaries and the occasional car theft, he was finally into some serious cash.
On top of all that, this morning in his heart of hearts he sensed a fork in the road of his pitiful travels. Seeing Carrie again had triggered a flood of memories the like of which he’d been reluctant to dwell upon ever since she’d cut him loose a year ago. He was thinking, with her old man now out of the way, maybe she’d loosen up again and they’d enjoy some good old times like that winter in Alamogordo. Out there in the white sands…
At that thought, last night’s dream opened up before him and he remembered now waking up halfway through the night, his joint aching with a memory of something it’d been thrusting against but unable to sink into. He recalled the dream now, just like a day they’d actually shared in real life.
They’d been drinking shooters one afternoon in a bar off base and they’d bought a bottle of José Cuervo and driven out to the White Sands National Monument. They parked the car and walked north into the sand dunes, through scattered swatches of yucca an
She got a little crazy at one point, said she saw a giant white snake slithering up on them from around one of the shadowy dunes. She wanted to go back to the car but he told her it was just the loco weed and the mescal, the desert playing tricks, and the only snake coming after her was his big old trouser snake. But she went running and he had to go after her, caught her ankle as she scrambled bare-assed up the side of a dune, and took her there in the half-shaded gully of shadow, coyote-style, both of them yipping and howling like damn fools. When the sun finally dipped below the San Andres Mountains, for a few minutes everything was bathed in a mysterious light, the sand itself seeming to glow as the horizon turned dark all around and an overwhelming sense of peace and stillness descended upon them.
Maybe it was only a dream, Zeke thought, but he wished he could live in it forever and never wake up.
~~~
A few miles north of the village Carrie turned off NM-4 and onto Jemez Canyon Trail. It wandered east through scrubby pine and rocky outcrops, following a gully’s course. She drove about a mile until she saw a mailbox with ‘ZZ’ painted on it. From there she saw the peak of a house up among the trees. She put the car into reverse and backed across the culvert and up the lane and into the pines. She parked the BMW in front of a big black Dodge Ram pickup and turned off the engine.
As she approached the house the front door opened and Zeke came out onto his porch, barefoot and bare-chested in a pair of jeans, a pump shotgun in his right hand.
He looked toward the road, listening as much as looking. “You alone?”
“Of course.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “You know me, Zeke, just a regular girl. I’ve never been into threesomes.”
“Not what I heard one night in Dutchy’s,” he sniffed.