Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

16

Ben spent most of Monday finishing cutting down trees that had been damaged in the weekend ice storm.
 
Those he could keep for firewood he stacked in piles around his property.
 
While he worked, he couldn’t get his mind off of Maggi McGuffin and her brother Tavis.
 
Earlier in the morning he had driven down the hill far enough to get cell service, calling a couple of old Air Force friends.
 
Isolation was great for the soul, but Ben was used to having investigative technology at his fingertips.
 
Maybe he needed to consider at least getting internet access.

Now, nearing darkness, he drove back down the hill and pulled his truck onto a patch of dirt, an entrance to one of his neighbor’s fields.

First he called a special agent in Air Force OSI who had worked for him just before he retired.
 
He was asking a lot of his old friend.

His friend Tom answered his private phone with a simple, “Yeah.”

They were both smart enough to speak in generalities as much as possible so their friends at the NSA wouldn’t flag their conversation—despite the fact that they were both using disposable cell phones.

“Hey.
 
How the hell are they hanging?”

“Just wonderful.
 
Your Bigfoot friend is loaded.
 
The purchase was over a billion.
 
He paid five hundred mil in taxes on that.”

“When was that?”

“A couple years ago.
 
Last year he made millions in interest and dividends.
 
But here’s the interesting stuff.
 
The guy shows income close to a million dollars from a company that exports mushrooms and truffles.”

“That’s a lot of fungi.”

His friend laughed.
 
“Yeah, two or three truffles maybe.
 
Oh, he does own an island in Belize.
 
He has an undisclosed amount of money in a bank there as well.
 
But I wasn’t able to access that data.
 
Belize is more secret than most tax haven countries.”

“What about the other guy?” Ben asked, meaning Kevin Engel from the Compound.

“Outstanding military service record with the Army.
 
Retired now.
 
His direct deposit goes to a checking account.
 
The address they have for him is what you call the Compound.”

“Anything jump out on the guy?”

“Yeah.
 
Much of his service record is still classified.”

So was Ben’s, but that could mean a lot of things.

“What about my lawyer friend?” Ben asked.

“Okay.
 
Almost nothing on social media.
 
If you had a damn computer you’d know this.
 
But I did find a number of photos of her online.
 
She’s quite the looker.
 
Are you sure this is strictly professional.”

“So far.
 
Anything strange?”

“Not really.
 
She went to Oregon State for her undergrad and then Lewis and Clark for her law degree.
 
Finished near the top of her class there.
 
After becoming an attorney, she’s worked for the same law firm in Portland.
 
Did you know she was married?”

“Yes.
 
Five years.”

“You know you could get most of this info over a couple of dates.”

“Her background is not that important,” Ben said.
 
“I just like to know who I’m working with.”

They both paused and finally his old friend asked, “How is life after the service?”

“Still working that out.
 
I have to tear myself down each morning to realize I no longer have an important purpose in life.”

“Now you’re just depressing me.”

“It’s a simple life.”

“Well, boss, I think you need to find a good woman.”

“I thought I’d try to find a good me first.”

“Sounds good.
 
If there’s anything else you need, give me a call.
 
And get a real phone.
 
As you know, I can encrypt our conversations.”

“I’ll think about it.
 
Thanks.”

They both hung up.

From memory, Ben called another number.
 
This was a woman he had worked with years ago.
 
An Air Force linguist who was now assigned to the NSA.

“Wow,” she said.
 
“Two calls in two days.
 
That’s a record.”

“Sorry about that.
 
But I told you I’ve been off the grid since my retirement.”

“I’ll say.
 
You need to get a real phone and the internet.”

“Another old Air Force friend just told me the same thing.”

“Old?
 
I’m five years younger than you.”

“Old as in long-time.”

“I see.”
 
She paused, perhaps wondering what she could tell him.
 
Almost everything the NSA did was highly classified.
 
Finally, she said, “You know the game, Ben.
 
What specifically do you need to know?”

Need to know was more important than security clearances.
 
“Anything I should know about the two names I gave you yesterday?”

“I cannot confirm or deny anything,” she said.
 
“Okay, that’s not entirely true.
 
I’ve got this conversation routed through six foreign countries on a constant shifting loop.
 
We could discuss Roswell if you’d like.”

That was a dig at both of their jobs at one point in Air Force OSI, where they had been charged with debriefing pilots who had experienced strange phenomena.
 
They had never exchanged their various debriefings on UFOs.
 
Back then they had been more than a little speculative on the subject.
 
But with the total number of independent accounts, perhaps there was more to these stories than either of them really wanted to admit.
 
Although lie detector tests were not admissible in court, it didn’t mean they were not correct.
 
And every one he had administered to these pilots had shown they were telling the truth.
 
Ben guessed the Pentagon would never declassify their work.
 
They would have to take this knowledge to the grave.

“What about the short wave radios?” Ben asked.

“Any data we might collect from those, and I’m not saying we collect anything, would be transferred to the FBI.
 
Unless it involves foreign sources, which would be the only way we could get involved in the first place.
 
Those would theoretically go to the Agency and Defense.”

“That’s a whole lot of equivocation.”

“That’s how we roll, Ben.”

“Roger that.”
 
He thought how to ask his next question.
 
“So, I’m guessing you have nothing to report.”

“Say again.”

“Any active investigations in my area?”

Silence.

“I understand,” Ben said.
 
“Thanks for your help.
 
On another note, how’s your husband and two kids?”

“The kids are great.
 
My ex is lucky he still has Air Force dental.”

“Don’t tell me he was stupid enough to cheat.”

His friend at the NSA was a black belt in two different forms of martial arts.

“He isn’t Mensa quality, Ben.
 
He shoved me against a wall at our quarterly hail and farewell.
 
I had dozens of witnesses.”

“I’m sorry.
 
Did they discharge him?”

“No.
 
I begged the commander not to do so.
 
Article fifteen.
 
I needed him to stay in the Air Force for child support.”

“Good idea.
 
Again, I’m sorry.
 
Thanks again for your help.”

“I gave you nothing,” she said.

“Understood.”

“Be careful.”

After saying they needed to stay in touch, they both clicked off.

Ben sat in the cab of his truck staring at his disposable phone.
 
Perhaps he was ready to emerge from his monastic lifestyle.

17

Deputy Sheriff Lester Dawson had finally caught a break in his case at the Grange Hall during the church Bingo.
 
He brought Maria Alvarez to the morgue, where she had definitively identified the shooting victim as her brother, Marco.
 
That was the good news.
 
The bad news was that Maria had no idea why her brother had been targeted.
 
Was this a simple hate crime?
 
Did some local decide he didn’t like Hispanic immigrants?
 
He would look into that angle, but for some reason he thought that wasn’t the case.

The detectives in the sheriff’s department had taken the lead interrogating Maria, grilling her for hours.
 
Lester had sat back and tried to intervene when he thought the young woman was been treated too harshly.
 
She was, after all, the sister of the victim and not some mass murderer.
 
Hours later, the detectives thanked Maria for her cooperation.

Truthfully, Lester knew that the woman was scared to death.
 
Although she had been born in America, she still didn’t seem fully integrated into society.

Now, late afternoon, Lester drove Maria back to her home in the northern part of the county, just a few miles from the entrance to Cantina Valley.

“How are you doing?” Lester asked Maria.
 
He noticed she had a death grip on the door with her right hand, and her left was digging down on her thigh.

“No so good,” she said.

“I understand.
 
I lost my brother in Iraq.”

“I’m sorry.”
 
She hesitated and then added, “Did you serve as well?”

“No.
 
I did two years of college and became a cop.”

His lack of military service was a constant failure on his part.
 
Especially in the mind of his father, who had volunteered as a Marine in Vietnam.
 
After his brother died, Lester guessed his father wished it had been him instead.
 
Maybe he should have served.

“My brother was a soldier in Afghanistan,” she said.
 
“He survived two tours there only to be shot a few miles from home.”

He had heard this during her interview with the detectives.
 
Lester was still trying to figure out why Marco Alvarez had not come up during their finger print check.
 
They should have been in the military system.
 
“I’m really sorry, Maria.
 
I promise I will do everything in my power to bring him justice.”

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence for a while, and Lester tried to recall if there was anything she had not told their detectives.
 
“You said your father died a few years back.
 
How did he die?”

“A heart attack.”

“What did he do again?”

“He worked the fields here in the valley.”

“I mean before coming to America.”
 
The detectives had not asked this question, but Lester had no idea if it was significant.

“He was a soldier,” Maria said.
 
“But he met my mother and they had Marco, so they decided to come to America.”

“The Catholic Church helped them come here?”
 
he asked.

“Yes.”

“What year?”

“In nineteen eighty-four.
 
I was born in eighty-seven.”

“Your mother is still alive,” Lester said, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.
 
She doesn’t work anymore.
 
She lives with me.”

“And you’re a nurse in Springfield?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long drive.”

“Not really.
 
It’s a straight shot to I-Five or down to the Beltline in Eugene.
 
I can make it to the hospital in forty minutes.”

The sheriff’s detectives had already scoured over her brother’s house a couple of miles from Maria’s place, and had not found anything of interest.

“Is your mother home?” he asked.

“Yes.
 
She is very distraught.”

“She didn’t go to the Bingo.
 
Why not?”

“She wasn’t feeling well.
 
An upset stomach.”

He needed to interview her mother, but he didn’t want to bring her to the sheriff’s department.
 
Something told him she would be more open to his questions in the comfort of her home.

Moments later and Lester pulled into the driveway of Maria’s house in the countryside northwest of Junction City.
 
It was a small white single story house that looked to be built in the early nineteen hundreds.
 
Massive cottonwood trees would provide shade in the summer.

Lester shut down his sheriff’s department rig and glanced over to Maria.
 
“Would it be all right to come in and talk with your mother?”

“I don’t know if she will be up for that,” Maria said.

“I could show up tomorrow morning and take her to the station for an interview.”

She turned quickly and said, “That would be cruel.”

He didn’t think she would like that.
 
“It’s standard operating procedure to interview the next of kin, Maria.
 
I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t talk with her.
 
We can do that here, or down at the department.”

“I thought you were the nice one,” she said derisively.

“I’m not your enemy, Maria.
 
Does your mother have something to hide?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then let’s get this out of the way.
 
She might remember something that could help.”

Finally, Maria agreed with a slight nod of her head.

They got out and went into her house.
 
Her mother was sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of the living room, knitting something.
 
The elder Alvarez wasn’t surprised to see Lester, since he had seen her at the edge of the window when they pulled into the driveway.

Maria introduced her mother to Lester, and the mother barely lifted her eyes in acknowledgement.
 
He could tell from those puffy eyes that she had been crying.

“Please, Deputy Dawson, take a seat.
 
Would you like some coffee?” Maria asked him.

“That would be great,” he said.

She went off to the kitchen, which was in a separate room off the small dining area.

Then he pulled out his notebook and glanced around the room at various family pictures.
 
There were shots of Maria and Marco as children, graduation pictures, and a standard photo of Marco as an Army soldier.
 
What was conspicuously absent were any photos of the parents, other than a couple with the children.

Lester sat on the end of the sofa near the older woman.
 
Actually, Maria’s mother had to be only in her early sixties.
 
But she looked a little older than that.
 
Probably from a life of hard work.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Alvarez,” Lester said.

The older woman stopped knitting, but still refused to look at Lester.
 
“What do you want from me?”
 
Mrs. Alvarez still had a thick accent.
 
“You already spent hours with my Maria.”

“It’s standard procedure to speak with the next of kin, Mrs. Alvarez.
 
I need to find out who did this to your son.”

“I don’t know how I can help you,” the mother said.
 
“Maria was close to her brother.
 
Since Marco came back from the war, he had a hard time talking with me and my husband.”

“I understand,” he said.
 
“My brother died in Iraq.”

Mrs. Alvarez crossed herself and said, “I’m sorry.”

Lester glanced about the room and said, “I notice you have no photos of your life in El Salvador.”

“We had no life in El Salvador, Deputy Dawson.”

“Maria said your husband was a soldier there during the Civil War,” he said.

“Those were bad times,” Mrs. Alvarez said.
 
“We have tried to forget that.”

Maria brought two cups of coffee and handed one to Lester.
 
She set her cup down on the coffee table and went to a small bookshelf, finding a photo album.
 
She took a seat next to Lester on the sofa and flipped through the pages until she found a couple of images of her mother and father.
 
Her mother was pretty and slim in a white dress, and her father wore his military uniform.

“These are their wedding photos,” Maria said.

“Those are just snapshots,” Mrs. Alvarez corrected.
 
“We had to leave the official photographs behind when we left for America.”

Lester couldn’t imagine their early life coming down to a couple of pages of photos in a binder.

Maria closed the photo album and brought it back to the shelf.
 
Then she returned to her seat and took a sip of her coffee.

He had to admit that he knew almost nothing about the Civil War in El Salvador.
 
He was too young to remember it on TV, and perhaps too old to have gotten that information in his history classes.

“Your husband was obviously with the government Army,” Lester said.
 
“So, he just left when his service was done?”

The mother’s disposition turned even colder.
 
She said, “He was nearly killed twice by the Marxist-Leninist guerrillas.”