Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold (3 page)

Halliday didn’t pursue it. “What else do you have?”

“Lamar Festus is no vagrant. He lives in Redwood Bluff.”

Halliday hid his surprise behind a stoic face.

Gladstone had more. Halliday knew it because he had spent his short career in the Diplomatic Security reading faces of would be antagonists against the Madam Secretary of State.

Halliday waited. The lad had exposed all twenty-six years of his existence in one facial expression.

Gladstone took a short breath. “Lamar Festus was reported missing last Thursday, the day after his release from jail. No one has seen him since.”

Ten minutes later Halliday sped down Genevive Parkway after responding to dispatch. A priority callout required him to quell a domestic dispute in the south end of town.

Santa Reina
Sur
had been separated from the main town by a large aqueduct that fed the farm land on both sides. Aqueduct Road, running parallel, housed a row of Mexican establishments situated on the aqueduct mound like strawberry plants. Halliday occasionally bought homemade tamales at the Las Verdes Market. Alongside the market, a string of chalky hole-in-the-wall bars with names like Mucho Caliente and Margarita’s advertised Tecate
cerveza
.

Beyond the aqueduct, Sur, sometimes pronounced “sewer” by uneducated locals, stretched out hard and flat, like a tortilla left too long on the griddle. Several blocks of small bungalow houses built in the 1970s suffered from neglect. Spray paint covered more walls than did house paint. Small front porches harbored unemployed Latino men. Crime resulted from boredom more than anything else.

When Halliday arrived Sergeant Dave Garcia stood on the porch of a matchbox house yelling in Spanish at the inhabitants through the closed door.

“What’s going on Sergeant?” Halliday said in a voice so low that Garcia had to lean over and ask, “What’s that?”

“I said, ‘What is going on here?”

“Detective Halliday, I can handle this. I have an eviction notice. The neighbors said the couple has been arguing. Said the husband had a history of violence.”

Halliday nodded at the notice. “Did the chief authorize this? Let me see it.” He didn’t want to read it so much as he wanted to get it out of Sergeant Garcia’s hand.

“Yeah, it’s all legal. The new law stipulates that a sheriff—Chief Brayden—can authorize a law enforcement officer to deliver a final eviction notice.”

Halliday studied the frustration that had built up in Garcia’s eyes. The man’s fists were rolled into balls prepared to strike. Sweat drained off his face, into red creases in his neck, as if he had just swallowed some super hot peppers. His black boots aimed at the door.

“I’m going to force the damned door if they don’t open it.” Garcia repeated the sentence in Spanish for the occupants.

Halliday’s gut told him that Garcia’s frustration could blow a domestic dispute case into homicide.

He made a decision. “Back off Sergeant.”

The patrolman glared at him, his eyes glazed over.

“Sergeant Garcia, I want you to return to your patrol car. You’re my back up. If anything untoward happens, you notify dispatch ASAP. Maintain your position and await my instructions. Do you copy?”

The disbelief etched on Garcia’s face could not be measured.

“With all due respect, detective, I’ve been working Santa Reina Sur for two years. I know how these people think. I know how they act.”

Garcia’s past actions had garnered numerous complaints. “Your concerns are duly noted, Sergeant.” Halliday always put the job before the players, placing a higher priority on diffusing the situation than considering a police officer’s ego or his status in the eyes of the community. He wouldn’t allow Garcia to play the “Latino policeman” card or attempt to usurp his authority back at the PD.

“Any more questions, Sergeant Garcia?”

“No sir.”

Garcia’s cool reply held back an emotional explosion. The proud man headed to his patrol car to sulk. His straight arms swung at invisible targets. Black boots stamped out all adversaries.

Halliday stared at the door. If left unchecked disagreements progressed from arguments to threats to violence, and sometimes to homicide. He had seen the cycle. Alcohol, drugs and weapons fueled the fire.

This one was different. From what he had been told by the dispatcher, it involved two angry, frustrated people. His job was to slice through the anger using communication.

Instead of banging on the front door Halliday walked up to the window next to it. He glanced at the eviction notice. In a calm voice he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Martinez. My name is Detective John Halliday from the Santa Reina police department. I’m going to sit down here on the porch until you come out. I just want to talk. I’d appreciate it if you brought a glass of cold water with you. It’s hot out here.”

Moments later the window curtain pulled open at the corner.

A young girl peered up at him with her mouth open.

Halliday smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Maria.”

“My name is Detective Halliday, Maria. Could you ask your mom and dad to come out? I’d like to talk to them.”

She shook her head. “Mama won’t come out. You want me to ask her, if you can come in?”

“That would be fine.”

A moment later Maria returned and said, “Mom’s getting your water.”

“Thank you, Maria.
Muchas gracias
.”

“De nada,
it’s nothing
,”
she replied.

No arrest ensued. Halliday had been able to communicate with the couple through their twelve year old daughter, Maria. A few phone calls later, he learned that relatives in Chowchilla were willing to take them in on a temporary basis.

The worst part of Halliday’s job was to advise people that they couldn’t live in their homes any longer. After releasing Sergeant Garcia to return to the PD, he helped the Martinez family pack. They loaded up an ancient GMC pickup that pulled a rusted six-by-twelve foot utility trailer.

When they finished, Halliday sat down with the Martinez family. The wife offered a simple meal of barbecued pork with rice and beans. Little was said. Señora Martinez didn’t touch her food. Halliday appreciated that they didn’t view him with suspicion.

After dinner Señora Martinez held a short one-sided conversation with her daughter, in Spanish. She glanced at Halliday. He noticed her sunken eyes and white complexion. Halliday thought the woman might be ill. Mr. Martinez, a proud man embarrassed by the whole episode, sat on the other side of Halliday. He had his say.

Maria stared at her sandals, embarrassed. When her mother prodded her the girl looked up at him and said, “
Señor
Halliday, do you believe in ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” He shook his head. “No, I believe in things I can see.” He glanced at Maria’s T-shirt. A Goth type character brandished fangs and razor sharp, foot-long fingernails.

Señora Martinez fired off several more words in Spanish that raised the eyebrows of her daughter. Maria translated, which brought a wry smile along the edges of her mother’s dry lips.

“My mother says that there are Indian ghosts in the valley. You should be careful to respect them.”

Halliday grinned at the young girl’s attempt to be grown up. “Yeah, I’ll be careful.” He crunched the empty can of Tecate beer and tossed it in the trash heap.

“Mother said the ghost lives in this house. She will not be coming with us.”

“Your mother doesn’t want to leave?”

The little girl gave a tight lipped smile and said, “No,
the ghost
is not leaving.”

Halliday had little time for ghosts. Especially those of the female gender.

“Mother asks that you take care of her since you are alone. The ghost… she needs your help.”

The sadness in the little girl’s eyes reminded him of her lot in life. “I’ll do what I can Maria. Are you going to be okay?”

She looked at him with vacant eyes. The word “okay” held no meaning for her.

It was time to go.

Señora Martinez stood in the doorway of the matchbox house for a moment. Was she saying goodbye to the house or the ghost? Halliday followed her out the door. He locked it, keeping the key. The woman’s last glance over her shoulder told it all: It might not have been much but it was home.

Halliday followed the Martinez family out of the driveway. He didn’t pull them over regarding the burnt-out trailer brake light.

The current PD building reminded Halliday of U.S. embassies he had visited in third world countries during his protective details with Diplomatic Security. The surrounding glass and steel city government buildings gave the old adobe structure an inferiority complex. Its clay tile roof required constant repair and most of the leaks occurred over Police Chief Matthew Brayden’s office.

Mayberry R.F.D.
, as it was affectionately referred to, had been earmarked to house the Chamber of Commerce. A block away the new Santa Reina PD’s steel skeleton promised a firmer hand. Scheduled for completion in a year, it would have not been constructed had it not been for a huge grant from Genevive Labs.

The duty sergeant sat in a glass box that jutted out into the lobby. He conversed with visitors through a microphone connected to loud speakers hanging from the walls. The Marine Guard had a similar arrangement in a third world U.S. Embassy. However, here, “Yes, sir” and “No, Ma’am” had been replaced by “Yeah, sure” and “Why you asking me?”

Halliday headed to door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

The standing rule applied: “No badge, no entry.” The absence of a badge required a document to be filled out, a task he had never had to perform. He swiped his badge across the scanner.

The door buzzed open.

Inside the squad room were two rows of computer laden cubicles edged by small offices on both sides.

In the middle of the floor a bulletin board served as a meeting area where personnel discussed the latest scuttlebutt for all ears. Halliday checked the board and listened in on a breaking story. Detective Leo Bergman said, “Get this, the inmate escaped Soledad prison at 0600 hours by hiding out in the tank of a ‘honey wagon.’”

Members of the office staff stood with coffee mugs paused at their lips. Leo, known for his punch lines said, “The cashier on duty at a 7-Eleven had a hissy. The poor gal called up Soledad PD. In a shaky voice—you know, like a perp had a gun to her head—she cried out to the duty officer, ‘He stunk up this place so fucking bad that I had to close the store during morning rush hour.’”

Leo took a long sip of coffee and blurted, “Soledad PD arrived to find the inmate in a dumpster behind the 7-Eleven, holding his nose.”

Halliday headed to his desk during Leo’s patented airy guffaw. The detectives had small offices along the east side of the building that reminded him of the embassy’s offices—ECON, POL, ADMIN, and GSO—inside those third world missions.

His office, the size of a large closet, held a small desk, a short bookcase, and a table piled with documents that needed to be filed. He slid between the bookcase and desk to collapse into the roll around chair. If he leaned over, he had a limited view of the Sierra Nevada Mountains through the narrow window, despite the county courthouse spire.

Leo Bergman poked his head in the door and said, “The chief wants to talk to you.”

The thin, white-haired, senior detective responded to Halliday’s questioning look. “He didn’t say why.”

“Leo, have you seen Gladstone?”

The veteran raised his eyebrows. “Last I heard he was across the street at Cindy’s.”

Gladstone spent more time at the diner, a longtime PD hangout, than in his office.

Before leaving Leo said, “John, don’t come down too hard on Gladstone. He’s an honest kid. You know, raw behind the ears.”

Halliday grunted as once again his call to Gladstone went to voicemail. He hung up. The lad should have advised him what he had learned from the Redwood Bluffs sheriff regarding Lamar Festus.

Five minutes later Halliday approached the desk outside the chief’s office. He absorbed Betsy Martin’s inquisitive stare.

“What did you do?” she said.

“Nothing that I know of. Is Sheriff Andy in a bad mood?”

She giggled. “I don’t know, Opie. You’d better get in there and find out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Guess who I ran into at the grocery store?”

He played along. “Arnold
Schwarzenegger
?”

“Come on, John,” she said, her voice rising. “Vicky told me how much she enjoyed the movies with you the other night.”

Vicky, who lived across the hall, managed a car rental agency at Santa Reina Airport. She was always forcing her availability on him. “That was three months ago, Betsy.”

She heaved a sigh. “I think she has a crush on you.”

Halliday responded to her crooked smile with a grunt.

“The chief said to go right in.”

Fifty-eight year old Chief Matthew Brayden would merit a statue at the new PD if Santa Reina citizens got their way. However, many of the personnel under his leadership referred to him as a slave driver, often modified with a profane adjective.

Brayden rarely called his detectives into his office to praise them or for social pleasantries. Keeping the meeting to business worked for Halliday. The chief’s heavy-handed methods did not bother him. He grabbed a roll-around chair, but stayed far enough away to avoid the chief’s bad breath. He sat, back straight, with elbows supported by the chair’s arms. He noted the boss was getting grayer and heavier.

The chief cleared his throat and ejected a wad of phlegm into a spittoon beside his desk.

“Sorry, it’s too goddamned much trouble to head to the toilet down the hall every time I have to spit. The doctor gave me the ultimatum, quit smoking or live with congestive heart failure or CHF. I call it CFN—Continual Fucking Nuisance.”

Halliday held in a whimsical response.

A wheezy grunt ended the chief’s short coughing spell. “The wizards at Genevive will come up with a miracle drug before you know it.”

“For CFN, Chief?”

Brayden stared him down. “No, for
CHF
.”

To apologize would be even sillier so Halliday didn’t. Although Betsy had never mentioned it around the office, everyone knew that Brayden was also battling prostate cancer. It struck Halliday as odd that Brayden would want to hide it.

Brayden grimaced, like he wished he was somewhere else. “What happened this morning near Genevive Labs?”

“I took a call at 0930 from a vagrant named Lamar Festus regarding a missing person.”

“Missing person?” The chief expressed confusion.

“Yes sir, a friend of his named Shack.”

Halliday held up his hand, reached for the water bottle and took a long sip. Experience told him to minimize Genevive Labs’ involvement. If he did, the missing person issue would die here in the chief’s office as far as Genevive Labs was concerned.

“Festus appeared disoriented. He bolted when Gladstone arrived. We couldn’t find him or any evidence of Shack.”

“What evidence were you looking for?”

Halliday wouldn’t bring up the nonexistent body or the Sierra Contractors. “A pedestrian or tire tracks. We found nothing.”

The chief’s gaze settled on a bowling trophy off to the left.

“I had Gladstone check COPLINK,” Halliday continued. “He discovered Festus had a record. Then we found out he’s a missing person, too.”

“Two missing persons?” The chief looked perplexed. “I understand Sheriff Barnes reported that Festus, a citizen of Redwood Bluff, had been missing since last Thursday. Who’s this other MP?”

Halliday leaned forward in his chair. “Like I said, Festus’s friend Shack is missing.”

The chief seemed to swallow the remnants of a joke when he said, “Gladstone told me that Lamar Festus became distraught when his dog Shack turned up missing.”

Shit.
“A dog? This is the first time I’ve heard that.”

Had Gladstone blindsided him? Halliday couldn’t hide his embarrassment.

The chief expelled another wad of phlegm into the spittoon. Brayden’s brief crooked grin could have been the result of Halliday’s ignorance or a grim reminder of his condition.

Chief Brayden brushed his hand across his eyes. “You and Gladstone need to get on the same page. Continue your search for Festus. Take the lead. Gladstone’s a good kid. As you know, his inexperience often trips him up.”

Halliday nodded, but decided to voice his thoughts. “Chief, is there anything I should know about Festus? Quite frankly, I’m surprised that you called me in to discuss it.”

“Anything that involves Genevive Labs goes through me. Is there anything you don’t understand about that, detective?”

“No, sir.”

Brayden had become tight with the biotech company. In private, some PD personnel argued the chief had crossed the line. Word was that he had done
favors
for Genevive, had looked the other way when an infraction involved Genevive personnel. As it was, the company’s security rivaled a military post. It made Festus’s story of spying on them even more remarkable.

“It is not necessary to involve Genevive personnel in the Festus investigation. Determine his whereabouts first and notify me. Got it? And keep me posted.”

Halliday had expected the order. “I understand, sir.”

The lull signaled an end to the meeting. Halliday rose. “Anything else, sir?”

The chief, his eyes sunk in fleshy folds, juggled papers around for a moment. Without looking up, he said, “I’m sure you’ve heard the budget cut rumors. A small town like Santa Reina hardly warrants three detectives.”

Halliday, both feet planted with hands on hips, said, “Yes, I’ve heard the rumors.”

“A word to the wise. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If I were you I’d keep my nose extremely clean the next few weeks.”

The chief waved the document in the air. “You’re a damned good detective, John. I’d hate to lose you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” he said.

Halliday saw the handwriting on the wall. Senior Detective Leo Bergman was untouchable. Either he or Gladstone would get axed. The chosen candidate would have to transfer to Los Angeles, San Francisco, or Stockton, where he’d get a pay raise to match the stress. Any detective on a small force could consider a transfer to a big city police force a promotion. Rich Gladstone wouldn’t cut it as a detective in the big city. They’d transfer him to some bullshit department like the Office of Internal Affairs. Gladstone would fit into the political goings on at IAO just fine until he got lonesome for Santa Reina.

As for Halliday, everyone knew his qualifications overshadowed Rich Gladstone’s lack of experience.

However, no one would lose any sleep if Halliday left Santa Reina.