Tracking the Minotaur

CHAPTER 1

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Zhawar Kili Al-Badr, Afghanistan

August 25, 1998 

Mick Leatherby sat on the pile of rubble and drank from a silver flask. He took a long draw. The flask was stenciled with a regimental seal on the front side.

Leatherby was a fifty something Scotsman long since separated from the British Army. His last assignment in the army had been with the SAS.

Standing not far away, Sid Ericson surveyed the caves, forty-two by his count. They were reinforced with bricks. There was wiring and generators for electricity.

Ericson was eighteen years old. This was his first dance for Valley Forge Protective Services, Inc. or VFPS, Inc. A simple job really, a minor black ops job, not even a junior prom.

VFPS, Inc. was private security firm, based in Pennsylvania west of the national park, along Yellow Springs Road.

There was a sudden buzzing sound in the air. Sid Ericson grappled with his gear to get out his high tech binoculars.

He finally was able to lift them up to his blinking eyelids. The sweat was pouring down his forehead from under the sandy brown wool cap, making his eyes burn from the salt in the sweat.

Ericson scanned the horizon, the source of the buzzing was still a mystery. The desert was clear to his untrained eyes.

You are looking in the wrong direction and too low, Fawn, said Mick Leatherby, between gulps from the flask which seemed to be bottomless.

Mick Leatherby was mentoring Sid Ericson. The other vets told Sid to keep one eye open when they slept out in the field during the op. Old Mick liked his boys fresh and tender, they’d said with smirks.

Leatherby had been imbibing since the plane ride. He even took sips as they both parachuted down to sovereign Afghan territory, 10 klicks from this al-Qaeda training camp.

Fawn was Leatherby’s nickname for Ericson. Sid cringed every time it was spoken.

Days previously, U.S. Navy cruise missiles had pounded this training camp along with a pharmaceutical factory in the Sudan.

The buzzing sounds filling the air became more prominent. Ericson did a neat pirouette as he scanned the skies.

"It’s one of those bloody beta drones, Fawn. It’s coming out of the sun.

They’ll put us all out of business in a generation. For once, I am glad to be too old. I’ll not live to see our extinction.

A recon flight? asked Ericson.

Alec Station wants to make sure that I am not buggering you in one of the caves.

Alec Station was the CIA’s bin Laden tracking unit within the Counterterrorism Center back at Langley.

Ground level recon, plus search and destroy missions will always be an option, said Ericson with the conviction of youth. The human element will never become extinct in ops.

Mick Leatherby raised his silver flask in a mock salute. The rays of the early morning sun glinted off the metal.

Ground level recon, gaffed the Scotsman. What we have here before us is a perfect example in which to reinforce your argument. An ops virgin and a broken down Scot on perhaps one too many assignments.

What exactly is the purpose of this mission? asked Ericson. The CIA man who briefed us said that it was an open option recon.

Ah! snorted Leatherby. You caught that rather hazy mission objective, did you, Fawn? The real question is why the Agency did not want CIA personnel on the ground.

The answer?

It’s been five days since the cruise missile attack by your U.S. Navy. Suddenly the Alec Station wants that human element you just mentioned in play. But with an asterisk, Mate.

Subcontractors working for VFPS, Inc., instead of their own personnel. We are expendable. Plausible denial for Langley too.

Top marks, Fawn.

What are we supposed to find that concerns them so much?

Somebody back at Langley believes that something was left behind by the previous tenants, replied Leatherby. One final sweep by the expendables.

I searched all the caves. They have been cleaned out.

Try again, Fawn. When you are finished we will head for the LZ coordinates.

Sid Ericson found the vanilla file full of newspaper clippings in the tenth cave. Its edge was sticking out from under a large pile of loose bricks. He dug it out and brought it over to Leatherby.

Mick waved it off with an outward movement of his silver flask.

Scan the clippings, Fawn. See if there is a pattern.

There is stuff about planes.

Planes?

Yes, replied Ericson. Articles about something called the Bojinka Plot.

Ah, yes, responded Leatherby. "A couple of ragheads were going to orchestrate the take over of airliners in flight between Asia and America.

They actually thought that they could divert at least one of the planes and crash it into the Langley Campus in Virginia. Madness!

"Another is an article on the crash of SilkAir flight 185 in 1997 in December. Ninety- seven passengers and seven crewmen died. It was ruled as a suicide by pilot.

Some one has written a notation in pen. It says; why not fly the jet into a building full of people.

In English?

Yes, replied Ericson. There are a bunch of doodles all over the clippings of a messed up bull.

Doodles? A Bull? Hand over the file, Fawn.

Leatherby took the clippings. He gave them a cursory look at first. Then a second read over, flipping through the clippings so hard that they ripped at the edges

Minotaurs, he said in a whisper.

What?

These doodles as you call them are drawings of a creature from Greek mythology. The drawings are of a broken statue of a standing Minotaur dating back to ancient Greece. It is badly damaged, on display at a museum.

Mick Leatherby stared at the clear Afghan sky.

Heath-Jones said that he would trace over this particular Minotaur statue again and again with a thin piece of paper. It was in a book from the library at his public school. He finally could draw the broken statue from memory.

Who is this Heath-Jones? asked Sid Ericson.

Mick Leatherby dropped his silver flask onto the rubble. His precious Scotch Whiskey dribbled onto the dirt and rocks.

Good god, breathed Leatherby. It’s Raggles. He was here.

The Scotsman leaped off the pile of rubble. He ran eastward as he pulled out his satellite phone.

I shot up in my bed. The sheets and the pillow cases were drenched in sweat. I ripped the linen off the bed, letting the comforter fall to the floor.

I took the two sheets and the pillows to the outside deck of my house. My split level brick and wood house loomed high over the southern rim of Mission Valley.

I hung the sheets on the top rail. I separated the cases from the pillows. I hung the pillow cases out to dry like the sheets. I balanced the pillows on the top rail’s narrow flat surface.

I shed my boxers and tee shirt. I took a shower and put on a fresh white tee shirt and sweat pants. I grabbed a beer out of the old fridge.

I took it out onto the deck. Just as I lifted the can to my lips, one of the wet pillows tipped off the top rail and fell into the darkness far below.

Crap, I whispered.

I took a long drink of beer.

Who the hell is Raggles, I wondered aloud.

CHAPTER 2

I stood in the hallway, near my reception room door. It was later in the same morning. 9:10 a.m. on a Thursday.

Inside, I could hear a rhythmic tapping and a grunting sound.

A lone white male was seated in my reception room. I knew what he looked like since my office suite is flooded with wireless video cameras.

I was watching him right now on my smartphone, using the video app. The man was hunched down on the couch.

A fast food banquet was spread over a coffee table that he’d pulled close to where he now sat.

Earlier. I’d seen him pacing the hallway on one of the other video feeds accessible on the same screen.

The man was carrying a large bag and a big cup both stenciled with a fast food franchise logo.

I’d remotely unlocked the door to the hall via another app on my smartphone. He’d entered quickly after the door clicked open.

Once inside the reception room, the man went straight to the door marked private. Finding it locked, he’d settled onto the couch and begun chowing down.

He was still eating as I opened the door. I quickly stepped into the reception room.

My sudden entry caused him to stop in the middle of gorging a triple cheeseburger with all the toppings.

Shower flip flops on his dirty feet performed a couple of more taps on my varnished wood floor.

The thick burger hung in midair, but only for a split second. The man resumed eating as he stood up. There was a sweat mark on the faux leather cushion.

My visitor got shorter and wider as he became upright, turning into a 5’9’’ man, weighting well over two hundred pounds.

He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and none too healthy.

His face was covered with red blotches on pale skin. Jowly cheeks and thin lips added to his sub par appearance.

Thick brown hair on top of his head was unwashed and uncombed.

Dandruff and other particles were scattered in bunches on the slopping shoulders supporting a triple-X size black tee shirt. The tee shirt went down nearly to his knees.

His light gray sweats were losing a battle to contain his thick thighs and calves.

I see you went to one of those places where the entire menu is served all day, I said, eying the mess on the coffee table.

I missed breakfast, he said, thrusting the burger at me.

I doubted that, but let it pass with just a nod.

Are you Sidney Alan Ericson, the private investigator? he asked, pointing to the name printed on the outside of the hallway door.

I am, I replied, letting my brief answer hang in the air as I closed the door to the hallway and leaned against it.

My name is Frank Palmer, he announced. I want you to locate my mother.

Frank Palmer then casually dropped his burger onto my coffee table, splattering lettuce, onion bits and catsup in random patterns about the surface.

He grabbed for an extra large soda cup on the floor and began sucking violently on its straw.

You’ve misplaced your mother? I asked.

He stopped sucking on his straw, confused by my question.

I don’t understand, mumbled Palmer. Can we go inside and talk? he asked, looking towards the closed door, marked private.

The thought of having this specimen inside my personal office was out of the question.

Sit back down on the couch and finish your meal, Mr. Palmer.

I didn’t mean to eat here in your office. I was just so hungry. There’s no decent food in the house.

As he sat down, I heard slight sound of metal clanking together somewhere against his body.

Palmer jabbed his free hand into a pile of fries that was spread out on a napkin. A single napkin, so no doubt both the grease and the catsup from the fries was now staining deep into my coffee table.

I could perhaps redeem the cost of refinishing the table out of a consultation fee.

This meant that I would have to continue conversing with Frank Palmer for a little bit longer.

I let out an involuntary sigh.

CHAPTER 3

Frank Palmer’s head shot up as if suddenly remembering why he was in my office.

Call me Frank, he said while stuffing another wedge of the fries into his mouth.

Frank it is then, I replied. Do you believe that your mother is in some kind of trouble?

No, I don’t, at least not yet. It’s just that she has been out of touch since Monday.

And this is Thursday morning. More than enough of a time has passed for you to file a missing persons’ report with the police.

No. No! stuttered Palmer, quickly becoming agitated.

He started sucking on the straw of his big cup again, taking in copious amounts of soda as he stared at the floor.

Now, I must admit to being confused, Frank, I said.

About what?

Well, Frank. You tell me that your mother dropped off the radar on Monday. Three days later, you want to hire a private investigator instead of going to the police. Did you, perhaps inadvertently, have something to do with her disappearance?

My question ignited a spasm of fear in the eyes of Frank Palmer. He shot off the couch with such force that his belly dislodged the big soda cup from his hand.

The cup hit the edge of the coffee table, kicking off the lid. Soda spilled all over the couch, the table, and the carpet.

Palmer stared in horror at the ruined food on the coffee table. I heard the metal clanking sound again.

I love my mother, he said to a now soaked meal of a burger, fries and chocolate cake.

Frank.

There was no response as he continued to stare at the soggy mess. I walked over to where he stood.

Frank, I said, snapping my fingers in front of his face. Frank Palmer! I shouted.

He turned towards me with a vacant look in his eyes. He finally nodded.

Okay Frank. Sit back down on the couch and take some deep breaths.

He did so and was soon panting like a dog.

What is your mother’s full name, Frank? I asked after letting him ventilate for a few minutes.

Elizabeth Palmer, no middle name. People call her Beth.

Age?

She is sixty, actually closer to sixty-one.

Big like you?

No. I take after my father. Mother is small and petite, five foot and a hundred odd pounds.

Where is your father?

Oh, he has been dead for more than ten years.

How old are you, Frank?

I am thirty-eight.

Are there any brothers and sisters?

No, I am an only child.

That explains a lot, I said.

CHAPTER 4

Huh? asked Palmer.

Forget it, Frank. When did you last time you saw your mother before she dropped out of sight?

When she left the house in dad’s Mercedes. It was early on that very same Monday.

Driving dad’s Mercedes? This vehicle was owned by your late father?

Yes. It was his pride and joy. No one else could drive it. That model of the Mercedes is quite valuable. A sought after collector’s edition. We’ve been offered a great deal for....

And your mother still owns it? I asked, cutting him off.

Yes.

You said ‘when she left the house’; do you live with your mother?

Yes. We share a house in La Mesa.

So your mother left on Monday in dad’s Mercedes. How early?

It was a little past six a.m.

Where could she have been going at six in the morning?

Mother owns a bookstore.

And leaving for her bookstore at six a.m. is part of your mother’s normal routine?

"Yes. Her business survives through the online sale of books, VHS movies, old music CDs and vintage computer games.

Hard to find stuff. Items you can’t download. She often has to go in early to prepare shipments.

Why drive a valuable Mercedes to work? Does your mother own any other vehicles?

Yes. We have a Toyota SUV and a van. We park them at the house.

Which vehicle does your mother usually drive to the bookstore?

The van. It’s a Ford work van, white, about three years old, with ‘Palmer’s Books, Movies and CDs’ painted on the side.

Any clue as to why she would use the Mercedes this past Monday, Frank?

She drives the Mercedes to work sometimes and has it picked up to be serviced, offered Palmer. It’s returned later in the day and mother drives it back home.

You actually saw her leave in the car?

I heard the Mercedes pulling out of our driveway. I recognized the sound of the engine. I got out of bed and looked out of my window.

But did you actually see who was driving the Mercedes?

Well, no. By the time I got to the window it was headed down the street away from the house.

So you can’t be sure if your mother was driving or if she was even in the car for that matter.

I guess not.

Or if there was more than one person in the car.

That’s also true.

Or if there was somebody stuffed in the trunk.

CHAPTER 5

Palmer’s face went blank.

Frank, are you positive that your mother wasn’t a victim of a home invasion. Maybe even kidnapped while you were still asleep?

There are no signs of a home invasion, he answered. However, your suggestion of a kidnapping is new. I never thought of that possibility."

Is the house detached, on its own property?

Yes, said Palmer.

Have you made a thorough search of the garage, any out buildings? Is there shrubbery located on the property large enough to conceal a body?

Palmer went limp. I thought he was going to slide right onto the floor.

I think we should call in the police, Frank. They can return with you to the house.

There is more to the story, said Palmer.

Don’t let me stop you Frank.

I cancelled her cards, he whispered.

You did what, Frank?

I cancelled all of mother’s cards, Palmer replied. Her credit, debit, and ATM and gas cards.

Just exactly when did you shut down your mother’s plastic?

This past Monday, he answered. Around noon.

Just hours after you last saw her, or thought you saw her drive away from the house?

That’s another thing you need to know, Mr. Ericson. I was being evasive with you just a moment ago. Mother wasn’t going to the bookstore in dad’s Mercedes. At least that wasn’t her final destination.

CHAPTER 6

Where was she eventually headed, Frank?

She was driving up the coast to Monterey after first stopping off at her bookstore.

Alone?

No, she was traveling with a man.

Do you know his name?

Yes. It’s Thomas Sheffield. He likes to be called Tommy. She was going to meet Tommy at the bookstore. They were driving up to Monterey in separate cars.

Do you know where this Tommy character lives?

Yeah, with his wife. They have a big place in the Mission Hills area.

So you’ve been following him around, Frank?

Sort of. It’s tricky. Their street is a cul-de-sac with a private security patrol. Marburg Place. It’s hard to settle in. When he’s on the move, I often would lose Sheffield in traffic.

Yeah, a one man tail job can be a bitch, especially for an amateur. What can you tell me about Thomas Sheffield?

"He’s a big boy, strong, in shape, blond, late thirties, forty maybe. He spends a lot of time out in the sun.

Sheffield seems to have no real occupation other than having a good time. He owns a couple of boats docked at the marina on Coronado. He spends a lot of time at sea.

What kind of boats?

One with sails, the other is a powerboat. A big model with twin engines, double propellers, you know.

What does Sheffield drive?

Lately, a ‘68 Jag XKE, but he has other road toys.

How did he hook up with your mother?

It was the Mercedes. It has always been the Mercedes. The old fool thought he wanted her, said Palmer, shaking his head.

So Thomas Sheffield....

Tommy! shouted Palmer. He’s likes to be called Tommy! He’ll call the house and say: ‘Hi, this is Tommy, is your mom at home’, like they are teenagers.

So when did Tommy first become interested in the Mercedes?

It started three months ago. She happened to be driving the Mercedes that day. He approached mother at her bank, in the parking lot. Freaked her at first. She thought it was a stick up. Tommy offered to buy the car, right then and there.

No sale?

Palmer shook his head. Mother had no intention of selling it. She just wanted an excuse to stay in contact with Tommy. She was stringing him along.

How close did she get to Tommy?

Palmer first looked over at me to see if I was being sarcastic before replying.

He took her out to dinner a few times.

And?

"Okay. They began taking road trips, going places in their cars, using one of his vehicles or the Mercedes.

Tommy has a string of great rides besides the Jag: a Porsche, BMW, and a real nice fifties Vet.

So your mother and Tommy were pretty tight.

Actually I thought it had cooled off lately. Mother started to fret that he was tired of her. Tommy even seemed to lose interest in the Mercedes.

So you thought he had stopped banging mommy until this past Monday, is that it, Frank?

CHAPTER 7

It’s not like that? answered Palmer in a peevish tone.

"Come on, Frank. You don’t think they took separate rooms and went ‘Dutch’ on these road trips do you?

It sounds to me like this Tommy is a hustler who preys on older women. What was his ultimate goal in targeting your mother, Frank? If it was not sex or the car, what is he after?

Sheffield is out to build up a bankroll. From what I’ve been able to learn, he lives off his wife’s income.

Tommy is dogging your mother for cash? That wife of his seems to be giving him all the toys a man could want.

But not cold hard cash, countered Palmer. "Mother has been ‘loaning’ Tommy money, a little here, a little there. It’s starting to add up.

He finally convinced her to sell the Mercedes. That was the reason for the road trip using the two cars. They were going up to Monterey on Monday to a rare car auction.

How do you know that, Frank? Have you been eavesdropping on your mother’s phone conversations?

I just know, answered Palmer in the tone of an obstinate child.

What was he getting out of it?

He was supposedly just doing her a favor. I know that bastard is playing her somehow, said Palmer. Tommy is probably getting a kickback from the buyer.

I let Palmer stew over his anger and frustration.

She had no right to sell it, he finally said. Dad wanted the Benz passed down to me. Now no one will have the car. At least Tommy won’t make a dime off of it.

I went quickly over to where Palmer sat and grabbed one of his chubby arms, pulling him hard up from the couch.

Why, Frank? Why won’t Tommy make any money off the Benz?

You are hurting my arm, he whined.

I twisted his arm a little harder.

What are you leaving out, Frank?

A Sheriff’s deputy called me this morning, he replied. They found the Mercedes abandoned along Old Highway 80 near Jacumba.

Jacumba instead of Monterey? Maybe your mother had second thoughts about selling the Mercedes, Frank. She could have taken Tommy up there for a quiet, out of sight, consolation tryst.

No. You see the Mercedes was on fire when the deputies came upon it. A total loss.

Then how did they know the car was registered to Elizabeth Palmer?

The license plate from the back of the car had come off somehow and was away from fire. It was undamaged. They put the plate number in the system.

What did you tell the deputy?

I lied, blamed myself. I told him that I’d left the keys in the car and parked it in the driveway.

Did the deputy buy it?

He wanted to talk with mother. Her name is on the pink slip as the sole owner. She’s to contact them within twenty-four hours.

And when your mother doesn’t call the Sheriff’s Department, the deputy will get suspicious, right, Frank?

He nodded.

And you are worried that eventually some detectives may be coming by the house and asking you some difficult questions. Is that why you are so nervous Frank?

Yes, he admitted.

Have you even bothered contacting an attorney?

No.

Family friends or business associates of your mother’s?

You are the first one I’ve told about this mess.

I smiled. That was a smart move, Frank.

Palmer nodded again, this time more vigorously.

CHAPTER 8

I let go of Palmer’s arm. He dropped down onto the couch.

Let’s talk motive, Frank. Money usually tops the list. If the law gets involved, the detectives will focus on you. A man who is still mentally a boy. One of those ‘failure to launch’ types.

Palmer gave me a hurt look.

Sorry to offend Frank, but it’s time for blunt talk. Dad’s Mercedes. You claim that your father has been dead for ten years, yet your mother could afford to keep a collectable parked in the garage. Is her online business that profitable?

No. Mother runs it just to keep busy. It’s a pennies profit type of business.

So where then is the real cash flow coming from Frank?

"Dad operated a string of liquor stores in Southern California. After his death, the stores and the land they were on were sold by the executors of the estate.

A trust was set up. Mother lives off the trust until her death. After that, the trust is dissolved and I get everything.

What do you get now, Frank?

A lousy debit card with a limit, he answered bitterly.

Who refills it? The trustees?

No. Mother transfers funds onto the card from her own account.

So everything goes through her? You live off the whims of your mother?

Yes.

That is, until her death.

A reason for killing her, you mean?

Yes, Frank, that is what I mean.

You are forgetting about Tommy, said Palmer.

Tommy? Is this Thomas Sheffield in the trust?

No.

Could your mother divert the trust to him through a will of her own?

No.

"So what is his connection with your mother except that he might have wanted to buy her car? Or, as a favor, he offered to help her sell the Benz, perhaps for a commission.

"Maybe he was bedding her too, taking handouts. Sounds like Tommy would want to keep her alive.

You, on the other hand, admit to canceling her plastic. It looks like you were trying to push her into a showdown over Tommy draining the estate money. Maybe the cops will think there was a showdown and it became violent.

No! protested Palmer, in a desperate voice. Nothing like that ever happened.

"If that is true, Frank, then the lie to the Sheriff’s Department this morning was a big mistake.

"The detectives might see the burning Mercedes as the endgame to a conflict that has been developing between a parent and her son.

That would be you Frank, the lone child. An adult male who is financially dependant on her.

What do you mean by endgame?

"There was an argument late last night or early this morning up in Jacumba. It started over your tampering with her cards. It soon involved her relationship with Sheffield.

"It disintegrated into an act of rage by the son. You murdered Elizabeth Palmer and destroyed the Mercedes. The insane revenge of a dysfunctional son.

"Then that pathetic explanation this morning about the car to the Sheriff’s deputy in an attempt to cover-up your crime.

A court appointed head doctor would have a field day with you Frank. I can already see some issues and I’ve only been talking with you for a few minutes.

I stopped talking. I let him alone to stew in his own thoughts. Palmer was imaging sitting in a room with a shrink, trying to explain it all.

Who gave you the idea to cancel the cards, Frank? I finally asked, when I thought enough time had passed.

He turned away from me, staring into space.

CHAPTER 9

Do you really want to be grilled by the cops and those assistant DA’s? I persisted. "Even if you ‘lawyer up’ and work out a deal, you will have to fuss up about how you were able to cancel your mother’s plastic.

Give me some names, Frank. Let me do some background checks. It will give you leverage with the cops.

Palmer liked this idea. He saw an angle.

Well you see, I have this friend, he answered. He got into mother’s electronic devices.

All of them?

Everything. Her tablet, laptop, and smartphone.

When?

Weeks ago.

This friend is a hacker?

Yes.

I want a name, Frank.

Argon, he answered, smiling.

Real names, Frank, I am in no mood for games.

That is the only name I know him by, Mr. Ericson. Honest.

Honest, I sneered. That’s rich coming from you, Frank. What does this Argon look like?

I have his picture on my phone.

Palmer leaned to one side on the couch and took out a slim, cutting-edge smartphone from the right pocket of his sweats.

I heard the rattling of metal for a third time. It was coming from beneath the triple-X size tee shirt that hung down over his waist.

He played with the phone’s buttons and then turned the phone so I could see the screen. A picture of a muscle-bound cartoon figure, armed to the teeth, was displayed.

That’s Argon, said Palmer.

Your hacker friend is an animated fantasy character? Really? Do you want me to end this interview, Frank?

No, he is a real person. This is a screenshot from the web. I play team shooter games online. We communicate with each other anonymously under the shield of our character names and avatars only, no real identities.

So you let online gamers hack into your mother’s devices. Yet you have no real clue of their true identities?

It’s safer that way.

My head was about to explode.

So you let this Argon take over your mother’s private world?

Palmer nodded. "It was easy. She left everything in a document file, including all the security questions.

Her passwords were all the same, simply ‘password’. The cards were cancelled online on Monday.

"The credit card companies would have called immediately. I assumed you changed the phone number attached to the accounts so the calls came to you or your accomplice.

There still was the need for someone to impersonate your mother’s voice, or at least, a woman’s voice.

Argon had a woman standing by, ready to answer the new number when the card companies and the bank called to verify the cancellations.

So your buddy knows the protocol. I assume this was a fellow gamer, a female avatar.

Palmer giggled as he fingered his phone. He then turned the screen my way. A physically well endowed woman was on the screen.

"Her name is Jasmine. Fortunately, they don’t have voice imprints or scanners as a part of their security protocol, not yet anyway.

Each company only knew of the cancellation of their own card. It would have been an invasion of privacy for them to track my mother’s other accounts, or at least, to admit to doing so in court.

Sounds like you’ve been planning this for a while, Frank.

Mother thought she could sneak out Monday morning while I was asleep, said Palmer with a mixture of anger and satisfaction in his voice. "I knew what she was up to thanks to my hacker friends.

So you’ve been tracking her movements. Including any calls, text messages, et cetera, between her and Tommy. That’s how you learned about their plan to put the Mercedes up for auction at the car show in Monterrey?

Exactly, said Palmer in a smug voice. So I acted.

When was the last time your mother used any of her devices?

She hasn’t accessed anything since Sunday.

Your mother made no calls Monday morning?

No. We cloned her phone too.

Neither before nor after she left home for the last time in the Mercedes?

No calls. I am sure.

Zero communications? Not even with Sheffield?

I’ve been monitoring her devices closely. There has been no contact with Tommy or anyone else since the weekend via her devices.

Does she have a second mobile phone?

Not that I know of, he replied.

When did your mother last use her credit and debit cards before you had them cancelled?

On Saturday.

I nodded, deep in thought. Wait here Frank.

I unlocked my private office and went inside. I returned carrying a yellow legal pad and a felt tipped pen. I handed them to Palmer.

Give me all the addresses.

What do you mean by all the addresses? asked Palmer.

Are you really this dumb or are you playing me Frank?

I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Ericson.

Do you really want me to find your mother?

Yes.

"Then I’ll need the addresses of placed where she might have gone since your saw her drive off on Monday morning.

"Be sure to include the street and number of your house, the Sheffield place in Mission Hills and your mother’s bookstore.

Give me all the phone numbers, cell and landline for the house and bookstore. And don’t forget any links to your avatar friends, including emails and IP addresses.

Please keep Jasmine out of this mess.

Just start writing, Frank.

CHAPTER 10

Palmer shifted away from the wet spot on the couch. He put the legal pad on his knee and started scribbling away. I took out my smartphone and started composing a text message.

When did you first hook up with Argon, Jasmine and the other players on these online shooter teams? I asked, while continuing to text on my phone.

Three months ago, he answered.

About the same time Tommy hooked up with your mother?

Palmer stopped writing on the legal pad and looked up at me.

Do you think there is a connection?

I shrugged. It’s possible. How many team members have you connected with online?

Over a dozen, but it gets hazy since the same person can assume a variety of online names and hide behind different avatar images.

Who suggested hacking into your mother’s accounts and tracking her movements?

I talked about my money problems online with the team members and one thing lead to another, answered Palmer.

I gave him a pitying look. Have you been over to your mother’s bookstore, Frank?

No, he replied. I don’t have a key.

Is there an alarm?

Yes. I don’t know the entry code.

You just said that your mother kept every password on her devices in plain sight.

Except the store code, he answered.

After a few more minutes, Palmer handed me the legal pad. I read over what he had written.

Your mother’s store is on Braxston Court?

It’s in the North Park area.

You didn’t write down any street numbers?

There are none. Mother’s store is located in a warehouse built on a small patch of unincorporated land. I better show you on the satellite map.

Frank Palmer accessed the app on his smartphone. I looked over his shoulder, making sure I didn’t get too close. He was scanning an area below Robinson Avenue, between I-163 and Park Blvd.

There, he said, letting me look at the map image on his phone.

But that only indicates a Braxston Lane off of Kelmore Court.

Frank Palmer smiled. "And it’s no longer than half a football field before it dead ends. To the left of that dead end is a dirt road.

"That is Braxston Place. It runs thirty yards until a chain link fence. Inside the fence is another dirt road that the owners call Braxston Court.

A dirt tract running along the outside of the fence is called Braxston Terrace. You won’t see any road signs.

Someone went to a lot of trouble to name non existent streets, I said.

Palmer shrugged his shoulders. It was probably some over zealous land developer decades ago.

I took out my own phone. I found Braxston Lane on the satellite map. On its north side, I saw small plots of land, each with an identical looking single level house.

To the south, Braxston Lane bordered an area of mostly undeveloped land that jutted out into a warped, upside down shaped ‘V’ pattern until it dropped off into two canyons that intersected at that point. It was maybe a couple of acres in size.

Where the tree line coming down from Braxston Lane ended, I could detect a number of buildings scattered on open land.

There was a group of small square shaped units arranged in a semicircle with a rectangular indentation in front, just south of the tree line.

Down at the bottom tip of the reversed ‘V’ there was a large, shingled building. On the western side of this ‘V’ was a line of black topped buildings.

At the center of the ‘V’ there was about half an acre or so of undeveloped, treeless land, gutted with holes of varying sizes. A wall, falling down in many places, surrounded this area.

CHAPTER 11

Show me your mother’s store, Frank.

Palmer pointed to the black roofed buildings on the western part of the property.

You are looking at a row of old brick warehouses. Mother rents the first one, he said. The owners lease them out dirt cheap.

Who are the other tenants?

"Right next door to mother’s space is the online stamp and coin outlet run by two geeks, rare stamps and coins for collectors.

"Down from them is the yarn lady. She sells yarn in bulk and needlepoint patterns.

"Next is the tool guy. He sells all sorts of tools, all sizes, for all sorts of jobs.

Last in line are the three rare poster ladies. All do the bulk of their sales online.

"I can understand the books, games and the music discs that your mother sells. The tool salesman and poster ladies make sense.

Why do yarn sellers and stamps and coin dealers need a warehouse space?

Like I said, the monthly rent on leases is very low, replied Palmer.

I wonder why?

Frank just gave me his dumb look again.

What are these other buildings on the west side of the property?

"The large building along the edge of the canyon is an old casino and hotel from the 1920s. You know, bootleg alcohol and illegal gambling.

"The smaller units near the trees are additions to the hotel built later, when they tried to revive the place. That big hole in front was a swimming pool.

You can also see traces of tennis courts, long gone. They separated the warehouses from the hotel grounds with a brick wall that’s now falling down in many places.

I see traces of the wall starting from the other side of the old casino-hotel going towards the east side of the property.

That was once the main entrance. Beyond that was a wood bridge. It burned down decades ago. There are more trees on the other side, making entry impossible from that end.

So it’s Braxston Lane to Place to Terrace. Then a chain link fence. Inside the entry will be Braxston Court. Is that the only way inside to reach your mother’s bookstore?

Yes.

When I drive up what will I see starting at the chain link fence?

"There is a security booth with Johnny, the guard inside. If you are lucky. He’s a joke.

Mother gets furious when the gate isn’t unlocked when she arrives in the morning. It happens a lot. Mother complains to Mr. Jenkins.

Who is he?

Mr. Jenkins is the property manager.

Who’s his boss?

He works for Santori Real Estate. They own the property.

Show me the locations for the Sheffield house and your place on the satellite maps.

We finished getting the locations so I could find them on my own smartphone. I turned to Palmer.

There’s one final item of business to attend to, Frank. What about my fee?

Fee?

CHAPTER 12

You want to shift the attention onto Thomas Sheffield before the police get involved any deeper than a burned out Mercedes. Am I correct?

Yes.

Saving your ass is going to take some quick footwork, Frank. So stop playing dumb with me. I don’t work gratis.

So can you help me out? he asked in a whiny voice.

Maybe, I answered. "Right now, all the Sheriff’s Department has is a burned out car registered in Elizabeth Palmer’s name.

When your mother doesn’t call, the deputy will be pissed Frank. He’ll want to finish his report on what he believes is a routine incident. A car fire.

What will he do next? asked Palmer.

"He’ll call you back, asking WTF. You can try and bullshit him again or simply block his call. Either way, the deputy will become more