Greenlighting Brennan
Brian Duggan
On August 3, 2009, Raul Sanchez scrutinized a police car weaving in and out of traffic. Anger tinged with envy faded as his six-foot frame surveyed yellow, sun-seared metal. This job was far from the fifteen-week study he’d completed with honors that had trained a high school graduate for criminal investigation duty in field units of the US Army Criminal Investigation Command. He had almost given up any hope of someone in the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department (LVMPD) would rescue his employment application.
If luck held up this job meant a paycheck, an end to the sleazy Plush Poodle Motel accommodations and most of all, freedom for a twenty-two year old veteran of the Army’s Third Infantry Division smothered by a VA recovery program. His anxiety about the dangers of unfamiliar air-conditioning in a civilian Caterpillar D7H dozer proved well founded—it was not just a body being lulled to sleep—the newly learned psychic defenses were missing in action.
He plunged his face into cold air that gushed from vents. Metal holding tinted glass moaned as he nervously fanned his wet crew cut. He watched the engine’s exhaust twist like a purple ribbon when a dust devil descended on the Green Zone, but slapped his face until he again saw tourists entering Las Vegas’ casinos.
Over there he had learned to respect an inner sentinel, intuition’s whisper that had guided him around unseen hazards. It had almost cost him this opportunity; he had balked at accepting Fenton’s job offer, something about the guy didn’t feel right. Fear of a life in Calexico’s barrio had won out, Rosanna was right. “The job was a stepping stone to respectability—you take it.”
An hour later, the body was engaged but the brain drifted. A weak premonition had intensified into an undeniable fact, danger lurked under the dozer gorging asphalt miles from Baghdad’s IUDs. He had heard from a soldier on the Strip that the Green Zone was now called the International Zone, Streets in Baghdad where coalition planners lived as they engineered an unlikely democracy were now more heavily guarded.
Sanchez remembered what a Baghdad resident, who had peddled heroin to his outfit, had said about a time before the American bombing when tree-lined boulevards carried every kind of transport from mule to eighteen-wheeler. Saddam Hussein’s palaces would need vertical height and over-the-top exteriors to resemble Las Vegas’ ornate playground, but images warped by heat rising from the sand conspired against certainty.
Suddenly, the polished blade struck concrete. Stepping outside, he saw splintered wood and fluttering fabric. Pink and gray stripes of cloth triggered paralysis. He’d seen this before when Baath Party residents in early 2003 had looted Saddam’s palaces in the Green Zone. He’d watched a militant urinate on a U.S. infantry man’s corpse before shredding an American flag.
The sight of a parked dozer propelled Wayne Fenton’s pickup. Neither a blaring horn nor dust raised by a skidding stop had an effect; Sanchez was shut down, the dozer soon followed.
“Get your ass in gear, Sanchez!”
“Hell no, I found flag!”
Sanchez kept his back to Fenton examining pieces of an American flag and moved to the blade. His hands explored concrete blocks, splintered wood, shredded flag and sand. Fenton saw a face frozen in fear as Sanchez fell backwards with a hand stuck to a human skull. He scampered away on hands and heels like a crab. Fenton lifted Sanchez to his feet and flipped the fleshless head on its side with a boot.
Worms fled from unwelcomed light into eye sockets to join a writhing mass within. A slug-like creature entered a hole above the left eye socket in line with missing bone at the back.
“This parking lot of yours is a G.I. graveyard.”
“Dig on the Strip and you find losers. The dummy must have pissed off the mob.”
“He’s wrapped in our flag. I’m calling the cops.”
“I wouldn’t do that; this guy’s got strings attached.”
At 8 P.M. Fenton walked by the empty dozer near rotating HAZ-MAT lights. Casino workers, day laborers and tourists gawked at shadows inside a tent where the Clarke County Coroner wore a facemask and radiation badge as he shifted sand. Bones passed a ticking Geiger counter under Sanchez’s scrutiny.
“Is he hot?”
“Maybe, but I always work far from the public. This was all downwind when the Army tested warheads in the fifties. You’re hearing radioactive fill used on the Strip.”
“What’s happens to me now?”
The coroner looked at the young facial appearance assembling a flag-puzzle. “You’re still missing stars forget about that our homicide detective has a few questions.” He motioned with his eyes that Sanchez’s job had ended. Two policemen closed as Sanchez returned the coroner’s missing clipboard. The mystery had been partially solved: male, late-forties and likely cause of death, one .45 caliber bullet through the brain.
“Did you take anything else?”
“Can we speak privately, Sir?”
Sanchez waited until the last policeman left, but he was lost for words, fearing the wrong one would mean permanent unemployment.
“I don’t want any trouble, but the guy who hired me heard a rumor about the burial.”
“What was it?”
Silence followed sagging shoulders. A lowered head watched boot push sand into a ridge. The coroner waited, and then a frown meant he’d seen enough. After another agonizing minute, the boot rested and a hand dug into a pants pocket. The corroded dog tag fell to the coroner’s hand as the other summoned uniforms.
“I figured he was Army, but I was wrong.”
“The Navy finds Joffre...you steal his dog tags...let’s hear that rumor?”
“Can’t we forget about that?”
“You’re on your way to meet Brennan.”
Inside the tent a blue suit cast a dull reflective sheen—evidence of too many pressings—on Brennan’s polished head. The whisper Sanchez heard was loud, “don’t trust this man.” To his surprise, Daniel Brennan proved accommodating. The interrogation took place in Little Caesar’s, a disheartened relic amid the glitz of a constantly changing Las Vegas.
Sanchez suppressed giggles as he followed an expansive posterior and swaying ponytail. He watched as Brennan beheld a bloated five and one-half foot reflection in the glass door that dipped to straighten a red tie. A wink erupted from the slit above a rosy jowl as Brennan lifted a kitten. “I’d buy this guy a drink if she served cow juice in her dump.”
Each shifted his eyes as they entered. Seeing no windows and a padlocked back door, Sanchez’s only option was to give the rotund man a snow job. Vanna White and Pat Sajack mumbled from a wedge-shaped overhead speaker tied to a blinking coin-operated screen that recreated Wheel of Fortune. A blob of wax inside a lava lamp cast a glow that crawled across paper plates smothered in popcorn.
Brennan had taken his time mounting the stool before the cocktail table and was fully aware of her gaze. “I’ll take my usual, Cherie.” Sanchez scanned the novelties: penny slots enthralling white-haired grannies, an abused craps table enticing unfortunates and cracked ceiling fans blending the odor of cigarettes, burnt butter and saccharine laced lemonade. Brennan mopped his wet brows and sniffed his palms; Old Spice had weathered the storm. He fished a cigarette from a crushed pack and continued.
“Get to that rumor. I’m ready to roll film.”
“What?”
“Life’s a heap of flicks, but this case has the makings of a great screenplay. Look at the setup for your big scene, perfect props and crew.”
Brennan saw Sanchez’s nostrils enlarge while his hands tightened. As if half listening, Sanchez turned away, intent on arranging plastic cutlery. He was reaching to his left to recruit additional paper napkins when a swift hand sent food flying. Brennan moved closer.
“I’m not really sure...what he said.”
“Son, I’m a fifty-seven year old policeman who’s not in the mood for bullshit.”
“I think he was fooling around, Sir.”
“Don’t Sir me. You sound like a pussy instead of ex-Army grunt...the dialog stinks.”
Sanchez studied dribbled popcorn on a shirt stretched thin by a distended belly. This character was not only untrustworthy; he was hazardous to one’s health.
“The main course is getting though the scene without changing locations. Studio heads mess with my talent if we take this downtown.”
“Well, the guy that hired me—”
“Get something straight; detail defines great art. Wayne Fenton is fifty something and sprouts hairy arms from work uniforms. He struts around in scruffy, steel-tipped, work boots. Think Sly Stallone in Paradise Alley without that fucking hat. This is a low-budget black and white, a Who-Dun-It with characters so real they outshine fiction.”
“I get it; you’re that fat Anglo, Alfred Doublechin. I borrowed a cellphone to call in that burial, so if there’s reward money, I’ll play your game.”
“Talk money later, the name you butchered trolling for comedic relieve is Alfred Hitchcock. Your ex-boss at Castle Construction, Wayne, is in front of a camera now. The studio is looking for clues on Horizon Drive in Henderson to explain the Navy skull. Since he’s tied to a known prostitute, he’ll spend time in jail till he recalls details—don’t you like me?”
“I’d have to think about that.” Brennan grinned. “You’re a righty that looks left, so you make up answers on the fly. The back story says that in a second enlistment you fried your brains so my military equivalent tossed you from the ranks to push dirt. You were trained in police work, so I’ll offer professional courtesy provided you left your mama with bigger balls than hers.”
Sanchez wrapped his hands around Brennan’s suit lapels. “Look in my eyes, Alfred. I started a civilian job and dug up a military officer. Then I lost that job respecting a code you don’t understand. I fry brains, but I don’t let frogs with a badge and ponytail dump on me.”
He never saw the fist.
2
Sanchez awoke amid lemonade boarding with napkins plastered to his face.
“I thought you’d cashed in your chips.”
“No, but you’re carrying my marker.”
“Well said and now I’ll take that rumor off your hands and Christ—clean up that...blood.”
Brennan thought Sanchez acted as if being laid out on the deck, although unexpected, seemed necessary, maybe justified. He watched a persistent Sanchez tongue round up a tooth. “Fenton said not to call the police. The guy came with strings attached.”
Brennan picked Sanchez up one-handed and quickly motioned for prying extras to carry on. Sanchez’s tooth hit the lamp and then Brennan assaulted his cellphone’s keypad. He took in the hushed room and settled on a red-haired man about to take their picture.
“Put that away or I’ll plant that where the sun never shines.” The man nodded and lowered a disposable camera. He adjusted designer eyeglasses and took a corner table. When Brennan finished his phone conversation, he had two lit cigarettes.
“So, the deceased was French with a family. They lived in La Jolla next to known twins raised by a widow drowning in booze. The Feds think the shooter is Dennis Hollister, the twin who disappeared in 1984 along with that corpse you found. You’ve thawed a case that’s been in the NCIS freezer for years—jurisdiction could be dicey—but in spite of that I thank you.”
Brennan’s face glowed in a friendly way and a smile crept to one corner of his mouth to a woman who held ice cubes. The ice server’s right hand rested on her hip. She wore a black silk blouse and matching slacks. Gray hair was drawn back and secured with a pink ribbon in the back. In front, a border of blond hair arched over masqueraded eyes that registered awareness of beauty still inviting male inspection.
“The NCIS, that’s a Navy outfit?”
“Thank the lady after she drops my special seer. We’re talking about the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, trained agents, investigators and forensic experts. They’re like your old Army outfit. They swing into action if Navy personnel fall victim to foul play. The NCIS got active when Joffre disappeared. Since he wasn’t found, they declared his disappearance a judiciable action under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
“So, if I can wangle the lead in the Cold Case Detail—”
“Why would you have to...wrangle it?”
“Don’t strain that brain.”
“Wait a minute; you investigated this murder before, didn’t you?”
Brennan’s eyes widened and he rubbed his face in an attempt to contain amazement.
“You’re good, Sanchez. The case you dug up fits every cold case heading: unsolved, unresolved—meaning suspects known and suspected but not successfully prosecuted and unidentified—meaning whoever grew that skull hasn’t been formally identified.”
He knew the questions Sanchez would ask: where did the murder occur, who owned the gun and where was it now? Clark County had already contacted the NCIS and FBI. Continued FBI interest would be due to the desire of Joffre’s son-in-law, the good twin Bradley Hollister, to bring the perpetrator to justice himself. The LVMPD stood by ready to examine dirt where the coffin had laid, substances on its splintered wood, the manufacturer and last owner.
When forensic materials came to the NCIS’ lab, a new round of scrutiny would reveal microscopic debris: pollen in the flag and pathology in the body. After positive identification was made Brennan hoped the NCIS would ask the LVMPD’s Cold Case Detail for help. A prosecutorial reason existed why jurisdiction would remain with the NCIS. If the perpetrator was an active military member at the time of the crime, the individual would be charged under the UCMJ. If not, then under federal statute in either California or Nevada.
As Brennan organized details in his head, Sanchez raced to a conclusion. The rules of evidence within federal and state systems were compatible with the UCMJ, so Brennan stymied earlier by a missing corpse might solve the case, but only if Sanchez ended Brennan’s Hollywood whimsy. When the time came for prosecution in civilian courts, unlike the military, elected officials would rule the day. Sanchez wondered if friends in high places would assist Brennan. As if a mind reader, Brennan’s smile widened to prompt greater caution.
“I pulled your military record when I saw that second job application. You want to be an understudy?” A jaw dropped under intense eyes. “I get back to criminal work and earn serious money?” Brennan slurped popcorn, swallowed and raised confirming eyebrows.
“An honorable discharge paved the way. I’m making a dicey bet. Stay clean or you’ll leave your four-star accommodations for a lean-to in Calexico—don’t pull any crazy shit.”
Sanchez, sensing he teetered on the brink of a colossal mistake, followed Brennan’s gaze to the opening back door. He didn’t see the film about to be screened in Brennan’s brain; the scene had been sent to the cutting room floor years earlier but could reappear in an instant.
The woman in the flashback, a much younger ice server, named Brigitte arrived at the bed. Her tanned body devoid of white zones was all curves. The scent of lavender blossoms from imported French soap rendered him helpless. Her hand held a sketchpad ready for charcoal to draw a naked male. The camera moved from Brennan’s scarred shoulder pass his buttocks to a closeup on two books at his feet, Kama Sutra and The Alchemy of Ecstasy.
Her hand held a lofty chin. Full lips had parted to expose flawless teeth. Childlike sniggers condensed into malicious laughter. “True love...Le véritable amour. If that’s what you need, look in your own bed, it isn’t found in my books. We French call your kind of love Luxure. The American word is vulgar, mindless lust. Haven’t you read Euripide? One play, his Electra, interests the Joffre child. It would a good gift, yes? Much better than Freud’s tale, no?”
Their night together would be all business. She was correct; he had a wife primed for lovemaking, but he was never interested. The unwelcomed flashback ended when a man entered. Brennan raised a smile and welcoming hand.
“That’s FBI agent Bradley Hollister, Joffre’s son-in-law...the good twin.”
Sanchez hoped after the day’s events, that whatever this Hollister offered would be helpful. A glance at Brigitte’s distressed expression granted the wish. Brennan’s cellphone speaker told the table that the NCIS was leading the reopened investigation. The burial would be at Arlington Cemetery when the NCIS released Joffre’s remains.
Bradley looked as if he was trapped. Brown eyes flashed from Bridgette to a tempting front door while Sanchez wondered if the fat movie director grinning at the square-jawed, forty-five year old with an athletic build knew how inadequate he looked. Brennan learned when Bradley without a word said, stood up and darted outside. The closing door ended Bradley’s derisive laughter as a hand swiped Sanchez’s paper napkin.
“Listen up, Brigitte Fenton, Wayne’s mother, is far from an average hooker. In fact she’s too intelligent for that body or her own good. She drew well-heeled Johns: politicos, high rollers, Hollywood types and military bigwigs.”
Sanchez made notes on another paper napkin and pressed ice to a swollen lip.
“No paper notes, we’ll use the department PCs.”
“Sure, but Brad Pitt plays the Fed who spooks Bridgette.”
“That’s right, you can handle the casting. My retirement bets are off. I’m going to get a greenlighted production out of this if we find a way around the studio heads downtown.”
His first inkling in the tent had been right on the money; Brennan was a lonely man with major issues, who would never be trusted, only scrutinized from a safe distance.
***
Two days later, Bradley adjusted his binoculars in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii to sync the sight of a gray steeple atop Mokuaikaua Church with the sound of traffic from a small collapsible antenna. He paced like a caged animal convinced somehow he’d find a better vantage point before training the binoculars on the window where two shadows might have passed in the background.
He filled his lungs to capacity before fingers drew the window closer. The target lifted sunglasses past a ragged beard onto long brown hair compressed by a headband. Blue eyes inspected silver hairs that poked from sun ripened shoulders. There was a suspicion that his twin might lurk behind the arms folded in front of the figure, but on second thought he’d never folded his arms like that or stayed in one spot before.
Time had fled but not hatred and Bradley knew that emotion could stifle logic. Fenton had called one phone on the Big Island; the one inside this condo occupied by a local skipper named Ross Dodds, the man under scrutiny. Dodds stood in flip flops below a white windbreaker and black swimming trunks. He stepped outside to the edge of the balcony to lay a bronze key on crimson. The glinting metal was believed a necessary but mysterious element required to sustain the poinsettia’s red leaves. On the Big Island poinsettias grow into fifty-foot trees from lava that erupt from Kilauea Volcano.
Soon after, Bradley watched Dodds take refuge in the shadow of a banyan tree. It was there that he admitted to himself that he’d never stopped loving Michelle Joffre. Her almond eyes emerged from under black hair following the passage of a quick hand. Beneath the bikini’s encumbered halter top a flat stomach vanished into a low rise bikini bottom. She bit the stem of an orange plumeria flower and rejoiced as teardrop-shaped pedals fell to kiss her feet.
Michelle’s fingertips worked the Nikon to bring the butterfly wings into sharp focus. Time hadn’t changed the high school freshman who still captured hearts. She’d kept her peculiar set of secret rituals and beguiling traits. Why Mikala—that’s what Michelle had been called on their honeymoon on the Big Island—was where she was on that last morning troubled Bradley.
The thought of that name—Mikala—brought mental pictures to mind: bra strap pulling in hallways and carrying books to a house underneath the Stars and Stripes that she called her Presidio. Wipeout Beach’s swirling currents and rocks teeming with kelp and seaweed led to a secret cave and addictive pleasure. The thought of Michelle’s father, a tyrant in naval attire who had returned again to rule their world ended Bradley’s reminiscence.
Michelle placed her camera in a backpack and trailing children and teenaged male admirers had set out toward available umbrellas. She took no notice of Dodds hiding behind West Hawaii Today, but inside she rejoiced knowing opposites attract and thankfully radically different people had even become soul mates.
Each had a private domain; Michelle retreated to her world of flowers and childish concealment. The multiple shapes, smells and colors of flowers had never lost their appeal. One universally loved flower, the rose—whose thorns had punctured baby fingers—didn’t exist.
Dennis, a shy and determined introvert, hid behind imposed frustration. No matter how hard he tried he had never found success. It looked as if that was Bradley’s unique birthright. Surprisingly, he had impersonated Bradley bowing to kiss her hand at their junior prom only to leave in tears with a cracked rib. An implausible rivalry ended when Bradley wed Michelle.
Blossoms waged their battle with brewed Kona coffee as Bradley hid from view behind shrubs. Listening to his bikini-clad schemer charm Hawaiians with her French inflection near a dull-witted twin deepened his resolve to end her suspected betrayal quickly.
“Where do you come from?”
“I’m from Santa Catalina, an island in California much smaller than yours.”
“You have children, Lady?”
“Yes, two boys, older than you.”
The children were Pierre, a graduate student at San Diego State, and Claude, a college dropout living in St. Gratien outside Paris. Michelle’s home above Avalon was the Joffre legacy; she was the sole beneficiary mentioned in his will. Bradley’s sadness on seeing Michelle was mounting—loss suppressed attraction—until he heard “Mikala, let’s talk.” Bradley faced new challenges: a missing father-in-law had surfaced, a lost twin had replaced an identity and an ex-wife had forced him to alter a plan.
“Could that be Bradley Hollister actually reading?”
“You’re wrong, Lady that’s Captain Dodds.”
“No, this man is my savior.”
***
In Las Vegas, a wall clock showed 11:45 A.M. within the LVMPD. The narrow office held two gun-gray metal chairs, a matching filing cabinet and a desk burdened with file folders, a loaded ashtray and cast-aside socks. Brennan straddled a chair observing a computer monitor encased in pizza crusts at the edge of a desk. Arms cushioned the chair back supporting a saggy chin as he scanned rolling text through cigarette smoke. Light streamed through a torn curtain followed him. He evaded it by gouging linoleum at annoying intervals.
Brennan hadn’t looked up when a deputy seated Fenton. He deftly gathered the curtain in one hand while he pried several paperclips open with fingers and teeth to poke the straightened wire through fabric. Metal sutures created a slice of daylight that landed on a scalp, bloated waist and a reddened big toe. He didn’t see Fenton’s face but he knew apprehension had been nurtured.
“Speak to me, Brennan what’s going on in that head?” The reply, a disinterested yawn, was transparent. “I want a lawyer...I know my rights.” In the ensuing silence an oscillating fan brought whiffs of stale pizza and damp socks amid grunts. The computer’s mouse scrolled a newspaper article in tormenting indifference to Fenton since Brennan had already left the room.
The sun had just set and the camera lens framed a yellow crescent rising above a scarlet line where sky met water. It was dusk on July 19, 1984 in Pacific Beach, a coastal town bordering La Jolla. Seventy feet below the junction of Mission and Diamond the first act was drawing to a close. The camera crew rode a dolly mounted on rails to close in on the couple reaching a shared climax on a white blanket bearing the blue letters N-A-V-Y. Behind the couple ice plants climbed a wall of gritty brown sandstone; extras were lining up.
“Ask me something—you need a favor. When my mother shows up she’ll file a complaint with the signatures of her regulars at Little Caesar’s. You hit a patron; they all saw it.”
“The youthful daughter should have been Natalie Wood; she was born to play this role. I’ll have to ask Chris Walken and RJ Wagner about that.”
Brennan had reluctantly decided to cast Angelina Jolie in the role, although he hated surgically inflated lips. The camera saw a shadow approach and then Michelle went rigid as her widened pupils hinting at danger ahead of a stranger’s refection.
“Go on, have at her.” The yell lifted Fenton from his chair. He followed the action in a state approaching total shock, but Brennan’s script would find credibility.
“He’s loud, but the man behind that voice strikes a match which brings his image to the screen. He’s a derelict in his seventies, with deep-set eyes in a hollow face that seem a bad fit for that tone of voice. He wears a stained, high-end raincoat buttoned halfway up a faded flannel shirt; you know—that classic red and black-checkered pattern with a gray silk lining. Below are torn suit pants with a one-inch cuff held up by a greasy tie. That wardrobe declares this guy was once an important person. I’ll offer Jeremy Irons a cameo appearance.”
“Jesus, she always said you were nuts.” An elbow dropped to the back of the chair in no particular hurry, but Brennan had refocused. He slowly reached under his left armpit to place a Kimber Tactical Pro II .45 pistol alongside the mouse.
“No, I’m quite rational, so let’s just shoot the next scene with your nasty boy. As I was saying, we see the twin—you know that face—in the center of the beam coming from a cop’s flashlight say, ‘I guess I lost it completely; it’s all just a blur. The next thing I remember was Michelle hanging on my neck and then I saw my bloody fists. She was gulping air amid whimpers. The blanket beneath us was covered with red spots.’”
“The extras have closed in. Dennis stares into the lens saying, ‘I dressed before a stricken face. She searched for a glimmer of concern in me. There wasn’t any. That misfit was lying on the sand. I wanted to pick him up and use my hands to get that rush again.’”
“Anyway he dodges a grand jury by claiming self-defense. Why not? He’s an all-American boy banging a doll from La Jolla who happens to be the daughter of a naval officer. The audience thinks it serves the old fart right; I’m thinking Irons just stole the scene. He’s greedy and wants another Oscar.”
“You’re a fucking fruitcake. ‘I know that face’, I want out.” Brennan responded in an almost soothing voice. “Those are big words coming from a lucky gob that slid out of a rubber and through a sheet to the Promised Land. My script is adapted from authentic news articles.”
Brennan produced a paper bag. He bit into a stapled nametag to pour its contents over Fenton. A wallet, ring of keys and coins cascaded between closed legs. Brennan held out a business card but Fenton waved it off as he flattened the paper bag. After a futile search he looked up and met a finger, which collapsed his nose. Brennan tossed the cellphone to waiting hands.
“Why ask questions when you already know the answers? After Joffre tumbled from splintered wood, you got greedy. You made a call to Hula Land where you’ve been blackmailing Dennis Hollister, your nasty boy. I’ll find a money trail before or after Dodds finds you.”
“Bullshit, see a shrink and learn police work.”
“I’m learning, last night I read about sociopaths. These folks are famous for using a ton of charm to do hideous things without an ounce of remorse. I’m no expert, but the Harvard psychiatrist that typed the pages was astounded by the inability of these sickos to feel empathy or compassion. It isn’t in those frontal lobes, so why did you piss off a sociopath? If you have questions, I put my cell number in that phone of yours.”
“By the way, Irons dies of a cerebral hemorrhage on a dry mattress. I shot that scene on location at the actual charity ward two weeks after the beach scene. I’d expected a subdural hematoma as a probable cause, but the coroner claimed death by asphyxiation.”
On the verge of walking out, Fenton waited. Grown men who mix hard fact with their own fiction might be crazy but what he thought he had witnessed was simply an unprofessional attempt to gain information.
“The camera shoots over Irons for a closeup of Dennis. The audience sees a raised butt when he drops stolen whites as I fade to black. Later a .45 slug became the chosen instrument for the surgical chore known as a trephination he performs on Joffre.”
***
Bradley parked a rental car in Hawaii. Dark sunglasses and a white windbreaker’s hood above black swimming trunks offered protection. He removed a stone holding the emergency door open and ran upstairs in flip-flops stopping to avoid a covey of squawking maids with a descent on foot to the eight and an elevator ride to the tenth floor where he inserted a key.
He rushed to the closet and withdrew a submersible backpack. Two credit cards and a driving license went to his wallet as he retrieved a pack of blue contact lens. Minutes later, he reconnected the circuit that let the hotel know when the exit door had been left open. He stooped to retrieve a fallen loafer before driving off.
A mile away Michelle stopped at the manager’s office inside the Kona Surf Hotel to retrieve her FedEx shipment. She conducted an underwater inspection in facemask and snorkel in the hotel pool; leaky camera housings were always a concern. By the time her taxi entered Alii Drive palm trees and brick sidewalks were swept by shadows racing inland over Highway 11. Trade winds carried rain to palm fronds and rumpled feathers in seagrape trees. Over the sloping land white clouds concluded in a heavy mist that obscured Mauna Kea’s snowy summit.
Michelle arrived at Kailua Pier in the center of old Kailua-Kona with a backpack to find a Hawaiian waiting to ferry her gear to Makai riding a gentle chop. Dennis, clean shaven and sullen, arrived minutes later and headed straight for the helm. The engines rumbled prompting screens behind the wheel to display colorful data from radar, sonar, autopilot and chart plotter. A radio burped Channel 16’s static as Michelle tossed the familiar mooring lines.
She clung to the fighting chair as twin props built their roster tail. The course setting would take them through Kaneohe Bay near the Captain Cooke Monument and south along the Kohala Coast to an anchorage off Green Sands Beach. The sky was clearing as she shed her top and skipped forward in circles within touching distance of chrome handrails. Porpoises leapt over waves to race the bow twisting silky bodies only to plunge below and reappear in the lead.
As Makai adeptly sliced cobalt water Michelle pressed against Dennis’ back facing animated instruments. “You’re being silly; you knew you would need help with that letter.” Dennis stared in front; he gave the impression he wanted exceptional solitude beyond the obvious disinterest in her naked torso. She shed her dungarees to emerge without panties. Dennis shook his head and held out a white terrycloth robe that fell open as she spun in the fighting chair.
“What if someone saw her?”
“You’re right, Admiral. Do I have your permission to use the head?
“Why ask me, you own it?”
“Don’t talk like that and they’ll be no sleeping today. You had your chance.”
Michelle descended to open her backpack at the head’s mirror. The pearl-handled pistol looked serene. She held the metal against her warm cheek taking pleasure in cold steel. The barrel had retained the acrid scent of gunpowder. Thinking of the muffled blast that had floated feathers produced warmth in the pit of her stomach. It wet her appetite for the jolt to her wrists, the pressure wave on her chest and the sound that would leave her breathless yet again.
She held the pistol in her hand close to her stomach and a sideways glance in the mirror tempted her to lower the protruding barrel. An impish grin came with a giddy smugness. Enjoying racing engines that quivered bare skin, she crept on hands and knees toward the bow. Her palms slid along the bulkhead as the hull carved Kealakekua Bay into curling indigo sheets.
Air heavy with pungent fuel was welcomed, so she kissed Pierre’s photo slipping between the sheets to hide the pistol. She awoke to the boat’s gentle swaying, the engines had stopped. She rushed to kneel at the opened door beneath the sink in the head and tapped her wedding ring on the drain pipe. She held her breath until two returning taps would force opened eyes.
Leaning back her hands encased her breasts when blood from Bradley’s matted hair broadened into narrow tributaries on teak. It took on hues from scarlet to burgundy in the bright sunlight. It brought to mind the joy of her first fishing trip years before when she had dipped fingers into sloshing salt water to examine a fish scale from a gaffed Pacific Blue Marlin.
***
The next morning in San Diego, Brennan flipped a cigarette butt through the car window and shoved six Egg McMuffin wrappers and three coffee containers under the Ford’s front seat. He unglued his back from sweaty, vibrating plastic to dangle car keys over Sanchez.
“Pick off the Pink Poodle’s flees and get out to that set. You got one prop, a Mexican name on a California driver’s license. Pick me up at 17:00 and keep your hands off those girls.”
“I got a bad feeling about Bradley, why share anything with him?”
“Trust me, Sanchez; the FBI will take a backseat to the NCIS. When their man heads off bucking a boss all the way to Hula Land, I say we give him more rope.”
“Find out why Brigitte Fenton flinched when she saw Bradley and we solve this case.”
Brennan put his hands over his ears and shook his head as if the smooth running machine inside had suddenly been thrown off balance. “If I find her, I’ll be sure to ask.”
Thirty minutes later, Brennan slid a Kimber Tactical Pro II .45 pistol, loaded magazine, LVMPD ID and a cellphone to a clerk with a nametag that read S. Robinson. She was young and attractive in spite of a black cotton T-shirt, trousers and high-top sneakers.
“What we talked about is needed today along with a quiet desk.”
“Hush up, Baby—you loading cop-killers?”
“Black Talons, they open up like a pinwheel. I want that edge in my magazine.”
“I’d love to pat you down, but why not just tell me about the item hidden in your hand?”
“It’s nothing. Without a secretary, this recorder has to work overtime.”
He snatched his cellphone from the counter and followed her down the corridor wishing it was longer. When she moved, nice things bounced. Behind a locked door he torn into folders and took several cigarettes and a book of matches from his socks.
Brennan read that Pierre Hollister’s arrival justified a compulsory marriage according to Michelle’s sworn testimony taken as part of the NCIS investigation into her father’s disappearance. Four decades earlier Marcel Joffre, a young French submarine officer, had left Marseilles when Charles De Gaulle sent NATO packing to Belgium. He found the U.S. Navy hospitable and eager to learn about French plans if the Cold War got hot.
The French hadn’t liked the maneuver and people found his ego difficult to swallow until a Tahitian teenager living in Pearl City torpedoed his heart. Well educated and bilingual, Asta Breaud became Mrs. Joffre and assisted his rapid climb within U.S. submarine ranks. After training at Electric Boat, where they endured a distasteful Connecticut winter, a French-speaking detailer born in Quebec City had arranged for additional schooling in San Diego.
It was there that Asta, a high-risk candidate, entered her last trimester of pregnancy in 1967. Brennan read that the Navy Hospital’s obstetrician encountered placenta privia that necessitated an emergency caesarian section. The operation had resulted in hemorrhagic anemia and death.
The surgeon had added a cryptic handwritten note. “Distraught father of compromised neonate appeared at NICU and became irate when denied access. Nurse stated father declared, ‘my daughter is all I have, I’m taking her now and don’t try to stop me.’”
Sanchez passed muster at the front desk inside Highland Glen, a nursing home surrounded by an oleander barricade on forgotten dirt in Chula Vista. Claiming to be a nephew, he began his quest for Maria Chivas at an elevator. He faced the closed door but it didn’t help. A bony hand grasped his pant leg forcing attention. The damaged doll was cradled as its frail mother was complimented on the infant’s beauty, which he said was apparent in the smile before him.
Reasons to win in life were abundant in air heavy with moans and odors. Wrinkled faces scanned his hoping to see someone from a misplaced past. He bolted to safety riding in an unventilated box with a thumb on the CLOSE button. Maria Chivas remembered a proud Joffre who embraced all things American while running a tight ship. Sanchez took his time asking critical questions and found intact memories.
An employment agency’s call, although two days late, was without a doubt Maria’s best birthday present. The housekeeper hired by Joffre passed through a trellised archway to encounter a garden edged in flagstone. The scent of flowers hung in air alongside the rope bridge that crossed the oval fishpond. Gravel paths wandered through a carpet of lavender to converge at the small house. Maria waited for Joffre by a stone fountain that he proudly stated was copied from the medieval Church of St. Trophime in Arles, France.
Maria’s first encounter with Joffre was a potent taste of things to come. He chided her for calling the evergreen shrub which exhibits thick stems leaden with purple pedals a flower. Her expertise in all areas would be continually questioned.
“If you think I tolerate ignorance in my house you are mistaken.”
“As children we learned those plants were—”
“If you wish to learn, ask intelligent questions...go on...I’m waiting.”
“What is this lavender?”
“Lavender is part of the mint family but with its distinct flavor, it stands unaccompanied.”
The faithful servant trusted to water Joffre’s beloved Dutch Iris flowers tended to Joffre and his daughter’s every need unless the girl was visiting Pear City on Oahu. She wasn’t mentioned in Joffre’s will. Her reward was a dog-eared photo album. She recalled Joffre’s cameras, but nothing held his eye as tenaciously as his sprouting daughter.
The Hollister twins were not welcomed on Maria’s watch; Bradley, the brighter of the two, bullied a thin-skinned sibling who caught carp with baited hooks. Maria visited her parents in Ensenada whenever a naval gathering called for catering. At such times Joffre’s edict concerning the banished twins was personally enforced.
Sanchez left the rest home and arrived forty minutes late. As an exit ramp approached on Interstate 15 near Temecula, Brennan’s hand grabbed the steering wheel heading for Denny’s. Catsup covered fries and three burgers.
“Blackmail began at the bones. Eyeball Fenton’s finances, especially bank receipts.”
“Bones? The man was an officer. What about the FBI, any news on Brigitte?”
“She knows how to hide. We’ll operate under their radar.”
“Take a napkin, you’re bleeding on photos. The property department hates that.”
Brennan knew he had created a monster with hovering napkins, but Sanchez had proven clean, productive and most important of all manageable.
“Christ, get out to the limo, there’s a magnifying glass in my glove compartment.”
It was grainy but unmistakable, even under tomato goop. A pearl-handled M1911A1 service pistol rested on the top shelf near its empty magazine. The ammo stacked nearby looked to Brennan like expected 220-grain APC. As Brennan’s ego rode ever higher on a whimsical Hollywood fantasy Sanchez’s skepticism grew. Maria had shared a troubling intimacy with Sanchez. His gut told him not to trust Brennan with her information.
If Maria told the truth, the cabinet was always locked; the murderer had simply borrowed the key. She had returned for a forgotten grocery list and entered the back door. Crossing the oak parquet flooring she found wet footprints that led from the library to the carpeted staircase. Frightened by muffled sobs she climbed the stairs to witness Michelle peppering her father’s portrait with imaginary bullets.
“Her sobs were frightful to me because...she was smiling. I ran to her and she dropped the pistol. I slapped her face—I could not help it. Her dressing gown opened over a growing belly. I forced open her hand and took the key. She ran past her bedroom into mine. It was there I opened my Sunday Missal and hid the key. I begged for forgiveness. This I do every night.”
Tension was high and Joffre ordered Maria to visit her parents. She returned a week later to drop her suitcase and rush past a sullen Michelle to examine the cabinet. It was still locked, the pistol untouched. Later she entered her bedroom where Maria now slept. She lifted the Sunday Missal’s back cover and clutched the key.
“A terrible thing was done. With a heart closed...an angel became the devil.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“She slept in my bed but never did we talk about her little one— only that woman.”
“Was she a beautiful woman...anxious to be the wife of an officer?
“Yes. She was ugly inside. She was...this word I cannot find.”
“La parabla es Francés. She was from France.”
Later inside the Ford, Brennan took a hushed call from Susanne Robinson. In response to his newest sweetener a classified NCIS file had revealed valuable information. “Look, do you want Diddy in the distance or close enough to get your own whiff?” The update transpired with the cellphone speaker on. They learned Michelle had given birth to seven-pound Pierre in El Cajon four months after a visit to The Garden of Love in downtown Las Vegas.
Brennan knew its location, two blocks from the Four Queens. The reception had been in a suite in Binon’s Horseshoe reserved for high rollers and clients that frequented Brigitte. The bridal party consisted of the groom, Bradley Hollister, and his twin. Both were dressed in Mickey Mouse shorts and yellow shirts and sported enormous mouse ears.
The NCIS had obtained the photo in a search conducted at Brigitte’s home in 1985. The LVMPD had arrested her for soliciting prostitution and selling bootlegged X-rated videos when she wasn’t busy hawking weddings to kids suffering from elopement fever.
“I got to go. Sounds like we got company,” had ended Robinson’s call. Brennan had reopened Maria’s album. He had a lawn party under a magnifying glass, when from behind white uniforms that greeted arriving young women, a lens had captured Joffre and Brigitte sharing a kiss. The next incoming call wasn’t shared.
“You knew Maria hated Brigitte a long time ago didn’t you?
“Yeah, I put her through the ringer before they hung me out to dry.”
“What’s her connection to Bradley?”
“No idea but Dodds’ condo is under surveillance and Makai is missing.”
“Give me a minute on the Internet and he’s mine. What’s the full name?”
“Please, it’s a sixty-two foot fishing boat about to sink our production. Find out how long of a wake a twenty-two year old Striker can make starting at the Kailua Pier: fuel capacity, consumption at cruise, updated instruments and whatever else those web pages can tell you.”
Inside the speeding car, sweet smoke curled from a thin joint. Brennan had laid down on the back seat with his naked feet sticking outside the back window. “Forget that boat, when do we start identifying suspects?”
Sanchez waited as a tempting aroma filled the car. Brennan’s red face imploded as his head rose from the back seat. He devastated himself in hurried puffs. Closed eyes flooded dry cheeks and a rasping voice stalled and then gathered speed. He watched the rear view mirror as Brennan raked a hand across bloodshot eyes.
“Please...you’re still got training wheels on your ass. Look no further than the twins and Michelle, they’re all glued together. Either Dennis or Bradley knocked her up or it’s that sister-daughter thing. Who could forget Towne’s Chinatown script?”
“When did you first know she was expecting?”
“I’ll take the fifth on that.”
“You worried about self incrimination? Huston chased Dunaway around a bed, not Joffre. We know what happened when she dropped flowers and found boys. Dennis had issues—battling Bradley for Michelle and being too slow on the uptake. The newspapers quoted Dennis at the assault scene in Pacific Beach, but do we know the actual twin on that sand? This isn’t a film; it’s a three-ring circus with French ringmasters, a horny girl and identical clowns.”
“I like that! Keep working on that logline. Brigitte’s photo showed a happy mouse and a smiling princess—the groom, not so much. Bradley marries Michelle but the happy-ever-after is DOA. He breezes through college and then works for the FBI. Michelle plays along until—”
“She gets her hands on Joffre’s money, but do you know why Bradley spooks Brigitte?”
***
A late afternoon search of Brennan’s desk by three eager Las Vegas Law Enforcement Investigations personnel produced two screenplays and their research material occupying space inside a file cabinet. It was hoped that LVMPD business resided on the computers in his care since Brennan’s recorder lived inside a left suit pocket.
At 7:30 the next day, Sanchez stepped from the shower to open a K-Mart shopping bag. Life was good: his first paycheck was waiting and a boxer-short three-pack with a tropical theme called for a splash of Island Breeze, a lime-scented concoction rescued from the discount bin. The night had unfolded in the cramped bathroom mixing Diet Coke with rum from a quart-sized bottle. Tropical fruit garnished the elixir amid cylinders of dirt-specked ice.
He had cleared a lamp, Bible and phone from the desk to arrange colored pens and poster board in preparation for plotting course and speed. A 1987 Striker had two inboard Detroit Diesel engines, model number 12V92TA. Fuel capacity was listed at 2,280 gallons, but what about auxiliary tanks? Who knew how many or if any diesel tank had been topped off? Water capacity was 400 gallons divided by an unknown number of people, but was there additional water storage and who knew how much water was in any of those tanks?
He assumed that boat would have upgraded electronics but maybe it didn’t. He filled his glass and consulted the World Wide Web to look at the Kohala Coast on the Big Island. He plotted courses from Kailua-Kona to Maui’s harbors at Lahaina and Maalaea. Kahoolawe, Lanai, Molokai and Oahu were reachable, but then an internal sentinel said there was a very untrustworthy frog at work. Sanchez gave up the nonsensical assignment.
Switching gears, a search of archived Joffre newsprint downloaded from Rosanna’s PC informed Brennan in an early morning email that his understudy wouldn’t be thrown off course. Brennan had arrived at a distressingly clean office and taken the call from Bradley’s boss at 7:15. The call was painful, so he had banished the phone to the bottom drawer. Doughnut dunking gave a coffee-slurry free reign of the desktop. Reality descended with gooey drippings to a lap sheathed in shiny blue trousers.
Sanchez’s email attachment, the last interview given by Bradley to a newspaper, had never gone to print. It had been replaced by a name correction substituting Bradley for Dennis in a small box on the newspaper’s back page. Brennan went on to read that on Thursday August 2, 1984, Bradley, Dennis and Michelle had returned from Lake Tahoe to learn of Bruce Melville’s death, the man injured when Bradley defended Michelle during a sexual assault in Pacific Beach.
An hour later, Sanchez burst into the office clearing smoke with a flapping poster board and carrying a sliced pineapple and leaky mango. Brennan did little to prepare Sanchez for a swift dagger to the heart.
“Pick up that crap and get your tail out of here—you’re fired.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask, get going.”
“But, I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“You’re one pitiful wetback. Visit accounting, the Plush Poodle and the bus station.”
Brennan had experienced Sanchez’s humiliation: sweaty palms, bloodshot eyes and a boozy stench, but he offered no sympathy.
“We can do this. Find Brigitte and we’ll know who pulled the trigger.”
“Sure we will and you’ll get a life trailing me like a lost puppy.”
“But I’ve got a big motel tab and Rosanna comes in tonight. We worked for nothing? ”
“Visit accounting; you put in a few days on my studio clock.”
Brennan tossed the fruit on the poster board art and twisted it into soggy pulp. He held the oozing produce in outstretched arms. “Take this and make tracks, you’re pissing me off.”
Sanchez pulled the doorknob slowly. Soon the nightmare would be over. He froze in place searching for words that mattered and finding none, obediently stepped outside. A reddened face looked up at him from thick muscles on a fireplug-neck. Breath stored in a barrel chest exploded through yellowed teeth.
“Get going before I punch your lights out again.” Sanchez had nothing to lose, his chin jutted out temptingly. “Listen you fat fuck, Dennis was on that beach screwing Michelle, not Bradley. Pierre Hollister is their kid. The NCIS and FBI told the newspaper to can that name correction. You were kept in the dark, because just like now nobody trusts you.”
3
Sudden loneliness triggered by his slamming door washed over Brennan. The last person to invest in his life was gone. The game he’d begun that served so many ends was over too soon. He needed that skinny Mexican. The gravity of likely criminal prosecution hit home and he had to prepare. The PLAY button on his tape recorder brought back the earlier conversation.
“Open your ears, Brennan and shut that face. I’m holding a special delivery letter sent from Hawaii in my hand. It was addressed to my agent Bradley Hollister. It reads and I quote ‘I’m writing this to bring closure to an event that hurt a brother, nephews and the daughter of the man I killed. On November 21, 1984, I shot Naval Captain Marcel Joffre with his service pistol.’ That letter bears the signature of Dennis Hollister.”
“How do you know that’s really from Dennis Hollister?”
“Jesus, you’re pathetic. Identical twins are known to have similar patterns but distinct prints. The fingerprint on the letter matches the one the FBI has on file.”
“How’d they get that?”
“Dennis Hollister lasted three days at the Navy’s Great Lakes Training Center. He was sent home due to unspecified mental deficiencies.” Brennan reached into his sock for a marijuana roach. After a hit, he searched for answers. Suzanne couldn’t supply the answers he needed.
“He put his fingerprint on that letter for a positive identification?”
“From inkpad to paper, he’s not bright, but he rolls one mean thumb.”
“I’d put a leash on Bradley—”
“This county’s District Attorney and Sheriff don’t like the insanity you beat suspects with.”
“Got any good news?”
“Maria Chivas in breathing on her own, but speech is out of the question.”
“When did that happen?”
“That doesn’t matter, her photo album does.”
Brennan knew he’d been under surveillance, but for how long? The tourist in Little Caesar’s looked like a government tail; expensive designer eyeglasses and the cheap throwaway camera hadn’t matched up. Alright, they had trailed him from day one and his office had been given a white-glove inspection. While he sat, was a search warrant for entering his condo in process?
“Forget the turf war you started with that French hooker when you had hair and Robinson is history. I monitor my phones. She tossed a great pension in the crapper, how big is yours?
“Bradley Hollister has you and the entire FBI wrapped around his finger like—”
“He was told to back off, but you fed him a phone number that triggered an unauthorized trip to Hawaii. There’s another motive at play other than your inspection of his classified files.”
The dead phone line meant he’d tipped his hand. The investigation was now closing in. Who could blame a District Attorney for wanting the reward that the successful prosecution of Joffre’s suspected killer would offer? Brennan had an appointment with the Clark County Sheriff’s representative in ten minutes, but he was tempted to just go home and chase futile sleep again.
He couldn’t fret about a pensions or conviction; he’d get his revenge in a Variety headline “Sin City Gumshoe Gets Greenlighted.” To see his project rise to the top with Hollywood dollars as an “event” movie, he’d have to placate his understudy. Brennan allowed himself the benefit of the doubt, maybe he had been threatened by Mexican diligence. In place of delusion Sanchez presented fact, asked questions and conducted real interrogations.
The youthful buffer that had offered opposition to the NCIS, FBI and the LVMPD was gone. Hope hinged on finding Brigitte before somebody arrested Dennis Hollister and he couldn’t do that alone. As much as he hated the admission, he needed someone who had offered loyalty, dedication and most of all honesty.
Brennan gathered strength as he entered the outer office. He read the secretary’s eyes and followed them to wet stains in the wrong place. Formalities were brief, a Kimber Tactical Pro II, loaded magazine, LVMPD badge and photo ID met waiting hands. This inquiry had begun in the Office of the Sheriff, rolled down to the Office of the Undersheriff and stopping at the Law Enforcement Investigations section. A clerk gave Brennan papers that received his signatures before trading places with an approaching image in polished wood that beamed self-confidence.
“I’m Kevin Huntley with the NCIS, a few words and you’re free to go. Keep the gun permit but don’t carry, ‘not even where the sun don’t shine.’ I’ll share a fact; Brigitte Fenton used her son’s phone to call a condo that an FBI agent staked out in spite of his superior’s edict.”
“Would that condo belong to someone named Captain Dodds or Dennis Hollister?”
“Are you going to listen or set your last bridge on fire?”
Brennan nodded in silence intently watching the younger man’s demeanor. Arrogance gave the impression that it was anxious to rise to the surface. It prowled above the assured grin underscored by the trimmed moustache. Blonde hair flourished and a tanned face was over-the-top as a backdrop for designer glasses amplified gray eyes, an aquiline nose and sharp chin.
“Dennis Hollister leased but vacated without notice. Embedded pollen and dust confirm the original location of that flag; dental records identified the deceased. Michelle Joffre left Los Angeles bound for Honolulu after Raul Sanchez’s recent discovery. She’s a familiar sight in Honolulu’s Interisland Terminal taking flights to Kailua-Kona or Hilo on the Big Island.”
“Her stay at the Kona Surf is notable for two reasons. First, because there is no record of prior hotel visits and she hasn’t been observed around Dennis Hollister’s condo. I’ll hold on to that second reason for the time being.”
Brennan heard Makai was a fixture in Hilo Bay. The NCIS interviewed fisherman in Hilo who recalled its anchoring beyond the hotels off of Banyan Drive. Michelle was seen aboard and a key to the condo was found after an NCIS search of the condo’s exterior. Maria’s entry into critical care at Scripps Mercy Hospital closed the door on Michelle’s earlier past.
“Why did Dennis wash out of Navy basic training?”
“I’ll answer that because you picked a partner who’s sharpened my thinking on this case. Raul Sanchez studied up on dysgraphia; he learned that word from a retired high school teacher. I asked him about the incidence of dyslexia in identical twins, he knew the answer. It runs from 55 to 70 percent, although Bradley doesn’t suffer his brother’s malady.”
Brennan now knew the reason for Sanchez’s late arrival at FBI headquarters after he had visited Maria; he had viewed an on-line yearbook to find Dennis’ homeroom teacher. Brennan had forgotten what he knew about developmental dyslexia, but left with Sanchez’s knowledge of a condition called Specific Language Impairment. A dyslexic person could read with confidence, yet find it extremely hard to write or spell.
Dennis’ writing problem was called dysgraphia instead of dyslexia, but researchers found the issues arose from similar causes. Dennis would spell a word in a way that he could decipher phonetically, but it would be incorrect. His school assignments meant “pneumonia” was likely to be spelled “newmonia”. Letter transposition or reversal meant, “this” might appear as “siht.” It was correct for him since the letters that corresponded to the right sounds were present.
Huntley continued, “Dennis would welcome help composing any written confession.” Brennan concealed his eagerness to learn more with a blank expression.
“The NCIS thinks someone was at his side. I said earlier that Michelle’s stay at the Kona Surf was notable for another reason. That reason is the cold-blooded murder of Brigitte Fenton and we’re confident the bullet came from Joffre’s missing service pistol.”
Brennan was unaware that he had grimaced. His demeanor remained fixed, but the impact was noticed by a practiced eye. “She had more enemies than friends, too bad.” Brennan’s fraudulent words fell heavily on Huntley’s doubting ears. This disgraced detective fit the standard person-of-interest criteria. He baited his hook. “Whoever wanted a thumb print on Dennis Hollister’s letter knew it could be checked, so Bradley and Michelle are prime suspects.”
Huntley was astounded as he watched the color change. Brennan now incensed, had managed in an instant to wrap his hands around Huntley’s neck. “You think it’s me, like the Navy brass. Those pricks enjoyed Brigitte but hid behind—”
Huntley grunted agreement as the vice loosened. “Naval personnel were dealt with internally; Joffre paid the ultimate price. The D.A. informs us Fenton will walk on charges he ran Brigitte’s business. That evidence is inadmissible due to your procedural error, Mr. Brennan.”
“That error was deliberate and meant to protect her. Brigitte Felton played a role in Joffre’s death. If voices on your recorder say otherwise, I’m ready to listen.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the hands, but Brigitte got a raw deal the first time around and now she’s dead. The Navy could care less. I had to do something...I’m sorry, lately I got a temper.”
“You’ve had a history of untimely actions, received departmental reprimands and today you signed off on what was once a promising career. There is an investigation beginning that <>Iwill find missing narcotics from the LVMPD’s evidence locker. Go home and stay there.”
Two hours were spent in a darkened duplex with Jim Beam until Brennan gazed out the second-floor window onto Tropicana Ave. to see an unlikely duo: Fenton in a sports coat and slacks lugged Sanchez’s duffel bag. Sanchez was motioned into the hallway as Fenton dripped Nachos in sour cream with the help of Jack Daniels.
Brennan had braced himself against the hallway wall and turned his back to Sanchez. Muffled sobs filled the silent hallway and brought him to his knees. Sanchez took the shaking in stride and applied a bear hug before guiding him through an opened door. Brennan’s knees buckled again and he clung to Sanchez as if to soak up sympathy.
“What was that about?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Don’t lie; you’re looking at an expert. Rosanna says you wore the uniform playing a medic. We saw a Marine do a header from a parking deck at the VA hospital and I cried too, but I got off that parking deck with help—so cope. Only idiots self-medicates on booze and pot.”
Sanchez scrutinized walls covered in photos and newsprint. A glass enclosure held a stack of electronic components wired to the essential object, a big screen. The voice he heard was once again authoritative but parted company with balanced behavior. Brennan was bipolar.
“Please, Mr. Fenton, do come in and join us.” Brennan sat in a canvas chair holding a remote microphone. Five speakers carried an imposing voice enriched by Dolby processing. “This setup of mine boiled the current production down to three DVDs. I consider the condensed audio CD a clever treatment. The trailer will come from software I’ve got on my desktop. I’ve transferred TV coverage and edited the best crime lab photos for insertion.”
Kentucky bourbon can work miracles. Fenton held center stage and they learned what had happened on a scorching weekday a quarter of a century earlier. At the urging of his mother Fenton had aided an undocumented Mexican find a final resting place with dignity. While slurring a few words, he recounted the day he had arrived at a loading dock just off Nevada Highway in Boulder City to enter a world he had merely suspected.
The tag on the crate confirmed it had left San Diego on a Pacific Intermountain Express truck. Somber workers had lowered the crate into his pickup. Tying down a tarpaulin that covered the box, Wayne saw heads lowered in prayer.
“I should have known better—undocumented my ass—some big shot on Navy subs, that’s what I planted but hell I was twenty-eight at the time. Who calls his own mother a liar?”
“So when Sanchez hit concrete and coffin you got nervous.”
“I’ve been dying to tell somebody. Mom’s made out of granite, but when Sanchez found Joffre’s coffin, she broke down. Who knew she had those sorts of emotions?”
Sanchez eased confidently to the middle of a growing brotherhood. His arms fell to neighboring shoulders when he spoke.
“Do me a favor Wayne, forget about a few tears. I saw her with Brennan in Little Caesar’s. She’s special, I’d even say beautiful. In fact, I wish I’d been blessed with a mother like her. Tell me what she said and we’ll take Brennan on that ride I promised.”
Sanchez found waiting for Fenton’s narrative nerve-racking. He was told repeatedly that this conversation was off the record, and besides Brennan himself was actually off the LVMPD permanently. Sanchez craved a cigarette and for several minutes he even played with the idea of joining Brennan in a hand-rolled joint. Then, Fenton held out his glass and rambled on.
“She was on her bed moaning, ‘I loved him.’ She wanted him close, inside the front entrance but when they finished pouring concrete he was outside. The Las Vegas Valley Water District got a site variance after I planted him. He rotted under cars—she’s still pissed.”
Sanchez and Brennan digested the stupidity as the trio moved to the living room where Sanchez told Brennan about the assistant manager at KLAS who had returned from vacation to look after phone messages piled on his answering machine. A return call had produced the cab driver that had lent his cellphone to Sanchez. The cab driver wished to sell a five-second video that began with Sanchez standing at a police car behind the dozer.
KLAS’s control room buzzed as the grainy video that had spiraled in price from five to nine hundred dollars ended with a bright metal rectangle entering Fenton’s shirt on the sly. Brennan launched into action, “foil-wrapped, seven by four and one inch thick. You only get one guess, Kiddies.” All eyes turned to a tense Fenton.
“Yeah, it was a video cassette.”
Brennan assured the TV staff that new developments were likely. KTLV would be invited when the NCIS and LVMPD released findings in the ongoing investigation into the death of Navy Captain Marcel Joffre whose identity had been verified through dental records. As they left, the group passed a black sedan driven by Huntley. Inside the car Fenton’s snivels slithered through wet hands after he learned of Brigitte’s murder.
Fenton greeted another bag with a yellow tag. The NCIS had unearthed melted plastic near his driveway. The videotape inside Fenton’s shirt had gone up in smoke. After discomforting silence, Huntley asked “detective Brennan would you care to enlighten us further?” The tension was conspicuous on Brennan’s face and his voice faltered at the beginning.
“I saw...the first ten minutes. Brigitte shot them through a two-way on location at Cal-Neva Lodge. The kids had no problem enjoying the moment, in fact it looked to me like that threesome had logged hours in the sack. It got raunchy, but it’s tame compared to what’s out there now.”
“The NCIS knew a copy of the tape existed, but the LVMPD kept it under wraps. Detective Brennan stonewalled our investigators. Brigitte surrendered her original in a plea bargaining session with her attorney at LVMPD headquarters, but the NCIS wasn’t invited.”
“That’s right, the copy wasn’t professional quality. Wayne put his own video camera on a tripod and shot Brigitte’s TV screen. He tried to peddle it, but it was grainy with a fucked up soundtrack. Joffre got wind of it somehow and must have confronted Brigitte.”
Sanchez ran his tongue over impatient lips as he shook his head. “Brigitte found out about Wayne’s copy when he proposed a blackmail scheme. He wasn’t aware of her feelings for Joffre at the time. Do a rewrite, Brennan. Wayne was dumb showing his hand and you knew it.”
“Mom shouldn’t have died like that. She never bothered Brennan or anyone else. I told her I wanted nothing to do with her girls but she talked my accountant into doing her books. He hit on the girls; Brennan made our lives a living hell. She told me what Huntley’s people did to her while Navy big shots got a free ride. You guys used her like everybody else.”
“So, you’re telling us Brigitte and you roasted the video from the coffin?”
“It went up in flame, Sanchez and like I told you she packed her bag for Hawaii.”
***
Makai lightened in color and appeared to be floating in empty space from Michelle’s vantage point 120 feet below the surface. Her dive watch featured a digital display. The chronograph’s luminous hands and markers dutifully provided, timekeeping, stopwatch functions and a water temperature reading. It was 78 degrees in the mixed zone, the depth of from the surface to 200 feet below. Each of her steel cylinders had read 3000 psi and contained 80 cu. ft. of air.
Dennis had told her to wait until she saw an inflated vest before coming aboard. They kissed after he reminded her that she had two full phone booths of air to breath. She’d never allowed herself to trust his scuba calculations; he knew nothing of the role played by exertion in these turbulent waters, not to mention those of depth and water temperature on her air supply. Thankfully, her dive watch had audible alarms: total elapsed dive time, countdown timer and maximum depth. How long could it take Bradley to get on deck and fire his lethal shot?
The past fifteen minutes on the second tank had been spent photographing a school of hammerhead sharks. Most were twenty feet in length. Their wide, practically straight hammer in front and first sickle-shaped dorsal fin were always imposing. The surface was thirty feet away when she heard the watch’s alarm. There wasn’t panic, just mounting uncertainty.
Her breathing became harder and harder, the pressure inside her remaining tank was getting lower and it was difficult to draw air from that tank. She’d have to surface without waiting for the tethered inflatable vest’s late arrival. Thirty anxious seconds had elapsed when the last impossible breathing attempt was abandoned in favor of daylight.
Michelle broke the surface and swam toward the rope latter on the starboard side near the stern. There were few sounds as she reached for the gunwale, just the slapping of waves on the hull. A quick glance over the railing revealed a blood-streaked deck. The surprising sight of Dennis standing complacently in his own wetsuit made her uneasy. When her facemask came off, his complexion was noticeably paler and the smile forced. A quick look revealed steady hands that clutched her father’s pistol.
The explosive blast terminated a stunned expression and scream in rapid succession. That scream would be judged the only honest thing Michelle had ever given a twin. A plastic glove registered no pulse, so her fingers were tightened on a pistol that announced a murder/suicide as Makai headed towards Hilo’s Leleiwi Point.
Waiting off Hilo he had spotted several tiger sharks and followed one that swam directly toward the bow. He raced to the stern light to see the vertical stripes on the sleek eighteen foot body. This was one shark species with a history of unprovoked human attacks that had followed the deck’s red tint which had washed down the scuppers into the roiling wake. He tossed his backpack overboard, hit the sea and began swimming.
The navigation light’s green sheen revealed a dark shape that circled lazily and then passed directly below him. On his right black water rippled with shark fins. On his left he saw his path to safety: moving red and white car lights bordered a thin rectangle outlined in blue runway lights led toward Mauna Loa, the world’s biggest volcano.
He’d forget his fear of sharks and concentrate on the moonlit silhouette that rose almost six miles from the seabed to its murky summit. His steady progress against a slowing current was reassuring but in an instant that changed. A bobbing coconut caused him to pause and roll on his back. The attack was swift and he managed to punch the shark’s snout. The sandpaper skin had scrapped tissue from his right hand and now he was a floating appetizer for determined sharks.
At 10:15 a Boeing 767-300ER in Hawaiian Airlines colors dipped as nose wheels stopped a foot from the large number 8. Minutes later, they lifted from tarmac to rise above Kalanianaole Avenue. Wings dipping over Lehia Park rewarded one viewer’s glance. Flashing blue spots circled a red glow centered in searchlights. The passenger turned his eyes on a wallet to wink at the photograph on a California driving license. His shirt pocket welcomed a ten-dollar bill; he hoped that Napa Valley’s finest would lower an amazing high.
The westbound plane descended from 8,000 to 5,000 feet off Diamond Head to begin a holding pattern between Barber’s Point and Koko Head. The eventual touchdown at Honolulu International Airport and the wait for the next leg to begin were spent relaxing at Yummies Barbecue in a crowded Interisland Terminal.
***
At 1:15 A.M., Sanchez left the Greyhound bus station on South Main with Rosanna on his arm to join Huntley. The trio passed the Las Vegas Club’s black and white marquee announcing The Most Liberal “21” In The World to enter a purple kaleidoscope. The Fremont Street Experience faded when Huntley received new information from Hawaiian authorities.
Police on the Big Island reported that a young Hawaiian had taken a woman fitting Michelle’s description out to Makai riding her mooring. The anguished Hawaiian had insisted he was telling an incomprehensible truth, so the police reluctantly reported what they heard; Captain Dodd had boarded the boat twice before Michelle’s arrival. Makai raced away minutes after she boarded.
“Locating a missing crew is easy,” Roseanne said. “All I need is an NCIS computer.”
Ten minutes later, Huntley’s cellphone yielded an update as the Strip’s neon reflections rushed over a black hood. All that remained of Makai was an aluminum shell with eight inches of freeboard kept afloat by auxiliary pumps and a girdle of inflated rafts. Thirty minutes later, they learned the boat had been run aground at Leleiwi Beach.
Inside the NCIS’s eleventh-floor office they discovered a fire which began in the forward cabin had spread topside to incinerate an adult male and female. A scorched pearl-handled M1911A1 .45 caliber pistol found in the charred hand of the female was judged the lethal weapon in an apparent murder/suicide.
Rosanna combined six spreadsheets into one that consisted of slotted colors. Sanchez took a deep breath and launched a trial balloon towards a cynical NCIS agent as Rosanna’s finger ran a line of colored cells on the screen to show arrival times of airlines offering flights from Hawaiian airports to those in Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco and Las Vegas.
“The twin who pulled that trigger is coming here. The FBI says Bradley bought a one-way ticket; he won’t return as a Hollister and Dennis can’t arrive as Dodds. An unidentified twin boarded a jet in Honolulu that sets down at McCarran at 6:00 A.M.”
When the bell sounded, all eyes turned from Sanchez to the visitor in the security camera’s monitor where a disheveled Brennan, badly in need of a shave, poked his cellphone to trigger Huntley’s invitation. Brennan loaded his audio CD into a PC, but before the middle scenes of the third act could unfold Huntley interrupted.
“Before we join the present, let’s talk to that houseboat out on Lake Mead.”
The Clark County Sheriff told them that McCarran International wouldn’t be subjected to a public relations fiasco. Only a passenger manifest that confirmed the twin’s current alias would allow jackrabbits to greet arriving Las Vegas visitors at a safe location far from arrival gates.
Brennan hung up wishing he’d thought of calling the LVMPD’s Homeland Security Division. Huntley’s call to the FBI did summon armed personnel in street clothes ready to interview arriving passengers at gate D3 in Terminal Number Two. Roseanne had tuned into an injured veteran’s concealed vulnerability and began thinking out loud.
“Guys, Detective Brennan tried to make Brigitte into someone she’d never be while he watched a Navy Captain steal her heart. He did receive a phone call from Brigitte comforting a spaced-out Dennis and he did ride an airliner to San Diego. He may have withheld information to shield suspects he cared about, but cut him some slack. We still don’t know—”
“I told San...your Raul he had a gem in the rough and you just confirmed it. My secretary took this at 12:30 A.M. It’s a familiar voice above feet on their way to a departure gate in Hilo.”
“Detective Fatso, I’m sorry about Brigitte.”
“You called for a reason, but first, who shot her?”
“Ask someone else.”
“Is Michelle with you?”
As the silence lengthened, a smiling Huntley nodded approval at Brennan who lifted a cigarette and lit it with his Zippo. He cautiously eyed his one-time colleague, pleased that Sanchez appeared to have forgotten the sting of his firing.
“Nope, I’ve have no idea where she is.”
“You realize those two have been sharing a bed for years?”
“I have a feeling Fatso’s investigative skills have improved or are there helpers nearby?”
The name Fatso irritated Brennan, he hadn’t heard it in years but he took it gracefully. The others studied his Marlboro; the tip glowed bright red in rapid spurts.
“I’ll give you credit for one thing, Fatso, that aggravating memory of yours.”
“Michelle spreading her Dutch Iris flowers, you mopping up blood and Dennis puking.”
Rosanna was surprised to find her sympathetic hand lying defensively on Brennan’s shoulder. She remained at his side in the midst of alcoholic breath and sour body odor.
“Michelle pulled the trigger and you three toyed with Dennis.”
“Brigitte offered pills, Dennis was his wacky self, but you let Michelle walk.”
Brennan was unfazed. He smoked with greater efficiency taking longer drags. He reached for a metal letter opener, studied it for a few seconds and then playfully put the sharp tip on skin over a pounding artery for the benefit of his audience.
“We made promises, Bradley. I expect you to keep yours. I’ll be at the airport.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll handle this now, Fatso.”
“Losing love hurts. It’s like they die and yet they’re only a phone call away.”
“They’re gone, Fatso—me too.”
Huntley had listened recalling Brennan’s personal history; a medical career abandoned, an Army commission thrown away and a fruitless marriage dissolved. The room was silent as Brennan’s glassy eyes sought the ceiling to keep his composure, but Sanchez was closing in. Through clenched teeth, words spewed rage in machine gun bursts.
“He’s right, you stunk and I knew it right off.”
“We had a deal: Brigitte hid the body, Bradley the pistol and Michelle Dennis.”
Brennan flipped his cigarette at Sanchez’s face and took the return fist on his left eye. Rosanna rode back to Brennan’s duplex in stony silence. Her sullen look defrosted after Brennan dropped his head. He lit a second Marlboro near the overflowing ashtray and sank in the seat.
“I got it wrong thinking she’d ever give a shit, but can I blame her?”
“She sneered at you for years, long after she’d forgotten Joffre. Women do that when the care deeply but you never gave her a chance to find out what was under that thick skin.”
“I’m sorry treating her that way but believe me, I couldn’t help it.
He knew better as Rosanna’s wry smile betrayed the lie. Brennan put out the cigarette opening the passenger window. He inhaled deeply and attempted a smile while outside McCarran International Airport, Sanchez and Huntley joined the FBI taskforce taking up positions at Gate 3 with all eyes glued to Runway 25L.
“What the NCIS’s take on that letter opener routine?”
“He’s headed for a mental breakdown and worrying about a psychopathic twin can’t help.”
Soon after Rosanna watched Brennan finalize her DVD copy. The man needed sleep in the worst way but he had insisted, so she’d reviewed evidence from news articles, audiotapes, photocopies, letters, TV broadcast videos and photographs on the big screen.
“Whoever shows knows he’s got a posse waiting.”
“You’re telling me it isn’t Bradley?”
“They sound, look and make love the same, maybe Michelle figured it out.”
Brennan excused himself and his aging bladder and left the room. He slid the recorder in his left suit pocket to capture the last scenes before the credits rolled. Anxiety builds when an unarmed detective faces a known threat, but this time it was different. The short-barreled Kimber remained under the pillow as he gathered his conflicting thoughts. He snorted the last of the stolen cocaine. He wouldn’t need any drugs even cigarettes. He was already in a better place.
He patted the vacant spot in his empty suit coat. People fortified with overwhelming self confidence are freed from inhibition to reap life’s reward on a higher level. That realization explained why he didn’t required sleep. The simple fact was he felt renewed. He didn’t require a weapon, he was—invincible. He unconsciously shifted the recorder to the right vest pocket.
Dancing feet plummeted down the stairs toward a waiting film crew. His walk to Terminal Number Two should have been an exterior scene but it wasn’t. His mind bounced between critical scenes of his shooting script. He had crafted four murders into a spec script based on a theme asserted by a corrupt lover. Brigitte believed Carl Jung’s Electra complex was alive and well. Michelle had battled a dead mother for possession of her living father.
Brigitte had planted that idea, prompted sexual activities by drugging teenagers and attempted to profit by selling her video starring unknowing participants. Brennan had taken the essential motive further: Michelle craved her father because impregnation by him was a substitute for the male part she desired. Somehow she had merged two separate and unruly personalities into one manageable composite. It was a wife-daughter thing in the final analysis.
He had deleted the most painful scene, Brigitte’s personal betrayal. The discovery of her sketches in the leather-bound portfolio in Joffre’s bedroom had cut too deeply. Hearing of Joffre’s praise for her caricatures of Brennan’s primal lust had brought desperation, but it was her mockery of his heartfelt love that had incited unbridled rage.
Minutes later, in his unsettled mind, he’d abandoned the 20-foot circle of round curved track, dolly and Panavision camera. He took up a small hand-held camera. Taxi drivers never saw a cinematographer, just a drifter sprawled beyond the curb. Brennan’s silent moviegoers shifted to the edge of seats seeing a platoon of desert ants on a reconnaissance mission enter a canyon.
Brennan had fallen into step behind knee-high insects. Black, segmented backs rose and fell in unison on six bowed legs; they had been well trained for mine detection. Their long antennae probed the sticky metallic vault. Loud echoes forced Brennan to cover his ears. Time seemed to have slowed, it took minutes, but he had finally rolled over onto his back.
A raised head followed the passenger jet’s landing lights that spread golden cones on the damp sand. Looking beyond the Pepsi can, he saw runway lights. Brigitte’s features emerged from a thin pink line at the black edge of night. Her face became a cloudlike lid on the curved cityscape brightened by new day. It went from orange to yellow to nothingness.
Thirty minutes later, Haskell held up a photograph. He had run out of flight crew so he thrust the picture at the flight attendant again.
“Oh, it can’t be him; he was a priest or some kind of minister.”
“So...picture the man with a white squared-collar below a chin.”
“I guess in black slacks, loafers and a long-sleeved shirt, but it’s—”
“This isn’t rocket science. Screw around and a killer gets away.”
“Well, he had dreamy blue eyes...he just couldn’t be a killer.”
“You saw contacts. Which way was he headed?”
Anxious moments followed until an FBI agent on the second level of the esplanade spoke to an employee inside Lost and Found. Clergy made rare appearances, but one fitting the flight attendant’s description had recovered a lost Bible minutes earlier.
The pretty clerk had succeeded in locating a large blue book whose cover bore gold lettering. The minister had described the cover’s gold cross that hovered above the words “Contemporary English Version”. He was beyond well mannered, he had taken her hand and gently kissed it.
Huntley was reclaiming the backpack from a waste canister in the men’s room when two shots rang out. They arrived at the 24 Hour Flower Shop to see a dazed man in flip flops, white windbreaker and black swimming trunks. Blood seeped from his mouth and nose.
Brennan sat cross-legged at the entrance admiring a Glock Slimline near the blue Bible with his blackened eye totally closed. He cast the good eye at his bloodstained shirt and reached into his right vest pocket. A gummy red mass of punctured metal, shattered plastic and fine wires clung to his hand as a flattened .45 caliber slug dropped to the floor.
“Michelle said he’d be the one most likely to buy my flowers. A single-stack magazine measures about an inch in width. He took a page out of Maria’s book...hid it inside.” Brennan looked at blood stained fingertips after Sanchez dropped to one knee.
“A flesh wound, so now I have to deal with this stuff close up.”
“Open that suit coat; let’s have a look.”
“He killed a secretary that’s all. You’ll get Brigitte’s money.”
Huntley stepped before an entourage of uniformed officers and paramedics.
“He’s telling the truth; Brigitte’s money grew in a special fund administered by the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society. I accused her of offering that reward to deflect suspicion once, but I was wrong. I read the text of her interview back in 84’. She said she was planning to marry a decorated Navy Hospital corpsman who’d been wounded in the Que Son Valley.”
“‘Attention to detail defines art’, how many clicks from Saigon?”
“I’m in no mood for bullshit. I caught a round in a shoulder thirty miles south of...Da Nang.”
Sanchez caught the falling Brennan with a right hand that felt warm and sticky. Brennan battled to keep his eyelids raised and so the flashback was shot as originally scripted. He climbed a carpeted staircase seeking Joffre’s bedroom where Brigitte had made love earlier. In the midst of imported furnishings his eyes were drawn to freshly picked Dutch Iris flowers that filled the French opaline vases, but the fragrance from the sheets was Brigitte.
Brennan’s eyelids were lead weights but he managed to tell Bradley that phony tan lines on the wrists and face were amateur disguises. “Yeah, but locking us up in a room with Brigitte and her pills while you hunted Joffre with his 45 wasn’t a brilliant move, Fatso.”
A plea of self-defense wasn’t scripted, the last scene faded to endless sleep.
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