INSTALLMENT 1 | INSTALLMENT 2 | INSTALLMENT 3

Garrison Residence, San Francisco, CA -- 2:00 PM PST

Hal Frederick stayed with James Garrison for the better part of an hour after the phone call to Allen Kertz. He completed his inquiries regarding the child, used Garrison’s phone, fax and desktop computer to notify the pertinent authorities of the boy’s status. Then, he apprised Garrison of his options.

“In the circumstances,” he said, “it may be possible to put out a warrant for your wife’s arrest.”

“On what charge?” Garrison asked. “The money was half hers. She had every right to take it.”

“I’m not talking about the money,” Frederick replied. “I’m talking about your son. In acting as she did, your wife may have opened herself up to a kidnapping charge.”

“Deborah’s his mother,” Garrison replied. “How could she kidnap her own son?”

“It’s a stretch, I’ll grant you,” Frederick said. “She’s not violating any child custody orders, but the fact that she left surreptitiously and has taken pains to cover her tracks may work in your favor. I’ll bet we could get a judge to rule that her actions constitute unlawful abduction.”

Garrison considered the idea briefly. “No,” he said. “That’d just upset Noah all the more. I’m sure he’s already confused…wondering what’s going on. Just think how much worse it would be for him to see his mother being led away by the police.”

In over two decades in law enforcement, Hal Frederick had encountered spurned lovers, male and female, from all walks of life and every social stratum. Most would have given anything to get even with their former partners. Few could have resisted the temptation that had just been dangled in front of Jim Garrison.

Was it possible that he was playing at high-mindedness in order to make an impression, Frederick wondered? It seemed unlikely. What could he hope to gain?

No. In this instance, as far as Frederick could determine, the real explanation for Garrison’s behavior lay in the fact that he was exactly what he appeared to be: a mensch, a man of integrity.

Following that insight, two ideas began gnawing at the inspector’s brain:

1. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a decent man attracts a decent woman. The odds against Garrison’s wife being as shallow as her actions implied, therefore, now seemed longer than Frederick had originally thought.

b) Any circumstances sufficiently grievous to have impelled an upright woman to behave as Deborah Garrison had done must be dire indeed.

Garrison interrupted the policeman’s train of thought. “Inspector,” he said.

“Please,” said Frederick, “call me Hal.”

“I know you think Deborah took advantage and then left me for selfish reasons, and...” Garrison paused, wrestling with unfamiliar thoughts.

Instinctively, Frederick felt that he and Garrison were nearing similar conclusions about his wife, but he wanted to hear the man explain his feelings, just the same.

“Yes?” he said.

“And for a second there,” Garrison continued. “I was so upset I almost believed it myself.”

“But you don’t now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I know it looks bad for her,” Garrison replied slowly, thinking things through as he spoke. “Everything she’s done seems so sly and deceitful, but that’s just it…that’s not Deborah. She’s not sly and deceitful. Not at all.”

“What are you trying to say, Mr. Garrison?” Frederick asked.

“That if Deborah is acting out of character…doing things she wouldn’t ordinarily think of doing, it can only be because she has a damn good reason,” Garrison said. “And I’m starting to think that the only reason she could have is that she’s in some kind of trouble…serious trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Frederick said. “Because that’s exactly what I’m beginning to think.”

Sally Hank’s Residence, Rosedale, CA – 2:00 PM PST

Sally Hank’s home did not look like it belonged to a used car dealer. The grounds were beautifully landscaped, replete with venerable old cacti, desert rock, ocotillo and the quiet babble of a soothing water feature. Inside, her choice of adobe walls, split cedar ceiling and Saltillo tile, might have earned Sally’s home a pictorial spread in Architectural Digest.

In a guest bedroom on the second floor, Deborah Garrison lay sleeping. Noah, awakened by the sounds of the maid’s young son, laughing and playing downstairs, had slipped out of the room long ago, heading downstairs to look for the fun.

From the kitchen came the sound of a whistling teapot on the boil. Outside, a gardener clipped away with a pair of pruning shears. In a distant laundry room, an unbalanced load of bed linens created a minor ruckus, bouncing and clanging through the spin cycle. With these diverse noises for raw material, Deborah Garrison’s slumbering imagination had no trouble creating an eerie dream world.

She and Noah had been waiting a long while at a railway station. The faraway clacking of iron wheels told her that their train had finally arrived. Deborah took Noah’s hand and followed a throng of travelers to a crowded boarding area.

The conductor found two seats for them, side-by-side on a bench in a passenger car.

Deborah looked out the window and down the curving track. A string of cattle cars was also attached to the train. She watched as an old couple was escorted out of the passenger section and herded onto one of the cattle cars. Hundreds of hands and arms protruded through slats of the car, reaching, as if for freedom.

The train lurched forward. The interior of the coach went dark. Deborah put her arm around Noah’s shoulders.

“If you co-operate,” said a bespectacled man seated nearby, “they will go easy on you. Just co-operate. Remember that.”

The noise of the locomotive and the wheels of the passenger car grew louder. Then, there was silence. The train halted suddenly, soundlessly.

Deborah looked around her. Of the bespectacled man, there was nothing left but his glasses. Every other passenger, except she and the boy, had been stripped to their bones.

She looked down at her son but could not see his face. She ran her hand beneath his chin. It was rough and prickly. She tilted his head upward. The face of Hugh Nachtmann, much reduced in size yet grinning as cruelly as ever, gazed back at her.

Deborah awoke with a start, her stomach tight as a fist, her body damp. There, lying in the half light, she came to a realization.

“Noah can’t stay with me,” she whispered. “It’s too dangerous.”

She rose from the bed, slipped on a robe and went downstairs. In the kitchen she found Sally Hank and her housemaid having coffee together. Noah and the maid’s son played with toys on the floor nearby. Sally looked up.

“What’s the matter, dear?” she said. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“That’s exactly how I feel.”

“Sit down, then,” Sally said, patting a chair seat next to her and glancing across the table top toward the maid. “This is Maria.”

Deborah nodded at the spirited young Latina. Maria smiled back.

“Maria’s from El Salvador,” Sally said. “From what you tell me, you and she have something in common.”

“Oh?” Deborah said as she took a seat. “What’s that?”

“Death squads,” Maria replied.

It was only then that Deborah noticed the scars on Maria’s throat, temple and forehead.

Central Police Station - San Francisco, CA – 4:00 PM

Lt. Harvey Simon, commander of the weekend day shift at Central Station in North Beach, liked Hal Frederick, and he didn’t care who knew it. Simon, unlike nearly all of his peers, saw nothing amiss in the fact that one of Frederick’s more recent cases had toppled a US Congressman, a police chief and several high ranking city officials.

“It was the luck of the draw,” the lieutenant once remarked. “Frederick caught a dirty case and played it clean. It could have happened to anybody with a conscience.”

Simon trusted Frederick’s instincts, too, so when the inspector returned to the station requesting permission to devote the remainder of his two weekend shifts to the disappearance of Deborah Garrison, Simon agreed.

“Do what you have to, Frederick,” he said. “Just remember, this is the weekend. On Monday you have a different boss. Don’t count on Jackson being as nice as me.” Lt. Jackson was the weekday watch commander and Frederick’s immediate superior.

“I won’t,” Frederick said.

“Still though, this case looks pretty routine,” said Simon. “She took the money, she took the kid, she split. Isn’t that about it?”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“What? You think the husband did ‘em?”

Frederick shook his head. “Garrison’s a straight arrow. That’s the only thing I am sure of. Other than that, I’m clueless.”

The phone rang. Simon picked up and Frederick headed for the door, then turned and held up his hand for attention. Simon covered the mouthpiece.

“What?”

“I forgot to tell you. I’m taking Wingate.”

“Wingate’s CSI,” Simon said. “This case is missing persons. What do you need him for?”

“All we know is she’s missing,” said Frederick. “We don’t know why she went missing or how.”

Simon waved his hand. “All right then, take him,” he said. “You just better have something.”

********

Outside, it was a typical San Francisco spring day: cold and wet. Paul Wingate, CSI, broad and balding, drove an unmarked Crown Vic up the Green Street hill just east of Columbus Avenue. From the passenger seat, Inspector Frederick briefed him on Deborah Garrison’s disappearance. Wingate looked skeptical.

“She took half the cash?” he said. “That’s a twist. They usually take it all. Except for that, it’s the same old samba.”

“You had to be there, Paul,” said Frederick. “Not five minutes after Garrison found out about the money, he was defending her, insisting she must have had a good reason. Turned down the carrot, too.”

“The what?”

“I offered to put out a warrant on her and he turned me down. What do you say to that?”

“I don’t know. Love is blind?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Frederick. “And denial is a river in Egypt. I’m telling you, Paul, this is different.”

“How so?”

“Because I say it is,” Frederick said.

Wingate glanced over. “Oh, I see,” he said, smirking. “You have a feeling.”

“You’re damned skippy I do,” Frederick replied. “I think he’s right. I think she is running from something...and not from him.” Frederick held up his hand. “Wait…stop,” he said, pointing. “That’s the place. The two-story job with the round drive.”

Wingate whistled through his teeth. “Holy maloley,” he said. “Look at that place. Wait a minute. Jim Garrison? Is this the Jim Garrison?”

“Who’s ‘the’ Jim Garrison?” asked Frederick.

“You been living in a cave?” Wingate said. He backed the car up, pulled into the drive and stopped. “Oh, yeah. I forgot. You don’t have kids.”

“What do you mean you forgot I don’t have kids? Did you forget you don’t have kids?”

“My sister has kids,” Wingate said. “Two of them.”

“OK, so who is he?”

“He’s a music promoter…the hottest comer on the coast. His profile in the Nightlife section called him the Goyisha Graham.”

“As in Bill Graham?” Frederick said.

“Yeah. He wears just as many hats. He manages bands, produces shows, owns a record label.” Wingate looked again at the Garrison residence. “Has a nice house, too.”

“If he’s so famous, how come I’ve never heard of him?”

“He likes it that way,” Wingate said. “Wants to remain behind the scenes. Graham loved the spotlight. Garrison avoids it.”

The two men walked up the steps to the front door. Frederick rang the bell. A Chinese man, in his mid-fifties, wearing a white houseman’s coat answered. Showing his badge, Frederick introduced himself.

“Hal Frederick, SFPD,” he said. “Are you Lewis Foo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought you were off on Saturdays,” Frederick said.

Foo blinked. “Mr. Garrison asked me to come. Under the circumstances…”

“Of course,” Frederick said. “We’re here to see Mr. Garrison, but I would like to talk with you for a moment first, if that’s OK?”

“Of course, Inspector.” Lewis bowed slightly. “How can I help?” Foo’s English was perfect, his accent American. His hair was styled and his clothing, though not expensive, fit perfectly. Not exactly fresh off the boat, thought Frederick.

“Mr. Garrison tells me you were out sick last week. Is that right?”

“From Wednesday morning onward. Yes.”

“Anything serious?”

“Not really. A touch of the flu, I’m told.”

“You saw a doctor?”

“An herbalist in Chinatown,” said Foo. “Dr. Tsing. I know the number. Do you need it?”

Frederick paused. “Sure,” he said. “Shoot.” Lewis recited the number. Frederick wrote it down.

“One more thing, Mr. Foo,” the inspector said. “When you spoke to Mrs. Garrison on Friday, did you call her or did she call you?”

“She called me,” Foo replied.

“Why?” Frederick asked.

“Why did she call?”

“Yes.”

“To see how I was doing, I think.”

“I see. Do you happen to know where she was calling from?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did Mrs. Garrison call you from home? A friend’s house? A payphone?”

“Oh, I see,” Foo said. “From home, I think.”

“Thank you, Mr. Foo. You’ve been most helpful,” Frederick said. “I wonder, can you give me your home phone number, just in case I need to reach you?”

Foo gave his number to Inspector Frederick just as Jim Garrison appeared in the doorway.

“Hal,” Garrison said, “please, come in.” With Foo following behind, Garrison led the two policemen into the sitting room in which he and Frederick had spoken earlier that day. There, he gestured toward a pair of leather chairs behind a low table and invited them to sit. On the table was a road map of California and Arizona highways.

“Can I offer you something? Coffee? Water? A soft drink?”

“Thank you, no,” replied Frederick. Wingate shook his head. “We’re fine for now. This is my colleague, CSI Paul Wingate.”

Garrison spoke first to the houseman. “Thanks, Lewis. That’ll be all.” Then, he leaned over and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “What do I call you? CSI Wingate? Mr. Wingate?”

“Paul will do, Mr. Garrison,” Wingate replied.

“Then call me ‘Jim,’” said Garrison. “You guys have at least a decade on me. It’s weird hearing you call me ‘Mr.’”

The two policemen exchanged glances. “Uh, yeah,” Frederick said. “I brought Paul along because…”

Garrison held up his hand. “Just a sec,” he said, already halfway out of the room. “I’ve got something in the hall.”

Wingate was miffed. “What? Are we old farts just getting in the way here?”

Frederick tore a page from his notebook and passed it over. “Check out Lewis’ phone records first chance you get. Let’s find out if he’s on the square about that call from Mrs. Garrison.” Wingate nodded.

Garrison came back carrying a cassette recorder. “I did some thinking after you left,” he said. “I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me before.”

“What?”

“Deborah’s phone messages,” Garrison replied. “She had over two dozen new ones and most of them came in on Friday.”

“That’s a lot of messages,” said Wingate.

“Deborah’s very social,” Garrison replied. “She also does a fair amount of volunteer work. Even so, two dozen calls in one day is unusual. But that’s not what got me. It was the type of calls.”

“What do you mean?” Frederick asked.

“They were hang ups, mostly, and I guess what you might call ‘pick ups’”

“Pick ups?”

“You know, ‘If you’re there pick up?’”

“Any idea who they were from?” said Frederick.

“Some guy. I have no idea who. Here’s his voice, though.” Garrison pressed ‘play.’

“Hello, De…rah? Are you there? Pick…the pho…Deborah.” It was difficult to tell much about the caller by his voice. The transmission, apparently from a cell phone, was breaking up badly. “I’m here…king…ting for you. Why go th…all the ha….of run… I’ll catch…s…ater.”

“Are they all like this?” said Frederick.

“Pretty much.”

“And you have no idea who it might be?”

“Not a clue,” said Garrison. “But I do have a phone number.”

“That’s good.”

“Not really,” Garrison said. “It was a mobile and it’s been trashed. Whoever bought it used fake ID and stolen credit cards. It was operational only until the phone company found out .”

“How do you know all that?” asked Wingate.

“A friend in the telecom business,” said Garrison. “I called in a favor.”

“The number…was it local?” Frederick asked.

“No,” said Garrison. He pointed to a location on the map he’d spread out over the table. “Barstow. Area code 760.” A small desert town in Southern California, Barstow’s greatest claim to fame is being the next-to-last major population area along Historic Route 66.

Wingate took out a note pad and pen and reached for the cassette recorder, then unwound the cord on its earphone and plugged it in. He pressed play, and closed his eyes to listen.

“Excuse me, Jim,” said a voice. “Sorry to intrude.”

Garrison and Frederick turned. An attractive brunette, about 35, wearing gabardine pants and a cashmere sweater, stood in the doorway. “Is Deborah around? The Mustang isn’t in my garage so I figured she must have it.”

“Rachel, you’re back,” Garrison said. “Your car is gone?”

“Well, yeah,” said Rachel. “Deborah was taking care of it for me. She probably just took it out...”

Garrison interrupted. “Deborah’s missing, Rache. If she’s got your car, it’s missing, too.”

“Deborah? Missing?” she said.

“These gentlemen are the police.” Garrison said. “Deborah and Noah are both gone.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Hold on,” said Frederick. “Doesn’t Mrs. Garrison have her own car?”

“Yes, of course,” Garrison replied. “A Volvo station wagon.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s still in the garage,” Garrison said. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“No,” said Frederick.

“This is awful.” Rachel Morris was shaken. “Deborah’s …I’m just…I…” She placed a hand on her forehead. Then, taking a breath, she collected herself. “Wait. I…I just thought of something that might help,” she said.

“What’s that ma’am?” asked Frederick.

“I have NoJax.”

A privately owned stolen vehicle recovery system with extensive nationwide police participation, NoJax relied on a satellite network to pinpoint the location of stolen autos. It was accurate to within ten meters. If Deborah was in Rachel’s Mustang and, if the NoJax unit was functioning, she and Noah might be found within minutes.

Rachel reached into the bag over her shoulder. “Here’s my customer card,” she said.

Inspector Frederick called the hotline and talked for several minutes.

“There’s good news and bad news,” Frederick said, hanging up.

“What’s the good news?” asked Garrison.

“The NoJax unit has already been located. CHP found it about 250 miles from here.”

“Where?” Garrison said.

“Rosedale, California,” replied Frederick. “About 25 miles northwest of Bakersfield.”

“And the bad news?”

“It wasn’t in the car. There was no sign of it, or of your wife and son.”

Garrison smacked a fist into his palm. “Damn!”

Wingate, meanwhile, had finished listening to the taped telephone messages.

“Mr. Garrison,” he said, “did you say you’d listened to everything on here?” Garrison looked up.

“Yes,” he replied. “That is, no. I mean, not completely. I listened to all of about half them and then just parts of the rest. Why?”

“I think you missed something.” Wingate rewound the tape a bit and pressed play.

“Are you there, Deborah?” It was a male voice, but different from the previous one.

“This is Anthony, Deborah,” the voice continued. “I’m calling about your travel plans. There’s been an itinerary change. IGM is no longer an option. Please get back to me so we can discuss some alternatives. Let me know, too, if you know what you’re going to do yet.”

“Do you know this guy?” said Frederick.

“I don’t think so,” Garrison said. “Anybody know what IGM is?”

“IGM,” said Rachel, chewing on her lower lip. “Hmm.”

“This Anthony guy,” said Wingate, “It sounds like he may be a friend. If he is, your wife needs him.”

“What do you mean?” Garrison said.

“I listened to all of those other messages,” said Wingate. “You were right. The caller said almost the same thing each time he called.” Wingate began flipping through the pages in his notebook, placing check marks beside parts of his notes. “But different words and phrases were audible on each call. Sometimes I heard one thing, sometimes another.”

“And?” said Garrison.

“And the complete message is not good.” Wingate tore a page from his pad and held it up for Garrison to see, then cleared his throat, and read.

“‘Hello, Deborah? Are you there? Pick up the phone Deborah. I’m here in the king man waiting for you. Why go through all the hassle of running away when you know I’ll catch up with you sooner or later.’”

“I knew it!” Garrison exclaimed. “Some son of a bitch is after my wife and kid!”

“The king man?” said Rachel. “What in the world is the king man?”

“No,” Garrison said. “Not the king man. It’s Kingman…Kingman, Arizona. Don’t you see?” He reached for the map. “The NoJax was in Rosedale, near Bakersfield, here. The mobile phone was purchased in Barstow, here. The next town east is Kingman. And IGM…” Garrison faltered.

“What about it?” Wingate asked.

“Wait, I remember!” Rachel said. “IGM is an airport abbreviation. We had to memorize them when I was a stewardess. SFO for San Francisco, ORD for O’Hare. IGM is Kingman...Kingman International Airport.”

“That’s it, then,” said Garrison. “Someone is after Deborah and she’s heading for an airport to get away.”

“But why Kingman?” said Wingate.

“Does it matter?” replied Garrison. “I’m on my way.” He cupped his hands around his mouth like a Louisiana hog caller. “Lewis!” he shouted.

Dashing around the room, he picked up the map, a cell phone and his wallet and stuffed them into his pockets. The houseman showed himself.

“Yes, sir?”

“Lewis, I’m going to Kingman.

“Kingman, Mr. Garrison?”

“Yeah. It’s in Arizona. Bring the car around and call the McGoverns. Have them file a flight plan and get the plane ready.”

“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

Garrison pointed at Frederick and Wingate. “You guys need anything?”

“Us?” said Frederick.

“Yeah,” Garrison replied. “You are coming, aren’t you?”

Sally Hank’s Residence, Rosedale, CA – 5:30 PM PST

A slender young man in red mechanic’s overalls climbed Crazy Sally’s front steps and rang the bell. A moment later, Maria, the maid, appeared at the door carrying a set of keys. She and the young man headed for the garage.

Maria talked, the man listened, occasionally nodding his head. Then Maria poked a code into an electronic keypad. The garage door opened. Maria handed the man the keys she’d been carrying and pointed toward a silver Lexus parked inside. The man touched the brim of his cap, climbed into the Lexus and drove it off the property and toward the service center at Crazy Sally’s car lot. Maria watched him go, then closed the garage and went back inside.

Twenty minutes later, the garage opened again. A blonde woman behind the wheel of a brown Mustang gunned the engine, released the clutch and drove down the drive. Visible through the rear window, as the car pulled away, was the gray plastic frame of a child’s car seat.

Turning left on Riverside Avenue, the Mustang headed toward Interstate 80, slightly over a mile away. At 6:01 PM, it reached the junction of I-80 and Highway 99. There it merged with traffic in the far right hand lane and exited toward 99 South.

One mile down Highway 99, parked on the right hand shoulder of the road, its hazard lights flashing, was a Ford F-150 pickup. As the Mustang passed, the driver of the F-150 turned off the hazards and fell in well behind.

Hayward, CA -- 6:40 PM

Traffic was light on 880 south. Jim Garrison’s limo sped toward Hayward Executive Airport. Lewis Foo drove. Garrison and Frederick rode in back. Frederick was on the car phone, explaining to his wife what was happening.

“Yeah, I know it’s unusual, sweetheart,” he said. “But Lt. Simon agreed. He thinks I should go. Yes, of course a crime was committed. It looks that way. What? A woman and her son. No, a married woman. We’ll be there in a few hours. I should be home no later than tomorrow night. No, ‘we’ means her husband and I. OK, I love you too. Bye hon.”

Inspector Frederick hung up and sighed. Garrison glanced at him.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” said Frederick. “My wife has a jealous streak, that’s all.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twenty-five years next week,” Frederick said. “We got married just after I joined the force.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment.” Garrison said. “Congratulations.”

Garrison’s parents divorced when he was eight. His mother married and divorced two more times before left home. He regarded the longevity of any relationship with something like awe.

“Where did you and your wife meet?” he asked.

“San Francisco State College,” the inspector said. “She sat across from me in some science class or other. I can’t remember what. The only thing I do remember is her face. Couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

Worried, tired and stressed, Garrison was touched. He leaned his chin on his thumb and dabbed, surreptitiously, at the corner of one eye. Frederick pretended not to notice.

Garrison’s mind traveled back several years and thousands of miles, to White Sands Beach in Kona, Hawaii. There, on a summer morning nine years ago, he’d watched from a distance as a young woman put up an umbrella and spread out her blanket.

The tiny stretch of sand was crowded, hot and noisy, but Garrison was past noticing. Once his eyes fell on the woman’s elegant face, velvety skin, and long tapering legs, he could neither see, nor hear anything but her. Wordlessly, he deserted his companions and walked toward her. When he came within a few yards, the young woman looked up and Garrison stopped.

“Hello,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand.

“Hello.”

“Can I help you?”

Spellbound, Garrison did not, at first, realize that she’d spoken. “I beg your pardon?” he said finally.

“I said: ‘Can I help you?’”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “you can. The question is will you.”

“Will I what?” she asked.

“Help me.”

The woman laughed a little. It was the most musical sound he had ever heard. “Perhaps,” she said. “What kind of help do you need?”

“Well, for a start, I’m terribly lonely. Will you marry me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, laughing again. “Are you prepared to care for me in a suitably lavish manner? What are your prospects? Do you have a job, at least?”

“Not really,” replied Garrison. “I’m a road manager for rock bands.”

“Oh, that’s not good,” she said. “The children would never see you. You’ll have to find steady employment somewhere.”

“I’ll start looking tomorrow.”

“And of course you’ll have to settle down.”

“Whatever you say.”

A tiny wrinkle appeared on the bridge of the woman’s nose. It began to dawn on her that this crazy fellow might be serious. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether he was a nut, a genuine, if ham-handed suitor, or merely a charming flirt. She took a gamble.

“I must say,” she said, “You seem to have the right attitude. What’s your name?”

“Jim Garrison.”

“Hm. Deborah Faber Garrison,” she mused. “That sounds nice. Maybe I will marry you.”

Garrison squatted beside her blanket.

“Why is it that someone so perfect hasn’t already been snapped up?” he said.

“Oh, that’s easy.” She pointed at her arm. “I’m not perfect, really. I have freckles.”

“Then there’s hope?”

“Well, it’s a long shot,” said Deborah, “But sit down why don’t you? Let’s talk.”

“We’re here.” Frederick’s voice roused Garrison. He looked around. The limo was parked on an airstrip near a glistening corporate jet.

It was beautiful. A sleek Gulfstream IIB business jet, it seated ten passengers and, at 37,000 feet, cruised at 451 knots; around 520 miles per hour.

“I told Hannah we’d be there in a few hours,” Frederick said. “I should have said sooner.”

“Yeah,” Garrison replied. “More like an hour and twenty minutes.”

A young couple in casual-dress flight uniforms came up from behind.

“Actually,” the man said, with a trace of an Australian accent, “it’ll be more like an hour and ten minutes. We’ve got a tail wind.”

Garrison introduced everyone. “This is Inspector Frederick, SFPD, Harry,” he said. “Captain Harry is our pilot.”

“And this is my wife, Jennifer,” said Harry. “The co-pilot and, as you might imagine, the real captain.”

“San Francisco Police?” said Jennifer. “Can you fix a ticket?”

“Not even my own,” Frederick replied.

“Well, then, I just hope you brought your own parachute,” McGovern said. “Jennifer here is brutal. In an emergency, she jettisons all non-essential personnel.”

“I thought we were going to have three passengers, Mr. G.” Jennifer said. Frederick answered for Garrison.

“We were, but Wingate is doing some follow up work back in the city,” he said.

“In that case, since we’re all here…” McGovern motioned toward the aircraft. “Shall we? Twenty minutes later, they were airborne, climbing rapidly, heading southeast.

Executive Inn Airport Hotel, Hayward Executive Airport – 7:10 PM

In a phone booth just off the main lobby, two coins dropped. The man in the booth dialed a San Francisco number and listened until a second dial tone sounded. Then he dialed an 800 number. At a third tone, after he’d entered a final six digit code, his call began bouncing around the globe like a pinball.

First, it was routed to an overseas trunk line, then it passed through stations in eight European countries, finally reaching a satellite uplink in Sicily. From Sicily it was beamed back to a Sprint Canada switching station. Sprint Canada directed it to an exchange in the American Southwest where it underwent one final transformation.

Anyone investigating the receiving party’s phone records would have thought the call came from a dentist’s office in Phoenix. Anyone attempting to tap the call would have heard, not voices, but incomprehensible gibberish.

“Nachtmann here.”

“It’s me,” said the caller. “Garrison’s on his way. He’s in a private jet: Gulfstream IIB #N57181 out of HWD. Departure time 7:06 PM Local PDT. Flying at FL370 into IGM. Flight time 1:10. Arrival time 8:16 PM MST. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“He’s got a cop.”

“No problem.”

Both men hung up.

FBI Field Office, Tucson, AZ – 8:15 PM MST

Nachtmann called Agent Schmidt from Kingman and put him on alert. Things were heating up.

The prestige of Schmidt’s position, Special Agent in Charge of Pacific Rim Security, got him a temporary desk in the Tucson Field Office That was enough to intimidate small fries, but soon, he was going to have to start throwing his weight around. For that he needed more than phantom power. For that he needed some real clout. He picked up the phone and dialed FBI Headquarters in DC.

“JT Winslow, please,” he said. “Deputy Director of Strategic Ops,” The ring tone buzzed in his ear twice.

“SOIC,” said a youthful voice. “Agent Carmichael.”

“Carmichael, this is Lawrence Schmidt, Special Agent in Charge of Pacific Rim Security. Schmidt used his most commanding tone. “Let me speak with Winslow.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Carmichael said. “It’s Saturday. Director Winslow is not in the office.”

“I don’t care if it’s Christmas Eve, Carmichael,” Schmidt shot back. “This is a matter of national security. Get him on the phone.” Schmidt heard the man’s chair squeaking, as if he were snapping to attention where he sat.

“One moment, sir.” A few seconds later, Director Winslow’s voice, sleepy and brusque, came over the line.

“All right, Schmidt,” he said. “You’ve got me. What is it?” Schmidt and Winslow had been at the academy together. Schmidt tried the old boy approach.

“Hey, there, JT,” he said. “Sorry to wake you.”

“Well, you did,” Winslow replied. “What do you want?” Winslow was an Ivy League smart ass, Schmidt remembered. Maybe the old boy approach was wrong.

“Did you read my report?”

“The Hawaii thing?” Winslow said, vaguely recalling the synopsis he’d skimmed earlier in the day. “What about it?”

“Things are starting to break. I’m going to need some support.” Not entirely awake, Winslow was struggling to get his mind around the conversation he was having. He had a faint recollection of something disturbing in the report Schmidt was referencing, but he couldn’t quite bring it forward.

“What kind of support?” he asked. Schmidt decided to up the ante.

“FISA,” he said.

The Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act authorized the surveillance of individuals within the United States, deemed to be agents of foreign governments or terrorist organizations.

“Foreign intelligence?” Winslow said. “I thought this was a domestic matter.” Now, Schmidt thought. Now’s the time to get nasty.

“Jesus Christ, Winslow,” he said. “Did you actually read my report or did you just have some flunky summarize it for you?”

Winslow started. In fact, Agent Carmichael had summarized Schmidt’s report.

“What we’re dealing with here is a conspiracy to incite civil unrest,” Schmidt continued. “There’s a well organized group of domestics, with possible foreign backing, who are actively promoting Hawaiian secession.”

“Secession?” From Winslow’s point of view, the discussion was becoming increasingly surreal. Suddenly, he remembered what had troubled him in Schmidt’s report. “Listen, bud,” he said, “I don’t know what kind of cockeyed crap you’re peddling, but if you think I’m going to authorize the use of extreme prejudice on your say-so, you’re out of you fucking mind.” Schmidt smiled to himself.

Gotcha.

“Extreme prejudice?” he said. “Who said anything about that? All I want to do is probe into this matter a little more deeply. Just give me the authority open an official investigation.”

Winslow thought it over. What harm could it do?

“All right,” he said. “Have Carmichael start a file and I’ll OK it. Give him your background information and keep him posted. And one more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Unless the whole god damned state blows up, I don’t want to hear about this again until Monday. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”