Drone: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 6

  “Ninety percent on the general idea,” I said. “Maybe eighty-twenty on the details.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m looking for someone who could do what I just described.”

  “Half the guys out here could do it.” Pauly swept his hand across the stark landscape.

  “I’m looking for someone who would do what I just described.”

  He pulled his arm in, cupped his hands as if holding something small, shrugged his shoulders. “Probably a smaller number.”

  “You think of anyone with those skills who might’ve passed through here, maybe not a regular, maybe seemed suspicious somehow?”

  “Hell, Quinn. I think everyone is suspicious. It’s what I do.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Not off the top of my head. But I’ll think on it.”

  “Maybe poke around? Discreetly?”

  He stopped walking, put hands on hips. Followed a drone that was corkscrewing through the sky. “I could do that.”

  “Thanks Pauly.”

  We turned around and walked back to the clubhouse. I asked about his wife.

  “Janet’s good. She says I spend too much time out here. Should do more around the house, in the yard. Hell, we have someone who cleans the house once a week. We have a landscaper, comes once a month. And we have nothing but cacti and a couple trees in the yard. What am I supposed to do?”

  I had introduced Pauly and Janet in college, was best man at their wedding. And despite the way he talked sometimes, I knew he was still nuts about her and the kids. And somehow she still put up with him. It made me think of Jess. Then Sam. Pauly had met Sam a couple times. I told him how she’d been the one to suggest I become a private investigator, and how she’d handed me my first case—the Bernstein murder. How she’d even helped me solve it.

  “You and Sam spending a lot of time together.”

  I wanted to tell my old friend about what was really going on with Sam. But I wasn’t even sure what it was, so I just nodded.

  “She’s about the most beautiful a woman I’ve ever seen,” Pauly said. “And real. Nothing made up or put on.”

  I nodded. No questioning any of that.

  “Strong headed.”

  I nodded with more enthusiasm.

  “Smart as hell.”

  My neck was getting tired.

  We shook hands in the clubhouse. Pauly was glancing at the race on TV—there were ten laps to go. Steve Kinser, the oldest guy in the race by a decade, was in third, but half a lap off the lead.

  “He’ll never get there,” I said.

  “Lots of left turns to go,” Pauly said.

  He was back in the club chair before Solo and I were out the door.

  Chapter 11

  I’d stopped at the hardware store and bought a hole saw for the drill and a deadbolt for the front door. Instead of a keyed lock I got one with a smart lock to operate with an iPhone app. Next time someone wanted to break into my office, they’d have to actually break in. The instructions were awful. Which is to say, I wasn’t as handy as I’d like to be. I had the lock installed but couldn’t get the deadbolt to fit right with the new slot I’d carved out crudely in the jamb.

  Solo was curled up on his dog bed in the corner. No help at all. I was chipping away at the jamb with a hammer and a small chisel when my phone beeped and vibrated. I pulled it from the holster and was surprised to see who it was.

  “Got some names for you,” Pauly said.

  “That was quick.”

  “I hear the first couple days are the most important in any investigation. So anyway, assumed you’d want me to get right on it.”

  “How’d Kinser do?”

  “Tapped the guy in front of him and spun the guy out, got a solid second.”

  “Not bad for an old guy.”

  “Amazing.”

  “So what have you got?”

  “The Desert Drone Club keeps records on its members. Just basic info, but we know who belongs and pays dues, address, phone number. I was able to hack in and have a look, then I did some analysis on the names.”

  “Analysis.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “So anyway, I’ve got two names that might interest you. ”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Frank Colangelo. I know him pretty well. He’s an ace drone pilot, has built more flying machines than even me. Turns out he’s got a record. Something about embezzlement in Jersey. But it was a decade ago, and it looks like he moved to Arizona, made a clean start. He sells insurance down in Tempe.

  “None of that exactly makes him an assassin,” I said.

  “Nope. But it’s a red flag. Other guy is Michael Derbin Smith. I only know him a little. Doesn’t like to be called Mike or Mikey.”

  “He’s probably our guy, then.”

  “I doubt it. He’s not really the DIY type. Buys out-of-the-box drones. Not all that bright, probably couldn’t have designed or built the setup you describe. But he hangs out here a lot, likes to fly tricks. Not good enough to win any competitions, but he has fun trying.”

  “So why’d you flag him?”

  “Smith is the shifty type, kind of an asshole really. I’d always kept an eye on him, just because that’s something I can’t not do. But I didn’t have any reason to do more than that. Anyway, turns out he’s been in and out of county jail for a slew of mostly minor offenses, from shoplifting to resisting arrest.”

  “Sounds like the Desert Drone Club needs to vet its applicants.”

  “Yeah, right? I try to stay out of the politics around here, but I might suggest that now. So anyway, I know about Brand’s stance on immigration and her standoff with Sheriff Otto over the outdoor prison. That got anything to do with all this, you think?”

  “Crossed my mind,” I said.

  “Figured. So anyway, Mikey Smith is white trash. He and I don’t talk much, other than a hello here and there, but he talks plenty to others. Disparages Mexicans. Send them all back, build a wall, arrest every last one of them, crap like that. He’s not the only one in the club like that. I mean, this is Arizona. Lotta guys like that. But he’s the loudest and the stupidest.”

  “So that makes him a person of interest,” I said. “Interesting but probably not capable.”

  “Yeah. But that’s what I got. I have a couple other names, even less likely.”

  He gave me those and I jotted them down.

  “I didn’t look at the guest list, since it would take a while to paw through, and there’s no phone numbers or addresses on the guests, so no easy way to run them.”

  “This is a big help.”

  “All yours from here. But hey, these guys might be clean, so look into them quietly. Especially Colangelo. No need to start rumors about him if he didn’t do anything, and he probably didn’t.”

  “Of course. Thanks Pauly.”

  I clicked the phone off and holstered it. Opened the laptop on my desk and launched the browser, typed in Frank Colangelo. There were forty-four Frank Colangelos at Whitepages.com, a slew of them on Facebook, a dozen on LinkedIn, and pictures of a whole bunch of them. I added Tempe to the search query and found the Frank Colangelo. He had a robust profile in social media, but nothing that screamed “I would try to kill a state senator.” I bookmarked a couple pages for later.

  I searched Michael Derbin Smith. There was only one. Multiple mug shots, a few small news stories of his various arrests. I clicked on his Facebook page. Not exactly family friendly. If you were looking for clues to Michael Derbin Smith’s stand on immigration, his Facebook page would serve as a position paper.

  I read through some of his posts. Mikey was busy on Facebook. Lots of commentary on news stories from the past few days, local stories and beyond. Much of it poorly written. Some of it incoherent. Most of it inflammatory. He railed on Muslims, Mexicans and even Canadians (for being weak on immigration and letting terrorists cross into the US). Links to right-wing opin
ion pieces railing on the lack of border control in the nation and in Arizona, all interspersed with off-the-cuff complaints. Saw a dozen illegals at Dunkin Donuts this morning waiting for jobs. Our jobs. Send them home! Lower down: If the cops would just shoot them the jails wouldn’t be so full. Then: McDonalds shouldn’t serve anyone who can’t speak English!!!

  Plenty to move Mikey officially from my persons-of-interest list to my list of suspects, especially since I didn’t have much of a list yet—Tough Guy No. 1 on the first list and Sergeant Lasko on the other, and pretty much no evidence on either of them.

  I scrolled back a couple days.

  Then Mikey did what so many ideologues do, because they just can’t help themselves. He put a big fat clue on his Facebook page. A great big glaring clue that was just sitting there shouting I did it or at least I wish I’d done it.

  Being an ace detective, I spotted it.

  The clue was a comment and a link to an article on the American Border Containment website. The ABC was one of the most virulent anti-immigration groups in the country. It was based in southern Arizona. Mikey’s post read: ABC awfully happy about Jackie Brand!

  He didn’t say should be happy or might be happy. He implied that he knew they were happy. I considered that Michael Derbin Smith might’ve just gotten his wording wrong. Muddling his meaning with words was something he was actually good at. But still.

  I surfed around the American Border Containment website to refresh my memory on their stance. At the top of the home page was a quote from the founder, Ted McCall.

  Illegal immigrants are invading our country. A cancer is spreading from our southern border and it is infecting every state in this great nation. We must kill the cancer, stop the spread. Join today and help us fight the foreign invasion.

  Fairly clear stance.

  I scanned some more, then read an article about the ABC from the Southern Poverty Law Center, a civil rights group that highlighted hate and aimed to stop it. In a nutshell, American Border Containment’s activities ranged from lobbying for anti-immigration legislation to helping fund and conduct vigilante border patrols. They held rallies, produced incendiary videos, and recruited like-minded people to join in activities and fund their efforts. Several of their members also belonged to various white supremacist groups.

  I followed some links to learn more about Ted McCall. State champion wrestler in high school, unremarkable but winning record as a middleweight boxer in his twenties. From his pictures I gathered he was late forties now, tightly cropped graying hair, fit and rough-looking, like an Irish fisherman you would not want to mess with in a bar. These facts weren’t relevant for now, but I logged them in memory anyway. If Ted McCall was to become a suspect, it was good to know who I was up against.

  I read on. McCall had long been associated with multiple hate groups. He formed ABC in the late nineties. For years it was a relatively obscure group, but lately it had tapped into increasing anti-immigrant sentiment and become a more vocal and visible group. I’d seen McCall on television a few times. He was like Michael Derbin Smith but in shape and with an education and a vocabulary.

  I wondered where Ted McCall had been the last few days and what he’d been up to.

  Chapter 12

  Sam picked up on the first ring. I put the hammer and chisel down again. Pulled some bits of wood out of the hole in the jamb, grabbed the phone from between my ear and shoulder.

  “You still hot for that FBI guy?”

  “Screw you,” she said. “I told you he’s just an old friend.” She paused. I waited. “What’s up,” she said, an edge to her voice.

  “I got a name,” I said. “Ted McCall.”

  “The ABC leader.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s the bullying type. Asshole, first rate. Confrontational, provocative, sometimes right at the edge of the law. But he’s never killed anyone.

  “That we know of,” I said.

  “Fair enough. It’s a short hop from bully to much worse disorders. You like him for Jackie Brand?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “But I might have connected him to a small-time anti-immigrant creep who likes to fly drones and who posted something interesting on his Facebook page.”

  I told her about what Pauly had told me, about Michael Derbin Smith and his Facebook post about American Border Containment.

  “How’s Pauly?”

  “He’s good. Same old Pauly. He asked about you.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  I didn’t have a good answer to that. So I didn’t answer. Sam let the lack of an answer hang there. Payback for the FBI-guy comment.

  “This Smith guy said ABC's awfully happy?”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Not should be happy.”

  “Nope.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yep.”

  “So what’s your next move?”

  “I was hoping you’d help me figure that out.”

  “What’s the job pay?”

  “Less than a dollar.”

  “Perks?”

  “Dinner?”

  “What can I do for you, Detective Quinn?”

  “I was hoping your FBI friend might know somebody who knows somebody who keeps an eye on guys like Ted McCall. I’d like to know where he is, go talk to him. Better, I’d like to know where he’s been the last few days.”

  “My friend is on the FBI’s Art Theft Crime Team.”

  “But he might know somebody.”

  “Might. And I can call some other contacts. I’ve written some stories about ABC, know some people who know a lot about them, and about their fearless leader.”

  “And I’d love to know if McCall and Smith know each other. And I’m really curious if McCall knows how to build and fly drones.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Sam?”

  “Quinn.”

  “Thank you. I know you don’t have to help. I’ve been leaning on you a lot.”

  “I like it when you lean.”

  I smiled and clicked the phone off.

  The leads and clues were piling up, and I thought about what I should do next. I could go at Mikey, but first I wanted to know if he and McCall had a relationship. If not, everything I’d learned today might go nowhere. And I wanted to know where to find McCall. I knew he had a home in southern Arizona, near the border in Nogales. I hoped I wouldn’t have to drive down there. I also knew he spent a fair amount of time here in the Valley, getting himself on television, rubbing elbows with state politicians, doing who knows what else. Would be good to know where he stayed when he was here, and where he was now, and where he was the day of the drone strike. Either way, I was pretty sure I’d be paying a visit to McCall, Mikey or both.

  And I wondered how Sergeant Lasko might fit into all this. Maybe not at all. But my suspect list was growing.

  I twisted the deadbolt. Surprisingly, it slid smoothly into the jamb.

  Chapter 13

  When I needed to think about something without actually thinking about it, I either went for a run or came to Choi’s Martial Arts. I parked in front of Master Choi’s dojo, two blocks south of Tranquil Trail and not far from the building where I figured the drone had been launched.

  Inside the high-ceilinged industrial space it was cool. The last class of the day had just ended and kids swarmed the small, spare entrance lobby, grabbing shoes and gear bags and threading their way out. I put my shoes in a cubby, bowed and stepped onto the red and blue mat.

  Twenty minutes of warm-ups worked up a good sweat, but I hadn’t forced the Jackie Brand case into my subconscious yet. The facts and names and faces and questions were all still swirling around at the surface. After my warm-up I figured I’d kick the bag some then lift weights in the back. Somewhere during all that I need to stop thinking about all the things I was cogitating on, see what my mind turned up when it wasn’t focused on the case.

  The dojo had emptied and only Master Choi was left, sitt
ing on a stool in the corner, quiet.

  “We spar,” he said.

  I was surprised. Master Choi sparred at half-speed with the kids regularly, and sometimes with some of the adults who were working their way up through the color belts. But in his mid-fifties now, he rarely sparred with me or the other adult black belts. When he did, it was so he could teach something, rather than being competitive. He might set up a kick to the head and then tease you with what could have been, but he never put his full force or skill into the sparring. I’d long wondered what he was capable of.

  I nodded with a slight bow. We put on our pads. Sparring hurt enough with the chest protector. Without it, either of us could easily break the other’s ribs.

  “Not see you much since you become private detective.”

  “It’s been busier than I expected. I just got another case.”

  “Always make time,” he said. “Taekwondo not part-time job. Is life.”

  “I know, Master Choi. I know. I’m sorry.”

  In the years I had been with him, Master Choi had helped me improve all my hand positions, moves and kicks, quickness and power. He’d taught me focus and control. And he’d taught me how to hurt and subdue or even kill. “Never use if not need,” he always said of these moves. “Run first. Defend second. Fight last.”

  “You not get fifth-degree belt,” he said now. “Been two years. You close. Now you go backward. You not practice. Two years take four years. No focus. Chasing girl. Getting in fights.”

  Master Choi was talking about Sam. He didn’t know her, but he thought of her as a distraction. I wasn’t exactly chasing her, but I didn’t want to try and explain that. And he was talking about the guys I’d roughed up during my first case.

  “I told you, I only defended myself,” I said.

  “You try run?”

  “They had guns. Running might have gotten me killed.”

  “Next time run. Taekwondo last resort. Not like movies. Respect skills. Respect master. No more fighting. Now we spar.”

  Not wishing to disrespect my master, I kept my mouth shut. The confidence of taekwondo could keep me out of a fight. But sometimes it got me into one, and I was OK with that.