“Got it. When will she be ready?”
“Well, Gilda’s too heavy for the elevator. Can’t bring her down. We’ll have to take the fixture up to her with the next trip. We can manhandle it from there. Only weighs about three-hundred pounds. Neutral buoyancy, though.”
“Good. Shouldn’t affect my balance. Need my help?”
“No one on this ship knows the controls. You’d be the best one to grip it, once we get it up there. But not until the seas calm down. We can’t afford to have a heave or roll send it overboard. It’s our last probe.”
“Well, in that case, I’m going back to my quarters. I’ve got a thick folder to read. Catch-up type reading. I’ll be a while. Can someone come get me when you’re ready?”
“No need. When the weather settles down topside, we’ll call you on the ship’s intercom. It blares everywhere. Can’t miss it.”
Departing the shop, he saw the crewman offer a brief salute. He hesitated, returned it, then stumbled, rocking with the waves, down the hallway to his stateroom. The folder, marked Adam, came from his duffel bag with a swipe of his hand. He sat in the wardroom chair, stacked the pages neatly on the small desk, and began to read.
Inland, Lt. Poole was catching up on paperwork as well, trying to piece together the remaining clues, trying to better define a reasonable search task. Two loose ends still taunted her. Alone at her desk, she called the Electronics Forensics Lab.
“E.F. Lab, this is Jones.”
“Agent Jones, Lt. Poole in S.I.D. here. How’s that evidence coming on the Adam case?”
“The GPS chips?”
“Yeah, that one. Any progress yet?”
“We have the model number. They’re from an old MercuryMarine GPS, circa 2008. Out of production. Superseded by a completely different unit. Besides the radioactivity of those chips, they’re obsolete. We’re trying to find one of those vintage units, still operable, on the web. It’s been slow going, but we think we’ve found one. With express shipping, it can be here tomorrow afternoon. Then our plan is to replace the memory chips on the old unit with our radioactive ones and pull up the last recorded waypoints, examining them for anomalies. With any luck at all, we’ll have coordinates for you in two days max, by the 28th.”
“Great, Agent Jones. Call me then or anytime you have updates. Thanks. Bye.”
The phone rang, vibrating in her hand, causing her to jerk. It was Sheriff Victor. His voice agitated, was ranting.
“Poole, we’ve got a problem. A 10–82. Structure fire on Ocean Drive. It’s fully involved; might want a few of your team there. It’s Fogner’s house on the hill. Firefighters are letting it burn, afraid of the radiation.”
Vivid images flew through her mind with his words. “Is Fogner inside? Anybody sighted him?”
“Don’t know. Neighbors say it started smoking several hours ago, right after a black Prius left the premises. None of them called it in. Wanted it to burn.”
“Well that’s just great. Damn him. All our evidence up in smoke. Why aren’t they stopping it?”
“Worried that the radioactive steam and run-off down Ocean Drive will pollute everything. They refuse to fill the hoses.”
“A mutiny. A frickin’ mutiny. Can’t say that I blame them, though. Might be a wise decision.”
Poole could hear radio chatter in the phone’s background.
“Gotta go, Poole. We’ve got another problem now, up in Sylmar, north of L.A. Not our jurisdiction, but we seem to be involved. I’ll get back with you.”
She clicked off, her mind racing. What in hell was happening? She switched her radio to the L.A. Sheriff’s channel. She would hear more there.
The radio blasted, “… I’ve got a late-model black Prius parked off the southbound lanes of the I-5 by the L.A. Reservoir. Nobody inside but the engine’s still warm. It’s got smeared plates, listed on the APB for Simon Fogner, wanted in Orange County. Proceeding to search the reservoir. Requesting backup.”
Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, she panicked. The Los Angeles Reservoir in Sylmar feeds most of the drinking water to L.A. Its perimeter had been carefully guarded since 9-11, worrying that a terrorist would pollute the city’s water supply. What was he doing? Was he the terrorist they feared?
Crackling, the radio continued, “I see movement. Across the reservoir, on the bridge. A figure walking back and forth. In pursuit. 10–43. I need backup, dammit!”
Her mind pictured the action, the deputy running around the huge lake, racing to intercept Fogner before he jumped. What would happen then?
Hand on the microphone, she called out, “Lt. Poole here in Orange County. Approach the perp with extreme caution. He’s contaminated with anthrax. May be carrying ricin, too. Keep him away of the water. Repeat, keep him away from the water.” Knowing that it was forbidden to break in on another jurisdiction’s call, she did it anyway. He had to be warned. Her decision to use anthrax and ricin as diversionary tactics, alerted them to a deadly danger, yet avoided questions she preferred not to answer.
“Roger that, Lieutenant. I’m at the entrance to the bridge. He’s midway out to the tower, over the water, threatening to jump. He has something in his hand. Can’t tell. Might be a weapon. Still waiting for backup. I need officers. 10–48. 10–48.” His voice was desperate.
Victor broke in, his deep voice vibrating the speaker, “Sheriff Victor, Orange County speaking. We’ve got two Code 3 units on the way, deputy, lights flashing, sirens on. They’re still an hour out, but they’ll be there to support your squad. Back off and detain him, if you can.”
“Trying, Sheriff Victor. A few of my units arriving on scene. I see four men out of their cruisers at the end of the reservoir. They’re running around the perimeter toward me….”
Two loud pops ended the call. Silence.
Waiting for more information, Poole imagined the worst. Then it came.
“Officer down. Officer down. He took a shot to the shoulder. 10–52,” the radio screamed. “Perp is in the water, moving. He’s been shot, too. Need EMS now, two units.”
“Get him out. Now!” Poole screamed into the microphone. “He’ll contaminate the water.”
“10-4. Working it.”
Tense minutes passed, then, “Fished him out. On the berm. He’s really messed up. More than a gunshot wound. He’s emaciated, bleeding scabs all over.” The words chopped, coming in breaths, described the scene. “Four units on scene. Two EMS units pulling down the side path toward us. He’s cuffed and unconscious. Where do you want him sent? What hospital?”
“Orange County General, here in Santa Ana. I’ll meet them there.”
“I’ll tell them. Should take a while though. Hour-and-a-half in this traffic.”
“Thanks, deputy. Be safe. Poole out.”
Making notes, she realized she had too many lines in the water; tending them had suddenly become challenging. But things were resolving. She was near having GPS search coordinates, Fogner was in custody and her houseful of radioactive evidence was burning down.
Phone beeping, she knew it was Victor. “Thanks for that intercept, Lieutenant. I froze. Didn’t know how to handle the radiation angle. Appreciate the save. I’d rather explain something like anthrax than deadly radiation.”
“No problem, Sheriff. We’re quite comfortable with disinformation on our Adam team, now. No panics yet. I am a little worried what happens if the water is polluted by him. Think that’s gonna be a problem?”