GREAT THINGS ENTERPRISE
CLAUDE BLACK
RANCHO LA LUNA BELLA
Chapter 1
“Where to?” Melissa Shot asked.
Sliding into the seat and shutting the door, I said, “I have a house in Selma.”
“Leon, Do you think that’ll be safe?”
“It will be safer than being on the highway, at least for now. Just stay on the secondary roads. Don’t go through any toll booths where there may be cameras. We’ll use this map.” I opened the map book to California. “I programmed the GPS to use secondary roads, but I’ll keep an eye on the map.”
“How long do you think it will take Dunn to get out?” she asked.
“It’s Saturday, and if Store More is like most storage facilities, the guard will have to call a supervisor to open a storage door. I’d estimate at least thirty to sixty minutes. So, you can take your time. Don’t speed. It’s about two hundred miles.”
Melissa Shot and I, Leon Bayce, worked for Hager and Hager Investigative Services. We took an assignment to find missing mineral lease documents for Iowa Energy (IE), a new company based in Meeks, Iowa. The work involved the surveillance of August Wright and Maggie Evans, the owners of a defunct company, Iowa Petroleum Development (IPD), who disappeared along with millions of dollars of investors’ money and contractual oil leases negotiated with landowners throughout Northern Iowa.
We kept logs of our surveillance of the subjects, and to locate the oil-lease documents, we put microphones in each house, so we had hours of recordings that included discussions of major crimes: embezzlement and murder.
The recordings and records we found in our clandestine searches of Wright’s and Evans’ houses revealed that the oil lease documents were in safe deposit boxes at the Cooper Mall branch of the Mt. George National Bank.
To get the documents, we, with the verbal urging of our employers, Hager and Hager Investigative Services in Los Angeles, committed an early-morning robbery of the Cooper Mall bank. As a foil, we took $100,000, personal possessions, and the contents of two safe deposit boxes belonging to the subjects, including the mineral-lease documents. We planned carefully so no one would be hurt in the bank. I hate guns, so we carried Taser weapons, which we did not use. We put the money and personal possessions in a car, and they were later recovered. We made copies of the oil lease documents and then delivered them to the Hager brothers to fulfill the contract. The Hager brothers then mailed the missing documents to Iowa Energy in Meeks.
When post office delivered the missing documents to the office of Iowa Energy, the general manager, Perry Bell, immediately made copies and sent the originals to the Iowa Attorney General. The IE manager said he hired Hager and Hager Investigative Services to find the documents.
The police investigation of the robbery reached a dead end. However, an experimental seminar at Seaway University in Mt. George, Iowa, focused on the forensic analysis of the robbery, and the students uncovered new information about the crime, which brought the case back to life.
Robbing a bank connected to the Federal Reserve is a state and federal crime. The Los Angeles FBI field office and the LAPD Major Crimes Division focused on the Los Angeles office of Hager and Hager.
To avoid adding to their already troubled record and to protect themselves, the Hager brothers turned over all the records of the IE contract to the FBI, which led FBI agents to Melissa Shot and me.
One of the students observed that a security camera photograph of our professional disguises during the robbery showed the unique mismatched pattern on the back seam of Shot’s suit jacket. A court-approved search of my apartment yielded nothing, but agents searching Melissa’s apartment found a similar jacket, which she had not discarded, and she was arrested on suspicion of bank robbery. However, she refused to utter a word in her interrogation.
Realizing the seriousness of bank robbery, we had discussed several alternatives and a plan for an elaborate escape if either of us were arrested. We practiced the escape plans.
Following Shot’s arrest, I used our surveillance logs and a promised confession to negotiate for her release.
Once everyone signed off on the terms of the agreement, I then surrendered. When I saw Shot drive away from the FBI field office parking lot in L.A., I signed a confession and turned over the logs. I then began negotiating terms for the surrender of the tapes because they contained information about other serious crimes.
Special Agent in Charge (SAIC) of the Los Angeles Field Office, Judith Anchor, “JA” to her colleagues, assigned two agents to follow Melissa Shot. At a restaurant, another woman, identical in appearance and dress, sat at Melissa’s table. During lunch, Melissa went to the women’s room. The other woman’s phone rang, and she went to the women’s room, too. They returned to the table, finished lunch, paid their bill, and left. One woman took a taxi, and the other woman drove to her apartment. She then dropped her car off at a rental agency, from where she took a taxi to a downtown office building.
The agents followed Shot to Alliance Import and Distribution’ office. Speaking to the receptionist, Agent Parks said, “Can you direct me to the office of Ms. Melissa Shot?”
Looking quizzically at Agent Parks, she turned to her computer and tapped in a few keys. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I recognized that name. There’s no one here named Shot. I’d remember a name like that.”
Parks pulled a photograph from a folder and extended it to the receptionist. “Oh, that’s not Ms. Shot, that’s Ms. Ana Webster. She’s with our tech supervisor. I understand she’s helping install and set up some new software.”
“We need to speak to Ms. Webster,” the Agent said.
The receptionist picked up her phone and tapped in four digits.
…
Hi, Douglas. Could I speak to Ms. Webster?
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Okay.
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Hi, Miss Webster, this is Roberta at reception. There are some FBI agents here who would like to talk with you.
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Okay, I’ll tell them.
Speaking to Agent Parks, the receptionist said, “Ms. Webster said they were in a crucial process. She should be through in 10 to 15 minutes. She’ll meet you in the conference room. I’ll show you the way. There’s coffee.”
Both agents stood as Melissa came into the conference room thirty minutes later. Extending his hand, Agent Parks said, “Ms. Shot—”
“How did you know I was here? Are you following me? What’s this about?”
Trying again, the agent said, “Ms. Shot—”
“I’m not ‘Ms. Shot’. What’s this about?” She offered no further information.
“But—”
“But what?
“But you look—”
“But what? I look like my twin sister. Yes, Melissa Shot is my twin sister.” She still offered no further information.
“I’m Agent James Parks, and this is Agent Ross Wisner with the FBI,” Parks said, extending his hand, which she ignored. Letting his hand fall to his side, he said, “And you are?”
“I’m Ana Webster. Melissa Shot is my twin sister.”
“Mrs. Webster—”
“It’s Ms.Webster, thank you.”
Straining to maintain his composure, Agent Parks said, “Ms.Webster, we’d like to speak with Ms.Shot.”
“Is that right? Well, that may be difficult because she said she was flying out this afternoon. That was her word ‘flying out.’”
“Flying out? Do you have her flight information?”
“I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say. Now, I have a deadline. Will there be anything else?”
“The apartment?”
“The apartment? Did you follow me to my apartment? What gives with you guys? Alliance Import rented that for me while I’m here working with their IT personnel. My work is complete, so I’m leaving on an evening flight. Now, please, will there be anything else? I need to get back to my work.”
Agent Parks looked at Agent Wisner, who shook his head. “Can we get your contact information?”
“You can get Alliance Import’s contact information from Mrs. Holder on your way out. Now, will there be anything else? I need to get back to IT.”
Thanking her, and feeling like schoolboys who had just been scolded, they followed her out of the room. Stopping at the receptionist’s desk, Agent Parks got the contact information for Alliance Import.
Trying to save face, the agents searched the flight manifests for all flights out of LAX since the last time they saw Shot. They had no success.
* * *
Leon Bayce
On Saturday morning, FBI Special Agent Brian Dunn received word that everyone agreed to my terms for surrendering the recordings—no deadly weapon charge, no death threats, simple bank robbery, and minimum sentence. Dunn was anxious to get the tapes, so I gave him information about Unit 17 at Store More Storage, about a mile from FBI headquarters. After his search of Unit 17, Dunn found no tapes. Red-faced and with veins bulging on his forehead, he came back to FBI headquarters. Wrenching open the interrogation room door, he said, “There was nothing in Unit 17; it was clean.”
“Seventeen? You need Unit 15.”
“Fifteen? You told me it was Unit 17, and the door opened with this combination.” Agent Dunn said, thumping his notebook.
“Hmm, well, it’s Unit 15.”
Dunn stomped out of the room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass. I wondered why it did not shatter.
When she saw Dunn leave the storage facility, Shot changed the combination on Unit 17. When Dunn returned with the combination information for Unit 15 and tried to open Unit 17, the combination didn’t work, and pressing the star key set off an alarm that brought the security guard. After convincing the guard that he was an FBI agent, Dunn entered the combination for Unit 15, and when he pressed the star key, the lock clicked open. At last satisfied, the guard returned to his desk.
Dunn slid open the door, but the entry door had to close before the inside vault door could be opened. He typed the vault code into the keypad and opened the door. He searched the vault, but there were no tapes. He searched again. The vault was small with four shelves, but there were no tapes; it was empty.
Face red and veins bulging, he slammed the vault door shut, and the lock clicked closed. He punched in the code for the unit door on the keypad, and when the lock clicked, he threw open the door, walked out, slammed the door shut, and the lock clicked closed. With clenched teeth and furrowed brow, he returned to FBI headquarters. Throwing open the interview room door, which banged against the wall, he growled that there were no tapes in the vault. I, however, insisted that the tapes were there and that Dunn simply didn’t search carefully.
He reached across the table for me, but I slid my chair back from his reach. Dunn then violated FBI protocol by roughly handcuffing me and signing me out into his own custody without backup. At Store More Unit 15, I typed the combination on the keyboard, then pressed the star and pound keys. “Wait,” Dunn said. “There was no pound key in your combination.”
“And it still worked? Hmm,” I said.
When the lock opened, we stepped inside the unit, slid the door shut, and the lock clicked closed. I typed in the combination to the vault keypad, pressed the star and pound keys, pulled open the door, and stepped inside the vault. Taking the box of recordings, I tossed them to Agent Dunn and slammed the vault door closed behind me before Dunn could react, locking it shut.
Melissa and I pushed the vault wall aside, I stepped into the adjoining vault then into Unit 30. Planning for this event, Melissa and I had sawed through the studs in the back of the vault in the adjoining storage unit, which we slid back into place and closed the vault door, as I stepped into the identical adjoining Unit 30. Using a bolt cutter, she cut the handcuffs and slid them off, placing them, along with the bolt cutter, in the center of the unit.
By pressing the star and pound keys simultaneously after entering the code, I canceled the old code. A new code had to be typed in before the safe door and Unit 15 doors would open. Dunn typed in the codes, but they would not open the locks; he was locked in. He called the guard, Hunter Thrift, but Thrift had to call a supervisor to override the unit security code, which took about an hour.
Once free, we left through the rear door of the storage facility to the car. Melissa drove to the San Diego Freeway and headed north toward Selma, about 200 miles northeast of L.A. In Selma, I directed Shot to Rockwell Pond west of town. We pulled into the driveway of a large two-story house. Beside it was another ranch-style house.
“This is pretty,” Melissa said.
“Yeah, Beth and I bought it. It was supposed to be our retirement home. It’s in Beth’s name, but I keep up the payments, so it’ll take the FBI a while to make any connection.”
Pointing to the neighboring house, I said, “An old army buddy lives there and looks after the place. He rents this house as a B&B. I called, and the house is empty for the next three months.”
“Is that the other guy?” she asked.
“I forget who I’m talking to. Yeah, that’s him. Greg LaBree. His wife’s name is Janet, and they have two children, James, 10, and Kimbrlee, 9.”
“Dad never stopped talking about him. And you, of course.”
“Your dad is a great guy and was a really good commander—what we call a ‘soldier’s soldier.’”
“We’ll spend some time with Greg and his family, and you can get to know them.”
“There are three guest rooms, so take any one. The kids always liked the one in the back that looks out over the pool and the pond.”
“That sounds good.”
“Is Ana coming?”
“Yeah. She’s spending a couple of days with Tim after she finishes the IT work for Alliance Import.”
“Good. Tomorrow, you and I need to carefully consider our next step. Why don’t you get settled? I’m going to drive to Greg’s office; I need to let him know we’re here.”
After unpacking, Melissa put on a bathing suit and went to the pool. A dark-haired woman with Mediterranean olive skin lay on a chaise lounge. “Hi, I’m Melissa Shot. I’m sorry to interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I’m Janet LaBree.” She spoke with a noticeable German accent. “I saw you come in and recognized Leon. He called to say that you would be arriving soon.”
“That’s like him,” Melissa said. “He always tries to plan ahead. Is that why the fridge is stocked?”
“Yes. He said there would be two or three people. I hope everything’s satisfactory.”
“Oh yes, everything’s fine,” she said. “Leon said your husband, and he had saved my father’s life.”
“Oh, so Major Seymore is your father. It was while your father and Greg were in the hospital that I met him,” Janet said.
“That was in Frankfurt?”
“Yes. My parents are from Syria. When their home was destroyed, and my father’s clinic was bombed, my family moved to Frankfurt. My father was eventually able to practice medicine in Germany at the army hospital. I became a nurse and was working in the ward where your father and Greg were.”
“So, you got to know my father?”
“Oh, yes.” They laughed at the implied meaning. “As soon as he was able to set up, he wanted to get back to ‘my boys.’ That’s what he called them.”
“That sounds like Dad.”
“Greg’s wounds were serious, but my father and the other doctors were able to save his leg. It was a miracle that Greg and Leon were able to save your father. I guess you know that rebels attacked their Humvee. It must have been horrible; Greg rarely mentions it.”
“Greg said when Leon ran out of ammunition,” Janet continued, “he took your father’s weapon and continued to defend them. And when that ran out, he took Greg’s weapon. When help finally arrived, he only had two bullets left. It was close.”
“The report said that Dad was unconscious after the explosion, but he got the details from Greg, Leon, and others, and put together quite a story. He never gets tired of talking about the last two bullets, what he calls ‘rounds,’” Melissa added.
“After he retired and started his insurance and investment management business, Dad had two shells mounted and put on his desk. When anyone asks about them, he describes the battle and says that was how close they came to dying.”
“What was it like growing up under Major Seymore?” Janet asked.
“Well, he was away a lot when we were young. Mom wanted us to have as normal a life as possible, so she bought a house. My mother mostly raised us. By the time dad retired, my sister and I were in college. When he was home, he treated my mother like a queen and doted on us kids—my older brother, my sister, and me. Who knows, if he had been around more, we might have turned out to be spoiled brats. That’s what Leon still calls me—a spoiled brat. But my mother ran a tight organization.”
“So, how did you and Leon hook up?”
“Oh, we’re not hooked up. My dad always talked about Leon Bayce, the Hollywood stuntman and private investigator. When I finished my master’s, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. So, I decided to look up this hero. He was going through a rough time. A company he invested a lot of money in folded. His wife wanted to move back home to Iowa, but he wanted to stay in California, so they separated and finally divorced.”
“But I don’t think they are emotionally divorced. They’re still committed to one another, and his children are his joy. He sees them often and ensures that his wife’s financial needs are taken care of,” Melissa said.
“He treats my sister and me more like his children. He’s teaching me, and sometimes my sister joins us.”
“I think Leon respects my father, and this is reflected in how he treats Ana and me.”
“Yeah, I know about Leon and Beth; I like her,” Janet said. “We thought they would settle down here, and we’d be neighbors.”
“What’s Leon like to work with? I don’t think Greg ever got over the war. Sometimes he wakes up at night, shaking and sweating. He’ll have to get up. I think he’s suffering from PTSD, but he refuses to get help.”
“I’ve never noticed any of that in Leon. But he hates guns; even the acrid, sour smell of gunpowder almost turns his stomach. That may be a manifestation of PTSD now that I think about it. He says that if you have to use a gun, you’re not doing your job right.”
Stretching out on the chaise, Melissa asked, “By the way, how did a Syrian German nurse get hooked up with a GI from Selma, California?”
“Oh, that’s another story, too. Like I said, your father and Greg were on my ward at the army hospital in Frankfurt. Greg’s wounds were more serious than your father’s, so he stayed in the hospital after the major left.”
“When Greg could get out of bed, I’d take him for wheelchair rides around the gardens. One day, I came to work, and he was walking with crutches, so we walked through the gardens.”
“He asked me out on a date. Actually, he asked me to lunch in the hospital cafeteria,” Janet said. They laughed at that scene.
“Dates to the cafeteria got to be a daily routine. Then, when he started walking with a cane, one day he asked my father if he could date me.”
“My father exploded. He was treating Greg, so he knew him. It wasn’t that my father is anti-American or anti-soldier; I think he had a vision for his daughter, and marrying an American soldier was not part of that.”
“On a date? A date, then what?” my father shouted, according to Greg.
“I think Greg wore him down, and he finally consented to a date. Then there was another date and another. My father never said anything. The relationship just kind of grew on him.”
“Greg asked my father if he could marry me before he went back to his unit. I think they felt the earthquake all over Germany.”
“Did I mention that my father is Muslim?”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. My mother is Christian, an Evangelical. They met while they were in med school at St. Louis University. My name is Aleah Janet Abbub. We were German Muslims. Not the same thing as Syrian or Afghan Muslims, what some call liberal Islam, but Muslim nevertheless. Greg is Methodist, but he agreed to a Muslim wedding in Frankfurt.”
“Oh.”
“It was complicated. I got a green card to come to the US when Greg was discharged, and after three years, I applied for citizenship,” Janet said. “It took another year, but I finally got it. I transferred my nursing schooling, took the exam, and got registered. I work at the Selma Community Hospital. Greg wants me to start med school now that the children are in school. I don’t know.”
I came through the back door to the pool and saw Melissa and Janet lying on chaise lounges talking. “I see you’ve met.”
“Yeah,” Melissa said, “we’ve been catching up.”
“Greg wanted to go out for dinner, but I thought it would be best to eat here, so I’m going to grill some steaks.”
“Okay,” Janet said, “I’ll fix a salad.”
“I’ll bake some bread,” Melissa said. “I’d better get started.”
Dinner was ready when Greg came through the house with the children, James and Kimbrlee, to the pool after work. He said he hadn’t had time for lunch, and the smell of food made his stomach growl.
When he met Melissa, he entertained her with stories about her father, and she saw that Greg had a strong attachment to the major. She said that it seemed Greg and I knew her father better than she did.
After dinner, James and Kimbrlee changed into swimsuits and played in the pool. Janet said they had heard the stories, so they preferred the water.
On Sunday, we watched the news programs, but there were no reports of an FBI escape. “They must want to keep this quiet,” I said. “I don’t think that makes it any less dangerous. They’ve surely sent bulletins to all their agents, but probably not to local police. There’s too much danger of a leak.”
We checked all the news channels. I told her that tomorrow, we would drive to Fresno and buy some disposable phones. And if she used a computer, she should use my laptop in the office because it has a VPN set for Spain, so it would be nearly untraceable. If we went out, we should use disguises. Greg and Janet were the only people in Selma who knew us, but sometimes strangers stick in people’s minds longer than the familiar ones.
“As soon as we get phones, we need to start making some calls.”
“I’d like to call Mom and Dad.”
“Sure. You can use one of the prepaids. And for now, just be careful about telling anyone where you are.”
On Monday morning, Melissa applied our disguises, and we drove to a flea market in Fresno. I looked for the security cameras and pointed them out to Melissa. We found a cell phone booth out of camera range, and I bought six 60-minute phones. When the clerk said he needed a credit card to set up the service, I persuaded him to use his own and said I would pay the bill plus an extra tip. After some negotiation, he agreed.
On the way back to the car, I said that I didn’t want anything to connect us to the phones; besides, they might be hot.
“You can go to the mall walkway where there are no cameras if you want privacy,” I said.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m only going to call Mom and Dad and Ana,” she said.
Melissa inserted the battery in one of the throwaway phones and dialed her parents in Chicago. She told everyone that she was well and checked on her brother and his children. She promised to call again soon and told her father about meeting Greg LaBree. She headed him off before he got into one of his stories. Then she called Ana and gave her the address in Selma. Ana said she would arrive on Tuesday. Melissa then removed the battery from the phone.
I used another phone to call Beth, who was at work. I checked to make sure she and the children were okay, and promised to call again next week. As I hung up, I said, “I love you,” and took the battery out of the phone.
In the parking lot, I took a throwaway phone, inserted the battery, pressed *67, entered the number, and heard a familiar greeting:
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Mr. Hager, please
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It doesn’t matter. Whichever one is closest.
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No, I’ll discuss that with Mr. Hager.
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Wally, how the hell are you?
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You know damn well who this is.
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Yeah, I’ll bet you did. I was until Saturday. Hell, I’ll bet there’s an FBI agent sitting in your office right now.
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Where am I? Wally, you can’t really think I’m that stupid. You ratted me out once; you’ll never get that chance again.
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You scum, as soon as the FBI called, you and that dirtbag brother of yours ratted us out to cover your own ass.
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Stop, meathead—you cowardly slime—you just wanted to cover your own ass.
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My heart bleeds, you worthless scum. I didn’t call to hear your lies. I want my $100,000 and Melissa’s $75,000.
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Stop, you snake. You know damned well that was the contract price. And we completed the contract.
…
Why, you worthless bag of— (Melissa laid her hand on my shoulder.) You had better read the clause that says the contract will be honored regardless of client payment. I gave you some slack before, but not now. I want our money.
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You lying crock of— (another hand on my shoulder interrupted me). I don’t care whether you get the money from IE or your kid’s piggy bank. You have until next week to cough up the $175,000.
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Or? Is that all you have to say, “Or?” How long have I been doing your dirty work? You know damned well what I’m capable of. And you stupidly say, “Or?”
…
Am I threatening you? The more you talk, the more stupid you get. Hell yes, I’m threatening you. And you know I don’t make meaningless threats.
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(A scornful laugh) A crime? I don’t need a sausage-brain like you trying to get lawyerly on me. You have until next Wednesday. I’ll call with wiring instructions. Don’t disappoint me, scumbag.
I clicked off the phone and removed the battery. “They shouldn’t be able to see this number, but I don’t trust them. Rule number one: Be careful who you trust. Rule number two: Be careful who you trust among those you trust.”
“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry. You’ve always been so… cool.”
“Cool? I like that—cool,” I said. “I’ve never really liked dealing with the Hager brothers. I’ve always considered them phonies. They claim to have worked for the FBI, but in the morning they sit in their offices, and in the afternoon they play golf. They are about as close to being investigators as a rowboat is to being a battleship. I’ve never trusted them.”
“Well, the obvious question is: Why did you work for them?”
“It’s a fair question. When IPD disappeared, and Beth and I lost all our money, I needed work. Warren Studios used the Hagers to run some background checks, and I got to know Robert. So, when I contacted him, I think he was impressed by my military background and studio work. He gave me small things at first—surveillance, some undercover stuff, and even some collection business. The work became more involved. There were some industrial espionage cases.”
“Then you came along. I was reluctant to let you get involved with them. I think the major filled your head with a lot of nonsense,” I said. “Somehow, he made the work sound glamorous. And by now you know that’s not true.”
“When I tried to get you to go back to school and finish your doctorate, you tried to get the Hagers to hire you; I couldn’t allow that. I owe the major too much, so I took you on. Then came Ana.”
“I wish you had gone back to college like I wanted in the first place. Then you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Leon, you have nothing to be sorry about. I made these decisions on my own.”
“Yes, Dad did talk about you and Greg, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a big girl. By the time I finished my master’s, I was ready for something else. These past four years have been wonderful, well, most of them. I’ve learned so much about myself. I may go back to school, or maybe not. Right now, I don’t know; I’m still enjoying this work.”
“You’re going to have to get a life. You can’t keep doing this,” I told her.
“Why not? Just because I’m a girl?” she said, coyly blinking her eyes.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the exaggeration. “You know that’s not what I mean. You need to settle down, get married, and start a family.”
“Oh, come on, you male chauvinist. You’re sounding like Mom.”
“Right now, that’s not a desire. In the future, who knows? Maybe. Maybe not,” she said, changing the tone of her voice. “Besides, if you start your own business, you’ll need someone to watch your back.”
“Start my own business? Where did you come up with that idea? How can I run a business from a prison cell?” I protested. “If the FBI or Iowa gets their hands on me, that’s where I’ll be. Don’t kid yourself. I can hear those cell doors clinking now.”
“Aha, poor baby, did it rain on your little kitty?” Melissa chided. “You need to man up and be Leon, not Sad Sack Sam. You’ve been in tighter spots than this. What’s the next step? What lesson is this? Someone, you, said if you don’t like where you step, step someplace better.”
I smiled at this sagacious upstart, quoting my own words back to me. “Okay, I hear you. Sorry for the melancholy.”
“I think you’re missing Beth. So how about this, we put the FBI and Hagers on hold until we plan the next step, and we work on something doable,” she suggested. “The kids are out of school, so why not have Beth plan a trip to California? We may not be able to get to the Hagers right now, but we can do this.”
“It’s been a while since Beth and the boys have been to Disneyland, so you can plan a trip out here for them,” she said. I smiled. Melissa had found the right spot. We worked on some of the details as we drove back to Selma. The problem, of course, was the FBI, but a good plan could deal with that.
Greg met us as we pulled into the driveway and invited us to dinner. I had a sense that he had something to talk about.
Food smells filled the LaBree house. “I thought you might like to try some Syrian food,” Janet said as she put the finishing touches to the table.
“It smells wonderful,” Melissa said. “What is it?”
As Janet and Greg carried the dishes to the table, she described each dish. “This is Fattoush, a salad with some traditional Syrian vegetables and pita bread. Here is Shakeria, cooked yogurt. I prepare these dishes sometimes when I get lonely for Mom and Dad. They are kind of like comfort food. But this evening I prepared them to celebrate friendship.”
“What was it like to move from Syria to Germany to the US?” Melissa asked.
Janet described her move to the U.S. She said that when her parents moved to Germany, she had to learn German, but for kindergarten, her father sent her to a Protestant school where English- and American-speaking families sent their children. There, it was all English. At the Grundschule, or elementary school, her father hired an English tutor. I began English classes in the third grade. But my father continued the tutor. She was a kind woman, but she pushed me. Her husband worked for an engineering company. So, I got English very early.
“I tutor James and Kimbrlee in German. American schools don’t teach foreign languages, you know.”
Greg’s phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it. He returned, but the color was drained from him. “I’ve got to go. There’s been a fire at one of our construction sites, and it looks like someone may be hurt.”
“Would you like me to come?” I said.
“There’ll be police, and fire, and who knows who else.”
“Okay, I’ll be right with you,” I said. I met Greg by the car; I was wearing a St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, glasses, and a mustache.
“No one will recognize you in that. I don’t even recognize you,” Greg said.
We drove to Orange Street on the north side of Selma, where Greg’s company was constructing a three-story building, the Orange Project, they call it. The police directed traffic, and the fire department was wrapping up its equipment. An ambulance pulled away.
Greg found the fire chief and asked what happened.
“The fire started in a dumpster at the rear of the building,” the fire chief said. “Louis smelled smoke and called 911. He then pulled a hose around and began spraying the back of the building. Something hit him. He doesn’t know what it was, but it cold-cocked him. The firefighters arrived before the fire got inside the building, so the damage was confined to the exterior.” The Chief estimated that had Louis, the night watchman, not sprayed the side of the building, the fire would have been inside the building within another ten minutes. Then the damage would have been much greater.
“What about Louis?” Greg asked.
“It looks like he’ll have a knot on the back of his head, but he was conscious when the EMTs arrived. They took him to the hospital to have him checked out.
“Strange though,” the Chief said, “we didn’t see anything around him that could have caused a blow to his head. He was standing outside spraying the building when something hit him.”
“Thanks, Chief. You and your men have certainly done a good job here,” Greg said.
“Thanks. The inspectors will be here tomorrow to try and sort this out. I’m going to ask the lieutenant if he can keep a car in this area tonight since Louis won’t be here to watch the place.”
“Good, and again, thanks,” Greg said.
Greg and I drove to the hospital to check on Louis. As we walked down the hall, a volunteer was returning him to the ER from X-ray. The doctor said there was a concussion to the back of the head, and there was going to be a large bump for a few days. But he didn’t see anything serious on the X-ray. Mr. Silva will probably not be able to sleep on his back for a while. Otherwise, the doctor thought he could go home and take it easy.
A distraught woman came into the room. “Are you okay? The nurse called and said you were injured and in X-ray.”
“I’m okay, Darla. I just got a bump on the head. You know how hard that is,” Louis said, trying to comfort her. “You go sign the release. I need to talk to Mr. LaBree.” She left to sign the checkout forms.
“Louis, God, I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re okay,” Greg said.
“Greg, it was strange. I heard a noise in the back. It sounded like a motor, a car motor. I knew no one should be there, so I started back to check it out. I smelled smoke and called 911. When I got back there, the dumpster was on fire, and the fire was starting on the building. The bricklayers left a hose, so I pulled it back and began hosing down the fire. That’s when the lights went out. The next thing I know, the fellows were patting my face and taking my pulse. That’s all I remember.”
“Louis, the fire chief said you slowed down the fire; so when they got there, they could keep it from getting inside the building. You did a good job. I’m sorry about the bump on the head. I can see how upset Darla is.”
“Yeah, I think she’ll be okay.”
“And it’s also strange, Greg. I wasn’t standing close to the building, so I don’t think anything could have fallen from there. Strange.”
“Well, you go on home and rest. Let Darla take care of you. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
Greg found the doctor at the nurses’ station, where he was completing paperwork. “Doctor, what can you tell me about Mr. Silva’s injury?”
“I’ve seen this type of injury before, when I was in the city,” he said. “Gangs used pipes as weapons. I’d say, from Mr. Silva’s injury, it was a one-inch pipe or something like that.”
“Thanks, doctor.”
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