Ambush

29

Murdock was five minutes late getting to the meeting at Commander Masciareli’s office at 1400. A Navy lieutenant commander was there looking worried. Melvin Price was tall, with a wide body that looked like it was all muscle and tendons. He carried himself like a pro linebacker, and his nose had been broken more than once. He had a flattop haircut, white-sides, thin lips, nervous blue eyes, and the demeanor of a caged lion.

“What the hell do we have here, Bradford?” Price barked.

“Sir, it’s a total fabrication. I have never done any of the things that she charged me with or that are in the warrant.”

Price read part of the papers in front of him and looked up. “She says here that everything you did was verbal, that there will be no records.”

“That also means she has no possible way to prove that he did do anything that she says he did,” Murdock said. “It’s merely her word against his.”

“Who are you?” Price demanded.

“Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock, Commander. I’m Bradford’s CO. These charges are totally ridiculous. It’s a case of a spurned woman flailing out in desperation to get her own charges reduced.”

Price frowned. “Could be, but the DA isn’t going to jump at that explanation. Bradford, can I see some of your work?”

Bradford opened a large portfolio case and took out three of his unmounted marine oil paintings. One was of a pair of seagulls on a fishing boat at the wharf. Another one was the waves breaking over the Ocean Beach Jetty. A third showed a pair of Navy SEALs paddling for shore in a rubber duck.

The lawyer stood and walked up and down in front of the paintings. “Yes, not bad. They are not old-master quality, but the quality of your paintings is not at issue here.”

“Sir, I have my telephone bills for the past six months showing all of my long-distance calls. There are a total of five, all going to my parents’ home. I also have my bank statements for the same period showing my savings and checking balances. All miserably low.”

The lawyer brushed the records aside. “Means nothing. You could have a dozen other accounts around town under your own or other names. You could use a pay phone to call in orders to Santa Barbara.”

“Commander, doesn’t the DA have to have some proof of the charges before they can make an arrest?” asked Murdock.

“Not necessarily, if they have enough suspicion and think they can prove the charge later. Depends on the DA, and the cops. In this case, I’d think they must have some solid evidence that what the woman says is true. Otherwise, why go to court with a case that they know they will lose?”

“Exactly my point, Commander. The woman has said all of the transactions were verbal, nothing written. What possible proof could she have of what she says? Bradford denies categorically that he knew anything about her counterfeiting until two weeks before we went to the Philippines. Just because he knew about it is not criminal. There was no conspiracy, no intent to harm or mislead, nothing of a criminal nature whatsoever.”

Lieutenant Commander Price chuckled. “Murdock, are you sure you weren’t a lawyer in some former life? You make some good points. But until we know what the police have, we don’t have much to work with. I’ll be at the meeting this afternoon at 1600, but not in any official capacity. I’ll be an observer, and if I have any suggestions I’ll make them in whispers to Commander Masciareli. This is a civilian matter; the Navy can have no part in it whatsoever. The Naval Criminal Investigation Service has no jurisdiction. And despite what you may have seen on television, the JAG lawyers have no say here as well. All I can do is advise you when we see what they show.”

“One other thing, Bradford. Did Xenia ask you to marry her?” Murdock asked.

“Oh, yes, every other week for the past two months. She wanted three kids in three years, and then she’d become a world-renowned painter. She got part of her wish. A lot of people around the world who bought her fake old masters are certainly going to hear about her.”

The meeting broke up then, and the linebacker lawyer and Bradford and Murdock went to have coffee until time for the meeting at 1600.

Murdock kept digging. “Did you ever meet any of her friends from Santa Barbara?”

“Don’t think so.” Bradford stopped. “Yes, once, a rather large man with a huge nose who always made jokes about his proboscis. Yeah, he could have been the one. Had on a suit he must have paid fifteen hundred dollars for, and shoes almost as expensive. I thought he was a rich buyer. He could have been the one making the forty-thousand-dollar sales of her fakes.”

“Don’t mention that unless they ask you.”

Price sipped his coffee and stared over the rim of the cup at Bradford. “Something has me puzzled. They say they have a warrant. All they need to do is show it at any military gate in the country, and the PD can march right into any facility and arrest the person named on the warrant. The Navy is without power or jurisdiction. So why didn’t they arrive this morning when they knew Bradford would be here?”

“How would they know?” Bradford asked.

“That’s right, you’ve been away. Your platoon has been front-page news with pictures every day and on every newscast on radio and TV for the past week. This was not a covert SEAL deal, so Navy PAO blasted it for all it was worth. They even released a picture of the platoon to the press. Those Public Affairs Office guys knew a good thing when they saw it. Great PR for the Navy. Now, were the cops a little afraid to charge into this base and grab a hero?”

Murdock began to smile for the first time since he had left Ardith. “Along with that, they may be doing some second-guessing about Xenia’s statements about Bradford?” he said.

“Right,” Price said. “So they come in with what they have and request, that is, request, a meeting to talk over the situation face-to-face. Sounds tremendously flaky to me, like they almost want to get out of a bad situation.”

“What about Bradford? Has his name been mentioned in the news about Xenia’s arrest?”

“Curiously, no. He hasn’t been arrested, so maybe the press can’t get to it yet.”

Bill Bradford shrugged his six-two frame and 215 pounds and sat up a little straighter in the chair. The frown that had been on his face since early morning had started to make a slow and gradual withdrawal.

The 1600 meeting took place in Commander Masciareli’s conference room, where they had been earlier. There were pads and pens at each of the seven chairs, a tray of chilled soft drinks, along with glasses and ice cubes. Murdock, Bradford, and Price arrived ten minutes early, and found three tight-lipped civilians already at the table.

Introductions were quick. Ramona Jefferson, assistant district attorney, looked about twenty-eight, wearing her Thursday blue suit, man’s white shirt, and necktie. Sergeant Walter Jones, SDPD detective and arresting officer on Xenia, was in his forties, balding, twenty pounds overweight, and in a suit ten days out of the cleaners, rumpled and tired. Lieutenant Williams had no first name. He was lead detective on the case and shadow-thin, with a narrow face, heavy black brows, glasses, and nearly invisible hearing aids in both ears. There were no FBI men present. Had they given up on Bradford? Murdock wondered.

Commander Masciareli sat at the head of the table where he usually did, and directed the meeting. “Lieutenant Williams, do you want to get this started?”

The cop cleared his throat, stood, and looked at Bradford. “Mr. Bradford. We are here due to the statements of record of one Xenia, no last name, who has accused you of being a part of the swindle of art patrons in the creation and sale of fake old-master oil paintings. You have seen her charges. It is our position that before we move ahead with this case we need to hear from you and let you have your say.”

Murdock stood. “Just a moment, Lieutenant Williams. Is Mr. Bradford under arrest?”

The detective took a breath, frowned, and then shook his head. “Not at the present time. But that isn’t saying that he won’t be when this meeting ends.”

“I haven’t heard him being read his rights,” Price said. “If this is even an informal session, shouldn’t he have his lawyer present?”

“Commander Price,” Williams said. “He hasn’t been arrested, so we have no need to read him his rights. The same with a lawyer. That would be true once he had been arrested. This is simply a fact-finding meeting with interested parties.” He paused. “Mr. Bradford?”

“I don’t care what Xenia says, I had nothing to do with her painting or selling fake old masters. Hell, I just wish I could paint that well, then I could do a lot better on my work. I only learned about her old masters when she let me look at a painting she was working on in her studio two weeks before we left for the Philippines. I knew at once what it was and what she was doing. We talked about it. I did not feel that I needed to run to the authorities, like if someone was threatening to kill a person.

“That was two weeks before we shipped out. I never knew she sold her paintings to the man in Santa Barbara until that night. I never had anything to do with the painting or selling of the paintings. It came as a total shock to me that she was doing this. We both knew it was against the law. Fraud, I would imagine it would be. That’s about it.”

Murdock looked at the woman. “Miss Jefferson, doesn’t the district attorney’s office insist on a good deal of evidence against a person before they issue an arrest warrant?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see how you could possibly have such evidence against my squad member,” Murdock said. “Do you?”

“When the warrant was first issued, we had what we believed was enough evidence for the document.” She looked at Bradford, then back at Murdock. “Since that time, the police have done considerable backgrounding on Xenia, and we have talked to the other artists working and displaying their art at the showroom. We have determined that one of the others in fact did know that Xenia was copying old masters and selling them through a contact in Santa Barbara. They told us yesterday that they were sure that Mr. Bradford did not even know about this trade, and they were absolutely positive that he had nothing to do with the painting or selling of the pictures.”

“We tracked down Xenia when she lived in Sedona, Arizona,” Detective Jones said. “This morning we received back information that Xenia had two outstanding warrants in Sedona. One for defrauding an innkeeper. She skipped out on over a thousand dollars in back rent. The second was for copying and selling old-master paintings.”

The assistant district attorney stood. “Gentlemen, we are withdrawing the arrest warrant, and clearing any record there may have been of it. We find Mr. Bradford has committed no crime and he is free to go.”

“HoooRah!” Bill Bradford bellowed.

The three civilians turned and walked quickly out of the room.

The Navy men stood and grinned, and all shook Bradford’s hand. Then Price frowned. “Bradford, that picture of the two seagulls and the fishing boat. Is that for sale?”

“Oh, you bet. All of my paintings are for sale.”

“How much is that one?”

“Unmounted, it’s a hundred and twenty-five. But for you I’ll put it in a good frame and you can pick it up here at the commander’s office, if that’s all right with him.”

Price took out his billfold and counted out 130 dollars. “Forget the frame, Bradford, I’ll take it as is. I have exactly the right spot for it in my den and it needs a special frame.”

Price went to his car, and Murdock and Bradford walked back to the Third Platoon office. Bradford grinned.

“Hey, you look happy,” Murdock said.

“Haven’t felt this good since I sold my first painting,” he said. “Have a hundred and thirty to go on the rent. Now we need another painter to fill in the slot. Doesn’t look like Xenia’s gonna be there for a while.”

“I’d say three to five,” Murdock said.

“When’s the fish fry?” Bradford asked.

“Fish fry?”

“Sure, we have one after every hairy mission.”

“No fishing right now, let’s make it a hamburger burn, Saturday night. I’ll get the Senior Chief organizing it. Bring your own burgers. I’ve got everything else.”

“Lots of beer, Skipper, I feel like lots of beer.”

In the office, Murdock snorted when he saw DeWitt behind the desk.

“Couldn’t stay away?”

“Hell, somebody has to mind the store. We’ve got a killer schedule set up for tomorrow. Senior Chief is putting together the hamburger feed cookout at your place for Saturday night, and then we have six replacement candidates coming in Monday for interviews. I wouldn’t miss that.”

DeWitt moved, and Murdock dropped into the chair. “Is that all? Nothing important going on? Like how is the arm doing? What is Milly up to, and when are you going to have your first kid?”

DeWitt looked up sharply. “Milly been talking to you?”

“No, just probing. Ardith’s here. Maybe we can get together Sunday at your place and do something.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Whatever happened to those new rebreathers we were going to get in from England with the computer that automatically feeds the right air mixture into the system? The ones we can dive as deep as we want with and still have the right mix. Did we order them?”

“Give Stroh a call. That’s his baby.”

“Yeah, I will,” Ed said. “Senior Chief, get in here, we got work to do.”

Murdock settled back. Yes, the good old home base. Now if Don Stroh and the CIA just gave him two months of easy time to train and work in two new men, he’d be happy. The phone rang. He picked it up.

“Third Platoon, Murdock.”

“How did it go with Bradford?” Ardith asked.

“Let me tell you about that,” Murdock said. He kicked his feet up on the desk and leaned back in the chair and grinned. Oh, yeah, it didn’t get much better than this.