Then She Vanished

Ten

After the cocktail and a fine paella with scampi dinner, I lumbered off to my upstairs home office, poured a bourbon, and called retired colonel Jim Young. I’d served under him in First Fallujah. After his thirty years in service, Jim had settled in Tucson to pursue the pleasures of bird-watching and photography. These are logical pursuits of a retired military mind, if you think about it — all about pursuit, acquiring your target, and forms of capture. After some catching up, I came to the reason for my call.

“What can you tell me about Dalton Strait in Fallujah?”

“A good enough marine,” said Jim. “But he carried himself more like an officer than an enlisted man, which he was. He served because his father served and his grandfather served, and of course nine-eleven. I think Dalton was eager to get on to more important and less bloody things. Then he lost the leg and he was on his way home. He’s your state assemblyman now, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s up for reelection in November.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular, Mr. PI?”

“Just his general character, Jim. I never ran across him in Fallujah. Had my own beat.”

“Jolan district, if I remember right,” said Young.

The Jolan. My cradle. Twisting warrens and alleys, homes and shops all huddled close, resentment thick as the smoky air. Images rose to my mind’s eye, rarely summoned but always ready. I thought of the Blackwater men. Bodies on the bridge. I thought of my Five.

“Dalton was out in East Manhattan. That’s where he rescued the Humvee driver and got himself the Silver Star.”

I redirected my memory to the goofy nomenclature we used to distinguish one part of crowded, hostile Fallujah from another. We used names that we Yanks could relate to: the Brooklyn Bridge, East Manhattan, Highway 10, Queens, the Pizza Slice.

“Did you talk to him after the rescue?”

“You bet. I wanted to thank and congratulate him. Offered to do the Silver Star nomination paperwork. Funny thing was, Dalton didn’t seem to want it, the medal. The driver he rescued, Harris Broadman, got burned pretty badly. Dalton was really down about that. Broadman was his sergeant. Older than Dalton, and well respected. A few days later, Dalton was blown up himself. Now this was just gossip, but I heard that his behavior on patrol that day went beyond careless, all the way to risky. Really, all very sad for those two. Dalton was married, you know. Had two sons.”

“Have you kept up with him?”

“Not really,” he said. “I donate to his campaigns, send him an occasional email to his office. You, on the other hand, have had some pretty spectacular action out your way. Between the torturers, the terrorists, and the evangelicals. Makes Fallujah sound tame.”

“I’m a lightning rod for calamity.”

“You’re just the man for the job. I restrict myself to birding and photography in hopes of peace and a long life.”

“I might consider those activities.”

“Two secrets as you consider: birds will help you laugh and photography will help you see.”

“Thanks for the secrets, Jim.”

“If you talk to Dalton, say hello.”

I put some music on low and hit the computer to find Harris Broadman. Harder than I thought it would be. No web page, no social media, no Google or Whitepages hits for a former marine in his age range. None of the Marine Corps fraternal organizations had him listed. I finally found his name in a Marine Corps roster of personnel in the Battle of Fallujah in the appendix of a book by Bing West. And that was all. No cross-references or links.

I resorted to expensive IvarDuggans — they charge for membership and minutes in use, not hours.

And again, thirty seconds later, proof of why I happily pay up: “H. Broadman, WM, entrepreneur/innkeeper, born in Kenton, Ohio, in 1976, grad Kenton High School 1994, enlisted U.S. Marine Corps 1/1/1997, attained rank of sergeant, Purple Heart, honorable discharge 11/12/2004, LKA 25 Bighorn Circle, Borrego Springs, CA.”

An innkeeper. I did a Google search, got the Bighorn Motel on Bighorn Circle in Borrego Springs, then its website. Clean, low rates, air-conditioning, a pool, some rooms with kitchenettes and back patios. Weekly rates available. Close to nature’s splendors in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, and near downtown.

“Proprietor, H. Broadman welcomes you.”

I was taking my Bighorn Motel virtual tour when Dalton Strait called. He sounded rattled.

“Natalie called me one minute ago. I think she was forced to call me. She said, ‘Dalton, it’s me.’ Then the call ended. It was her. The calling number was unavailable.”

I took a moment to process this, made a note of the time on my desktop legal pad. Asked him how sure he was that it was her.

“Absolutely positive,” he said.

“She said only those three words? Nothing more?”

“Help me, Roland. Tell me what to do.”

I told him to call Hazzard as soon as we were done, keep his phone close and tell me immediately if she — or anyone on her behalf — called again.

“On her behalf is right,” he said. “Someone’s got her. I knew it when I saw the pictures of the lipstick. Someone goddamned took her.”

In the long pause that followed I heard Dalton’s measured breathing, slow and even.

Then he surprised me.

“I’m introducing a new bill Monday morning, here in Sacramento,” he said. “I want you to be here.”

“Why?”

“As a friend.”

“But I’m not a friend.”

A pause. “Okay. Pretend. Just be here. Capitol building Assembly Chamber, eleven a.m. Easy. If you want to fly up tomorrow, give them my name at the Westin downtown. You fly your own plane, don’t you?”

“We’ll get her back, Dalton.”

“I don’t need a pep talk, man. Just be here for me on Monday. I’m paying you for every hour. I need you.”

The strange end of a strange call.

An hour later, Burt knocked on my office door, took a seat in one of the old, handsome, and uncomfortable horsehair-stuffed chairs that came with the hacienda. He had his something’s-up expression on his face, a handful of papers in one hand.

Burt Short really is short. He sat forward so his feet would reach the floor. He’s built like a bull, big headed, big shouldered, and small footed, and he’s uncannily strong.

Burt remains something of a mystery. He’s virtually unresearchable, even to IvarDuggans.com and Mike Lark’s FBI, so all of his biography comes from him and only him. If he’s being truthful, Burt Short is not his birth name. His personally suggested bio includes boyhood time in Italy and Japan, a college education and internship in nuclear risk management in Finland, an on-again, off-again relationship with American intelligence, membership in the PGA, some golf teaching, and time on Wall Street, where he claims to have done very well. He’s conversant with firearms and self-defense, comfortable with and adept at violence. He’s currently retired and plays golf every day. He’s quiet but charming when he wants to be, with a full face, a weirdly disarming smile, and good manners. He becomes angry if anyone mentions his height. Animals love him.

“You asked about Natalie Strait’s love of gambling and shopping,” Burt said, reaching out to set the papers on my desk. I looked over the first sheet as he talked.

“Considerable, when you factor in their finances,” he said. “Almost all the gambling was at local Indian casinos, except that banner Las Vegas run fourteen months ago.”

“Where did you get these numbers?” I asked.

Burt shrugged. “They’re solid.”

Natalie Strait had run up a grand total of casino gambling losses of $357,285 in the last three years. She and Dalton had paid back $278,000 in four payments over the past year, leaving them roughly $79,000 in arrears, plus interest and penalties, mounting daily.

Figured loosely, the $357,285 was well over triple Dalton’s annual salary. Dalton had told me that Natalie’s average annual part-time earnings from the BMW of Escondido was $70,000. Again, figured loosely, Natalie Strait’s gambling losses for the last two years were $177,000-plus dollars higher than their combined annual income.

Burt’s second sheet of paper showed an itemized combination of the Straits’ April charges, including overdue balances from months past. From my own talks with the Straits’ six credit card companies I knew the rough totals, but seeing exactly where some of the money had gone put the Straits in a different light: the University of Southern California ($11,885); San Diego State University ($3,800); their home mortgage ($2,000); line of credit on said home ($820); the Maui Queen Hotel and Resort ($1,900); the Blue Marlin Restaurant of La Jolla ($1,400); Nordstrom ($650); Coach ($520); Cartier ($370); Island Golf ($340); Dick’s Sporting Goods ($290); Men’s Wearhouse ($275); Brooks Brothers ($220); BMW of America ($490); and a combined total of $2,200 for water, utilities, prescriptions, gasoline, and groceries.

Not to mention their $79,000 in arrears gambling debt and unpaid card balances of $55,000.

“Do they have assets?” I asked. “Real property, IRAs, cash, art, jewelry — anything?”

“Nothing,” said Burt. “Their home is for sale.”

“It hurts just looking at this,” I said. “How are they coming up with enough money to live?”

“They aren’t,” said Burt. “They’ve buried themselves to the point where the basics aren’t being covered.”

“Then where are those payments coming from?”

“Exhibit three.”

I leafed through pages from the State of California’s campaign finance Political Reform Division website, a dizzying array of information on the Strait Reelection Committee. Clearly listed were contributions and expenditures.

The committee had taken in contributions of $317,855 year-to-date, and had expenditures of $280,514.

Which caught my eye. “That expenditure is very close to what they paid down on Natalie’s gambling debts. And of course, campaign funds used for personal expenses is a felony.”

“So is conspiracy,” said Burt. “If it’s a team effort they’re looking at four to six years in federal lockup.”

I pictured Dalton Strait sitting in my Main Avenue office, massaging the stump of his leg while his plastic calf lay on the desk in front of him. A burly young man with a smile on his face and an old-fashioned glass of bourbon in one hand.

“But there’s no trail from the Strait Reelection Committee to their purchases and debts,” I said. “No trail on the campaign finance forms. Expenditures are just expenditures. If they’re covering gambling, restaurants, and USC tuition with campaign money, they’ve hidden it.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

I read through Burt’s notes, seeing that wire fraud and falsification of records were two more crimes that Dalton and Natalie Strait might well also have committed en route to the misuse of campaign funds.

I straightened the papers on my desk, groaned and sat back. “I’d like to see the reelection committee books,” I said quietly. “Natalie’s real books — not the whitewash they’re reporting to the state.”

“Well,” said Burt. “You could break in like a Watergate burglar.”

“I wonder if Dalton might give me a look at his uncooked reelection committee books,” I said.

“Ask him,” said Burt. “Your war buddy isn’t the sharpest pin in the cushion.”

I nodded.

“I assume the state, the FBI, and possibly the sheriffs are onto this by now,” said Burt. “And some of the progressive Dems and media go-getters.”

“Howard Wilkin of the U-T is,” I said.

I imagined the rough consequences for Dalton Strait’s reelection, should discrepancies between contributions and expenditures prove criminal. Scrutiny and scandal. An immediate drop in donations and votes in November, just six months away. Enough time for an indictment, then later, a nasty, high-profile trial. All of this as the Democrats were pushing hard for young, bright Ammna Safar in the 82nd district.

“I’ll see Dalton in the Assembly Chamber on Monday,” I said. “He’s introducing a bill and he wants me to be there. I’ll fly Hall Pass up there, bright and early tomorrow.”

“My regards to Dalton,” said Burt. “We’ve met more than once on the fine San Diego links, as you know. He’s powerful, but a terrible hook off the tee. Tough pivot with that leg of his, so he overcompensates. Good mid-game and surprisingly deft on the greens.”

“A betting man,” I said.

“Carries a wad just for that. By the way, Natalie Strait’s campaign admirer, Brock Weld, told the campaign people that he missed work the day Natalie disappeared because he was home sick with the flu. None of his neighbors saw him that day. He’s got a dog that barks when he’s away. A yapper named King. King barked all day until evening, when Mr. Weld came home.”

“Where’s he work?”

“He works security at the Tourmaline Casino.”

My flight over the local mountains and the eastern flank of L.A. was scenic and uneventful. Always gets me how the earth seems counter-intuitively larger from the air, not smaller. The morning was clear and cool and there were still pockets of snow on Mount Baldy, often used as a snowy backdrop in photographs of greater Los Angeles.

I named my Cessna 182 Hall Pass II, after Justine’s original pink Hall Pass, her pride and joy. I bought mine, well used, a few months after she crashed in the ocean near Point Loma. Painted mine classic Cessna yellow. Hall Pass II was intended to honor her memory, and the devout enthusiasm she brought to flight. I love it, too.

As was Hall Pass, my plane is powered by a venerable Lycoming engine, a grumbling powerhouse identifiable even from the ground when the plane is flying low enough. Sometimes when I fly Hall Pass, or hear a Lycoming-powered Cessna from the ground, I think of her and for a moment we touch hands across space and time.

As California’s Central Valley came scrolling slowly under me, the vast horizon frowned over miles of amber grain and vegetable green, tomato red and spring corn yellow. Two-thirds of the fruits and nuts grown in the U.S. are raised right down there under the moving shadow of my wings. Land of fruits and nuts indeed. Fifty billion dollars a year of agricultural output, baby. They didn’t name it California and croak out Eureka! for nothing.