The Girl on the Yacht (17 page)

Three minutes after Marin disconnected the call to Cameron, there was a knock on the sliding glass door of John’s boat.

He turned. “She’s already here?”

Marin opened the door. “Close by, were we?” She glanced out at Mitch’s boat.

Without responding to the innuendo, Cameron glanced at John.

“What’d you find?”

“Seaward Dive Center.”

“Up on the hill?”

“Yep.”

Cameron started for the door. “Let’s go. Dive shops open early. Fill me in on the way.”

The two women stepped out on to the deck with John following.

“After I drop off Beth at the airport, I’ll head back here and probably go to sleep,” John said.

“I’ll see you back here, later.” Marin gave him a wave before she and Cameron broke off toward Cameron’s Prius.

During the five minute ride up the hill, Marin laid out the details of what John had discovered.

“Do I want to know how he came across this information?” Cameron asked.

“Don’t worry, it’s not evidence discovery,” Marin said. “It’s just a private citizen giving you a lead––it just sped up what you would have figured out with time.”

The Seaward Dive Shop was crammed from floor to ceiling with new diving gear waiting for the summer season to get underway. Black wetsuits hung from high overhead bars like sealskins on display. Along one wall, spearguns were stacked in rows next to florescent mesh bags. Masks, fins, tanks, buoyancy vests, and weight belts filled the remaining spaces within the cavernous room. Cameron headed toward the counter where a tall man was rearranging the display.

“Can I help with dive gear?”

“No, but I need to ask you a few questions.” She flashed her badge. “I’m Cameron West––Orange County Sheriff’s Department.”

“My name’s Dan Baldy. I’m the store manager. How can I help?”

“On Friday, around six in the evening, this shop sold a weight belt and one and a half pounds of weights.”

“I sold that. It was unusual.”

“Do you remember anything about the buyer?”

“I remember him. I thought it was strange. He was about six-foot-five and weighed in at around two forty pounds.”

“That’s detailed. Are you sure?”

“I’ve been in this business for over twenty years, and one of the things you have to do is visually measure the customers for their equipment, like wetsuits and weight belts.”

“How can you be so sure about one customer?”

“When a guy that size asks for a tiny weight belt, you remember. The smallest size belt we sell out of here is eight pounds––that’s for kids––you know, with a wetsuit. There was one other thing about the guy. He had the Budweiser tattoo on his right forearm.”

“The beer?”

“No.” He laughed. “Budweiser is the nickname for the Navy SEAL insignia, because the eagle looks like the beer logo.”

“Do you think he was a SEAL?”

“Yeah, I’m sure of it,” he said with confidence. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, puts that tat on except a SEAL. Every tattoo artist will tell you that he won’t do it unless you show him you made it through.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“I was almost finished with BUDS when I was twenty-one.”

Cameron looked at him like he was speaking a different language.

“Sorry, SEAL training. Anyway, during an exercise, an explosion next to me blew out my right eardrum, and I washed out. Worst day of my life. I mean mentally, not physically.”

“Do you remember anything else about the guy?”

“He had brown hair––cut short. Maybe thirty to thirty-five, no jewelry, and he wore a brown T-shirt that said, ‘Beach Bum.’ He wasn’t talkative. When I asked him about the SEALs, he didn’t respond. I asked if he was buying the belt for his kid. He just stared at me with those dark brown eyes. It was eerie––he didn’t say a word.” The store manager put a new regulator into the glass case. “I just wanted to ask him if it was enough weight. I dropped it, because I figured this SEAL knew what he was doing.”

A teenage girl approached the counter and heard the tail end of the conversation. “Are you talking about that weird monster of a guy last week––the one who got the weird weight belt?” she asked.

“Did you see him, too?” the manager asked. “I didn’t think you were at work, yet?”

“I was in the parking lot when he came out and got into his car.”

“So you saw his car? Do you remember the make, color, license number?”

“It was a black SUV––I think maybe a Chevy. Sorry––didn’t see the license plate.”

“Can you remember anything else? Did you see into the windows––anything on the seats?”

“Come to think of it, there were two decals in the back window. One was of four white stick figures holding hands––you know Dad, Mom, and two boys.”

Cameron typed into her iPad. “What was the other one––can you remember?”

“It had the letters BHHS curved over the word Normans. I don’t know what it was.”

“BHHS,” Marin paused while she thought, “It’s a high school.” Odd that someone would put their high school letters on their adult car. She pulled out her phone and hit the speed dial.

“Who are you calling?” Cameron asked.

“John. He should be back at the boat. He can do a search.” She waited.

He answered in a dazed state. “I just got back from the airport and went to bed, so this better be good.”

“Check out BHHS and cross reference with Normans.”

A few minutes later, he came back on the line. “It’s Beverly Hills High School. What’s that got to do with the case?”

“The guy who bought the weight belt had a decal on his car. And get this, he was a Navy SEAL.”

“I have an idea. There can’t be many SEALs who graduated from Beverly Hills High. Stay there. I’ll check it out.”

“Babe, he’s around thirty-five––if that helps.”

Cameron followed the conversation with interest.

“John’s working on it,” Marin said.

Cameron turned back to the two store employees. “Do you think you could help a sketch artist?”

“I’m good with faces,” the girl said.

“I think I can remember his face, too. If you can get the artist over here, we’ll get you a good picture.”

The hours had evolved into late morning when Michael came out of his garage office.
I need a break
. He strolled through the gate into the side yard before reaching his outdoor barbecue kitchen at the pool. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a beer, stretched out on the lounge chair, and took in the warmth of the bright sun. It was going to be a long day, and he had to get it right. He thought about the project and realized that he didn’t have everything he needed. No problem––he looked at his diver’s watch.
The marine store will be open. I can get a couple things there, and then pick up the rest from my storage locker.
That afternoon, he would finish things and be set for the night. He gulped down the cool liquid and climbed to his feet.

The glass door opened and Pauly came running out. “Can we go swimming, Daddy?”

“Maybe in a couple of hours, buddy. I’ve got some work to do today.”

“I want to go swimming now!”

Little Mikey came out of the house. “We’re going swimming,” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“I said, later.” Michael cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Nancy, can you take the boys––I’m going to be busy in my office.”

His wife peeked out the back door. “Boys, come inside––let’s have some breakfast.” She gave Michael an evil stare. “Daddy’s too busy for you.”

He gritted his teeth, thinking that his marriage was nearly over.

John thought about the new information and how he could tie the high school to the Navy.
If I hack into the school’s computer, it might not have records on the careers of their graduates––at least not military careers. I need to search backwards from the military, and that would take some serious skills to not get caught in the Pentagon’s files.

John pulled a notebook from the top shelf and removed a red thumb drive from the interior pocket. He slipped in the USB device and opened a folder labeled, “Bob Marley.” Over a hundred song files appeared in alphabetical order. He scrolled to the end of the list and opened “Xodus.” He grinned at his devious mind––not Exodus, but Xodus. Instead of producing music, the file opened to thousands of strings of code. He highlighted a particularly long series and copied it to an empty file.

Next, he went out to one of his Dropboxes in cyberspace and opened a folder of pictures––moved the curser to the file Aspen.jpeg. The screen flickered, and a picture appeared of John on the slopes with the chair lift behind him. He pointed the curser at the tip of his right ski pole and clicked. Again, the screen changed and displayed more lines of computer code. He repeated the process of copying and pasting this into his new file.

The last thing he did was to enter three lines of numbers, symbols, and letters that would unlock the entire program he had just created. In their original form, the strings of code had been set up to be meaningless to anyone hacking into his system. But, hidden in those, and in other devices around the room, were the ingredients for him to whip up any meal of his liking. All a hacker would need would be the three or four keys in his head, and a complete understanding of his system. Once these particular lines were spliced and unlocked, the new strings became powerful openers of any doors—
any doors
. He hit enter, and the program began to work.

Time for coffee
. He pushed back his chair and darted upstairs. While he poured a cup, the phone on his desk below started ringing.
Must be Marin
. He shook his head and replaced the pot into the coffeemaker. The ringing stopped. A second later, it started again. “I’m coming.”

He raced down the stairs, but the phone stopped. He glanced at his computer screen––it showed the Pentagon seal.
I’m in.
His phone rang again. He looked down at the bright phone display. He connected. “Hey, Teddy, what’s up? Did you find a lead for us to chase down
for you
?” John sensed an involuntary grimace on the other end.

“Hey, buddy, I just took a call from General Jeffries at the Pentagon’s Cyber Command Center.” The tone in his voice—stern.

John flinched at the comment.
How’d they detect the invasion so quickly?

“Tell me you’re the one in the DOD’s system––you know, the
totally off limits database
?”

“Who, me?”

“Damn it! Why do you do that? I told the President it was a mistake to have a civilian set up their security systems. At least you didn’t get your hands on our systems at Langley.”

“How’s that working for you? By the way––say hello to your computer techs, Brandon and Eric, for me.”

“John, I like you, but you’re digging yourself into a deep hole.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“I’ll tell the General that it’s one of our people doing a security check on their systems. That’s what we’re doing––right?” He paused.

No response.

“That should calm him down for now. You’ll have to let me know how you got in this time. We can’t plug the holes fast enough with you on the other end.”

“Right.” John laughed.

“What are you looking for in there? It better not be Navy SEAL’s records. That would bring down a storm you don’t want any part of.”

“Gotta go.” John clicked off before Teddy asked again.

The Pentagon couldn’t have picked up the security breach that fast––they must have added something new to their security network. I need to check into that and make sure they’re not backtracking to me. That could be messy––court and prison time.
He winced.
How did he know I was looking for a Navy SEAL? My conversation with Marin—he’s bugging my phone
.

John accessed the Pentagon’s security protocol and reviewed the most recent code additions. He read and scrolled, read and scrolled. Then he saw it––one line––he reread it and laughed aloud.
They know I’m here, but they don’t know where. They’ll keep looking till I’m gone
. He closed out his program and escaped before that happened. John opened his new file of code. He wrote one additional line into his program and ran it again. A few minutes later, he was back at the Pentagon logo, this time without an electronic footprint in cyberspace.
Problem solved.

The phone rang again––Teddy.

“What?”

“The General just let me know that the intruder’s out.”

“What intruder? I know nothing,” John kidded.

“When’s Marin getting back?” Teddy asked.

“Don’t know. She’s out with Cameron checking some leads on the case.” John immediately understood that he was bugging Marin’s phone, too—he knows she’s not here. “Gotta go.” John thought for a second. “Gotta wash the boat.”
That should get Teddy’s mind off him.

“Okay, we’ll talk later.” Teddy hung up.

John turned to his keyboard. He reached over, picked up his coffee mug, and took a swig while his neurons fired through the possible ways to get at the information he needed from the Pentagon.
Navy, SEALs, Beverly Hills High School––that was the order.

He wormed his way into the personnel page and clicked the search field. A box appeared across the screen, “Access requires TS Clearance or above––enter your security ID and Password.” No way am I going to leave my print. Like all security software writers, John had left a backdoor impenetrable to other hackers and unknown to the Pentagon or their computer people. He glanced at his watch and noted the time––9:04 a.m. He typed in the username, “JohnSmith#05.” He entered the date and a password that included the date and time. He waited for the exact minute to tick on his screen and hit the enter key. A password that changed every minute, every hour, every day––a process that had been a monumental programming challenge, but he’d done it when it was considered impossible.

The search screen opened to a basic series of boxes, some to check and some to enter data. High school was not one of the fields. He checked the boxes “Active Duty,” “Discharged,” and “Navy.” After a few minutes, a list shot on the screen. At the bottom was the notation that it was “Page 1 of 134,867 pages.”
That’s over a million names.
His head shook slowly and then his eye caught the small icon to the left side of the screen. He tapped the advance search query and a new set of boxes opened. He scanned through the list on page one.
Male––check. What else?

Marin said he was around thirty-five. He typed in the service dates from 1990 to the present—
that should get him
. He scrolled to page two, where he found a field for schools. He entered, “Beverly Hills High School.”

He tapped the enter key, and the engine went to work. The new list consisted of twenty-one names. He studied it––nothing indicating SEALs.
Come on––let’s figure this out
. He felt his palms sweating while he stared at the screen.
It’s got to be here
. He worked his way along the column labels at the top of the page—“Name,” “DoB,” “Service,” “Status,” and two columns with unfamiliar labels, “Rate” and “Rating.” He stared at the Rate. It was some kind of code––E1, E7, O3, O5.

John popped over to the Internet and typed in, “Navy Rate.” Up came a listing of pay levels by title––E1 Seaman, E3 Petty Officer, et cetera, all the way to the highest level of Admiral, at O10.
This doesn’t help
. Next, he typed in Navy SEAL rate and rating. The new site said that the SEAL rate ranged from E3 to O10.
That’s useless
. Then he saw, “Ratings––SO––Special Operations.”
I can work with this.

He toggled back to the Pentagon site and opened the first of four records that were culled using the SO rating and Beverly Hills High. He scanned through the basic personnel details of the first candidate, Joel Bates—DoB 6-3-1973.
He’s about the right age
, John thought. He saw the notation to the far right, “Killed in Action, 6-3-2005, Afghanistan.” The next candidate was too young. However, the second to last name worked. “Michael Rhodes, Active––DoB 10-18-1979.
You’re probably the one.
He opened the personnel file and stared at the picture. The page otherwise was blank where normally a list of the service person’s military assignments and details would be recorded. John shook his head and thought about what he was seeing. The government really protects the SEAL’s identities. His file is buried deep in the system somewhere. It could take a year to find. He copied the photo to his desktop and backed out to the list again.

There was one last name with the rating of SO. “Michael White––full Medical Discharge, 2005––DoB 1-1-1975. He must have sustained a major injury to be on full medical—probably not our guy. He opened the file anyway, and again, no information except a picture. He copied it to his desktop.

He picked up his phone and called Marin.

“What did you find?”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Just coming back to the boat—in the parking lot.”

“Good, come on down. We can talk when you get here.”

“Be there in a minute.”

John felt the boat sway before he heard Marin’s voice. “Come down to my computer room—we need to talk.”

“Let me get a Perrier,” she answered.

John heard the refrigerator door open and a minute later Marin was standing at his computer room door.

“Cameron with you?”

The sheriff homicide investigator’s head peeked around the door. “What did you find?” she asked.

“I may have a picture.”

“Good, we can show it to the dive shop manager.”

He printed off the picture of Michael Rhodes.

Marin looked at the screen. “Who’s the other guy?”

“He was medically discharged on full disability—probably not the guy.”

Cameron grabbed the picture out of the printer. “Let’s get back over to the dive shop.”

“Wait a minute.” John pulled a blank sheet from the printer and wrote—our phones are bugged.

Cameron reached down and wrote, “Teddy?”

He nodded.

Marin pointed to herself and mouthed, “Mine, too?”

He nodded, picked up the pen, “Probably the boat, too.”

The women nodded.

He wrote, “Pop your batteries out when you don’t want him to know where you are, or you don’t want him eavesdropping on conversations or calls—that’ll drive him nuts.”

When Marin and Cameron entered the dive shop, the sketch artist had already arrived.

“The guy’s face was wider, and his hair was sandy-colored,” the dive shop manager said to the artist.

Cameron held out the printed picture as she approached. “Is this him?”

The girl shook her head.

The manager shook his head.

Marin glanced at the portrait that the artist had sketched on the paper. “That’s the other guy—the one that was disabled. We got him.” She pulled her phone out and put the battery in.

“Was it him?” John asked.

“No. The picture we took was the
wrong
guy.” It was a subtle code, and she hoped John picked up on it—Teddy was listening.

“I’ll keep looking. You might as well call it a day and come back to the boat.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll bring Cameron with me.”

“Hey, why don’t I meet you guys over at the restaurant for a drink—I’ll bring the dinghy.”

“Sounds good.” They were on the same wavelength.

Twenty minutes later, with phones disconnected from power, the three of them sat along the patio of the restaurant with iced teas in hand.

“We at least have a name––Michael Wayne White. I’m not sure we have him––his file’s blank.”

“It doesn’t show where he’s stationed?” Cameron asked.

“He was discharged with a disability.” John’s mind raced off in thought. “Just a minute. I’ll bet I can search the disability payments site for an address. We need to get back.”

It wasn’t long before he had done his cyber gymnastics in the VA Disability Compensation site and was staring at the details associated with Michael Wayne White. He printed off the information showing that the disability payments were deposited directly into a bank in Dana Point. “Mare, he’s local.” John’s mind went off in space again. “Hang on another second.” He logged out of the DOD site and pulled up the Orange County Hall of Records. At the property ownership search field, he typed in Michael Wayne White. In less than twenty-seconds, the site pushed out an address in Dana Point of a single family residence with a property tax value of $1.3 million. He printed off the address and handed it to Cameron.

“I’ll get Little Horse working on a search warrant.”

“Don’t use your phone,” Marin suggested.

“I’m going to bed,” John announced. “I’m exhausted.” He headed down the hallway toward the master stateroom.

“You’re incredible, babe,” Marin whispered as he closed the door. “We’ve got this.” She led Cameron up the stairs to the top deck and pointed to Jackie Irwin lounging on her boat across the way.

They darted down the dock and onto Jackie’s boat.

“We need to use your phone.”