Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

“Nah, we’re just giving each other shit,” Jojola said. “So what’s up?”

Marlene told Jojola the latest news and her fears about the implications of the white knight chess pieces. “I’m worried about Ned being one and you the other,” she said.

“Well, I’ve seen these fed agents around a lot,” Jojola said. “They’re about as obvious as Custer at the Little Big Horn. But I haven’t noticed anybody else who struck me as something other than a local or a tourist…. However, you’ll be happy to know that we’re on our way to see the young lovebirds at Ned’s place. Tran just flew in this afternoon, and we’re trying to get there before sunset to surprise ’em. But this place is a ways out here, middle of some of the prettiest nowhere you’ve ever seen.”

Jojola was quiet for a moment and she could hear him saying something to Tran. “Hello, Marlene, you still there?” he asked.

“Yeah, what’s up? I thought you forgot about me with your drinking buddy there.”

“Nah, he’s Vietcong, they were into opium,” he said. “Anyway, there’s a car pulled over on the road up here, we’re going to check it out. Looks like the one these feds have been driving around. A dark Ford Taurus four-door in truck country if you can believe that.”

Marlene heard Jojola and Tran talking again and the sound of his truck slowing down on gravel. Suddenly, there was an exclamation that sounded like it came from Tran. Then Jojola was back on the telephone.

“Marlene, I need you to call my office. You got the number, right?”

“Yes, what’s going on, John?”

“There’s a couple of dead agents sitting in a car out here. We’re about five miles from Ned’s place. I need backup, but there’s a big mesa in between here and the res, and I usually can’t reach them. Use your land line and tell whoever answers, ‘Jojola needs you ASAP at the old…cabin…and come ready for a war party.’ It’s going to take them more than an hour as it is.”

“What was that?” Marlene asked. “Your phone cut out. What was the cabin?”

“The Josh…Steers…,” Jojola yelled. “They’ll understa-”

Marlene heard Tran shout, “Shots fired.” She heard the truck accelerating.

“Make the call, Marlene. Got…go.”

As soon as Jojola hung up, Marlene hit the speed dial for the Taos Pueblo’s police department. A young woman answered and Marlene relayed her message. “I think he said the Josh Steers cabin, but I’m not sure.” The other woman didn’t waste time with pleasantries and hung up.

Not knowing what else to do, Marlene called her husband. Or, more accurately, she called Murrow because her husband was just as much a Luddite as her damn daughter and wouldn’t carry a cell phone.

The unmistakable call of the William Tell Overture brought the work going on beneath the array of portable floodlights in Emil Stavros’s backyard to a momentary halt. Murrow quickly snatched the cell phone from the holder on his belt and flipped it open.

“Hi, Marlene,” he said. “You really should stop calling me like this. Your husband is standing right here.” His smile disappeared as he listened and then handed the telephone to Karp. “It’s your wife. Sounds like trouble…again.”

“My wife’s number is programmed into your cell phone, Gilbert? The Lone Ranger’s theme music?” Karp asked with an arched eyebrow. “Is there anything I should know?”

Murrow blushed. “She’s always riding to the rescue…shooting guns out of the bad guys’ hands-”

“-or if she misses, the bad guys themselves,” Karp said dryly. He put the phone to his ear. “Hi, babe, what’s the trouble?”

Like Murrow, Karp’s smile quickly turned into a frown. “The twins are okay?” he asked. “Good. Look, Jojola and Tran are on the way, and Lucy’s got Ned with her. That’s a pretty tough combination. I’ll be right home.” He flipped the telephone shut and turned to Guma, who’d walked over from where he was keeping a log-book.

“Sorry, got to go,” Karp said. “Looks like you’ve got this in the bag. You don’t need me.”

“Trouble at home?”

“Yeah, and maybe in New Mexico. But everybody’s all right, you just keep on this and call me when you know something.” Karp left with his driver in tow.

Guma watched him go. New Mexico…hope everything’s okay with Lucy, he thought before turning back to the gaping hole in the ground above which a petite middle-aged woman knelt brushing away at something below his line of sight.

Early that morning, he and the two scientists from 221B Baker Street arrived at 10 °Centre Street to meet with Judge Paul Lussman and ask for an expanded search warrant. With Clarkson’s expertise on the technical stuff, Guma presented the results of the GPR investigation.

Your Honor will find in the sheaf of papers I handed you a compilation of instances in which this supposedly “pseudo-science” has aided law enforcement in locating clandestine graves, Guma said. While this is a relatively new use for geophysics equipment, the science and technology have been used for decades. The anecdotal evidence I’ve given you demonstrates that this is more than some carnival act.

Lussman patiently sat through Geophysics 101 and asked several probing questions of his own that indicated that he understood the basics. When Guma was finished, the judge bowed his head and appeared to be thinking. Very well, he said, looking back up at both parties. I’m going to grant the amplified warrant as the people request, but on the condition that any disturbance of Mr. Stavros’s backyard be limited to the excavation of this one “anomaly.” Consistent with what the scientists have stated. Is that sufficient, Mr. Guma?

Yes, Your Honor, thank you, Guma had replied with a nod. Then he and the 221B scientists rushed from the courthouse building. By the time the team could be reassembled again at the Stavros home, it was midafternoon.

It now included a New York City public works department employee, who when introduced to Swanburg, a criminologist, and Clarkson, a geologist, declared himself a jackhammer-ologist. There ain’t a man in this city can handle a ’hammer better than yours truly, Norris A. Marshall the Fourth.

Norris A. Marshall the Fourth? Guma asked.

Yeah, long line of workingmen, Marshall replied. Just call me Norris.

Marshall had done the prerequisite griping about “extra” work. But in reality, he couldn’t have been happier to be part of a project right out of a movie instead of sweating over some city sidewalk. He’d arrived dressed for work with a sleeveless, dirty blue T-shirt that didn’t quite cover a protruding beer belly of prodigious proportions, counterbalanced by a butt of equal tonnage. But his tan forearms were the size of fence posts, and there didn’t appear to be an ounce of fat on them.

Once in the backyard, Clarkson led the way over to the patio table on which he laid out the printout from the GPR, as well as a to-scale map depicting the anomaly from above and its relations to Global Positioning Satellite reference points he’d established the previous evening. He now marked those points with chalk and then drew a rectangle eight feet by four feet on the concrete.

Emil Stavros had watched the proceedings from the doorway. When Clarkson stood up from his chalk work, the banker announced, I’ll be stepping out to run a few errands. Please clean up your mess from this wild goose chase before you leave.

According to Detective Fairbrother, who’d kept watch from his sedan, Stavros then left the house, walking ahead of Amarie Stavros, who walked after her husband as fast as her high heels would allow shouting, Where we going, Emil? And what are those men doing? I thought you said they were here to fix the hot tub. Why do they need a police officer to fix the hot tub? Does this have something to do with your trial? I’m confused.