reached over, took her hand, and felt her squeeze hard in return.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Max and Myra used the Chief’s credit card to load up on bulk food and other items at Costco to feed those at the substation until a system could be set up to collect money from those using the facility. Afterward, they drove by Myra’s place and picked up her personal gear, the air mattress, and her extra medical supplies. Once that was done, Max decided to swing by Blogger’s apartment to see if he was there and hopefully secure the photos he took of the altercation Max and Steve had with the DHS goons.
Blogger’s apartment was off Williams, near Steven’s Creek Boulevard. It was a pale green stucco, thirty year-old, two-story, rectangular building, with a four-foot catwalk running in front of the doors on the second floor, and sets of stairs at either end. Parking was in the back. A patch of yellowish-green crab grass separated it from the sidewalk and, at the moment, a sprinkler head attached to a brownish-red hose was flinging water in a lazy circle.
Myra said she would stay with the truck so nobody messed with their supplies.
Blogger’s apartment was on one end on the second floor. Before going up, Max checked the parking lot for Blogger’s car, but didn’t see it. He decided to give the apartment a shot anyway.
To his surprise, the door was opened by a skinny white guy, with thick frame prescription glasses. His name was Al.
After introductions, Max asked if he knew how he could get in touch with Blogger.
“I haven’t seen him or talked to him in two days,” Al replied.
“Is that unusual?” Max asked.
“Yeah, it’s unusual. It’s gotta have something to do with those other cops, the ones who came by last night.”
“What do you mean? What other cops?”
“Well, before he took off, these cops in this big SUV were driving back and forth in the street there, maybe four or five times a day, sometimes as late as midnight. He was all jacked up about it, too, taking pictures, peaking out the window all the time. It was freaky, man. Last night, so after the last time I saw him, those same cops showed up, said something about national security, terrorism, shit like that, and kinda just pushed their way in and started going through stuff. After about an hour and a half, they took some of his papers, his computer, a portable hard drive, and left. I know it wasn’t right …them doing that, but what was I gonna do about it?”
“Did they ask you where he was?”
Al thought about this a few seconds, shook his head no, and said, “Now that I think about it, no. That’s weird, huh? …You know what? I’ll bet they got him. I’ll bet that’s why they didn’t ask me about him.”
Al went on to describe the men who searched the apartment. The descriptions fit Tattoo and Shorty perfectly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This time through, Walter Briggs was working security when Max and Myra got back to the substation. Briggs opened the gate, signed them in, but waived them to a stop once they were inside.
Briggs was white, maybe five nine and one hundred sixty-five pounds, clean shaven, freckled, and had light brown hair, cut Q-tip short. He also served two tours in Afghanistan with the Tenth Mountain Division, stationed out of Lake Tahoe. He had a reputation for being a nice, quiet, competent, easy-going supervisor.
“I know this is your thing and all, so I’m just asking, but I got this neighbor. He’s an old guy, a Vietnam vet, lives by himself, nice, friendly. He’s into shooting and reloads his own ammunition. He saw me packing the family up and asked what I was up to. I didn’t think it was a big secret or anything, so I told him. He left after a bit, but came back later and started saying all this stuff about how it was all falling apart and gonna get worse, and so on. Then he asked if there was enough room where I was
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Max and Myra used the Chief’s credit card to load up on bulk food and other items at Costco to feed those at the substation until a system could be set up to collect money from those using the facility. Afterward, they drove by Myra’s place and picked up her personal gear, the air mattress, and her extra medical supplies. Once that was done, Max decided to swing by Blogger’s apartment to see if he was there and hopefully secure the photos he took of the altercation Max and Steve had with the DHS goons.
Blogger’s apartment was off Williams, near Steven’s Creek Boulevard. It was a pale green stucco, thirty year-old, two-story, rectangular building, with a four-foot catwalk running in front of the doors on the second floor, and sets of stairs at either end. Parking was in the back. A patch of yellowish-green crab grass separated it from the sidewalk and, at the moment, a sprinkler head attached to a brownish-red hose was flinging water in a lazy circle.
Myra said she would stay with the truck so nobody messed with their supplies.
Blogger’s apartment was on one end on the second floor. Before going up, Max checked the parking lot for Blogger’s car, but didn’t see it. He decided to give the apartment a shot anyway.
To his surprise, the door was opened by a skinny white guy, with thick frame prescription glasses. His name was Al.
After introductions, Max asked if he knew how he could get in touch with Blogger.
“I haven’t seen him or talked to him in two days,” Al replied.
“Is that unusual?” Max asked.
“Yeah, it’s unusual. It’s gotta have something to do with those other cops, the ones who came by last night.”
“What do you mean? What other cops?”
“Well, before he took off, these cops in this big SUV were driving back and forth in the street there, maybe four or five times a day, sometimes as late as midnight. He was all jacked up about it, too, taking pictures, peaking out the window all the time. It was freaky, man. Last night, so after the last time I saw him, those same cops showed up, said something about national security, terrorism, shit like that, and kinda just pushed their way in and started going through stuff. After about an hour and a half, they took some of his papers, his computer, a portable hard drive, and left. I know it wasn’t right …them doing that, but what was I gonna do about it?”
“Did they ask you where he was?”
Al thought about this a few seconds, shook his head no, and said, “Now that I think about it, no. That’s weird, huh? …You know what? I’ll bet they got him. I’ll bet that’s why they didn’t ask me about him.”
Al went on to describe the men who searched the apartment. The descriptions fit Tattoo and Shorty perfectly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This time through, Walter Briggs was working security when Max and Myra got back to the substation. Briggs opened the gate, signed them in, but waived them to a stop once they were inside.
Briggs was white, maybe five nine and one hundred sixty-five pounds, clean shaven, freckled, and had light brown hair, cut Q-tip short. He also served two tours in Afghanistan with the Tenth Mountain Division, stationed out of Lake Tahoe. He had a reputation for being a nice, quiet, competent, easy-going supervisor.
“I know this is your thing and all, so I’m just asking, but I got this neighbor. He’s an old guy, a Vietnam vet, lives by himself, nice, friendly. He’s into shooting and reloads his own ammunition. He saw me packing the family up and asked what I was up to. I didn’t think it was a big secret or anything, so I told him. He left after a bit, but came back later and started saying all this stuff about how it was all falling apart and gonna get worse, and so on. Then he asked if there was enough room where I was
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