End Game at San Clemente Island: The Mystery Continues

By R.J. Poliquin

When Rear Adm. James Terrance Hurst goes missing, agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service in all of the primary offices in the state of California are dispatched to find the naval officer. Admiral Hurst is suspected of being corrupt because of the expensive jewelry and boat he has showed off to friends and family in recent months. His family, which includes his niece Lane and her new husband, Dillon, are concerned about the time it is taking the authorities to find the admiral. Hurst’s sister, Martha, Lane’s mother, is also worried.

While the authorities investigate Hurst’s case, Dillon conducts his own investigation. Since he and Lane were stranded on the US Navy–owned island, San Clemente, Dillon has questioned the word of Uncle James and other naval officials who claimed a young man who died on the island was killed by a shark instead of the big cat Dillon believed he heard while he and his wife were there.

During the investigation, it is revealed that Congressman Joshua Jackson and other high-ranking military officials have been hunting endangered animals on the island. Dillon follows a trail of clues to find answers to the disturbing mystery. When Special Agent in Charge Walt Simmons becomes aware of incriminating photographs that feature the missing Admiral Hurst and his military buddies with a dead jaguar, he plans a strategy to bring the prominent men down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Dec 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781621833994

R.J. Poliquin

R.J. Poliquin is a senior project manager in Las Vegas, Nevada, and has been intimately involved in the construction of many of the strip’s premier projects, including; Bellagio, The Wynn, Mandalay Bay, Green Valley Ranch, MGM Grand, Red Rock Resort, Town Square, City Center, LINQ, etc. He grew up on the beaches of southern California, surfing, diving, and generally enjoying all water sports. For a few years he spent the summer on Catalina Island, one of California’s Channel Islands. R.J. is married with two grown children and two unruly cats. His family moved to Nevada eighteen years ago when his house became too small, the kids too large and work in California slowed down. Missing the ocean, he now gets a water fix by kayaking in the Colorado River or standup paddling in Lake Las Vegas. R.J. is an award winning hardware designer, twice capturing first place in the prestigious Doug Mockett design contest. R.J. may be contacted at: [e-mail]

Book preview

End Game at San Clemente Island

The Mystery Continues

R.J. Poliquin

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-399-4

Copyright © 2016

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Chapter One

Alone in his tenth-floor office in downtown Los Angeles, Congressman Joshua Jackson Willet, known by his friends as J.J., sat behind a desk and reviewed details of the extradition treaty between Brazil and the United States. Nursing his water bottle, the overweight politician was sweating slightly and becoming more depressed as he read. Smooth jazz permeated softly out of the wall speakers as the longtime politician weighed his options. The agreement between the two countries signed in 1964 seemed ironclad. The congressman mulled over his many options.

Let’s see what Venezuela’s looks like. Their agreements are even older than those with Brazil, and our relations with Venezuela are frosty at best.

RAP… RAP… RAP. It was Robert Jones, the congressman’s secretary, at the door. Hearing the knocks, the savvy politician quickly glanced toward one of his favorite oil paintings. Behind that particular painting of the USS Constitution was a combination-lock wall safe. On top of the various papers inside of the safe, there was a wooden presentation box that held a chrome-plated .38 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol.

Congressman Willet, sorry to disturb you, sir, but that NCIS agent has called again requesting a meeting with you. It’s the third time he has phoned, and I told him that I would call back as soon as I was able to speak with you… Sir, what would you like me to tell them?

Ignoring the question and the tapping on the heavy-paneled wooden door, J.J. looked at the Maldives on a list on his desk, which had no treaty with the United States. Talking softly to himself, somewhat rhetorically, What do they know? What do they really have? So Rear Adm. James Terrance Hurst is missing. Then there is a photograph of me with Hurst, Justin, and two others, along with a couple of recently shot jaguars. That picture could have been taken anywhere. Some countries allow the hunting of large cats.

The Justin the congressman referred to was Captain William Harding Justin, who died last year while on duty at San Clemente Island. According to the US Navy, his death was officially ruled a heart attack. The other two men in the picture were Louis Figueroa and Jose Rodriguez.

RAP… RAP… RAP. Sir, may I come in? Robert Jones asked again.

Come in my boy. Come in and leave the door open. Let some fresh air in.

The fit young aide entered the office and spoke. Sir, what would you like me to tell the NCIS agent? He’s called twice today and I—

Tell him I would be pleased to meet sometime next week, say Monday or Tuesday, the now confident congressman said. The thought of retiring to the Maldives had caused a 180-degree mood swing in J.J. But before you schedule anything, check my calendar and then let me know. Also, did you pick up a replacement photo for my conference room? I hated to take that picture down just because those damn PETA lovers, Lane and Dillon Rolt, don’t like to see a successful hunt.

Yes, on Saturday I bought a map of the California Channel Islands. It’s at the frame shop. I’ll get it tomorrow on my way home.

OK, great. And, again, when the map is hung, we won’t speak of this. Like that photo in Mexico never existed. Those PETA people are overly sensitive. Just a pain in the ass!

Several days prior, Lane and Dillon Rolt had scheduled a meeting with the congressman to discuss what they had seen when stranded on San Clemente Island. As they waited for the congressman, the young couple had browsed the fifty-plus photos hung neatly in a double row around the room. Everything changed when Dillon looked closely at one photo. As he carefully examined it, he realized that he recognized many of the men in the photo. The picture included Lane’s deceased father, Captain William Justin, Admiral Hurst, Congressman Willet, two men he didn’t know, and two dead jaguars lying in front of them. In the background, there was a water tower that he remembered from being stranded on the island. But the kicker was that the 8 1/2ʺ x 11ʺ photo was titled Somewhere in Mexico. The congressman removed the photograph after their meeting, putting it in his briefcase and then tossing it in a Dumpster on his way home.

***

Earlier in the month, US Customs agents had confiscated a jaguar pelt from two Americans as they crossed into California at Otay Mesa. The naïve tourists from Indio California traveled into Mexico once a month to buy items to sell on eBay. However, on that excursion, they had purchased an exotic skin at a taxidermy shop in Tijuana, believing it was, as labeled, a Mexican ocelot. They had declared the patterned pelt when entering the United States, so they were only obliged to forfeit the skin. If the tourists had attempted to smuggle the jaguar skin into the country, they would have been arrested under the Endangered Species Act.

Returning from the lunchroom, US Customs Agent Elena Ribeiro, special agent in charge of exotic animal smuggling, sat back down at her gray steel desk. Less than two minutes later, her desk phone lit up.

Hey, El, you aren’t going to believe what we just got. Three guesses, a fellow inspection agent excitedly said.

I’m not in the mood. What have you got? Some ivory, dead parrots, a rhino horn? What?

Kiosk number nine just found another jaguar pelt! And it looks just like the one in our storage lockup. Two guys said they were told it was an ocelot. This is almost the exact same story as before. And the best part is they said it came from Raul’s Taxidermy in downtown TJ.

OK, I’ll be right there, Agent Ribeiro said as she rose from her chair. I wonder if the Mexican authorities ever checked out that taxidermy shop we told them about after we seized the first skin.

***

Lane and Dillon Rolt, newlyweds married on Santa Catalina Island, had been stranded on San Clemente Island after dropping off Lane’s uncle, Admiral Hurst, on their way to honeymoon in San Diego in his new Chris Craft, MY WAY. Stranded on the channel island owned by the US Navy, Lane and Dillon had heard cat noises, seen tracks, and found a fox ravaged by some sort of large predator. Additionally, they had witnessed the discovery of a dead Australian deckhand, Sebastian Watson. He appeared to have been savagely mauled by a cat, but when notified, the US Navy contingent led by Admiral Hurst swept it all away. The official report listed the death as a shark attack.

Congressman Joshua Willet was a friend of Lane’s father. They went to Annapolis together, and he was the best man at her parents’ wedding. He was on the Naval Appropriations Committee.

Rear Adm. James Terrance Hurst was Lane’s uncle—the older brother of her mother, Martha. He stepped up after Lane’s father died and acted as a father figure to Lane and her two sisters, Gale and Allie.

Twenty-four-year-old Lane was a University of California, Santa Barbara graduate and was now back at her alma mater as a teaching assistant. She was starting her master’s degree in marine biology.

Lane’s twenty-seven-year-old husband, Dillon, was a graduate of the University of Southern California with a master’s degree in sports medicine. He works at Santa Monica College as an assistant trainer for the various sports teams. Dillon spends the majority of his time teaching young athletes how to care for their bodies with proper rest, stretching, and nutrition.

Before the couple returned to their perspective jobs following their honeymoon, Dillon put in an offer for a condominium on Bundy Avenue near Santa Monica. During her thirty-minute break between classes, Lane texted Dillon.

Hi, sweetie. Any feedback on the condo offer?

Seconds later his response read,

On the office phone now. Call you after your next class. XOX.

Feeling a little disappointed, Lane made her way outside in search of an iced coffee. The campus at UC Santa Barbara was especially crowded that week with the incoming students scrambling about. They weren’t exactly sure how much time to allocate to get to class, and they weren’t always aware of which building was which. However, Lane had no issues, as she skillfully maneuvered to the Gaucho Coffee Shop between the awestruck newbies.

***

Hello, this is Admiral Hurst’s office. This is Mrs. Hutchinson speaking. How may I assist you?

Mrs. Hutchinson, this is NCIS Agent Patricia Tabler, and I would like to schedule a time to come and speak with you regarding the disappearance of the admiral. Is there a convenient time?

I am worried about the admiral’s disappearance and will be pleased to meet with you anytime, Mrs. Hutchinson replied.

Great. How about one o’clock today at your office?

That would be fine, Patricia. Are you familiar with Port Hueneme Naval base?

Please call me Pat, and, yes, we know where your office is. See you at one.

OK, offered Gloria Hutchinson as she wondered if those people had any idea where the admiral might be.

***

NCIS. This is Agent Robert Gomez speaking.

Agent Gomez, this is Robert Jones. If you recall, we spoke earlier about meeting with Congressman Willet.

Yes, I remember and thanks for calling back. What does the congressman’s schedule look like? It’s important that we talk as soon as possible, Agent Gomez said while trying not to be too pushy, as the esteemed politician was under no obligation to meet with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.

Congressman Willet has an opening next Monday, August nineteenth, at noon. Does that work for you?

OK, we’ll see you then, but if anything opens up sooner, please call. Thank you.

***

Sitting under a majestic oak tree on a newly cut grassy area, Lane sipped her $4 iced brew and waited for her husband of less than a month to call her. She watched the energetic students scramble about as they tried to negotiate the campus next to the beach. Lane swore to herself that the incoming students looked younger every year. Or was it that she was another year older? As she sipped the remainder of her sugary drink, Lane’s iPhone rang.

Hi, sweetie. What’s the latest?

Dillon was nonchalant. Hi, Lane. How are things?

How are things? Don’t tease me. What did the realtor say?

Oh that.

Well?

They made a counter offer. We have a deal if we increase our offer by ten thousand. I told him we could go up to five thousand. I was on a conference call with two agents. One excused himself to call the owner. It took less than five minutes, but the seller agreed with to the five-thousand-dollar increase. So we have a place of our own.

Wow! That is wonderful news. When can we take possession? Lane asked.

"According to the RE/MAX agent, escrow should take less than thirty days. Then we can have a painter freshen everything up like we talked about.

This is exciting… I love you. I can’t wait to have our own place, exclaimed Lane as she stood while practically shouting into her phone. I have to get to class. I’ll call you tonight. Bye

Bye, sweetie.

***

Driving in Pat’s green Honda Element, the two NCIS agents stopped at the entry gates and told the armed security detail that they had a one o’clock meeting with Admiral Hurst’s secretary. Because of their personal non marked vehicle, they were treated with suspicion. Not all agents drove company cars. Agent Tabler, the driver, was the first to show her credentials. While their identification was being scrutinized, another armed sailor called Mrs. Hutchinson.

You are cleared to enter, the sailor said upon his return to the vehicle. Please park in a designated visitor space. This placard needs to be displayed on your dashboard at all times, and do not go anywhere else on the base. You are only cleared for this one area. Any questions?" asked the steely-eyed security guard as he pointed to the aged building that housed the admiral’s office.

We’re clear and understand. Thank you. As Pat hit the button to close her window, she turned to Agent Ted Kavius and pronounced, Where’s the professional courtesy? Those guys are about as friendly as a talking cactus!

A what? That doesn’t make sense, Ted suggested. And furthermore, they were only doing their jobs. Don’t look at me like that. Just drive.

Port Hueneme Naval Base was home to the navy’s Construction Battalion, more famously known as the Seabees.

***

Martha Justin began Monday morning by feeding her cat, Brando, and then cleaning the litter box while the coffee brewed. After breakfast, Martha headed for the door and her daily walk in the Palisades Park of Santa Monica, which overlooks the Pacific Ocean. That day’s exercise was especially enjoyable, as the ocean air was mild and clear. The island of Santa Catalina, just twenty-six miles off the coast could be seen clearly in the distance. Martha usually walked briskly north for two miles with a two-pound weight in each hand. Her return walk was more leisurely, as she greeted familiar joggers and walkers. However, at the end of the walk, she sat down on a painted park bench and looked out at the island in the distance. Martha began to reminisce about her daughter Lane’s wedding in the Catalina casino less than a month ago. She also thought about her husband, William. She missed him.

Ring… Ring… Ring. Hello, Martha said.

Hi, mom, it’s Lane. How are you?

Fine, dear. Is everything OK? Another few minutes and I would have been home. You know I walk every morning at this time.

Excitedly, Lane gave her mother the great news. We’re going to be neighbors! Well… sort of. Dillon spoke with the realtor, and our offer on the condo was accepted. Now we will be practically in walking distance—maybe within five miles.

That’s wonderful. When do you take possession? Martha asked.

Lane had finished her first class of the day and was chatting as she walked to meet up with her lab assistant. We can have the property in about thirty days, give or take a few days, depending on escrow. Dillon is going to paint it after work and on the weekends. I think he’ll require his roommate, Tom, to help. Maybe more like draft him. Lane saw her assistant, Janet, wave as she approached. Mom I’ve got to go. Love you. Bye.

Before Martha could say anything, the phone was silent. She just smiled and smelled the fragrant salt air.

***

As Pat parked in one of the designated parking spaces next to the ’60s-era, cement-block building, Ted put his baseball cap on. The distinctive hat with the all-caps NCIS block letters quickly identified agents of the navy investigative service. Stairs or elevator? What’s your preference, Agent Tabler?

Why stairs, of course, Pat answered energetically as she put on her hat before exiting the vehicle. The interior of the aged building was a faded pea green with yellowed linoleum floor tiles.

Ted spoke under his breath so as not to let any of the navy personnel hear. Not the most impressive office building for such an important branch of the US military.

I agree.

The wood-and-glass door to Admiral Hurst’s office had chicken wire inside the textured glass panel. Pat thought to herself, This place is right out of 1940.

Sitting behind a steel desk was Gloria Hutchinson. She was a civilian employee and had been with the admiral many years. The round clock hanging on the wall behind her showed read 1:04 p.m.

Good afternoon. I’m Agent Pat Tabler, and this Agent Ted Kavius.

I have been expecting you. Let’s go to the conference area. Two of Admiral Hurst’s staffers are waiting. I’ll make the introductions.

The 20ʹ x 20ʹ room had no windows. The painted walls held black-and-white photographs of navy ships from all eras. The well-worn table in the center of the room appeared to be