Crossing One of the Bobs

[Poohbah]

05 July 2025
Los Angeles, CA

I drove the rental car into Brentwood Park, getting increasingly hostile looks from LAPD patrol units. One tailed me until I pulled up to the gate of a mansion, then parked to watch the show.

I hit the buzzer. Marisa's voice said, "Yes?"

"It's me, Marisa. Can you open the gate before the cops arrest me?"

The gate slid open, and the cop took off.

I rolled in, noting the extensive security, and then up to the front door.

I got out and went to the door.

Rang the bell.

Marisa answered, waving me in. As usual, no hug, no acknowledgement of me being her father.

She closed the door behind me. I looked her over. Her body language was tense, her face drawn.

"Did Mark--"

"No, it's not Mark."

She fell silent. I felt the usual surge of irrational anger, and forced myself to bite my tongue.

Finally, I said, "Punkin, you called me out here. Either you need to talk to me, or not. I don't have the luxury of taking a lot of time off from work."

I cursed myself as soon as the words were out. Marisa Fowler-Lerman, Esquire, made more with one signature on a settlement than I would make in five years, and I'm not doing half bad for a 60-year-old clapped-out AFSOC bird colonel between my GS-13 salary with the Space Force, my retirement pay, 35% disability pension from the VA, and some careful investments. Lawyers at her level make the world go round and earn every penny of their not inconsiderable compensation. Ask her yourself if you don't believe me.

"Can we not--"

"Marisa, you made it seem like a matter of life and death. I took you at your word. Would you kindly spit it out, please?"

Marisa nodded, looking chastised for the first time in over 20 years.

"All right."

She started talking.

* * *

It began a week earlier.

Brentwood has top-flight security. She knew that because she signed the checks to the various security firms that were just this side of the Constellis Group--formerly Triple Canopy and Blackwater--or whatever's left of Wagner.

I knew it from looking it over on my way in. It was good. Not good enough to stop me. But good.

Mark was in New York on a deposition for a strike suit, and Jordyn was at summer camp.

Why they have a mansion like this for just themselves and one kid was beyond me. Especially when they griped about "conspicuous consumption."

Whoever this guy was, he was light-years ahead of the mercenaries--oops, I meant private security patrols--that guarded Little Suzy Moviestar and her neighbors. He'd walked through the multiple layers of alarms and patrols as if they weren't there, and turned up in her bedroom. She'd walked out of the shower, and there he was.

He'd looked at her solely in terms of whether she was a threat, and had stayed well out of arms reach.

"Your husband helped an illegal alien abscond from ICE; that illegal alien subsequently murdered someone dear to me. Out of respect for my old CO, I'm giving you an opportunity to resolve this. Your husband goes down to the Federal Building, visits the US Attorney, and cops to 18 USC Section 1324(a)(1)(B)(iv), and he requests life in prison."

She'd asked, "Who are you?"

The man smiled. "Call me Ishmael."

He'd then slipped out. She'd hit the panic button; the response was delayed by more than long enough for him to vanish. All of the security cameras in the area, on or off of her property, had been recording, but the imagery was irretrievable.

* * *

I asked her for a description, and her answers confirmed my suspicions.

Marisa was winding up. "And fuck that asshole, I am not telling my husband to cop to a capital felony--"

I asked, "Did Mark do it?"

"What?"

"Did he help an illegal alien abscond under circumstances that would make it into a capital offense?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"A simple yes or no, please."

She paused, and I knew the answer.

"Suppose he did."

"I'd advise yor husband to go along with the man's suggestion."

"Are you fucking crazy?"

"No. But you are being extraordinarily stupid. So was your husband. Turning himself in and entering a plea puts him away for life, and then you can hope this guy doesn't break into the prison to finish the job out of boredom. Your husband made a mistake that is generally fatal. He crossed one of the Bobs."

"The Bobs?"

"Inside joke in AFSOC. We had a high concentration of extremely lethal operators named Robert; we joked that between those guys, they'd killed more people than cancer. And the ID on this one is Bob Ziegler. He was an American Literature major at Columbia on 9/11; on 9/12, he dropped out and went into the Air Force. Ziggy, also known as Ishmael, was a newbie operator in my squadron for my Iraq deployment in 2004."

Marisa's face brightened. "Great, you know who he is! Just tell the cops--"

"Marisa, honey, you're not listening. There are two problems. First one is that guy is the Grim Reaper. I send the cops after him, and if they're unlucky enough to find him, they're going to die."

What's the second problem?"

"Ziggy's dead. Bought it in 2008 at Wanat. Which tells me this guy has been sheep-dipped unto Hades itself. Guys like that are ghosts. Trying to catch him would be like trying to grab smoke. Looks like life in prison is Mark's best option."

[MikeKozlowski]

...You had my interest; now you have my attention.

Mike

[jemhouston]

I'm a sick person, I keep grinning when I read this.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Nice...

FWIW: My laser zap stabilized R-eye's retinal bleed, I'm going onto list for cataract op...

[jemhouston]

Nice...

FWIW: My laser zap stabilized R-eye's retinal bleed, I'm going onto list for cataract op...

Crap, Listen to the doctors, don't over do it, get well.