Both Ends of the Night Read online

  “It was an odd name. John made a joke about it once—said it wasn’t a good advertisement for somebody you were entrusting your life to.” Payne thought. “Yeah, that’s it: Grimly. Don’t know his first name.”

  Not a good advertisement was understating it. But the name would make the instructor easy to locate.

  I wanted to talk some more with Gray Selby, so I drove back across town, hoping that in spite of the rain he’d still be at the airport, perhaps giving ground instruction to his last student.

  I found them at the big table at the flight school, going over a sectional; Selby was explaining the meaning of the various symbols with more patience than I would have given him credit for. He tried to glower when I came in, but it was a weak effort, and finally he held up five fingers and pointed to his watch. I nodded and sat down beside the phone extension reserved for customers’ use and called the offices of Dr. Robert Sandler. When the physician came on the line he sounded rushed.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you, Ms. McCone. I have your message on my desk.”

  “I won’t take much of your time. I understand Matty Wildress was one of your patients.”

  “… Are you a family member?”

  “A former student and a friend as well as a private investigator she employed to locate John Seabrook.”

  “I see. As you must be aware, I can’t discuss—”

  “I’m not interested in confidential information. I know John went to you for his student pilot’s medical, and I also know that Matty made an appointment with you last week, to ask why John had seen you. All I need to know is if she kept the appointment and if you answered her questions.”

  “She did, and I told her that I couldn’t discuss why John had seen me.”

  “She mentioned that he was missing?”

  “Yes. I strongly advised her to file a report with the police.”

  “But you still wouldn’t tell her why—”

  “I couldn’t imagine what relevance his taking flying lessons had to his disappearance.” Now the doctor sounded defensive. “I did tell her not to worry about his health.”

  At least he’d eased her mind on that score. I thanked the doctor and broke the connection.

  Selby’s student was folding the sectional and gathering his things. The instructor turned to me, hands on hips, striving for his usual swaggering pose. The effort fell short, and he gave up on it. “Still on the case, McCone?”

  “Yes. You done for the day?”

  “I’m done.”

  “Let me buy you a beer.”

  He hesitated. “A beer I could use, but not at the diner. Too damn depressing around here. You know Mario’s, downtown?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

  Mario’s was on Main Street—one of those wonderful period pieces with neon martinis glowing in the windows and an abundance of glass block and Naugahyde and chrome. I’d used the intervening time to check with my office, so Selby was already seated in a booth when I stepped in from the rain; as I sat across from him, two frosty mugs of beer were delivered.

  He raised his in a little salute and drank. “Nice to have somebody to commiserate with.”

  “Commiserate about what?”

  “Wildress, of course. What a goddamn waste.”

  I raised an eyebrow, surprised.

  “Yeah, I know. You think my stand about women in the cockpit doesn’t let me feel for a woman who dies that way. Well, let me tell you—in death we’re all equal. Christ, what a way to go. Somebody like me, I’ve been flying damn near all my life. I went through a war, for God’s sake, saw buddies buy the farm left and right. Even now that I’m stuck in this backwater town at that… benign little airport, I still lose a friend now and then. Happens, when everybody you know flies; we’re a small community. But none of it compares to that woman executing beautiful maneuvers one minute, and the next, she’s just… toast.”

  “No, nothing does. I was there when it happened.”

  “It getting to you?”

  “… Some.”

  “If you got any guts at all, you won’t let that happen.” He set down his mug, eyes focused on the distance. “I flew F-4s—Phantom fighters—in ’Nam, off a carrier. You’d lose guys, sure, and every time you took off from the flight deck you knew your number could come up next. But I didn’t let it get to me, and every time I came home to that carrier and felt the tail hook catch the wire—well, McCone, it was the experience of a lifetime.”

  During the Vietnam War, the fighter squadrons had trained at NAS Miramar, not far from my parents’ home in San Diego. I remembered watching the Phantom jets slice through the sky, swift and graceful and lethal.

  I said, “After flying one of those, anything else must be—”

  “You got it. And now you’re wondering why, with that kind of experience, I’m stuck in this burg, instructing.”

  “Something like that.”

  “In two words, family responsibilities. Sick and aging parents, handicapped kid brother. So home I came, and home I’ve remained. I’ll tell you, it was a hell of a note, realizing my life was over at twenty-eight and then having to put up with the attitude in this country.”

  “You mean the attitude toward people who fought in the war?”

  He nodded.

  “You guys got a bad deal.”

  “How the hell would you know? You were—what? Just a kid at the time. That’s good; at least you weren’t one of the people spitting on us.” He grasped his mug and drank deeply. Set it down—hard.

  I waited a moment before I said, “I wasn’t so much of a kid that I didn’t know what was going on. My father was career navy, enlisted, and he got spit on a few times himself.”

  Selby looked me in the eyes, the rage in his gradually cooling. With a sigh he said, “Oh, hell, McCone, I’ve been mad for such a long time. So long that I’m sick of it. Can we talk about something else now? Like why you’re still looking for John Seabrook? Wildress is dead, don’t make no never mind to her anymore.”

  “John has a son—Zach. Maybe you’ve seen him around the airport?”

  “Oh, right. Nice kid. You working on this for his sake?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. Boy needs friends to look out for him; boy needs a father. So what d’you want from me?”

  “You’d been keeping a close watch on Seabrook, so I thought you might’ve noticed something that happened two weeks ago today. Matty told me she was supposed to have lunch with John at the diner when she got back from her morning lesson, but he met her, acting upset, and canceled. You remember anything about that?”

  “Two weeks… Was that the day—yeah! The guys in the Stirling Silver Ranger.”

  “What guys?”

  “Okay, here’s what happened: I was hanging around on the deck outside the terminal, and this Silver Ranger—very new, very pricey private jet manufactured by Stirling Aviation—lands. The passenger gets out, comes over to the terminal while the pilot ties. Then he spots the diner and starts across the parking lot. Seabrook’s just pulled in and is getting out of his truck to open the gate so he can drive out onto the field; they see each other, and even at a distance I can tell there’s big surprise on both sides. They talk for a minute, and then the guy goes on to the diner and Seabrook gets back into his truck and drives to the FBO’s tie-downs, where Wildress and a student have just taxied in.”

  “Could you tell how Seabrook and the guy related? Did they appear friendly?”

  “Cordial, anyway. But the pilot’s another story. Seabrook gets out of his truck at the tie-downs and hugs Matty, but then he spots the pilot walking away from the Ranger and freezes. This guy he doesn’t like. The pilot changes course, veers toward him; Seabrook says something to Matty, then jumps back in the truck and races off the field.”

  “And the Ranger’s pilot?”

  “Stops and watches him go. By this time I’m curious, so I head his way, ask him if he
needs help with anything. He says he wants to talk to the head mechanic, so I tell him his name and point him toward the shop.”

  “You get the pilot’s name?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Sure. About six-two, real thin. Black hair—too uniform, looked dyed—slicked back from a whatchamacallit… widow’s peak. Angular features, high cheekbones, dark eyes. Could’ve had some Indian blood, like you. Clean-shaven, spoke with a southern accent.”

  “You make a good witness. What about the passenger?”

  “About five-ten, stocky. Silver-gray hair—kind of matched the plane—and plenty of it. Big nose with a bump that looked like it’d been broken—the kind of guy women think is handsome in a rugged way. No facial hair, small U-shaped scar on his chin. I didn’t catch his eye color; he was wearing shades.”

  “What about the plane’s number? I don’t suppose you recall that.”

  “Sure I do.” He tapped his right temple. “I’ve got a good memory, and it’s near photographic when it comes to numbers. Three-three-one-seven-Juliett.”

  I scribbled it down on a scrap of paper that was floating loose in my purse. “One more thing—what’s the head mechanic’s name?”

  “Steve Buchanan.”

  “You know his phone number?”

  “Uh-uh, but he’s local and listed.”

  “Thanks, Gray. I owe you.”

  “Yeah, you do. How’s about you spring for another beer? I feel like sitting here and hoisting a few to Wildress tonight.”

  “Yeah, I remember him,” Steve Buchanan’s voice said. “Name was Calder Franklin. The guy with him was called Winthrop Reade. They were on their way to a business meeting in Seattle and had a small problem with that Silver Ranger—nothing I couldn’t fix, and believe me, it was a pleasure to take a look inside one of those beauties.”

  I shifted the phone to my right hand and cranked down the MG’s window a couple of inches. The defroster had never worked properly, and the windshield was so fogged I could barely see the driving rain, much less through it.

  “You talk with either of them while you were working?” I asked.

  “A little. Reade didn’t say much; the two of them didn’t seem to be getting along. But Franklin, he was more friendly.”

  “And you talked about…?”

  “Well, the plane, of course. But mainly he was interested in Matty. He’d seen her outside and thought she was a real fox. When I told him she flew competitively in a Silver Star, he was really impressed, asked if she was single. Looked disappointed when I said she was living with somebody.”

  “He ask who?”

  “Yeah. All I told him was a guy who owned a Christmas-tree farm west of town.”

  And that was when John Seabrook started running again.

  Fourteen

  The FBO at Petaluma Airport’s closed, so I can’t get hold of Grimly, the flight instructor. And Mick’s having trouble coming up with a method of researching the Fullers’ background. And my mind is boggling—Just what does that mean, anyway? To boggle?”

  Hy patted the couch cushion beside him. “Take it easy, McCone.”

  I continued to pace back and forth in front of the sitting room fireplace. “I can understand why John wanted to fly again, living with Matty. What I don’t understand is why he risked it.”

  “Flying’s a passion, you know that. And it had been over ten years; he felt safe in his new identity.”

  I thought of what Craig Morland had said of his informants who had gone into the Witness Protection Program: “A few got to a point where they felt safe, went back to their old habits and haunts; they were recognized and killed.” John had been recognized simply because he was at an airport—an old haunt.

  “Give it a rest,” Hy said.

  “Oh, sure, you’re a fine one to advise me! You, who flew all over northern California yesterday–”

  “Sit!”

  “Now you’re talking to me as if I were a dog!”

  “You’re acting like one worrying at a bone.”

  I collapsed on the couch, but folded my arms across my breasts and made sure there was a good-sized space between us. Hy dragged me across it and began to nuzzle my ear. I pushed at him, but then he started to kiss my neck. Neck-kissing will do it for me every time.

  After a moment I said, “I still don’t understand why Mick’s having trouble—”

  “I’m starving. Should I order a pizza?”

  “He’s a computer genius, for God’s sake! It should be simple for him.”

  “Italian sausage, anchovies, mushrooms, pepperoni?”

  “Maybe he’s so entranced with Keim that his brain’s going. Maybe it was a mistake to hire her. Olives and extra cheese, too.”

  “Large or extra large?”

  “Extra. We can have cold pizza for breakfast.”

  “I’ll call. Your job is to set the table and open the wine.”

  Grimly was a woman—first name Sara.

  We met at a coffee shop in downtown Petaluma at nine the next morning. The rain had stopped, the sky was clear, and she was looking forward to a full day’s worth of instructing, having called all her students and warned them to schedule while weather permitted. Perhaps twenty-five, she was petite and dark-haired and very enthusiastic. Her eyes glowed when she talked about flying, and she admitted she was teaching in order to build up enough hours to get on with an airline.

  “Instructing’s okay, but you have to fly all the time to make ends meet. I want to buy my own plane someday, and the only way I’m going to be able to do that is if I have a really good job or marry well—and right now I don’t even have time to look for a boyfriend.”

  “So tell me about John Seabrook. What kind of a student was he?”

  Her small face grew serious and she took her time removing the teabag from her cup. “Refresh my memory. You said on the phone that John’s missing.”

  “For the past two weeks.”

  “And his kid’s staying with friends?”

  “Right.”

  “What about the girlfriend?”

  “That’s… over.”

  “Then the kid needs him. I’ll tell you about John, even though it’s my policy never to talk about my students—although how that can help you find him, I don’t know. John was an unusual student. I soloed him at six hours and probably could’ve gotten out of the plane sooner. He completed his hours within a month, flying several times a week, studied for the written on his own. He passed it with high marks, and the FAA check ride on the first try.”

  “He must have quite a talent for flying.”

  “It’s not called talent.”

  “What, then?”

  “Experience.”

  “You’re saying he already knew how to fly.”

  “He’d already been the whole nine yards.”

  “You didn’t call him on that?”

  She shrugged. “I figured he had his reasons—and that they were none of my business.”

  “Weren’t you concerned that you might be abetting him in perpetrating fraud?”

  “What’s fraudulent about fulfilling the legal requirements for certification? The man had valid I.D. and a student medical. He wrote checks and they cleared.”

  Straightforward and pragmatic, and she’d needed the money. “Did John ever talk about his life? His son, his girlfriend, perhaps his past?”

  “I knew the son and girlfriend existed, that’s all. He was very intense about the lessons, as if he didn’t have time to waste on conversation.”

  “After he got his license, did you hear from him again?”

  “Once. He came down here, asked if I’d check him out in a tail-dragger.”

  “When was this?”

  “Exactly two weeks ago. Must’ve been the day before he disappeared. We went up in a Super Cub—his choice. He checked out like he’d been flying it his whole life.”

  The invitation lying on my desk looked festive and elegan
t, with clusters of autumn leaves framing its gold calligraphy. Thanksgiving dinner was to be served at Ted and Neal’s tomorrow afternoon, and although we’d been asked weeks ago, Hy and I were now formally and cordially invited. I’d completely forgotten about the holiday.

  “Cozy domesticity!” I snorted, tossing the invitation aside.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Rae asked. She lounged in one of my clients’ chairs, her feet propped up on the other.

  “Nothing, except that everybody seems to be into it these days. Look at you: making lasagna, including the pasta. Next thing you’ll be keeping a recipe file and passing out cute little cards that say ‘From the Kitchen of.’”

  “You’re just mad because you had to leave before the lasagna was ready to be served.”

  “No, I’m mad because there are more important things in life than table linens that coordinate with your china and silver—and nobody seems to realize that!”

  Rae frowned, realizing the criticism was directed at her. Neither she nor Ricky had brought much in the way of household furnishings to their new home, and for months now they’d been blissfully shopping. I’d run into them at Union Square one Saturday and accompanied them to Gump’s, where I watched with fascination while they earnestly discussed flatware and china and crystal. By the time I got bored and left, they were still undecided, and the salespeople were scurrying around like an army of ants, carrying crumbs of merchandise to the celebrity customers. The change in Ricky—who, during his marriage to my sister, had seldom been home even when physically present—alternately annoyed and amazed me.

  Finally Rae said, “You of all people ought to know that things like table linens, china, and silver are how we keep the big bad world at bay.”

  It was a return shot; when Hy and I first took possession of the cottage, I’d plunged into an acquisitive spree that had nearly bankrupted me—a disgraceful period that I didn’t care to be reminded of.

  “Hell of a lot of good linens and china and silver did for Matty Wildress!” I snapped.

  Rae flushed and compressed her lips, not chastened as she once would have been—angry. For a moment she contemplated me sternly.