Both Ends of the Night Page 21
She hadn’t been a tidy housekeeper, but I doubted she’d tossed the plotter on the table and left it there for over ten months. And I also doubted that she would have bothered to use the instrument had she needed to plot a course. Plotters are mainly used by student pilots—or by someone who hasn’t been current for many years. Someone, perhaps, who is also nervous about getting where he wants to go.
John Seabrook, a.k.a. Ash Walker.
I studied the clear plastic instrument more closely. A purple stripe lay along the straight edge. I rubbed it and sniffed the residue that came off on my hand. Grease pencil, the same color Wes Payne had been using to mark price tags at the tree farm. I checked the heading: 10 degrees if one planned to fly northeast, 190 degrees if one planned to fly southwest. A tick mark along the straight edge, also in purple grease pencil, indicated a distance of 46 nautical miles.
“Ripinsky, I think Ash Walker used this plotter to mark up a sectional.” I showed it to him, explained the significance of the purple. “My guess is he borrowed the plotter, took it to his office, then brought it back and left it here. Matty probably kept it in the bookcase with her flight computer; maybe he meant to return it there but got interrupted. Anyway, he’s left us a lead.”
“McCone, he’d been taking flying lessons; he’d’ve had a plotter of his own.”
“Maybe not. When I took lessons, money was short, so Matty loaned me this one—her computer, too. Besides, he wouldn’t’ve kept one here or at the tree farm; she might’ve found it, and that would’ve spoiled the surprise.”
“Okay, that’s possible. And he might’ve still been rusty at navigation, so he’d’ve needed one. But we haven’t the foggiest notion which sectional he used, what the area’s magnetic deviation is, or in which direction he planned to fly.”
“So where would he have gotten hold of a sectional? One of Matty’s? No, he wouldn’t’ve risked her noticing it was gone. The Prop Shop at the airport? Somebody might’ve mentioned him buying one to her. Over at Petaluma? More likely. But what if…” I scanned the table, pawed through the Christmas catalogs, then went to the bookcase. On top of some aviation magazines lay the latest mail-order catalog from Mickey’s One-Stop Pilot Shop, a large supplier of everything from training videos to electronic flight computers. A label with Matty’s name and customer number was affixed to it. I put it and the plotter into my bag.
“Let’s collect Zach and head back to the city,” I said. “I think I’m on to something.”
Eighteen
“I hate Sundays! Nothing’s open, nobody’s there. And now I can’t get hold of either Mick or Charlotte. Where the hell are my employees when I need them?”
“Give it a rest, McCone.”
“And why hasn’t Craig Morland returned my call? I left a message last night, for God’s sake.”
“He’ll call. And Mick and Charlotte will surface. And Mickey’s One-Stop will open for business in the morning.”
“And in the meantime those political cronies of old man Stirling’s have refused to talk with me.”
“Like I said, give it a rest. Right now I’m hungry.”
“This sounds like a reprise of last Tuesday night, but I don’t feel like pizza.”
“Chinese?”
“Ugh. I had a perfectly dreadful Chinese chicken salad at Dallas–Fort Worth yesterday. So where the hell can they be?”
“The Chinese?”
“Mick and Charlotte!”
“Okay, you don’t feel like Chinese or pizza, but I still think we need Italian. Consider eggplant parmigiana.”
“I’m not… The Gold Mirror?”
“Salad, sourdough, eggplant, and a bottle of that good Chianti.”
“I suppose I could give it a rest. For a few hours, anyway.”
“Mickey’s One-Stop Pilot Shop. How may I help you?”
“My name is Sharon McCone; I’m the attorney settling the estate of one of your customers, Matty Wildress. I wonder if you would check to see if there’s an outstanding balance on her account?”
“Ms. McCone, I can’t tell you how saddened we at Mickey’s were at the death of your client.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m accessing the account now. No, I show no outstanding balance.”
“Are there any recent orders that we should be expecting? Perhaps one that’s already been paid for?”
“The most recent was placed nearly two weeks ago.”
“I don’t think it’s arrived. Will you give me the details?”
“It was placed by her employee, Mr. John Seabrook. He referenced her account number, then changed his mind and charged it to his personal credit card. Frankly, I don’t know why I didn’t set up a separate account for him. Possibly because it went to Ms. Wildress’s address.”
“When?”
“That same day—Federal Express, priority overnight.”
“And what was the merchandise?”
“Two sectionals—Green Bay and the Twin Cities.”
“Okay, Mick—Wisconsin or Minnesota. What airlines fly there?”
“Northwest probably has the most direct flights.”
“How long do they keep passenger manifests? And who will they release them to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well?”
“Well?”
“Find out!”
“Rae, while Mick’s contacting the airlines, I need you to call around to the long- and short-term parking lots for SFO and find out if Seabrook left his truck at one of them. Here’s the make and license-plate number.”
“What if they won’t give out that kind of information?”
“You’re a wanna-be writer. Make up a story so compelling that they’ll break their rules and scour the lot for it.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Drive down there and start scouring yourself.”
“Jeez, what an assignment. Well, if I do have to cruise the lots, at least I’ll cruise in style.”
“Oh?”
“Brand-new yellow Miata convertible—my Christmas and birthday present from Ricky for the next thirty-seven years.”
“What is it, Ted?”
“A message that I just took—”
“I told you to hold all my calls and not to bother me.”
“But this guy—”
“Who?”
“Calder Franklin. When I said you were unavailable, he made me write his message down word for word.”
“So read it to me.”
“‘Since you apparently are not going to accept my offer, I feel I must warn you: further probing into the Stirling matter could place you in extreme danger.’”
“A melodramatic threat, that’s all.”
“Maybe you should take it seriously. I didn’t like the way he sounded.”
“How did he sound?”
“As though he meant every word of it.”
“How’re you coming with the airlines, Mick?”
“I’ve got calls in to reservations supervisors at every one that flies from here to that area. No replies so far.”
“Try my travel agent, Toni Alexander. She knows everything.”
“I got lucky with the parking lots on the third try, Shar. Seabrook’s truck is at PCA.”
“So he did fly commercially to the Midwest. I suspected as much. How’d you persuade the people at PCA to look?”
“Anybody with a heart would, after they heard that my poor diabetic husband mistakenly left the bag containing his insulin supply in his truck and flew off on a long trip, forgetting which lot he’d parked in. I’m to show up with my spare key to fetch the stuff so I can express it to him.”
“Jesus, when you don’t, they’ll probably panic.”
“Shar, I may spin a yarn or two, but I’m not insensitive. In about twenty minutes I’ll call and say he was able to get a temporary supply from the hotel doctor in Caracas.”
“Caracas?”
“I’ve always wanted to visit Venezuel
a.”
“No callbacks from the airlines, and your travel agent’s in a meeting with an important client.”
“Important client? Who’s more important than—”
“Large corporate client.”
“Oh.”
“Mick, I’ve been thinking. Homicide can always squeeze information out of people. Maybe Adah Joslyn—”
“I’ve already thought of asking her to call the airlines, but she’s taken the week off.”
“You try her apartment?”
“Left a message on the machine.”
“Why are people always missing when I need them?”
“Dammit, Ripinsky, we’re so close!”
“Yeah, we are, and time’s wasting. There’s got to be a way. Let’s see what we know: he paid for the sectionals by credit card and had them Fed Exed; marked them up the next morning—”
“Credit card! Two weeks… possible.”
“Huh?”
“Where’d I put the number for the tree farm? Here.”
“What—”
“Just wait a minute… Wes? Sharon McCone. I’m very close to a break in my investigation, and I need to ask you to do something not quite kosher.… Good. Does John receive his personal bills there at the office?… Will you look through them and see what’s come in since he’s been gone?… Thanks.
“He’s checking, Ripinsky. Keep your fingers crossed that the billing cycle’s right. Yes, Wes.… Okay, the American Express and Visa—will you open them and read me the charges?… So Mickey’s is the only charge on Visa. What about AmEx?… Northwest Airlines. I’ll need the card number, the ticket number, and the date of the transaction.… Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, that’s the correct ticket number.… John Seabrook, that’s right.… Really? There must be some error. Will you give me the flight numbers and dates, please?.… Thanks. I’ll speak to my employer and get back to you.”
“Well, McCone?”
“Eleven-thirty a.m. flight to Minneapolis–Saint Paul, arriving four fifty-four. Connection on Northwest Airlink to Chisholm-Hibbing, Minnesota, arriving eight fifty-five p.m.”
“Let’s go.”
The red-eye to Minneapolis was almost empty. Shortly after we reached cruising altitude the attendants stopped their restless activity and dimmed the cabin lights; the turbines throbbed as we moved along the dark airways on a sure course. Below us the continent lay remote and unfathomable.
Hy and I leaned close together, sharing a brandy because neither of us had wanted a whole one. And in the intimacy of that seemingly endless night I was finally able to ask the question that had lived inside me for three years.
“What was Matty to you?”
“A friend.”
“More than that.”
“… Yeah. I loved her.”
I waited.
“She was Julie’s friend first. Best friend. They grew up together in Kern County. After high school they more or less drifted apart. Matty didn’t approve of Julie’s environmental work; she thought it shameful that Julie funded liberal causes with the money her conservative father had left her. But when Julie was dying, Matty was the friend who came to be with her and help me out.
“Julie died at home. I guess I never told you that. She didn’t want to be in a hospital, surrounded by strangers, and I didn’t want that for her, either. At the end, Matty was holding her hand. She’d sent me outside to that bluff overlooking the lake; Julie wasn’t recognizing either of us anymore, and Matty knew I couldn’t bear to watch her slip away. It was a warm, clear July evening; I remember the sunset fading to purple and dying on the water.
“After it was over, Matty came and told me. She made the arrangements for Julie and helped me call the people who should know. And later—toward dawn, after they’d taken Julie away and there was nothing left to do—Matty came into my bed and made love to me. And it didn’t seem wrong to us, any more than it would’ve to Julie.
“It only happened the once, McCone, could never happen again, and we knew it. But Matty got me through both ends of that terrible night. That’s why I owe her and always will.”
What he said didn’t surprise me; maybe on some level I’d known. I felt no jealousy, only a rush of gratitude toward Matty. I took Hy’s hand, held it silently until I caught his anxious, questioning glance.
In reply I said, “I’ll always owe her, too.”
Three Years Ago
“Coming up on your checkpoint, McCone. You spotted it yet?”
“No. I can’t believe this is the same territory I’ve driven across time after time.”
“So look at your sectional. You know Highway 101’s to your right. What landmark did you pick out to your left when you planned this flight?”
“Lake Sonoma, and I can’t—There it is, ahead. We’re ten miles due south of Cloverdale.”
“You got it.”
“I’ve studied this sectional for a solid week, but everything looks so different from up here.”
“That’s because you’re picturing it the way it looks from the ground. Often what’s easy to spot on the ground isn’t easy to spot from the air—and vice versa.”
“And it’s so easy to get lost.…”
“Well, you’re not lost now. Just watch your instruments and check for other traffic and relax. Cross-country flying’s supposed to be fun, you know.”
“But there’s so much you’ve got to pay attention to.”
“Such as the fact you’ve let your altitude drop to eleven hundred feet. Where’s your emergency landing place?”
“Right over there.”
“No way at this altitude that you could establish a glide that would get you there. Like as not, you’d end up in that creek bed—a clear case of pilot error.”
“God.”
“You know, McCone, pilot error’s the cause of nearly every fatal aviation accident. So what you have to do is both avoid and correct for it. No harm in making a mistake, provided you correct for it right quick.”
“I’m correcting. Time to let Cloverdale traffic know where we are.”
“Cloverdale’s closed.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I say it is. So where’re you going to go?”
“Dammit, Matty!”
“You’ve got to start thinking in terms of alternatives. The situation often isn’t what you expect it to be.”
“All right! Okay. Lampson in Lake County is due east; I’ve got more than enough fuel to get there.”
“So what’re you waiting for?”
“Matty, I’ve been thinking about this business of pilot error. In a way it’s comforting.”
“You’re catching on.”
“When I’ve got my license, I’ll be completely in control. I’ll have to follow the rules and use my head in order to make sure my passengers and aircraft are safe. And if an emergency comes up, I’ll have to deal with it. The situation’ll be in my hands and nobody else’s.”
“So what does that tell you about people who fly?”
“We may be crazy, but we sure aren’t afraid to take responsibility for our own actions.”
Part Four
December 3–5
Nineteen
Tuesday morning: Chisholm-Hibbing Airport, Minnesota
A stuffed black bear that must have weighed five hundred pounds stood on a low pedestal in a corner of the small terminal. At close to nine-thirty after a night when I’d slept little, the sight was positively surreal. I moved to get a closer look while Hy went on ahead to ask about the local fixed-base operator. The bear was the genuine article, all right. I shook my head, turned, and located Hy talking to a woman at the rental-car counter.
We met in front of the doors to the parking lot. “FBO’s called Aeroventure,” he said. “Let’s take a walk over there while they offload the bags. You want to do the talking, or should I?”
“I will; I’ve worked out a scenario. You be prepared to jump in if I say something stupid.”
The glow that his words kindled warded off the cold as we went outside. The temperature must have been in the twenties. It had snowed recently, and while the parking lot was plowed, many of the cars were draped in white, like stored furniture under sheets. The chill stung my face and nostrils, made the jeans and jacket that had been more than adequate in California seem insubstantial. I longed for the heavier things in my suitcase. Too bad we’d had to check our bags, but on commercial flights, firearms have to be packed in baggage that goes in the hold. And given the circumstances, we’d been reluctant to leave our guns at home.
We crossed the lot toward a large hangar with an attached one-story building. The planes in the nearby tie-downs shivered and creaked in the cold wind; frost covered their wings and fuselages. Frost: relatively easy to remove, but a killer if you don’t—as well as a warning of potential icing conditions. And ice, whether of the rime or clear variety, can be deadly to fliers. Thank God Hy was used to cold-weather piloting, his ranch being located in the often snowbound high desert.
He grabbed my hand and we ran the last few yards to the FBO. Inside, the air was warm enough to steam the windows. The smell of freshly brewed coffee made me sniff like a hunting dog; I’d carried a large cup onto the plane in Minneapolis, but my weary system craved more caffeine.
A tall man with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses smiled at us from behind the counter. “Ten-cent donation’ll buy you a cup,” he said. “Help yourselves, if you like.”
Hy declined, but I went ahead, adding sugar for energy and dropping a dime into the chipped mug by the urn.
“You folks off the Twin Cities flight?”
“Yes,” I said, quickly running through my mind the scenario I’d constructed. During the long night I’d had to firmly resist embroidering it to the point of preposterousness—something I’d often warned Rae against. Warned her with little success; baroque fictionalizing is as natural as breathing to her, and one of these days she may actually realize her dream of becoming a writer and quit the agency—my loss.