by L. J. Martin
"Why South America?" I ask.
"Wedgeworth and his company, CalGeoCyber, had lots of business with several South American countries and lots of conflicts, so I'm thinking one of them got even with him."
"An interesting theory. Is it more than just a theory?"
"It's a fucking guess."
"What do you know about a guy named Henry Hausman?"
He gives a wry smile, then clears his throat and answers, "We just put a warrant out on him for trespassing and assault due to that bit out at Birnam Wood…which is one of the reasons I agreed to meet up with you as you're going to have to make a statement. It's not my gig, but one of the officers will be getting in touch."
Good fucking luck, I think, but don't say. "So who's Hausman?"
"Former head of security for CalGeoCyber and personally responsible for Wedgeworth's protection. I've met him a couple of times…seemed like a good guy, but he's being buried under the weight of billions…by the prick who fired him."
"How do I find the guy?" I ask.
"Hell, we want to find him and book him, so if you find him, advise."
I return the wry smile, and nod, but don't really mean it, at least not until I have a chat with the guy.
We talk for another half-hour, and he is kind enough to give me contact info on the pilot, co-pilot, and maintenance chief for the airplane. Then I pick up the tab for supper and bid my goodbyes.
As soon as I leave I text Wedgeworth and ask for a meeting. He comes right back and agrees to see me at ten a.m. when I'm supposed to pick up my fifty grand retainer, which may give me time in the morning to follow up on the leads I've gotten from Sotomeyer.
I get a cheap room, hit the sack early, get breakfast in the motel café, then promptly at eight a.m. call the crew chief's cell phone and find Fred Wilkerson, nickname 'Scoot', who's now working for the avionics branch—Goleta Avionics—of the fixed base operator at the Santa Barbara airport and ask if I can see him in fifteen. He agrees. Then I call Mrs. Tobias Bartlett, wife of the co-pilot, explain that I've been hired to find the plane. Penny agrees to a cup of coffee at nine at the grammar school, Gaviota Elementary, where she is a secretary.
Fred 'Scoot' Wilkenson is a good guy for an ex-Air Force twerp. Solid, military cut hair, ebony eyes that look like they could laser-cut a sheet of aluminum aircraft skin, and a straight talker.
"Hell, I came to work and Sweet Sally…that's what the crew called her…was gone. She wasn't scheduled to be gone and I had some routine maintenance on the books. I called Mr. Wedgeworth's office as soon as I walked into an empty hangar and the girl said not to sweat it, so for three days I played catch up in the hangar on equipment, until I got another call telling me I was terminated along with my two guys. CalGeoCyber has a 414 as well, but they don't need full time maintenance on her…in fact I brought the account over here."
"Why was it three days before you got the boot?"
"I don't know. You know Glascock, the pilot—we called him bottle dick, as he drank way too much for a pilot and was a real dickhead—anyway, he is a cousin or some crap to Wedgeworth. I thought maybe the old boy stole Sweet Sally and Wedgeworth was hoping he'd bring her back from some joy ride somewhere."
I had to laugh and shake my head at that. "So, no idea where Sweet Sally might have ended up?"
"Not the foggiest."
"I was told Glascock filed a flight plan for Hawaii. Mechanical problems maybe—"
He takes umbrage at that, and bristles, "Bullshit, my planes don't have mechanical problems. My guess would be a swing south toward some country that doesn't pay much attention about their airspace, and that has to be south of Mexico."
"And the range of the G5?"
"Six thousand five hundred, and more with a skilled pilot. Hell, they could have made Lima, Peru if they didn't swing too far out to sea. We don't keep her topped off as there's no reason to carry the fuel if it's a domestic flight. But she was topped off the night they left."
"And Bartlett…the copilot?"
"Good kid. Straight shooter…he wouldn't be involved in anything fishy. I hope he's okay. He has a family."
I give Scoot a card with a cell phone number that will get to me, tell him I owe him a tall cold one, and take my leave.
Penny Bartlett is a pretty little thing with pictures of two kids on her gray metal desk in the outer office of the principal of Goleta Elementary. As soon as I introduce myself she leads me to a break-room down an exterior covered walkway. We have to thread our way through a bevy of recess rug monkeys on the way. The coffee is dishwater, as I suspected, but I appreciate her effort.
We sit across a folding picnic type table on metal folding chairs and she focuses on the coffee for a moment before raising her eyes and appraising me. Then tears well, and she sobs for a second before she dabs at her nose and eyes with a paper napkin, then collects herself.
"I'm sorry," I say, "if I'm bringing up what has to be a tough subject."
"I'll do anything…anything, to get Toby back here. Something is terribly wrong. I haven't heard a word from him, the plane's missing, and we need him home. He had the kind of job that he'd go to work, then call me from Tampa or someplace and say it would be a day or two…but he always, always, always called."
"You have no idea—"
"If I knew where he was, the kids and I would be going there."
"Anything ever said at home about this guy Glascock? I understand he was a boozer."
"Not at work, or Toby wouldn't have flown with him…even if he thought Charlie had a hangover."
"So you have no idea—"
"The plane has to have been stolen and Charlie and Toby kidnapped to fly it…or it crashed at sea during some unscheduled test flight…or something."
As I did with Scoot, I give her a card and my sympathies and walked her back to her office before heading to the parking lot.
Now it's time to have a little more in depth conversation with Wedgeworth. Before I fire up the Vette, I text Pax and ask him to chase down CalGeoCyber's relationship with any South American countries and see if he can get a line on resultant trouble. I can hear his voice light up over the phone.
This is just the kind of gig he loves.
5
Even though it's the same no-neck at the gate who was there the first time I charged the ramparts, I again have to show picture I.D. and he has to call before the gates to the inner-sanctum swing wide. As my retainer is supposed to be in a briefcase I ask, and he calls again, then hands it over. Being cautious, and with the top down on the Vette, I climb out and put it in the trunk.
It's a different no-neck who meets me and motions me around to the servants' entrance, then leads me through the eight-car garage and inside, only this time we find a butler's stairway leading up out of a pantry and ascend. I end up in an office that should have accommodated a half-dozen desks. Instead there's only one, befitting Napoleon, near a bank of windows overlooking rear grounds the size of a polo field.
Wedgeworth is reclined in a portable beauty salon type chair in a far corner, a washtub size plastic container of foot soak at his feet, with one foot in the lap of an attractive Hispanic lass and a hand being worked on by a girl who looks Vietnamese.
There's just something about a man getting a pedicure or even a manicure that makes my gut roll, but I maintain a straight face as he tells me to pull up a chair.
I dispense with the niceties. "You didn't mention the pilot was a relative."
"Oh, didn't I?"
"Was that why the delay in reporting the plane missing?"
"The plane was used by others in our company. You know our headquarters is out in Goleta near the university? I didn't know that they weren't off on business somewhere."
I think that's total bullshit, but charge forward. "And you failed to mention that you might have customers with some animosity toward you or the company…customers who may not only have ins with the police and military of some foreign countries, but may be the police or military?"
"A
nd that's pertinent how?"
"I'm not an army, Mr. Wedgeworth. I can't invade a foreign country."
"Not my problem, Mr. Reardon. You took on a job, you have a retainer. I understand you picked the briefcase up on the way in."
I shrug. "I can always give it back."
"Golly, Mr. Reardon, what was all this stuff about man of your word, my word's my bond, a handshake is better than an agreement, no agreement necessary. What was all that?"
I can feel the heat creep up the back of my neck, because he's right. I take a deep breath. "Mr. Wedgeworth, I always do what I say I'm going to do, and when and if I don't you'll know I'm pushing up daisies. So, yes, I'll go get your airplane, if it's not crashed and on the bottom of the Pacific. But I need a little cooperation. Who in your company would be best to talk with about which clients have a hard-on for CalGeoCyber—"
"Geeze, Mike, there are ladies here," he whispers, and the two girls working on him giggle.
"Sorry. If you can't, or won't, who can tell me who's most likely to have it in for CalGeoCyber?"
"In-house counsel. Norval Blumenthal. He handles all the legal matters. We'll let him know you're coming." He turns to the girl doing his nails. "Kim, please ask Tatya to step in." The girl runs to a walnut paneled side door, sticks her head through, and she's followed back into the room by a five foot eight inch blond in a beautifully tailored dark suit with a red scarf tucked into a plunging neckline and I wish away the scarf as it's occluding the view. Six inch stiletto heels bring her up to my height. Her legs are bare, as is the fashion, and it's tanned legs like hers that set that pace. She cuts ice blue eyes at me, but only a glance.
"Yes, Mr. Wedgeworth?"
"This is Mike Reardon. He's helping us with the G5. Will you take him into your office and arrange for him to meet with Blumenthal." Then he turns back to me. "Good luck." He turns back to her. "Walk him out when you're done, via the outside hallway, please." And he goes back to the important work of perfect finger- and toenails.
I follow the blonde out into an adjoining office, and wish I could follow her all afternoon as she's a joy to behold from the back as well as from the front. As soon as the door closes, she turns to me and extends a beautifully manicured hand. "Hi. I'm Tatya, Mr. Wedgeworth's personal secretary. Have a seat and make yourself comfortable while I call the office."
So I do, and as soon as I do, another door opens, and a brunette, this one pretty but a little shop-worn with hair slightly askew, sticks her head in. "Tatya, get me a driver for this afternoon." She sees me and then steps inside and walks over, and as the blonde dials, sticks out her hand, with a diamond thereon that makes me blink as it catches the morning sun through the windows behind the blonde's desk. I jump up and take her hand as she says, "I'm Portia Wedgeworth."
"Hi, Mike Reardon."
"You're here to see Tatya."
"Mr. Wedgeworth, actually."
"About?" she asks, with a nice smile, but I catch the whiff of bourbon on her breath, and it's way shy of eleven in the morning.
"About his asking me to come meet with him," I say, my smile a little tight. I don't talk about a client's business, even with his or her spouse.
"My," she says, her eyes narrowing a little, even though she keeps the smile pasted on, "aren't you the evasive one."
"No, ma'am, just respecting good business practice."
The smile fades and she interrupts Tatya, who's now talking on the phone. "Forget the driver, I'll drive myself."
As she heads for the door, Tatya calls out to her. "Do you think that's a good—"
Portia, the wife, flips a middle finger over her shoulder, and I turn back to the blonde, acting as if I didn't see.. She noticeably flushes, then goes back to the phone and hangs up. "I'm sorry for her behavior," she says.
I shrug. "So, Mr. Blumenthal?" I ask.
"He'll see you as soon as you can get there or anytime this afternoon."
"Thanks, Tatya." And I can't help myself, as I'm bound to be spending some time around Santa Barbara. "So, I can't help but notice, no ring on your left hand."
She flashes a gleaming smile. "It's not always admired these days…wearing a wedding ring, I mean."
"So, that means you're married, or not married?"
She eyeballs me a second, and I'm happy to say I feel I'm being undressed, then says, "Not, but this is neither the time nor place to discuss personal things."
"And where might be the time or place."
She laughs. "I hang out at Lucky's occasionally, and sometimes at the piano bar at the Biltmore."
"And tonight?"
She hesitates a moment, looks me up and down, then offers, "If I would happen to run into someone I met while at work, it couldn't ever, ever, ever get back to Mr. Wedgeworth."
"I hear Lucky's has the best steak in Santa Barbara, and I'm dying for some protein."
"Who knows, I might be there, but we never quit around here until after eight…at least we worker bees don't."
"Then buzz over to Lucky's about eight. I'll be there."
"Maybe," she says, with a teasing tone that says yes, then waves me to follow and walks me down the hall, down a back stairway, and to the Vette.
"Oh!" she says, "I love these old cars. I wanted one so much when I was growing up in Poland."
"And you have no accent," I say.
She laughs, waves, and disappears back into the eight car garage.
I hang a right onto East Valley and notice a steel gray Mercedes SL550, a fine ride, that had been parked a half block back from the entrance to the estate. I watch it pull out and gun it until it's only a car length behind.
And she's waving at me.
6
I'm tempted to ignore her, as I know nothing good can come of this. First it was the daughter who waved me over, now the mother.
There's a small shopping center with a market and restaurant a half block ahead, and I'm thinking of turning into the parking lot, when she zooms up beside me and yells, "Pull over into the lot."
And I do so, and park, and she pulls in beside me. I glance at my watch and see it's now just twenty to eleven. She leaps out of the little hundred grand plus Mercedes sports car and climbs in beside me.
"I want to talk to you," she says, and it's not a request, it's a demand.
"Yes, ma'am," I say, in my most differential tone. "Talk away."
"No, in the bistro."
I shrug. What harm can a talk in a bistro be? I look up and see it's a 'wine bistro. It's located where an Italian restaurant was the last time I was here. I hesitate, but she jumps out and starts walking.
"They won't be open," I call out.
Without turning back, she says, "They'll open for me. They're there, getting ready for lunch."
I follow, and for some reason, I feel I'm walking toward the edge of a cliff.
She bangs on the door, waits until I catch up, then bangs again. The door opens a crack and some young lady says, "We open in a half hour."
But Portia Wedgeworth is not to be refused. She pushes the door hard enough that the young girl in a waitress's apron stumbles back.
"You're open," Portia says, and charges on by.
I hesitate, and she spins and demands, "Get in here, Reardon."
I hear the young girl say as we pass, "Oh, Mrs. Wedgeworth, I didn't know it was you."
She moves on through the foyer and out onto a patio, then flops down in a wire chair. The girl follows closely. "Would you like a pinot grigio?" she asks.
"When are you going to get some friggin' booze in this claptrap?" Portia snaps.
"Sorry, ma'am, still no hard liquor license."
"Yes to the pinot. Bring a bottle and two glasses."
I'm beginning to get a little disgusted with Mrs. Wedgeworth, but it is a two-and-a-half-million-dollar fee, so I bite my lip and park my butt across from her. She is a beautiful woman, if a little rough around the edges, and a tad puffy, probably from the booze. If she's the same age as her husband, she can't be fo
rty yet. She merely sits and stares me down until the girl arrives with the bottle and glasses. She starts to pour but Portia grabs the bottle out of her hands.
"We don't need you anymore until this bottle is empty." She fills both glasses far beyond the proper widest spot where the wine would breathe the most, then gives me a quick nod as if that's a good thing.
"Yes, ma'am," the girl says, backing away, and it's obvious she's happy to get out of Portia's gun-sights. She spins on a heel and hurries back inside.
"So, Mikey, what was your business with my husband?"
"Sorry, Mrs. Wed—"
"Portia, if you don't mind."
"Portia, I'm in the sub rosa business, and those of us who are, are not there for long if we talk about our clients." She starts to snap at me, but I stop her with an extended palm out. "And I will not divulge my business with a client unless specifically instructed to do so by that client."
"It's half my money," she growls.
"That's for you to know, but I'm not privy to what's what or even who's who and certainly not to your marital arrangements…and have no interest in being so."
Her look hardens. "Is he paying you to follow me?"
I laugh at that. "Mrs. Wedgeworth, I don't involve myself in domestic disputes, even one as interesting as the one you're involved in might be. It's a business thing, not a personal one."
"Then," she says, this time her voice much softer, "it has to be his fucking cousin and that airplane."
He's a gee-and-golly guy, and she's a fuck-this fuck-that kind of girl. "Can't say if it is or isn't."
"Okay then, drink up. We'll talk about something else…something more pleasant."
Again I laugh, as she downs the whole glass of wine and reaches for the bottle while I take a sip.
Her voice goes another octave lower. "How about we go somewhere that we can get a real drink."
So I lie. "You have no idea how much I'd enjoy that, but I have an appointment that your husband set up for me, and I'm already late."
She leans back in the chair, takes a long look, and finally asks, "You don't like me, do you?" She actually pouts a lip out enough that a sparrow could perch there.