I waited. He shifted uneasily in his chair.
“You see… Vivian wants to pay. She believes that Martin—or whoever he is—will simply go away. In fact, she thinks that right now I’m out trying to put together the money. She’s terrified, on the edge of a breakdown. She told me she’d run away with Chelsea before she’d let Blyleven get his hands on her. If she knew you were involved, I… I don’t know what she’d do.”
His face was pale and he sat rigidly in his chair. If anyone was on the verge of a breakdown, it was him.
As gently as I could, I said, “Mr. Armis, don’t you think it’s unfair to your wife for us to scheme behind her back?”
“I …” He swallowed and shook his head.
“It’s essential that I talk to her,” I said. “I need to know exactly how this man could so convincingly pass himself off as her first husband.”
“I’ve already told you.”
“In so many words. I need to hear it from her. Whoever he is, he has to be someone who was close to Blyleven. Your wife can probably help us narrow it down.”
He nodded. “All right.” His voice was small. “When can you begin?”
“I already have.”
We discussed my fee, and he wrote out a check. Then he stood to leave.
I said, “Hypothetically, what if this man really is Martin Blyleven?”
“It… can’t be him.”
“I suppose not,” I said. Although he hadn’t answered my question.
2
AFTER ARMIS LEFT, I phoned Pioneer Insurance. I was shuffled around for a while, until I finally got what I wanted—the name of the investigator who had worked on Martin Blyleven’s plane crash.
I called him, and he agreed to see me.
I locked up the office and headed out.
On the second floor with me is a vacancy, a dentist who I wouldn’t let inside my home much less my mouth, and Acme, Inc. In the four-plus years that I’ve worked in this building, I’d never seen Mr. Acme. I didn’t even know what line of work he was in. But he was always on the phone. He was on it now as I passed by his door.
“… goddamn strings, Murray. Twelve hundred rackets you send me, and none of them are strung. Who do I sell them to, mimes? Or are they playing tennis now with beachballs? Because that’s the smallest thing you could hit, Murray, without any goddamn …”
The morning was already heating up as I steered the old Olds across town to Lakewood, which lies just beyond the southwest reach of Denver. A thin veil of smog partially obscured the mountains to the west, making them flat and featureless. By this afternoon you might not see them at all.
Warwick Investigations had been in business for ten years, about twice as long as I had. The difference was, these guys knew how to make money. They did a lot of corporate work—checking employees’ backgrounds, designing building security, consulting retailers on methods to reduce shoplifting, and investigating large insurance claims—none of the nickel-and-dime stuff.
Thank God, or I’d be out of work.
They had the top floor of a three-story, steel-and-glass building near Hampden Avenue and Wadsworth Boulevard. I put on my jacket, straightened my tie, and stepped off the elevator.
A young, attractive, blue-eyed receptionist in a clinging beige dress showed me in to see the man himself, Donald Warwick.
Theoretically, Warwick and I were in the same business. But you’d never know it from his office. The furnishings were dark blue and beige, the same shades, in fact, as the receptionist out front. There were tasteful prints on the walls and thick, off-white carpeting underfoot. A cluster of low-slung chairs surrounded a table in one corner, nearly out of earshot from Warwick’s gleaming desk.
Beyond the desk was a work area featuring not one, but two computers, both switched on, their screens filled with colorful, cryptic blocks of words and numbers, no doubt critical data for the state-of-the-art detective. There was also a printer, a fax machine, and a copy machine. The telephone on Warwick’s desk had half a dozen buttons, four of which were blinking. More calls than I got in a week.
If Donald Warwick was a private investigator, what the hell was I?
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.
He was a small man with an intense stare and a cool, dry handshake. He wore steel-rimmed glasses, a tan Armani suit, and a fifty-dollar haircut.
“I’ve heard about you,” he added.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.” He motioned me into a visitor’s chair and sat behind his desk. I waited for him to explain what he’d heard or where he’d heard it. But he merely inquired, “May I ask what your interest is in the Blyleven case?”
“I’ve been hired by a Canadian insurance company,” I lied, keeping Roger and Vivian Armis out of it. “They’re holding a policy on Blyleven’s life, and the beneficiary is a distant cousin living in Montreal. Because of a clerical error, they’ve only recently learned of Blyleven’s death. They hired me to assemble the facts on the plane crash. It’s mostly a formality. You know how these insurance companies are.”
He gave me a half-smile that said, “You bet I do.” Or maybe he was merely amused by my bullshit. Whatever the case, he had his secretary bring him the file on Blyleven.
I had expected a couple of pages. The file was an inch thick. Apparently, Roger Armis had left out a few details.
“How much do you know about this case?”
“Next to nothing,” I admitted.
He took off his glasses, whipped out a handkerchief with a flourish, and wiped them until they gleamed.
“Feel free to take notes,” he said, carefully replacing his glasses. “Much of this is public information. But I can’t give you copies of any of these reports. Company policy. I’m sure you understand.”
I didn’t, but I said, “Sure.” Besides, he wasn’t charging me for his time—professional courtesy.
First he gave me Martin Blyleven’s date and place of birth and his social security number to make sure we were talking about the same person. He even had a picture of him, a three-by-five color shot from the chest up. Blyleven’s face was triangular with a pointed chin, narrow nose, and wide-set brown eyes. His hair, also brown, was parted on the side. He wore a blue suit, and he smiled woodenly at the camera.
Warwick said, “Mr. Blyleven was employed by the Reverend Franklin Reed as his chief accountant. He—”
“Excuse me. Is that the TV preacher Franklin Reed? The one in south Denver?”
“Yes. Blyleven worked for Reed for several years. He often flew to Tucson on business. You see, the church has several concerns down there—a large retirement community and an organization called World Flock, which aids people in impoverished countries.”
Warwick flipped a page, studied it for a moment, then flipped another one.
“On March eighteenth, four years ago, Blyleven boarded a plane owned by the church, a twin-engine four-seater. There were no other passengers, just the pilot, Lawrence Foster.”
“Was Foster also employed by the church?”
Warwick nodded and said, “They left Centennial Airport at four-ten P.M. bound for Tucson International. The flight usually took about four hours, depending on the wind currents. Of course, this time they never arrived. An air search was initiated, and two days later a pilot from the Civil Air Patrol spotted part of the wreckage in the Fort Apache Indian Reservation, about a hundred miles northeast of Phoenix. Investigators from the FAA and the National Transportation Safety Board took a week to find all the pieces.”
“Why so long?”
“The area is remote, and the wreckage was scattered over several square miles.”
“So the plane broke up in the air.”
“It didn’t break up. It blew up.”
“What do you mean, a malfunction?”
He shook his head. “A bomb.”
“What?”
“According to the FBI, it was some type of military explosive, probably C-4. The aircraft was li
terally blown out of the sky in a thousand fiery pieces, some of them human. Only parts of the two bodies were recovered, all badly burned.”
I wondered why Roger Armis hadn’t told me any of this. Maybe Vivian hadn’t told him.
“How were the bodies identified?”
“Lawrence Foster was positively ID’d through dental records.”
“What about Blyleven?”
“There wasn’t enough of him left to make a positive ID, but the circumstantial evidence was strong. Pieces of leg and arm bones fit his age and size. They also found his wedding ring, part of a shoe, even the keys to his house and car.”
“Why couldn’t they get a dental match?”
“After they’d pieced together the remains of the aircraft and the bodies, the FBI determined that the point of explosion was behind the rearmost seats and in proximity to Mr. Blyleven’s face, as if he were sitting on the floor holding the explosives. They found little of his head.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying he held a bomb to his face and then set it off?”
He pursed his lips and turned his hands palms up. “That’s one explanation. Or else the bomb went off accidentally. Or perhaps it was in a sealed package and he didn’t know what he was holding. There were plenty of theories kicked around. Pioneer Insurance, frankly, was hoping for suicide.”
“So they wouldn’t have to pay the widow.”
“Exactly. As it was, they had to pay double. Death by misadventure. In fact, as a matter of routine, they had me investigate her. But nothing ever came of that.”
“What did the feds finally determine?”
“They didn’t. As far as I know, the case remains unsolved. They weren’t able to conclude who put the explosives on the plane—Blyleven, Foster, or a third party.”
I could see that Roger Armis had coaxed me into the shallow end of a pool. It got deeper with each step.
“What about motive?”
“The police, the FBI, and my agency all performed extensive background checks. As far as we could tell, neither Blyleven nor Foster had any enemies, anyone who would want to harm them, much less have the means or opportunity to rig up a bomb on the plane. Nor could we find a reason for suicide. Neither of the men was depressed or under stress, and they each left behind a wife and a small child.” He spread his hands and gave me his half-smile. “A mystery, Mr. Lomax.”
Perhaps more so than he knew.
“Did anyone ever suggest that the unidentified body might not be Blyleven?”
“It was identified.”
“But not by fingerprints or dental records. Isn’t it possible that the man with Foster wasn’t Blyleven?”
“No, it is not possible.”
“Maybe someone who resembled Blyleven got on the plane.”
He sighed to let me know that he dealt in facts, not fantasy. “At least three people saw Mr. Blyleven and Mr. Foster board the plane. These people knew Blyleven personally. They spoke to him. Do you understand? It was him. The plane took off, and a few hours later it blew up with him on board.”
“Perhaps a third party was hiding on the plane before it took off, and sometime later Blyleven bailed out.”
Warwick was shaking his head. “Not a chance. We’ve examined that possibility and every other one you could dream up. The plane was checked inside and out the evening before the flight. There were no hidden bombs or parachutes, much less people on board. And the plane was locked in a hangar overnight with a guard on duty. We have signed affidavits from all of these people.”
“What are their names?”
He sighed and told me.
I said, “Maybe the plane landed somewhere, and Blyleven got off and someone else got on.”
“Landed where? In the middle of the desert? And for what purpose? So that Blyleven could switch places with some unknown third party, who would then obligingly blow himself up? And all this with the full cooperation of the pilot, who would also be blown to bits?”
He had a point. Still… “It’s possible, though, right?”
He gave me an irritated look. “It’s also possible that Elvis is alive and well and impersonating Wayne Newton. But I wouldn’t bet my money or my reputation on it.”
He closed the file with authority.
“If your Canadian insurance company is looking for a way to avoid paying the beneficiary, Mr. Lomax, they’ll have to look somewhere else. Martin Blyleven died in that crash.”
Maybe so. But lately he’d been phoning his wife.
3
I FIRED UP THE Olds and headed toward Centennial Airport.
My original plan had been to confirm Blyleven’s death and then try to identify the impostor who’d phoned Vivian Armis.
But now I wasn’t so sure there was an impostor. The proof of Blyleven’s death was merely charred body parts and circumstantial evidence.
Of course, any judge will tell you that circumstantial evidence is evidence, every bit as valid as direct evidence. The example they like to give is this: Before you go to bed at night you look out the window and see that your lawn is green. In the morning your yard is covered with a foot of cold, wet, white stuff. From this circumstantial evidence you can conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that it snowed during the night, even though you didn’t actually see snowflakes fall from the sky. Case closed.
What they fail to mention is that it’s possible that while you were asleep, a neighbor trucked in a snow machine from one of the ski areas… and so on.
So Blyleven could be alive. Theoretically.
Warwick and the federal investigators had considered this possibility. Pioneer Insurance had been especially suspicious. Why not? They’d had to cough up four hundred grand.
But if Blyleven was alive, then a couple dozen questions came to mind, the main one being, How had he arranged a stand-in for the midair explosion?
Also, why had he done it?
Where had he been for four years?
Why had he waited until now to return?
And why would he try to blackmail his own widow, er, wife?
Blyleven aside, Roger and Vivian Armis had to deal with a blackmailer, no matter who he was. If it were up to me, I’d leave the money for the guy, and when he came to pick it up, I’d jump out of a tree and land on his back. But it wasn’t up to me. As far as Roger and Vivian were concerned, it made all the difference in the world whether the blackmailer was Blyleven. So that’s what I had to find out.
There were several directions I could go. Of course, highly trained federal snoops and high-tech PIs had scoured the ground before me. It was doubtful I’d find anything new. But I had little choice.
Well, I did have one choice. Give back my fee to Armis.
However, I was not moved to do this, for two very good reasons. First, the man had come to me for help and I’d agreed to help him. And second, my present bank account could fit in a derelict’s ear with room left over for the wax.
One thing I had going for me: if Blyleven had faked his death, he’d taken elaborate steps to do so, and somebody must have noticed something. Also, if he was alive, then he’d been somewhere for the past four years. And unless he’d been hiding in a cave and eating roots and insects, somebody had seen him and talked to him, even if it was only when he’d come into town for supplies.
I intended to question Vivian as soon as her husband broke the disturbing news: Lomax is here. In the meantime, I’d talk to the last people who had seen Blyleven alive.
Airport personnel.
Centennial Airport caters to private aircraft and some charter flights. It straddles the line between Arapahoe and Douglas counties, just beyond the southeastern fringe of the suburban sprawl. The area is mostly rolling plains and native grass. Buffalo country, you might say. A few stone-and-glass office parks are encamped here and there, like outposts, waiting for the settlers to arrive. And they will, too, you can bet your real-estate license on that.
The airport itself is bordered by a few dozen flat-roofed offices and
hangars, which all look pretty much alike, except the offices have windows. The control tower rises above them like an exclamation point.
I parked in the lot and watched a tiny red plane climb slowly in the distance, like a kite on a string.
I asked around for Chris Esteves and Thomas Doherty, two names Warwick had given me. No one seemed to know Esteves. But someone pointed out a hangar and told me Doherty worked there.
The massive structure was cool and dim and smelled faintly of machine oil. Half a dozen small planes were arranged wing to wing and nose to tail, as shiny and bright as new toys. There was a guy standing on a step stool beside a blue-and-white aircraft, monkeying around with the engine. Part of the cowling lay on the cement floor beside a chest-high metal tool cabinet on wheels.
“Excuse me, Thomas Doherty?”
“That’s me,” he said, without turning around. He tightened a bolt with a socket wrench.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?”
He fitted the wrench on another bolt head. “About what?”
“Martin Blyleven.”
He hesitated, then stepped down off the stool and wiped the wrench with a rag. He was a goofy-looking character with buck teeth, jug ears, a walnut-size Adam’s apple, and a mop of red hair. His eyes were slightly crossed, giving the impression that he was staring at something behind me. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder.
I handed him my card. “An insurance company hired me to look into the crash that killed Martin Blyleven and Lawrence Foster.”
His face drooped a bit. “Larry was a helluva good guy. Damn good pilot, too.” He shook his head sadly. “A crying shame, what happened.”
“How well did you know Blyleven?”
“I knew him to say hello. He seemed like an okay guy.”
“You were here the day of the accident, right?”
“Yep.”
“It was a long time ago, I realize, but do you remember what happened that day?”
“Sure. I told the story often enough to the authorities.”
“What time did you come to work?”
“Seven A.M., like always.”
Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4) Page 21