by Diane Capri
Stockton was located near Interstate 5, which ran north and south along the western United States. Hallman could have hitchhiked along I-5 from there. Not a bad choice, given his circumstances.
From Stockton, Hallman could have traveled I-5 to Canada or Mexico. He might have made his way to a US airport, but even six years ago, air travel required government-issued ID. Plane travel would have left a paper trail, too. But no such paper trail existed for Hallman.
Flint studied the map, checking the places Hallman might have disappeared to and how he might have managed to slip off the grid. From Stockton, he could have traveled into Central and South America. Or he could have reached the Pacific and crossed. “It’s a big world out there. Lots of places to hide.”
“It certainly is,” the ticket agent said. Her voice startled him. He hadn’t realized he’d voiced his thoughts aloud. Or that she’d been listening.
He smiled, bowed his head, and turned to leave. The black SUV was still in the lot. He’d assumed the vehicle belonged to an employee at the bus station. But the ticket agent would have known that. She wouldn’t have asked if he owned it.
He walked over to the back of the SUV and snapped a quick photo of the California license plate. Not likely to be related to him. But he sent the photo to Scarlett with a text asking her to trace it, just in case.
He walked the length of the main street, to get a feel for the place, wondering how Hallman had spent his time here. He wasn’t still here, for sure. Layton wasn’t the kind of place anyone would go to hide from the world. For one thing, a newcomer would stick out like a red rose on a snowy grave.
Flint made his way back to the Pilatus. Drake was ready to go. “San Diego next?”
“Works for me,” Flint replied. “But let’s fly over Stockton. That’s the origin and destination for the bus.”
“Works for me,” Drake echoed, cheekily. “Looks like about an hour and a half to San Diego, assuming all goes well over LA.”
Flint grinned. “When does that ever happen?” He moved into the back of the plane, found his laptop, and went to work.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
San Diego, California
Thursday
San Diego’s waterfront glistened in the sunlight. From the cockpit of the Pilatus, Flint could see across San Diego Bay to Coronado Island, which was as impressive as ever. The ribbon of I-5 stretched up the California coast for miles on its way to Canada and beyond. Tijuana, Mexico, in Baja, was an hour straight down the I-5 in the opposite direction.
Had he chosen to go north, Hallman would likely still be living in Canada. Leaving Canada would have required connections that he simply didn’t have. But from Baja, Hallman could have traveled anywhere in the world, and probably did.
Where are you now? Flint could find Hallman by tracing all the possible options, but that was a tedious process. Heir hunting the old-fashioned way was grunt work and burned through a lot of shoe leather. Nothing but trial and error. Hide and seek. A simple matter of chasing down all the possible leads until he found the missing man. He’d done the job many times before and he’d do it many times again. There was no magic to it. He was successful for one reason only: he knew what to look for and he never gave up, even when everyone else did.
But for Jamie Beaumont, time was running out. He couldn’t wait long enough for Flint to exhaust all the options. Jamie needed to find his father now, not two years from now.
“So what are we going to do about all of this?” Drake asked, when they were about halfway to San Diego.
“Let’s hash it out.” They discussed Flint’s plan for the rest of the flight. There were some holes in it, but every operation carried risk. For this one, the risks of failure were high, but the potential success was worth the effort.
The plan Flint concocted was simple, but not easy. Still, it should work. And that was the only thing that mattered. He’d use his connections, Drake’s expertise, and Veronica Beaumont’s money to gather what he needed and set the trap. Once everything was in place, he’d begin with the weakest link.
When they landed, Flint left Drake to finish up preparations at the airstrip and called a taxi.
Dr. Kevin Hayes’s office was located in a medical building he shared with several renowned pediatricians near the University of California Medical Center, not far from Old Town. Flint had called ahead to confirm his office hours today.
The taxi dropped him off at the front entrance of a three-story building set back from the street and surrounded by a dedicated parking lot. An eight-foot chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter of the property, presumably to keep wayward children from running into the street.
He expected Hayes to behave professionally around his patients, employees, and colleagues. But Hayes would also be constrained by the large parking lot and the fence, which could be helpful if he didn’t live up to Flint’s expectations.
Flint paid the taxi driver in cash and moved to the front of the building. The doors opened automatically, to avoid germ transfer from the hands of dozens of sick kids every day.
A large oval reception pavilion filled the space inside. The center of the pavilion opened to reveal a spacious waiting room full of noisy children and frazzled adults. A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman worked at a keyboard facing the entrance doors. Two more women were seated behind her inside the oval, facing the interior reception area.
Flint turned left to walk around the desk. He didn’t get far before the woman looked up. “May I help you?”
He flashed a megawatt smile in her direction and kept walking. He was well aware of the impact of that smile on most of the women he met. “I’m here to see Dr. Hayes.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” She frowned, less than enthralled with his flashy good looks. Hayes was a pediatrician. No doubt most adults who entered here were tagging kids along and stopped at the desk to check in for their appointments.
“Kevin is a friend of mine. He asked me to stop by.” He smiled again and waved as he continued around the big desk and into the open waiting room. He saw her pick up a phone receiver and push a button. Security was no doubt on the way. He didn’t have much time.
Several office doors led off the big open waiting room, and an entryway to a corridor on his left appeared to run the length of the building. He ducked through the entrance and hurried toward the opposite end, glancing into open exam rooms and offices along the way, looking for Dr. Kevin Hayes.
About halfway down the corridor, he saw an elevator with a sign that listed physician offices on the higher floors. Hayes was listed on the second floor. He ignored the elevator and took the stairs two at a time.
He followed the signs to the left. At the end of the corridor, he reached a wooden door with Hayes’s name on it. He turned the handle and pushed his way inside.
The door opened to a small waiting area. This one featured a saltwater aquarium in one corner. Another corner held a kid-size table and chairs with a few toys scattered about. Two doors led from the room. Behind one, he heard a toilet flush immediately before a mom and daughter walked in.
Flint crossed the waiting area in four strides to reach the second door. He turned the knob and slipped inside. Straight ahead, at the end of another short hallway was an open door. Dr. Hayes sat behind a small desk, head bent, pen in hand, making notes on a patient chart.
Flint reached the doorway before Hayes looked up. His eyes widened and his head pushed back.
Flint stepped inside and closed the door and leaned against it. Hayes rolled his chair away and stood. “How did you get in here?”
“Call your front desk and apologize for the inconvenience. Say I’m an old friend.” Kevin continued to stare, slack-jawed, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Flint barked out the order like a drill sergeant. “Do it now!”
The shouting made Hayes blink, but he didn’t move toward the phone. He took a deep breath and his chest puffed out. “Absolutely not. We have San Diego PD on-site. Unless you intend t
o shoot me, you will be arrested very shortly.”
“Won’t be the first time.” Flint cocked his head. “When I explain why I’m here, I’ll be released. Too bad that you can’t say the same.”
“Meaning what?”
“Frankly, I don’t think you’re a killer. But I doubt San Diego PD detectives will take my word for it, even if I was inclined to vouch for you. Which I’m not.” Flint relaxed against the door. “Murder investigations take a while to complete. I’m sure this one will be extremely inconvenient for you and your friends for months. Not to mention what the media will make of it all. Probably devastate your practice. Parents don’t want their children treated by an accused felon.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” His words were indignant, but beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead.
“Happy to explain. But first,” Flint reached over and picked up the handset on the desk phone, “make the call.”
Hayes punched a button and reassured his staff that he had no need for San Diego PD. After he hung up, he said, “You have five minutes.”
Flint ignored the threat. He opened the office door again. “Come with me.”
Hayes arched his eyebrows. “I’ve got patients. I’m not going anywhere,” he said, still aggrieved.
Flint simply waited until Hayes walked around his desk.
“Are you armed?” Flint asked.
“Of course I’m not armed. This is a medical facility. For children.” Hayes’s chest puffed up again.
Flint opened the door and waved Hayes through.
“Where are we going?”
“Outside.”
Hayes shook his head, but he walked through the open door. He preceded Flint down the short corridor to the outer office and straight through to the main corridor, down the stairs to the first floor.
“Where is the exit to the back parking lot?”
Hayes led the way to the door. Flint gestured toward a keypad. Hayes punched a four-digit code and the door clicked open. He walked outside and Flint followed.
The covered parking area was much smaller than the flat lot in the front of the building. Closest to the exit were reserved parking spaces for the doctors. Flint gestured toward the sporty silver convertible parked in the space labeled “Kevin Hayes, MD.”
Flint held out his hand. “Keys.” Hayes fished around in his front pocket, pulled out an electronic key, and held it out. Flint pressed the button to open the door locks. “Get in.”
Hayes took the passenger seat and Flint settled into the driver’s side. He started the car and rolled through the parking lot and out into the flow of traffic.
“Where are we going? I left a room full of patients back there.” Hayes was starting to sound less belligerent and more whiny. Good. Flint suppressed a grin. He had pegged Hayes for the entry point to whatever was going on with the Wilcox crew, and his assessment had already proved accurate. Neither Vega nor Wilcox would have been whining already.
Flint drove in silence until they reached the landing strip where Drake was waiting in the pilot’s seat of an old Sikorsky helicopter. An identical Sikorsky was tied down next to it. The helos were painted electric neon yellow with bold red stripes on both sides. They would be unmistakable from any distance. Even a child could identify them.
He parked the convertible. “Let’s go.” When Hayes looked like he might object, Flint said, “Get out.”
Hayes shrugged and exited the car. Flint pushed the door lock button and gestured toward Drake’s helo.
“Are you crazy? I can’t fly anywhere. Didn’t you see all those sick kids in my office?” Hayes became more agitated with every unexplained moment. “I have responsibilities. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake.”
“So you said.” Flint shrugged and gave him a little push in the center of his back toward the helo. “You should have thought of that before you and your friends killed Dan Shafer and Skip Evans. Was it your idea to dump their bodies in Red Maple Lake?”
Hayes’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars, but he didn’t say anything at all. Innocent men could be counted on to object when they were wrongly accused. The guilty ones held their silence. Which was all the confirmation Flint needed.
“That’s what I thought.” His gut said he was right and that was more than enough for him. What he needed was evidence. As soon as he had what Jamie Beaumont needed, he would turn this trio of murderers over to the authorities.
He gave Hayes a harder shove between the shoulder blades to get him moving. Without further comment, Hayes put one foot in front of the other and climbed the stairs into the Sikorsky.
“Give me your phone.” Hayes fished around in his pocket and pulled the phone out. He handed it to Flint without comment.
“Sit over there.” Flint gestured to the passenger seat behind Drake and settled himself into the passenger seat across the aisle. “Buckle up.”
He nodded toward Drake. “Everything ready?”
“All set.” Drake spooled up the Sikorsky and lifted off the ground.
Flint searched Hayes’s phone for contacts until he found the one he needed. He sent a quick message, turned the phone off, and dropped it into his pocket.
After the helo was airborne, Hayes said, “What’s the point of this, Flint?”
“The point? I’m looking for Josh Hallman. You’re going to help me find him.”
Hayes stared. “You think we know where he is?”
“No.” Flint shook his head. “If you knew where he was, he’d be dead. Like the others. Why did you kill them, Kevin?”
“I didn’t kill anyone! I already told you that!” he screamed while his eyes bugged and spittle landed on his chin. Kevin Hayes was coming unglued. Predictably. Flint resisted the urge to laugh.
He found the medical kit he’d stowed earlier. He unzipped it and removed a prefilled syringe and a rubber tourniquet. He tore open an alcohol swab pack. “Give me your arm.”
Hayes shook his head wildly.
“I’m not going to kill you. At least, not yet.” Flint removed the plastic cover from the syringe and squirted a bit of clear liquid from the needle. “Give me your arm.”
Hayes gripped the armrests on his seat. His fingers turned white with the pressure.
Flint smiled. So predictable. He grabbed the syringe in his fist with his thumb on the plunger. Before Hayes could jerk away, Flint shoved the needle into the side of his neck and pressed the plunger all the way down. The fluid slid smoothly from the syringe into Hayes’s body, and Flint pulled the needle out.
“What the hell?” Hayes raised a palm to the puncture spot.
“We’ve arranged a little party with your friends,” Flint said. “Don’t worry. We’ll wake you up before the fun starts.”
Before Hayes could say anything more, his head lolled as if it was too heavy for his neck and his chin dropped onto his chest. Flint closed a pair of handcuffs around his wrists and left him to sleep it off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
San Diego, California
Thursday
Flint used Hayes’s phone to send a second text five minutes before Drake flew over Petco Park and landed the Sikorsky on the helipad at Stellar Towers in San Diego’s downtown financial district. Boyd Wilcox owned the building, which housed the StellarSoft executive offices. Mark Wilcox’s The First Two Days studio was located on the top floor.
Also inside the multiuse towers were offices, a symphony hall, and an upscale restaurant with a spectacular view overlooking the helipad. A dozen witnesses watched Ruben Vega step out to greet the Sikorsky while Drake landed.
Flint pulled his Glock and held it concealed at his side. He opened the helo door and lowered the stairs. He kept his face turned from view of the diners in the restaurant and walked down to where Ruben Vega stood, buffeted by the rotor wash from the big helicopter.
Flint glanced around the rooftop area. Ruben Vega worked here, directly reporting to Boyd Wilcox. No doubt there were patrons and employees inside
the restaurant who recognized him on sight. People were watching. Behavior would be noticed. Reported. Perhaps even recorded on cell phone video.
Vega said, “Kevin’s meeting me for lunch. He said nothing about bringing you along.”
“We’re not dining here.” Flint nodded his head up the stairs, toward the Sikorsky. “Hayes is inside. Let’s go.”
Vega paused and seemed to be considering the setup. He shook his head once and turned his back, prepared to walk into the building. Before he could move, Flint grabbed his arm and pushed the Glock to his side, careful to hide the gun from the audience.
“Let’s go this way,” Flint said, close to his ear. He pushed the Glock firmly and tugged him toward the stairs.
“What are you going to do? In front of all these witnesses?” Vega cocked his head and refused to move. “I think not.” He jerked his arm, but Flint tightened his grip.
The door from the restaurant opened. Mark Wilcox walked through and closed it behind him. Good. Both texts he’d sent from Hayes’s phone had reached their recipients. “What’s going on here, Flint?”
“We’re headed out for lunch. Please join us.” Flint’s tone was friendly, because others could be listening, but he didn’t release his grip on Vega or move the Glock from his ribs. The restaurant patrons were beginning to stare and nod and talk about what was happening on the helipad.
Wilcox had closed half the distance between them. “We have a good restaurant inside. Let’s eat here.”
Flint waited until Wilcox’s hulking body partially obscured the sightline between Vega and the restaurant and limited the view for the diners inside. It would be said that he’d acted strangely by some. Others wouldn’t know.
Quickly, behind the cover of the helo door, Flint raised the Glock and landed a solid blow to Vega’s left temple. Vega crumpled almost to his knees on the concrete.
Flint pointed the gun toward Wilcox’s belly. “Act concerned about your friend. Help him up the stairs.” The scene would play out perfectly as planned on the news.