Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5)

by Michael Allegretto

  “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 engin
e. 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.”

  “Was Blyleven’s plane outside or in a hangar?”

  “His church’s plane, you mean. It was right here in this hangar. I’d made some adjustments to the rudder controls the day before. Larry told me they were feeling tight, and it took me all day to find the problem.”

  “So you worked on the plane the day before the flight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you go into the cabin?”

  “I had to, sure.”

  “See anything out of the ordinary?”

  “The authorities asked me that. No.”

  “Could someone have been hiding on the plane without you seeing them?”

  His eyes widened, one aimed at my nose, the other somewhere past my left ear. “Why would anybody want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. But is it physically possible?”

  “No way. I mean, on that model there are storage compartments behind the rearmost seats, to stow gear and so on, and I suppose a person could squeeze in there. But the compartments were empty. The doors were open.”

  “Any parachutes in there.”

  “Nothing was in there.”

  “Could someone have snuck inside after you worked on the plane?”

  He shook his head no. “I was the last one to leave the hangar that night, and that plane was the last thing I checked. The hangar was locked tight overnight. And—” he emphasized, before I could ask him another question, “—I was the first one here in the morning. Early. The night watchman let me in.”

  “Did you check out the plane again?”

  “No, I was finished with it.”

  “What’s the watchman’s name?”

  “Earl Wilson.”

  “Does he still work here?”

  “He retired a few years back and moved down to Castle Rock. Anyway, I was here all day, and no one went near that plane until Mr. Blyleven showed up.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around one,” he said. Then he frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, like I told the federal investigators, that was a little unusual, Mr. Blyleven getting here so early. They weren’t scheduled to take off until four-thirty. Even Larry didn’t show up until three-thirty. He seemed surprised to see Blyleven.”

  “Did Blyleven explain why he’d arrived early?”

  “Not to me. And really, it wasn’t that big a deal.”

  “Did you talk to him at all?”

  “Just to say hello. He asked if he could put his things on board.”

  “What things?”

  “A flight bag and a briefcase.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yep.”

  “Nothing large enough to pack a parachute in?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Okay, so Blyleven put his flight bag and briefcase on the plane?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you go in with him?”

  “No.”

  “So you didn’t see where he put them?”

  He shook his head. “I assume in one of the storage compartments.”

  “How long was he inside?”

  “A few minutes, I guess.”

  “What did he do after that?”

  “He walked over to the hangar door, sat on a folding chair, and waited for Larry.”

  “Wait a minute. You said he got here at one, and Foster didn’t show up until three-thirty.”

  “Right.”

  “Blyleven just sat there for two and a half hours?”

  “Yep.”

  “By himself?”

  “Pretty much. I saw Chris talking to him for a few minutes.”

  “That would be Chris Esteves?”

  “Right. Other than that, he didn’t talk to anyone until Larry showed up at three-thirty. They spoke for a while, and then we rolled the plane out of the hangar so Larry could do his walk-around.”

  “Walk-around?”

  “That’s where the pilot checks all around the outside of the aircraft. When Larry was satisfied, he and Blyleven climbed on board and taxied away. That’s the last I saw them.”

  “Did you actually see Blyleven get on the plane?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re positive it was him?”

  “Hey, I was standing ten feet away.”

  “Was Chris Esteves there, too?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where can I find him? No one around here seems to know him.”

  “You mean ‘her.’ She quit her job about four years ago, not long after the crash.”

  “Because of the crash?”

  Doherty shook his head. “No, her husband bought a tavern, and she went to work with him.”

  “Where?”

  “In Denver. A place called the Adobe Bar. Hey, look, I should be getting back to work.”

  “One more question. How did Blyleven seem to you that day? I mean, his mood.”

  “His mood? Excited.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was always excited when he came here. He loved to fly.”

  4

  I LEFT THE HANGAR, squinting, as if I’d just walked out of a movie matinee: Dialogues with a Mechanic.

  I’d merely confirmed what I already knew, what Donald Warwick had told me. The aircraft had been checked out clean and empty the day prior to the crash, and it was guarded all night and watched all day. Then Foster and Blyleven and no one else got on and flew off into oblivion.

  The only thing out of the ordinary was that Blyleven had arrived earlier than usual. So what? He’d put his carry-ons in the plane and then waited around for Foster. Did that mean he had a bomb in his flight bag? Maybe, maybe not. But he sure as hell wasn’t hiding a body-double in his briefcase.

  Still, something about it bothered me.

  I opened my car door, but didn’t get in, letting the heated air escape.

  There were at least four more people I could talk to, three in Denver and one in Castle Rock. As I stood there trying to decide whether to drive north or south, something caught my eye.

  A sign on a building.

  I’d noticed it when I parked, but I hadn’t thought much about it. The Perfect Landing Restaurant.

  I crossed the parking lot and entered the building. There was a long counter and a lot of tables and chairs, all with a good view of the runway through a wall of windows. It wasn’t yet noon, so the place was practically empty, just a couple of beer drinkers who wore khaki pants, shirts with epaulets, huge-faced watches, and pearl-drop-shaped shades. Gee, do you suppose they’re pilots
?

  I sat at the counter and ordered an iced tea from a hefty waitress wearing a yellow uniform and a friendly smile. Might as well have lunch. The day’s special was tuna salad. I got a ham sandwich. You never know about tuna.

  I swiveled in my seat and stared out the window. I could see several hangars to my right, although I wasn’t sure which one I’d just been in. Whichever one it was, it was close by. Close enough for a guy to walk here and wait for his pilot to show up.

  Blyleven had arrived two and a half hours before Foster, perhaps three full hours before he usually did. According to Doherty, he simply sat on a folding chair by the hangar door and waited. But why not wait in here, sit where it’s comfortable, have a cup of coffee?

  I asked the waitress, “How long has this restaurant been here?”

  “Since they built the airport, I suppose.”

  “Longer than four years?”

  “Honey, I’ve been here longer than four years.”

  “Is it open every day?”

  “Twenty-four hours. You want some more iced tea?”

  So why didn’t Blyleven wait here? Why did he sit alone in a hangar smelling of machine oil for two and a half hours? Unless he wanted to make damn sure he was the first person to greet Foster. Again, why?

  Maybe he wanted to tell Foster something before Foster saw the plane. Or climbed inside.

  There was no way of knowing.

  I ate my sandwich, paid the bill, and left a decent tip. Then I hit the road.

  Castle Rock is about twenty miles south of Denver, a small town bisected by I-25, with the mountains on one side and rolling plains on the other. To most people in Denver, it’s just a place you drive through on your way to Colorado Springs, or maybe Santa Fe. Of course, the residents of the town do not share this view. They place a lot of importance on each other’s lives. So unlike city folk, who could give a damn about their neighbors, they tend to know everything about everybody in town. And they don’t mind telling you—which is what I learned when I stopped to fill my tank at a self-service station.

  The guy behind the cash register was as skinny as a POW with short hair and long sideburns. He was surrounded by packs of cigarettes and displays of scratch-and-win tickets. I asked him if he knew Earl Wilson.

  “Sure do,” he said. “Lives with his daughter Josie and her husband Phil. He’s a general contractor, and a good one, too, if you know anyone who needs a house remodeled. That’s Phil who’s the contractor, not Earl.”