“I assume you’ve already spoken to the authorities about this,” he said.
“The insurance people have.”
“By the way, which insurance company are you working for?”
“Fidelity Life of Ontario,” I said off the top of my head. “What they’re looking for now—what I’m looking for—are details of a more personal nature.”
“Such as?”
I took out my notebook and pen. “How long did Martin Blyleven work for the church?”
“Not quite two years.”
“Were you here when he was hired?”
Styles smiled his fake smile. “I’ve been Pastor Reed’s chief assistant for many years. Yes, I was here. In fact, I’m the one who hired Martin. And it had nothing to do with nepotism. He was a good accountant.”
“Nepotism?”
“He was married to my sister.”
“Vivian Armis?”
“Yes.”
Well, well. Although he didn’t sound too happy about it.
I asked, “Were you and Blyleven friends before their marriage?”
“I met Martin when they were engaged. After they were married, I offered him the job.”
“Was this a new position?”
“No. Our previous accountant was retiring.”
“Name?”
Styles frowned. “Is that important?”
“Probably not. I’m just trying to be thorough. You know how these insurance companies are.” I looked at him with wide-eyed expectancy and held my pen poised above my pad.
He gave me a sour look and said, “Bill McPhee.”
“Phone number? Address?”
“It’s probably in our records. Somewhere.”
“Right. Tell me, how often did Blyleven fly to Tucson?”
“About once a month.”
“For what purpose?”
“Church business.”
“Can you be more specific?”
He shot his wrist and looked pointedly at his eight-thousand-dollar watch. “I can for the next four minutes, at which time I’m due in a meeting with Pastor Reed.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Briefly, the church manages an organization called World Flock, which builds hospitals and orphanages overseas for those less fortunate than ourselves.”
“Those who tell time by the sun.”
“Excuse me?”
“Did Blyleven work directly for World Flock?”
Styles was scowling, still working on telling time by the sun. He said, “He kept the accounts.”
“Why did he fly there to do it? I thought everything was done with those.” I nodded toward the plastic-and-glass cube on the end of his desk.
“Computers have their limitations,” he said.
I got the feeling there was more to it than that. “How long would he stay in Tucson?”
“He’d fly down one day and come back the next.”
“Always on the church-owned plane?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Wouldn’t it have been cheaper to book a seat on a commercial airline?”
He turned his head slightly and aimed one eye at me. “What exactly is your point?”
“Did Blyleven ever fly the plane himself?”
“No, of course not. He wasn’t qualified. Lawrence Foster was the pilot.”
“Was Foster a full-time employee?”
“No. We kept him on a small retainer and then paid him for each trip.”
“Is the set-up the same now?”
Styles flinched. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have an accountant and a pilot who make the monthly trip to Tucson?”
He glanced at his watch, then stood. “I’m sorry, your time is up.”
As if I were a contestant on Jeopardy. I stood and said, “No problem. I can come back tomorrow.”
“No. That wouldn’t—”
“Or the day after.”
He sighed heavily and said, “Two more minutes, that’s it.” He remained standing.
“Does your present accountant fly to Tucson?”
“No. Now we have someone there who keeps track of things for World Flock. I make the flight occasionally to oversee the operation.”
“‘Occasionally’ being …?”
“Monthly. In fact, I’m flying there Saturday. You have one minute.”
“Who do you think blew up the plane?”
“I have no idea.”
“Blyleven?”
“That’s absurd. He had no reason.”
“Was he depressed?”
“Not at all.”
“Could he have been killed by an enemy?”
“As far as I know, he had no enemies.”
“What about Foster?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Could it have been done by an enemy of your church? Or of Franklin Reed?”
Styles gave me a superior look. “Pastor Reed doesn’t make enemies, Mr. Lomax. He saves souls.” He came around his desk. “Now I really must insist that you leave.”
As he ushered me toward the door, I said offhandedly, “Anyone ever wonder if Blyleven might be alive?”
“For a time we …” He caught himself. “Of course not.”
“For a time you what?”
“Good-bye, Mr. Lomax.”
“Sure. Thanks for your help.”
I started down the hallway. From behind me I heard, “We’re waiting, Matthew.”
I looked back and saw Franklin Reed standing in an open doorway at the end of the hall. He was dressed in angelic white. Curly gray hair framed his head like a halo. He glanced at me and spoke in a low voice.
“Who is that?”
Matthew Styles said something I couldn’t hear. He nudged Reed into the room. The door closed behind them.
Now that they’d gotten the pagan out of the way, they could get on with God’s work.
7
I SAT IN MY car and tried to finish the sentence that Matthew Styles had begun.
“For a time we …” Believed that Martin Blyleven was alive.
“For a time we …” Considered it a possibility.
Something along those lines, I was sure. But why would they even consider it? Everything pointed toward Blyleven’s death. That is, everything known by the feds and the insurance companies. Maybe Styles and Reed knew something else.
And if Blyleven hadn’t died in that crash, then he’d probably murdered two people—his stand-in and Lawrence Foster.
I wondered if there was anything in Blyleven’s past that indicated violence. Like a criminal record.
I knew a few Denver cops who would have that information at the tips of their computer-tapping fingers. That is, if they felt they owed me enough of a favor to put forth the effort. Which, at the moment, none of them did. There were other ways I could get what I wanted, but all of them took time and legwork. I prefer one-stop shopping.
I drove to my office through rush-hour traffic and flipped through the Rolodex until I found the number I wanted.
“Agent Cochran’s office.”
“May I speak to him, please? This is Jacob Lomax.”
“One moment.”
Michael Cochran was the special agent in charge in the FBI’s Denver office. I’d worked with him a few months ago at the tail end of a case I’d been on. Actually, “worked” was too strong a word. I merely answered every question he asked and handed him all the information I had about a start-up drug operation. An uncle and a nephew named Dykstra were manufacturing a designer drug called “ice” and shipping it interstate under cover of a legitimate business. It was the legitimate business that I’d been concerned with, not the drugs. But I’d found myself in the middle of things. Namely, the drug lab blew up and I shot one of the Dykstras. The feds, Cochran in particular, had several hundred questions for me. I’d helped them as much as I could, and Cochran had seemed grateful. But grateful enough to do me a favor?
“Hello, Mr. Lomax. This is Agent Cochran.”
Agent Cochran. Not Michael. Definitely not Mike. Apparently, I was speaking with a federal employee, not a good buddy.
“I’m sure you’re not in the habit of doing favors for private investigators,” I said.
“That is absolutely correct.”
“But I have one to ask. A small one.”
He said nothing. Then again, he didn’t hang up.
“I’m working on an insurance case,” I said. “I need to know if one of the principals has a criminal record. And if so, I need details.”
“Requests of that kind can only be granted to the police or appropriate government agencies.” As though he were reading it from a pamphlet.
“I understand. As I said, I’m asking for a favor.”
He was silent, thinking it over. “This is not standard procedure, you understand.”
“Yes, I do.”
He was silent again, recalling, I hoped, all the work I had saved him with the Dykstras.
Finally, he sighed. “Name?”
“Martin Blyleven.” I flipped through my notes. “Middle initial, E.” I also gave him Blyleven’s social security number. I didn’t tell him, though, that Blyleven was presumed dead. Why complicate things?
But he said, “Blyleven. Why does that name sound familiar?” And I knew he’d check it out.
“He died in a plane crash four years ago.”
“I remember now. We assisted in that investigation.” He paused. “And you want to know if this dead man had a criminal record?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I hate lying to someone who’s about to grant me a favor. Which doesn’t mean I won’t. I said, “There’s a dispute about a rider on one of the old policies.”
He cursed under his breath. Insurance companies, I think. Or maybe PIs. “I suppose I owe you something from that Dykstra business.”
“Well …”
“But in the future,” he added, “any requests must be made through official channels.”
“Sure thing.”
“I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
I checked my watch. Five-thirty. Still too early to catch Chris Esteves at the Adobe Bar. I looked up Nora Foster in the phone book. Too easy, there was only one. Of course, she might not be the one I wanted. For all I knew, my Nora could have remarried and moved to Bosnia or Bolivia or worse, the Bronx.
She answered on the third ring.
After I introduced myself, I asked if she was the widow of Lawrence Foster.
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. No catch in her throat, no hint of sorrow in her voice. But then, the man had been dead for four years.
“I’m working for a Canadian insurance company,” I said, spewing out the same lie that I’d used all day. Only this time I felt guilty about it. Because she was a widow? Possibly. But maybe I felt a bond with her. Our spouses both had suffered violent deaths. “I’d like to come over and ask you some questions.”
“When?” she asked.
“Whenever it’s convenient for you.”
A pause. “I suppose it would be all right.”
It was my turn to ask, “When?”
“Now.”
8
NORA FOSTER LIVED IN a modest brick home on South Fillmore Street, not too far from the University of Denver. The street dead-ended perpendicular to a long, narrow park, a few houses down from hers. I could see some kids over there tossing a Frisbee, and an old guy walking his dog on a leash. I parked in the shade of a grandfatherly willow and went up the uneven stone walk.
The lawn had just been mowed. There were clippings on the stones, and I could smell the fresh-cut grass. It smelled good. I stood on the porch and rang the bell. More nice smells—a box bordered the entire porch, overflowing with a riot of flowers.
Nora Foster answered the door.
I introduced myself, and she let me in.
She was an attractive woman in her early thirties with startling green eyes and long auburn hair that fell smoothly to her shoulders. She wore faded blue jeans and a sleeveless white blouse. She had an even tan.
I followed her through the house. The living room was comfortably furnished, the dining area was cramped, and the kitchen was long and narrow and had a tile floor.
“I thought we could sit outside,” she said, glancing back at me, tossing her hair. “It’s finally starting to cool off.”
The deck in back was shaded by an immense sycamore tree with leaves the size of saucers. There was a round redwood table surrounded by four chairs with puffy blue-and-white cushions. She motioned me toward one, and I settled into it.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“What are you having?”
“A beer.”
“Sounds good.”
She went back inside, leaving me alone in the backyard. Again, I smelled freshly-mown grass, which always made me somewhat nostalgic—summers as a kid, no school, baseball, bike riding, playing fetch with my dog and a slobbery tennis ball. I noticed a water bowl near the back door, and there were small, dead patches of grass. Nora Foster owned a dog. A detective’s mind never rests.
Nora came out with two silver cans of Coors and two glasses and set them on the table.
“Thanks.”
She sat down, not across the table, but ninety degrees away from me. She tipped her glass and poured beer carefully down the side. I did the same, just to be polite. A faint breeze stirred the air and brought with it the sweet scent of flowers. Or perhaps it was Nora Foster. I reminded myself why I was there.
“I appreciate your helping me,” I said. “I know it must be difficult for you to talk about… the accident.”
She sipped her beer and shook her head. “Not anymore.” But her eyes briefly lost their focus. Then she crinkled her brow and gave me a half-smile. “I’m not sure, though, how much help I can be.”
“How long did your husband work for Franklin Reed’s church?”
“About two years.”
The same as Martin Blyleven. “What did he do before that? I mean, what sort of work?”
She smiled. “He flew. Every chance he got. It was his great passion in life. Crop-dusters, trainers, whatever kind of work he could find. He owned his own plane, too, an old Piper, and he hired it out whenever he could.”
“For what?”
She sipped her beer, then ran her fingertip around the rim of the glass. “Just about anything. He toted banners over football games and parades. He took photographers up for aerial views of snowy peaks and sunsets. Anyone who could pay, he’d take them up.” She grinned. “Sometimes he’d give them more than they’d paid for.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll give you a perfect example. Larry and I met through a mutual friend, and our first date was—what else?—a plane ride. He flew me all around the city and the foothills, and then he started showing off, doing barrel loops, stalls, and so on. Scared the hell out of me. He thought I was having great fun, and I was just trying not to puke.” She grinned crookedly and shook her head. “When we got back to the airport my knees were so wobbly I could hardly stand up. I chewed him out, called him a maniac, and told him I never wanted to see him again. Of course, six months later we were married.” Her grin had softened into a smile. “He was persistent, I’ll say that for him.” She sipped her beer.
“How long were you married?”
“Seven years. Brian was six when Larry was killed.”
“That must have been tough on both of you.”
She nodded. “More so on Brian, I think. He loved his dad. And, of course, financially it was a strain. There was little insurance money, and I was earning barely enough to support us. I sold Larry’s plane to help us get by.”
She stared wistfully across the yard. There was a wooden privacy fence, but we were sitting high enough to see over it into the next yard. Her gaze, though, went miles beyond that.
“Being a single parent is not what it’s made out to be on TV sitcoms,” she said, still st
aring in the distance. “I don’t know if it’s fair to Brian.”
She kept looking over the fence, as if the answer to her problem lay there. I drank my beer and waited for her to return.
She did. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Tell me about Larry’s job with the church.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How did he get it?”
“As I recall, someone at Centennial Airport told him the church was looking for a pilot. He was interviewed by Pastor Reed’s assistant. His name escapes me.”
“Matthew Styles?”
“That’s it.”
“What exactly was the arrangement?”
“Larry was on retainer, a thousand dollars a month. When he flew, they paid him another thousand plus food and lodging. This was a sweet deal for Larry—two thousand a month for two days work, and he had lots of free time to hustle up other jobs.”
“That seems like a lot for them to pay.”
“I suppose. Larry didn’t question it, though. Of course, he had to be ready to fly whenever they called.”
“How much advance notice did they give?”
“No more than two days. Usually only one.”
“Was it always the same time of month?”
“Not exactly. Every three to five weeks.”
Styles had told me that Blyleven flew to Tucson to do the accounting books for World Flock. I assumed it had been on a regular basis, either at the beginning or the end of every month. Obviously, this wasn’t the case.
“Did they fly anywhere besides Tucson?”
“No.”
“Your husband would’ve told you if they had, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did they ever land anywhere between here and Tucson?”
She frowned, crinkling her brow. “No. Why would they?”
“I don’t know. Did your husband ever take anyone besides Martin Blyleven?”
“I think the first few times, Matthew Styles went along. But after that, it was just Larry and Blyleven.”
“They stayed overnight, right?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5) Page 4