Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5)

by Michael Allegretto

  Roger Armis had aged in the two days since I’d seen him. His slacks and shirt both looked too large for him, as if he’d lost weight. His face was haggard and pale, and there were bruiselike smudges under his eyes. Maybe I was staring, because he turned away from me as he let me in.

  “Please have a seat,” he said, waving vaguely at the expensive, little-used furniture. “Vivian is just putting Chelsea to bed.”

  As he spoke, I glimpsed them walking past the doorway to the stairs. The little girl wore yellow shorts and a green shirt with some kind of cartoon animal, maybe a cat. She had a button nose and large eyes, and she stared at me as if I were a visitor from some strange and distant land. In a way, I was.

  I sat on the same cherry-wood-legged, hard-cushioned, low-armed chair I’d occupied before. Its form barely served its function. Armis took the couch.

  “What have you found out?”

  “We should wait for your wife.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  We sat in awkward silence. What was there to talk about? How was your day? Fine, hey, how about those Rockies? In the room above I could hear the murmur of voices, adult and child. The words were unintelligible. The meaning, though, was clear.

  I love you.

  I love you, too.

  A few minutes later, Vivian Armis entered the room. She wore cream-colored slacks and sandals and a dark blue silk blouse. Her hair was pulled back, and her neck was as long and white and vulnerable as a swan’s.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” she said in a strained voice.

  She settled gracefully on the couch beside her husband. Their fifteen-year difference in ages was never more apparent. Although she, too, had aged a bit. The lines at the corners of her eyes were more noticeable than before.

  She asked me, “Have you determined if Martin is alive?”

  “It’s very likely.”

  “Thank God.” She looked relieved. Armis, though, was pale.

  “Why does that please you?” I asked her. “This man is trying to blackmail you. He’s already put both of you through a tremendous amount of emotional strain.”

  She gave me a painful smile. “Don’t you see? If Martin had killed himself, he’d be a murderer, because he would’ve killed Foster, as well. But if he’s alive, then someone else must have blown up the plane. That’s what he told me, you know.” I could see she’d been spending a lot of time twisting this around until it fit correctly in her mind. She finished with, “I can live with a little blackmail.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more than that. Martin Blyleven killed two people—Foster and a man named Stan Lessing.”

  “No,” Vivian said, refusing to believe it. “You just said he was alive, so how could—”

  “He is.”

  “Who’s Stan Lessing?” Armis wanted to know.

  I turned to Vivian. “You met him once, Mrs. Armis.”

  “I did?”

  “At your home. Martin introduced him to you as Lawrence Foster on the morning before their two-day road trip. He was in the Army in Frankfurt, Germany, at about the same time as Martin. They may have met then. Or else they met at the chess club a few months before the plane crash, and Frankfurt was a point of common interest. Either way, Martin made Lessing his partner.”

  “What do you mean?” Armis asked.

  “I should say ‘consultant.’ Lessing had been in Special Forces, so he knew how to handle explosives and how to parachute from a plane—two things that Martin needed to learn.”

  Vivian said, “Parachute? Are you saying that Martin bailed out of that plane?”

  “Yes. After he killed Foster and Lessing and rigged the explosives to—”

  “No!” Vivian’s face had gone white. “You will stop saying that. I knew Martin. I was married to him for two years and he was never violent. He simply could not have murdered a man in cold blood.”

  “Two men,” I said.

  She stood abruptly. Her hands were curled into fragile fists at her sides. There was a pleading look in her eyes.

  “He could not have murdered anyone,” she said evenly, her voice low and tight. “There’s simply no reason for it.”

  “Money.”

  “Do you mean the insurance?” Armis asked.

  “No. I think he stole money from World Flock. Quite a lot, actually. Possibly in the millions.”

  Armis said, “Are you saying Martin stole from the church?”

  “I’m not sure who the money belonged to,” I said. “The Church of the Nazarene or the Mafia.”

  “The Mafia?” Vivian slowly sat down.

  “They’re tied together somehow by World Flock in Tucson. And I’m afraid your brother is involved, too, Mrs. Armis.”

  “Matthew?” She looked dazed.

  “He makes the monthly trip to Tucson that Martin used to make. I think the purpose is to transport money.”

  She shook her head as if to clear it. “If Martin had been transporting money, he would have told me.”

  “He lied. He probably didn’t trust you because you’re honest.”

  “Of course he trusted me. He was my husband.”

  “Face it, Mrs. Armis, you never knew the real Martin Blyleven. He conned you.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  Armis cleared his throat. “If he stole millions, as you say, then why is he back here trying to get money from us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And where has he been for four years?”

  “I don’t know that, either. Possibly, Mexico City. Maybe the two questions will answer each other.”

  Armis shook his head. “I still don’t see how Martin could have managed all of this. You’re saying he left a bomb on the plane and then simply bailed out?”

  “I’m not saying it was simple. Lessing got the parachute for him and kept it at his girlfriend’s house. He and Martin were together once a week for two months, probably so Lessing could teach him how to use a parachute and rig explosives.”

  “But if Martin bailed out of the plane, why didn’t anyone see him?”

  “He did it at night, or at least after sunset, in a remote desert area, probably within hiking distance of a small town—Holbrook, Arizona.” I looked at Vivian. “Was he in good enough shape to walk ten miles over rough ground? Or twenty?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “Anyway, Holbrook is where they went on their two-day road trip. They left Lessing’s car down there. It was probably stocked with a change of clothes, a disguise, phony ID, whatever Martin needed to get away. And start a new life.”

  Vivian’s face was wrenched in pain. “It’s impossible,” she said. “You can’t live with someone for so long and not know who they are.”

  “It happens,” I said.

  Armis put his hand on Vivian’s to tell her that it couldn’t happen here. Then Vivian sucked in her breath, as if she’d just had a revelation.

  She said to me, “Everything you’ve just told us is sheer speculation, isn’t it? A theory.”

  “Right. But it’s the only one that fits the facts.”

  “Maybe not,” she said quickly. She chewed her lip, frowning, searching for the right words. “Maybe Lessing blew up the plane. He killed himself and Foster and—”

  “Vivian.”

  “—and Martin was nowhere near the plane and—”

  “Vivian, he boarded the plane.”

  “—and he’s been hiding all these years, afraid to come back, afraid that he’d be blamed for it.”

  “Vivian, please.” Armis reached for her hand.

  She pulled it away. Her face had a slightly wild look, mouth twisted in a wretched grin, eyes wide and brimming with tears. “Don’t you see?” she said. “Martin could be completely innocent.” She turned to her husband and clutched at his hands. “Roger, he couldn’t have done these things. He couldn’t have. My God, he’s Chelsea’s… he fathered Chelsea.”

  As if that made him a saint.

  Roger put
his arms around her and soaked up some of her pain. There was plenty for everyone.

  “We have to bring in the police,” I said.

  Armis nodded, stroking his wife’s hair. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. We—”

  “No.” Nearly a wail.

  Armis said, “Vivian, we have to. He’s killed two people.”

  “He may not have,” she said loudly, pushing away from him. “We don’t know that for certain, do we?” She looked from me to Armis and back to me. “Do we?”

  “Not for certain,” I said.

  “There.” She stared at Armis. “We have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Until we know for certain.”

  “How can he be innocent, Vivian, if he’s trying to extort money from us?”

  “I don’t know… He’s desperate, he… he needs money and he’s hiding.” She looked at me. “You said the Mafia was somehow involved. Maybe he’s hiding from them.”

  “It’s possible, but—”

  “There, you see?”

  “But that doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” I said.

  She glared at me. “It doesn’t mean he’s guilty, either.”

  Around and around we go. I was tempted to pick up the phone right then and call the cops, tell them what I knew and let them deal with this situation and everyone involved.

  Except that Vivian and Roger had put their trust in me. Besides, it was possible, if only remotely, that Vivian was right.

  “What do you suggest we do?” I asked her without a trace of sarcasm.

  She hesitated, licking her lips. “Martin said he’d call Monday and tell us where to bring the money. I’ll ask him then to explain what happened and—”

  “You asked him before,” Armis said quietly.

  “I’ll demand, dammit! I’ll make him tell me.” Color had risen to her pale cheeks. She drew in a long breath and let it out. “I’m sorry,” she said more calmly. “I’ll make it clear to him that unless he explains in detail what happened, I won’t give him the money. If he refuses, or if his explanation doesn’t fit the facts as you’ve presented them, Mr. Lomax, then you may call in the police or do whatever you think is necessary.”

  I nodded. “You know, once he’s caught, he may carry out his threat and implicate you.”

  “Let him,” she said firmly. “If he’s guilty of… murder, then he must be punished.”

  “True enough,” I said. “But what if he makes you believe he’s innocent?”

  She hesitated. “If he is innocent of any wrongdoing, if he can somehow prove it to me, to us… then we have to help him. I have some money, and I’ll give it to him.”

  “Vivian …”

  “It has to be this way, Roger.” She took his hand in hers. “Please.”

  He hesitated. Then he nodded. They both looked at me.

  Great. “As long as I’m close by when Martin Blyleven tells his sad tale.”

  They agreed. I would return to their house early Monday morning and wait for Blyleven’s call. That gave me three days to do what I had to do.

  Vivian saw me to the door.

  “You know,” she said, after I’d stepped out onto the porch, “your entire theory about Martin is predicated on his stealing money from World Flock.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And yet no official of the church, not my brother or Franklin Reed, ever told the police about any missing money.”

  “Also true.”

  “Then your theory won’t hold.”

  “If, in fact, there was no money.”

  “How can you be sure there was?”

  “I believe they’ll tell me,” I said.

  “Why? I mean, why would they tell you now?”

  “Because of the way I’ll ask.”

  26

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, I drove to Centennial Airport. The sky over the hangars and control tower was so blue it looked as if you could ring it like a bell. A tiny yellow aircraft climbed up there to try.

  I found Thomas Doherty in the same hangar where I’d spoken to him last Monday. His back was toward me, but I recognized his mop of red hair and jug ears. He was on his knees, praying before a biplane. When I approached him, I saw that he was examining a greasy hunk of machined steel, one of several in a metal tray on the floor.

  “Good morning.”

  He turned and frowned. Then he remembered me. “Oh, hi.”

  “I can see that you’re busy, but—”

  “Look at this.” Still on his knees, he held up the engine part with both hands, as if it were an organ torn from a sacrificial animal, its viscous lifeblood smeared on his hands and wrists. “Cracked piston head,” he said. “God knows how long she’s been flying with this.”

  I didn’t know if he meant the plane or the pilot. “Can you give me a few minutes?”

  “Well …”

  “It’s important.”

  He hesitated, then reluctantly put down the piston. He got to his feet and wiped his hands on a dirty rag.

  “Do you still service the plane owned by the Church of the Nazarene?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Do you know when it’s scheduled to fly again?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow.”

  That’s what Matthew Styles had told me last Monday. Of course, he’d been known to lie.

  “Who’s flying?”

  “Their regular pilot. Cal. He’s taking Mr. Styles to Tucson.”

  “What time do they leave?”

  “Cal told me to have it fueled up and ready to go by ten.”

  “Is that when they’re taking off?”

  “Well… no earlier than that. I can check. Cal may have already filed his flight plan.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Doherty led me to his “office,” a metal desk shoved in one corner of the hangar. He phoned the tower and asked about the church’s plane. “Okay, thanks,” he said, and hung up. “They’re scheduled to take off at eleven.”

  “Which would put them in Tucson when?”

  “In that aircraft? Around three-thirty, give or take.”

  “Where’s the plane now?”

  “In the next hangar.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed Doherty outside, across a sunny expense of concrete, and into the adjacent hangar.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  He pointed to one of the four planes inside, the only one with twin engines. It was as bright and white as a blessed soul, but as sleek as temptation. I was pretty sure I’d recognize it when I saw it again. To make certain, though, I copied down the number stenciled on the tail.

  “Do me a favor.”

  He frowned. “What.”

  “Don’t tell Cal or Mr. Styles that I was here today.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to surprise them in Tucson.”

  “Well…”

  I gave him twenty bucks.

  “Gotcha,” he said.

  I headed back to Denver.

  I phoned the airlines from my office and booked a morning flight to Tucson. Plenty of available seats. Not too many sane people visit the desert in July.

  Then I called Hal Zimmerman in Phoenix.

  “You busy tomorrow?”

  “I’m always busy,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a job to do in Tucson that should interest you.”

  “Tell me.”

  I did. “I could do it alone,” I said. “But it’d be a lot easier with two people.”

  “I’m in. I’ll drive down and meet your plane. When do you arrive?”

  “Eleven forty-five. Now as far as equipment, I—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ve got everything we need. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I killed the rest of the day at the public library, whirring through newspapers on microfilm, reading everything I could find on Franklin Reed and the Church of the Nazarene and World Flock, looking for one more piece of ammunition. A wast
e of time.

  I spent the evening doing something worthwhile—drinking beer at the ballpark.

  The Padres were in town for a three-game series, and our homeboy Rockies had high hopes of catching them in the standings, since we were only two games behind. Of course, we were in last place. But what the hell, it’s the beauty of the game that matters, the power and poetry of it, not the standings, not who wins or loses.

  We lost.

  On Saturday morning I packed a small bag, not really sure if I’d be away overnight. It all depended on Matthew Styles.

  The flight was not what you’d call scenic. The mountains and plateaus that passed thirty thousand feet below me were as barren as satellite photos of the moon.

  I thought about Martin Blyleven and Lawrence Foster flying this way once every month—much lower and slower, of course. Although I doubted that would have made the landscape appear any more inviting. I could picture Blyleven, peering down at the incredibly harsh environment and wondering what his chances might be.

  Had he thought about the notorious D.B. Cooper? He’d made it, hadn’t he? Taken a bag of cash and bailed out of a commercial airliner over the mountains in Washington. During a rainstorm, no less. And he’d gotten clean away.

  That is, he was never seen again.

  The feds liked to think that Mr. Cooper had died while attempting his outrageous crime. It kept their records tidy. Plus, they wouldn’t have to waste any more time searching for him.

  Of course, they might be right. Cooper might be dead.

  And so might Blyleven.

  We touched down at Tucson International right on time. I pulled my bag from the overhead compartment, and when I stepped from the plane into the passenger-loading bridge, I could feel the desert heat pushing in from all sides. There was a scattering of people waiting to meet relatives and friends. Hal Zimmerman stood out among them. He was a head taller than everyone else.

  “Hey, Jake, good to see you.”

  “You, too, Hal.”

  He was about six six and one-seventy—a tall, skinny, middle-aged guy with a beak for a nose and a wide, infectious grin. He wore a billowy shirt, white cotton pants, and size eighteen canvas shoes. He gave me a bony handshake.

  “Did you eat on the plane?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “I need to talk to a guy first,” he said, “and then we’ll grab a bite. If you think we’ve got time.”