Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5)

by Michael Allegretto

  “There’s time.”

  We walked through the small, tidy, air-conditioned terminal, past baggage carousels and car rental counters to the office of the security chief. Hal knew him—a retired police lieutenant from Phoenix—and he filled him in on what we were doing. One, to get his help. And two, so we wouldn’t get rousted by any airport cops.

  “There’s only one place where those small planes off-load,” Roland said.

  That was his name. Roland. A barrel-chested, red-faced man. He had a voice like a bear with the croup. He stood, wheezing, and pointed to a schematic on the wall. It showed the terminal, hangars, runways, and surrounding areas.

  “Right here.” He tapped the map with a thick finger. “No private vehicles allowed in there, so the passengers have to walk about a hundred yards to this parking lot. Unless, of course, it’s a VIP.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “If they’ve got a security pass, they can drive through this gate right up to the plane.”

  “Do they have to check with you beforehand?”

  “Not unless it’s somebody really big, where there might be a security problem, crowd control, something like that. Then the big shot, whoever he or she is, will let us know so we can make sure no one gets too close to them.”

  Hal thanked him, and we walked out to the car.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just a little warm,” I said. In fact, the desert air had hit me like a blast furnace, drying out my nasal passages in one breath.

  “Be glad it’s not raining,” he said.

  “It rains here?”

  “It pours. But it’s late this year.”

  The sky was pale, with most of the blue cooked out of it. Mirage-puddles shimmered on the asphalt parking lot. The sun toasted the hairs on my arms and baked my shirt to my back before we made it to Hal’s car. They say it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. But when it’s a hundred and twenty, believe me, it’s the heat.

  We drove with the windows up and the air conditioner going full blast. It helped a little.

  Hal took us around the airport to the small parking area that Roland had shown us on his map. He pulled nose-up to a chain-link fence. There was an open gate to our left, wide enough to drive through. The sign beside it said, “Restricted Access. Authorized Personnel Only.” Beyond the fence was a wide expanse of shimmering concrete, a row of hangars, and a few small planes baking in the sun. In the distance we could see an airliner gliding down onto the runway, then taxiing toward the terminal building.

  “We could get some take-out food and eat it here while we wait,” Hal said. “Or we could go get a decent meal.”

  I checked my watch. Twelve-fifteen. Styles and his pilot had been in the air for an hour or so. Doherty the mechanic had told me it was a four-and-a-half-hour flight.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  We took Campbell Avenue north across I-10 and into South Tucson, which Hal explained was a community independent of Tucson, largely Hispanic, and with the best Mexican food in the state. We drove down a busy four-lane road, then turned up a narrow street. Hal stopped before an unassuming brick building. It had shuttered windows and a wooden porch.

  Inside it was cool and dim. Coors had never tasted so good. Neither had chiles rellenos.

  We were back at the chain-link fence at two-thirty. I was in the driver’s seat, to give Hal freedom with his camera. It was an ancient Nikon, worn steel-shiny at the corners and fitted with a motor drive and a lens the size of a megaphone. He’d lent me a pair of 8 x 50 Zeiss binoculars, also worn.

  We sat and breathed stale-smelling reconditioned air and watched planes land. Small planes. Big planes. Even a few military jets, which surprised me. But no sleek, white, twin-engine plane.

  An hour passed.

  Hal said, “Hey.”

  A black Lincoln limousine slid through the gate to our left. The windows were darkly tinted, and it was impossible to see who was inside. Hal exposed half a dozen frames, the camera’s motor drive whirring, as the limo crossed a few hundred feet of concrete and parked in the shade of a hangar. No one got out.

  “Is that our boy?”

  “It’s possible” I studied the limo through the binoculars. It sat as still and quiet as a hearse outside a funeral home, waiting for the guest of honor. It might have nothing to do with Styles.

  Another hour passed with no white plane.

  Styles was late. Had he been delayed taking off? Or had he postponed the trip? For all I knew he could have changed his mind and decided to fly tomorrow. Or next week. We’d have to wait and see. At least until Hal’s car got low on gas. There was no way in hell we could sit out here with the air conditioner off.

  Then I saw a snow-white aircraft glide from the sky like a dove. It settled into a perfect three-point landing. I could just make out the tail numbers through the binoculars.

  “Our angel hath descended,” I said.

  27

  THE WHITE TWIN-ENGINE PLANE taxied toward the hangar. It slowed, then stopped.

  The black limo slid smoothly from the shade, crossed the shimmering tarmac, and came to rest a dozen yards from the aircraft.

  Hal’s camera whirred and clicked.

  The limo’s driver climbed out. He looked more like a weight lifter than a chauffeur, a heavily muscled, slightly bowlegged character wearing ash-gray slacks and a black polo shirt buttoned tightly around his size-nineteen neck. He approached the plane from the rear, safely away from the still-turning props, and stood behind the wing. Hal and I watched his every move through our lenses.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “I recognize his type,” Hal said.

  The passenger-side door of the plane swung up and Matthew Styles peered out. He and Muscles exchanged a wave. Then Styles turned his back to us and climbed down—awkwardly, because he clutched a briefcase in one hand. When Styles set foot on the ground, Muscles reached out—to shake hands, I thought. But it must have been to take the case, because Styles yanked it back and pointed up at the door. A guy in aviator shades, no doubt Cal the pilot, handed down a garment bag. Muscles took it, then led Styles to the limo and opened the rear passenger-side door for him. Before he closed it, I got a glimpse of Styles sitting with the briefcase in his lap, holding it with both hands. Muscles laid the garment bag in the trunk, then he climbed in behind the wheel. The limo swung around and headed toward the gate. The pilot was still in the plane.

  I set aside the binoculars, put the car in gear, and followed the limo.

  Once out of the airport we headed west on Valencia Road, then got on northbound I-19 and slipped into the flow of traffic. We merged with I-10 and sped by the tight cluster of buildings of downtown Tucson. They wavered in the heat. Or maybe it was my imagination.

  “Joey Scolla lives in a canyon northeast of town,” Hal said. He set aside his camera. “So we’ll probably be getting off the freeway pretty soon.”

  And we did, following the limo off the Grant Road exit and heading east through town. I saw more palm trees than pedestrians. None of them looked too comfortable under the sun. The limo turned north at Kolb Road. Miles ahead lay some good-size, brown-flanked mountains, hazy in the heat.

  “I’m surprised there are hills here,” I said. “I thought Tucson was a flat desert.”

  “You know, they ski up there in the winter.”

  “You’re kidding.” Snow seemed a lifetime away.

  The limo stayed on Kolb Road through a few twists and turns. Then a mile or so later it veered off onto a curving canyon road. Now there were no cars between us. Hal slowed and fell back. Between the trees that lined the side of the road I caught glimpses of a golf course, impossibly lush and green. But no golfers, not at this time of day.

  “Scolla’s place is around this next curve.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Once,” Hal said. “A few years ago he granted me an interview. A state official had confessed to r
eceiving a bribe from him, and Scolla wanted to give his side of the story. In other words, wide-eyed innocence followed by outrageous denial. But I never got past the front gate. I guess at the last minute he changed his mind.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say. But a few days later the police found one of his bodyguards in the trunk of a stolen car at the airport.”

  “A gangland hit?”

  “Or a domestic dispute. With these guys it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  We rounded the curve. Up ahead, the limo slowed, then turned into a driveway. Hal drove past the driveway’s entrance, pulled off the road, and parked on the shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing his camera.

  When I pushed open the door, the desert heat rushed in like a huge, hungry beast, gulping our little bubble of cool air. I had to sprint to keep up with Hal, who ran in long, lopping strides—a paparazzo, eager to catch a celebrity with his pants down. I followed him up the driveway. The asphalt felt soft underfoot, and the white-hot sun scorched my bare neck and arms.

  The driveway was barricaded by an iron gate thirty yards from the road. Twenty yards beyond the gate the asphalt circled a raised, landscaped arrangement of rocks and cactus that screened the center portion of the house. Although house was too modest a term for the sprawling, stark-white residence with arched windows and tiled roof. It was flanked by giant palm trees and fronted by a carpet of clipped grass.

  As we reached the gate, the limo was just sliding out of sight around the landscaped mound.

  Hal hustled off the driveway and jogged along the outside of the tall iron fence. I followed him over uneven ground, trying to avoid some of the nastier looking native vegetation. The house and the grounds were partially hidden by large, leafy trees on the inside of the fence. But Hal found an opening a few dozen yards from the driveway. He poked the lens through the iron bars, braced himself against the fence, and began whirring and clicking away.

  The front of the house was fifty yards from where we stood. Through the binoculars, though, it looked as if I could reach out and tap Muscles on the shoulder.

  He walked around the rear of the limo. The rear passenger-side door swung open and Matthew Styles climbed out.

  A man was waiting to greet Styles on the wide, covered front porch of the house. He was in his sixties, short and chunky, with a deep tan and styled, steel-gray hair. He wore pale yellow slacks, white shoes, and an emerald-green silk shirt. His eyes were slightly slanted.

  “Is that who I hope it is?”

  “Joey the Jap Scolla,” Hal said, his face still pressed to the back of the camera.

  Scolla smiled, talking, and he and Styles shook hands. Then Styles handed Scolla the briefcase. They turned and walked into the house, Scolla letting Styles precede him and giving him a friendly pat on the back as he crossed the threshold. Meanwhile, Muscles was removing Styles’s garment bag from the trunk of the limo. He took it into the house and closed the door.

  Hal was grinning at me, rivulets of sweat tracking down the sides of his face.

  “Tell me we’re not good at this.”

  “Try lucky,” I said.

  “Well, maybe a little. If you want, we could stake out the house and see if they go anywhere tonight.”

  “I think we’ve got enough. Besides, I doubt they’ll want to be seen together in public.”

  “That’s a fact,” he said. “Let’s get this film developed.”

  “And maybe a beer. I’ll buy.”

  Hal had already made arrangements with a custom photo lab in town for the use of a darkroom. Within a few hours we had selected a dozen of the most telling shots. Hal made two sets of eight-by-ten glossies—one for him, one for me. I told him to stay near his phone tomorrow.

  I booked an evening flight back to Denver.

  28

  ON SUNDAY MORNING AFTER I shined my shoes, I put on a fresh white shirt, an understated silk tie, and my best summer suit (my only one). Then I headed off to church.

  I drove south on University Boulevard, eventually flowing with the stream of cars that poured down into the lake bed-size parking lot of the Church of the Nazarene. I walked across the sunny grounds, merging with the host of worshippers who filed inside. Most of them carried Bibles or prayer books. As far as I could tell, I was the only one with a Manila envelope.

  I sat in the back.

  The pews filled rapidly. Hundreds of God-fearing folks, mostly families, mostly white, mostly financially secure. And most of them accustomed to being first in line. They’d expect no less when they got to the Pearly Gates.

  We all waited quietly beneath the distant ceiling, bathed in brightly mottled light from the immense stained-glass windows.

  Eventually, Reverend Franklin Reed appeared in the wings. He wore a purple-and-black cape over his business suit. The silence somehow became more profound. Reed strode across the dais and took his place behind the pulpit. I expected applause. There was none. Then I remembered where I was.

  Reed began to speak—quietly at first, so that we all had to lean forward a bit and pay close attention. Which, of course, was the point. He got warmed up in a hurry, though, and I must say he put on quite a show, pacing the stage with a Bible in one hand and a microphone in the other, shouting, cajoling, raising his arms to heaven, leaning forward over those in the front row, speaking directly to individuals, and then to the entire congregation, pleading, nearly weeping, then laughing and rejoicing. We were cleansed. We were on fire, ready to do battle with Satan.

  They passed the collection plate.

  Whatever Reed said must have worked, because I felt guilty about not dropping anything in.

  I remained seated while the crowd filed out. Then it was just me and the ushers. They let me walk all the way to the front of the church. But when I started around the dais toward the doorway where Reed had exited, someone behind me said, “Excuse me, sir.”

  The tall guy hurrying toward me was in his fifties with a severe haircut and a too-close shave. He wore a dark suit and Aqua Velva.

  “Sir, you’ll have to go out the way you came in.”

  “I need to speak to Reverend Reed.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to make arrangements with the office. Reverend Reed is preparing for the next service.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to see me,” I said. “Please tell him that Mr. Lomax is carrying an important message from Tucson.”

  He looked at me uncertainly.

  “I’ll wait right here,” I said.

  A few other ushers had drifted over. My guy turned to them and spoke in a voice too low for me to hear, probably telling them to make sure this gentleman didn’t attempt a sacrilege. I watched him disappear through the doorway.

  Five minutes later, he was back, beckoning to me.

  I followed him down a short hallway. He knocked on a door, then opened it without waiting for a reply. I went in. It was a small room with a desk, a couch long enough for a nap, and a few chairs. Franklin Reed scowled at me from his desk. On the wall behind him were framed diplomas and a simple wooden cross. His desktop was empty, except for a telephone and a legal pad, which probably held crib notes for his next performance.

  “I thought I’d seen the last of you,” he said.

  “After today, you have.”

  “Then please be brief. My next sermon begins in thirty minutes.”

  “I’m not sure you want anyone else to hear this.”

  The usher was still standing behind me. He’d left the door open, in case he had to shout for reinforcements. Reed looked past me.

  “All right, John, you can leave us.”

  John left.

  I sat down.

  “I didn’t set out to pry into your affairs,” I said. “It just turned out that way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I opened the Manila envelope, withdrew the first black-and-white photo, and laid it on Reed’s desk. He frowned at it—a shot of a man stan
ding beside a limousine and another man looking out an airplane door. Then he recognized the man in the plane as Styles, and his eyes widened. But only for a second. He slipped on his scowl like a mask.

  “What is this supposed to be?”

  “Your right-hand man being greeted by the Sicilian Hospitality Committee.”

  I showed him the next few photos. Styles carrying the briefcase from the plane. Styles holding the case in his lap inside the limo. Muscles putting Styles’s garment bag in the trunk. Reed’s expression hardly changed, but I could see the wheels turning in his head.

  “Why are you showing these to me?”

  “Because they relate directly to Martin Blyleven.”

  Reed said nothing.

  I said, “I think I’ve figured out most of what happened four years ago, how Blyleven blew up the plane and got away. What kept eluding me, though, was why? He wouldn’t have gone to such extremes unless he had a very good reason. Yesterday, I found it.” I reached over and tapped the photo of Styles holding the briefcase. “Money.”

  “What money?” Reed’s voice was tight.

  “Yours, the mob’s, I’m not exactly sure. I was hoping you would tell me. Unless you’d rather I went public with these.”

  I spread out the remaining photos. Styles being greeted at the mansion by Scolla. The two shaking hands. Styles handing Scolla the briefcase. Scolla taking him into his house, hand on Styles’s back. Muscles carrying in Styles’s garment bag.

  Reed sat back in his chair and gave me a superior look.

  “These photographs mean nothing.”

  “There’s a newspaper editor in Phoenix who would take exception to that.”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “I recognize Matthew Styles, of course. But as to who these other men are, or where these pictures were taken, or when they were taken, well, it’s anybody’s guess.”

  “Try Joseph Scolla and his bodyguard in Tucson yesterday. Trust me, Scolla looks just like his mug shots. And his residence is well known. As to the date, the license plate on the limo will narrow it down to this year.”