by J. A. Jance
Ali looked at her watch. Given the holiday traffic, she estimated it would take an hour to make it from Salton City to the airport. She had flown in and out of Jackie Cochran on occasion. The general aviation terminal there would have a place where she could work while she waited for Detective Morris to arrive.
The terminal had something else that was high on Ali’s current list of priorities-decent restrooms. After swilling down all those cups of coffee, restrooms were more than a priority, they were an absolute necessity.
48
Grass Valley, California
Gil got off the phone, shaking his head, convinced that this Ali Reynolds character was one pushy broad. She wanted him to “pack a bag”? Really. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a suitcase or two. Since the chest of drawers from Target was still in the box, his clean clothes were still in the battered old suitcases on the floor of his bedroom. He picked up the one filled with his underwear and dumped the contents of that into what he thought of as his “sock suitcase.”
He gathered up a pair of socks, clean underwear, and the last of his clean shirts from the laundry and stuck those in the now-empty suitcase. He added in his shaving kit, his own Kevlar vest, and a stack of spare note cards. He put his bottle of ink in a Ziploc bag, cushioned it with some of his new paper towels, and hoped the bottle didn’t leak. He put that in a side pocket so it wouldn’t rattle around, but when he closed it, the suitcase was still more empty than it was full. Even adding in a second vest wouldn’t make much difference. This was traveling light in the extreme.
Then he remembered he’d barely eaten all day. When he’d first come home from shopping, he’d had a bowl of cereal from his new box and made a pot of coffee. Now though, thinking it might be a long time before he saw another square meal, he made himself another bologna sandwich with bread from the new loaf. He packed the sandwich in his suitcase as well-in yet another Ziploc bag in another side pocket.
He closed the suitcase, hefted it, and laughed when he heard things rattling around inside.
“Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert,” he laughed to himself. “You are certainly one sophisticated son of a bitch!”
He was relieved that the parking spot reserved for the chief of police was empty when he pulled into the departmental parking lot. Leaving his suitcase in the car, he hurried inside. Sergeant Andersson looked up in surprise.
“I thought you were gone for the day.”
“I am,” he said. “I just stopped by to pick something up. Do you happen to have a fax for me?”
Sergeant Andersson turned her chair around and plucked a stack of papers off her credenza. “More like War and Peace than a fax,” she said. “It came in a while ago. I hadn’t gotten around to putting it in your box.”
Taking the fax with him, Gil used a key to let himself into the armory, where he signed out one of the spare vests. Sergeant Andersson was talking on the phone when he headed back out. He waited in the doorway until she hung up.
“You might want to let Chief Jackman know that I won’t be in tomorrow,” he told her. “I’ve been called out of town. You can mark it down as a comp day. I understand I have several of those coming.”
She was making a note of it as he hurried out the door. He doubted she noticed the extra vest. Better to explain later than to ask permission.
He drove to the Nevada County Air Park and went looking for Airpark Aviation. He found a place to park and went inside, carrying his still-rattling suitcase. A young woman seated behind a counter looked up at him and smiled.
“Flying today?” she asked.
Gil nodded.
“What’s your tail number?”
“I have no idea.”
“The only aircraft we have coming in in the next little while is a You-Go Aviation CJ1, flying from here to Palm Springs.”
“That must be it, then.”
“Do you need help with luggage?”
He held up his single suitcase. “Got it. Where do I park?”
“Wherever,” she said. “Don’t worry about parking. Do you want some coffee? Popcorn?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m fine.”
I’ve got my very own bologna sandwich.
Gil took a seat by a window, opened his suitcase, and pulled out the stack of faxes. He was interested to see that two sections of material were devoted to Richard Lowensdale. For right now, though, he needed to know everything there was to know about Ermina Cunningham Blaylock.
He made his way through the material. Without the call to Detective Laughlin in Missouri, Ermina would have seemed entirely harmless. And understandable. Mina and her husband had overextended in order to buy Rutherford International, but they had bet on a losing horse and now they were busted. They had lost their house in La Jolla, lost their fancy cars, lost their golf course membership. They ended up living in a house in Salton City that the county tax assessor said was worth $45,000. That was a big comedown, but nothing he read did anything to explain the relationship between Richard Lowensdale and Ermina.
The only connection Gil could see had to do with the money he had found squirreled away in Richard’s pristine garage. If that was what the killer was looking for-and Gil thought it was-where had it come from? Was it possible Richard had been blackmailing Ermina? Given the situation in Missouri, that wasn’t such an oddball idea. Maybe Mark Blaylock didn’t know about his wife’s somewhat questionable past. But if Richard was blackmailing Ermina, where was she getting the money to pay him?
Gilbert wasn’t long on forensic accounting, but from what he could see of the Blaylocks’ financial records, it seemed unlikely that there would be fifty thousand dollars just lying around loose. It also occurred to him that there was a lot more information included in the report than he would have expected. He was so engrossed in what he was reading that he lost track of time.
“Mr. Morris?”
Gil looked up. A plane had pulled up and stopped on the tarmac just outside the door. Standing in front of him was a man in a pair of chinos and a black golf shirt with the words You-Go Aviation emblazoned in gold on the pocket.
Gil stuffed his paperwork into his suitcase and zipped it. “That’s me,” he said.
“I’m Phil Canby, your pilot. I understand we’re on the way to Palm Springs?”
Gil nodded.
“We don’t need fuel, so we’ll only be on the ground here for ten minutes or so,” Phil said. “It’s not a long trip, an hour and a half. The weather’s good except for some tailwinds going into Palm Springs. That part of the trip could be a little bumpy. Now, if you’ll show me your ID, I’ll take you out to the aircraft and get you settled in. I didn’t see any catering order. Did you order food?”
“No,” Gil said, pulling out his ID. “No food. I’m fine.”
He didn’t say a word about the bologna sandwich lurking in his suitcase. He settled into the soft leather seat-a leather seat with plenty of leg room.
So this is how the other half lives, he thought as he fastened his seat belt.
The pilot came on board and pulled the steps and door shut after him. “You flown the CJ before?”
Gil shook his head.
“Okay, so let me give you the full safety briefing.”
Gil listened, but only partially, to information about emergency exits, oxygen masks, etc. “Any questions?” Phil Canby asked when the briefing ended.
“How much does all this cost?”
“Our company is unusual in that we have an all-in cost of just under two thousand dollars.”
“Get out. Two thousand bucks to fly from here to Palm Springs?”
Phil Canby looked at him, grinned, and shook his head. “That’s two thousand an hour. So it’s over three thousand, to get from here to Palm Springs plus the forty minutes it took to get from Fresno to here. I take it you’re not paying the freight, then?”
Gil shook his head.
“Then I suggest you sit back and enjoy it,” Phil said.
The pilot disappeared into the cockpit. The i
rony wasn’t lost on Gilbert Morris. He had just maxed out his Visa card shopping at Target. He had no idea of who or what Ali Reynolds really was, but one thing was clear. If she could afford to blow that much money on bringing him along for no other purpose than to “maintain the chain of evidence,” then the lady had to be loaded.
As his mother would have said, “More money than sense.”
That reminded him, of course, of that other “chain of evidence” problem. The phony oil containers that he had removed from Richard Lowensdale’s garage were still in his garage. In a court proceeding against Ermina Blaylock, that could turn into a big problem for Gil. Which reminded him of something else his mother always said: “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
49
Palm Springs, California
Ali spent most of her two-hour wait in the Jackie Cochran terminal talking on the phone to Stuart. Locating the needed cell phone numbers was proving more difficult than expected because they had no idea who the provider was. It was only after some unauthorized snooping through the Blaylocks’ none-too-secure bill pay program that Stuart had managed to get on track with that. Ali had given Flossie Haywood her cell phone number and asked her to call if either Ermina or Mark Blaylock returned to the cabin. So far her phone had remained silent.
Despite the fact that Mina had left home with no luggage, Ali was convinced that she was about to make a run for it. So far, the only other possible address they had for her was in San Diego. Rutherford International may have ceased operations, but according to the bill pay records, they were still paying utility bills on two separate addresses in the Clairemont Mesa Business Park. That wasn’t an especially promising lead, but as far as Ali knew, that was the only one they had.
When she saw the You-Go Aviation CJ touch down, Ali gathered up her paperwork, stuffed it into her purse, and went to the terminal door.
Ali recognized Phil Canby as one of the pilots she knew. He sauntered toward the terminal accompanied by a man Ali assumed to be Gil Morris. The detective looked a little older than Ali and about Ali’s height, although there was a lot more muscle on his frame than there was on Ali’s. His crew cut was definitely turning gray. Carrying a single battered suitcase as though it weighed nothing, he looked distinctly lowbrow. Ali liked the fact that he wasn’t particularly good-looking. She’d had more than one unpleasant encounter with detectives who had very high opinions about their own special appeal and who came equipped with egos to match.
If Gil Morris considered himself a hunk, it wasn’t apparent in the way he was dressed or the luggage he carried. His jeans were faded thanks to numerous washings rather than having been purchased that way. His navy blue golf shirt had a spot on it where something like olive oil hadn’t quite come out in the wash, and the end of the zipper on the suitcase was held in place by a strategically located piece of duct tape.
When Ali stepped outside to greet them, she found a steady wind blowing west to east across the tarmac, leaving trails of sifting sand drifting across the runway.
“Good to see you again, Ms. Reynolds,” Phil Canby said, shaking her hand. “Here’s Mr. Morris, safe and sound.”
“And a hell of a lot faster than I would have been here if I had driven,” Gil Morris said with a grin.
Ali greeted Gil with a smile of her own as well as a handshake, then she turned back to the pilot. “It’s good to see you too, Phil. Do you know if you’re booked on another trip right now?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Phil said. “Why?”
“Detective Morris and I have to go back to Salton City for a while, but we may need to fly somewhere else later on today. If you could stand by until I know for sure. .”
“No problem,” Phil said. “I’ll let operations know. Then I’ll refuel. That way, once you say yea or nay, we can get off the ground immediately.”
Ali nodded to Phil and then looked at the detective. “Is that all your luggage?”
“What you see is what you get.”
“Come on then.”
50
Salton City, California
Gil followed Ali Reynolds outside and clambered into her rented Infiniti SUV. He fastened his seat belt before he said anything. “Okay,” he said, “I’m suitably impressed. Obviously you’ve got more money than God, but I’d like to know what the hell is going on and why the big hurry.”
Ali put the SUV in gear and backed out of the parking space. “Right this minute, Ermina Blaylock probably still believes she’s in the clear. As long as that doesn’t change, we have a better chance of finding her.”
She handed Gil a piece of paper. “There’s the license information on her vehicle, a silver Lincoln Town Car. I believe she’s a person of interest in your homicide. Since I’m not a sworn police officer, I can’t put out a BOLO on her. You can. Do it.”
Rich and pushy and issuing orders, Gil thought, but she’s also right.
He took out his cell phone and called Grass Valley. There had been a shift change. Kathleen Andersson was now off duty. Sergeant Frieda Lawson had taken her place. The two desk sergeants were sometimes referred to as the Valkyries, but that moniker was only used behind their backs. Gil was relieved. Frieda Lawson had no way of knowing that Chief Jackman had ordered him to go home. It was nice not having to explain to her why somebody who was off duty needed a BOLO.
“So what’s the situation here?” he asked, once he was off the phone. By then they were already headed south on California Highway 86, where rivulets of moving sand slithered across the asphalt in front of them. “And are we really going to get out and dig around in the sand in the middle of a windstorm?”
“Yes, we are,” Ali said, “unless drifting sand has covered over our marker. According to the Blaylocks’ nearest neighbor, Ermina left home bright and early this morning on her own. Mark’s car is at the house, but since the shutters are closed, it’s likely he isn’t there. I want to do our big dig before either one of them returns.”
“If they return,” Gil offered.
“Exactly,” Ali said.
“And how are we going to do this dig, with our bare hands?”
“I’m sure Flossie will lend us a shovel, if she hasn’t already done the digging herself.”
“Flossie?” Gil asked.
“Florence Haywood. The neighbor. That’s what she calls herself, Flossie. She was all hot to trot to dig before I left. The only way I could dissuade her was by telling her that disturbing the evidence might result in Ermina’s getting off. There’s apparently not a lot of love lost between Flossie and Ermina.”
“You told this woman that Ermina’s a suspect in a homicide?”
Ali gave him a scathing look. “As far as Florence Haywood knows, I’m working for a creditor who’s trying to repossess Ermina’s Town Car. Yes, I know. It was a lie, but it would probably be in both our best interests to stick to that story.”
Gil nodded. He was a visiting cop who was a long way out of his own jurisdiction. Ali Reynolds didn’t have one.
In other words, he thought, we’re a match made in heaven.
Ali turned off the highway and onto a series of meandering roads that ran along beside the lake. Gil had spent his whole life in the foothills of the Sierras. He loved the trees and the mountains and the surprising lakes and reservoirs that lay hidden in the mountain valleys. The Salton Sea, surrounded by flat, forbidding desert and distant mountain ranges, seemed like a page taken from some other planet.
The road they were on curved and changed names, becoming Heron Ridge Drive, although as far as Gil could see, there were no ridges anywhere around, and no herons either.
“That’s their place,” Ali said, nodding toward a small house that was totally encased in what looked like sturdy metal shutters. “And this is Flossie’s.”
She turned into a driveway that ended at a parked motor home. “I’ll tell her we’re here and see if she’ll let us use her shovel.”
Ali didn’t come right out and say, “Wait in t
he car,” but Gil got the message. And he didn’t argue. He had napped some on the plane, but he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep. He was tired, and he knew it.
Ali returned to the car a few minutes later, followed by an immense woman carrying both a shovel and a stack of boxes that were evidently discards from the local liquor store.
“She says we can park here,” Ali said, leaning into the car. “Where we’re going is on the beach on the other side of the road.”
Gil piled out of the SUV and followed the two women across the road and onto a beach covered with treacherous powdery sand punctuated by boulders.
“I was worried about losing the rock,” Flossie was saying. “I came out and dusted it off a couple of times, just in case. And here it is.”
Flossie moved the rock out of the way, and Gil took charge of wielding the shovel. He had turned over only a few spadefuls of sand when the blade of the shovel struck something hard. The next time Gil raised the shovel, a squarish piece of what appeared to be melted plastic sat in the bowl of the shovel. Ali examined it as he lowered the load into one of the cardboard boxes.
“See the white plastic?” Ali asked. Gil nodded.
“I’ll bet I know what that is,” she said. “A Time Capsule, for a Mac.”
Gil remembered all the apparently undisturbed computer gear on Richard Lowensdale’s desk. He had assumed it was all there. Evidently that assumption was wrong. Without another word, Gil resumed digging. The next load of sandy dirt came up with something that was only partially burned, something light blue. It took a moment for him to realize what it was-the remains of a Tyvek surgical bootie like the ones that had left bloodied tracks all through his murder victim’s house.
Yes, he decided, Ali made the right call. We really do need to maintain a chain of evidence.
He kept digging and found a few more bits and pieces. Finally though, when his shovel loads were yielding nothing but sand, a cell phone rang-Ali’s cell phone.
She answered it, listened, and then gave the house across the street a long, appraising look. “Right,” she said, finally. “Got it.”