Lying in vait jpb-12

by J. A. Jance

  For years, my connection to Paul Brendle-who broadcasts traffic information for the local CBS affiliate-had been exactly the same as that of most other Seattle-area radio listeners. His was a disembodied voice that came to us over the airwaves for several hours each morning and evening, waking us up in the morning-telling us which bridges were screwed up and what alternate routes might work when the one we were accustomed to using turned into an undeclared parking lot.

  But my voice-only relationship with him had changed that previous spring when Alexis Downey had invited me to participate in the Seattle Repertory Theatre's first annual charity auction. Along with me, Paul and his wife, JoAnne, had been in attendance at the gala's inaugural event. Both feeling very much like fish out of water, Paul Brendle and I had somehow gravitated to one another and struck up a conversation.

  We soon discovered a common bond-we were both moderately disturbed at the idea of being charity-auction cannon fodder. We hid out in a quiet corner of the crowded ballroom. Uncomfortable in my rented monkey suit, I looked to Paul for sympathy. He sighed and nodded, allowing as how he was far more comfortable in a flight jacket, but he advised me to do as he did-to go ahead and buy a tux that actually fit. I told him I'd think about it.

  In the course of our few minutes' worth of conversation, the man had proudly told me a little about his company-Puget Sound Helicopters-and about how they had, only the week before, sent three of their twenty-five two-man helicopters up in the air to comb Vashon Island for a missing Alzheimer's patient who had wandered away from home. As I remembered, they had found the man, too, before the elements and hypothermia had a chance to get him.

  Search and rescue! As my feet hit the floor, my fingers were scrabbling in the nightstand table looking for the phone book. Maybe Seattle P.D. couldn't-or wouldn't-afford to spend money on mounting a search-and-rescue operation, but J. P. Beaumont, private citizen, sure as hell could.

  I tend to be a slow learner, but gradually I've come to have an understanding about the value of having money. What's taken me more time than anything else is coming to the realization that it's mine now, and I'm free to spend it any damn way I please.

  I found the number in the phone book and dialed. At Puget Sound Helicopters, a very polite young man answered the phone.

  "I'd like to speak to Paul Brendle," I said.

  "I'm sorry, sir. He's out of the office right now. Can I give him a message for you?"

  "Yes, you can," I said. "My name's Beaumont, Detective J. P. Beaumont, with the Seattle Police Department."

  "Does Mr. Brendle know you?"

  "I believe so," I answered. "We met last spring at a charity auction. I need to speak to him as soon as possible regarding a search-and-rescue operation."

  "You said detective," the young man responded. "Who are you with?"

  "Seattle P.D. If my name doesn't ring a bell, tell him I'm the one who gave away the Bentley at the Seattle Rep auction."

  "Do you already have the authorization form?" the young man asked.

  "What authorization form?"

  "A search-and-rescue requisition," the young man explained patiently. "Our insurance requires that we have a signed requisition from the requesting agency in our hands before we can put a helicopter and pilot in the air."

  "Seattle P.D. isn't authorizing this search," I told him.

  "They aren't?" The man sounded confused. "But I thought you said…Who is, then?" he asked.

  "I am. Me, personally."

  "Mr. Beaumont," he said patronizingly, as though I were some kind of nut case, "these kinds of operations are very expensive…"

  "How expensive?" I cut in.

  "How big an area do you want to search?"

  "Puget Sound," I answered.

  "That's a big place," he returned. "If we put ten aircraft up, we could pretty well cover the area in three or four hours. At a hundred sixty dollars an hour times four hours times ten aircraft, you're looking at sixty-four hundred dollars plus tax. We'd need a check for seven thousand dollars to launch that kind of operation."

  "Do you take American Express?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Have Mr. Brendle call me ASAP," I ordered, and followed that by rattling off my phone number. "By the way," I added, "tell him I'm prepared to pay for more than one four-hour shift if that proves necessary. And if I have to cough up overtime pay because it's Sunday? So be it. I'll spring for that, too."

  "All right," he said, still sounding a little guarded. "I'll try to patch Mr. Brendle through to you as soon as possible."

  "You do that," I said.

  I put down the phone and wondered how long it would take for him to call me back. There was a time in my life when spending seven thousand bucks at a whack would have been inconceivable. Fortunately, those times were past.

  Money talks; bullshit walks. Isn't that how the saying goes?

  If hiring a team of helicopters and pilots could save those three women's lives-if it wasn't already too late, that is-then a seven-thousand-dollar investment was money well spent. In fact, saving them would have been cheap at twice the price.

  Because, after all, what had happened to them was my fault and my responsibility. I was the stupid damn fool who had sent Alan Torvoldsen up to Culpeper Court to look after Else and the others in the first place. And since the problem was all my doing, then it seemed reasonable that the solution should be mine as well.

  After all, I thought. Fair is fair.

  26

  Professional courtesy to say nothing of good manners dictated that I call Sue Danielson and invite her to come along on my proposed search-and-rescue operation with Puget Sound Helicopters. When she learned that Seattle P.D. wouldn't be paying the freight, she suggested the possibility of calling on the deep-pocket expense account of our friends from Wiesenthal.

  My response to that suggestion was instant and negative. "Are you kidding? Absolutely not."

  "So who's paying for it, then?"

  "I am."

  "The whole thing?"

  There was a big difference between Sue Danielson's economic reality and my own. I didn't want to rub her nose in it. "It's not that big a deal," I said.

  "Seven thousand dollars would be a big deal for me," she returned. "The bottom line is typical territorial homicide dick, isn't it? You'd rather foot the whole bill yourself instead of sharing the glory with somebody else."

  Responsibility for Else and the others was what was driving me, not territorial imperative. I couldn't see trying to explain that to Sue Danielson, not right then.

  "I'm sharing with you, aren't I?" I volleyed back. "Now cut the lecture, Sue. Are you coming or not?"

  "Coming," she answered. "I'll meet you down at the department in twenty minutes."

  "That's what you think," I said. "Have you been listening to the news?"

  "You woke me up, remember?"

  "There's been a bad wreck on I-Five near the Ship Canal Bridge. Whatever you do, don't try coming down the freeway."

  "I never drive the freeway," she responded. "And if your car was in the same condition as mine is, you wouldn't either."

  After further discussion, we agreed to meet at the Puget Sound Helicopter operations center at Boeing Field. That way, in case Sue did get tied up in traffic, I could go ahead and start the ball rolling without her.

  It was dark but edging toward watery, overcast daylight as I wandered around the King County Airport at Boeing Field. It took two passes before I finally located the office, tucked in behind a massive, vine-covered wall. The person behind the reception desk was a young man wearing a white shirt and striped tie.

  "Oh, Detective Beaumont," he said. "I'm Roger Hammersmith, Paul's assistant. Paul's still in the air. Would you care for a cup of coffee while you wait?"

  At ten past seven, Hammersmith ushered me into a comfortable conference room. Settling in to wait, I noticed that the most striking piece of art was a framed print of a grinning groom carrying his wedding-gown-clad bride toward a waiti
ng helicopter. The picture gave me cause to count my blessings. At least my daughter, Kelly, and my son-in law, Jeremy, hadn't required that kind of three-ring circus.

  Hammersmith brought in two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for me. Armed with a stack of charts, he set about gathering the necessary information. "How long ago did this missing vessel clear the locks?" he asked.

  "Between ten and eleven."

  "How fast can they travel?"

  "I'd guess eight to ten knots."

  It was refreshing to deal with someone who took what I had to say at face value without segueing into a debate about whether or not J. P. Beaumont was off his rocker. Roger Hammersmith simply wanted to get the job done in the most expeditious fashion possible. When I told him that bit of news-about how long One Day at a Time had been under way-he sighed and pursed his lips.

  "By the time we get our guys in the air-eight-thirty or so at the soonest-that boat could be all the way out to Neah Bay and Cape Flattery. Is it likely the skipper will head for the open seas?"

  I nodded. "That's what I think."

  "Why?"

  I couldn't very well say, "Because he has a load of gold bullion on board and he's making a run for it." What I actually said was, "Alan Torvoldsen is a commercial fisherman. He's been at sea all his life. He's more at home there than he is on land."

  "What kind of boat is it?"

  "A T-class lighter."

  "Fully fueled?"

  "Most likely," I answered.

  Commercial fishermen usually top off their tanks when they settle up with their crews at the end of a fishing trip. The boat expenses are paid before the crew can figure their take. Aside from the settlement question, filling the tank helps prevent condensation over the cold winter months.

  "How far do you think they can go without refueling?" Hammersmith asked.

  I remember hanging around Fishermen's Terminal in the spring when the fleet was getting ready to go out. "I don't know for sure, but most commercial boats have tanks that hold a lot of fuel. Worst-case scenario, I suppose they could go a long way-maybe even as far as the Panama Canal-without refueling."

  Hammersmith raised one eyebrow. "When they hit open water, you think they might head south, then?"

  Once again, I couldn't very well tell him all my reasons for thinking so, not without giving away too much. "Maybe," I answered.

  "Are they loaded with food and water?"

  "Again, I couldn't say for sure," I answered, "but I doubt Alan Torvoldsen would be dumb enough to set out without adequate stores of food and water."

  Shaking his head, Hammersmith excused himself and disappeared into another part of the building. His absence gave me time to think some bad thoughts about how easy it would be for someone to dispose of hostages once One Day at a Time hit that great expanse of blue water known as the Pacific Ocean. Bodies tossed overboard would disappear without a trace. Even if they washed up on land, months might pass before they were discovered on the deserted stretches of Washington's wintertime shore.

  I was lost in thought when a recently showered and still wet-haired Sue Danielson blew into the conference room. "So what's the word?" she asked. "What's happening?"

  "Not much," I answered. "But at least we're starting to work on the problem."

  Roger Hammersmith returned moments later. After a brief introduction to Sue, he sat down to plot strategy.

  "I've talked it over with the operations chief up in Everett. He and I agree with you that it's doubtful they'd head for the south end of Puget Sound. Sure, there are plenty of places to hide temporarily, but not forever. If they are trying for the open ocean, as you seem to believe, then they have a couple of choices, especially if they don't want to be seen.

  "For one thing, they might head north, dodge between Camano Island and Whidbey, or maybe duck through the Swinomish Channel. The other alternative, especially considering how much lead they've had, is to not worry about being seen in the shipping channels and just make a run for Cape Flattery."

  "So what do we do?" I asked.

  "We've come up with two separate tactics. Fortunately, we have enough aircraft and pilots at our disposal to execute both plans at once. The first one is based on the assumption that they're putting the pedal to the metal and making a run for it. We counter that maneuver by plotting the most direct route from here through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We send helicopters out beyond the far end of where they could possibly be by now, going full steam. We have the pilots work their way back to base by doing a track line search."

  "And the second one?"

  "That scenario assumes that they're going to try to duck into someplace reasonably unobtrusive and wait for the heat to die down some before they head for open water. At this time of year, when most of the tourists are back home for the winter, they might reasonably expect to disappear for days at a time, either up around the San Juans or across the border in Canadian waters.

  "But dodging around like that uses up a lot more time than straight-line navigation, where they'd be more likely to stick to the easiest, most tried-and-true courses. That means we'd end up doing a much broader-based grid-pattern search closer to home."

  I nodded, another thought occurring to me. "What about calling the Coast Guard Vessel Traffic Center to help with the search?"

  Hammersmith shook his head. "I thought about that, too, but I think it's a bad idea," he answered. "If they're operating in the shipping lanes, it would be simple for someone to spot them, call in, and report the sighting. But if whoever's piloting that boat is maintaining any kind of radio contact-which he should be-then, as soon as we call VTC into it, the bad guy knows it, too. What happens to the hostages then? This way, we spot them first, but then we have time enough to marshal our forces before they realize we know where they are."

  "Wouldn't they hear the radio contacts to and from the helicopters?"

  "We operate on different frequencies," he answered, then looked at me. "What do you think?" he asked.

  "When do we start?" I returned.

  Hammersmith glanced at his watch. "Our students fly out of Paine Field up in Everett. We have a bunch of Japanese students who are here learning how to fly helicopters. They're due to report in at eight o'clock sharp. We should be able to have the whole bunch airborne by eight-thirty. This will give them some good practice." He looked at me and grinned. "And help the company make payroll besides."

  He stoop up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go plot out the flight plans we'll distribute at the preflight briefing."

  As soon as Roger Hammersmith left the room, Sue Danielson turned to me. "What's going to happen?" she asked.

  "You heard him. Grid-pattern searches until we find them."

  Sue shook her head impatiently. "Finding them is a foregone conclusion," she said. "What I want to know is what's going to happen once we do."

  I hadn't wanted to think that far ahead. The worst part about hostage situations is that they're so dangerous. Sure, SWAT teams take out the hostage-takers, but all too often, hostages die as well.

  Longtime cops take the position that black humor is better than no humor, so I tried to shrug off Sue's very important question. "I thought I'd have one of the choppers land me on the deck of the boat, maybe swing me in on a rope. I could come out of a crouch with both guns blazing like they used to do on Sea Hunt, that old Lloyd Bridges series on TV."

  Sue was not amused. "Who's Lloyd Bridges?" she asked. "Any relation to Jeff Bridges?"

  "Forget it," I growled. "I can't even talk to you. You're too damn young."

  "I get the picture," she answered. "It sounds like the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral, only on a boat. What about a hostage-negotiation team?"

  "Right," I said. "And while we're at it, let's have an emergency-response team as well. That's the problem with law enforcement these days. Everybody's a specialist. Whatever happened to general-practitioner cops?"

  "I think we should call for reinforcements," she said. "General-practitioner cops
went the way of the dodo bird."

  The way she said it made it sound as though she considered me right up there on the endangered-species list myself. After that we both lapsed into a sullen silence.

  Of course, I knew Sue was right. That's why her saying it irked me so. Young men become police officers because they're idealistic as hell-because they want to ride white horses, save the universe from the forces of evil, and rescue damsels in distress. I suppose these days, young women join up for much the same reasons. They want to make a difference, and they want to do it themselves.

  I'm not a remote-control kind of guy. I want to have my own hands on the knobs-my own finger on the trigger, if it comes down to that. Tracking down bad guys and then having to tell somebody else to go get 'em doesn't quite square with my view of myself-of who I am and what I'm all about.

  Hammersmith strolled back into the room. "They're about ready for the meeting. I'm going to conference-call it because we've got some guys down here and some up in Everett. I'll be back as soon as the last aircraft is off the ground."

  He turned and started away again. "Wait a minute," I called after him. "What about us?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't we go up in one, too?"

  I guess some of those old Sea Hunt images were still flickering in the back of my imagination.

  "Detective Beaumont," Roger Hammersmith explained patiently, "I thought I made it clear. You guys are command and control." He said it slowly, as though speaking to a wayward child; as though he never expected to have to clarify such a basic concept.

  "You and Ms. Danielson stay here until we have a sighting from one of the Robinson helicopters. They're tiny. Cute. They can fly two men, but they can cover a lot more ground if they only have one person on board. Once the pilots find something, that's when Paul will take you two up in one of the big turbines. Then it will be up to you to figure out what to do next."