"Her name. I didn't, but it's Amber Gerhardt."
"Amber Gerhardt."
"What? You look like you swallowed some air."
"Stan, what's a nafkeleh?"
"Shandeh. A nice New York boy like you, and you don't know? It's Yiddish for ‘little whore.’”
"Bound to be Buffy in a bikini."
"You're not making any sense."
"Yes, I am."
My phone sang "Ch'ella mi creda libero." Well, not sang, exactly, but I set the ringer to play the tune. It's from La Fanciulla del West. After Sinatra, Caruso is my guy. But anything by Puccini will do.
"I was right. She's a hooker,” said Zavala triumphantly after I'd answered. “She just got picked up in a stretch Caddy, dressed in a clingy silver lamé camisole, leather miniskirt, and stiletto heels that would do a dominatrix proud. And she's got a suitcase, so I guess it's a long date. I'm following. But I haven't been able to get through to Malone."
"You're close—she actually belongs to the world's second oldest profession. Stay with her. I'll talk to Cus. Be discreet."
"Tell me something I don't know."
She hung up.
There was something still tickling at the back of my mind. Suddenly I had it. “Stan, do me a favor."
"As long as I get paid. What?"
"The wit I mentioned told me he and Buddy always traveled together in an executive jet. Either Pleiades owns the airplane, or part of it, or they lease it. It's called a Raytheon Hawker 1000. Call around to the local general aviation airports—start with Van Nuys, since it's the biggest—and see what you can dig up."
"Your wish is my command.” He sat down and reached for the phone.
I sauntered over to Malone's desk. He had left a yellow legal pad on the blotter. There was something written on the top page. The top word was all in caps and underlined:
BACKPACK
Below that, but in smaller script, was: H2O?
Cus had left his long-distance phone log next to the pad. Remember, Rule Number One is document everything, so I wasn't too surprised to see it there, except for the fact that he usually kept it under the phone. He had made several calls to different numbers in the 928 area code, one for longer than fifteen minutes, that very morning.
I'm a detective. I did what detectives do. I asked about it. “Hey, Stan, where's nine two eight?"
"Between nine two seven and nine two nine. What do you mean, where's nine two eight?"
"Never mind.” I pulled out the fax showing where Buddy had died and read the transmission machine's phone number. 928.
The area code for northern Arizona.
"All right, Carmine, I've got your information on the plane,” Stan said. “A Raytheon Hawker 1000 executive jet hangared at Van Nuys, jointly owned by four companies, including Pleiades Computer. Because it's a jet, it usually flies at altitude, over 18,000 feet, and that means they have to file flight plans."
"So there's a record of Buddy's trip to the Grand Canyon."
"Sorry. One of the other companies was using it that week. The plane was mostly in Pennsylvania and New Jersey."
So Buddy had kept the Grand Canyon trip a secret. Not hard to see why. Going off to get lucky in Arizona with the kind of girl you wouldn't introduce to Mom. Not only that, but the girl wasn't some tech groupie, she was house counsel, an employee. Office romances can get sticky.
Then it struck me. I speed-dialed Zavala again.
"Tell me you aren't at the airport in Van Nuys,” I said.
"What are you, psychic?"
"Did you see who's with Ms. Gerhardt in the limo?"
"You are psychic,” she said, her voice a little in awe. “I was about to call you and tell you. It's not a john like I thought. She's with subject."
Tarkauskas.
"Jess, they have to file a flight plan. Find out where they're going. A donut will get you a dozen they're headed for Flagstaff. Call me as soon as you find out.” I hit End and dialed the airline. There was a flight at six to Phoenix, with a connection to Flagstaff. I made the reservation and read off my credit-card number to the reservation clerk.
"Stan, you've got to drive me to LAX. And see if you can get ahold of Mr. Malone after you drop me off. Tell him I've gone to Arizona. And tell him he was right."
* * * *
Some airlines won't let you pack any handguns at all in your baggage. America West follows federal guidelines requiring the weapon be declared, unloaded, and stored in the manufacturer's hardshell container, locked, in your regular unlocked suitcase. You're allowed eleven rounds per weapon, likewise locked in a separate container. Arizona recognizes my California CCW permit, and frankly, it's real easy to get a gun there, so I had to think twice about packing, if you'll pardon the expression. But I didn't know if I'd have time to get another gun, so I packed my main piece, intending to wear it on my belt holster once on the ground, and a little .380 AMT backup, which would go in an ankle holster. I hoped they wouldn't get ripped off en route.
I wasn't sure I'd need a gun, but it seemed like a good idea.
I was almost aboard the jet going to Phoenix when Zavala got back to me. My hunch was right, as I knew it would be. Tarkauskas and Gerhardt had filed their flight plan for Flagstaff. They would get there before me, of course, but if they were going there for the reason I thought, they wouldn't be able to do anything until morning.
My guns came through safely. In Flagstaff, I rented as nondescript a car as I could find, a dark green Ford Escort. Discreet enquiry (a detection trade term of art, that, by which we mean being sneakier than an alley cat at a canary convention) had led me to find out that Tarkauskas had likewise rented a vehicle, predictably a black Escalade, so I spent some time riding around Flagstaff looking in hotel parking lots until I found their car. Then I hunkered down to wait. I knew they'd be up early.
It was before dawn when I saw Tarkauskas, Amber Gerhardt, and one of his bovine thugs climb into the Cadillac. It was the first time I'd actually seen Gerhardt, but this time she wasn't dressed up like a slutty starlet condescending to get loaded in a trendy nightspot. Instead, she was in a khaki ensemble that included a military-cut short-sleeve shirt and a pair of tight shorts revealing her shapely bronze legs, and looked like a stripper's take on Indiana Jones—the effect was only partly spoiled by her big Wolverine hiking boots. Zavala was right, she was cute in a kittenish way, more like a high-school cheerleader than some sultry, sophisticated vixen already out of professional school. I would never have pegged her as an attorney.
I let them get a couple of blocks ahead before I started to follow them. I knew their destination, after all. Grand Canyon National Park, the place where Buddy cashed in.
Once they exited I-40 to AZ-64 North, I fell further back until they were out of sight. There wasn't anywhere else they could go. I picked them up again near the entrance to the park.
The ranger on duty there asked me if I was carrying any firearms. I lied and said no. There's an old saying that sometimes it's easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission, and I didn't want to spend several hours in conversation with park rangers debating whether packing heat really was a good thing.
I followed them to a convenience mart in Grand Canyon Village, and while I was there I bought a cheap nylon knapsack and four one-liter bottles of water that just fit inside, being careful to keep a counter or two between myself and them the whole time. The goomba wanted some beer and Tarkauskas told him not to be an idiot, an order which was clearly impossible for the goomba to obey. They left. I climbed back into the Escort and headed out right behind them as they pulled out, leisurely going eastward past the road back to civilization, onward for several miles until they stopped at Yaki Point.
I drove past them for a couple of minutes and then doubled back. Yaki Point marks the trailhead of the South Kaibab Trail, the most direct route down from the South Rim to the Kaibab Bridge and Phantom Ranch at the bottom. In the pellucid morning light, the view was awe-inspiring. You can't be an atheist in
the Grand Canyon.
There were clouds at several altitudes, big cottonballs of roiling cumulus, shining pink and ochre and dazzling white, like titanic sheep grazing in a sea-blue pasture, and speeding above them were high threads of coral-tinged silver mare's-tails. The layered buttes and plateaus of the Canyon's brittle walls, softened by the mist, rose out of the morning fog, reminding me of the strange crags and mountains in Chinese paintings. The warm air caressed me, as comforting as a child's sweet-scented blanket.
In the parking lot, I found their black Caddy SUV sitting like a lump of tar on the asphalt. They couldn't be more than three or four minutes ahead of me on the trail.
They had come to destroy evidence of murder, I was certain. Malone had figured out how they had done it, and that it somehow involved Buddy's backpack—Buddy had not been found with a backpack, but the idea of taking a long hike in the Grand Canyon without one is absurd. That's what his note on the legal pad had meant.
I wasn't sure about Malone's question about water—maybe he thought they had dumped the backpack in the Colorado River, expecting it to be lost. Anyway, it was a sure bet that they were now going after it. I didn't know if they would bring it back with them or get rid of it somewhere in the wilderness, but I couldn't take the chance. I had no choice but to follow.
I had brought a handheld GPS receiver about the size of a cell phone with me from L.A. Not fancy, but I can read a lat/long, and I had the map the park rangers had faxed to Malone showing where Buddy's corpse had been found. I'd taken the precaution of entering the location as a way point in the little receiver. I made sure it was working and then went after them.
I wasn't half an hour down the trail when I realized that somebody was quickly cranking up the thermostat. I'd had to sprint a little to get Tarkauskas and company within sight, and now I was starting to regret it, even though I had no choice. I could tell that they were using the goomba as a pack mule while Tarkauskas and the girl carried smaller packs.
My shirt stuck to my back beneath the cheap knapsack, and I felt perspiration drip from my armpits down my sides. A fine mist of sweat glistened on my arms. It didn't take me long to polish off the first liter of water. I realized I should have brought a hat.
A couple of hours farther down and the headache started. I almost missed it when they left the trail. Checking my GPS, I could see that they were headed toward where Buddy had been found some miles to the west. For some reason the LCD on the little unit was hard to read. Man, it was hot. I drank another liter, careful not to be too greedy.
I followed them along the thin, winding trail leading down into the baking vertical wilderness, careful to remain just hidden. Once I missed my footing and went down like a blubber boy doing a belly flop in a community swimming pool. Luckily I wasn't near the precipice, but I waited for several minutes before picking myself up, in case they had heard me, and when I did stand up, I felt a surge of sickening vertigo that nearly sent me down again. I squatted until I felt better, and reached for another bottle of water.
Somehow I'd lost track of how much I'd drunk. The last bottle was only about one third full. I polished it off. What time was it? My watch wouldn't stay in focus, but I finally realized it was about 2:30 P.M.
I had to hurry to pick up their trail. I couldn't believe the temperature. Engine blocks don't get that hot.
I was mentally drifting, putting one foot in front of the other, when I nearly knocked Tarkauskas over the edge.
He recovered quicker than I did. He stared at me, his face hard with surprise, and he shouted, “Amber! Trouble!"
I pulled out my gun and leveled it at his chest.
He smirked. “The Sig Sauer, I see."
"It's a Beretta, cacasenno," I said. It was hard to hold the gun steady. “I told you I was Italian."
Amber Gerhardt somehow appeared beside him. I switched my aim point to her.
"Look at him,” she said. Her voice irritated me. It was high and nasal. She laughed, a bubbling schoolgirl giggle, and it made me even angrier. My head was buzzing.
"Just let him drop,” she said.
"Amber, we can't,” Tarkauskas said. “Not twice. We'll get caught."
"All we have to do is make sure that this body is never found,” she said. “It was only dumb luck that somebody found Pincus."
I dropped to one knee. It wasn't on purpose.
"The wop's got a partner, Amber. He'll come looking."
"Let him look,” she said contemptuously. “If you hadn't hooked up with that Jew-boy in the first place, none of this would have been necessary."
"But Buddy was worth millions."
"Yeah. Millions of somebody else's money,” she said, “or have you forgotten who provided us the startup capital in the first place, and what they'll do to us if they find out it was all pissed away?"
"But did you have to bring him out here to die? Jesus, that's cold. Even for me."
"Shut up. You know as well as I do that I had no choice. Do you think I enjoyed having that fat slob pet me like I was some Thai bar girl or something? He would have dragged us all down, Darryl, and you know it. He spent money like a sailor.” She laughed again, in that completely out-of-place giggle. “I don't think Mr. Ferrari—it is Mr. Ferrari, isn't it?—is doing so well."
"I'm fine,” I said, but it didn't quite come out. Blackness impinged on the edges of my vision.
"I don't think so,” she said, reaching for my gun. Somehow I wasn't fast enough to pull the trigger.
When I opened my eyes, I was facedown in the dirt. I managed to look up again. Everything was blurry, but I could make out the goomba with Tarkauskas and Gerhardt.
"I'm thinking we just pitch him over the edge,” she said. “That way, his cause of death will be different from Buddy's. People fall off cliffs all the time out here."
She looked at my gun. “You know, this is nice. Sexy."
I reached for the AMT, but too slowly. The goomba stopped me and ripped the little weapon from my ankle holster and smacked the top of my head with it. It hurt, but wasn't much worse than my headache.
"Naughty, naughty,” Amber said, as if I were some toddler. She squatted beside me and pointed the Beretta in my face. “Time to say goodbye, lover."
I heard a shot.
* * * *
Then I remember swinging in the air. The chop of moving helicopter blades percussed in the far distance. Hands eagerly grabbed me and pulled me into a small room, where it was mercifully cool. Shade at last. I passed out again.
* * * *
"Dang, son, you're alive.” No mistaking that voice. I opened my eyes.
"Hello, Malone.” I was in a Flagstaff hospital bed.
"The correct phrase is, ‘Howdy, pardner,'” he said, smiling. “Gave me quite a scare. What the Sam Hill were you thinking, going off like that?"
"I was following your lead. The backpack. I knew they had to go get the backpack."
He shook his head. “Now that's just plain ignorant, Red. Why do you think they would want to recover evidence at that very moment?"
"Because—because—” and then suddenly, I knew. My Italian ire rose. “Because you sent them after it."
"Right in one. I set them up, Red. As you know, Buddy was found dead of heat stroke and without his backpack. Where was the water he should have been carrying in his saddlebags? Somebody must have taken it away, knowing he couldn't survive the canyon's heat without it."
"How do you know he couldn't have survived?"
"'Cause I'm from Texas, and I've spent a little time out in the desert now and again. I don't think there's too many deserts in New York, so you probably wouldn't know what it takes to survive in one. Well, it takes a human body at least two solid weeks to acclimate to a desert climate. Buddy certainly didn't do that. I also told you I thought it was interesting that Tarkauskas had a home in Palm Springs."
"So you told Tarkauskas that the authorities were looking for the backpack, that they suspected foul play."
"Didn't tell
him, just let it be known. I was pretty sure he'd try to keep it from the law. So I baited the trap and he fell for it."
"Why didn't you tell me?” I was pretty angry by then. After all, I'd nearly lost my life on the most moronic of quixotic quests.
"How was I to know you were going to gallivant off to Arizona? I thought I had the operation under control. It's not like this is our only case—I expected you'd stay in L.A. until you heard from me. You could have knocked me down with a flour tortilla when we—the park rangers and me, that is—saw you tailing our quarry. You were too close behind them for us to risk pulling you off. We had to wait."
"Until I was half-dead from heat stroke,” I said. “Thanks a lot, pardner."
"Now don't be like that. You got them to confess.” He slapped my thigh. “Good work."
"Confess?"
"Parabolic listening dishes recorded everything. I've done stuff like this before, you know, back in Lone Star country. But when that Gerhardt girl put your gun in your face, I knew it was time to call the game, so I put a shot right across her scrawny-ass bows."
"So everything's wrapped up nice and neat."
"It is now. I don't know that they ever would have found the backpack, anyway, so your intervention was well timed. And to prove it, I brought you a get-well present."
He pulled out a portable CD player with a set of light headphones. “Enjoy, son."
So do you think it was Sinatra, or Caruso, or anything by Puccini? Hell, no. It was The Best of Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. Cus said he wanted me to learn to appreciate real music.
If I could have gotten out of bed, I'd have killed him. But by the time I got back to L.A., I was feeling a bit more generous. So I got tickets for the opera and gave them to Brenda, and she made him sit through an entire production of Madama Butterfly. She wept like a teenager for Cio-Cio-San's troubles while he had to stay awake the whole time or face her implacable wrath.
We Italians get revenge.
©2007 by James Lincoln Warren
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THE ANGEL OF MANTON WORTHY by Kate Ellis
EQMM, June 2007 Page 5