Deadly Detail

by Don Porter

  That detective course I took warned about time spent on stakeout being the longest hours you’ll ever live. It also suggested that you keep an empty gallon jug in the car so your bladder doesn’t burst. I’d forgotten that nicety, so when I was threatened I drove up to the passenger terminal, solved the problem, and had a cup of coffee in the shop to restart the cycle. Same waitress, different blouse, still unbuttoned. I tipped her a dollar and drove back to my blind between hangars.

  Airplanes were still tied down, cars in the lot, little more snow on them, I hadn’t missed a thing. The Buick still sat in the tie-down spot where the 310 was missing and I wondered how long it would be before Avis would have found it, if we really had been killed. Undisturbed snow on the Buick had a macabre connotation. Whoever had loosened the nuts on our oil lines must see the Buick every day. I wondered if they viewed it with satisfaction or a twinge of conscience.

  Angie came out the back door of the Lathrop Building at six forty-five. I had the Power Wagon parked next to the dumpster, where it looked right at home.

  I shoved the door open for her. “Hi, did you have a good day in the salt mine?”

  “Tolerable. Did you solve any crimes or shoot any assassins?”

  “Very few. I really didn’t do anything to deserve the hunger pangs that are killing me. Want to hit a restaurant and fix that?”

  “Chicken-fried steaks tonight, the beef is already thawed. Pop on the siren and the flashers and get me home. I’m wearing a new bra and it’s killing me.”

  I checked traffic and pulled out. “Hang on tight, we’re on our way. All this concern about killers, but me dying of hunger and you dying of a bra…unworthy anticlimax.”

  The city streets were tracked up, ugly brown slush, but the Steese had just a few tracks, and after the Rendezvous, we were making the first marks in virgin snow. I tried to stay cynical, but it was sort of magical so long as the heater kept pumping and we stayed on the road.

  With no tracks in the new snow, we didn’t have to worry about an ambush. Angie was out of the car and running toward her bedroom before the engine died. I tromped around back, fired the generator, and took Turk’s pans in for refills. The furnace had kicked on automatically when the generator started. Angie was in the kitchen wearing jeans and a smock. It wasn’t really obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She filled Turk’s food bowl, I filled the water, and delivered the pans back to the doghouse.

  When I got back inside, she tossed me a paring knife and pointed toward two potatoes. I peeled them, then dug ice out of the freezer and mixed two rum and Cokes.

  “Angie, remember that one of the ways I wasted time a couple of days ago was setting up an alarm system. If a school bell suddenly rings in the spare bedroom, don’t jump out of your skin. It just means a moose has crossed the road.”

  “I thought we were safe now that we’re presumed dead.”

  “Probably, but you know the macho drill, layer upon layer of safeguards.” I handed her one of the frosty glasses. “You know the shotgun is still in the Buick at the airport, but the .30-06 is in the closet. Naturally, you’re a world-class expert?”

  “With the .30-06 I can shoot the mustache off a gnat at fifty yards and leave him smiling. Go worry somewhere else. I’m busy here.”

  Angie took a sip and set her drink on the drainboard where she was busily pulverizing a couple of flank steaks. I carried my glass to the living room and watched a new snow flurry cover the Power Wagon.

  I was doing some serious internal examining. The comfort of coming home with Angie and the quiet domesticity were very different from my usual evenings alone in the cabin in Bethel. At home I’d be drinking the same drink, maybe pounding a steak myself, but compared to knowing Angie was in the kitchen, my life seemed pretty bare. Connie invited me to dinner now and then. She’s a terrific cook, sets a classy table, and dresses as if we’d gone out for the evening, but I always had the feeling of being a guest.

  Connie was just too good for me. Her forty-foot trailer in Bethel was immaculate, everything polished and shining. Angie’s house was clean, but I wasn’t afraid to step on the carpet. Connie had ceramic knickknacks and curios, so I was a little afraid I might break something. Angie’s house had two pictures on the mantle, her extended family, which was every soul in Crooked Creek, and her wedding to Stan, also in Crooked Creek with her mother and her uncle/father Willie. I remembered Connie’s bed, and yeah, I do know about that. White satin sheets, down pillows, down comforter, clean, clean, clean, and classy. The bed’s an experience, even if Connie weren’t in it and an experience in herself. At times like that, Connie is the answer to all my dreams, and I think we’d be contented together forever. Maybe we would be, if we could spend our whole lives in bed. I’m only too happy to spend a night with her when the details work out, but I don’t think I’ve ever relaxed there. Even in the bed, I had the feeling of being a guest, a welcome one, but I couldn’t feel proprietary.

  I finished my drink, wandered back to the kitchen. Angie’s was down to half, so I replenished both, then on an impulse, I caught her from behind and gave her a hug. Her hands were covered with flour, she was anything but dressed for going out, and she struck me as the prettiest sight I’d ever seen.

  She leaned into my embrace for a moment, then pointed toward the cupboard. “Why don’t you set the table? You’ve obviously got too much time on your hands, and I have flour on mine.”

  I set the table with plates, knives, and forks, but resisted the impulse to set out a candle. Linen napkins were in the drawer below the silverware, wineglasses in the cupboard, a bottle of cabernet sauvignon on the sideboard. I pulled the cork and let it breathe. Steaks were simmering in a covered frying pan. Angie stuck a fork in the potatoes and replaced the lid on them. I carried the wine out to the table. Clearly, my life was being wasted by staying single, and the profound sense of what Angie had lost was really sinking in.

  I wondered if I should grab Connie by the shoulders, shake her, and insist on getting married. Maybe the two of us could make dinner together and I could hug her when she had flour on her hands. Still, her memories of marriage were not quite the idyllic picture I was conjuring up, and could we compromise to the point that I could wear muddy boots into the house?

  “Alex, grab the gravy boat and the potatoes.” Angie was carrying the platter of steaks in both hands and I noticed she was wearing hot mitts. I scrambled for the two bowls on the kitchen counter. Angie removed the mitts and we sat down. I reached across the table to pour the wine.

  I don’t know which was better, the dinner or the quiet camaraderie. It wasn’t a time for banter; we were both shoveling in food, but there was a lot of smiling going on.

  A sudden clanging from the bedroom had me jumping up and reaching for the pistol. Angie took another sip of wine. “I thought you said I shouldn’t jump out of my shorts if the bell rang.”

  Car lights whiffed past the end of the drive and the bell rang again. I shoved the pistol back in my belt and sat down.

  “Why did the bell ring twice?” Angie wasn’t ruffled, just curious.

  “It rang once when he was coming, and again when he was leaving. If he stops and comes back, it’ll ring again. You could humor me by showing some concern. Diving for the rifle would be good.”

  “Okay, got it. Two rings you panic, one ring we both panic.”

  “Panic may not be the right word. Assume a protective stance sounds better.”

  “Sure thing, we’ve got to protect that fragile male ego.”

  We stuffed ourselves and took the last sip of wine. Angie carried dishes to the kitchen and came back with coffees.

  “Angie, that was fantastic.”

  “Naturally. I told you, I’m a world-class chef. Why don’t you look relaxed and happy?”

  “Oh, happy I am. Relaxed is a little tougher. I need to get into the freight office one more time, just to verify what we already know. You’ve been accusing me of not making positiv
e statements, and I’d like to change that.”

  “So, you want to sneak back into the office and have another look? Do I get to sit on my cushion again?”

  “Seems indicated. This time I won’t turn on the computer, so if we get invaded, I’ll beat you to the freight shed.”

  “Good enough. Tonight, instead of the generous tips you always leave, you can help wash the dishes.”

  More domesticity. She washed, but I dried and put things away. I was enjoying it until I noticed that Angie was crying. I put down the dish towel and pulled her into a hug. She rested her head on my shoulder and sobbed.

  “Oh, Alex, I miss him so terribly. Will I ever get over it?”

  “No, sweetheart, our lives will never be the same again, but we will learn to live with it. There aren’t any more men like Stan, and we were both lucky to have had him for a while.”

  “Damn, we were talking about having babies and I wish we had. If I had his son or daughter, it would be better, you know?”

  “Angie, nothing in this world lasts except memories, and you have those.” I squeezed her until her ribs bent, and it seemed to help. She finally stepped away, picked up the dish towel and dried her eyes.

  “Okay, I’m all better now, you may lead the innocent lamb to the slaughter.”

  ***

  We drove slowly past the office, no cars, no lights. I parked the Power Wagon in an empty tie-down spot and we hiked back. Angie had loaned me one of Stan’s coats; the jacket season had definitely passed. I noticed that my oxfords were out of season, too. Angie was sleek and warm in her Cat Woman suit with the leather jacket, faux fur collar nestled around her incredibly smooth cheeks.

  I looked both ways, no security truck. The office door creaked a little, we stepped inside and snapped on flashlights. Angie assumed her stance, I ducked under the counter and parked at Celeste’s desk. The folder for today’s flights was missing. Otherwise they were up-to-date. I checked the brunette’s desk and the current folder was there, so she must have been doing something with it.

  I did slip into Reginald’s office and tapped the spacebar on his computer. The screen came to life. I called up Orbitz, clicked on My Stuff. No more first-class tickets, so if there were more assassins around, they were locals. Maybe our already-dead act was working. I closed the file and left the computer to go to sleep.

  I went back to Celeste’s desk, spread the first folder out and started through the flight tickets. The first ticket was the Howard, two hours, Barrow, Prudhoe and return. No mistakes. Yesterday’s date, Alvin Hopson pilot, aircraft tail number Zero One Victor. Charge, four hundred fifty bucks. The second ticket was the Otter, three hours to Stevens Village with a five o’clock return. Funny I hadn’t noticed it was gone. Then another Otter flight, four hours to Copper Center at ten in the morning, and I had been sitting out front watching the Otter at that time. I got the picture and started adding hours.

  By the time I’d worked through folders for the last ten days, I’d passed seventy hours that I was sure hadn’t been flown, and another ticket was signed by Tommy. Then I found one signed by me that I hadn’t flown. Finally the low hours on the Hobbs meters made sense, and at eight hundred dollars per hour, the Otter had earned over twenty thousand dollars for the month, and as far as I had seen, most of it without ever being untied.

  “Jiggers, security pickup.” Angie hit the deck. I snapped off my flashlight.

  “Hey, Angie, did I remember to lock the door?”

  “Hell of a time to think of it.” She crawled over and reached up. I heard the lock snap and ten seconds later a guard’s light flashed through the office and the door rattled. I kept my head on the desk until we heard the pickup drive away.

  “Damn it, Alex, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “Nah, a little adrenaline is good for you. That’s what keeps you so young.”

  “Are you doing any good, or is all of this just for my beauty treatment?”

  “Angie, we did it. I found the smoking gun and it’s money, lots of it. Just one airplane must have earned two hundred thousand this year, and if that’s a pattern, there must be millions.”

  “I thought airplanes were supposed to earn money.”

  “Yeah, but in little dribs and drabs. Someone is willing to kill for that much money. Has to be a conspiracy: Freddy doing paperwork, Celeste doing billing, surely Dave Marino as mastermind. Marino must have been around a lot longer than Celeste said, and now we know what Dave is blackmailing Reginald for, control of the company and silence while he steals a few million bucks. We just have to figure out how to prove it.”

  “Can we do that in the car? I’ve had enough adrenaline for one night.”

  “Is the pickup gone?”

  “No, he’s over at a hangar past the airplanes.”

  “Maybe we should wait. Cops need coffee and doughnuts every fifteen minutes.” I replaced the files and closed the drawer. Celeste’s desk did smell good to me but I didn’t want to start an argument I’d be sure to lose. I joined Angie at the window. The pickup worked down the line of hangars and roared away toward the coffee shop. We ducked out and ran.

  The Power Wagon’s heater squeaked and belched dust, but it felt wonderful. We unzipped jackets and cracked windows. Turk didn’t meet us until we pulled into the drive, and then he came around the house wagging his tail. I forgave him for my ordeal stalking porcupines in the woods.

  Angie turned on a couple of small lamps, popped a tape of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons into the deck, and disappeared into the kitchen. She was back in a minute, handed me a rum and Coke, ice cubes floating, and settled down on the couch with one of her own. I parked at the other end of the couch and sipped. It was Captain Morgan.

  “Alex, this is pure masochism. I’m going to sit here and cry while you figure out what the money is about. I know you’re going back to Bethel eventually, so I want to get times like this out of my system while I can still get a hug if I need one. Does that make sense?”

  “Perfectly. I know I’ve been harping on your beauty, but did I ever tell you you’re one smart cookie?”

  “It never occurred to me you realized girls had brains. Don’t talk, flow with the music.”

  Angie did cry at times, but she also smiled occasionally. When the tape ended she took our glasses into the kitchen, came back with refills and inserted Tchaikovsky’s Andante Cantabile into the player. It featured Itzhak Perlman on the violin, and I almost felt like crying, too.

  The tape ended. Angie stood and gathered the empty glasses. “Thanks, Alex, that was what I needed. You know where the guest room is?”

  “Yep, but I think I’ll spend the night on the couch. It’s comfortable and I want to be able to see the driveway. I know, Turk is on guard, the bell will chime, but still it’s a sop to my macho ego.”

  “One more hug, Alex.”

  I hugged her, long and close. She brushed my cheek with her lips and slipped away into her bedroom. I set the pistol on the stand beside the couch and was still wondering where the money was going when Morpheus slipped in.

  I dreamed Celeste was laughing and dancing, pulling hands full of money from her bodice and tossing it up like confetti. Her partner was twirling and twirling her, her skirt flying, and her partner was Dave Marino. He was laughing and leering and he started tossing money. That woke me up.

  The house was silent, the Power Wagon the only thing in the drive, with just enough light from the sky to show its outline. I turned over and went back to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’d promised to call Celeste with a report, but now I was playing dead, and her sparkling eyes and dimples had taken on a very different connotation. No way could she be innocent and sit there day after day, tallying up Otter hours while the Otter was parked outside her window. That shed new light on everything, and I wondered about her visiting-mother story.

  I dropped Angie half an hour early and drove down Wendell Street. Cele
ste’s Miata was parked in front of her house, and a black Cadillac was parked around the next corner. I cursed my incompetence for failing to get Marino’s license number. I parked on the next side street with a view of the house. Celeste came fluttering out, lacy white blouse with ribbons, straight dark skirt well above her knees. She wasn’t tossing money, but she did look happy to be going to work, and that’s suspicious.

  I figured that if the Cadillac was Marino’s, they wouldn’t leave together. He seemed to set his own schedules, so I watched the Cadillac for an hour before a little old man in a business suit came out of another house and drove the Cadillac away. It was not only cold, it was overcast and threatening. I’d been running the engine and the heater in ten-minute bursts, but windows were frosting over. I crossed the bridge and found a pay phone at Piggly Wiggly. Celeste’s phone rang eight times before it was picked up. “Hello?” It was the voice of a broken violin, definitely feminine and at least a hundred years old.

  “Sorry, wrong number.” I hung up the phone, but I did want to know where Marino was staying. Apparently it wasn’t too hard to find us when we were registered under an unknown name, so with the right name, that trick should work in reverse.

  The store had a customer service counter in back. A sweet little lady who looked, but didn’t sound, like Celeste’s mother traded me a roll of quarters for a ten-dollar bill. I sat down with the phone book and tied up the instrument for an hour calling every hotel in the greater Fairbanks area, even the Maranatha. I wondered about the description of greater area, but it may apply someday.

  “Hello, I need to speak to Dave Marino, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, we have no Marino registered.”

  After eighteen tries, I had that speech memorized and there were no more hotels in the yellow pages. I still had a pile of quarters, so I dialed state police headquarters and asked for Lieutenant Stella.