by Stuart Woods
“I like,” Croft said.
Shortly, he was handed a list of owners of the aircraft. “They’re all corporations,” Croft said. “Do you have a list of the owners?”
“Afraid not,” the man said. “You’ll have to do a legal search. A lot of airplanes are owned by Delaware corporations. You might start there.”
“Well,” Morales said, “I feel a dead end coming on.”
“Let’s go see an ADA,” Croft said. “The print might be enough for an arrest warrant, maybe even for an extradition.”
“Or maybe they’ll send us to London,” Croft said hopefully.
Morales had a thought. “Any departures for San Francisco today?”
“Let’s see,” he said, sitting down at the computer again. “Oakland would be the likely destination for a general aviation aircraft.” He tapped some keys. “I’ve got two—a Citation and a Gulfstream IV. The GIV left an hour ago.”
“Gotta be the Gulfstream,” Croft said. “That’s a transatlantic airplane. Let’s go talk to Captain Clark. He’ll spring for a San Francisco trip on a crime that’s getting as much TV time as this one.”
Stone was back at The Arrington in time for lunch, and he persuaded Ann to join him. He explained what had happened to Eagle’s airplane.
“The ex-wife, then?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Will the police be able to do anything?”
“They’re trying, but the only material witness is dead.”
“It’s time we talked,” Ann said. “The president left for Washington right after breakfast this morning. Kate is waiting for the new campaign plane to be delivered—should be here tomorrow.”
“Will you have to go with her?”
“We had a long talk this morning,” Ann said. “I suggested that I might be of more use to her by continuing to work out of the New York office. She has a good travel team without me, so she bought that.”
Stone broke into a big smile. “That’s wonderful news,” he said. “We can fly out of here tomorrow or the next day. We’re waiting for the return of the Strategic Services aircraft—it’s being flown back from Tokyo. So we’ll have a couple of soft days.”
“Not soft for me. I’ll be on the telephone constantly.”
“Move into my study and work here, then. The hotel will want the presidential cottage back.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. Listen, the Republican convention is next week, and Senator Henry Carson of Texas looks like he’s taking the nomination. Our private polls show Kate leading all the obvious Republicans, except Carson, by double digits. She’s leading him by eight points.”
“That’s good news.”
“We believe we can take him, and I’ve already told you what my job is going to be if that happens.”
Stone nodded.
“I’ll make as much time for you as I can, but I can’t make any promises. If she wins, all hell will break loose the day after the election, as I’ll be running the transition team.”
“And I’ll get to Washington as often as I can,” Stone said. “Something else: I have to go to Paris this fall for the opening of the new L’Arrington there, and I have some other business there, so I may be two or three weeks. Any chance you can do some of that with me?”
“I’d love to, God knows, but I just can’t manage it. I can’t even say I’ll try.”
“Well, if that’s the price of getting Kate elected, I’ll just have to live with it,” Stone said ruefully.
“If it’s any consolation, I’ll have to live with it, too,” Ann said.
The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Ed. I just wanted you to know that we made it back okay.”
“I’m sorry you couldn’t wait and fly with us. You’d have liked the airplane.”
“I already wish we’d done that. When we got back we found my office and house staked out by the press.”
“Pick somebody you like and give him an exclusive interview. Everybody else will run it, but you’ll have them out of your hair.”
“Good idea. I’ve got just the reporter in mind. Anything in particular you want me to tell them?”
“Just stick to the truth, and you won’t get accused of lying to Otero and Willingham.”
“Okay. Thanks for your help this morning.”
“Have you heard anything new from the cops?”
“Not a word. Everybody in the world wants to talk to me but them.”
“That just means they don’t have anything to tell you yet.”
“I guess so. Can you stop for a few days in Santa Fe on your way back?”
“I’d love to, but Ann has to get back to her New York office. She’s got a lot on her plate now.”
“I guess she has. Susannah sends her love. Give ours to Ann.”
They hung up.
“The Eagles send love,” he said to Ann.
—
DETECTIVES MORALES AND CROFT sat down across the desk from Captain Clark, and Croft slid a typed form across the desk.
“San Francisco?” the captain asked, feigning shock. “Is this a vacation request?”
“Cap, our only suspect is in San Francisco,” Croft said. “The media are all over us on this thing, and we don’t have anything to tell them.”
“You actually think you’re going to get something out of this Grosvenor woman?”
“We can only try.”
“I remember her from her murder trial. I was the lead detective on that case, and she is the coldest, smoothest bitch I’ve ever laid eyes or ears on. She doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Nobody’s lucky all the time,” Morales said.
“Luck has nothing to do with it. Look, if that bomb hadn’t gone off when it did, this Gregg character would have exploded it after the plane took off and we’d be right where we are now, with nothing but two waterlogged corpses. That’s bad luck.”
“At least we could have questioned Gregg.”
“Questioned him? You wouldn’t even know he existed.”
“You’ve got a point, Cap,” Croft said. “But we’ve gotta try to nail this woman.”
“God knows I’d love to do that,” Clark said. He signed the expense form and scribbled something on it. “You’ve got three days and my very best wishes.” He slid the form back across the desk. “See the cashier, and make your travel arrangements through the department. No Ritz-Carlton.”
Morales and Croft got out of there as fast as they could.
The Grosvenor Gulfstream IV landed smoothly at Oakland and taxied to the Business Jet Center. The stewardess took their hand luggage while the pilots and linemen moved their larger baggage from the rear compartment to their Bentley Mulsanne, which stood, idling, beside the big jet.
“Anything I need to know about the last twenty-four hours?” Charles asked as he helped Barbara into her coat.
“Nothing you want to know,” she said, pecking him on the lips. “Just remember I haven’t been out of your sight the past couple of days, except to go to the hotel salon.”
They walked down the airstair door and into the Bentley.
“Home, James,” Charles said to their driver, whose name was actually James. He had been invalided out of a career as a pro football linebacker by a knee injury during his fourth season and was now a factotum for the Grosvenors.
James delivered them to their apartment on Green Street, just off Nob Hill, and they took the elevator to the penthouse while James and the doormen dealt with the luggage.
Charles called his dealership and got a report from the sales manager, then he hung up. “We sold two Flying Spurs and a Mulsanne while we were gone, and four used vehicles. I wish Bentley would deliver new cars at the factory in England—we’d sell four or five more a year to people who want to tour in their new cars.”
“Keep after them, Charles,” Barbara said. She turned to the maid who was unpacking her bags. “Run me a bath.”
—
LATE IN THE afternoon Chico Morales and Stockton Croft got off a flight at San Francisco International that had been somewhat less comfortable than the Grosvenor Gulfstream. They picked up their plain, underpowered rental car and drove to their blank-faced business hotel on an unfashionable block off California Street. There was no valet service or doorman, so they had to park on the street and carry their own luggage, after Croft had extracted a police placard from his briefcase and slipped it over a sun visor. He hoped the meter maid wouldn’t notice that the badge it displayed was from L.A.
“So, what’s your plan?” Morales asked.
“I don’t have a plan,” Croft replied.
“You always have a plan.”
“I have a dinner plan, but not a work plan—until tomorrow morning. I know a good restaurant that won’t shock our cashier when we turn in our expenses.”
“I place myself in your hands,” Morales said.
“Smart move.”
They dined at the bar at the Huntington Hotel, a block away from theirs, and failed to pick up anybody.
Barbara and Charles Grosvenor dined on their terrace, which had a sweeping view of San Francisco Bay.
“We’re having such beautiful weather,” Barbara said. “I thought I’d run up to Napa for a couple of days.” They had a house in the wine country outside St. Helena. “Would you like to come?”
“I really should spend the time at the dealership, my darling,” Charles replied. “It does need my attention after a week away. You go and enjoy yourself.”
—
BILLY BURNETT SAT in the restaurant at the Huntington Hotel and spotted the two Los Angeles detectives immediately as they came into the bar. Billy’s presence was partially screened by a potted plant, and anyway, even people who had met him rarely noticed him in such circumstances, since he was not a noticeable person, and in any case, he had selected a hairpiece and mustache from his makeup case, and he wore glasses he did not need.
Billy had spent much of his day searching databases not available to the public. He could log on to the CIA mainframe and from there enter virtually any other computer in the country while leaving no trace of his visit. He had compiled quite a dossier on Barbara Eagle and her British husband; he was getting to know them quite well. They had a house in London, an apartment in New York, a place in Palm Springs, and a house in Napa, in addition to their Green Street apartment. He had obtained the tail number of their Gulfstream from the tower computer at Burbank earlier in the day and had lifted their flight plan. He had landed his own airplane, a JetPROP—a single-engine turboprop—at Hayward, on the eastern shore of the bay, south of Oakland, and checked into the Huntington, using a credit card and a California driver’s license in another name, part of his little inventory of identities.
Tomorrow, Billy would do some scouting around, then, perhaps, pay Mrs. Grosvenor a visit. He looked forward to meeting her.
—
MORALES AND CROFT ambled back to their hotel and, along the way, spotted a parking ticket on their rental car. Written across the bottom of the ticket were the words Welcome to San Francisco, schmuck!
“I never liked this town,” Croft said.
The following morning Morales and Croft had breakfast in their hotel’s restaurant, since their room was too small to contain both them and a room service cart. Morales was reading something.
“What’s that?” Croft asked.
“It was attached to our travel order. It’s about how to be a good police visitor to another city, and it has a number for us to call and check in with the SFPD.”
“Fuck ’em,” Croft said.
Morales got out his cell phone, called the number, and introduced himself, then he hung up.
“That was short.”
“We have to go to the Central Station, show our badges, and check in personally.”
“Fuck ’em,” Croft said again.
“They already have our names, sent from L.A.,” Morales pointed out. “And if we check in, they’ll give us an SFPD ID and a parking pass for the city streets.”
“Do we both have to go?”
“If we do, we won’t get into trouble for impersonating police officers.”
“We are police officers.”
“Not in San Francisco, until we check in.”
—
THEY FOUND THE Central Station on Vallejo Street and presented themselves at the front desk, where they were directed upstairs to a room number. They knocked and entered.
“Okay, where you from?” a woman in civilian clothes said without looking up from her desk.
“Los Angeles,” Morales replied.
“Swell,” she said. “Badges and ID?” She took them to a Xerox machine and made a copy. “Go stand against the wall, there, one at a time.”
They did so and were photographed.
“How long you here for?”
“Five days,” Croft said, just in case.
She typed something into a computer and pressed a button; a moment later a machine next to her desk vomited two plastic cards with their badges and ID on one side and an SFPD star on the other, plus the banner VISITING OFFICER. She gave them each a clip that allowed them to fasten the cards to their lapels. “Wear ’em when you’re in any police station or questioning anybody in this city.” She handed them a parking pass for their car. “That may keep you from getting a ticket. On the other hand, it may get your car vandalized.”
“Thanks very much.”
“Don’t mention it.” She had never once looked at them.
“We could be Bonnie and Clyde, and she wouldn’t know the difference,” Croft said as the door closed behind them.
—
BILLY BURNETT ARRIVED on Green Street and found a parking place, then he went and had a look at Barbara Eagle’s apartment building. Elegant. As he watched, a white Bentley Mulsanne drove up to the entrance. The driver popped the trunk lid, then got out. Billy made him to be six-five and close to three hundred pounds, but his waist was slim. A blunt instrument. A doorman appeared with a small bag and a train case and set them in the trunk. He pressed a button, and the trunk lid closed itself.
Barbara Eagle appeared, dressed in slacks and a sweater set, an impressive double string of pearls around her neck, and got into the waiting car. Blunt Instrument got in and drove away.
Billy ran the few steps back to his car, got it started, and followed. As he drove down the street, a car containing the two L.A. detectives passed, going the other way.
—
MORALES AND CROFT pulled up to the entrance to the building and got out. They showed their new guest IDs to the doorman. “We’d like to see Mrs. Charles Grosvenor,” Morales said.
“You just missed her,” the doorman said. “She’s headed to Napa for a few days.”
“What’s the address?”
“Beats me.”
“What’s she driving?” Croft asked.
“She’s being driven,” the doorman replied, “in a white Bentley. A big one.” He pointed down the street.
The two detectives looked and saw the car turning a corner. They dived back into their car and followed. As they turned the corner they could see the Bentley two blocks ahead.
“At least it’s easy to spot,” Morales said.
“Will this thing go any faster?” Croft asked.
Morales stomped on the accelerator. Hardly anything happened.
“Shit,” Croft said, “we didn’t check out of the hotel. What are we going to do for clothes?”
“I always keep a clean shirt and socks and some paper boxer shorts in my briefcase, just in case,” Morales said. “Toothbrush and razor, too.”
“Paper boxer shorts?”
“You just throw ’em away when you’re done with ’em.”
“Sometimes I hate your guts, you know that?”
—
BILLY SAW THE cops’ rental car, a small red Korean vehicle, in his rearview mirror. He opened his briefcase and took out a little stack of papers. On top was the address of the Napa house. He headed for Hayworth Airport.
—
“FOR A MINUTE, I thought that silver BMW was following the Bentley,” Morales said, “but he turned left.”
“Are you getting paranoid on the lady’s behalf?” Croft asked.
“Just being observant. They taught us that at the academy, or did you miss that day?”
—
BILLY TURNED IN his rental car at the Hayward FBO and filed an IFR flight plan to Napa County Airport. It wasn’t far, but going IFR would help him deal with the controllers. He did a quick preflight, then got the airplane started and asked for his clearance and permission to taxi. Shortly, he was airborne, and the ATC controllers vectored him around and out of the busy San Francisco Class B area. He had been in the air for only twelve minutes when he spotted Napa County. He pressed the transmit button on the yoke. “I have the airport in sight. I’ll cancel IFR at this time.” The controller said goodbye and Billy descended for his landing.
He rented another car, this one a brand-new Chevrolet Impala, which impressed him, and he drove to St. Helena. He found the Grosvenors’ house, a handsome, shingle-style McMansion on a little hill, then he parked in a partially hidden road across from it. Twenty minutes later, the white Mulsanne appeared, followed by the red Korean car containing the two policemen. The Bentley turned into the driveway, drove through some trees, and appeared on the hill in front of the house, where Barbara exited while Blunt Instrument retrieved her minimal luggage.
The Korean car drove slowly past the house.
“What do you want to do now?” Morales asked.
“Let’s give her time to settle in before we knock on the door,” Croft said. “In the meantime, let’s go back to St. Helena and find a men’s store.”
“Did you see the new Impala parked in the side road?”