“Deal,” he said.
They shook on it.
“So?” he asked.
“Why do I want to find an EF-4 or -5?”
Chuck nodded.
She pursed her lips, then blew out a soft breath. “Bait,” she said.
Chapter Five
TUESDAY, APRIL 16
“BAIT?” CHUCK said. “Bait for what?”
Gabi pondered for a moment how much to tell him, but decided since he was granting her a favor, she should be up front with what she was looking for. She glanced around the restaurant to make certain no one was close enough to eavesdrop. Then she leaned toward Chuck and spoke in a low voice. “I think the more correct question is ‘Bait for whom?’”
“A person?” Chuck said, surprise registering in his voice, his words vaguely slurred.
She gazed more closely at him: auburn hair flecked with gray, thinning a bit; green eyes that registered something camouflaged—a modicum of sadness perhaps? When he smiled it was with a degree of wistfulness. Though he appeared a bit underweight, she judged him a once-handsome man, but now . . . she understood what he had been through and could see it had taken its measure. Still, she wondered if his ex hadn’t let something of value slip from her grasp.
“Yes, a person or maybe persons,” she said.
He fingered his empty whiskey glass.
“Another one?” she asked. Testing him.
“No.” He removed his hand from the tumbler. “Tell me what you’re trolling for.”
She massaged her right temple, feeling the first foreshadowing throb of the bane of her existence, a migraine headache.
“About eight years ago,” she said, “a scattering of expensive wristwatches, like Rolexes and Movados, and few pieces of top-dollar jewelry, and one or two gem-grade diamonds, that had been reported ‘missing’ in the aftermath of destructive tornadoes, began to show up in pawn shops.
“The first discovery was accidental, by a homeowner in Kansas City. After his house had been leveled by a violent twister, he realized his Breitling watch was missing, but curiously, none of his other jewelry. Well, he was visiting a pawn shop in Omaha several months later when he spotted a Breitling that looked just like his. Sure enough, it was. He was able to produce documentation with the serial number.”
The banjo player packed up his instrument, nodded to Daisy, and exited the restaurant. Daisy approached the table where Chuck and Gabi sat.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Only the check,” Chuck said.
Gabi handed a credit card to Daisy. “Put it on that,” she said.
Daisy, in her mama bear mode again, cocked her head at Chuck.
“Business,” he explained.
Daisy shrugged and left.
Gabi continued. “A notice went out to law enforcement agencies from Bismarck to Houston. Local authorities visited more pawn shops and turned up additional high-end items originally thought to have been lost in bad storms. Not many, but enough to raise suspicions.”
Chuck dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Couldn’t it have been the work of random looters who just happened to find targets of opportunity?” he said.
Another pulse of pain, this one sharper, knifed behind Gabi’s right eye. She tried to ignore it.
“No,” she said. “The selected high quality of the items and the fact there wasn’t any wholesale pillaging, you know, like armloads of stuff being carried off, suggested something carefully orchestrated.”
Chuck considered her words, then said, “So you think there might be a connection to the storm-chasing community?”
“The thefts have occurred only in the wake of tornadoes that produced an immense amount of damage, so it’s someone—or someones—who’s Johnny-on-the-Spot; who manages to arrive in devastated areas in the immediate aftermath of really violent twisters.”
“Yeah. Sounds like it could be a chaser, or somebody shadowing chasers. But why is the FBI interested in this?”
“Because it involves similar crimes in a number of states and because . . .” she hesitated, wondering if she had already told Chuck too much.
Daisy returned with the tab for Gabi to sign.
“Thanks, hon’,” Daisy said to her. She turned and patted Chuck on the cheek before leaving. “Ya’ll behave yourself now.” She winked at him, then trotted off.
Gabi found some humor in her comment. “She’s afraid you’ll try to put the make on an FBI agent?”
“She doesn’t know you’re an FBI agent.”
“You must have a reputation then.”
Chuck smiled. “Daisy only hopes. You’re safe. Now tell me about the ‘and because’.”
Gabi closed her eyes, as if she could squeeze the nascent pain from her head. She opened them and found Chuck staring at her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Been a long day. Just a little tension headache,” she lied.
“Maybe Daisy could bring you some aspirin.”
Gabi waved off the suggestion. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay then. Tell me the rest of the story.”
“Last Saturday,” she said, “a tornado, an EF-3 I think is what news reports called it, hit Honeybee—”
“I saw it on TV,” Chuck interjected. “A lot of damage.”
“Yes. Including a family-run jewelry and electronics store.”
“Let me guess,” Chuck said. “Some expensive watches and computers were missing after the storm.”
“Worse,” Gabi answered. “One of the co-owners, a 68-year-old man, was found dead in the rubble.”
“EF-3s kill people.”
“People kill people, too. The gentleman’s wristwatch had stopped 20 minutes after the tornado hit.”
Chuck rested his chin on his knuckles and appeared to consider her statement.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “maybe he was a guy who set his watch fast. A lot of people do that so they’re never late for anything.”
“The police asked his family about that. His family said he was diligent to a fault about keeping the correct time on his watches—almost to the nearest second.”
Gabi caught Daisy giving them the evil eye as the dinner crowd streamed into the restaurant. She probably wanted the table.
“That doesn’t seem like much to go on,” Chuck said.
“The coroner said the man appeared to have defensive wounds on his hand and forearm, and that the side of his head was caved in. Usually people killed by collapsing walls don’t have damage to the side of their head.”
“Could have been flying debris.”
“Maybe. But there’s something else. About five minutes after the tornado struck, an Oklahoma State Trooper remembers seeing two EMTs enter the store. He doesn’t recall any ID on their vehicle, a black GMC Terrain, that suggested they were local. He asked them if they needed help, but they said no. He was busy and forgot about them until later when the suggestion of foul play came up.”
“I dunno,” Chuck said, “it all sounds pretty flimsy, pretty circumstantial to me. But I’m not a cop.”
“Yeah, but you’re smart and analytical . . . and right. It’s supposition piled upon supposition, which is why law enforcement never went public with it. Still, I think there’s something to it.”
An invisible vise beneath her scalp snapped tight and she winced involuntarily as a wave of pain swept through her head, then relented. She knew the reprieve was only temporary.
“Okay,” Chuck said, “assuming you’re right about the thefts, why turn to murder?”
“The victim probably caught them in the act, could’ve identified them.”
“So again, assuming, we might not be looking for chasers but EMTs.”
Gabi shrugged. “Maybe.
But if these are the same guys who have been working the Plains for a decade now, they always seem to be in the right spot at the right time as far as violent tornadoes go.”
“Any other suspicious storm deaths?” Chuck asked.
“We’ve just started looking at that, but it probably will be difficult to determine so long after the fact. There was one case, however, in eastern Nebraska about five years ago. A man and his wife were found dead in the wreckage of their house after a huge tornado sliced through town. The house had a storm cellar. The door to it was open. Why would they come out of or not be in the cellar during a vicious storm?”
“Was stuff missing from the house?”
The buzz of conversation in the restaurant had increased, and Gabi leaned closer to Chuck so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice. “The wife’s five-carat diamond wedding ring,” she said. “Her children said she always wore it.”
“Did it turn up in a pawn shop?”
“Never found it. But it might have been fenced.”
“So the working hypothesis is they were killed—murdered—after the storm, and the ring taken from the wife’s finger?”
Gabi nodded. “And unfortunately, it’s just a hypothesis.”
“Which leads to your hunting expedition. You figure since I’m going in search of an EF-4 or -5, you’ll ride along and see if you can get lucky, maybe catch your will-o’-the-wisp crooks in the act?”
“That’s about it.”
“It sounds like a long shot to me. And you’ll understand, of course, that whatever happens, my movie client will take precedent.”
“Absolutely. When do we start?”
Chuck explained to her the contingencies of the chase and the arrangement he’d made with Global-American Cinema. After he finished, he said, “I’ll call you with a launch date the same day I call the film company.”
Another explosion of agony erupted deep in Gabi’s head. The Cowboy Corral seemed infused with flashes of light. She stood.
“I need to go,” she said. She dropped her business card on the table. “My phone numbers are on there.”
She hurried from the restaurant.
CHUCK RETURNED TO his apartment and found Stormy snoring softly in the threadbare armchair that seemed to have become community property, a piece of raggedy-ass furniture shared by man and dog.
“Good thing I didn’t bring you on as a watchdog,” Chuck said.
Stormy yawned and rolled over.
Chuck attempted to analyze the somewhat bizarre turn his life had taken over the last several days—job offers from a film company and the FBI—but found the two shots of whisky working against any sort of intellectual assessment. The developments were what they were. And maybe Metcalf was right. He, Chuck, could be about to embark on the greatest adventure of his life, or more recently, his so-called life.
Not that it would be high adventure in the sense of facing great danger—experienced storm chasers knew how to stalk storms without putting themselves in jeopardy—but it would be a ticking time-bomb escapade in terms of racing the clock to find a violent tornado and secure a million-dollar prize. A million dollars. Had he heard that right? Was that really in the contract he’d signed?
He shuffled to the kitchen table where the documents lay and studied them again. Yes, even through his liquor-fuzzed vision, there it was: $1,000.000. For the first time since hearing the proposition, his heart beat a little faster. Reality coming home to roost.
Oh, there was also the reality of perhaps confronting a thief and murderer—a long shot, of course—but that was Agent Medeiros’ reality, not his.
His phone rang. Probably a solicitor or bill collector, but he didn’t have caller ID. Maybe Metcalf. Chuck elected to answer.
“Hello,” he said.
“Who is this?” a voice responded. “You’ve called my number several times recently.”
“Charles Rittenburg,” Chuck said. He tried to place the voice of the caller, but couldn’t. The connection fell silent.
“Hello?” Chuck repeated.
Stormy lifted her head to see who Chuck was talking to.
“Charles Rittenburg?” the caller said. “The Charles Rittenburg who lost his business, drove his wife off, and turned his back on his kids?”
“I didn’t drive my wife off and I didn’t turn my back on—” It abruptly dawned on Chuck who was calling. His son. “Tyler?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m surprised you remembered.” Anger threaded his words. Hardly a surprise. But there was more than that. Hurt and loss, too. Chuck acknowledged that his son probably had every right to stick a knife into him and twist.
“I handled the situation poorly—”
“Is that all I was to you, a situation?” The word came out venom tipped.
“Ty, listen, let’s not try to undo a decade of animosity over the phone. I called because I’d like to see you.”
“Let me guess. You’re broke and need a place to crash?”
Chuck expelled a long breath. The conversation wasn’t going well. But perhaps he shouldn’t have expected it to.
“No. I want you to come here.”
“I can’t afford it. In case you couldn’t figure it out from the area code, I live in Oregon. It’s not exactly an overnighter to Oklahoma.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Really?” Ty coated the word in skepticism.
“Yes. Really. I want you to ride shotgun for me on a hunting expedition.”
Chuck explained. He finished by telling Ty there was a substantial amount of money involved and that if the venture were successful he’d like to share with him “to make up for past shortcomings.”
Ty didn’t speak for a long time after Chuck had finished, and the most prominent sound in the room became the beat of Chuck’s heart. Stormy stood, shifted in the armchair, then lay down and positioned her head on the edge of the chair so she could keep an eye on Chuck.
Finally Ty said, “Money cures all, right?”
“No, of course not. I just—I really—I want to see you, son.”
“You’ll understand if the feeling isn’t mutual.”
“Give me a chance, Ty.”
Again, Ty remained silent before responding, perhaps gauging the pros and cons of the request and his reply. Eventually he spoke. “I suppose everyone deserves a second chance, even if they don’t. Or maybe I just have a perverse desire to see you get flushed down the crapper again. Okay, I’ll show. Call me when you’re ready. Five days notice you said?”
“Yes.”
“One more thing.”
Chuck waited.
“I am who I am. Don’t expect somebody different, somebody changed.” He hung up.
Chuck, still gripping the phone, gazed blankly at the ceiling. “Why should I have expected that?” he asked softly.
Chapter Six
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17
CHUCK FOUND A reasonable price on a short-term lease of a pre-owned Ford Expedition at a dealership in nearby Moore. The SUV appeared to be in excellent condition, and—a huge plus—sported virtually new Michelins and a full-sized spare. The Ford, with the addition of some electronics, would make a great chase vehicle. Chuck haggled briefly over the contract details, signed an agreement, shelled out the upfront money—a small portion of the advance from Metcalf—and had the SUV back at his apartment by late afternoon.
The following day, he bought a number of items he would need to support his chase. The purchases included an AC to DC power inverter, cell phones, signal boosters, and a high-end laptop computer. His final acquisition: a sophisticated hardware/software package that integrated meteorological, radar, and GPS data broadcast via XM Satellite Radio. Perfect for storm chasers on the move.
Several days later, he found an independent mechanic who made
several modifications to the Ford to accommodate his purchases. First, the serviceman wired the inverter to the vehicle’s battery, thus providing a way to convert its 12-volt DC output to a standard 110-volt AC supply. The inverter came with standard household outlets that would allow Chuck to keep his laptop powered and cell phone charged.
Second, over the center console, the mechanic installed a computer mounting bracket on a swivel arm that would allow Chuck to view his laptop from either the driver’s or passenger’s seat.
Finally, the mechanic affixed three antennae to the Expedition’s roof that would facilitate extended cell phone, XM, and GPS data reception.
Except for a few minor additions—a first aid kit, flashlights, and jumper cables—Chuck was ready to chase. All he needed was for the weather to play ball.
MONDAY, APRIL 22
AFTER A WEEK of daily trips—long, generally pleasant walks through the warming Oklahoma spring—to the Storm Prediction Center to review the weather situation, Chuck struck pay dirt. Or at least thought he had. Numerical models, he well knew, could be notoriously fickle the further into the future you attempted to apply them.
But five days down the road, a deep trough was forecast to pivot from the Rockies out over the Great Plains, setting up the requisite clash of air masses and winds that trigger the monster supercells of meteorological legend. There appeared to be enough support for the scenario, from different models and their ensemble variations, that Chuck felt emboldened to summon the troops.
He first called Metcalf, letting him know the Great Hunt would be ready to launch by the end of the week.
“Hey, that’s great, Chaz,” Metcalf bellowed. “I’ll have my little convoy rolling along I-40 by Wednesday. Should be there Saturday.”
So now it’s Chaz?
“Call me when you guys get into town and settled,” Chuck said. “If things look good, we’ll launch on Sunday.”
Next, he phoned Agent Medeiros, Gabi. He told her to be ready to depart on Sunday and promised to call her later in the week with more details.
Supercell Page 5
