by Bob McElwain
“What if there’s smuggling?” He told Hank about Sanchez working on the C47. “Think I’ll go in today and see if I can find where that plane came from.”
“I can do that. You shouldn’t be out and about just now.”
“Overnite is okay. There’re lots of people around. Besides, there’s a fella named Rhoads who handles flight scheduling. I can get to him without others knowing we’re interested. And I might pick up something about Talbert or Sanchez.”
“I don’t like it much, but you’re mostly full grown. Is the woman there?”
“Yeah.”
“Put her on.”
Brad rose and took the phone over to Josie. “Yes,” she said. He returned to the couch and watched as she listened. Apparently in response to a question, she told of her encounter with the agents, that they were with the DEA. She listened further, then said, “I’m going to see if I can find how Tuckman’s case changed when Gerald died and then later, when Lydia were killed.” She listened a moment longer, then said, “I can do that.” She hung up and set the phone beside the chair.
“He said he’d have your car towed. He wants the bullets.”
Brad nodded.
“And he wants me to take you to work and pick you up as well. Okay?”
“Sure.” He stood and began pacing the room. Finally he stopped, facing her, tugging on his ear. “What the hell is happening?” he asked mildly.
“I wish I could say,” she said. “It seemed simple back in Vegas. Now it’s clear you’re facing a good deal more than Judge Tofler.”
He shook his head, as if trying to loosen an idea. Even one item clearly understood would be an improvement. He returned to the couch and sat down. “If I had anything at all, I could figure a move.”
“We just have to keep digging. Something will come of it.” Her voice rang with confidence; he wondered if she believed what she said. “I’ve got to go. You’d better come with me. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Brad shook his head slowly. “Only Hank knows I’m here. If it’s okay with you, I’ll stay.”
She chewed lightly on her lower lip.
“You can call whenever, if you think I might need another alibi.”
She nodded. “I’ll pick you up at 2:30.” She collected her purse and a sweater, then left. When the bolt slid closed behind her, he wished she hadn’t gone. But had she stayed, what then? He sighed, remembering her smile, the dark blue of her eyes, and her long legs as she moved to the door.
* * *
“I love this place.” Josie let her glance sweep Amanda Pothmore’s office once more. “All these oddball things. Every piece is choice. I don’t see how it works, but it does.”
Amanda smiled, idly picking up a pencil from her desk. “I fell in love with one item at a time. But it does work, doesn’t it? Good fortune, I suspect.” Amanda laid the pencil down, then looked up. “But that’s enough of that. Tell me about Brad.”
Josie did. Amanda leaned forward over the desk. When Josie finished, Amanda said, “It seems a bit messy all in all. He called this morning, but you paint a darker picture. Tell me more.”
“He must be both afraid and angry. But he doesn’t show it.” Josie paused, thinking. “He seems more puzzled and confused than anything else.”
Amanda nodded. “His father showed him anger is futile, that it blocks clear thinking and can lead to costly errors. Confusion is the response I’d expect from him.”
“Remember when you teased me about his being cuddly and I said like a bear?”
“Yes,” Amanda replied, puzzled.
She hesitated, searching for words. “He’s as dangerous as I thought, but there’s more. And I can’t put it into words.”
Amanda looked at her sharply. “Try,” she demanded.
Josie toyed with her hair for some time. Finally, she said, “It’s as if he’s waiting.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“I’m not sure I do either.” She looked at her hands lying face up in her lap. “He seems lost, vulnerable somehow. He’s a study in contradiction.” Looking up, she continued, “I think if he knew who, he’d move and no one could stop him.”
“Yes. I would expect him to take harsh action, given a target,” Amanda said softly, toying with the pencil. When she laid it down, she looked up and asked, “Is there anything else we can do?”
“I’ve some things to check. Sgt. Walters is doing everything he can. But he’s becoming angrier by the minute; he also needs only a target. But there’s nothing, no one.”
“Should we bring more people onto the team? Perhaps assign someone to cover Brad?”
“That would help. I can’t really be with him and get much done. And there are lots of things I haven’t had time to look into.
“That’s partly why I’m here. We need to talk about money.” She told about the money belt and the sixty thousand now locked in her safe.
“Are you wondering where he got it?”
“Not working in gas stations, certainly. He claims he won it playing poker.”
“Then he did. He wouldn’t lie about that. I suspect he didn’t brag, that he made light of it.”
“You’re right. But how can anyone treat that much money so casually? He tossed it into my lap without a second thought.”
“Like his father, he lives cheap. Other things mean much more to him than money. He sees it as a tool that matters, but nothing more. As for giving it to you, it only means he trusts you.”
Josie nodded, as she continued curling her hair around a finger.
“I can see you’re still not convinced,” Amanda said with a smile.
“Almost,” Josie said with a sigh. “So you think I should go ahead and use what he gave me?”
“Yes,” Amanda said without hesitation. “And if you need more, come straight to me.” Her eyes twinkled. “You may have to do that sooner than you think. I doubt he’ll let you use his money to pay for people to guard him.”
Josie nodded agreement. “I can manage today. I’ll talk with Sgt. Walters and see what he thinks. Perhaps that’s what we need, an army of experts digging in hard.” She paused, glancing at the floor.
“What is it?” Amanda asked.
“I’ve a personal problem.”
Amanda invited her to continue with a nod.
Josie hesitated. As she began framing the question that was haunting her, she abruptly changed her mind. “This whole matter has become confusing,” she said. “All the pieces may interrelate in some odd way. I’ll lose my license if anyone decides I’m working an open police case.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know Jeffery Walden well. Could you talk to him? If he’d hire me to investigate on behalf of his client, I’d remain legally clean. No money needs to change hands.”
Amanda nodded. “I’ll call him right away. He’s not at all happy with the way things are going. He may actually ask you to check some things out.”
“I’ll be glad to,” Josie said.
When Josie stood, Amanda did the same, and walked around the desk. She took Josie’s hand in hers and said, “Watch Brad carefully, my dear. Remember I didn’t say he was incapable of anger. It may be building nicely now. I don’t envy you the task of stopping him if he decides to ask.”
“If he explodes, I don’t believe I can stop him. Slamming a door in his face, even locking it, would slow him only temporarily.”
Amanda chuckled as they started for the door. “Why do I have this feeling you have something more to ask?”
“Because you’re perceptive,” Josie replied ruefully, turning to face her. “Why does he blush so at any allusion to sex or sexuality?”
“Charming, isn’t it?” She was smiling brightly. “I don’t know, really, but I suspect he lacks self-confidence with women. And Lydia didn’t help. Beyond this, I can’t say. I know he does nothing halfway. He’s not a man of casual interests. I don’t know that this holds for his girlfriends, but I suspect it does.
”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Call it an old woman’s prerogative?”
“All right, I’m braced.”
“If you become involved with him, it’s not likely to be a casual relationship or a brief interlude.”
“You’re thinking about yourself and his father, aren’t you?”
Amanda nodded, smiling broadly. “Brad is, after all, his father’s son.” She gave Josie a hug and a brief peck on her cheek, then released her and opened the door. “Of course, I might be wrong.” There was a twinkle in her eyes, matching her smile. “It’s times like this I’m delighted to be of respectable age with these sorts of things well behind me.”
Amanda’s quiet laughter lingered and drifted subtlety amidst Josie’s thoughts as she made her way downstairs to her car and drove off. She wished somehow she hadn’t visited Amanda today.
* * *
Brad had been at the curb in front of Josie’s apartment at 2:20. She had eased the Trans Am to a stop and was moving before he’d latched the door. Something was different about her. Yet she was as open and friendly as usual. It was as if she’d pulled part of herself inside. He decided she was only more worried than she’d admit. He noticed she had not looked at him; her eyes remained on the road.
At his suggestion, they’d stopped two miles short of the terminal and waited for a bus that would drop him off in front of Overnite Air. She agreed there was no point in letting anyone see the black Trans Am until later.
When he left the bus, he could feel the tension in his shoulders. His walk to the terminal building was unhurried, but determined. In the snack bar, he surveyed the small room, looking for Alex Rhoads, the man who handled scheduling. He wasn’t there. With coffee in hand, he joined two men from the shed. He positioned himself so he could watch both entrances. “So what’s new?” he asked.
“Cops,” the taller man said. “All over cops. They were on us all morning.”
“The killings?”
Both men nodded. The taller one continued, “They must think somebody here done it. They spent near half an hour with each of us.”
Brad felt the beginnings of a tremble and gripped his coffee cup firmly. He didn’t much want to talk to police right now. He certainly didn’t want to explain why he was using the name Tom Fairchild.
“Well. Gotta go shovel more crap,” said the shorter man.
Both rose. “See ya,” said the other.
Brad toyed with his coffee cup, wondering if he should walk right back out the door he’d come in. Then he saw the stooped, rounded shoulders of the slight, bespectacled man he was looking for. Alex Rhoads, with coffee and doughnut, chose a table by himself. Brad rose, coffee in hand, and walked to the table.
“Join you?” he asked.
“Of course,” Rhoads replied, waving a hand airily toward the bench opposite his.
“Some excitement this morning,” Brad remarked.
“Yes. Indeed. Policemen everywhere. First Talbert, now Sanchez. And apparently there’s another killing connected somehow. It’s all very exciting. I’ve never been questioned by the police. I was surprised at how well they handled it. Not at all like on TV or in books. I have the distinct impression I don’t want those men looking for me.”
“I know what you mean.” Brad paused, searching for a way to find what he needed. “Got a dumb question.”
“All right.”
“How come this outfit’s still using C47s? Seems like they’re pretty old.”
“They certainly are. They should have been junked years ago. Everyone knows it, but no one seems able to get rid of them.”
“How many do you have?”
“Just three.”
“Use them often?”
“No. Only occasionally. They certainly don’t pay for themselves.”
“How’s that?”
“In the first place, any airplane is expensive to maintain. Unless it’s in the air, you’re losing money. But worse than that is flying planes that aren’t fully loaded. I think that’s why we’re in financial difficulty. Too many planes flying nearly empty. And the C47s are the biggest losers.”
“For example?”
“That one out there in the service hangar?” Brad nodded. “It came in yesterday morning from Puebla, Mexico. You wouldn’t believe the manifest. Less than a thousand pounds. The freight billing didn’t even cover the cost of the fuel.”
“Why don’t you rework the schedules?”
“Heaven knows I try. But I take orders as we all do. If they tell me to schedule a flight from Puebla, I do it, even if I know it’ll be a losing run.”
“Must be hard on you.”
“It is. But I guess as long as I don’t get the blame, I’ll be all right. Still, if there’s trouble, I’d be a marvelous scapegoat for poor scheduling.”
Brad rose. “Looks like we’ll all need jobs soon.”
“Yes. It does, doesn’t it?”
Brad left Rhoads deep in thought, his forehead furrowed, his shoulders hunched far out over the table. Puebla, Mexico, he thought. Narcotics. Talbert. Sanchez. Tuckman. He knew nothing of Gates, but it could fit. So what? Unless it could all be tied to Gerald and Lydia Ashton, it wouldn’t help him one bit.
Outside the snack bar, he paused, undecided. He had the information he wanted, except possible news of Talbert or Sanchez. Should he leave now? He certainly didn’t want to talk with police. On the other hand, if they came back and he wasn’t here, they’d come looking. Maybe they won’t be back today, he thought. Then I’d be clear until Monday.
“Damn,” he muttered out loud. “I can’t decide a thing.” He squared his shoulders and walked toward the shed.
* * *
Brad eased a heavy skid to the floor and swung the forklift around. Two neatly dressed men blocked the aisle. Wondering what a big city killer looked like, he tensed until he saw the badge the taller man was holding. He cut the engine and stepped down. Motion eased the tension in his legs.
“Tom Fairchild?” asked the taller man. He was neatly dressed in dark slacks, a light gray sport coat, a tan shirt and tie.
Brad nodded.
“I’m Santino, homicide. He’s Farley, narcotics. Could you answer a few questions for us?” he asked politely.
“Sure.” He chose a crate and sat, leaning back against a second one stacked on the first. His seat was not wide; he was really half standing. He wanted it that way, for it made it easier to hide trembles.
Santino, the taller of the two detectives sat down near him on another crate. Farley, the man from narcotics, stepped toward him and asked, equally polite, “May I see your papers?”
Brad dug them out and handed them to the detective. He doubted the casual glance missed anything. Farley pulled a small notebook from an inside pocket, thumbed it open and read Hank’s address and phone number. “Is this correct?” he asked.
Brad nodded, wondering if he’d ever be comfortable talking with police officers. Farley handed his papers back, closed the notebook, tapping it idly against his other hand as he leaned back against the tall crate opposite Brad. Both men were between him and any reasonable exit.
“I guess you’ve heard about Sam Gates, Jason Talbert, and Roberto Sanchez?” His smile was easy and pleasant and friendly. His eyes were watchful.
“The guys have been talking about it.”
Farley smiled, nodding. “Did you know these men?”
“I met Talbert and Sanchez, but I only started here. Never spent any time with them.”
“I noticed that. You started Tuesday, right?” He glanced briefly at a page in the small notebook, then looked back at Brad. “Gates was killed that same day, Talbert the next and Sanchez last night.”
“Must make you a bit uncomfortable,” said Santino on his right. “You start to work and three men die.”
“Hadn’t thought about it that way.”
Farley smiled and said, “It’s just a coincidence, I’m sure.” He glanced at a page in h
is notebook. “I noticed from your papers you haven’t done this sort of work in some time. Can I ask what you’ve been doing and where?”
“I’m a good mechanic. Been working in Vegas since Chicago.”
“Like to gamble?”
“I’m into poker.”
Farley nodded his understanding. “Is that why you left Chicago to go to Vegas?”
“Mostly, but I like to move now and then.”
“I see. So you just moved on here to LA?”
“Not quite,” Brad said with a sigh. “I got cleaned. LA is where the jobs are.”
“That’s what I hear,” Farley said thoughtfully. “So you’re renting at this address?” He tapped lightly on his notebook.
“Staying with a friend.” He hadn’t thought of this question or what he knew was coming next.
“And your friend’s name?”
“Jerry Hiddly,” he said easily. But the lie tasted badly. He wished he hadn’t come to work today.
Farley’s pleasant expression turned solemn. “Ever been arrested?”
His heart missed a half beat before remembering he was Tom Fairchild. “Couple times. Once in Atlanta, then in Chicago. But they turned me loose both times.”
“I see,” said Farley. “And the charges?”
“Don’t think there were any in Atlanta. But it was a fight. Someone screamed for the police. In Chicago, some fella tried to punch me out.”
“Do you play rough, Mr. Fairchild?”
“I don’t hunt trouble.” He looked the detective squarely in the eyes.
“Do you own a gun?”
“Nope.” Brad was thinking of Gerald’s .45. It was a technicality, but he’d never really owned it.
“Have you ever used, sold or been connected with narcotics?”
“In Nam, I was around it a lot. Since I got back, seems like a lot of people use it. But booze suits me.”
“So you were in Vietnam. Combat?”
Brad nodded.
“What was your rank?”
“Lieutenant.” Tom Fairchild had been a corporal when he died. But Brad knew it was easier if most of what he said was true.
The questioning continued easily without pressure. Both detectives were polite, pleasant and persistent. There was no pattern Brad could see, except that certain questions were repeated, always in a slightly different form.
