One Got Away

by S. A. Lelchuk

  Then he sat down back on the bench.

  “What were those for?”

  “The kids at school all say I’m fat. I’m trying to get in shape so I can make the soccer team. My goal is to do fifty sit-ups and fifty push-ups every day.”

  “I think you look good,” I said. He blushed and wiped his glasses and didn’t say anything.

  “So, which plane was that?” I asked. “The one that just took off?”

  “A Beechcraft Bonanza. Six-seater, single-engine. It’s been in production longer than any airplane, ever.”

  “That was a private flight?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Mason, were you here earlier today? Watching the planes?”

  “I’ve been here since the morning,” he said. “It’s a teacher development day, I biked over right after breakfast.”

  “And you’ve been taking notes on every plane?”

  “I always do. Why?”

  “Did you happen to see any Cessnas landing?”

  Mason nodded. “Sure. I see a lot of them.”

  “Did you see a Cessna 172 this morning?”

  He consulted his notebook, flipping back a page, his face intent. “Only one so far. Usually there are more. They’re really popular. Did you know that more Cessna 172s have been manufactured than any airplane in history?”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “Can you tell me about the one that landed, Mason? What time it was?”

  He glanced again at his notebook. “It landed at 11:54 this morning.”

  “Did you happen to see anything? After it landed?”

  “See anything? Like what?”

  “Any of the passengers?”

  “No, I can’t see them after they actually land. I used to sit closer to the runways, but someone yelled at me.”

  “That’s okay. Thank you.” I was already on my feet. “It was nice to meet you, Mason.”

  “Where are you going?” He sounded disappointed.

  “I have to find the person I’m looking for.”

  I was three steps away when his voice stopped me. “A tall man with shiny brown shoes and a blue jacket?”

  I stopped and turned. “I thought you didn’t see anyone get off the plane.”

  “So that’s him?” The boy looked delighted. “Why do you want to find him? Are you with the police? Is he a criminal you’re chasing?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing that exciting, I promise.”

  “I can help, you know.”

  I smiled. “You don’t know what I need help with.”

  “Yes, I do!” he retorted. “You need to find that man.”

  I sat back down on the bench. “And you can help me do that?”

  “Yes,” Mason said with great confidence.

  “I’m not a policewoman. I’m just doing boring, grown-up things. It’s not what anyone would call exciting.”

  “You’re patronizing me,” he said matter-of-factly. “You weren’t before, but now you are. Because I’m younger than you. Teachers do it to me all the time.”

  I had to smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Let me help.”

  “Don’t you have friends to play with?” I regretted the question immediately.

  “No,” he said simply. “I don’t. That’s why I’m alone. You can trust me, I’m reliable and I can keep my mouth shut. If you promise to let me help, I’ll tell you everything I know about the man you want to find.”

  “I can’t make that promise. But you would be helping me a lot by telling me. Was this the man in the blue jacket?” I was holding out my photograph of Coombs.

  The boy took the small picture, looked closely, and nodded. “That’s him.”

  “How did you know what he looked like?”

  “I watch planes, but I like watching people, too,” he answered. “I try to guess which people match up with which planes. I like to make up stories about who they are and where they’re going. A few minutes after the Cessna landed, a tall man in a blue jacket walked out. There were no other planes for at least ten minutes before or after, and not many people around.”

  “What made you remember him?”

  “Because he noticed me,” the boy said.

  Now I was intrigued. “What do you mean, noticed?”

  “He saw me. Most people walk past like I’m invisible, or they’re on their phones or talking to someone. But the man in the blue jacket…” The boy paused, trying to frame his words. “He noticed me. The same way you did, actually. Like I mattered. The way I notice the planes.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “No. He just waved and gave me a little wink—like the two of us were in on some secret and no one else in the whole world got to know what it was.”

  “Did he have a car?”

  “Someone was waiting for him.”

  “Who?”

  “A chauffeur driving a white Range Rover.”

  “You didn’t happen to see the license plate, did you?”

  “No,” the boy said, sounding ashamed. “I didn’t think it was important or I would have written it down.”

  One problem was leading into another. A white Range Rover. This was Monterey, not rural Mississippi. The vehicles were everywhere. Like trying to find a specific white sheep in New Zealand.

  “But there was something,” he added. “The driver had a polo shirt with a logo.”

  “A logo? Can you draw it for me?”

  “Sure.” The boy flipped his notebook to a clean page and sketched with an assurance that spoke of art lessons somewhere in his past or present. He tore the page from his notebook. I took it, seeing a trio of trees with a matching trio of stylized waves behind them, bordered by a circle.

  “Thanks, Mason,” I said. “This is really helpful.”

  “Can I come with you?” he asked. “Please? I can help more.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, standing. “Not this time. But you’ve helped me a lot. I owe you one.” As I walked away, I glanced back. He was still watching me, eager and inquisitive, notebook forgotten on his lap.

  * * *

  I rode into downtown Monterey and found a tourist booth by Cannery Row. The pier jutted out into the Bay, the famous Monterey Bay Aquarium adjoining. In the water I could see sleek otters bobbing, buoyant and serene in their hammocks of kelp. The tourist booth had a stack of brochures. I took one. One of the ubiquitous pamphlets printed by tourism bureaus in every city, colorful with print and pictures, creased into a trifold. Unfolded, one side was a map of Monterey, little red stars showing the different attractions. The other side was devoted to small ads listing hotels and fishing rentals and restaurants. I didn’t know for sure if Coombs had been picked up by a hotel shuttle, but it seemed a good bet.

  The man working the booth looked like a retiree, tan and bald and cheerfully wrinkled, the kind of guy who liked chit-chatting, got stir-crazy inside all day, someone wanting something to do more than needing a paycheck. When I caught his eye, he gave me a big smile and said, “Welcome to beautiful Monterey.”

  “Thanks.” I returned the smile. “I was hoping you could help me. My friend is staying somewhere in town but I didn’t get the name of the place.”

  “Can’t you call him?”

  “He doesn’t have a phone yet—he’s visiting from Europe.”

  “That’s a tough pickle,” the info guy said. He scratched his nose as if to indicate that he was still ruminating on the problem and how it might be solved. “A very tough pickle indeed,” he said again.

  “I bet you’ve been in town a while,” I observed.

  “Me? I’ve been here longer than the darn pier,” the man said with cheery pride. “Surprised I don’t have barnacles on me.”

  I held out Mason’s sketch. “That’s the logo of the place he’s staying. Does it ring a bell?”

  The info guy raised his glasses and squinted down his nose at the logo. “I’d say it was the Lone Pine—you know, they own Pebble
Beach and all—but there’s three of them.” He studied the drawing critically. “Not exactly a lone pine when there’s three of the suckers, now, is it? So that’s out.” He scratched his nose again, this time with more conviction. “Oh, I know the place all right. It’s only about ten minutes from here.”

  I tried not to sound too eager. “What’s the name?”

  “The Cypress Grove Inn.”

  “The Cypress Grove,” I repeated. “That’s very helpful.”

  “You should stay on his good side.”

  I was startled by the sudden warning. “What?”

  “Your friend,” he clarified. “Whoever he is. He’s staying at the nicest place in town. World-class. You should stay on good terms with him, is all I meant. Sounds like a good guy to know.”

  “He has good taste, that’s for sure,” I said. “Just about everyone seems to agree on that.” Walking away, I slowed at a stylish little boutique, seeing colorful sundresses and handmade jewelry displayed in a window. The kind of place that charged three times the value of whatever they sold, but made the buyer feel good knowing that it was all local artisans and sustainable fabrics.

  I stopped at the display window.

  Coombs. The Cypress Grove Inn. Good taste. The nicest place in town.

  An idea was forming.

  9

  Immediately south of Monterey Bay, the coastline bulged out like a burl on a tree trunk before retreating inward to form the smaller Carmel Bay and then continuing south toward Big Sur. The Cypress Grove Inn was located on the southern side of the burl, the entrance marked by a hand-cut redwood sign with an arrow pointing the way in. Titular cypress trees bristled on either side of the drive, stern as uniformed sentries.

  I followed the arrow’s direction up a private drive that climbed sharply toward a tollbooth. The paving here was newer than the main road, black and fresh and immaculate. A guard emerged as I pulled up. He was handsome, maybe twenty or twenty-one, wearing creased khakis and a tucked-in white polo shirt that showed an athletic build. The shirt bore a distinctive circular logo. A trio of trees in the foreground, a trio of waves in the background.

  I flipped up my visor and gave him my name. “Checking in.”

  He glanced at a clipboard, then took a longer look after not finding what he expected. “Sorry, I don’t see your name here.”

  “Maybe the booking didn’t go through? I’ll figure it out at reception.”

  He looked doubtful but I looked confident. Sometimes that was enough. He hesitated, then nodded. “Follow the driveway.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I like your motorcycle,” he blurted.

  “You ride?”

  “Not yet. I want to.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “My mom. She hates motorcycles.” He reddened a bit under his tan, as though he realized how that sounded only after saying it. “I’m at Cal State Monterey. I’m not like a live-in-the-basement type. I’m just staying at home to save up some money while I’m in school.”

  “Smart move,” I said.

  He smiled as though relieved I hadn’t laughed at him. “My friends give me crap for it. But it’s only for another year.”

  “Well, I won’t,” I said. “I’m Nikki, by the way.” It never hurt having a friend in a new place. The thought gave me a flash of guilt. Sometimes I wished I could meet people without wondering if they’d be useful in an emergency.

  “I’m Ben. It’s a really nice place here,” he said. “People come from all over the world.” He smiled tentatively, as if worried about being too forward. “If you’re checking in here, you’ve done something right.”

  “Today’s been one of those days when I don’t feel like I’ve done anything right at all.”

  “I have those days.” Ben shifted, uncomfortable, as though he had overstepped a line. “Anyway, I’m sure you want to head up and relax.”

  I gave him a smile. “Nice to meet you, Ben. I’ll see you around.”

  In my handlebar mirrors, the tollgate chopped downward behind me like a descending sword.

  * * *

  The reception building was understated redwood and granite that oozed seductively out of the sculpted grounds. A spotless pair of white Range Rovers were parked in front, looking like they spent half their lives at a car wash. Unlike the imposing Art Deco hotel where I had met Martin Johannessen in San Francisco, the Cypress Grove seemed desirous of blending into the landscape, rather than dominating.

  I could see why. The landscape was magnificent. Stunning. To each side of the reception building, manicured green lawns slanted down, giving way to rockier ground dotted with freestanding bungalows that were half-hidden behind cypress trees and low palms. Then the terrain changed dramatically as it dropped steeply off, racing downward to the edge of a high bluff overlooking blue water joined to a seamless horizon line. I stood for a moment, taking in the view that swept out and down with such dizzying pleasure.

  Inside, the sole reception desk seemed carved from a single, massive piece of redwood. Ben must have called up because the receptionist was expecting me. She shook her head apologetically as I approached. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we have you listed as a check-in. There must have been some mistake. You said you had a reservation? Could it be a different name?”

  “It was sort of last-minute,” I said. “But this is a special occasion. I was hoping there might be room?”

  She clicked into her keyboard with a mournful air, like a doctor looking at an unpromising X-ray. “We usually fill up quite a few weeks in advance. Months, actually, during our high season.”

  “I was hoping to get lucky.”

  She clicked some more. “What’s the special occasion?”

  “Kind of a reunion.”

  “That sounds fun.” The receptionist looked up again. She was a pretty, freckled girl, Ben’s age, sporting the same white polo and the same tan, healthy skin. The two of them could have been in an Abercrombie ad together. “The best I can do is a one-night stay. Tomorrow we’re completely booked.”

  I was already handing her my license and credit card. “I’ll take it.”

  She typed and talked. “I have you in a king bungalow with fireplace and ocean views, for $1,400 nightly, plus tax. Number 4, down the path to your right.”

  “Jesus. You said $1,400?” I almost choked as I did some quick math to make sure my credit card wouldn’t max out. Between the morning’s plane ticket and this, it was getting close. I’d never paid more than two hundred for a hotel room in my life, as far as I could remember. “I don’t suppose you take Triple A?”

  “We do not.” She smiled to take the sting off. “Do you need assistance with your luggage?”

  I had the usual backpack I wore when riding long distance, plus a paper shopping bag from the boutique. “I’ll manage.” I took the key she handed me. It was an actual physical key, weighty brass attached to a solid lump of redwood. It vaguely reminded me of an elementary school bathroom pass. I thanked the receptionist and headed to Number 4.

  * * *

  I followed a sloping path down behind the reception building and discovered a sumptuous oasis that had been blocked from view. The scene looked almost too perfect, as though a film crew was going to rip away a painted backdrop any second. Low palm trees and high green ferns lined a sunken, emerald-green hot tub, the water appearing to bubble from the very rock. It gave the impression of a pool that had been hidden away since the Cenozoic Era, secret and pristine. Adjacent was a small swimming pool, the water tinted perfect aquamarine. Below, the ocean crashed into the cliffs with a low rumble; above, blue sky swept out to the horizon to meet equally blue sea.

  The only imperfection in the picture was a small group of pasty-chested men lounging in the hot tub. They didn’t look perfect or pristine. One of them saw me and called out, “Wanna join the party?”

  “No thanks.” There were two magnums of Dom Perignon and a bottle of tequila arranged at the rim of the hot tub, along wit
h flutes and shot glasses.

  “You’re making a mistake. We’re way more fun than anyone else here,” chipped in another.

  A third voice added, “Including your husband.” There were schoolkid snickers from the group of them.

  I couldn’t resist. “Whoever said that is obviously single.”

  Three of them laughed. The fourth, the one who had made the husband crack, didn’t. He looked pissed. The classic I-can-dish-it-but-not-take-it type. He was well on his way to losing his hair, maybe four or five years remaining before the final exit date, and like he’d been making up for it by lifting exactly two muscle groups, biceps and pectorals, for all he was worth.

  He tossed back champagne, flushing. “Being single is fun. Means I get to talk to girls like you.”

  “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

  He made an elaborate pantomime of checking the nonexistent watch on his wrist. “Ask me in about two hours.” In case I didn’t get the point, he added, “After you decide you’re ready for the best time of your life.”

  “That’s supposed to be a pickup line? Do they even let you near schools or parks?”

  His friends were laughing louder, and his face grew correspondingly darker. “You know what we’ve been up to this week? We got bought by Facebook, bitches. I just booked a month in Phuket. How about you? What have you been up to this week?”

  “This is the part where I get really impressed, right?”

  He angrily refilled his glass. “If you were smart enough, yeah. Clearly you’re not.”

  “Don’t stay in the tub too long or your skin will prune,” I advised. I gave the group a wave and continued down the hill, wondering for the millionth time whether something would come along, some badly needed bubble or dot-com crash, and wipe away this generation of tech bros the way the dinosaurs had been banished by an asteroid. Dominance could only continue for so long.