City of Whispers

by Marcia Muller

  “Let’s sit down,” I said.

  “I can’t. I’m too nervous.”

  “Why? What’re you so afraid of?”

  She shook her head.

  “Something Park did?”

  Silence.

  “Something Park’s going to do?”

  No response. Her right hand was twisting at her diamond wedding band.

  “Well, if you don’t want to talk about that, let’s talk about why you flew to Portland and ransacked Jack Tullock’s place.”

  She blinked at me. “How do you know about that?”

  “FAA records. If you didn’t want to be found out, you shouldn’t have filed a flight plan.”

  “That’s me,” she said bitterly. “The good little girl who always plays by the rules. But at the time I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I didn’t feel the need for secrecy.”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “After you showed me the photo you found of the Four Musketeers, I called Mr. Tullock to ask if he had any other pictures of the group that might shed some light on Gaby’s murder. There was no answer. I thought by the time I got there he’d be at home. So I went right away.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Why not? When your best friend’s murdered and nobody’s doing anything about it any more, if there’s a possibility you can, you grab on to it.”

  “So you got up there…?”

  “And when I called from the airport, there was no answer again. So I used one of the FBO’s vans and drove to his ranch. Still nobody, but the house and his office were unlocked. I know I shouldn’t have gone in and searched, but by then I was so worked up. I broke a vase in the house, and I made a terrible mess in the studio. I didn’t mean to, but I was afraid they’d come back and find me. And there were all these weird noises outside.”

  Jack Tullock’s exotic animals.

  “I found something too,” Lucy added. “Not what I wanted or expected. It… I’ll show you.” She left the room, returned with a faded color photograph. “It’s time- and date-stamped. Taken at Wildside, a bar where they all used to hang out.”

  The bar where Tullock claimed he’d gotten blind drunk the night he was supposed to kill Clarence Drew. Apparently not so drunk that he couldn’t take photographs.

  The picture showed Park in profile, slouching at a table with a row of empty glasses in front of him. A blond woman, her hair a mass of long curls, sat next to him, holding his hand.

  Lucy’s sister, Torrey.

  “Did you know this was going on?” I asked, tapping the image of her sister.

  “Not at the time, no.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “A couple of months ago. Torrey had come over to use Park’s computer. She was always doing that. And I heard them talking.”

  “Park was involved with your sister back then, but he was planning to marry Gaby anyway?”

  “Yes, so he could get hold of her money. When she was killed, he exaggerated his grief and went after me.”

  “Why not Torrey, since they were already involved?”

  She sat down and seemed to shrink in the big chair. “Because Torrey’s unstable, not suitable as a wife. And my parents have written her out of their will. Me, I’m pliable, I can be what he needs. I stand to inherit, and my father made Park a big loan to expand the chain of FBOs. But there’s something about Torrey’s instability that excites Park like I never have.”

  She seemed to listen to her words. “Well, I’m not pliable any more,” she added. “Not any more.”

  I asked Lucy if I could take a look at Park’s computer. She led me upstairs into a sparsely furnished office—just a computer, printer, and scanner.

  “I don’t know anything about these machines,” Lucy said. “I hope you do.”

  The computer was an iMac like mine. I reached around its back and turned it on, hoping Park had stored his password. He had, and why not? Lucy wouldn’t have known how to use it. I clicked Mail, found all the boxes were empty. There were few desktop icons and none of interest.

  Park’s browser was Firefox. I opened it, clicked History, scrolled down, selected the entries for the past two months. And there was my answer.

  Repeated postings on FreeToHarm.com. Postings that had probably prompted Clarence Drew to kill himself.

  Had Park posted them? No, he might cheat his wife out of her portion of their joint assets, but this was not his style. Whose, then? The woman Clarence Drew had thrown out of his house the day before he killed himself?

  I checked the last posting on FreeToHarm; it was from noon of the day Drew hanged himself.

  My cell rang. Mick again.

  “Two things,” he said. “Laura Mercer first. She was in the county lockup on charges of possession of cocaine. Her cellmate was Torrey Grant, Lucy Bellassis’s sister. I spoke with one of the guards there. After a lot of lucrative promises on my part he told me the two got very friendly. In fact, they appeared to be exchanging life stories.”

  “Were they released at the same time?”

  “No. Torrey ten days before Laura.”

  But they could have arranged to meet when Laura got out.

  “Okay. What’s the other thing?”

  “I just sent a picture to your cell phone. I took it inside the house on Clayton, but with the attack and the drugs and all, I forgot about it till now.”

  I said, “Wait a minute,” and put him on hold. Brought up the photo. It was actually a picture of a picture.

  Torrey Grant and Jeff Morgan.

  Although I recognized the pair, I showed the picture to Lucy for confirmation. “Yes, that’s my sister and Jeff,” she said. “Where’d you get this?”

  “No time to explain now. What’s their address?”

  It was the house on Clayton Street.

  “You going to be okay?” I asked Lucy on my way out.

  “Of course. The alarm’s on. And Park’s not coming back.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Yes. He’s got what he wants—he thinks.”

  “What does that mean?”

  A sly smile spread across her face. “The signed quitclaims on our properties and business and transfers of our investment accounts. Only they’re not going to do him any good. I may come across as a fluffy, no-brain twentysomething, and I’ve acted the part because it was what Park wanted. But tonight he said he was in a hurry to get those documents signed, so they could go off with a courier. That was a bit of nonsense: property transfers have to be taken to the county clerks, and changes in ownership submitted to the various investment institutions. He’s probably holing up at our Napa Valley house with one of his sweeties until start of business tomorrow.”

  I sensed what was coming. “What did you do?”

  “Deviated from my usual handwriting—just a little bit so he wouldn’t notice—and misspelled my last name. Instead of Bellassis, I wrote B-e-l-a-s-s-e-s. Knowing Park as I do, I was sure he wouldn’t even glance at the signatures. He didn’t, and he won’t until he tries to use them.”

  Lights were on behind closed draperies of the first-floor apartment of the house on Clayton. I knocked, and Torrey’s voice called out, “Jeff, it’s about time. What took you so long?”

  When she opened the door and saw me, a mixture of dismay and fear clouded her features. “You,” she said flatly, and tried to slam the door. I blocked it with my foot and shoulder. Behind her I could see a row of mismatched suitcases.

  “Jeff’s not coming.” As I’d driven here from Sea Cliff, Hy had checked in to say that the red Honda was bypassing San Jose and heading west.

  “What? How do you—?”

  “Where’s Darcy?”

  “… Who?”

  “My brother Darcy. What’ve you and Morgan done with him?”

  I pushed through the door, forcing her to back up. Her face had gone pale, the fright sharp in her eyes.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I made a menacing
move toward her, and she shrank back against the wall. “Where is he?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “No good, Torrey. You know, all right. And don’t bother trying to cover for Morgan. My agency’s been tailing him ever since he picked up the ransom money at the park. My last report was that he’s now headed west of San Jose. He cut you out of the deal.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “You haven’t heard from him, have you?”

  She gave me a defiant look, then whirled suddenly and ran down the hallway. I sprinted after, had no trouble grabbing her shoulders and bringing her down on the threshold of the kitchen. She struggled for a moment, then went still. She was a nasty piece of work, but a fighter she wasn’t.

  “Where’s Darcy? Is he still alive?”

  “… Yeah, I think so.”

  “You think so. He’d better be. If anything happens to him, you’ll be facing lethal injection right along with Morgan.”

  Torrey moaned, a self-pitying sound. “I wasn’t there when he killed that old drunk out at the projects. That was his idea. He wanted to kill Darcy too, but I wouldn’t let him….”

  There wasn’t time to get the rest of the story out of her, but I figured out most of it anyway. The details would come later. The important thing now was to find Darcy.

  “Once more, damn you: WHERE IS HE?”

  Dully: “Jeff had him stashed someplace at the FBO. I guess he’s still there.”

  I pushed up to my feet, hurried down the hallway. As soon as I was out of the building Torrey would go on the run. But she wouldn’t get far. I knew it and she knew it, but that wouldn’t stop her from making the effort.

  Losers like her keep on being losers to the very end.

  On my way to SFO I called Hy. “Where are you?”

  “Halfway to Santa Cruz.”

  “Do you have an operative in the area who can take over for you? I need you up here.”

  He recognized the urgency in my voice and didn’t ask why. “Hold on.” A minute later he came back. “Op named Zoe Wasler lives five minutes from where I am. We’ll meet up, I’ll give her the tracking device, then I’ll head back.”

  “I’ll meet you at SFO. You hooked in with anybody in security there?”

  “Go-to man this time of morning is Dave Homestead. I’ll get onto him and let you know where to meet us. You can fill me in on what’s happening then.”

  Dave Homestead was tall and bald with a roughly hewn face and blue eyes that crackled with intensity. I doubted he smiled much—if ever. Hy and I met with him and two of his colleagues in a conference room upstairs in the international terminal, where I laid out Lucy Bellassis’s story.

  One of the colleagues went over and pulled down a map of the airport. It was constructed on a crisscross pattern—dual runways from northwest to southeast, a second, shorter pair from northeast to southwest. The terminals were northeast of the longest runway, 10L.

  “This,” he said, pointing to an area to the northwest of the main double runways, “is general aviation. And this”—a few inches to the left—“is the Bellassis FBO.”

  I waited impatiently.

  Homestead took over. “You say Park Bellassis’s wife thinks your brother is being held in the facility itself, but I doubt that. Too many people coming and going, plus the building is designed in such a way it would be extremely difficult to conceal someone who was being confined against his will.”

  Having seen it, I agreed.

  “There are, however,” Homestead added, “outbuildings belonging to the Bellassis operation, hangars and storage sheds that are not shown on this map. We have not been able to locate Mr. Bellassis, but since his wife is co-owner of the business, I assume her verbal permission will suffice.”

  Almost wasn’t the co-owner, I thought, remembering the documents Park had had her sign before the notary that afternoon. Thank God she’d had the presence of mind to alter her signature.

  Homestead said to me, “I understand Mr. Ripinsky is a well-known hostage negotiator, and of course my people are expert at controlling situations on the field, but it does seem a risk to involve you.”

  “My half brother is mentally disturbed,” I said. “He often acts out violently in the presence of strangers, particularly strangers whom he perceives as intent on restraining or harming him. Aside from my mother, who lives in Boise, Idaho, I’m probably the only person who’s capable of reaching him.”

  “Still, there are insurance factors, liability—”

  “I’ll sign any kind of waiver you require.”

  “Such a waiver would need to be drawn up by our attorneys, and I doubt they would be appreciative of being woken at nearly three in the morning. To say nothing of the tenants of the hangars, to whom we would owe courtesy calls before we enter them.”

  He’d pushed too many of my buttons. I said, “This is a man’s life we’re talking about here, not a few people losing sleep! Check with the law enforcement agencies that have jurisdiction over the airport—I’m sure they’ll be willing to invoke probable cause.”

  Homestead sighed and rubbed a hand over his weary-looking eyes. “You have a point, Ms. McCone—several points,” he said, and picked up the phone.

  Another dark blue–uniformed woman on the customer service desk at the FBO welcomed Homestead warmly. “I received the call from your office and verified with Mrs. Bellassis that it’s okay to enter any and all of the hangars and storage facilities.” She frowned. “Mrs. Bellassis sounded upset. It’s none of my business, but I’m concerned: has something happened to Mr. Bellassis?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. He and his passenger flew out of here in such a rush earlier that one of the mechanics said he didn’t preflight his Citation properly.”

  Under FAA rulings—and the rules of common sense—it’s the pilot’s duty, be he the first officer on a heavy jet or the owner of an ultralight homebuilt, to perform a complete preflight inspection. No one else, not even a head mechanic, can do it for him.

  I said, “Who was his passenger?”

  “A woman. I didn’t get a good look at her.”

  I said, “Flight plan?”

  “None, unless he filed it after he was airborne.”

  “Will you check to see if he did, please?”

  She turned to her computer. “No, I don’t see any.”

  That in itself didn’t mean anything. Flight plans aren’t required in many situations. And if Park had gone to their Napa Valley house as Lucy presumed, he wouldn’t have bothered.

  I asked, “How many people do you have on duty here tonight?”

  “The mechanic I mentioned. One lineman on the gas pumps. There’s a guy who’s based at our Salt Lake operation sleeping in the lounge; he’s waiting to pick up a pair of clients. Me.”

  “No janitors? No clients who rent hangars or tie-downs?”

  “No. Although I did notice a vehicle driving toward the hangars at the northwest end of the field, but I didn’t see which one it went to.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A little before or after midnight. Rolf—the pilot from Utah—arrived a few minutes later, and we chatted over coffee for a while, so I suppose the vehicle might’ve left during that time period. But I haven’t seen any activity on this part of the field since the We Deliver cargo flight arrived at three-fifty.”

  I looked at the clocks posted on the wall behind the desk: San Francisco, Denver, Chicago, New York, London, Berlin, Tokyo, and Wasilla, Alaska. Well, somebody here had a sense of humor.

  It was 4:23. Civil twilight wasn’t for at least another two hours; the sun wouldn’t rise till almost six. That still didn’t give us much time to work in total darkness—the preferable situation. I said to Homestead, “We’d better get started on those hangars.”

  Cargo flights from around the world were arriving sporadically now: FedEx, DHL, Lufthansa. They rumbled overhead on their way to the freight terminals. Traffic had picke
d up on the nearby Bayshore Freeway—mainly trucks, but some early commuters and travelers. The growl of the airport security vans blended in as we moved toward the cluster of hangars.

  I sat tense and watchful in the front passenger seat next to Dave Homestead. Hy, in the backseat, was mainly on the phone, tending to RI business—a crisis developing in El Salvador, a death threat against a high official in the German government, an RI operative shot but not killed on a surveillance in Indonesia. In between he put the phone on speaker so we could communicate with Zoe Wasler, the operative he’d passed the tracking device to in San Jose.

  She said, “We’re about ten miles south of Fresno now. This person drives fast and has a nose for the highway patrol.”

  I said, “Where d’you think he’s heading?”

  “The way I see it, he’s got several options: to Bakersfield and down to the LA area and get lost there or keep going into Mexico; cut over from Bakersfield into Nevada.”

  “He’ll never get across the Mexican border,” Hy said. “We’ve given the description of the car to customs.”

  “He could switch the car for another on some small-town dealer’s lot,” Wasler said, “but if he does that, I’ll be right on his ass, along with the local cops.”

  “What about an airport or private field? Or a hiding place in the hills? There’s that route—I forget which—from Bakersfield to Barstow that runs through some pretty desolate territory.”

  “I know the road. Besides, ain’t nobody can hide long from ole Zoe.”

  This was a woman I liked even before meeting her. After she broke the connection I asked Hy, “Wherever did you find her?”

  “She found us. Was with the Secret Service during the Clinton administration and met some of our people on one of his visits to the city.”

  By now we’d reached the first of the hangars. Homestead braked, shut the van’s engine down. As we approached I gripped my .357. Homestead banged on the side door, called out, then unlocked it and switched on the inside lights. They revealed a midsize Gulfstream jet and orderly shelves covered with maintenance gear.

  “Janna and Frank Favor’s plane,” he said. “They couldn’t possibly be involved in this.”