More waiting. Waiting makes me hungry, so I microwaved some popcorn, doused it liberally with melted butter, and gobbled most of it up while sitting by the seaward windows.
At three-thirty, Garland called.
“The guy who subs for Kessell is Jerry Leader,” he said, and gave me an address and phone number. “This about your break-in?”
“Could be. What about Kessell’s alarm system?”
“Negative. In fact, a lot of his pals razz him about not having one. Physician, heal thyself—that sort of thing.”
“This is Jerry Leader,” the nasal voice said in answer to my inquiry.
“This is Linnea Carraway”—an old friend from high school whose name had popped into my head a second before. “I’ve recently been hired by Dan Kessell as his bookkeeper. His records are . . . well, incomplete. I wonder if you could fill me in on the dates you’ve subbed for him in the past couple of years.”
“Sure. I sub for a lot of the patrol guys here. Keep a log so I can be sure I’ve been paid. Just a sec.”
Sounds of a drawer being opened and closed, pages being turned. “Yeah, here it is.” He proceeded to reel off a list of dates and whatever reasons he could recall for Kessell’s absences.
“He’s used you a lot,” I said when I finished making notes.
“Well, my buddy Danny’s not much for work.”
“Really? He seems pretty professional to me.”
“Oh, he’s a pro, all right. But he also likes to fly and fish.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Leader. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my employer about my call. I don’t want him to think I’m questioning his business practices.”
“Wouldn’t think of it. I don’t want him to know I’ve been telling tales out of school.”
I said good-bye to Jerry Leader and broke the connection. Then I began comparing the dates he’d given me with the dates of the RKI bombings.
January 17 of last year, when the Detroit office was bombed and the manager killed: Leader didn’t recall the circumstances under which he’d been asked to take over the patrols for two days. February 21, the date of the attack in Houston: Leader hadn’t worked for Kessell, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t hired someone else or simply neglected his patrols. August 18, Kansas City: abalone season, off harvesting the potentially endangered species. February 15 of this year, Mexico City bombing: Kessell had flown to Harris Ranch for three days, but Walter Waggoner had told me Kessell only stayed there one night, and had to save up for it. Miami, May 10: he hadn’t hired Leader. August 1, the training camp: again, Leader had been hired but didn’t recall the circumstances. February 20, Green Street: Leader hadn’t subbed. The twenty-fifth, when Tyne/Kessell was killed: the same. The twenty-eighth, date of the Chicago bombing: away four days, business unspecified.
None of the reasons Kessell had given Jerry Leader for hiring him were verifiable, except Harris Ranch.
I got the resort’s number from information and called it. There was no record of a Dan Kessell staying there at any time in February.
What now? Kessell couldn’t have flown that Piper of his to Detroit, Kansas City, Mexico City, or Chicago; it didn’t have the range to make it there and back in the allowed time. How long did airlines keep passenger lists?
I called Toni.
“This is a tough one,” she said, “but United’s hub is Chicago. I might be able to get you something from them.”
“Would you please? I promise, I’ll go to Moorea.”
“First class?”
I winced. “Deal.”
While I was waiting for Toni to call back, I considered Kessell’s trip on the day the usurper of his identity had been killed. He’d left Ocean Ridge early in the morning, and probably flown to Lindbergh Field—also known as San Diego International Airport. There were other airports he could have chosen in the area, but they were smaller and farther from downtown. Given the number of movements—takeoffs and landings—at Lindbergh, he would have been relatively anonymous, and could take advantage of a variety of car rentals.
Whenever Hy and I flew Two-Seven-Tango to San Diego, we parked in the tie-downs at Lindbergh. There was a charge, and when you paid, your name and plane number were put into the log. I got the phone number of the airport from airnav.com, called, and asked for the office at the general aviation tie-downs. A woman answered, and I gave my own name and occupation. I was working on a deadbeat dad case, I told her, and had reason to think he’d flown his private plane to San Diego on February 25. The deadbeat dad excuse worked—it usually does with women and a surprising number of men—and she confirmed that Kessell’s plane had been in the tie-downs overnight.Okay, he’d have needed a rental car—
The phone rang. Toni.
“No record of a Dan Kessell on any of United’s flights to Chicago around the date you mentioned,” she said.
Damn! “Thanks. One more favor?”
“You’re going to love Moorea. What is it?”
“Car rentals in San Diego. Same person, this time on the twenty-fifth. Probably one of the less expensive outfits.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
More waiting, during which I began to wonder how Kessell—if he really was the ever-running man—had gotten the materials for the bombs onto the commercial flights he’d taken. Ever since the arrest of twenty-some terrorists in a plot to bomb British airliners bound for the United States in 2006, security had been rigorous. Well, there were still ways to disguise potentially lethal devices, particularly when broken down into their components; risky, to be sure, but the ever-running man seemed to thrive on risk. Or maybe he didn’t transport the materials with him. The Internet gave sources for the makings of bombs; he could have purchased them locally.
Frustrating that Kessell hadn’t been on any of the United flights Toni was able to check. Of course, he could have taken a different airline or flown to Midway. Or to an airport in a nearby state and driven. No way Toni could access that kind of information, but maybe my nephew the genius could—
Phone. Toni again.
“He rented from Econocar.” She gave me the details. “Returned it the next morning.”
“He leave a contact number where he was staying?”
“Yes.” She read it off to me.
“Thanks. If you ever want a job as an investigator—”
“All I want is a commission on your Moorea trip.”
I hung up, dialed the phone number she’d given me. It belonged to Spike’s Bar. Probably a number Kessell had made up at random.
Did I have enough to give to Gary Viner? Yes. If they brought Kessell in, they might be able to connect him with the RKI bombings as well as Tyne’s murder. I dialed the SDPD. Gary was out of the office. I left a message.
What about the FBI? No. With the exception of the agent I’d met in Chicago, the others on the case had been cold and dismissive to everyone. Besides, if I contacted them, I’d alienate Gary. I had a connection with him because of Joey’s death that I didn’t want to lose.
In the end I settled for e-mailing him a brief message outlining what I’d found out, as well as the Dr. Richard Tyne file.
Phone again. Walter Waggoner at Ocean Ridge.
“I thought you’d like to know, Dan Kessell just flew out, said he’d be gone overnight,” he told me.
“No indication of where he’s going?”
“None.”
“Well, thanks for keeping me posted.”
Kessell would be gone overnight. That left me a large window of opportunity.
There was still a thin line of pink and gold on the horizon when I arrived at Timber Cove. I parked on a wide, graveled place east of the highway, the truck camouflaged from traffic by the encroaching vegetation. There I waited, munching on the cold, greasy remainders of my microwaved popcorn and sipping bottled water, till full dark. Then, equipped with flashlight, surgical gloves, lock picks, and Hy’s .45, I slipped across the road and walked swiftly toward Kessell’s house. It l
ooked the same as the first time I’d seen it—down to the light in the kitchen window—except that the Doberman was in its run.
As I approached, the dog began barking, so I sprinted past toward the larger house at the dead end, waited, and then doubled back. By the time I reached the rear of Kessell’s house, the barking had ceased. I went up on my toes and peered through the kitchen window. A few dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, but otherwise nothing was changed.
Okay. Garland Romanowski had said Kessell shunned security systems.He’d better have the right information.
Years ago, one of my informants had given me the set of handmade lock picks and lessons in how to use them. I rarely did, but every now and then necessity overwhelmed my good sense. And in this situation, the risks of being caught were minimal. I put on the surgical gloves and went to work on the door next to the kitchen window. It took longer than I thought, but eventually I was inside.
I went hunting. The house was only five rooms—kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and a bath. The smaller bedroom was set up as an office, so I started there.
Kessell was more careful about the security of his computer than his home; I couldn’t get into any of his files without a password. The computer was set up on a plank balanced on two filing cabinets; most of the papers in them were client invoices going back many years. No personal correspondence, but there were other files holding home, vehicle, and airplane titles and insurance policies, as well as a twenty-five-thousand-dollar whole life policy whose beneficiary was his sister, Elise Carver. Another folder contained a will, leaving everything to her. I noted down the name of the attorney in Santa Rosa who had drawn it up.
The room’s closet contained a few wire hangers and three boxes on the shelf above the clothes pole. I pulled one of them down, found canceled checks dating back at least a decade. Another held old income tax returns. But the third was full of mementoes.
A picture of a young, slender Kessell leaning against a Cessna and grinning widely—the kind of photo the instructor takes after your first solo flight. A second showed him by the same plane with a man who looked remarkably like Hy: Joe Ripinsky, Hy’s father and Kessell’s flight instructor. I studied the man who, had he lived, would have been my father-in-law, and glimpsed in his eyes and set of jaw the same strength that I saw in my husband.
Another photograph: Gina Kessell, later Hines. Kessell had his arms around her, smiled at the camera over the top of her head. Gina’s expression was more complex and guarded.
Cards from Gina: birthday, Valentine’s Day, wedding anniversary.
Divorce decree. Military discharge papers. Old pilot’s logs.
And at the bottom, an envelope with Gina’s first name on it. No address, no stamp. It was dated the year he had run into her in Oakland.
Gina, honey—
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you yesterday. I was blown away by seeing you, and then when you didn’t recognize me, all the bad feelings came back. What I said was real bullshit. I’d never hurt you or your family. I’ve put all that behind me, and I’ve got a good life now. Well, maybe not so good, but it suits me. Please forgive me. Jesus, what am I saying? I’m never going to get to mail this. I don’t even know your married name or address. But at least I’ve gotten it down, and I’ll put this letter where somebody might find it after I’m gone and take the trouble to find you. Then you’ll know that your Danny never meant to hurt you. Not ever again.
It was signed with a big, sprawling letter D.
No wonder Gina Hines had been afraid after her encounter with her former husband.
Too late, Danny. She went to her grave without ever reading your apology.
I put the mementoes back in the box, except for the letter to Gina Hines, which I stuffed into my jacket pocket. Returned all three boxes to the shelf in approximately the same places I’d found them. Odds were Kessell seldom looked at the closet shelf, or if he did, wouldn’t notice if the boxes’ positions were a little different. Then I turned off the desk lamp and felt my way toward the living room.
A truck’s engine growled past the house. A big pickup, running without its lights. The dog didn’t bark. I froze.
The dog wasn’t barking because the truck belonged to his owner.
A trap.
He’d found out I was asking around about him; word carries fast in sparsely populated areas like the north coast. He’d fed Walter Waggoner the story about an overnight trip, hoping Walter would alert me. Then he’d flown around for a couple of hours, possibly reconnoitering Touchstone for the truck, and returned to Ocean Ridge. Now he was outside. I heard his footsteps approaching from where he’d left the pickup, and then a key turned in the front door lock . . .
I slipped down the hall into the kitchen. Yanked the door open. And ran.
The bluff was barren, except for a stand of trees around the dark house at the dead end. It was a clear night and the moon shone brightly. I was thankful that the jacket I kept at Touchstone was black.
To get back to the highway, I’d have to pass Kessell’s house and the dog run. Impossible, without alerting him. Besides, Kessell had probably located my truck—it was an obvious hiding place if you knew its owner wanted to escape detection—and soon would realize I’d been inside his home. The back door hadn’t completely shut behind me, and there were scratches on its lock from my pick. I moved toward the dark house and slipped into the shadows. Peered back along the road.
No one. He probably hadn’t yet figured out I’d broken into his house.
I moved deeper into the shadows, feeling my way, not daring to use my flash. A couple of times my feet slipped on the uneven ground, but finally I came to the wall of the house—shingled, rough to the touch—and paused, listening.
Silence, except for the lapping of the waves below.
I began moving around the eastern side of the house, deeper into the trees where the scents of pine and eucalyptus blended. The ground was thick with needles, muffling my footfalls. I couldn’t see more than a yard ahead, so I kept one hand on the house’s wall; the ground began to slope, and I slid on the needles, one foot going out from under me, and landed with my butt on a rock.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I stood and took stock of my surroundings. Through the trees ahead I could see moonlit waves breaking in one of the many coves that scalloped this part of the coast. In the distance to my left a truck boomed while gearing down for a curve on the highway.
What now? Make my way through uncertain terrain toward the highway? Risk falling into a ravine cut by a creek on its way to the sea? Even if I did make it, the highway was a dangerous place to walk at night—or even in daylight. And then I might find Kessell and his dog waiting at my truck.
No, stay here till morning. It would be a cold, unpleasant night, but I’d had plenty of those.
I followed the wall of the house toward the bluff’s edge, looking for shelter. There was a lower story cut into the cliff, with a large deck jutting out from it; part of the deck was protected from the wind by Plexiglas panels and covered by the balcony above. I found a stack of lounge chairs stored under the overhang, pulled one down, and sat there, Hy’s .45 at my side, waiting for first light.
Falling, falling, falling . . .
I know this is a dream.
Plane’s in an uncontrolled spin. Falling . . .
I can’t wake up from this, even though it’s just a dream. Or maybe it isn’t—
Sudden bright light in my face.
I came awake in an instant, reached for the .45, but it was gone.
A voice that I recognized as Kessell’s said, “Well, Nancy Estrada, aka Sharon McCone.”
I shaded my eyes with my hand and sat up. Dammit, why had I fallen asleep? Why had I sat here instead of moving around? I should have known he’d search the area.
“Surprised?” he added. “You’ve got your contacts up and down the coast, but so do I. First you come here, showing me a fake driver’s license and saying you’re lookin
g for a street that doesn’t exist. Then you’re asking around at Little River and Ocean Ridge. What the hell do you want?”
So he didn’t suspect that I’d connected him with the other Kessell’s murder and the bombings.
“A couple of pilots I know spotted your plane making unauthorized landings at my airstrip. I want to know why.”
“You’ve never made an unauthorized landing anyplace?”
“No.”
“Come on, lady.”
“Well, only in an emergency.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay, whatever you say. But would you get that goddamn light out of my eyes?”
He lowered the flashlight, and I could see Hy’s .45, trained on me in his other hand. He also wore a shoulder holster.
“You have a carry permit for that?” I motioned at the holster.
“You got one for this?” He nodded at the .45.
I didn’t answer.
“What I’m wondering,” he added, “is why all this sneaking around, just because I’ve been using your runway for touch-and-goes. Why break into my house?”
“I didn’t—”
“Yeah, you did. You think I’m stupid? You left the back door open.”
“Not me.” I sat up, swung my legs off the chair.
He moved the .45 higher.
I judged the distance between us. He was taller and heavier than I, but he had a bad leg. Maybe—
“I don’t know who you are,” he said. “Just that you must be rich, owning that big property with an airstrip. Frankly, I don’t pay much attention to second-homers unless they hire me to patrol. But tomorrow I’m gonna find out. And then we’ll settle this one way or the other. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Stand up.”
“Where are we going?”
“Stand up.”
I stood.
“Turn around.”
I turned.
Kessell set the flashlight on the lounge chair, pulled my arms behind me and handcuffed my wrists.
“False imprisonment, Dan,” I said. “Maybe even kidnapping.”
The Ever Page 16
