Dead Dry

by Sarah Andrews

  Fritz said, “Maybe he hitched a ride on a private plane, like you did.”

  The idea hit me like a brick. “Fritz, you might have something there. If someone was going to do that, where would he have to go from Sedalia, Colorado, to get a flight to Salt Lake City?”

  “You mean, where was the nearest airport?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give me a minute.” I could hear rustling as he unfolded an air chart. “Where is Sedalia, exactly?”

  “It’s south of Denver, about three or four miles northwest of Castle Rock, which is the biggest town between metro Denver and metro Colorado Springs.”

  “Okay, got it. There’s an airport there in Castle Rock. No, wait, there isn’t. Well, there are several private airstrips around there, and then there’s Centennial, which is halfway to Denver, and then Colorado Springs International. Let’s see …” Now I heard him tapping computer keys. “Centennial is fully IFR, and of course C Springs has the juice …”

  “You’re saying which airport you’d keep a plane at.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How would the police find out if someone had flown a passenger from there to here?”

  “They’d subpoena the FAA for information about flight plans or go for the tower records. All those guys who track aircraft keep records of one kind or another. The towers keep tapes. Even if they left from, say, Colorado Springs and landed in Provo, there’d be a record of one type or another. And, as you’ll recall from your own pilot training, the flight plan would list the passengers though not by name.”

  “Right,” I said. “But it would list the pilot’s name.”

  “Yes, it would list both the pilot and the aircraft. But there’s an easier method for finding out who was aboard.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, my excitement rising.

  “If they landed at Salt Lake International, they’d tie down at one of the FBOs out here, and we pay plenty of attention to who comes and goes. It’s a security requirement. All doors and gates are kept locked and we have people who’ll stop anyone who tries to get out on the ramp without a clearance. We keep records of the tail numbers, and when someone buys gas and pays for the tie-down, we’ve got their credit card receipt. And even if your pilot doesn’t buy gas or stop long enough to tie down, he might own the aircraft. You can go online to look up aircraft ownership.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “The FAA site has a cross-reference. You can look up by owner’s name, or by tail number.”

  I was so excited that I jumped to my feet. “Thanks, Fritz. You’re brilliant. Gotta go.”

  “Wait! What’s the hurry?”

  “I think you just turned the key. Really, I’ve got to report this right away.”

  “Well, call me. There’s something I’d like to talk—”

  “Sure,” I said, but I already had my hand on the button, cutting off the connection, and my eyes were scanning my desktop for Michele’s card. I found it and dialed.

  When she picked up the line, I said, “Bet you dollars to doughnuts Hugo Attabury is a pilot. That means he might have a plane. Hell, a small-time tycoon like him—”

  Michele was laughing at me again. “A what?”

  “He’s got ‘hustler’ written all over him.”

  “So wait, what’s this got to do with … ohhh, you think he flew McWain over here and bashed his head in and threw him in the quarry and flew home.”

  “Could have been, huh?”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “But easy to check out. First you’d get on with the FAA to find out if he owns a plane. Wait, I’ll do that myself.” I turned to the computer on my desk and brought up the FAA Web site. A few keystrokes later, I was into the aircraft registry. As I typed in HUGO ATTABURY, I said, “He doesn’t have to own it, he could rent one, and there you’d just go to the FAA anyway because the flight plan would be in his name. Just search backward from Friday—wait!” The site spat back my answer.

  “What did you find?”

  “Here it is: Beechcraft B55. Our boy flies a nice, fast little twin.”

  “What’s a … oh, you mean two engines?”

  “Exactly. A B55 is a Baron. It’ll cruise at, say 180 knots. That’s over 200 miles per hour. Even against a headwind coming over the mountains, he could leave Thursday afternoon, be here from Centennial in two hours, do his dirty work, and be back in Colorado in time for a nightcap. If he landed at Salt Lake International, he’d probably have parked at Million Air; that’s the FBO that receives most of the transient general aviation aircraft. They have guys out on the line who gas the planes, and they see the pilots and passengers, too. They are responsible for security just like on the commercial side of the airport. You can’t come and go through there without being clicked through locked doors and gates by a guard. They’d have a log you could subpoena, and there are people at the desk who are trained to make personable contact with everyone who comes through there. Their job is to remember individuals, not like the cattle processing that goes on at the commercial aviation side. People think that general aviation is a security sieve, but an FBO will be able to tell you not only names but also what each passenger looks like, and how he took his coffee.”

  “So he wouldn’t even have to kill McWain here. He could kill him in Colorado and fly him here dead.”

  “He’d have killed him here. The boys on the ramp would notice if someone offloaded a bloody corpse. Besides, a man who owns his own Baron would bring the meat in on the hoof. The last thing he’d do is dispose of a nice plane like that just because he got a little blood in the cargo bay.”

  “And he killed him why?”

  “Ah … because the stiff knew he didn’t have any water for that big subdivision he has planned with Bart Johnson. They couldn’t let him live; he was going to keep them from overstepping their ecological footprint.”

  “Overstep their footprint. I like that.”

  “Don’t snicker at me. Get on the horn and subpoena those tower records.”

  “Will do, cap’n,” she said, her sardonic laugh growing thicker.

  “What’s so damned funny?”

  “You just called your old colleague a stiff. In your mind, he’s changed from a human being to a piece in a puzzle. You’re in this for the excitement. As I said, Em, you’re hooked.”

  “Have it your way, Michele.”

  “You—” I heard a buzzer sound on her end of the line. “Hold a sec.” When she came back on the line, she said, “Who’s this Trevor Reed, and why is he calling me? He says he knows you.”

  “Investment banker. Didn’t I tell you? I asked him to run down the Wildcat Estates development for us. Inside information.”

  “Oh. Okay, then meet me at his office downtown in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “And, Em? Thanks.”

  TREVOR REED LOUNGED BACK IN HIS CUSHY LEATHER swivel chair, examining me with the interest of a tailor examining his work. His office was huge and lined with exotic hardwoods, and his chair was imposingly large, too. It all but swallowed him, and exaggerated his youth.

  Having eyed me to his satisfaction, he settled on a longer look at Michele. He obviously liked what he saw. “Thanks for running over so quickly,” he said. “I don’t have all that much to report, but I thought I should get it to you right away.”

  “Fire when ready,” said Michele. She sat in one of the capacious side chairs, pen poised over a tablet.

  “I have this: The Wildcat Estates project is in trouble. Their investors have been very unhappy with them because they have not come through with the promised requisites for the project.”

  “Are we talking about the water?” I asked. “Or lack thereof?”

  Reed momentarily looked blank. “No, my sources mentioned an easement.”

  “What kind of easement?” Michele asked, narrowing her eyes in concentration.

  Reed shifted in his chair. He fiddled with a pen. The corners of his
mouth flickered into a smile. I realized that he was nervous in the way men get when they meet a woman they find particularly attractive.

  I settled back to watch.

  Reed leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk. “The county plan requires that a development of that size have two routes of egress,” he began. “Bart Johnson’s ranch is sufficiently large to make the project go—fiscally speaking—but it lacks a second way out. This is required in case of needing to move emergency equipment in, things like that. The problem is that his ranch is sort of pie-shaped, with just the narrow point connecting up to the one road. He needs to connect to another road on the far side of the hill, but he would have to cross the neighboring ranch, belonging to your murdered man, McWain. McWain wouldn’t give him an easement. To make things even more contentious, it seems that McWain purchased his ranch from Johnson’s brother. Another way of saying this is that Johnson’s brother sold it to McWain instead of Johnson.”

  Michele said, “No easement, no development. No development, no cash flow.”

  “Not only no cash flowing in, but lots of invested money going away. And Entwhistle’s bank could go under.”

  “And you were able to find this out from your contacts.”

  “Easily. A lot of investors are quite angry with the promoters of this project.”

  Michele gave him a beaming smile as a reward. Reed actually blushed.

  She tapped her pen on her tablet. “Anything else?”

  The pleasurable embarrassment dissolved from Trevor Reed’s face. “Just this: I am aware of who these angry investors are. They are not the sort of people I’ll do business with.”

  “What kind of people are they?” Michele inquired.

  “The last time they wanted something from a rancher who hesitated about cooperating, they landed an unmarked helicopter on her spread and shot all her horses.”

  I DROVE OVER TO THE SALT LAKE CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT. I needed to talk to a male friend, and Ray was going to have to do.

  Ray startled when he saw me, his hands jolting outward as if to get his balance. He brought them in again as quickly, trying to cover his reaction. “Em,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Got a moment?”

  He looked right and left. “Sure …”

  “Maybe we could walk around the block?”

  “Let’s walk to the north and east a ways, where at least there’s some shade.”

  I nodded, and we set out. When we were a block and a half from the police station, I said, “I need your advice.”

  “Here comes trouble.”

  “I’m sorry, Ray, but I don’t know who else to ask.”

  “All right, shoot.”

  Now I didn’t know what to say. What was troubling me was gray and nebulous, like a cloud. “This case I’m assigned to,” I began.

  “The corpse in the quarry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can ask to be removed from the case. Any time.”

  I was taken aback. “Why would I want that?”

  “Because you knew the guy. Always best not to be involved. They’ll understand. In fact, they’ll prefer it.”

  I stopped walking and stared at him.

  His face had gone all stormy. “You asked for my advice.”

  I stared into his dark blue eyes and saw a whole lot of worry shining back. “Do you know something I don’t, Ray?”

  He looked away. “No …”

  “Well, there’s another part to this, anyway.”

  “What’s that?”

  We began walking again, the heat of the pavement rolling in under the shade of the spreading trees. “Well, it’s kind of personal, but maybe related. It’s about … well, why are men so protective of women, Ray?”

  He laughed nervously. “It’s our job to protect you.”

  I tipped my head at him. “You know that’s not what I mean. I’m not looking for what it says in the Good Book or anything like that. I mean … well, I’m trying to understand why some men are protective and some aren’t.”

  “Men who don’t protect their women should be shot,” he said.

  “Well, now we’re narrowing down the topic. I’m talking about men who are protective of a woman who isn’t their woman.”

  Ray blushed deeply. “Who exactly are we talking about?”

  “A hypothetical guy,” I said. “I know you, and I used to be … well, I’m not talking about you, okay? And, well, I’ve got to talk to a friend about this! I know this guy, see, and he’s always around kind of looking after me, and I like that fine, but other friends are telling me he likes me, see … likes me likes me, but I don’t see that, so I’m just trying to understand.”

  Ray began to chuckle, as if savoring a private joke.

  “Damn it, Ray, what’s so funny about that? Can’t I be interesting to someone?”

  He patted my shoulder. “It’s okay, Em. Okay, I see what you’re asking. Well, men are protective of women, yes. And that’s a good thing. Speaking for myself, I’m protective of my mother and my sisters and all of my nieces and girl cousins and, as a policeman, I’m protective of every woman in Salt Lake City. But you’re talking about something different from that. Something additional.”

  “I suppose so.”

  We walked onward. “So what’s your question?”

  “I already said!”

  He laughed again. “Just teasing, Em. Okay, I’ll tell you, from personal experience, what it’s like to feel protective of you. It’s awful.”

  I punched him on the arm.

  “Em, part of what’s attractive about you is that you can look after yourself. That’s what drew me to you. There are men who need a woman to be more helpless than you are, and then there are men who like their women strong.”

  “Okay …”

  He said, “But there’s a conundrum to that. Because you’re strong, you take on jobs that other women wouldn’t, and then you’re at risk. Really at risk. We’re not talking ‘Let me carry that for you, ma’am,’ or ‘Do you need me to build a shelter over you?’ You walk right out there where people want to kill you.”

  We had turned and were heading back toward the police station now. “So you’re saying that men who are attracted to me are also put off. I’m a bad investment.”

  He nodded. “In a manner of speaking. I mean no offense, but if you were looking for someone to have babies with, would you choose someone who might get shot by a criminal?”

  I gave him a look. “I chose you …”

  He nodded. “But I’m the man. Babies don’t die if the dad dies. Not right away.” Before I could start arguing modern sociology with him, he added, “I’m talking hard wiring here, Em. Men don’t consult some book or something when they find themselves attracted to a woman.”

  “Okay, but if he’s feeling protective, does that mean he’s attracted? And how would he show that he’s feeling protective, and, um …”

  Ray strolled along, eyes on the sidewalk in front of him, hands folded behind his back. “Em, remember when you and I were really close?”

  “Yes …”

  “We had a connection.”

  “Yes, well, ah …”

  “I mean a very deep connection, Em, and parts of it are still there, so I know you know what I mean. I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about the Spirit.”

  “Oh. Well, there you know more than I do, with all your church stuff.”

  He laughed again. “You are one of the most spiritual women I’ve ever met, Em, so we’re really just arguing terms. Do you remember that time you saved my life? What am I talking about? You’ve saved me again and again!” He stopped and stared up into the trees, his arms wide with happy supplication. “That’s it! Now I get it!”

  “Get what?”

  “Why I still feel so protective of you! I owe you, Em!”

  “You owe me nothing, Ray.”

  He waved a hand, indicating that I couldn’t possibly understand. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. It’s okay
…” Suddenly he fixed his eyes on me, sharply. “But what I’m saying is true, Em. Connection from one spirit to the next, it’s a true and real thing and very, very precious. If you ever need me, ever, you just put up that antenna of yours and say, ‘Ray, help me!’ Okay? I’ll hear you!” He reached out and grabbed me by both shoulders. “Do you hear me, Em?”

  “Yes.” I was so startled that I spoke like a little girl trying to be good.

  He searched my face. “Because we’re back to your original topic now, Em. This case you’re on. It’s a bad one. I advise you to write up your report and stop right there.”

  “I did.”

  He dropped his hands in frustration. “I’ve just done the dumbest thing in the world.”

  “What?”

  “Told you not to do something. Now you’ll take that as a challenge.”

  “No, I won’t. Honest. I’ve been trying to get out of this case, but Michele—”

  “Damn Michele!”

  “Ray, I’ve never heard you swear. Never.”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and hurried back toward the police station. On his athletic legs he was pulling ahead of me, fast.

  “Ray, wait up!”

  Without turning to face me, he shouted, “Just promise me you’ll watch your back this time, Em. Please! Just watch your back.”

  MICHELE AND RAY WERE RIGHT, I COULDN’T STAY OUT of it. As soon as I got back to my office I phoned Julia.

  She was roaring. “That bitch!” she howled.

  “What bitch? Me?”

  “Nature Girl!” she shrieked, giving the name an earsplitting nasal sing-song. “That black-hearted, weaseling, gold-digging monster!”

  I could hear a lot of conversation in the background. One loud voice was telling Julia to keep her voice down and not say anything she didn’t want repeated back to her, grossly distorted, in a court of law.

  “Have I called at an inopportune time?” I inquired.

  Julia struggled to get her voice under control. “That’s my dear friend Angie in the background. She happens to also be my lawyer. She is over here trying to keep me from taking a shotgun and shooting the freaking beauty queen impostor—” Here she took another breath and screamed, “RIGHT IN HER SHRIVELED, RANCID, BUSH-LEAGUE EXCUSE FOR A HEART!”