Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

  He had a sudden memory of dancing, so he began there and worked his way forward. He was dancing, then he was shaking hands with people. Sam Warren was there, saying good night and climbing the stairs. The stairs were in the house at the vineyard! He got to his knees. What the hell was going on? He struggled to his feet and held onto the bannister, willing his feet to climb the stairs. Why? What was the rush? What was waiting for him upstairs?

  He climbed faster, his breath coming in short gasps, his neck hurting. Cara was up there somewhere. He paused at the top of the stairs to get his bearings. Their room was to his right, wasn't it? He tried shaking his head to clear it, but that made his neck hurt even more. He stumbled toward the bedroom.

  The door was open and moonlight flooded the room. Had the lights been off? He looked toward the bed. Someone tall was standing there, shaking his upper body in an odd way. Then he realized that two people were standing there, and one of them was doing something to the other. "Cara!" he shouted, then moved toward them.

  "Sandy, help me!"

  The two figures separated and the tall one fled past him to the door. Sandy grabbed weakly at the man, and for a moment, he had hold of a raincoat sleeve, then something heavy hit him in the face, and he went down. Before he blacked out for a second time he heard, as from a great distance, Cara's scream.

  Shorty Barnum was jarred awake by the shaking of the airplane. Someone was opening the rear door. "Prendergast?" he asked, blinking rapidly.

  "Yes, let's go," Prendergast said, latching the rear door and falling into a seat. "Get the bloody thing started." The man was breathing hard.

  Shorty checked the circuit breakers out of habit, then picked up his checklist.

  "For God's sake, man, let's get out of here!" Prendergast shouted from the backseat. He sounded less American than ever.

  Shorty fired up the two engines and checked the panel gauges. The engines were still warm from their flight up from L.A., and everything was in the green. If Prendergast was in such a hurry, he wouldn't bother with a runup. Shorty eased the throttles forward and taxied onto the runway. Still rolling, he pushed the throttles to wide open and let the airplane gather speed. A moment later they were rising through the darkness, and it was not until then that Shorty realized that he had not bothered to turn on the runway lights. Still, he had had plenty of visibility from his landing and taxi lights.

  He got the landing gear up and trimmed for his climb. He set nine thousand feet into the altitude preselect, chose a heading that would take them east of San Francisco airspace, and switched on the autopilot. As he climbed, his attention was attracted to flashing red lights on the ground. They were on top of a car, and they were moving in the direction from which the airplane had just come. A police car or a fire truck, he thought. He couldn't hear any sirens over the engines.

  When Sandy woke up his head was in Cara's lap, and a strange man was speaking to him.

  "Mr. Kinsolving? Can you hear me?"

  "Yes," Sandy said and tried to sit up.

  "Just lie still, darling," Cara said, and he let his head fall back to the warm nest.

  "Can you see me?" the man's voice asked.

  Sandy struggled to focus his eyes, and after a moment, his vision was filled with the upper body and head of a young man in a tan shirt and trousers. "Yes, I can see you. What's happened?"

  "You appear to have had a blow on the head," the young man said. "I'm Deputy Wheeler of the Napa sheriff's office. An ambulance is on its way, and we'll have you at the hospital in a few minutes."

  "Hospital? What for?" Sandy tried again to sit up, and this time he made it. With the deputy's help he got to his feet, but he was dizzy, and he sat down heavily on the bed, rubbing his neck.

  "With a head injury it's always best to get some X-rays and have a doctor take a look at you."

  "Quite right, Sandy," Sam Warren said. He stepped forward and put a hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Are you in a lot of pain?" he asked.

  "I've got a hell of a headache," Sandy replied. "Cara, do you think I could have some aspirin?"

  "An ice pack would be a better idea," the deputy said.

  Cara left and returned with some ice cubes in a towel; she pressed them to the back of Sandy's head.

  Sandy sighed. "That's better," he said. "Now tell me what's happened?"

  "You've had an intruder in the house," the deputy said.

  Suddenly, everything came back to him. "Cara, are you all right? I saw you struggling with a man."

  "Yes, I'm all right," she replied, stroking his hair. "Don't worry about me."

  "Who was he?"

  "I don't know for sure, but it could have been Peter," she said.

  "Peter? Here?" He tried to think. "I was downstairs on the front porch; I turned off the living room lights and… I don't remember anything until I was in the bedroom. He hit me, I think."

  The deputy spoke up. "Looks like he hit you from behind when you were downstairs, then again when you got up here. Mrs. Kinsolving saw that."

  "Mrs. Kinsolving? What the hell did Joan have to do with this?"

  "That's me, darling," Cara said, sitting beside him on the bed.

  "Forgive me, I'm just getting my bearings."

  "You've got some swelling on the side of your face," the deputy said. "Could somebody get some ice to put on it?"

  "I'll do that," Sam said, then left the room.

  "Did he try to hurt you?" Sandy asked Cara.

  "Yes. He tried to strangle me with something."

  "That necktie, I figure," the deputy said, pointing at the tie Sandy had been wearing earlier than evening. It was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  "I was lucky," Cara said. "I reached up with my arm to push him away, and my wrist was caught in the loop." She looked odd. "It's funny; he smelled like Peter, but he seemed to have a beard."

  Shorty turned on final approach to Santa Monica Airport, and he was grateful for the runway lights rushing up at him. He hadn't had much for dinner, and he was tired, as well as hungry. He made his usual good landing, then slowed the airplane and turned off the runway toward his premises. He turned the plane and brought it to a stop, all lined up to be pushed back into the hangar. Then, before he could even cut the engines, the rear door opened, and Prendergast was out of the airplane.

  Shorty turned off all the switches, then pulled back the mixture controls all the way. The engines died, and he turned off the ignition, alternator, and master switches. He was home, and he was five thousand dollars richer. That would get him out of the hole he was in.

  He got out of the airplane and looked around. Prendergast had vanished, but from behind the hangar he heard a car start, then drive away. He could see parts of the access road from where he stood, and the car, he wasn't sure what kind, drove away at a leisurely pace, stopping at all the stop signs where the taxiways crossed the road.

  Prendergast had sure been in a hurry to get out of the airplane, but he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry driving away Still, Shorty was glad he'd collected the money in advance.

  He pushed the airplane back into the hangar, locked up, got the five thousand dollars from his desk drawer and went home.

  CHAPTER 53

  Sandy woke in a bed in the little Napa hospital to find a man in his room wearing a lab jacket and looking at an X-ray against a light box.

  "Good morning," Sandy said.

  "Ah, you're awake," the man replied. "I'm Dr. Swift, and I want to take a look at you before we let you go home."

  "Sure," Sandy said, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. An empty bed with mussed covers stood nearby.

  "Your wife stayed here, too; I've already had a look at her. There was some bruising on her neck, but she's all right."

  Sandy submitted to a thorough neurological examination, then waited for the doctor to speak.

  "There's no fracture," he said. "You have a mild concussion, and I'd like you to spend today in bed at home. If you feel nauseated, I want you to have your w
ife drive you back here at once, understand?"

  "I understand," Sandy replied. He stood up, took his dressing gown from the end of the bed and slipped into it.

  Cara came out of the bathroom and kissed him. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

  "My neck's a little sore, but I'm not in any real pain."

  "Then let's get you home; I've already paid the bill while you slept." She was wearing jeans and a sweater.

  "Where did you get the clothes?" he asked as they walked down the hallway.

  "I changed before I left the house."

  "I feel a little strange leaving the hospital in a dressing gown," he said, getting into the car.

  When they arrived at the house, the sheriff was waiting on the front porch, along with Deputy Wheeler.

  "My name's Norm Ferris," he said, shaking Sandy's hand. "How are you feeling?"

  "Much better," Sandy replied.

  "Do you feel up to answering some questions?" the sheriff asked.

  "Sure, come into the living room."

  When they were all comfortable, the sheriff began. "Mrs. Kinsolving, last night you said that you thought the man who tried to strangle you was Peter. Who is Peter?"

  "My ex-husband."

  The sheriff nodded as if that was to be expected. "Can you be sure?"

  "No, he just smelled like Peter, and he was the same size. I thought for a moment that he had a beard, but Peter doesn't have a beard."

  "When did you last see Peter?"

  "A few days ago in San Francisco."

  "This would be Peter Martindale, then?"

  "Yes."

  "I read the newspaper article about the party at the sculptor's house," the sheriff said. "And I take it, Mr. Kinsolving, that you had recently brought a lawsuit against Mr. Martindale?"

  "That's correct."

  "Do you think Mr. Martindale is the kind of man who might become so angry about a lawsuit that he would attack your wife?"

  Cara spoke up. "I think so, and I know my ex-husband much better than Sandy does."

  "I telephoned Mr. Martindale's gallery this morning and was told that he is in Los Angeles, staying at the Bel-Air hotel," the sheriff said. "I tried to telephone him there, but the operator said that Mr. Martindale was not taking any calls. I've asked the LA. police to go to the hotel and question him about his whereabouts last night."

  "Good," Sandy said.

  • • •

  Detectives Harrow and Martinez of the LAPD knocked on the door of the room to which the front desk had directed them. A "do not disturb" sign hung on the doorknob.

  "Pretty fancy place," Harrow said, looking around at the lush tropical planting.

  "You're right," Martinez said. "Wonder what it costs a night here?"

  The door opened and a tall, slender man stood before them; he was wearing a necktie but was in his shirtsleeves. "Come in, gentlemen," he said. "The front desk said you're from the police?"

  "That's correct, Mr. Martindale," Harrow said, showing his badge.

  Martindale showed them to a seat. An open suitcase lay on the bed.

  "You're checking out?" Harrow asked.

  "Yes, I have a business appointment this morning, then I'm flying back to San Francisco. What is this about, please?"

  "I'd like to ask you a few questions," Harrow said, "in connection with an investigation by the Napa County sheriff's office."

  "Napa, as in wine?" Martindale asked.

  "That's right. Can you tell me where you were last night, Mr. Martindale?"

  "I was here, at the hotel."

  "Did you have dinner in the dining room?"

  "No, I came in about six-thirty from a lecture I had given; I asked the front desk not to put any calls through, then I had something from room service, watched television for most of the evening, then went to bed."

  "What did you watch on television?"

  "Some news on CNN and a movie, The Bedford Incident."

  Harrow wrote down the name. "The one with Richard Widmark, about a submarine?"

  "Widmark and Sidney Poitier," Martindale replied. "Excellent movie. I don't think anything less would have kept me awake. I was very tired."

  "Did the room service waiter come and get the dishes after you ate?"

  "I put them outside the door when I had finished."

  "What time was the movie over?"

  "Sometime after midnight; I'm not sure exactly what time."

  "Did you speak to anyone before you went to bed?"

  "I called the front desk when the movie was over to see if there had been any calls, but there hadn't been any."

  Harrow nodded. "Were you in Napa County last night, Mr. Martindale?"

  "No, I was here, as I've told you."

  Harrow stood up. "Thanks very much for your cooperation, Mr. Martindale."

  "Can you tell me what this is about?" Martindale asked.

  "I'm afraid I don't have the details; you'd have to call the sheriff's office in Napa and ask them."

  "Well, it's damned peculiar," Martindale said. He appeared mystified.

  Harrow shook hands with the man and he and Martinez left the room. They took a few steps through a tunnel and emerged into a parking lot. "He could have left the hotel without being seen," Harrow said.

  "That's right," Martinez echoed, "he could have parked his car right here."

  "Kind of pushing it to get to Napa by what, ten-thirty, then back here in time to call the front desk at…" he looked at his notes, "twelve-fifty, the lady said."

  "I guess it could be done," Martinez said. "Maybe a private jet?"

  "Damned if I'm going to tell Sheriff Ferris that," Harrow said. "The department will have us checking every charter service in town."

  "Maybe Martindale had the opportunity to get up there and back, but we'd have a hell of a time proving in court that he did, unless we canvassed all the charter services and found somebody who'd testify that they flew him up there."

  Harrow nodded. He put his notebook back into his pocket and started for their car.

  Ferris hung up the phone. "Mr. Martindale appears to have an alibi," he said. "He was in his room at the Bel-Air last evening, had dinner there, watched a movie on TV, then went to bed."

  "He could have snuck out of the Bel-Air," Cara said. "All the rooms open to the outside; you don't have to go through the lobby to get out of the hotel."

  "Maybe," Ferris said. "We'll check on it, of course, but the LAPD reckons Martindale was at the Bel-Air all evening. We'll do some checking locally, too."

  Everybody shook hands, and the sheriff and his deputy left.

  "Let's get you to bed," Cara said.

  "Do you think it really was Peter?" Sandy asked.

  "I'm damned certain it was," she said. "He's covered his tracks, as usual."

  CHAPTER 54

  Deputy Tony Wheeler sat down at his desk in the sheriff's office and spread out a map of greater Los Angeles on his desk, along with an L.A. yellow pages. First, he looked up the address of the Bel-Air Hotel in the phone book and found its position on the map. He marked that with a highlighter, then began looking for airports. There were lots of them in the L.A. area, but the two that were nearest the hotel were Burbank and Santa Monica, with Santa Monica being closer. He started there.

  He opened the yellow pages to the air charters listings and made a list of the ones that seemed to be at Santa Monica Airport, the ones with the 310 area code. There were an even dozen, and he went at them alphabetically. All of them denied sending an airplane to Napa County the night before, but with one, he had a flutter of disbelief; it was a guy called Barnum.

  "Barnum Air Service, speak to me."

  "Is that Mr. Barnum?" Wheeler asked.

  "You got him. What can I do you for?"

  "Mr. Barnum, my name is Wheeler; I'm a deputy sheriff of Napa County."

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  Wheeler thought the silence was odd. "Mr. Barnum, did you do a charter to Napa County Califo
rnia last night?"

  "No sir," Barnum said, then was silent again.

  "Have you ever had a customer named Martindale?"

  "No sir."

  Wheeler was accustomed to a little more chat from possible witnesses. "Have you ever flown into Napa County Airport?"

  "No sir."

  Wheeler sighed. "Thanks for your cooperation," he said, and hung up. He shook his head and finished his calls to Santa Monica Airport, then started working the Burbank list. When he was finished, only the call to Barnum struck him as not quite right. He looked up the main number for Santa Monica Airport and asked for the tower, then explained who he was.

  "How can I help you, deputy?" the woman who'd answered asked.

  "Do you keep any records of airplanes that take off and land at your airport?"

  "We keep a log for a month, then we throw it away. Air traffic control would have a computer record, if there was a flight plan filed."

  "Can you fly out of your airport without filing a flight plan?"

  "Yes, you can depart VFR, that's under visual flight rules, and not file."

  "Can you tell me if any airplanes departed VFR last night between, say, seven and ten?"

  "Can you hang on for a minute?"

  "Sure." Wheeler tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk while he waited.

  Shortly, the woman came back. "Last night between eight and midnight we had only one VFR departure, and that was a twin Cessna, registration November one, two, three, tango, foxtrot."

  Wheeler wrote down the number. "Can you tell me if it returned last night?"

  "Just a minute." Another minute's wait. "Yes, it landed shortly after midnight."

  "Is that particular airplane familiar to you and your coworkers?"

  "There are a an awful lot of airplanes based on this field."

  "How would I find out who that airplane is registered to?"

  "You'd have to call the FAA registration office in Wichita; hang on, I'll give you the number."