Taking the Fifth (9780061760891)

by Jance, Judith A.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror to see Sergeant James waving at me frantically, gesturing for me to pull over. I did, and he swung around me. I saw him place his emergency flashers on the roof of his car as he went past. He then motioned to me to fall into line behind him.

  And that’s how we crossed the bridge, in a tight little line following James’s lead, working our way along the emergency-vehicle shoulder, with my red Porsche sandwiched between James’s unmarked but flashing sedan and the two squad cars. I’m sure the police escort accompanying my Porsche raised a few hackles in the process.

  “What kind of a shot is he?” I asked Glancy as we eased our way along the shoulder.

  “Crack,” Glancy responded.

  I winced. That wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. It’s one thing to go up against creeps and bullies, cowardly scumbags who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. This was different, and everyone in the caravan knew it. Wainwright was a trained police officer, a cornered trained police officer. A renegade. It wasn’t a confrontation any of us was looking forward to. The best we could hope for was to surprise him, to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

  “What kind of plane?” I asked.

  “A Piper Tomahawk,” Glancy answered. “At least I think that’s what he bought. He’s only had it for six months or so. He went down to Wichita, Kansas, and picked it up from the factory.”

  “Any idea what he’ll do?”

  Glancy shook his head. “It’s funny. If you had asked me that question yesterday, I would have answered it in a minute. We’ve worked together for three years now. I thought I knew him like a book, but it turns out I don’t know him at all. I wouldn’t dare hazard a guess about what he’ll do.”

  We didn’t make fast work of crossing the bridge, but it was far better than it would have been if James hadn’t pulled rank and dragged us through the traffic jam. The state patrol officer directing the one open lane of traffic glared at us as we went past the wreck, but he let us through.

  Once we cleared the last of the emergency vehicles, we made good time. We roared down Interstate-405 and onto I-90, where we headed east. As we passed Eastgate, Sergeant James turned off his emergency lights. The squad cars did the same.

  James pulled off the freeway at the Newport Way exit. We all swung into line behind him and parked in a row in the parking lot at the trail head of a hiking trail. We were a group of grown-ups playing a deadly version of Follow the Leader.

  The sergeant came up to the window. “If we all come off the freeway together, he’s sure to catch on. I’ll cross the freeway here and come up on the access road on the other side.”

  James motioned the uniformed officers into the conference. “You guys go beyond the Lake Sammamish exit and come down on the other side. Beau, yours looks the least like a cop car. You try driving directly onto the field. If you see him, do what you can to stop him, but don’t do anything stupid.”

  “In other words, no stunts. No hanging on the wings, right?” I said.

  “Right,” James replied.

  He sent the squad cars on ahead, giving them a minute or so lead time before he motioned us forward too. The idea was for us all to converge on the airport at pretty much the same time.

  For years I’ve prided myself on being ignorant of events that happen on the east side of Lake Washington. That kind of prejudice is part and parcel of Seattle’s downtown-living mystique. So I confess I was surprised that the Issaquah Skyport still existed. Nestled in prime real-estate development space along the freeway, it’s been on borrowed time for years. I had assumed that the local haven for skydivers had long since succumbed to progress, but I was wrong.

  Not only did the Skyport still exist, it had regressed a little. There were no landing lights on the short, seven-hundred-foot grass runway, and the scatter of buildings, open only on weekends except during skydiving season, were dark and deserted. It may have been skydiving season at the time, but it was also two o’clock in the morning, and all the skydiving enthusiasts had gone night-night.

  I pulled off the access road into the Issaquah Holiday Inn parking lot, hoping that, if Wainwright saw our headlights, he would assume we were nothing but late-night arrivals stopping off at the motel.

  “Can you see him?” I asked Glancy.

  “I see something moving,” he replied. “Hot damn! It’s the cab! He’s just now pulling away. I never thought we’d catch him, but we’re going to make it. Try to get closer, can you?”

  “Will do,” I said under my breath.

  I saw a break in the grass, a place where there seemed to be a vehicle track leading from the motel parking lot onto the grass field next to the runway. I took it and was rewarded with a gut-wrenching bounce where thick grass, heavy with early-morning dew, had concealed a drainage ditch.

  My Porsche is a finely tuned, lean, mean machine. On pavement, wet or dry, it’s impossible to stop, but an all-terrain vehicle it’s not. And for negotiating that lumpy open field of dew-slick grass, it was practically worthless. It was a wonder we didn’t high-center on that very first hole. We bumped along, slipping and sliding, with the rear end scraping ominously over every high spot.

  The tension in the car was almost palpable. Glancy was like a bird dog on point, sitting forward in his seat, eyes straining to see through the early morning gloom.

  “Why the hell isn’t this place better lit?” he demanded irritably. “And can’t you go any faster?”

  “No, I can’t go any faster, goddamn it! Don’t you think Wainwright picked it because of the lack of lights? He chose this field because he knew it would be deserted, because he knew there’d be no landing lights.”

  There was no question about it. If Wainwright had landed the plane after he got back from Bellingham and before he came to the theater, it must have been almost dark when he set down. It doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out that it’s a hell of a lot easier for a plane to take off in the dark than it is to land without lights.

  Glancy lapsed into gloomy silence. The only sound in the car was the grinding thumps and bumps as I eased my newly clumsy Porsche over the rough uneven terrain.

  Suddenly I felt Glancy’s hand on my sleeve. “Look, over there.” He pointed off to the side of the runway, where a shadowy line of small planes sat outlined against a slightly lighter sky. “Is that him?”

  I turned the car to the left, letting the headlights illuminate the row of planes. For a fraction of a second, the glare of the headlights caught the frozen figure of a man. His face was turned to us, his eyes squinting, blinded by the sudden light.

  It was Wainwright, all right. He was in the act of lifting a heavy suitcase, ready to load it into the plane’s passenger seat. He paused for only an instant before he heaved the suitcase into the plane and ducked down to kick the restraining wooden chocks away from the plane’s wheels.

  “He’s gonna make a break for it,” Glancy said. “Let me out.”

  I stopped. Taking his gun from his pocket, Glancy flung open his door. The light came on in the car. I saw Glancy fall to the ground and roll into the tall, wet grass that lined the edge of the runway.

  Feeling vulnerable and exposed, I ducked down and leaned across the car seat to pull the door shut behind him and turn off the damnable light. That action probably saved my life. If not my life, at least my eyes.

  I was facedown on the seat when the splatter of bullets sliced through the windshield and thumped into the leather seats behind me. The overhead light went out when a bullet smashed into it.

  “Jesus Christ! He’s got a machine gun!” I yelped, feeling sudden trickles of blood where flying glass had bitten into the side of my face and the tops of my hands.

  B. W. Wainwright was playing for keeps, and he planned to kill anyone who got in his way.

  “Are you all right?” Glancy was calling to me.

  “I think so. Just cut up, that’s all.”

  The plane’s engine turned over and it lurched out of line ont
o the runway. Behind us there were more headlights as Sergeant James pulled onto the field. And off to the east we could hear the wail of sirens as the patrol cars, alerted by James, let out all the stops, bringing reinforcements.

  I sat up. Outside the car I caught sight of Glancy slithering forward on his belly, holding his gun, taking aim. He fired off one shot and then another, but they made no difference. The Tomahawk kept moving. It was on the runway now, taxiing away from us. Glancy got to his feet and started after it on foot, but there was no way he could close the distance.

  Shoving the Porsche into gear, peering blindly through the shattered windshield and broken headlights, I started after them both, the moving plane and Roger Glancy. The Tomahawk bounded over the bumpy field like a fleet-footed deer while I struggled to catch up. It was a losing proposition.

  Down the runway, I saw Sergeant James’s sedan make an attempt to cut Wainwright off, but that didn’t work either. In seconds the plane was airborne, wobbling slightly as it cleared the end of the field.

  I bounded out of my car and stood watching in helpless frustration as the plane gained altitude. Glancy came puffing up to me.

  “Damn,” he said over and over. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  Sergeant James pulled up beside us. He was holding his radio’s microphone to his mouth, issuing orders, asking for help. It was the only thing to do.

  “Where do you think he’s headed?” I asked.

  Glancy shrugged, squinting to watch the plane’s blinking lights as they disappeared. “California, maybe. That’s where he’s from.”

  James got out of his car and came over to me. “I’ve called for a state patrol plane,” he said. “And we’re trying to get a fix on him from the air-traffic controllers at the airport.” He paused. “Beau, you’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Just some glass cuts, that’s all.”

  He took me by the shoulders and turned me so I was facing into the headlights of one of the arriving patrol cars.

  “Holy shit!” Glancy shouted, grabbing me by the arm and shaking me. “Take a look at that!”

  I turned and looked in the direction he was pointing, the direction Wainwright’s plane had gone. A brilliant explosion was lighting up the top of Cougar Mountain like a giant candle.

  “He must have hit something!” James exclaimed. “Let’s go. Leave your car here!”

  I turned off the idling engine of the crippled Porsche and hustled into James’s Dodge. Glancy was already crammed into the backseat. James turned a credible wheely and bounced us across the field to the road with the two patrol cars right behind us.

  All three cars went screaming down the freeway, sirens blaring and lights flashing. As we came to the Eastgate exit, we could see emergency vehicles making their way up the mountain toward the fire. By now the whole neighborhood was illuminated as if by a giant torch. I could see the outlines of houses and roofs on The Summit.

  Jonathan Thomas’s parents were losing their good night’s sleep.

  “Does anybody know how to get up there?” Sergeant James demanded.

  “I know a back way,” I answered. “Go straight up 150th. Left at the flashing light.”

  We left the cars on the street and jogged on up the hill. As soon as we topped the rise, we could see what had happened.

  The Summit’s developer had left only two trees standing on the top of the mountain when he clear-cut it. B. W. Wainwright had missed the radio antennas with their flashing warning lights, but he hadn’t missed the trees. They had no lights. He had smashed into one of those, setting it afire, while the plane ploughed nose down into the ground.

  Firefighters were attempting to spray water on the inferno, but there seemed to be some difficulty with the fire hydrant. They could only get a tiny trickle of water.

  Stunned residents, most wearing nightclothes, gathered around to watch. I caught sight of Dorothy and William Thomas standing there on the edge of the crowd, but I didn’t bother to talk to them. If they wanted information, they could read it in the papers.

  Sergeant James had made his way to the fire truck. Now he came back to us.

  “He didn’t make it out,” James told us.

  The announcement was hardly necessary. No one could have survived that scorching fireball.

  “Good,” Glancy said with satisfaction as the reflection of leaping flames glowed off his face. “He just saved the state a hell of a lot of time, trouble, and money.”

  CHAPTER 26

  WE WENT STRAIGHT TO HARBORVIEW. I didn’t want to, but Sergeant James insisted. There, in the emergency room, they cleaned the glass out of my face and hands. It was a time-consuming process. When they finally let me loose, Amy Fitzgerald, Ron Peters’s physical therapist, was waiting for me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Ron asked me to come see how you were. If you’re okay, he’d like you to stop by his room for a few minutes before you go home.”

  “Sure,” I said. As she led me to the elevator, I added, “I really appreciate your helping Peters find me last night.”

  Amy smiled. “I was glad to help.”

  When we reached the rehabilitation floor, she led the way into Peters’s room. She walked straight up to the bed where Peters was lying, bent down, and kissed him. Then she reached down and placed her hand in his.

  I stopped at the door, not sure what to do. “What is this, a new form of physical therapy? Or is it the new improved version of a bedside manner?”

  Peters grinned at me, the kind of open-faced grin that I had given up hope of ever seeing from him again. “The best,” he said. “How are you, Beau?”

  “I’m fine. Just a few cuts from flying glass, that’s all.”

  “You look like hell,” Peters said.

  “That makes us even,” I told him. We all three laughed at that.

  Just then, Sergeant James hustled into the room behind me. “Goddamn it, Beau, I turned my back on you for one minute to take a phone call, and you disappeared!”

  “It’s my fault,” Peters said. “I wanted to see him for a minute before he left the hospital.”

  “Well, the party’s over,” James said. “We’ve got a mountain of paperwork to do.”

  “Paperwork!” I echoed. “Come on, Sarge, have a heart. Do we have to do the reports now?”

  Sergeant James looked at me and grinned. “You’d better believe it. You’re doing your paperwork so I can do mine. The only guy in this investigation who doesn’t have to write up a report is Detective Peters. He’s got an excuse. You don’t. Besides, they won’t release Jasmine Day until we get it done.”

  James left the room, and I had no choice but to trail along behind.

  “Hey, Beau,” Peters called after me. “Are you still going to the airport to pick up the girls?”

  I stopped in the doorway. “The girls?”

  “They come home today, remember? Their plane is due in about ten-thirty this morning. I told Mrs. Edwards you’d probably be there to meet them, but if you’re not, they should catch a cab.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, beating myself for forgetting their arrival and remembering guiltily that I still hadn’t given Peters the postcards his daughters had sent him from California.

  “Come on,” Sergeant James urged. “Hurry it up.” I hurried.

  James led the way into the elevator. “That phone call was from the chief of police in Bellingham,” the sergeant continued. “According to him, Holman spilled his guts. He’s made a complete confession, including the fact that Osgood planted the cocaine in Jonathan Thomas’s pillow to hide the fact that they were looking for something else.”

  “The tape?”

  James nodded grimly.

  “It worked,” I said. “We’re just lucky Mrs. Morris called us.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Sergeant James agreed.

  When we got down to the Public Safety Building, Alan Dale was asleep on one of the couches in the fifth-floo
r lobby. I woke him up. His eyes were hollow as he rubbed the sleep out of them.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “You said you’d help me bail her out, remember? I called here and they told me you’d be back eventually, so I came down to wait. I’ve got the name and number of a bail bondsman. How much is it going to cost?”

  I shook my head. “Not a dime,” I told him. “It’s going to take some time, but it’s not going to cost you anything.”

  Alan Dale followed me into my cubicle while I told him what had happened since we left him at the Fifth Avenue.

  “So she wasn’t in on it?” he asked when I had finished.

  “She never was,” I replied. “The whole thing was a setup from beginning to end.”

  “Those sons of bitches,” Alan Dale muttered. “Those no good sons of bitches!” He pounded a clenched fist into the open palm of his other hand. It was probably a good thing for Ed Waverly that he was locked up and out of harm’s way about then, because I think the head carpenter would have hammered him if he’d gotten the chance.

  It all made sense to me then, although I hadn’t seen it before. It was written all over Alan Dale’s haggard face. He was like a faithful old hound dog, hanging around outside his owner’s door, waiting for a table scrap or maybe, if he got really lucky, a pat on the head. I wondered if Jasmine Day had ever noticed. If not, maybe Mary Lou Gibbon would be smart enough to figure it out.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  They released Jasmine Day at five o’clock in the morning. I was waiting in the lobby when they brought her out. Alan Dale held his arms open for her, and she fell into them as if she belonged there. She was crying; I’m not sure why. Dale held her so tight I was afraid she’d break, but she didn’t.

  “Are you still staying at the Mayflower?” I asked finally.

  He shook his head. “I checked us both out. I’m unemployed, remember? I can’t afford it on my own nickel.”

  “Come home with me, then,” I said. “I’ve got lots of room.”

  Sergeant James dropped us off at Belltown Terrace.