“You seen this guy?” her husband asked.
She studied the photo. “Never.”
I said, “It would’ve been a small boat, one that could be beached at Bootlegger’s Cove at low tide.”
“Sorry.”
I sighed. I’d asked at every place on our stretch of the coast that offered rentals of boats that could navigate the shallows of the cove, and all the answers had been negative.
“You one of the folks who built that big house on the cliffs there, put in the airstrip?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re keeping that place damned nice, taking care of the land.”
“Thank you. My husband’s an environmentalist; we love the property and planned the improvements so they wouldn’t spoil it, or the views for people passing on the highway.”
“You’ve done a good job.” He turned to a coffeemaker on the counter behind him, poured into a foam cup, and handed it to me. “My treat. You give me your phone number, I’ll call you if I see the guy around here.”
“Thanks.” I handed him my card, with the number at Touchstone written on the back. “May I leave a copy of the photograph for you to show to people in the area?” I’d been peppering the coast with them.
“Sure. There’s a big crab feed at the volunteer fire department tonight. I’ll pass it around.”
Dusk was falling when I got back to Touchstone, where I found a message from Bob Gardner, asking me to call him. He wasn’t at the airport, but the woman who answered gave me his home number.
“I got lucky,” he said. “One of the guys who parks his plane here spotted a Piper Cub on the strip at your place on the fifteenth. Better yet, he knows whose it is—Dan Kessell from down at Timber Cove. Says he’s seen it there before, figured he was checking the security. Kessell runs a one-man private patrol, although he doesn’t have any clients this far north.”
“Was he sure it was Kessell’s plane?”
“Yep. There isn’t a plane on the coast—or maybe in the entire state—that looks that scabrous.”
“Where does he park it?”
“Ocean Ridge, in Gualala.”
I’d have to be careful, I thought. If the man I’d encountered in Timber Cove had searched this house, looking for information on Hy’s computer, he was dangerous and, as a security patrolman, probably armed.
I wasn’t. I don’t like to carry my .357 Magnum, even though I have a permit. Most of the time it resides in the safe at the pier.
Hy kept a .45 here, though, locked in the drawer of his nightstand, and I had a key. I went to the bedroom, unlocked the drawer, and checked the load. Carried it out to the kitchen counter and put it in my purse.
Not that I intended to confront the other Kessell immediately. There were inquiries I’d make first. But I was better off armed, since I now felt insecure in a place where I’d always felt safe.
I was so tense that when the phone rang, I flinched.
“Is this Sharon McCone?”
“Yes.”
“Bert from Bert’s Boats. I’ve got some information for you. One of the small-charter guys from Fort Bragg came down for the crab feed, and when I showed him the picture you left with me, he told me he’d taken the guy down to your cove on the tenth, waited around for about an hour, then took him back.”
“He’s sure of his identification?”
“I’ll let you talk to him.”
A deep male voice came onto the line. “Ms. McCone? Syd Garvey here. I’m sure the guy in the picture’s your man. He had me bring him as far into the cove as I was able to go, then waded the rest of the way and climbed up those stairs to the top of the cliff. Stayed for about half an hour, then climbed down and waded back out.”
“Did he say what he was doing up there?”
“He didn’t, and I didn’t ask. He waved a wad of money at me, and I took it. I don’t know if you realize, but times are tough here on the north coast.” A pause. “I hope you won’t go to the sheriff’s department with this. I’ve got a family to support.”
“No, I won’t. I know times are tough.”
In more ways than one.
So now I had two potential intruders. One dead, one alive. Had the two Kessells been joined in some sort of conspiracy?
Time to further check out the living one.
Hy and I sometimes flew into Ocean Ridge Airport, when we were meeting friends in the Gualala area for lunch or dinner, and we’d gotten friendly with the manager, Walter Waggoner. I called his home—he lived on the premises—and said I needed to talk with him in person. He told me he’d be home all evening.
“You thinking of flying down?” he asked. “Because if you are, I wouldn’t advise it. Fog’s in thick, even on the ridge.”
I glanced at the coastward windows; it was clear here, the sky peppered with stars. A reverse of the typical weather pattern. The Gualala area is what they call the Banana Coast, an unusually temperate clime for Northern California; at Touchstone we have frequent heavy mists.
“I’ll drive,” I said. “If you see someone wandering around in the tie-downs in about forty minutes, it’s only me.”
“Now you’ve got me intrigued.”
“I’ll explain later.”
Distances always seem longer than they really are on Highway 1, because of its twists and turns and switchbacks. At night, they stretch out even more, because of the darkness. No streetlights in this rural territory, and in most places the lights from houses are far off the road. The towns and hamlets spring up suddenly—welcome oases—and then you’re just as quickly plunged back into an obscure landscape. But when you reach your destination, you find the trip hasn’t taken as long as you thought.
I arrived at Ocean Ridge in only thirty-five minutes. The fog was indeed thick, and the security lights in the tie-down area were faint. I left the truck by Walter’s house, which also served as a small terminal, and walked over to the rows of planes. Beyond them was a parking area for local pilots and people who flew in to their second homes. The vehicles’ shapes were obscured by the misty darkness.
I moved along the rows until I found the beat-up Piper Cub. As Bob Gardner had said, it was scabrous. I walked around it, trying to peer through the windows, but not touching it—you don’t touch other people’s aircraft, particularly a stranger’s. What I could see of the interior was as bad as the exterior, but I knew that appearances could be deceiving; with regular mechanical maintenance, a plane can have a long, safe life span, even though it looks like it’s ready to fall apart. I noted its number and went back to Walter’s house.
He opened the door before I could ring the bell. Thin, with longish brown hair, about six-four—what Hy would call a “long, tall drink of water.”
“Find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He motioned me through a room that was furnished with shabby old chairs, a counter, and the UNICOM, into a cozy living room with a much better decor.
“Want a drink?” he asked. “Some coffee?”
“Coffee, please. Black. I think I’m going to have a long night.”
He left the room, returned with two white mugs. “And what were you looking for?” he asked, sitting down on the opposite end of the sofa.
“A Piper Cub belonging to Dan Kessell.”
“Ah, Danny Boy.”
“He fly a lot?”
“Most every day, around the area. He’s a security guy—home patrols—and uses the plane for surveillance on a few of his clients’ properties. And he likes to do touch-and-goes at private airstrips when the owners’re away. I know for a fact that that strip of yours on the cliff is one of his favorites.”
Maybe that explained his plane being sighted there. Maybe.
I sipped some coffee. Tasty and strong, just what I needed. “He ever take longer trips?”
“A few times a year. I think he has relatives in Fresno that he visits.”
“Does he file a flight plan?”
�
�Danny Boy? Shit, no. Not ever. Strikes me as unwise, at his age and with that bad leg, but he’s seat-of-the-pants, old-school.”
That bad leg. The ever-running man limps . . .
“Anyplace else he goes?”
“The occasional fishing trip. And once a year to Harris Ranch—that resort near Coalinga, belongs to the people who raise Harris beef—for a big steak dinner. Stays overnight. Pricey, but he saves up for it.”
“He go any long distances lately?”
Walter frowned. “Now that you mention it, yes. On a Saturday, the twenty-fifth. I was checking out the planes in the tie-downs, and I found him with a sectional spread out on the wing.”
Sectionals—aviation maps. “Which one?”
“Los Angeles. I asked him if he’d be gone for long. His answer struck me as strange: ‘Long enough,’ he said. ‘I’m taking care of some old business.’ And then he laughed, sounded kind of nasty.”
That particular sectional covered San Diego. And the day that this Kessell had been studying it was the same day the other Kessell was shot.
My cellular would work here on top of the coastal ridge, so I went back to the truck, got Elise Carver’s number in Fresno from information, and called her. She remembered me immediately and asked if I’d located her brother.
“Not yet. I have a question: does he walk with a limp?”
“Yes, he does. When he was in Vietnam, his unit came under enemy fire, and his tibia was shattered. They did surgery and therapy in a hospital in the Philippines, and for a long time it was hardly noticeable, but as he’s gotten older, it’s more pronounced.” She paused. “Does this mean you’ve seen Danny?”
“I think so.”
“Where is he? I’d like to talk to him. We had quite a scare last week when a man in San Diego with the same name was shot. We actually flew down there, but when we viewed the body it turned out to be a stranger. Thank God.”
“I’m not sure where your brother is living, but when I see him, I’ll ask him to get in touch with you.”
After I ended the call with Elise Carver, I sat in the truck, imagining the scenario.
Dan Kessell—the living one—undergoes surgery in the Philippines by a doctor whose career is in serious trouble. The surgeon, Richard Tyne, comes up with a plan to cash out his trust fund and flee, assuming Kessell’s identity.
How?
Well, for one familiar with the hospital, it probably wouldn’t have been difficult for Tyne to get his hands on Kessell’s wallet and any other identification. Military records as well. Tyne already had a lot of cash, so it was easy enough to vanish, buy an aviation business, and build a life based on the theft of another man’s identity.
Aviation business. Tyne was a doctor. Had he also possessed a pilot’s license? Or learned to fly later?
I thought of the backgrounding I’d done on Tyne. He had indulged in risky sports. Some people—insurance companies, in particular—consider flying to be one. I’d ask Derek to check with the FAA in the morning.
Okay, the real Dan Kessell finds out that Tyne is a rich owner of a security firm, masquerading under his name. How?
They were both in the same field, although at opposite ends of the spectrum. Kessell/Tyne stayed out of the limelight, allowing Renshaw to front for him, but a year or so ago he’d granted an interview to a trade journal. I wasn’t sure when it had come out, but Dan had expressed displeasure that they’d used a photograph of him without his permission. What if the real Kessell had seen it and become enraged? Started a vendetta against RKI? Flown to San Diego and shot Tyne? And then found no satisfaction in Tyne’s destruction and gone on to bomb the Chicago office?
Would he continue destroying and maiming and killing?
I thought of the peculiar, limping gait of the man I’d seen in the San Francisco alley and on the Chicago street. Thought of Kessell’s bad leg.
If I was right, the real Dan Kessell was even more dangerous than I’d previously thought. So why was I going to drive down to Timber Cove and spy on him? Why not call Gary Viner and explain what I suspected?
The problem was, what I had was mere conjecture. There was no proof that Kessell knew about Tyne, much less had flown to San Diego and shot him. The sectional he’d been studying covered a huge area.
I needed evidence, hard evidence.
The fog was even thicker in the little enclave at Timber Cove. I was about to park in a turnoff on the highway and walk in, when I spotted headlights coming out. It was Kessell’s big truck and it turned north. Probably going for his nighttime rounds. I made a U and followed him.
First stop was a big oceanside home with an iron gate flanked by tall pillars. Kessell activated the gate by a keypad and drove through. I turned off the truck’s lights, drifted to the shoulder. Took out the binoculars we keep in the glove box for whale-watching, found the house number, and noted it. I could see Kessell’s lights shining through the trees as he checked the property. After a few minutes, the gates swung open, then closed behind him.
I waited a moment before I turned on my lights and followed.
Another oceanside stop: no gates, but I knew the house because it was way out on a point and impressive even from a distance. Kessell spent more time there, allowing me the opportunity to jot down the number posted on the grapestake fence. Once again he drove north.
When he turned onto a road on the east side of the highway, I decided not to follow. Too much chance of him noticing my headlights, trapping me in a dead end. There were only two house numbers tacked to a post, which I duly noted. Fifteen minutes later, Kessell’s truck came back down the road, turned north again.
Small oceanside cabin. Large oceanside estate. House set up on the ridge, but visible from the highway. House set close to the road on a curve; that would have unnerved me, since a motorist’s miscalculation would probably land his vehicle in the living room. Odd oceanside place whose turrets mimicked those at Fort Ross.
Finally, after checking out a modest but attractive A-frame on the eastern side of the highway, Kessell headed south. I turned north. It was late, and the information I’d gathered would be the basis for tomorrow’s inquiries.
Monday
MARCH 6
I was up and dressed at seven o’clock, drinking coffee and chafing at the thought that I really shouldn’t bother anybody till at least eight. At eight on the dot I called the office. Ted sounded cheerful when he answered and put me through to Derek. Mick, whom I’d originally asked for, hadn’t come in yet. He was probably in bed celebrating his engagement to Charlotte.
I asked Derek to query the FAA about a pilot’s license issued to Richard Tyne, then read him the list of addresses Kessell had visited on his patrol last night, asked for names and phone numbers of their owners—both in the Timber Cove area and at their primary residences. He said he’d get right on it, and I settled in to wait. But then another idea occurred to me, and I phoned Garland Romanowski, our security man here at Touchstone.
“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you yet about that estimate for wiring the platform,” he said. “I did go down there and checked to see if we can connect it with the system on the stone cottage, and it’s a go. Save you a lot of money.”
“Thanks, but that’s not why I’m calling. When we talked before you said you don’t know Dan Kessell, that private patrol guy at Timber Cove, but can you think of anybody who might?”
“Not offhand, but I can check around.”
“Would you, please?”
“For a good client like you? No problem.”
“And if you do find somebody, would you also ask about who Kessell would hire to make his rounds if he was out of town for a while? And try to find out if he has an alarm system on his house.”
“Can do. I’ve got three appointments today—one in Anchor Bay, the others south of Fort Bragg. Plenty of time in between to do some phoning on the old cell.”
I waited. And waited. Around noon I microwaved a packaged burrito that I found in the
freezer. It was horrible, and I threw most of it out.
By two, there were still no calls. I took the cordless phone with me and went for a walk, inspecting the property, assessing the winter weather’s damage to our runway. It wasn’t all that bad; some patching, and it would be as good as new.
No one called.
At three Derek phoned to say a Richard Tyne of Indianapolis had received his private pilot’s license two years after Dan Kessell had received his. Derek was e-mailing me the other information I’d asked for. I got on the computer and checked the list of owners whose property Kessell had visited last night; none of them was familiar to me, but I hadn’t expected them to be. Two appeared to be permanent residents—locals who employed Kessell on a temporary basis while they went on vacations. I’d hold off on contacting anyone; with Garland’s help, it might not be necessary.
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.
The Ever-Running Man Page 15
