by David Freed
We would’ve been there all night, me attempting to justify to both of them my paranoia and flagrant disregard of California motor vehicle code.
“Just give me the ticket.”
And he did.
SAVANNAH REMAINED largely silent on the drive to La Jolla, steamed by my unwillingness to explain what had prompted my latest run-in with local law enforcement. About the only thing she said was that the collapse of our marriage could be pinned to a large degree on my lack of “emotional honesty,” as evidenced by what she condemned as my “chronic secretiveness.” It started, she said, when I was unwilling to reveal anything to her about how I really earned a living when I worked for the government. And now I was doing it all over again, clamming up, refusing to tell her why I thought we’d been followed.
“I’m just going to say one thing,” Savannah said, “and that is, the cornerstone of any healthy human relationship is open, honest communication.”
“I thought you said the cornerstone was mutual respect.”
She pivoted her gaze toward me, her mahogany eyes scorching me like a blow torch.
“Please tell me you’re not mocking me, Logan, because if you are, you can turn around right now and drop me back at the train station. I’ll be only too happy to go back to LA tonight.”
“That was the last train tonight.”
“The airport, then.”
“I wasn’t mocking you, Savannah.”
End of conversation.
The Walkers’ residence was dark and quiet—which made sense considering it was nearly one A.M. by the time we arrived. They’d left the back gate leading to the guesthouse unlocked.
Somewhere far off, an owl hooted its salutation to the night. Savannah followed me as I maneuvered her suitcase up a meandering flagstone walkway and past the Walker’s kidney-shaped pool. The backyard was not as lushly landscaped as Savannah’s opulent spread in the Hollywood Hills, but lush enough. She paused and stooped, swishing her hand in the warm, glistening water.
“Perfect temperature. Reminds me of that night in San Francisco, remember?”
Did I remember? How could I forget? We were newlyweds, living in a tiny apartment without air conditioning in San Francisco’s Mission District. One normally doesn’t need AC in SF, but that summer, Baghdad by the Bay baked like, well, Baghdad. One night after midnight, we made our way to the downtown Hilton, passed ourselves off as guests who’d misplaced our room key, and went for a cooling dip in the hotel’s pool, which we had all to ourselves. Then we got busy in the Jacuzzi.
“One of the best nights of my life,” Savannah said.
I wanted to tell her that it had been one of mine, too. But, somehow, I couldn’t. There were moments when I still struggled emotionally to get beyond that fine line between love and hate, the one that can consume a man after losing a woman like Savannah. Some moments remained more blinding than others.
“I vaguely recall we went swimming.”
She shook her head and said nothing as she followed me inside.
The little guesthouse, like the gate, was unlocked. Turning on a brass floor lamp revealed a kitchenette and a small, bright bathroom done up in Mexican tiles hand-painted with yellow sunflowers. The sink was ceramic and shaped like half a clamshell. The faucet dripped. There was one bedroom and one full-size, four-poster bed. Savannah stared at it for several long seconds before I grabbed the bedspread and a pillow and tossed them on the terra cotta-tiled floor.
“You don’t have to sleep down there,” Savannah said.
“You’re right. I can sleep in the car.”
I started for the door. She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward her.
“Maybe we should just see what happens,” she said.
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning what you think it means.”
“Seriously?”
She shook her head like she couldn’t believe any man could be so slow on the uptake. “You know, Logan, sometimes you can be a complete buzz kill.” Then she brushed her lips against mine.
Many things in life are incomprehensible. Soccer’s offside rule, for example. Or Hollywood’s insistence on continuing to cast Nicolas Cage in major feature film roles. But nothing is more inexplicable than fathoming what makes the average woman tick. And when that woman is anything but average, why even make an effort?
I kissed Savannah hungrily.
She melted into my embrace as we stood together, arching into me, her tongue softly probing mine, her fingers sliding down the back of my jeans. Her hair smelled like spring.
“You won’t be needing this,” she whispered, undoing my belt, “or this,” tugging my shirt over my head.
I glided my lips along the side of her neck, savoring the silken sweetness of her skin, as I gently cupped her breast. Savannah leaned her head back and moaned.
“This could be a huge mistake, Logan.”
“That’s what they said about Alaska, and that turned out just fine last time I checked.”
She laughed.
Call me a cornball, but a sweeter sound I’ve never heard.
Seven
My jeans were ringing on the floor beside the bed. I reached over, half asleep, and got out my phone.
“Logan.”
“Mr. Logan, Gary Castle, Castle Robotics, returning your call of yesterday. My apologies for not getting back to you sooner. I was back in Washington on business. Got in last night. Hope I’m not catching you too early.”
Savannah was snuggled into my back, her arm draped over my side, snoring softly. I glanced at the time display on the phone. It was nearly 9:30 A.M. The last time I’d slept that late was in a crib.
“Not too early at all, Mr. Castle.”
“Hub Walker tells me you’re doing some work for him.”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Hub’s been like a father to me. One of the finest men I’ve ever known, hands down—and unquestionably one of the greatest pilots who ever lived. I don’t know if he told you: we met when I was working as a line boy at the Camarillo airport, gassing up planes, washing windshields. He flew in for an air show that summer. Quite a thrill. That was years ago, though, when I was still thinking about becoming a pilot myself.”
“Never too late.”
“It is for me, unfortunately. I’ve got some heath problems that would prevent my passing a flight medical.” Castle’s tone brightened. “In any case, Hub tells me you’re a flight instructor. Must be a blast, getting paid to teach people how to fly.”
“A total blast—if you don’t mind shopping at the Salvation Army and eating ramen several times a week.”
Castle laughed a little too hard. “How can I help you, Mr. Logan?”
“Actually, Hub wants me to help you.”
I told him that I’d been hired to refute Dorian Munz’s last-minute allegations. Any nuggets of information Castle could provide, however small, that hadn’t already gone public could go a long way, I said, in restoring his good name.
“Needless to say,” Castle said, “I wasn’t pleased with the field day the press had over the lies Munz told, but I honestly don’t know what more I can tell you that didn’t come out during his trial.”
“Hub seems to think there still may be a few apples left on the tree.”
“Well, if that’s what Hub thinks . . . I trust his instincts implicitly. Tell you what, Mr. Logan, why don’t you swing by my office in an hour, if that’s convenient. We can go somewhere, catch a little late breakfast.”
He gave me the address. I said I’d be there.
I thought it odd that Castle hadn’t mentioned Ruth Walker’s name during our conversation. Ruth had been a loyal employee. She was the daughter of the man Castle said was like a father to him. But I let it go. I was naked and in bed with Savannah. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else.
CRISSY WALKER was standing at the kitchen counter, mixing a big glass bowl of batter, when Savannah and I entered through the patio door. Hub w
as sipping coffee at the breakfast bar, reading the morning paper. They were wearing matching blue terry cloth robes.
“This is Savannah.”
“You didn’t tell us she was so gorgeous,” Crissy said, hugging her.
“You’re the one who’s gorgeous,” Savannah said, her face radiant from our evening together.
Walker clasped her hand in his two. “Y’all make a fine-lookin’ couple, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” he said, his mood having improved appreciably from the night before.
“Actually, we were a couple,” Savannah said, “and, while we may still look like one, we’re really still more at the exploratory phase. We’re hoping to determine whether a sufficient foundational framework exists to reestablish something potentially long term.”
“Savannah’s a life coach,” I explained.
“Gotcha.” It was clear by Walker’s confounded expression that he had not a clue what a life coach was or did. I wasn’t sure I knew, either.
“By the way,” I said, “the faucet out in the guesthouse is leaking. Not sure if you knew that already.”
Walker sighed, pouring us coffee in two ceramic mugs. “I replaced that whole sink not two years ago. Guess I’ll have to get out there again with my toolbox.”
“You shouldn’t be getting out there on your hands and knees doing plumbing, Hub,” Crissy said. “Hire somebody.”
“I ain’t paying somebody to fix something I can fix myself. We’ve been over this I don’t know how many times.”
“Well, maybe if you’d hired somebody to do it right the first time, you wouldn’t have to be going out there to fix it.”
The sudden tension between them was discomforting.
“So, I hear you have a very pretty granddaughter,” Savannah said, playing referee.
Walker smiled. “Ryder. She’s at zoo camp. Goes every morning. You’ll meet her tonight.”
“She absolutely adores animals,” Crissy said. “We can’t have any, unfortunately. She’s highly allergic to all forms of pet dander.”
“Crissy’s a television producer,” I said to Savannah.
“Aspiring producer,” Crissy said. “I haven’t actually gotten any projects on air yet, though I do have one that looks promising. Animal Planet seems very interested. Fingers crossed.”
I told Savannah about The Cat Communicator. Savannah laughed and clapped her hands.
“What a great idea for a show,” she said. “I’d definitely watch.”
“With that kind of enthusiasm, you can come with me to my next pitch meeting.”
“Maybe I just will.”
Hub asked me if I’d had any more news on Janet Bollinger. I said I didn’t.
“I couldn’t sleep a wink, thinking about her,” Walker said. “Finally had to take something to knock me out.”
“We prayed all night,” Crissy said.
Savannah over looked at me.
“Janet?”
“I’ll explain later.”
I told Walker that I was meeting Greg Castle for brunch.
“Excellent. You’ll like Greg. Outstanding young man. Can’t say the same for Ray Sheen, his No. 2, though. Smart fella. Something about that guy I don’t trust.” Hub shot Crissy a quick glance. She seemed not to notice as she poured milk into a batter bowl.
“Too bad you can’t stay for breakfast,” Crissy said. “I’m making Belgian waffles. With real whipped cream.”
“I love waffles,” Savannah said. “I just wish they didn’t go straight to my hips.”
Hub smiled. “Gotta die of something, darlin’.”
I said I’d be back in a couple of hours. Savannah urged me to have fun, then kissed me goodbye. It was an awkward kiss, like new lovers, unfamiliar with each other. After so many years apart, I suppose you could say we were.
WALKER STEPPED outside with me to his driveway.
“Some looker, that ex-wife of yours. What’s she doin’ with the likes of you?”
“You have no idea how often I ask myself that same question.”
The azure of Walker’s ocean view melted into the cloudless heavens above, a cobalt that seemed to stretch all the way to Asia. The wind was out of the east. A desert wind. The promise of a warm day.
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night,” Walker said. “I don’t know what came over me. I just got a little tossed off my horse when you told me about what happened to Janet. I got no problems, you talking to the police about anything. I just want you to understand that.”
Across the street, a squat, barrel-chested man in his mid-sixties wearing khaki walking shorts and a cinnamon-colored hairpiece you could spot from the International Space Station was watering pots of red and purple impatiens on his front porch and glaring.
“Cut down those trees, Walker!”
Hub waved like a good neighbor, then turned his back.
“My neighbor, Major Kilgore. Says my palms ruined his view. Keeps threatening to take me to court. Problem is, his house never had a view to begin with.”
“Cut ’em down, Walker, or I swear to God, you’re gonna regret it!”
“He’s been harping at me like that ever since he moved in last year. Never took a shine to me ’cuz I was Air Force and he’s Marine Corps. He’s basically harmless, though.”
Major Kilgore looked anything but harmless. He was scowling vengefully, fists clenched, shaking with rage.
Walker ignored him and squinted up at the sun. “High pressure’s building in. I might drive out to Montgomery and do a touch-and-go or two. Crissy said something about wanting to take Savannah shopping.”
I climbed into the Escalade. “You mind me asking you a question, Hub?”
He smiled. “It’s not about the medal, is it? I thought we covered that ground yesterday.”
“It’s about Janet Bollinger.”
Walker’s smile faded. “What about her?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything you’re not telling me, would you?”
He ran a hand over his face, struggling to control his anger.
“All I know is what you told me.”
I watched him stride up the driveway and back into his house, the door slamming behind him. I’ve spent a lifetime lobbing blunt-spoken questions, offending innumerable friends, relatives, bedmates, DMV workers, airline reservationists, one ex-wife, and, from what I was later told, the entire faculty of my high school. Hub Walker to my recollection was the first Medal of Honor recipient I’d ever pissed off.
FORTY-SOMETHING Gary Castle was everything Walker said he was. Clean cut. Athletic. Articulate. The All-American straight shooter. In his cuffed khakis and yellow golf shirt, with a hint of gray at the perfectly coiffed temples, he could’ve just as easily passed for a Republican seeking the White House.
“This is why I work so hard,” Castle said, proudly handing me a framed photo of his exceedingly blonde wife and four towheaded boys, one of more than a dozen family pictures crowding his desktop.
“Good-looking brood,” I said.
Less handsome was the view from Castle’s second-floor office, located in a large, highly secure, two-story building with mirrored windows that overlooked a heavy equipment storage yard just off Pioneer Way. The “El Cajon Zone,” as the locals call it, may be a mere half-hour drive inland from San Diego’s La Jolla, but it is decidedly more industrial, a haven of machine shops, warehouses, fast-food outlets and guys driving jacked-up pickup trucks with oversized tires.
“Unfortunately, I realized after we spoke this morning that I have a meeting at noon,” Castle said, “so I took the liberty of ordering in. I hope you don’t mind.”
A nearby credenza bore heaping platters of fresh pastries and bagels. There was a crystal pitcher of orange juice on ice and a silver coffee decanter. I picked out a chocolate doughnut with chocolate frosting, garnished with crumbled peanuts.
“These things,” I said with my mouth full-to-overflowing, “should be outlawed.”
“I’m sure you
have many questions,” Castle said. “I thought it might be helpful if you first got a brief overview of what it is we do here at Castle Robotics.”
As if on signal, a slim man about Castle’s age, with a slicked-back, receding hairline, sockless Weejuns, stylishly faded jeans, and an untucked black dress shirt rapped on Castle’s open door.
“Come on in, Ray. I’ve asked my chief operating officer, Ray Sheen, to join us. Nothing gets done around here without him. Ray, this is Cordell Logan, the gentleman I mentioned. Hub Walker seems to think he might be able to help us out of this pickle.”
Sheen had long, flared sideburns, like some nineteenth-century riverboat gambler, and a pronounced scar on his left cheekbone that reminded me of the Nike swoosh. In his hand was a Louisville Slugger, which he gripped as if it were a walking stick. An affectation if there ever was one.
“You must be a ballplayer,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Second base. Started all four years at Arizona State.”
“Ray and I roomed together in college,” Castle said. “He got his pilot’s license way back when, but it’s been a few years since he flew.”
“I have better things to do,” Sheen said, “like helping this country defend itself.”
Ray Sheen exuded an obnoxious, self-important air.
“Gentlemen, please.” Castle gestured toward four wine-colored lounge chairs on the far side of his office surrounding a round coffee table upon which rested what looked like a mechanical hummingbird.
I resisted the urge to get myself another doughnut and sat.
“So,” I said, “what exactly does Castle Robotics do?”
“Nano technology,” Sheen said. “This company, Mr. Logan, stands on the brink of delivering technology to America’s war fighters that will viably reduce unmanned aerial vehicles—more commonly known as ‘drones’—to the size of this.” He held up the hummingbird and showed it to me.
I remembered sitting in on a classified briefing in which we learned all about plans by the Pentagon’s Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency to create such drones. The incentive was to reduce collateral damage from bomb strikes. High-orbiting Predator UAVs aren’t always discriminate when lobbing Hellfire missiles. Target a terrorist who stops in for a quick bite to eat at the House of Hummus, and innocent people often get blown to smithereens with him. On the other hand, a battery-powered, remote-controlled drone packing miniaturized optics and a small warhead could buzz in through an open window at the House of Hummus, land unobtrusively, wait until the bad guy visited the men’s room, then blow him to smithereens. That was the concept, anyway. Nano technology was little more than theoretical when I worked for the government. How times had changed in only a few short years.
