Fangs Out

by David Freed

  “Any news on Janet Bollinger?” Walker asked.

  “She died last night.”

  He leaned back in his desk chair and gazed sadly out the window, shaking his head.

  “Why in the world would somebody have wanted to do something like that to her?”

  “I don’t know, Hub.”

  He watched his granddaughter swim. “Sweet Jesus,” is all he said.

  Whether truly grief-stricken or guilt-ridden, his reaction again was tough to read considering I’d only known him all of three days. I wanted to believe that he had nothing to do with Janet Bollinger’s death. Nothing pointed overtly to his involvement except some vague, ill-defined gnawing in my gut. When you’re a skeptic, I suppose, all the world’s a suspect. Sometimes even war heroes.

  “The detectives’ll probably want to ask you and Crissy a few questions. You might want to call them.”

  “Whoever hurt Jan needs to pay,” Walker said, his gaze still directed outside, “just like Dorian Munz.”

  I dug Detective Rosario’s card out of my wallet and slid it across the desk.

  “THAT PRIVATE investigator you told me about? His name’s Herbie Myers,” Detective Rosario said when she called me back that afternoon.

  “Herbie ‘Bunny’ Myers. Definitely has a ring to it.”

  “I ran his records. He spent twelve years as a special agent for the Navy’s Criminal Investigative Service before getting his PI license.”

  “He worked for NCIS? That fits.”

  Despite what TV producers would have you believe, Navy criminal investigators are about as high speed as the Mayberry Police Department. At least that’s the impression they left when I was with Alpha and we’d occasionally cross paths with them. Their primary mission back then was ferreting out closeted homosexual sailors who would then be deemed unfit for military service and automatically discharged. Bunny’s files showed that his own naval career ended abruptly, according to Rosario, after he’d stabbed a reputedly gay gunner’s mate in the hand during a bar fight in downtown San Diego’s tony Gaslamp Quarter. Witnesses said it was self-defense—both men had blades—but the sailor’s uncle happened to be an admiral. Bunny was threatened with a punitive transfer and loss of six months’ pay. He quit instead. How he ended up working as a private investigator for Dorian Munz’s defense lawyer, Charles Dowd, was not readily clear. What was clear, however, was that Detective Rosario was eager to question him as soon as possible in what had evolved overnight from an assault on Janet Bollinger to a homicide.

  Only problem was, Bunny had skipped town.

  “Dowd says he has no idea where he’s at, and the only thing Bunny’s neighbors know is that he left town in a big hurry,” Rosario said over the phone. “We think he may be hiding out in the Yuma area with a cousin. And get this: the cousin? His name’s Daniel Zuniga. Goes by, ‘Li’l Sinister.’ He matches pretty closely your description of the knucklehead with the neck tattoo you chatted up outside Ms. Bollinger’s apartment.”

  “His name’s Li’l Sinister and he wears boxers with little lightning bolts on them?”

  “What can I say? It’s a weird world.”

  “Indeed.”

  Rosario said she and her partner were concerned that Bunny was planning to cross the border with Li’l Sinister into northern Mexico, where the men had relatives to harbor them. She was unwilling, however, to contact authorities in Arizona and have them make an arrest for fear that the local cops might tip off the suspects instead.

  “The Mexican drug cartels have a lot of reach out there,” she said. “It’s hard to know who to trust on either side of the border anymore.”

  “Hard to trust anybody anywhere.”

  Rosario didn’t disagree.

  Yuma is about 175 miles east of San Diego across the Anza-Borrego Desert. On a good day, the drive takes less than three hours, but this, the detective said, was not one of those days. An 18-wheeler hauling fresh eggs had collided with a tanker truck filled with extra virgin olive oil. Both big rigs had exploded. Aside from making the world’s biggest frittata, the accident had shut down Interstate 8 in both directions. No one could say how long the freeway would remain closed.

  None of that should’ve been any of my concern. Savannah and I were “napping” in the Walkers’ guesthouse. No man with a lick of sense would’ve willingly left under those circumstances. But most pilots have no sense. What else explains the inclinations of otherwise sane individuals who trade the safety of terra firma for the ever-unpredictable wild blue, an inhospitable domain that can spit out anything ever built by man and send it crashing back to earth faster than you can say “terminal velocity”? Still, for all its risks, a true aviator will jump at any legitimate reason to aviate—even if it means extracting himself from a warm bed and supple bedmate. And so, when Detective Rosario said that a fugitive was at large in the Yuma area and that the road there was impassable, I said what the pilot of any small airplane would’ve said:

  “I can fly you there.”

  “You can fly?”

  “Not in the Peter Pan sense. But if your question is, ‘Do I own a Cessna 172 currently parked at Montgomery Field, and do I possess the capacity on short notice to transport you and your partner to Yuma,’ then I suppose the answer all depends on whether your department is willing to reimburse me for fuel and wear and tear on my airplane.”

  “I think we can arrange that,” Rosario said, getting excited by the idea.

  “Then I’d say we’re good to go.”

  She said she and her partner could meet me at the airfield in forty-five minutes. I gave her the name of the jet center where the Ruptured Duck was tied down, told her I’d be on my way there shortly, and tapped the red button on my phone.

  Savannah spooned into me sleepily, wearing my polo shirt and nothing else. Her hand draped over my hip and dangled over a particularly sensitive sector of my anatomy.

  “What’s so important in Yuma?” she purred.

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back,” I said, and derricked myself out of bed.

  Savannah rolled over on one elbow and watched me pull on my jeans, biting her bottom lip, pouting.

  “You can’t go later?”

  “I only wish.” I sat back down and laced up my hiking shoes.

  She leaned over and kissed me softly on the small of my back. “If you stay, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I can’t, Savannah. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

  “This isn’t Kmart, Logan. There are no rain checks. Supplies are limited.” She flopped back on the pillows and exhaled in frustration. It took every ounce of conviction to go brush my teeth and not climb back in bed with her.

  “You could at least tell me why you’re going.”

  “The police need a lift.”

  “To Yuma?”

  “To Yuma.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re investigating a murder. It’s no big deal.”

  “Murder is always a big deal, Logan. Who died?”

  “That friend of Hub Walker’s daughter, Ruth. The one I told you about last night.”

  “She died? I thought you said she was in the hospital.”

  “People do die in hospitals, Savannah. Except maybe on House.” I spat out the toothpaste and rinsed my mouth with water from a glass sitting on the pedestal sink.

  “Do you think it had anything to do with Ruth’s murder?”

  “Dunno. Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? You worked for the CIA. They didn’t teach you how to figure out all that stuff?”

  “I never worked for the CIA, Savannah.”

  “Well, you worked for somebody. You and Arlo.”

  “Can we not talk about this now? I really do have to go.”

  I pointed to my polo shirt. She took it off reluctantly and tossed it to me, gathering the sheets around her. I pulled the shirt on and reveled in her scent.

  “When’ll you be back?”

  “Hope
fully tonight.”

  “What should I tell Hub and Crissy?”

  “The truth.”

  I leaned down and kissed her.

  She kissed me back like she meant it.

  “Be safe, Logan.”

  “Always.”

  I TELEPHONED Flight Service from my rented Escalade and got a weather briefing: the forecast called for unrestricted visibility between San Diego and Yuma. Winds below 12,000 feet were forecast to be light and variable. There were no pilot reports of any turbulence or other adverse conditions. Like the old beer commercial said, it doesn’t get any better than that.

  Detectives Rosario and Lawless were waiting outside Champion Jet Center in a white unmarked Dodge Charger when I pulled in. Lawless asked to see my pilot’s license.

  “Nervous flyer?”

  “Just want to make sure you’re legit,” he said.

  I removed the credit card-size certificate from my wallet along with my FAA-issued medical certificate.

  “Five bucks apiece in Chinatown,” I said.

  Lawless glowered as he handed them both back to me. That he saw scant humor in my lame attempt to put him at ease hardly came as a surprise. Like most people who have little experience flying in small planes, both he and Rosario were nervous but trying not to look it.

  “Let me assure you,” I said, “that you stand a greater chance of being struck by lightning than expiring in the crash of a light aircraft. Small planes are relatively safe—assuming, of course, your pilot hasn’t had his license revoked once or twice for minor heart problems.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say heart problems?” Rosario said, her eyebrows elevated.

  I assured her I was kidding.

  Lawless grunted and held the door open, following us into the jet center.

  Kimberly, who’d made fun of my plane upon my arrival in San Diego three days earlier, was still hunched behind her computer at the reception desk like she’d never left work. Maybe it was my imagination, or the way the afternoon sun slanted in, but she looked even more Irish wolfhoundish since I’d seen her last.

  She gave me one of those I’m-paid-to-be-pleasant smiles as I walked past her with the two detectives in tow. There was a glass door adjacent to the receptionist’s desk leading outside to the flight line. I pushed on it. Locked.

  “May I help you?” Kimberly acted like she’d never seen me before.

  “That’s my Cessna 172, parked out on your ramp.”

  “I’m sorry. Your tail number is . . . ?”

  “Eight two four Charlie Lima.”

  She took her time typing the number into her computer.

  “I landed three days ago,” I said. “You rented me an Escalade, remember?”

  Kimberly stared up at me blankly, milking the moment, like any memory of me was somehow beneath her.

  “You may recall,” I said, “you implied my airplane wouldn’t win Miss Universe.”

  Kimberly brightened, pretending to suddenly remember.

  “Oh, right,” she said, “the homely beast.”

  Takes one to know one, Kimberly.

  I told her that I’d be flying to Arizona and planned to be back that night. She asked if I wanted to keep the fuel charges and overnight parking fees I’d already accrued on the credit card I’d given her earlier. I said I did.

  She reached under her desk and pushed a button, electronically unlocking the glass door.

  “Have an extremely safe flight,” Kimberly said as we walked out to the flight line.

  Have a good flight. Have a nice flight. Those are among the standard salutations uttered by people in aviation. They might even say, “Have a safe flight.” But to have an extremely safe flight?

  I wondered if Kimberly wasn’t some sort of visionary.

  Nine

  “Montgomery Tower, Four Charlie Lima is ready, 2-8 right.”

  “Skyhawk Four Charlie Lima, hold short 2-8 right, landing traffic.”

  “Charlie Lima’s holding short, 2-8 right.”

  We were buckled in, the three of us wearing headsets, the Ruptured Duck’s engine humming at idle, all set to go. Detective Rosario was riding shotgun. Lawless hunkered in the back. His white dress shirt was one big sweat ring.

  “Make sure your belts are nice and tight,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you talked me into doing this,” Lawless said to his partner, glancing around the Duck’s passenger cabin like a trapped animal.

  “We’ll be fine,” Rosario kept saying as if to convince him and herself that we actually might.

  “Relax, kids. I haven’t lost a passenger yet.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Lawless said.

  I could smell their adrenaline.

  I triple-checked to make sure the Ruptured Duck’s fuel selector was set to both tanks; that the fuel-air mixture control knob was all the way in; that the flaps and trim were properly set; that oil pressure was up and cylinder head temperature down; and that my window and both doors were closed and latched, then watched a red-over-white Cirrus float in on final approach. It crossed the numbers, flaring a bit high, before settling down on the runway. After the Cirrus turned off onto an adjacent taxiway, the tower controller radioed:

  “Skyhawk Four Charlie Lima, wind two-five-zero at five, cleared for takeoff, runway 2-8 right, right downwind departure approved.”

  “Four Charlie Lima, cleared for takeoff, 2-8 right, right downwind departure.”

  I eased the throttle forward, just enough to get the Ruptured Duck rolling, and slowly taxied out, steering with rudder pedals and toe brakes until we were facing straight down the runway. I set the directional gyro to 280 degrees, aligned with the runway’s magnetic heading, and checked the orange windsock to confirm that the wind was still more or less out of the west.

  “Any final requests?”

  “Not funny,” Lawless said.

  “Definitely not funny,” Rosario said.

  She made the sign of the cross as I advanced the throttle and we began rolling, picking up speed. I checked my engine instruments—all were showing proper indications—and rotated as we accelerated past sixty-five knots, pulling back gently on the yoke. The Duck’s nose rose into the air, sniffing the sky, tentatively at first, and just like that, we were climbing.

  And then we weren’t.

  Things went from “A-OK” to “Uh-oh” in about two seconds. The engine revved out-of-control and began screaming like a jilted lover. Oil splattered the windscreen.

  “Is it supposed to do that?” Rosario said. Her eyes were as big as Kennedy half-dollars.

  There’s an adage in flying: “You don’t have to take off, but you do have to land.” We definitely had to land. We were 200 feet above the ground with substantially less than 1,000 feet of runway remaining below us. Past the end of the runway, running perpendicular to it, was busy Highway 163. I had a decision to make: either put down on what little runway I had left and try to stop before slamming into freeway traffic; or turn right, keep flying, and hope the Ruptured Duck’s engine held out long enough to get us to the much longer runways at Miramar, former home of the Navy’s famed “Top Gun” fighter weapons school, about three miles to the north. The decision was made for me.

  The engine seized.

  The propeller froze. The airspeed indicator swung down instantly to zero. I instinctively pushed the Ruptured Duck’s nose hard over, avoiding the imminent stall, and dove. I probably should’ve said something classically pilot-like and reassuring to my passengers along the lines of, “This one might be cutting it a little close.” Instead, don’t ask me why, I blurted out, “Whoa, Nelly.”

  Any landing you can walk away from, as the old saw goes, is a good landing; any landing after which you can reuse the airplane is a great landing. I had a bad feeling this landing was going to be neither.

  “C’mon, Duck. Don’t do this to me now.”

  I wondered how many people on the ground were taking cell phone videos of us at that minute. Nothi
ng beats an air crash when it comes to entertainment value. Ships sinking are like watching paint dry compared to planes going down. Likewise train derailments. Unless you’re one of those creepy old dudes who wear Casey Jones caps and get turned on by miniature choo-choos chugging around and around through some fake little countryside they’ve constructed in their basement, does anybody truly care when real trains upend real grain silos out in the hinterlands?

  I would’ve charged admission, but it all happened too fast.

  I disengaged the master switch and flipped the fuel selector lever to “off” to minimize the chances of fire, then hauled back on the elevator at the last possible second, as far as it would go, raising the nose to something approaching a landing flair. The maneuver arrested our descent, but not by much. The Ruptured Duck belly-flopped, bounced limply back into the air like a corpse on a trampoline, then back down again. We quickly ran out of runway and skidded onto unpaved ground, heading for the freeway. I stood on the toe brakes. The Cessna careened sideways, ground looped, then pitched onto its back and slid in a groaning, grinding blizzard of dirt clods and dust.

  And then, no more than twenty feet from the freeway frontage road, abruptly, mercifully, we stopped.

  All was silent inside the airplane. I could smell gas fumes, but there was no fire. I made a quick inventory of my parts. Everything still seemed to be working. I looked over at Rosario, then back at Lawless as the three of us hung upside down in our seat belts. Except for a small cut on Lawless’s forehead, both detectives appeared unhurt.

  “Everybody OK?”

  “What kind of stupid-ass question is that?” Lawless shouted. “No, I am not OK! You nearly got us killed!”

  “Well, that’s certainly one way to spin it. I prefer to look at it from the sunny side. Think how long you would’ve had to stand in line at Disneyland to get on a ride as thrilling as that.”

  “You think this is some kind of joke? Go fuck yourself, asshole. Now, get me the hell out of here!”

  Yet another satisfied customer. Thanks for flying Logan Airways.