by Gina Cresse
Gus Tiller’s attorney was not in, but his secretary had no qualms about discussing Gus. Client confidentiality didn’t seem to be part of her vocabulary. I suppose, because all the details she’d spilled to me had been reported in the local newspapers at the time the events took place. Gus disappeared from his studio apartment six years ago. He’d been missing for over a year when a pair of brothers, who were out riding their motorcycles in the desert, found his body—well, the one part, anyway. Wild animals had probably carried off the rest of Gus, but they left his head. Dental records confirmed his identity.
I asked what would happen to Gus’s patent since he was dead. She explained that the patent was only good for seventeen years, subject, of course, to additional maintenance fees. Since there were no heirs or other family members to keep up the fees, the patent would be considered abandoned.
I thanked her for the information and hung up the phone.
Ronnie studied my face. She looked as concerned as I felt. I slid Gus Tiller’s patent across the table to the side reserved for the dead inventors.
Craig walked in and dropped his keys on the counter. He crossed the kitchen and kissed me on top of the head. “Honey, I’m home,” he said, then smiled as though he’d just had a thought. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
I smiled back. “Hi, honey. How was your day?”
“Oh, you know, the same-old same-old. One tonsillectomy, an emergency appendectomy, and a sixty-eight-year-old who broke her arm while in-line skating with her eleven-year-old grandson.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“How was your day?” he asked, taking the chair next to mine and studying the papers spread out on the table.
“We tracked down five of the six guys from Ronnie’s patent-search file. Well, four actually. Bo Rawlings is alive and living in another time zone. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s living well off of revenue from the sale of his patent. I guess we could hire our own attorney and find out who owns his patent now.” I motioned toward the separate sections on the table. “Three dead, one alive and rich, one alive and questionable, but probably rich, and one unknown,” I said. “The question is, how does someone get to be in the rich inventor club instead of the dead inventor one?”
“What do the dead ones have in common? What do the rich ones have in common?” Craig asked.
I looked to Ronnie for a suggestion. “Were the dead ones’ inventions more threatening to the oil companies?” I asked.
Ronnie shook her head. “There doesn’t seem to be a pattern there. Ozie Dartmond’s idea would have been the most damaging to the oil industry, and he’s alive and well. Harvey Brewster’s held equally as much potential, yet he’s dead. I don’t get it.”
Craig shook his head. “Hmm. This is a tough one. What else do we know about them?”
We all stared at the papers spread out in front of us. Then Craig broke the silence. “Where’s the puppy?”
“You mean our son?” I said, joking.
“Yeah. Where’s my boy?”
“He’s out back playing with the new puppy toys I bought him.”
“Does he have a name yet?” Craig asked.
“Not yet,” I confessed, ashamed that I hadn’t even thought about puppy names the entire day. Then it struck me. “Wait! That’s it!” I blurted.
“What?” Ronnie said.
“What if it has to do with leverage?” I continued.
“Leverage?” Craig asked.
“Yes. Pressure. It’s easy to force someone to do something they don’t want to do if you have enough leverage on them.”
Ronnie followed my thinking. “Family,” she said.
“Exactly. Harvey Brewster, no family, dead. Clyde Waterman, no family, dead. Gus Tiller, no family, dead. On the other hand, Bo Rawlings—happy family, alive and well. Ozie Dartmond—ex-wife and children, granted, not the traditional happy family, but still, blood relatives—living it up in the Bahamas,” I said.
Craig nodded. “Makes sense. So you think whoever is behind this put pressure on these two to sell their patents, threatening their families if they didn’t cooperate?”
“That’s got to be it. But where does that leave Ronnie? No one has made her any offers,” I said.
“Don’t forget the guy from L.A.” Craig reminded me.
“I mean a real offer. And there was no threat. They just tried to send her directly to the dead inventor club without offering her membership in the live rich one.”
“That reminds me. Has Sam found Lance yet?” Craig asked.
Ronnie frowned. “Not yet. He should have been back this morning. What if they’ve done something to him?”
“They wouldn’t have any reason to hurt him. He doesn’t take after your father the same way you do, does he?” I asked.
“How do you mean?” Ronnie asked.
“Is he also an inventor?”
“No. Lance races cars—period.”
“Then they’d have no reason to hurt him unless they’d made some threat to you. What good would it do them to hurt him if they didn’t first give you a chance to deal with them,” I assured her.
“I guess you’re right, but I’m still worried about him.”
“He’s only a day late. Maybe they’re having such a good time, they decided to stay a little longer,” I offered. I put as much sincerity in the suggestion as I could, but I had a feeling it wasn’t enough. The worry didn’t leave Ronnie’s face.
“Do you have any other family? Anyone especially close to you?” I asked.
Ronnie shook her head. “Lance is all I have.” Then the tears started flowing down her cheeks.
The phone rang and startled me nearly out of my seat. I picked it up and pressed the TALK button.
“Hello?”
“Devonie. It’s Sam,” he said.
I smiled and gave Ronnie a relieved look. I was sure he was calling to tell me they’d found Lance and the rest of the crew. “Hi, Sam. You have good news for us?” I asked.
“Not really.”
I turned away from the table. “What’s up?” I said, trying not to sound overly concerned, for Ronnie’s sake. “Did you find Lance?” I continued.
“Not exactly.”
I waited. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
“We found the boat—The Dream Catcher, but it was abandoned. No one on board,” he explained.
“Abandoned? Where?”
By this time, Ronnie was on her feet and moved to face me. I couldn’t hide my expression from her. She grew pale.
“Just adrift, near a marina in Cabo San Lucas.”
I tried to maintain calmness in my voice. “Are you looking for them?”
“We don’t have jurisdiction down there, but the Mexican police assure us they’re doing everything possible to locate the crew.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know. There wasn’t anything wrong with the boat, so it’s not likely they took up with another boat to get help. Could’ve been pirates. Low-key is the last word I’d use to describe The Dream Catcher. Everything about it says the people on board have money.”
“But if it were pirates, they wouldn’t have left the boat. It’s too valuable,” I speculated.
“Depends on what they’re after. The boat would be tough to disguise. Maybe they just wanted the valuables of the people on board—much easier to turn into cash. But that doesn’t explain why the people on board were missing—unless….”
“Unless?” I pressed.
“Unless they didn’t want to leave witnesses. Then again, if they’re after ransom, they’d leave the boat for effect—you know, get the attention of the families.”
I cringed. Ransom. What a scary word. But better than dead witnesses. At least if they were kidnapped, there’d be a chance to get them back alive. “So what do we do now?”
“We wait,” Sam replied.
“Wait? You’re thinking ransom demand?”
“Maybe. We have to s
ee what happens next.”
“Sam, what if nothing happens? What if no one calls?”
“Something always happens, Devonie. You can count on it.”
I hung up the phone and motioned for Ronnie to sit down. Somehow, I’d have to relay to her the conversation I’d just had with Sam and still remain hopeful that she’d get her brother back—alive.
Chapter Seven
“How far is it to Cabo?” Ronnie asked.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to calculate the miles. “About—”
“Now, wait a minute,” Craig interrupted. “We’re not going to Cabo.”
“But we already know the police aren’t doing anything,” Ronnie argued.
“They didn’t say that. They don’t have jurisdiction, but the Mexican police are working on it,” Craig reminded her.
Ronnie and I rolled our eyes.
“How much bribe money do you suppose it would take to get them to actually lift a finger to find Lance?” Ronnie said.
Craig didn’t have an answer. He knew she was probably right. “Let’s just say, for argument sake, that we go to Cabo. What do we do when we get there? We aren’t detectives. We don’t speak the language—”
“I do,” Ronnie said.
Craig looked at me. “Why does that not surprise me?” he said.
I smiled at him. “I bet she’s fluent, too.”
Ronnie nodded. “I speak seven languages. It’s sort of a hobby.”
Craig shook his head. “Okay, so one of us speaks the language. That doesn’t make us good candidates. It could be dangerous.”
Ronnie laid her hands, palms down, on the table. “I don’t expect you to come with me. I know it’s risky. I don’t want to get anyone hurt.”
“Yeah, right. I’m not going to let you go by yourself,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” Craig jumped in. “I’m not letting either one of you go.”
I raised my eyebrows and gave him the “you’re my husband not my father” look.
He rephrased. “Use your head. If you want to find Lance, hire a professional. Get a PI—someone with experience. We go down there and it’ll be the three stooges—a regular circus.”
I looked at Ronnie. “That’s not a bad idea. What do you think?”
Craig let out a sigh of relief. Finally, we were being rational.
Ronnie nodded. “I guess it makes sense, but how do I find someone who’ll do it?”
I searched Craig’s face. “Do you know anyone?” I asked.
“He shook his head. “No, but I bet Sam can recommend someone.”
“Good idea. I’ll give him a call.”
Rick Caper and Gary Lawless, the partners who make up Caper and Lawless Investigations, kept a small office in downtown San Diego. I chuckled when I read the sign and wondered if those were their real names or if they chose them for effect. Sam gave me a brief rundown on the pair. When they aren’t working on a case, they’re stuntmen for the movie studios. They specialize in car chases, car crashes, and motorcycle stunts. Sam met them when they were working as stuntmen on a popular television series about California Highway Patrolmen. The studio allowed them freedom to use the CHP-disguised motorcycles off the set. The pair thought it would be great fun to race down the Hollywood Freeway in uniform on CHP motorcycles, popping wheelies to entertain the commuters. Needless to say, the CHP received so many complaints that the studio had to revoke their costume and motorcycle privileges off the set.
Rick stood six-foot-two, easily, with thick black hair and a mustache just beginning to show a hint of gray. He wore Levis, Nike high-tops, and a T-shirt with the words “No Fear” printed across the front. I imagine that’s a job requirement in his line of work.
Gary stood equally as tall, but had blond hair and was clean-shaven. I guessed his age to be around the same as Rick’s—mid to late forties. A pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses hung from a string around his neck. When he turned to lead us into their office, I had to laugh at the words printed on the back of his T-shirt: Official Bomb Technician—If you see me running, try to keep up.
Ronnie and I sat across from Rick and Gary in their small office. Ronnie explained the situation with Lance in great detail. While she talked, I noticed photos of Rick and Gary on the walls, mugging for the camera, with several high-profile stars. I recognized Al Pacino, Clint Eastwood, Tom Cruise, Mel Gibson, Tom Selleck, and Sam Elliot.
Gary took notes while Ronnie told her story. When she finished, Rick stood and asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Soda? Beer?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
Ronnie asked for a Coke.
Rick returned from some other room with a soda for Ronnie and two longneck bottles from some local brewery I didn’t recognize.
“Thanks, Rick,” Gary said, taking one of the bottles.
Out of reflex, I checked my watch, noticing the time was way before noon. Gary noticed my movement and smiled.
“It’s root beer,” he explained. “We don’t break out the hard stuff till after lunch.”
I smiled and nodded.
Rick reclaimed his seat and twisted the top off his bottle. “What d’ya think?” he asked Gary.
“I think these ladies came to the right place,” Gary said, grinning.
Rick nodded. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Gray’s grin grew to expose nearly every tooth in his mouth. “I don’t know. Are you thinking we load up the dirt bikes on the trailer and head to Baja? We pose as a couple of riders looking for their good buddy, the famous NASCAR driver, Lance Oakhurst?”
Rick shook his head. “I was thinking we load up our fishing gear and head to Cabo—looking for our fishing buddy, Lance Oakhurst.”
Gary gave a moment of thought to Rick’s suggestion, then nodded his head.
“But your idea works, too,” Rick offered.
I observed the team working on their game plan. “Is there some reason you can’t do both?” I asked.
“I like the way you think,” Gary said, pointing a finger at me.
Somehow, I got the feeling this would be more fun than work for Rick and Gary, but if the result was that they found Lance, then it didn’t matter to me if they brought along a whole amusement park.
“Can you get us pictures of all the people who went on the trip?” Rick asked.
Ronnie frowned. “All my pictures were destroyed in the fire.”
“What about Lance? He must keep pictures,” I said.
Ronnie nodded. “He does. And I have a key to his house. I’m just not sure where he keeps them. We’ll have to do a little hunting.”
“Great,” Rick said. “I’ll call Sam and get everything he found out from the Mexican police.”
Gary opened a date planner and studied the pages. “We have to be back here in a week for the shoot in San Francisco.”
“The Russell Crowe thing?” Rick asked.
“No, that’s the following week. This is the Bruce Willis movie. Remember?”
“Right. We could leave tomorrow. That’d give us a few days.”
Ronnie and I met Rick and Gary in front of their office at seven the next morning. A white dual-wheeled pickup was parked at the curb. A trailer with two motorcycles perched on it, tied down with nylon straps, was hitched to the truck.
While Rick collected the photos from Ronnie, I watched Gary make a last-minute check of the gear they’d stowed in the back of the pickup, protected by a camper shell. I saw helmets, leathers, sleeping bags, fishing gear, ice chests—all the paraphernalia a couple of dirt-bike buddies would take along on a fishing/riding expedition. Gary jumped out over the tailgate, closed the camper shell down tight and locked it.
“We ready to roll?” Gary called to Rick.
“I think so. You get a number for us so we can call in reports?”
“Got it right here,” Gary said as he patted his pocket. I’d given him a slip of paper with all the phone numbers I could think of to reach Ronnie, Craig, or myself.
/> “Then let’s hit it. Baja, here we come.”
I watched the team of Caper and Lawless drive away with their truck and trailer load of “tools,” and said a little prayer that they’d be successful in finding Lance Oakhurst and his crew, alive and well.
Ronnie and I climbed back into my Explorer. She slammed her door shut and looked at me. “Now what?”
I gave her a blank stare.
“I can’t just sit around and wait. I have to do something,” she insisted.
“Okay. I’d say there’s plenty we can do from here. First on our list is to find out who’s trying to kill you. I think it’s kind of interesting that the guy who wanted to buy your patent knew about your father. How much do you remember about the time he was killed?”
Ronnie frowned. I was heading into painful territory. “Not much. I was pretty little.”
“Is there anyone who knew about your father’s engine? Someone who might remember connections your father may have made around the time of his death?”
Ronnie searched her memory. “Dad used to go to a little machine shop not far from where we lived—Harold’s shop. We’d gone there that day—the day of the explosion—to weld something. Dad and Harold were good friends.”
“Do you know where Harold is now?” I asked.
“Oh, Harold was old back then. He’s dead by now.”
Disappointment showed on my face.
“But Larry’s still around,” Ronnie offered.
“Larry?”
“He worked for Harold. He’s still around. He and his son have a shop in Escondido. They have a CNC Mill. I have them machine parts for me once in a while.”
“CNC?” I questioned.
“It’s a computerized milling machine. It can make just about anything you can imagine. It’s a cool piece of equipment.”
“Did Larry know your dad well?”
“I don’t think so, but he knew about the fuel-cell engine. He and Harold were pretty tight. I’m sure Harold told him all about my dad.”
