by Mary Feliz
“Max? He’s great…”The rest of Joe’s words disappeared as Stephen, covered head to toe in safety gear, started up a machine that seemed to be stamping holes in a sheet of metal. It assaulted our ears with a clank, whoosh, clank, whoosh sound. It moved faster than Max did when he split wood using a sledgehammer and steel wedges, but the din was similar.
There was no point in trying to talk until Stephen finished his job, but I watched Max as he meticulously removed his apron and hung it on a hook. He removed ear muffs and safety goggles and placed them in an open cubby, and then came to join us behind the yellow line, accompanied by the younger man with tattoos. His name was stitched over the pocket of his gray work shirt: Zeke.
I smiled and held out my hand. “Good to see you again.” Zeke and Max’s faces held matching looks of confusion. I came to their rescue. “We met in the airport bar,” I reminded the young mechanic. “You were picking up lunch.”
Recognition flooded his face and he shook my hand. “Of course. Maggie something, right?”
“My wife, Maggie McDonald,” Max said in a protective alpha male tone I seldom heard him use. An excruciating clanging made me cover my ears and saved us from whatever Max had planned for his next move.
Within a few moments, Stephen finished his noisy task and joined us. “Meet Brett,” he said, introducing a man who matched Stephen in height and breadth and sported an equally impressive beard dyed an unlikely shade of black. His hair was covered by a grubby ball cap that he made no effort to remove. He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded to me. He glanced at Jen, blushed, and walked to the far end of the shop, disappearing through an open garage-type door.
Zeke, on the other hand, smiled broadly, stepped forward and introduced himself to each of us. “Today is tour day,” he said. “What would you ladies like to see?”
David cleared his throat. Zeke laughed and added, “Young gentlemen too, of course.” Belle thumped her tail on the concrete floor, stood, and walked over to nudge Zeke’s hand. He stepped away and wiped his palm on his jeans without looking. Belle, nonplussed, moved back to Joe, who bent to pat her again. “Never mind him,” Joe said. Belle was willing to be consoled as long as the manager was willing to massage her ears.
Max and Stephen thanked the mechanics for showing them around. I knew better than to ask where Rocket was. I couldn’t see him anywhere, which meant he was stealthily investigating some out-of-sight part of the operation. I didn’t know whether any of the workers were aware of Rocket’s presence, and didn’t want to spill the beans if they’d not yet spotted him.
“What can I help you with, Jen?” Zeke asked. “Do you need help with Jake’s stuff? I’ve got my truck if you need a hand moving anything.” He looked around the shop. “We sure miss him. I gave all his gear to his mom, though. I hope that was okay.”
Jen nodded and swallowed hard. This was the first time she’d been back to the shop since Jake’s death. There were a lot of firsts in her future, and each one would be difficult. But she gamely pushed on, doing what needed to be done. “Thanks, Zeke. It’s still too soon to move anything, I think. And you’d probably have to check with Jake’s parents. They’re his official next of kin, not me.”
An awkward pause followed. I searched for something appropriate to fill the gap and came up empty. Jen rescued us. “Do you have a card, or know the address of Mr. Mason’s shop on Freedom Boulevard?” she asked Joe. “I wanted to pick up any parts Jake left there and pay Mr. Mason for his work. I’ll take whatever’s there over to his mom’s house.”
“You wanna grab the card off the board in my office?” Joe asked Zeke, who was already heading toward the office, where Joe’s desk was backed by a cork wall covered in promotional calendars, business cards, photos, and scrawled notes. Zeke pulled a card from the wall and rejoined us, handing it to Jen.
* * * *
Back at our cars, out of sight of the shop, Jen handed me the card. “Disregard the listed business hours,” she said. “Since his wife died last year, Mr. Mason is almost always there whether the shop is open or not. Please tell him I said hello.” Her lips quivered, and her voice broke. “Jake really loved that man. Like an uncle or second father.”
“Do you want us to pick up the parts you mentioned? We can drop them off at the. Peterson’s house if you want.” I offered out of courtesy, but when I heard the words, I winced. We were probably the last people in the world Dot wanted to see. I had no desire to revisit her wrath.
Jen shook her head. “I made up that story about the parts to satisfy Joe’s curiosity and keep him from asking too many questions. He always wants to know every detail of what’s going on, whether it concerns him and his business or not.”
“Too bad he couldn’t tell us anything more about who killed Jake,” Max said.
“No leads?” I asked.
“Not one,” said Stephen. He grinned. “But we got to operate those cool machines.”
Rocket appeared behind Stephen, though I hadn’t noticed him approaching us. He moved his head in a cryptic signal to Stephen, who nodded. Rocket dropped the cigarette in his hand and extinguished it with the sole of his boot, then picked up the filter and put it in his pocket. As far as I knew, the man didn’t smoke. Rocket, I decided, might well be our biggest mystery of all.
A helmeted motorcyclist roared through the parking lot, bending low over the grips of his un-muffled engine. “My poor ears,” I said, covering them with my hands. “First those machines, now that. I’ll be deaf before the night is out if this continues.”
Chapter 28
Large-mouthed plastic cereal containers make great spill-free trash receptacles for road trips.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Sunday, June 23, Afternoon
Stephen’s black SUV pulled to a stop at the curb about half a block from Mr. Mason’s shop, although there appeared to be parking spaces closer to the store. He waved our car over, pointing to a parking space behind his.
Max shrugged. “Parking down the road from a targeted business must be some kind of stealthy special ops procedure.”
Brian sighed. “Belle and I will stay in the car. Walking with crutches is hard work.”
I turned to look at him, fearing it might be past time for another pain pill.
Brian smiled. “Chill, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll keep my phone camera on and take pictures of anything that looks like it needs documenting, okay?”
“Leave the windows open so you and Belle don’t get too hot.” I grabbed my backpack and was about to open the door when Stephen leaned on the side of the car and bent to talk to us through my open window. “Why don’t you all stay here,” he said. “We won’t be a moment. Just need to ask Mason if he worked on the propellers himself or farmed out the work to someone else.”
“And whether any of Mason’s mechanics also work at the airport maintenance shed,” Max added.
“I want to meet this Mr. Mason,” I said. “I want to hear what he thinks happened and whether he can think of any reason someone might want Jake dead. Jen told me that he was like a second father to Jake.” An unattractive wheedling tone entered my voice. I pulled myself together and restated my case firmly. “Step back, Stephen. I’m coming with you.”
“I’m with Maggie,” said Max. David joined us, as did Munchkin, who dogged Stephen’s heels.
“What could possibly go wrong?” I asked Stephen. He rolled his eyes. None of us were displaying our best adult behavior today.
I nudged Max, and pointed to the motorcycle parked out front. It looked remarkably like the one that had burnt rubber peeling out of the airport parking lot. “Yamaha,” Max whispered. “Common as dirt.”
“Maybe so, but keep an eye out for anyone we’ve seen at the airport.”
Mr. Mason’s business was a five-bay garage with an adjacent machine sh
op. It smelled of oil and hot metal and echoed with the sound of hydraulic equipment and power grinders, but the floors gleamed and tools were stored in orderly racks and cheerful red steel boxes. Rocket led our little group through the door of the first bay and waved to get the attention of one of the mechanics.
“Mason?” he said loudly, although I doubted anyone could hear him over the shop noise. The mechanic pointed toward an office, where an older man rose from his chair and stepped toward the garage. The beginnings of a pot belly strained his belt and a touch of silver highlighted his temples.
I hung back by the garage bay door, watching. Though we all had heard wonderful things about Mr. Mason, I wasn’t ready to trust him implicitly. He picked up a tire iron and slapped it into his palm as Stephen and Rocket approached him. My heart rate soared. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t a menacing gesture, but I punched 9-1-1 into my phone and my finger hovered over the green call button.
Mr. Mason hit a switch, flicking the lights on and off several times in quick succession, and all the power tools ceased operation. The sudden silence was nearly as hard on my ears as the cacophony that preceded it.
“Mason?” repeated Rocket. The man lifted his chin.
Rocket introduced us all, and then stepped back and turned to Stephen. “He’ll tell ya what we need to know,” Rocket said. It was the longest sentence I’d ever heard him utter, but it came with the unspoken suggestion that there would be consequences should Mason attempt to withhold information.
I watched the mechanics step back from their work and crane their necks to see around the cars and tool boxes. “Take a break, guys,” Mason said. “Ten. No more. Beacon’s racer has to be ready by five o’clock.”
One member of Mason’s staff reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes and stepped out through a door in the back of the third bay. The other men seemed reluctant to leave. One held a large wrench and stepped around the car he’d been working on, edging toward us with what looked like fake nonchalance. I glanced at my phone to reassure myself that I could summon help in an instant. Munchkin stayed close to Stephen’s side and growled quietly under his breath, making the air around the big dog seem to vibrate.
Stephen cleared his throat and spoke in a soft but clear voice. “We’d like to talk to you about Jake Peterson. I understand he moonlighted here when he wasn’t working at any of his other jobs. You machined his propellers.” Stephen raised his voice slightly at the end the sentence, turning his statement into a question.
Mr. Mason glanced at the guy holding the wrench and shook his head. I took a half step backward. Something still felt off. In a bad way. Rocket must have sensed it too. He moved into the space between me and the shop owner, making the motion look natural, as though he was handing a note to Stephen. Max took hold of my arm.
“Jake?” Mr. Mason said. “Known him all my life. They don’t make ‘em any better than him. And that girl of his. Breaks my heart. Those two were the best kind of couple. Independent, but stronger together than they were apart.”
“And you worked on his props?” Stephen asked.
“Absolutely. Did ‘em myself. Most highly stressed component on any aircraft. Need to withstand tons of force, along with constant flexing and bending. A tiny ding can throw off an entire plane. I taught Jake to go over the rotors before every flight. He didn’t trust anyone else to true them up and test them for him.”
“So you don’t think a propeller failure could have been the cause of Jake’s crash?” Stephen sighed and rubbed his hand over his bald head as though pushing back hair he no longer had.
The mechanic with the wrench looked over his shoulder at the rest of the group and stepped closer to Mr. Mason.
“If someone swapped out one of mine with a cheap imitation, maybe,” Mason said. “But not if Jake was using one of my props. And there was no way he’d use someone else’s.”
The mechanic banged his wrench on a pipe. The sound echoed through the shop, along with the sound of running feet, followed by a curse and the clang of metal hitting the ground on the far side of the garage.
Max stepped back and turned, still holding onto my arm and pulling me along with him. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to another young man who stumbled over a fallen garbage can, started to run toward the motorcycle, and then windmilled his arms for balance as he pivoted and took off down the street. I’d scarcely registered what was happening when Rocket pushed through our group and took chase, gaining rapidly on the boy. Munchkin charged after him. Out of sight, a second crash and a flurry of curses suggested the escape was unsuccessful.
Stephen, with no show of haste, but moving quickly nonetheless, walked to the curb to look down the street. He waved Max and me forward and pointed. “That’s some kid you’ve got,” he said.
Brian, leaning on one crutch, pinned the mechanic to the ground while Rocket snapped on handcuffs.
Belle stuck close to Brian’s side, but waved her tail enthusiastically, enjoying whatever game she thought her people were playing. Munchkin kept one paw firmly on the boy. The mastiff’s endless supply of drool formed a wet spot on the captive’s work shirt.
Rocket pulled the boy to his feet and steadied him when he stumbled. It was Zeke, the affable young man from the airport who had offered to help Jen. He held his head down with his shoulders drooped, and didn’t speak. Stephen nodded toward me and the jacket pocket that held my phone. “Go ahead and alert the authorities. Now’s the time.”
I called 9-1-1 and asked the dispatcher to contact Sheriff Nate, who was familiar with the case. Within what seemed like seconds, we heard sirens approaching.
“I’d advise you to hire a good lawyer and keep your mouth shut,” Stephen told Zeke. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want if you keep that dog from eating me,” Zeke said, glaring defiantly at Munchkin.
Munchkin and Belle moved closer to Zeke. Their normally active tails remained still.
“It wasn’t me,” Zeke said. “No way. Rivers wanted him gone. He was working with Ochoa.”
“Mom?” Brian pointed the end of his crutch toward a battered black backpack. I moved carefully around our cluster of crime fighters and picked it up, eager to rummage through it before law enforcement arrived and took charge of the evidence. I didn’t know what laws might protect Zeke’s belongings from an official search by law enforcement. Luckily, I was a civilian unbound by those statutes. Reaching into the small zippered pocket in the front, I pulled out a plastic zip-lock snack bag and held it up so everyone could see. Inside were a handful of thumb-nail sized plastic memory cards.
“Gotcha,” Brian said.
Stephen patted him on the back. “You might want to clear out of here before the police arrive and confuse you with the bad guys.”
We piled into the car quickly, and Max pulled away from the curb just before two police cruisers and a sheriff’s SUV passed us with lights and sirens. Brian and I peered out the back window as Max drove, pushing Belle to the side so we could see. But anything interesting took place behind the parked cars, out of sight.
I sighed and turned to face forward. “That was more excitement than I needed in one afternoon,” I told Max. “But where does it leave us? Does that get Brian and David off the hook? And how does Rivers come into it? I was ready to believe his desire to shut down Jake’s operation was a red herring distracting us from the drug operation Ochoa was running out of Diego Baker’s barn. Are there two separate criminal activities going on? Are we smack dab in the middle of a gang war?”
Max clenched his teeth and drove.
“Stephen will fill us in later, right?” asked David. “He’ll tell us everything. Answer all our questions. Mom? He will, won’t he?”
“We’ll have to see. I don’t know how much the sheriff will tell him nor how much Stephen will be able to pass along to us.”
&nb
sp; Brian groaned. “We’ll see,” he repeated. “Do parents know how annoying those words are?”
“We’re going to need more evidence against these other suspects if we’re going to get the sheriff and the Petersons off our backs.” David glanced at the time and date on his phone. “We meet with the district attorney in less than forty-eight hours.”
It was my turn to groan. So far, every time I’d thought there was a glimmer at the end of the tunnel, someone unseen had turned off the lights.
I texted Nell on our drive back to the condo, asking if she’d have time to talk strategy prior to our session with the DA. I hoped she’d find a way to use Zeke and the memory cards to get David and Brian off the hook.
Chapter 29
Use bath towels in the car to mop up spills, cradle a sleepy head, or for temperature control. A dark-colored towel on the dashboard can be a great help in managing glare.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Sunday, June 23, Afternoon
Renée phoned me soon after we got home. “Mind if I come over? Diego has some information I think you could use, but he’s not sure he wants to get the police involved.”
“Intriguing,” I said. After getting off the phone, I put coffee on. Then I sank to a bar stool and leaned my arms on the granite counter. I ached for the comfort of a lined yellow pad and pencil to help organize my thoughts and outline my plans. Max read my mind and handed me a pad along with two pens and a yellow highlighter.
Nell knocked and entered through our unlocked front door, and I figured that at the rate we were going we might as well discard the resort-standard solid wood door and replace it with a revolving unit. So many people were coming and going in our lives that I longed for a quiet, disaster-free weekend with my husband, boys, and devoted dog.
