“Soon I’ll have to call you ‘Inspector De Groot.’”
She smiled. “Yes, you will.” She shoveled a fork full of karko stoba into her mouth. “What time should I come over tonight? I cannot wait to meet Tiffany.”
“Whenever you want. Maybe you should come over early, so we can work on my Dutch.”
Arabella had started teaching me Dutch about a year ago, although lately, any phrase the least bit similar to “study Dutch” had developed into a moniker meaning “getting in the sack and fooling around.” It sure beat the crap out of studying.
“I’ll bring my swimsuit. We can study on the beach.”
“Not too early. I’m doing a flight for Chuck around three.”
“Hungover again?”
“Yup. He had a late date.”
Arabella faked a slight gag on a sip of tea. “Poor girl.”
We sat a few moments, watching folks meander along the sidewalk.
Between swallows of funchi, I said, “I called Rockford and spoke to Larry Penn.”
“And?”
I told her about my conversations with Penn and the email attachments, including the pictures of Bill and Marybeth.
“What do you think it means?” she asked.
“Not sure.” I finished the funchi and took a sip of tea. Arabella waited. “The ad is weird. I’m going to call the place Bill took his truck for repair. Maybe he talked to them about selling it.”
“Can I see the advertisement?”
“Sure, but only on my computer. I don’t want to forward the email.”
“Okay, that will be fine.”
I leaned back and laced my hands behind my head, elbows pointing straight out. I extended my legs below the table, but my rib prevented me from fully stretching.
“I think they have the weapon,” I said.
“What?”
“The murder weapon. Penn wouldn’t say so, but I think they have it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They know it was a .357 Magnum.” I tapped my index finger on the table. “To know that, they must have the weapon.”
Arabella didn’t say anything. She leaned back in her chair, furrowed her brow, and crossed her arms. The wheels in her noggin were spinning, but I wasn’t sure whether she was mad or confused. Finally, she said, “Ballistics?”
“Maybe—some—but not completely.”
“I do not understand.”
That’s when I remembered not all cops had the same level of ballistics knowledge. Over the years, I had acquired a lot of information from the lab guys while working every violent crime imaginable. Standard police training didn’t teach a lot of this stuff, but those tidbits of knowledge had become second nature to me. The forensic teams were good, so there was never any reason to educate everyone on the specifics. I used to ask a lot of questions, and the lab guys were always eager to explain, sometimes with excruciating detail.
“A .357 round is close to a .38 caliber,” I said. “It’d be difficult to tell the difference after impact deformation. The best would be to call it a medium-caliber round. They could never say it was a .357. Or a .38 for that matter.”
“Yes,” Arabella said, deep in thought. “That makes sense.” She leaned forward in her chair and rested her arms on the table.
“You know what the Magnum part stands for, right?” I asked.
“Yes, that would be the amount of powder.”
“Right, the powder load in the cartridge. But when the bullet is fired, the powder is burned—”
She snapped her fingers. “So how would people know the powder amount after the shooting?”
“Exactly.”
Elbow on the table, she rested her forehead in her hand. After a moment, she slowly raised her head. “They must have the gun.”
“To play devil’s advocate, they could’ve found a shell casing. That would’ve told them exactly what cartridge.” I held up my index finger.
“But since most .357 Magnums are revolvers, it’s unlikely a casing was lying around.”
“Yes,” she said shaking her head as if convincing herself, “and revolvers do not eject the spent casing. They stay in the cylinder. You also said the sketch had a G on it.”
“Yeah, it all falls into place.”
Arabella’s eyebrows creased. “This is strange. Did they find a weapon or did they not?”
“I think yes.”
“Why would the shooter leave it behind? Is there a reason?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
CHAPTER 14
AFTER LUNCH, I went back to my apartment to call the newspaper and Jay’s Automotive. Unlike yesterday, when the automated system at the Rockford Register Star picked up, I knew which menu option to select to reach the classified ad section. I smiled. Maybe my newfound comedian, Orny Adams, isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.
“I’d like to get some information about a classified in your paper,” I said.
“Sure, I can help with that,” said the lady who answered. Her voice reminded me of the voice on the menu system. “When did it run?”
“I don’t know the entire run, but it was in last Friday’s edition.” She asked me for my name, phone number, and other items used to identify the owner of the ad. “I’m not the person who ran the ad. I just need some information.”
She paused a moment. “Okay, that’s unusual, but what do you need?”
“The ad said, ‘Four-wheel drive. Call Bill.’ I’d like to call Bill, but there isn’t a number to call. Can you help me?”
I heard keyboard clicks in the background. “I found the ad. Give me a minute to see if I can find the account.” She put me on hold, and the line went silent. No music or advertisements, just a silent emptiness. After a few moments, she returned. “I found the account, but this is interesting.”
“How so?”
“Well, usually we require a phone number for the account, especially if paid with check or credit card, which most are. But this one was paid with cash.”
“Do you have any information? I’d like to call this Bill guy.”
“No, I’m sorry. There isn’t any contact information. Only a name. Bill Ryberg.”
“Bill Ryberg?”
“Yes. That’s all.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Had Bill paid for the ad? His name was on the account, so possibly. Again, I considered that he had circled the advertisement because he had noticed its vagueness and wanted to have it corrected. No information is still information. Usually in an investigation, especially early, it felt like a continual dead end. Until more facts become known, it’s difficult to quantify the value of the current evidence.
Next, I called Jay’s Automotive, asked for Jay, and a sassy lady named Kim put me on hold. Cheap Trick, a ’70s rock band from Rockford, was playing through the receiver, singing about how much they needed me to need them. After a few minutes, Jay picked up.
“I’m a friend of Bill Ryberg’s,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard about Bill. What a shame,” Jay said.
“It is.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Did he mention anything about selling his truck?”
“Mmm … You mean the Ranger?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Car mechanics remember vehicles easier than people. Ask about a car or truck, and they correlate it to the owner.
Jay paused and said, “What’s it to you?”
“I’m one of his old police buddies.”
“Look, pal, I feel bad about Bill. He was an old friend and a good customer. But I got a waiting room full of customers. I ain’t got time for stories.”
“Please, a few more minutes.”
He yelled something to someone in the shop, the words sounding distant and muffled. When he returned his attention to me, his voice was edgy. “Hurry up, then. Mondays are a busy day for me.”
“Do you know if h
e was selling his truck?”
“Mmm … I don’t know. Don’t recall him saying anything about it. Hold on a minute.”
He put me on hold. Mondays must’ve been Cheap Trick Day at Jay’s Automotive. Now they told me my mommy and daddy were both alright. They just seemed a little weird.
“I checked the computer,” Jay said when he took me off hold. “Bill had the Ranger in for new tires a couple of weeks ago. I don’t remember him saying he was selling.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“Nope, and you know how he liked to talk.”
We were both quiet. No Cheap Trick either.
“Why do you ask?” Jay said.
I needed to be careful with what I said. I doubted the ad was public knowledge and didn’t want to be the source of a leak.
“There was an ad in the newspaper, someone selling a four-wheel drive. It said to call Bill.”
Jay was silent for a moment. “Bill’s Ranger wasn’t a four by four.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. Bill’s Ranger was a two-wheel drive.”
CHAPTER 15
A HUNDRED YARDS west of Flamingo International Airport’s main terminal sat a hangar that housed the general aviation businesses—anything unrelated to the commercial airlines. Chuck was too cheap to pay for hangar space, so he kept the Cessna 180 tied on the open tarmac, in front and slightly askew of the large hanger doors.
Pulling to a stop in the parking lot, I had to press the Wrangler’s brake pedal harder than usual. I didn’t know much about vehicles but figured the brake pads were starting to wear out and get thin. I made a mental note to get them checked.
Someone stood near the security gate. I grabbed my flight bag from the back seat and limped in that direction, my pace slowing as I approached and recognized him.
Lester.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, fishing through my flight bag for the security access card.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. I mean, what are you doing here?”
“Taking some folks for an airplane ride.”
“That’s weird. I’m here to take an airplane ride.”
“What?” I scanned the parking lot, my mind a swamp of confusion, then leaned into Lester. “Where’s Tiffany?”
Lester raised his chin and puffed his chest. “She’s not here.” He relaxed and looked at the ground a moment, then back at me. “Mandy was supposed to come with me, but plans changed a bit.”
“But why take a plane ride? And without Tiffany.”
“It was Mandy’s idea, but I figured what the heck?” He paused a moment, met my eyes, and smiled. “Beats the hell out of scuba.”
“Does Tiffany know about this?” I hesitated, and even though it wasn’t any of my business, added, “And about Mandy?”
“No, and she doesn’t need to. Besides, Mandy isn’t here.”
My first instinct was to call off the ride. Something wasn’t right. Lester being here without Tiffany bothered me, and the Lester-Mandy relationship was becoming suspicious. Deceptive, to say the least. A game I didn’t want to play.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go,” I said.
Lester huffed and said, “But Mandy already paid for it.”
Chuck wouldn’t have any sympathy for me canceling the flight. He had the money—money he wouldn’t be enthusiastic to return, especially based on my anxieties. I tried to convince myself that how Lester and Tiffany spent their vacation was none of my business. If they chose not to spend time together, or spend it with other people, that was their decision. I wasn’t a couple’s therapist.
I scanned the parking lot one last time and resigned myself to the fact that Tiffany indeed wasn’t here. “Okay, let’s go.”
We walked through the security gate and across the concrete toward the plane. Although a short distance, things happened fast on airport tarmacs, and I kept Lester close by my side. A spinning propeller can ruin a vacation.
Safety is never an accident.
When not flying, Chuck’s Cessna spent its life on the concrete pad in front of the hangar, the sun and heat wreaking havoc on its cosmetics. The bare aluminum skin was visible where spots of the vintage ’80s red paint had peeled away. The red vinyl interior had long ago dried and cracked, being held together in places with duct tape, most of it peeling along the edges from the constant heat inside the cabin. The once black plastic instrument panel had seen better days, now faded to a light gray and warped in several places. Ripped and threadbare carpet curled along the floor.
Granted, the appearance of the plane, serial number N7757U, left a lot to be desired. But mechanically, Chuck kept it tip-top, its flight worthiness never in doubt. Back in the States, Chuck had parlayed his military training and experience into a civilian career as a top-rated and well-respected FAA-certified airplane mechanic.
I propped open the doors, allowing the breeze to ventilate the sweltering cabin. The familiar smell of hot plastic and moldy carpet mixed with traces of aviation fuel—or avgas as it’s called—greeted my nostrils.
“What’s with the big tires?” Lester asked, pointing at one of the main landing gear tires.
I shook my head. Chuck and his projects.
“They’re called Alaska Tundra Tires,” I said. “Bush pilots use them to land in places where there aren’t any airports or runways. Strips made of dirt, gravel, old roads. The tires are oversized and cushion the landing.” I didn’t mention Chuck only dreamed of being a bush pilot. This set of Tundras hadn’t landed on anything but pavement since being installed.
“Do you do landings like that?”
“Never.”
As part of my preflight inspection, I did a thorough walk-around of the airplane, making sure everything was in good order. Then, I guided Lester into the front, right-side “co-pilot” seat.
As Lester got comfortable and I helped him locate and fasten his seat belt, he touched the top of the instrument panel, which absorbed the direct sunlight under the front windshield.
“Ouch!” he said, shaking his hand. “That’s hot.”
“Don’t touch that,” I said, failing to hold back a smile. “It’s probably hot.”
“Fuck you.”
Yeah, this’ll be fun.
Although Cessna claimed the 180 was one of their midsized single-engine models, the cabin was as cramped as a coffin. Pulling myself into the pilot’s seat with a bruised rib was no easy chore. Sweat beaded and streamed down my face. Several grunts and moans later, I heaved myself into the cabin, careful to ease onto the hot vinyl, and parked my butt into the front left seat. I moved around a little in the cushion, fidgeting like a twelve-year-old at church, trying to find a spot where my rib pain would be tolerable. With little success, I gave up and began working through the before flight checklist.
Doors shut and locked.
Master switch on.
Flight instruments and radios set.
Engine primed.
The starter whined as I turned the ignition switch, the prop jerking into motion. The engine fired to life with a slight shudder on the propeller’s third revolution. I worked the throttle to set the engine idle at one thousand RPMs and dialed the tower frequency into the radio.
Chuck scheduled these tours to coincide with low levels of commercial traffic. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the only other planes in the air near Bonaire would be the small puddle jumpers working their hops between islands, landing and taking off every thirty minutes or so.
The tower provided me with a takeoff clearance as we taxied to the runway. I positioned the Cessna on the runway centerline and pushed the throttle forward, my body sagging into the seat as the plane lunged forward and the flight instruments sprang to life. We rolled down the runway, the plane’s nose becoming light as the airspeed indicator moved past seventy knots. A slight pull on the yoke and we were airborne, climbing into the blue Bonaire sky.
I leveled our climb at a thousand feet, which allowed for easy identification of objects on
the ground. Also, at this altitude, the controllers weren’t concerned about our flight disrupting any of the scheduled commuter flights.
The air was smooth, with a few small bumps here and there as we flew near the salt flats along the southern shore. The flamingo sanctuaries defined two restricted areas to avoid on the end of the island. I reversed course before going too far south and headed back to the north. To give Lester a picturesque view of the shoreline, I positioned the plane a quarter-mile off the coast. Lester didn’t say anything, apparently not impressed with the sight. After several miles, I dropped the right wing, banking east, and headed for the other side of the island.
Bonaire is only twenty-four miles long, and at its widest, seven miles. We flew along the middle section of the island, which was four miles across. Even from our low altitude, both the east and west coasts were visible.
The motor droned on, almost hypnotic in its consistency. Most passengers want to talk, ask questions about the island, the plane, or a host of other topics. Not Lester. No chatter, smiles, or pointing at objects on the ground. He just sat there, stoic, and stared out the front. Impossible to tell whether he was scared, bored, or mad. Not the typical sightseeing trip.
It dawned on me that I’d yet to see him happy, or even content. A continual scowl, clenched jaw, and raised chin. He always seemed on edge, as if needing to prove something to everyone. Maybe to the world.
Or maybe just to me.
With an elbow, I nudged Lester on his side. “Would you like to fly it?” I often let people handle the yoke, the “steering wheel” of the aircraft. When trimmed correctly and in smooth air, the plane is designed to fly in a straight and level altitude. Handling the yoke, even in benign conditions, gave passengers a sense of piloting.
“Sure, I’ll try.” Lester quickly grabbed the yoke left-handed. Most people, when offered a chance to fly a small airplane, hesitate a few seconds before taking the controls. Some need extra prodding, and some won’t do it at all.
Lester fell into a select group—eager and seemingly waiting for the opportunity to take control. Unusual.
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