Flashback

Sunday morning and the gray Sasayaki-tonbo whisper-dragonfly ’copter touched down on the flat roof of Nick’s Cherry Creek Mall Condominiums building. Or, rather, a Sasayaki- tonbo whisper-dragonfly ’copter landed there. This one was larger and fancier than the one Nick had flown in down to Raton Pass.

Hideki Sato jumped out and frisked Nick carefully. The ex-detective was carrying no weapon. Sato went through the small gym bag—no weapons there, either, although there were six extra magazines of 9mm ammo— and then removed the unsealed padded mailing envelope. Nick’s Glock 9 was in there, no clip, no round in the spout, and broken down.

“Just like you specified,” said Nick.

Sato sealed the envelope and said nothing. Taking the gym bag, he gestured for Nick to enter the helicopter. Above, the broad, strangely tufted rotors were idling.

There was an airlock-sized room, evidently a CMRI security screen so necessary in the decades since dedicated jihadis had discovered that they could pack their body cavities full of plastic explosive, and then another door to go through. Nick and Sato stepped into a small luxurious room—luxurious in a spare, shoji- and tatami- and flower-decorated sense—that might have been in Nakamura’s mansion up in Evergreen had it not been for the view out the broad, multilayered windows. Nakamura was sitting in a swiveling leather chair behind a lacquered desk by two of those windows.

Nick hadn’t seen the billionaire since he was interviewed and hired nine days earlier—it seemed much longer ago to him—and Hiroshi Nakamura seemed exactly the same, down to the carefully parted gray hair, the manicured nails, and the black suit and narrow black tie. There were other comfortable-looking chairs and a couch in the small space, but Nakamura didn’t ask Nick to sit. Sato also remained standing, far enough to one side to seem subordinate but close enough to act as a bodyguard if Nick were to lunge toward Nakamura. Sato’s polymorphic smart-cast was thin enough and flexible enough to fit under the right sleeve of his dark suit jacket.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Bottom,” said Nakamura. “Mr. Sato has explained to me that you have a request. I am traveling to Washington, D.C., today and my private jet is scheduled to leave from Denver International Airport in fifteen minutes. I give you one and a half minutes to make your request.”

“My son’s in serious trouble in Los Angeles,” said Nick. “His life is in danger. I need to get to L.A. and don’t have the money for an airline ticket. No cars are getting through, and the truck convoys aren’t even allowing passengers going west. I don’t have enough money for that either.”

Mr. Nakamura cocked his head ever so slightly to one side. “I have not heard a request yet, Mr. Bottom.”

Nick took a breath. He had less than a minute left.

“Mr. Nakamura, you offered me fifteen thousand dollars—old dollars—if I solved your son’s murder. I’m close to solving it. I think I could name the killer right now, but I need a bit more confirmation. I was going to ask you for the price of an air ticket to L.A.—seven hundred old bucks now—in exchange for that fifteen thousand. But they’ve shut down all commercial, freight, and civil-aviation flights into and out of L.A.”

Nakamura waited. He did not glance at his Rolex, but there was a black-face clock with a second hand right there on the cabin’s bulkhead.

“Nakamura Enterprises have regular flights to Las Vegas,” said Nick. He felt sweat trickle down his ribs. “I checked. From Las Vegas I’d be able to book some sort of transport—private plane, Jeep, whatever—into Los Angeles to look for my son. So get me room on any of your cargo or courier flights, today if possible, and advance me, say, three hundred bucks—old dollars—so I can pay someone for that last leg of the trip, and I swear that I’ll tell you who murdered your son when I get back. You can keep the rest of the fifteen thousand.”

“Very generous of you, Mr. Bottom,” said Nakamura with only the slightest hint of a smile. “Why don’t you tell me right now who murdered my son, collect the full fifteen thousand, and thus pay your way to Los Angeles— perhaps in your own private aircraft?”

“I can’t prove it now,” said Nick. “I guarantee that when I show you who killed your son, you’ll demand your proof.”

“But instead of concluding the investigation,” said Nakamura, “you are asking to take time off—how long? A week? Two weeks? In order to aid your son in his flight from justice. I understand he is wanted for murder.”

“No, sir. The LAPD and Homeland Security just have a warrant out for Val as a possible material witness. Look, I’m going to get to L.A. one way or the other to search for my boy, Mr. Nakamura. You’d do the same if your son were still alive and needed your help. If you help me get there today, I’ll be back sooner and able to wrap up the investigation. I know what evidence I need to find, if my hunch about your son’s killer is correct… and I think it is. Help me save my son so I can close the investigation on your son’s murder.”

Nakamura looked at Sato, but the security man’s expression did not change. The billionaire’s wristwatch chimed softly. Nakamura steepled his fingers and looked at Nick.

“Mr. Bottom, do you know where John Wayne Airport is?”

“Yeah, it’s in Santa Ana or Irvine—near there—about forty miles south of L.A.”

“We have no cargo aircraft going there presently,” said Nakamura, “but next Friday, September twenty-fourth, a flight from Tokyo will be refueling there between five-thirty and seven p.m., Pacific Daylight Savings Time. You will be on that flight, with or without your son. Is this understood?”

Nick wasn’t sure he did understand. “You’re giving me a way home to Denver if I find Val? Next Friday?”

“Yes,” said the billionaire. “There is a Nakamura Enterprises cargo flight leaving Denver International Airport freight terminal at eleven a.m. today bound for Las Vegas, Nevada. I shall make a call. They will find room for you on the flight. It will not be comfortable but it will be a quick flight. This will give you until the Friday fueling stop at John Wayne Airport to find your son. If you find him earlier, or must… ah… leave the Los Angeles area, go to the freight terminal at John Wayne Airport at any time before Friday and you will receive food and shelter there until the Friday-evening flight. At that time—Friday—you must return and tell me what you know about my son’s death. Or even what you think you know.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Nick. He was trying not to weep but the effort made his throat and chest hurt. “About the money, Mr. Nakamura… the bribe money I’ll need to…”

“Mr. Sato has the contract ready, Mr. Bottom. Only your thumbprint and signature are necessary. We will advance you five hundred dollars today, old American dollars, in exchange for your waiving the fifteen-thousand- dollar payment if you solve my son’s murder. The five hundred dollars is not a gift. If you do not solve my son’s murder within the next two weeks, there will be… penalties.”

“Yes, sir,” said Nick, not giving a fig for any penalties.

Sato held out an AllPad with the contract on the screen. Nick ignored the words, thumbprinted it, and used the pad stylus to sign. Sato gestured. Nick fumbled out his NICC, which the security chief ran through the same AllPad.

When Nick got the card back, he saw that he had a new balance of $750,000 new bucks—$500 in old, real dollars.

“This has taken longer than you promised,” snapped Nakamura. “You may ride with us to Denver International Airport, Mr. Bottom. If you are ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Not in here, Mr. Bottom. You may ride up front with the pilots. Mr. Sato will show you the way and hand you your luggage.”

The door—hatch was more like it—was only just large enough to allow Sato to squeeze through. The Sasayaki-tonbo dragonfly was airborne before Nick got strapped into his jump seat behind the pilots.

Nick found a pilot willing to fly him into L.A. within an hour of his landing in Las Vegas. Actually, the flight would be to the untowered civil-aviation field at Flabob in Rubidoux, out near Riverside just south of the Pomona Freeway east of the I-15.

That was close enough for Nick. He’d find his own way into the city, to Leonard’s apartment near Echo Park. He’d have a little more than $300,000 in new bucks left—plus his Glock 9.