“Otherwise, why would you let Evan Keating hire you in about a second?”
“An excuse to stay here for a few days. The money’s good, too.”
“It smells funny,” Dino said, and he took a big bite of an English muffin.
“Why do you think that?”
“What could he possibly have for you to negotiate?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s buying a house or something.”
“He’d hire Jack Spottswood if he were buying a house, or somebody else local who knows the market. You’d be useless.”
“I can read a contract.”
“But what’s to negotiate? And why the hell isn’t Evan getting his ass out of Key West? He didn’t go when you warned him, and now he’s been shot, nearly killed, and he’s still hanging around. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I guess he has some unfi nished business.”
“The guy is in line for whatever a third of eight hundred million bucks is, and he’s got business in Key West? What does he need with business here?”
“All right, it’s screwy. I’ll give you that.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s also intriguing, and I want to see how it plays out.”
“Well, while it’s playing out, I hope you don’t end up between Evan and whoever took that shot. From what Tommy says, it was a damn fine shot, and if the guy left the rifle there, it only means that he’s got something else to shoot with.”
“I like the private airplane thing,” Stone said.
“It’s one way to travel.”
“It’s an ideal way to travel, if you don’t want your luggage X-rayed or searched,” Stone pointed out. “After all, it’s how you and I got here armed.”
Dino stuffed the last piece of sausage in his mouth. “Okay, you want to go to the airport, right?”
“Right.”
“Then let’s do it; we’ll sleep later.”
STONE AND DINO walked into Island City Flying Service, the fixed base operator for private aircraft at Key West International. Stone could see his own airplane through the window. They found Paul DePoo, who ran the place, and introduced themselves.
“What can I do for you?” DePoo asked.
“Can I see a list of all the private airplanes that’ve landed here in the past twenty-four hours?” Stone asked.
DePoo handed him a clipboard that held two sheets of paper.
“That’s yesterday’s landings,” he said. “We haven’t had anything today yet; it’s still early.”
Stone looked through the list slowly, eliminating the jets and big twins.
“What are you looking for?”
“One guy in a light aircraft, probably a single, some luggage, maybe something like a shotgun case.”
“Nobody comes to Key West to hunt,” DePoo said.
“Then a shotgun or rifle case would make him stand out, wouldn’t it?”
DePoo picked up a phone and punched in an extension. “You see anybody come in here from an airplane yesterday carrying something like a rifle or shotgun case?” He laughed. “You’re kidding!
What’s the tail number?” He jotted something down and hung up.
“How about that? There was such a guy.” He ran a finger down the list on the clipboard. “There’s his tail number; he’s one Ted Larson, from Fort Lauderdale.”
Stone looked at the clipboard. “Can you access the FAA list of registered aircraft from your computer?”
“Sure,” DePoo said. He went to the website and typed in the tail number. “Cessna 182 RG, 1984 vintage, registered to a Frank G. Harmon, Sarasota.”
“Can we take a look at it?” Stone asked.
DePoo looked at the clipboard. “We hangared it for him, come on.” He got up and led Stone and Dino out of the building and across the tarmac to a big hangar containing half a dozen airplanes of different types.
“That’s it,” Dino said, pointing to a red Cessna parked in a corner, behind two other airplanes. The three men approached the airplane.
“Nice paint,” DePoo said. “Couldn’t be more than a year old.”
Stone looked in the pilot’s window. “Nice interior, too—all leather. Hey, nice panel!”
“Glass cockpit,” DePoo said. “You don’t see that on old Cessnas. This guy has spent a hundred and fifty grand on a twenty-fi ve-year old airplane.”
“Yeah,” Stone said, “but even if he stripped it and replaced the engine and everything else, he probably only has two-fifty or three hundred in it, and a new one would cost, what, double that?”
“About that,” DePoo said.
“Does your clipboard say when he plans to leave?”
“Ten o’clock this morning.”
Dino was looking through the window into the rear seat. “Have a look at this,” he said.
Stone looked through the window and saw an aluminum briefcase on the rear floor. “He could get four guns in there.”
“And a silencer or two as well,” Dino said.
“Hey, you guys,” DePoo said, “are you cops?”
“He is,” Stone said, jerking a thumb at Dino, “and I used to be, but we’re going to need some local talent for this. Dino, will you call Tommy and tell him we think we’ve got a lock on his shooter.” Stone tried the airplane door, but it was locked. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a Cessna passkey?”
DePoo shook his head. “No, and I’m not in the habit of breaking into customers’ airplanes.”
“I understand,” Stone said. “Let’s wait for the local cops.”
33
THEY HUNG AROUND the hangar looking at airplanes for the half hour it took Tommy to get there.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Stone crooked a finger. “This way.” He led Tommy to the corner of the hangar and the bright red Cessna. “The guy who flew this in yesterday carried a shotgun or rifle case and gave a name different from the registered owner of the airplane. Also, if you’ll cast your eye toward the rear floor, there’s an aluminum case commonly used to carry handguns.”
“Okay,” Tommy said, “now what?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you might like to get a search warrant.”
“On what evidence?” Tommy asked. “The guy hasn’t done anything illegal.”
“Maybe he stole the airplane, since it isn’t registered in his name, which he gave as Ted Larson, of Fort Lauderdale. The registered owner is one Frank G. Harmon, of Sarasota.”
“Maybe he borrowed it or rented it.”
“This airplane has had a ton of money spent on it; it’s not the kind of thing an owner would lend to a friend, let alone rent out.”
“Come on, Stone, how many times have you stood in front of a judge and been told to take a hike? I don’t like to do that around here, because I get the same judge or two every time I go for a warrant, and I want to protect my reputation for having real evidence.”
“Tommy, you’ve got an assassin in your town.”
