'Yes.'
'Good. Have Mr. Brendle call me ASAP,' I ordered, and followed that by rattling off my phone number. 'By the way,' I added, 'tell him I'm prepared to pay for more than one four-hour shift if that proves necessary. And if I have to cough up overtime pay because it's Sunday? So be it. I'll spring for that, too.'
'All right,' he said, still sounding a little guarded. 'I'll try to patch Mr. Brendle through to you as soon as possible.'
'You do that,' I said.
I put down the phone and wondered how long it would take for him to call me back. There was a time in my life when spending seven thousand bucks at a whack would have been inconceivable. Fortunately, those times were past.
Money talks; bullshit walks. Isn't that how the saying goes?
If hiring a team of helicopters and pilots could save those three women's lives-if it wasn't already too late, that is-then a seven-thousand-dollar investment was money well spent. In fact, saving them would have been cheap at twice the price.
Because, after all, what had happened to them was my fault and my responsibility. I was the stupid damn fool who had sent Alan Torvoldsen up to Culpeper Court to look after Else and the others in the first place. And since the problem was all my doing, then it seemed reasonable that the solution should be mine as well.
After all, I thought. Fair is fair.
26
Professional courtesy to say nothing of good manners dictated that I call Sue Danielson and invite her to come along on my proposed search-and-rescue operation with Puget Sound Helicopters. When she learned that Seattle P.D. wouldn't be paying the freight, she suggested the possibility of calling on the deep-pocket expense account of our friends from Wiesenthal.
My response to that suggestion was instant and negative. 'Are you kidding? Absolutely not.'
'So who's paying for it, then?'
'I am.'
'The whole thing?'
There was a big difference between Sue Danielson's economic reality and my own. I didn't want to rub her nose in it. 'It's not that big a deal,' I said.
'Seven thousand dollars would be a big deal for me,' she returned. 'The bottom line is typical territorial homicide dick, isn't it? You'd rather foot the whole bill yourself instead of sharing the glory with somebody else.'
Responsibility for Else and the others was what was driving me, not territorial imperative. I couldn't see trying to explain that to Sue Danielson, not right then.
'I'm sharing with you, aren't I?' I volleyed back. 'Now cut the lecture, Sue. Are you coming or not?'
'Coming,' she answered. 'I'll meet you down at the department in twenty minutes.'
'That's what you think,' I said. 'Have you been listening to the news?'
'You woke me up, remember?'
'There's been a bad wreck on I-Five near the Ship Canal Bridge. Whatever you do, don't try coming down the freeway.'
'I never drive the freeway,' she responded. 'And if your car was in the same condition as mine is, you wouldn't either.'
After further discussion, we agreed to meet at the Puget Sound Helicopter operations center at Boeing Field. That way, in case Sue did get tied up in traffic, I could go ahead and start the ball rolling without her.
It was dark but edging toward watery, overcast daylight as I wandered around the King County Airport at Boeing Field. It took two passes before I finally located the office, tucked in behind a massive, vine-covered wall. The person behind the reception desk was a young man wearing a white shirt and striped tie.
'Oh, Detective Beaumont,' he said. 'I'm Roger Hammersmith, Paul's assistant. Paul's still in the air. Would you care for a cup of coffee while you wait?'
At ten past seven, Hammersmith ushered me into a comfortable conference room. Settling in to wait, I noticed that the most striking piece of art was a framed print of a grinning groom carrying his wedding-gown-clad bride toward a waiting helicopter. The picture gave me cause to count my blessings. At least my daughter, Kelly, and my son-in law, Jeremy, hadn't required that kind of three-ring circus.
Hammersmith brought in two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for me. Armed with a stack of charts, he set about gathering the necessary information. 'How long ago did this missing vessel clear the locks?' he asked.
'Between ten and eleven.'
'How fast can they travel?'
'I'd guess eight to ten knots.'
It was refreshing to deal with someone who took what I had to say at face value without segueing into a debate about whether or not J. P. Beaumont was off his rocker. Roger Hammersmith simply wanted to get the job done in the most expeditious fashion possible. When I told him that bit of news-about how long One Day at a Time had been under way-he sighed and pursed his lips.
'By the time we get our guys in the air-eight-thirty or so at the soonest-that boat could be all the way out to Neah Bay and Cape Flattery. Is it likely the skipper will head for the open seas?'
I nodded. 'That's what I think.'
'Why?'
I couldn't very well say, 'Because he has a load of gold bullion on board and he's making a run for it.' What I actually said was, 'Alan Torvoldsen is a commercial fisherman. He's been at sea all his life. He's more at home there than he is on land.'
'What kind of boat is it?'
'A T-class lighter.'
'Fully fueled?'
'Most likely,' I answered.
Commercial fishermen usually top off their tanks when they settle up with their crews at the end of a fishing trip. The boat expenses are paid before the crew can figure their take. Aside from the settlement question, filling the tank helps prevent condensation over the cold winter months.
'How far do you think they can go without refueling?' Hammersmith asked.
I remember hanging around Fishermen's Terminal in the spring when the fleet was getting ready to go out. 'I don't know for sure, but most commercial boats have tanks that hold a lot of fuel. Worst-case scenario, I suppose they could go a long way-maybe even as far as the Panama Canal-without refueling.'
Hammersmith raised one eyebrow. 'When they hit open water, you think they might head south, then?'
Once again, I couldn't very well tell him all my reasons for thinking so, not without giving away too much. 'Maybe,' I answered.
'Are they loaded with food and water?'
'Again, I couldn't say for sure,' I answered, 'but I doubt Alan Torvoldsen would be dumb enough to set out without adequate stores of food and water.'
Shaking his head, Hammersmith excused himself and disappeared into another part of the building. His absence gave me time to think some bad thoughts about how easy it would be for someone to dispose of hostages once One Day at a Time hit that great expanse of blue water known as the Pacific Ocean. Bodies tossed overboard would disappear without a trace. Even if they washed up on land, months might pass before they were discovered on the deserted stretches of Washington's wintertime shore.
I was lost in thought when a recently showered and still wet-haired Sue Danielson blew into the conference room. 'So what's the word?' she asked. 'What's happening?'
'Not much,' I answered. 'But at least we're starting to work on the problem.'
