'Not you, Detective Beaumont,' Captain Powell said into the phone, as soon as I identified myself. 'Whenever you call me at home, it usually means trouble. What's going on?'
Unlike my relationship with Major Gray, with Captain Larry Powell I have a long history of working together. It's been stormy on occasion, but we do have a reasonable understanding of how the other guy thinks and where he stands. Captain Powell listened to every word I said without once interrupting.
'Let me get this straight,' he said when I finished. 'You're there at Boeing Field right now, waiting for one of the chopper pilots to spot the boat. When they do, you want me to have a Seattle P.D. hostage negotiation team assembled at the airport ready to go, but you don't know where they'll be going?'
'That's right.'
'Jurisdictional lines be damned?' he demanded.
'That's true, too,' I conceded, 'but we have letters of mutual aid with most of the other jurisdictions in Washington State, don't we?'
'One would hope,' Powell answered thoughtfully, 'although whether or not those Memorandums of Agreement are all in order-properly signed, witnessed, and on file in the right office-is another question entirely.'
'It's always easier to step on toes first and say you're sorry later,' I advised him, speaking with the benefit of my lifelong history of bending, if not actually breaking, the rules. 'If we try going for permission in advance, we may end up stuck in some petty jurisdictional squabble when what we need is the ability to take immediate action.'
Powell thought about that for a few moments and evidently came to the same conclusion. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll go to work on this and see what I can do. You realize, of course, that I'm going to have to run this by the brass?'
Talking to brass has never been high on my list of skills. If it were, I wouldn't still be a detective after all these years. Just his saying it made the possibility of a successful outcome sound like a hopeless pipe dream.
'All right,' I said.
'What about an Emergency Response Team?' he added. 'Do you think we'd better haul those guys along as well?'
'With our necks already out that far, why not?' I returned. 'If those guys can shoot from a moving helicopter and knock someone off a moving boat, I say let's bring 'em along.'
'Helicopter,' Powell repeated. 'That reminds me. You told me you're planning to pay for the initial search part of this operation, didn't you?'
'Yes.'
'From what you've told me, that may or may not be necessary. We've worked with Paul Brendle before. Is he around there somewhere?'
Paul had arrived only moments earlier. He had waved to me through the glass-paned walls of the conference room while I was on the phone with Captain Powell.
'I believe he's out in the hangar area. If you'll wait a minute, I'll go get him.'
Paul came in from outside to take the call. Here it comes, I thought, as he took the phone. This is when I'm going to get my ass chewed. But Paul Brendle was smiling broadly at me when he finished the conversation with Larry Powell.
'That captain of yours sounds like an all-right guy. He says he's trying to get permission to send out two specialty teams. If it works, one of them will bring along the city's signed requisition to use the helicopters. Two separate requisitions, if necessary. He did say, though, that if you and your partner-' he nodded toward Sue Danielson-'intend to go up in a helicopter prior to the arrival of that official requisition form, then the two of you will have to buy your own tickets.'
Suddenly, my heart felt fully five pounds lighter. 'No problem,' I said cheerfully. 'That's no problem at all.'
27
After the phone call to Captain Powell, Sue Danielson's spirits improved immeasurably as well. Ten minutes later, Roger Hammersmith rushed into the window-lined conference room where Sue and I were waiting along with Paul Brendle.
'Got 'em!' he announced. 'Sato just radioed into the tower. They're in President's Channel on a southwest heading between Waldron Island and Orcas.'
I felt an initial surge of triumph, followed immediately by a rush of concern. On those occasions when I personally have traveled to Orcas, it's been on board Washington State ferries. Because I have an unerring knack for missing ferries by minutes, that kind of travel tends to leave me with a distorted view about how far it is and how long it takes to get there.
'How long will it take?' I asked.
'Not long,' Paul said. 'Let's go.'
Instantly, he was on his feet, pulling on his flight jacket, and heading for the door. Sue and I followed. Walking with a distinct limp, Paul hurried out to the flight line, where a bright red American Eurocopter A-Star helicopter sat at the ready.
Heading there, I glanced at my watch and wondered if I shouldn't rush back into the office long enough to call Captain Powell and let him know what was happening. But it was already too late. While Paul was doing his last- minute visual, preflight check, Roger was already handing Sue into the backseat of the chopper, helping her to don the headset, adjusting the microphone, and showing her the control button on the floor that made it work.
Erroneously assuming helicopters to be similar to automobiles, I headed for the right side of the helicopter. Roger Hammersmith was quick to point out my mistake. In helicopters, the left-hand side is always the passenger side. Properly chastised, I headed for the opposite side of the aircraft.
Embarrassed at being shown up for such a helicopter neophyte, I climbed in. The carpeted interior, the plush leather seats, and the myriad of gauges set in a wood-grain panel reminded me of the dashboard of my 928. Except for one thing-the helicopter had a lot more legroom.
Before Hammersmith could give me any further instructions, he was summoned away by yet another telephone call. Following the directions he had given Sue, I put on my own headset. As I waited for us to take off, I tried to keep preflight jitters entirely to myself.
Shameful as it is to admit, as a kid, I never liked carnival rides-not even those as tame as the Ferris wheel. They made me queasy and turned my skin a sickly shade of green. Bearing that in mind, it goes without saying that I don't take to flying. In middle age, I'm a reluctant and generally grouchy airline passenger as opposed to the blase frequent fliers of the world.
It's easy to understand that prior to that windy, rainy morning I hadn't spent any of my adult life searching for ways to take helicopter rides. Helicopters are noisy. Sitting in a moving plastic bubble high above the ground isn't my idea of a good time.
Paul took several minutes to complete the outside checklist of the helicopter, then he, too, climbed aboard. In his office on the ground, he had been relaxed and easygoing-jovial almost. Once inside the aircraft, he was all business.
'Where exactly did he say they are?' I asked.
Without answering, Paul put on his headset and pressed the Start button of the jet-turbine engine. As the helicopter blades roared into action, they seemed to swallow my question whole. Paul's eyes were busy checking gauges and instruments, and he didn't look in my direction.
'If you want to talk to me,' he said, his voice coming through the headset, 'you have to push down the black button on the floor. What did you ask?'
'Where are they?'
'Far north end of the San Juans.'
'How close to the Canadian border?'
'That depends on how fast the guy is going. From Point Disney on Waldron Island, it's probably only ten miles or so to international waters-ten nautical miles, that is.'
Only ten miles? I thought in dismay. By now Captain Powell would be deep in the process of trying to
