CHAPTER 24
Because Mel had commandeered my bathroom, I had been trying to work while still lounging around in my robe-not a good plan. Now I went to shower and dress. By the time I emerged, Mel was still arguing with the FAA, but Todd had a hit.
“I’m on the phone with Million Air in Salt Lake City,” he said gleefully, holding one hand over the telephone receiver as he spoke to me. “Their records show tail number November eight six one Alpha Bravo was tied down there from October 9 through October 11, 2003. They flew out the morning of October 12.”
I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Todd Hatcher had caught on to the FAA lingo, and we both knew that Juan Carlos Escobar had been released on his twenty-first birthday, October 10, 2003. “Do we have any idea who all was on the plane?” I asked.
Todd held up his hand. “You can’t?” he said. “I just want to…But…All right, then. Someone will have to get back to you.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“They blew me off. I wanted to know if they had any details about the passengers or pilots, but they said they can’t or won’t provide that information, not without a warrant.”
“When Mel finishes with the FAA, put her on it,” I advised. “Either she’ll figure out a way to worm the information out of them, or she’ll figure out a way to come up with enough probable cause to get a warrant.”
“Where are you going?” Todd asked.
“I’m on my way to the crime lab with the ballistics stuff. You keep tracking on FBOs.”
I started for the door, but Mel waved me down, signaling for me to wait.
“Thank you so much,” she was saying into the phone. “Yes, I can hear it. The fax is coming through right now. You’ve been a huge help, David.”
Mel hurried over to the fax machine and then had to stand and wait until the documents finished printing. She handed the first one to me and I saw it right away. Whoever had drawn the composite had done a wonderful job. Diane Massingale and the nun in the composite from the Bountiful Police Department were clearly one and the same.
“So Diane it is, then,” I said.
“Maybe it’s both of them,” Mel replied. “They both trained with the Air Force in the first Gulf War. Both left under less than optimal circumstances-as in don’t-ask-don’t-tell.”
“The FAA told you that?”
“Not the FAA per se. David told me that. He just happens to work for the FAA,” Mel answered. “Anyway, after that they both worked for commuter airlines, then they flew charters. They’ve worked exclusively for Anita Bowdin since 2002. And they both live at the same address in Kent, the one we found for T. Rayburn. Now where do you think you’re going?”
“The crime lab, to drop off the ballistics info.”
“I’m coming too,” Mel said determinedly.
“But Todd needs you to work on the FBO situation,” I objected.
“Todd has a telephone,” Mel declared. “And I have a telephone. If Todd needs me to do something, he can call. Right, Todd?”
“Right,” Todd said, ducking his head into his computer screen and not meeting her eye. I suspected that he had seen more of Mel Soames than he expected that morning. She seemed to be coping with the situation far better than he was. And leaving them alone to work together clearly wasn’t an option.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Come on. Bring along our Destry and Anita info. That’ll give us something to read if we end up having to sit around somewhere and cooling our heels.”
The Mercedes was almost out of gas, so we took Mel’s BMW. She drove. When my phone rang I expected the caller to be Todd Hatcher or Ross Connors. It was Harry I. Ball.
“You don’t call,” he said. “You don’t write. And considering I bailed your butts out of hot water yesterday morning you’d think you could be bothered to pick up the phone and say thanks a bunch.”
“Sorry, Harry,” I said. “We’ve been busy.”
“Hah!” he said. “I’ll bet. Now are you two ever coming back or should I just sublet your space and get it over with? No sense sitting here with empty offices going to waste.”
“We’re working, Harry,” I said. “We’re making progress.”
“But I shouldn’t hold my breath waiting for you to send me an actual report on what you’re doing. Brad and Aaron are a little pissed about this, you know. Barbara, too. They come in every day, punch the time clock, put in their hours, while you and Mel are wandering around free as a couple of birds.”
Brad Norton and Aaron Oliver were two of our SHIT Squad B teammates.
“Sorry to leave you out of the loop, and I’ll shoot you an update,” I promised, “as soon as we get within shouting distance of our computers.”
“You do that,” Harry said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”
When we reached the crime lab parking lot, I thought Mel would want to come in with me.
“You go on,” she said. “There are a couple of things I want to check out.”
I went. I’ve been to the crime lab countless times without ever catching sight of Destry Hennessey, but as I pointed out earlier, this was the Ides of March, and the stars were not in our favor. She was down in the lobby, talking to the lady in charge of handing out visitors’ badges.
“Hey, Beau,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
She seemed happy enough to see me. She wouldn’t have been had she known what I was up to.
“Ballistics,” I said. “Need to see Larry.”
“Your old bud,” she said. “This about the double homicide up in Leavenworth?”
“Yup,” I said. “That’s the one,” making a mental note to be sure Tim Lander sent Larry something about that Golden Saber shell casing that would keep everyone out of trouble.
“Good work,” she said. “Sounds like you cleared that one up in a hell of a hurry.”
I took my visitor’s badge and rode the elevator upstairs. Larry was aghast when I told him I had run into Destry herself in the lobby. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Put in a call to Tim Lander at the Chelan County Sheriff’s Department and make sure he sends you everything there is to know about the weapon involved in the double homicide up in Leavenworth.”
“But he already did,” Larry said. “That’s what I’m supposed to be working on this morning.”
“We’re covered then,” I said. “Not to worry.”
I gave him what I had. He looked it over, sniffing his disapproval. “This isn’t all that good,” he said. “But it may be enough. Give me a number so I can get back to you.”
I did and then headed back down to the car, where I found Mel talking on her cell. When I got into the car, she handed me a scrap of paper. On it she had scribbled something that looked like “Wingnuts and Butte Av.” She hung up.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Ross Connors,” she said. “I just finished telling him that his boy wonder economist, Todd Hatcher, is in fact a genius. He’s located two more FBOs-Wingnuts is in Roseburg. Butte Aviation is in Butte, Montana. The dates Anita’s plane was in those areas coincide with two of my sexual offender ‘mysterious deaths.’”
“So they are connected?”
“Looks like,” Mel said.
“And we’re dealing with serial killers.”
“That, too,” Mel agreed.
“So what’s the next step?”
“Ross has the whole Olympia squad working the problem as well-checking out the plane, where it’s based, flight plans, all that kind of thing. Since we can put the plane in the vicinity at the time of four homicides, three in the U.S. and one in Mexico, he’s also looking into whether or not we have sufficient probable cause to get a search warrant.”
