“I don’t think so,” I said.
“That’s what I told him,” Mel agreed. “He said it depends on the judge, and Ross Connors knows a lot of judges.”
“So what’s the next step for us?” I asked.
“Breakfast,” Mel said. “Cold pizza doesn’t do it for me. Then what say the two of us head out to Kent and have a chat with Diane Massingale or Trudy Rayburn? An unexpected visit from us might force them into making some kind of error.”
“If we spook them, what if they just jump in the plane and take off?” I asked.
“If they try that, we’ll know where the plane is, won’t we,” Mel said with a smile. “And if they’re apprehended while attempting to flee, we’ll have probable cause for sure.”
Which is exactly why Mel Soames is my kind of girl.
We stopped off at the Yankee Diner in Renton on our way to Kent. Mel ordered breakfast; I ordered lunch. We had taken the Destry/Anita papers in with us. While we waited for our food, we tried to work on them again, but Mel pushed hers away after only a minute or so. Glancing at her face, I saw she looked troubled.
“I thought these women were my friends,” she said. “And I thought the whole purpose of SASAC was to help people-to accomplish something worthwhile.”
The comment made me revisit the betrayal I had felt when I learned Anne Corley wasn’t at all who or what I had thought her to be. Not knowing exactly which way Mel was leaning, and not wanting to make the situation worse, I tried to soft-pedal Anita Bowdin’s involvement.
“We don’t know for sure Anita Bowdin did this,” I said. “Maybe her pilots were acting on their own.”
Mel remained unconvinced. “We don’t know that she didn’t, either. If she wanted to find unconvicted and anonymous sexual offenders, the crime lab was the perfect place to go hunting,” Mel declared. “I know for a fact that Anita was bound and determined to place someone inside the DNA profiling lab. That was a major goal when I turned up on the scene. She may not have pulled the actual triggers, Beau, but I know Anita Bowdin is involved. I’m guessing the pilots are the puppets while Anita controls the strings.”
“But we still don’t know why.”
“One way or the other,” Mel said determinedly, “we’re going to find out.”
By the time we arrived at Trudy Rayburn and Diane Massingale’s neatly rehabbed 1920s bungalow on the edge of downtown Kent, Mel and I had come up with a suitable fiction and with the decision that, in this instance, Mel would do all the talking. We parked Mel’s BMW three blocks away and almost out of sight of Trudy Rayburn’s house. Mel opened the trunk and removed the his-and-hers Kevlar vests we keep there. Only after donning them did we walk back to the house. A blue Ford Freestyle minivan was parked in the driveway. We walked past it and stepped up onto the low porch. Then Mel rang the bell.
As soon as Trudy answered the door, Mel put our game plan into action. She greeted the woman with a handshake and a warm smile. “I don’t know if you remember me or not,” Mel said, “but I flew with you on a trip to Cancun last fall.”
“Oh, sure,” Trudy answered. “I remember now. What can I do for you?”
Once Mel handed over her business card, Trudy was a lot less welcoming. “What’s this about?” she asked.
“Your boss,” Mel answered. “Anita Bowdin.”
“What about her?”
Mel sighed-very convincingly, I thought. “We really can’t go into any great detail right now,” Mel said. “It’s an ongoing police matter and obviously we can’t comment, but we understand that you and your partner have worked for Ms. Bowdin for several years. We wondered if, in the course of your employment, you’ve ever noticed anything suspicious-anything out of line?”
“You mean like some kind of illegal activity, like transporting drugs or something?” Trudy asked.
“That would work,” Mel said with another smile.
Trudy had been standing in an open screen door. Now she moved back into the house and let the screen door close between us. “Look, Ms. Bowdin has been wonderful to us,” she declared, standing with her arms folded. “I can’t imagine her doing anything ‘out of line,’ as you call it. So, no. In answer to your question, I haven’t noticed anything at all.”
I for one was delighted to see Trudy Rayburn exhibiting such classic defensive behavior, and I was sure she wasn’t doing it out of concern for Anita Bowdin, either. This was a lot more personal.
“When was the last time you flew Anita somewhere?” Mel asked conversationally. “Where did you go and when did you return?”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t be answering these questions,” Trudy said.
“It’s really more a matter of corroboration than it is answering questions,” Mel returned. “We know what Anita told us about her recent travels. We’re simply trying to confirm what she told us from an independent source, but that’s all right, Ms. Rayburn. Not to worry. I’m sure we’ll be able to check out your aircraft’s past flight plans with the FAA. That’ll take some time, but it will accomplish the same end. In the meantime, though, go ahead and keep my card,” Mel added, “just in case you or Ms. Massingale decide there is something you’d like to tell us about. And don’t forget, if the plane has been used in the commission of any crime, the two of you, being the pilots, could well be implicated as coconspirators.”
Mel turned and sauntered off the porch, with me trailing discreetly behind her. We were all the way to the sidewalk before the interior door closed behind us. “Now we wait,” Mel said as we headed back to the BMW.
“What if she calls Anita?” I asked.
“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”
We had just settled into the car when Mel’s phone rang. “Okay, Roy,” she said after listening for several seconds. “Good work. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Who was that?” I asked. “And thanks for letting you know what?”
“Roy Porter,” Mel answered. “He’s an interagency information officer for the King County Sheriff ’s Office. Ross asked him to do some background work for us. According to him, Trudy Rayburn has a CPL.”
That was bad news. It meant King County had issued a concealed pistol license to Trudy Rayburn. It’s one thing to do an ounce of prevention and put on a Kevlar vest to go chat up a suspect who may or may not be armed. Once you know for sure the suspect is carrying, though, it’s a whole other can of worms.
“Great,” I said. “That’s just what I want to know.”
“And they’ve located Anita’s plane,” Mel added. “At least they’ve established that she rents a hangar at the Renton Municipal Airport. They’re still working on getting a search warrant. If they can get it, it’ll include the house here, the hangar, the plane, and the minivan. The problem is, even if a judge grants it, how long will it take to get it here?”
“Good question.”
We settled in to wait. Stakeouts can be incredibly boring. We didn’t try to catch up on our reading for fear we might miss something, but there was plenty of time for thinking and for considering the very real difference between “bulletproof” vests as the public thinks of them and the far less definitive reality of “bullet-resistant.” And then there’s the problem of how much of the human body a Kevlar vest doesn’t cover-Captain Paul Kramer’s life- threatening injuries being a prime case in point.
So Mel and I sat there side by side thinking but not talking. In that tense silence I found myself grappling with some serious life-and-death issues-and contemplating what’s important and what isn’t. Once I came face-to-face with what I was really thinking, I went ahead and said what was on my mind.
“Will you marry me?” I asked. “I know there should be hearts and flowers and moonlight and all that other stuff, but…”
Mel didn’t reply right away. She just looked at me. “Yesterday you thought I was responsible for Richard Matthews’s death,” she said finally. “And today you’re asking me to marry you?”
If this was an answer, it wasn’t the one I wanted.
“What can I tell you?” I said. “I’m a hopeless romantic.”
Which is precisely the moment Trudy Rayburn chose to appear at the end of her driveway lugging a pair of heavy-looking suitcases. She opened the back of the minivan and hefted those inside. Then, leaving the cargo door open, she hurried away, most likely back into the house to fetch another load.
“Showtime,” Mel said, which was true, but it wasn’t an answer to my question at all. “The bad news is, she’s
