Fatal Error (34 page)

Gil shook his head.

“Then I suggest you sit back and enjoy it,” Phil said.

The pilot disappeared into the cockpit. The irony wasn’t lost on Gilbert Morris. He had just maxed out his Visa card shopping at Target. He had no idea of who or what Ali Reynolds really was, but one thing was clear. If she could afford to blow that much money on bringing him along for no other purpose than to “maintain the chain of evidence,” then the lady had to be loaded.

As his mother would have said, “More money than sense.”

That reminded him, of course, of that other “chain of evidence” problem. The phony oil containers that he had removed from Richard Lowensdale’s garage were still in his garage. In a court proceeding against Ermina Blaylock, that could turn into a big problem for Gil. Which reminded him of something else his mother always said: “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

A
li spent most of her two-hour wait in the Jackie Cochran terminal talking on the phone to Stuart. Locating the needed cell phone numbers was proving more difficult than expected because they had no idea who the provider was. It was only after some unauthorized snooping through the Blaylocks’ none-too-secure bill pay program that Stuart had managed to get on track with that. Ali had given Flossie Haywood her cell phone number and asked her to call if either Ermina or Mark Blaylock returned to the cabin. So far her phone had remained silent.

Despite the fact that Mina had left home with no luggage, Ali was convinced that she was about to make a run for it. So far, the only other possible address they had for her was in San Diego. Rutherford International may have ceased operations, but according to the bill pay records, they were still paying utility bills on two separate addresses in the Clairemont Mesa Business Park. That wasn’t an especially promising lead, but as far as Ali knew, that was the only one they had.

When she saw the You-Go Aviation CJ touch down, Ali gathered up her paperwork, stuffed it into her purse, and went to the terminal door.

Ali recognized Phil Canby as one of the pilots she knew. He sauntered toward the terminal accompanied by a man Ali assumed to be Gil Morris. The detective looked a little older than Ali and about Ali’s height, although there was a lot more muscle on his frame than there was on Ali’s. His crew cut was definitely turning gray. Carrying a single battered suitcase as though it weighed nothing, he looked distinctly lowbrow. Ali liked the fact that he wasn’t particularly good-looking. She’d had more than one unpleasant encounter with detectives who had very high opinions about their own special appeal and who came equipped with egos to match.

If Gil Morris considered himself a hunk, it wasn’t apparent in the way he was dressed or the luggage he carried. His jeans were faded thanks to numerous washings rather than having been purchased that way. His navy blue golf shirt had a spot on it where something like olive oil hadn’t quite come out in the wash, and the end of the zipper on the suitcase was held in place by a strategically located piece of duct tape.

When Ali stepped outside to greet them, she found a steady wind blowing west to east across the tarmac, leaving trails of sifting sand drifting across the runway.

“Good to see you again, Ms. Reynolds,” Phil Canby said, shaking her hand. “Here’s Mr. Morris, safe and sound.”

“And a hell of a lot faster than I would have been here if I had driven,” Gil Morris said with a grin.

Ali greeted Gil with a smile of her own as well as a handshake, then she turned back to the pilot. “It’s good to see you too, Phil. Do you know if you’re booked on another trip right now?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Phil said. “Why?”

“Detective Morris and I have to go back to Salton City for a while, but we may need to fly somewhere else later on today. If you could stand by until I know for sure . . .”

“No problem,” Phil said. “I’ll let operations know. Then I’ll refuel. That way, once you say yea or nay, we can get off the ground immediately.”

Ali nodded to Phil and then looked at the detective. “Is that all your luggage?”

“What you see is what you get.”

“Come on then.”

G
il followed Ali Reynolds outside and clambered into her rented Infiniti SUV. He fastened his seat belt before he said anything. “Okay,” he said, “I’m suitably impressed. Obviously you’ve got more money than God, but I’d like to know what the hell is going on and why the big hurry.”

Ali put the SUV in gear and backed out of the parking space. “Right this minute, Ermina Blaylock probably still believes she’s in the clear. As long as that doesn’t change, we have a better chance of finding her.”

She handed Gil a piece of paper. “There’s the license information on her vehicle, a silver Lincoln Town Car. I believe she’s a person of interest in your homicide. Since I’m not a sworn police officer, I can’t put out a BOLO on her. You can. Do it.”

Rich and pushy and issuing orders,
Gil thought,
but she’s also right.

He took out his cell phone and called Grass Valley. There had been a shift change. Kathleen Andersson was now off duty. Sergeant Frieda Lawson had taken her place. The two desk sergeants were sometimes referred to as the Valkyries, but that
moniker was only used behind their backs. Gil was relieved. Frieda Lawson had no way of knowing that Chief Jackman had ordered him to go home. It was nice not having to explain to her why somebody who was off duty needed a BOLO.

“So what’s the situation here?” he asked, once he was off the phone. By then they were already headed south on California Highway 86, where rivulets of moving sand slithered across the asphalt in front of them. “And are we really going to get out and dig around in the sand in the middle of a windstorm?”

“Yes, we are,” Ali said, “unless drifting sand has covered over our marker. According to the Blaylocks’ nearest neighbor, Ermina left home bright and early this morning on her own. Mark’s car is at the house, but since the shutters are closed, it’s likely he isn’t there. I want to do our big dig before either one of them returns.”

“If they return,” Gil offered.

“Exactly,” Ali said.

“And how are we going to do this dig, with our bare hands?”

“I’m sure Flossie will lend us a shovel, if she hasn’t already done the digging herself.”

“Flossie?” Gil asked.

“Florence Haywood. The neighbor. That’s what she calls herself, Flossie. She was all hot to trot to dig before I left. The only way I could dissuade her was by telling her that disturbing the evidence might result in Ermina’s getting off. There’s apparently not a lot of love lost between Flossie and Ermina.”

“You told this woman that Ermina’s a suspect in a homicide?”

Ali gave him a scathing look. “As far as Florence Haywood knows, I’m working for a creditor who’s trying to repossess Ermina’s Town Car. Yes, I know. It was a lie, but it would probably be in both our best interests to stick to that story.”

Gil nodded. He was a visiting cop who was a long way out of his own jurisdiction. Ali Reynolds didn’t have one.

In other words,
he thought,
we’re a match made in heaven
.

Ali turned off the highway and onto a series of meandering roads that ran along beside the lake. Gil had spent his whole life in the foothills of the Sierras. He loved the trees and the mountains and the surprising lakes and reservoirs that lay hidden in the mountain valleys. The Salton Sea, surrounded by flat, forbidding desert and distant mountain ranges, seemed like a page taken from some other planet.

The road they were on curved and changed names, becoming Heron Ridge Drive, although as far as Gil could see, there were no ridges anywhere around, and no herons either.

“That’s their place,” Ali said, nodding toward a small house that was totally encased in what looked like sturdy metal shutters. “And this is Flossie’s.”

She turned into a driveway that ended at a parked motor home. “I’ll tell her we’re here and see if she’ll let us use her shovel.”

Ali didn’t come right out and say, “Wait in the car,” but Gil got the message. And he didn’t argue. He had napped some on the plane, but he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep. He was tired, and he knew it.

Ali returned to the car a few minutes later, followed by an immense woman carrying both a shovel and a stack of boxes that were evidently discards from the local liquor store.

“She says we can park here,” Ali said, leaning into the car. “Where we’re going is on the beach on the other side of the road.”

Gil piled out of the SUV and followed the two women across the road and onto a beach covered with treacherous powdery sand punctuated by boulders.

“I was worried about losing the rock,” Flossie was saying. “I came out and dusted it off a couple of times, just in case. And here it is.”

Flossie moved the rock out of the way, and Gil took charge of wielding the shovel. He had turned over only a few spadefuls
of sand when the blade of the shovel struck something hard. The next time Gil raised the shovel, a squarish piece of what appeared to be melted plastic sat in the bowl of the shovel. Ali examined it as he lowered the load into one of the cardboard boxes.

“See the white plastic?” Ali asked. Gil nodded.

“I’ll bet I know what that is,” she said. “A Time Capsule, for a Mac.”

Gil remembered all the apparently undisturbed computer gear on Richard Lowensdale’s desk. He had assumed it was all there. Evidently that assumption was wrong. Without another word, Gil resumed digging. The next load of sandy dirt came up with something that was only partially burned, something light blue. It took a moment for him to realize what it was—the remains of a Tyvek surgical bootie like the ones that had left bloodied tracks all through his murder victim’s house.

Yes,
he decided,
Ali made the right call. We really do need to maintain a chain of evidence
.

He kept digging and found a few more bits and pieces. Finally though, when his shovel loads were yielding nothing but sand, a cell phone rang—Ali’s cell phone.

She answered it, listened, and then gave the house across the street a long, appraising look. “Right,” she said, finally. “Got it.”

Without saying anything to Gil or Flossie, she immediately dialed a number—the pilot’s, presumably. “We’re flying to San Diego. Wheels up in an hour,” she said. She paused and listened again. “I’m not sure which airport,” she said. “Whatever’s closest to the Clairemont Mesa Business Park. When you figure out what airport, call Hertz and give them my profile number. Tell them we’ll need a car wherever you’re taking us.”

She turned to Flossie. “We need to leave now,” Ali said urgently, “just as soon as we get these boxes loaded in my car. I appreciate all your help, but I’m worried about Mr. Blaylock. Do
you think there’s a chance he’s inside the house? I know you said he wouldn’t be with the shutters down that way, but after we’re gone, you might want to check. You did say he gave you access to a remote, didn’t you?”

“Sure,” Flossie said. “I’ll be glad to go check on him. It won’t take but a minute, if you want to wait.”

“No,” Ali insisted. “We need to go. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

Gil figured that was a fib on Ali’s part because he was pretty sure the plane wouldn’t go anywhere without them.

As soon as the boxes were loaded, Ali headed for the driver’s side, jumped in, turned the key, and gunned the engine. Gil clambered into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and fastened his seat belt. The whole vehicle reeked of wood smoke and burned plastic.

“What’s the big hurry now?” he asked as she pulled out of the driveway and then accelerated down Heron Ridge Drive.

“My phone guy just called,” she said. “Stuart got a hit on Mina’s phone. According to cell phone towers, she’s somewhere in downtown San Diego. Since there’s been no activity on Blaylock’s phone, Stuart tried calling that one.”

“How can your guy be doing all this tracing without a court order?”

“Don’t ask,” she said.

“And?”

“Nobody answered Mark Blaylock’s phone, but it looks like it’s right here in Salton City, most likely in the Blaylocks’ shuttered house. I’m willing to bet Mark Blaylock is inside there too.”

“And in no condition to answer the phone,” Gil concluded.

Ali nodded.

“How come Flossie would have access to the shutter controls?”

“I’m not sure they were actually given to her. Let’s just say she knows where the controller is located, but if she walks in and
finds what I think she’s going to find, we don’t want to be anywhere around. If we were to get caught up in another homicide investigation right now, it would really slow us down. We need to be in San Diego.”

They weren’t even on the highway yet when a set of flashing red lights appeared in front of them. Ali pulled over and stopped. Moments later a speeding Imperial County Sheriff’s Department patrol car swept past them and sped toward Heron Ridge Drive, the way they had come.

Gil looked at Ali. “Guess you called that shot,” he said.

Nodding, she pulled back into traffic, leaving Gil to reconsider his initial impression of her.

Yes,
he thought,
rich and pushy, but also smart—very, very smart.

“Of course, the fact that we put out a BOLO on the wife’s car before Flossie called nine-one-one is probably going to raise a few eyebrows.”

Ali looked at him and grinned. “They’ll have to catch us first,” she said.

Gil was starting to like this girl.

“And what about your phone meister?”

“Don’t worry,” Ali said. “Stuart knows how to cover his tracks. Let’s just hope he can keep on working his telephone tracing magic with Ermina.”

“You realize I’m out of my jurisdiction and I don’t have an arrest warrant.”

“Don’t worry,” Ali said. “If we can catch her, I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something that will work.”