Flash Flood (17 page)

He said it softly, rubbing the glass back and forth again across his forehead. Dan didn't say anything. He could understand how a man like Billy Roland could get depressed.

And he felt sorry for him. That surprised him. He really didn't want this man to suffer more. So, was he on the verge of letting feelings get in the way of good investigating? He couldn't be sure.

“What can you tell me about Eric Linden?” Dan asked.

Billy Roland put his glass down and seemed to be thinking about something. Dan waited. He wasn't in any rush.

“You mean the man who was killed in the flood?”

“Hank said he used to work here, was flying for you when he got caught.” Again, Billy Roland stared off into space, seemed to be choosing his words. At least, Dan knew he couldn't pretend he didn't know him. Not anymore. Dan knew their connection.

“You believe some people are just born no good? No Puritan work ethic, no morals, no consideration of other people's property?”

Dan nodded. So far he hadn't said anything about Eric that he couldn't agree with.

“Well, that doesn't even come close to sizin' up your Mr. Linden. And I'm a Christian man. Like to see the good in a fella whenever I can. Look for it, even. Give someone a second chance.”

“I take it that was hard to do with Mr. Linden?”

“Nigh onto impossible. I watched Eric grow up. Knew his aunt, great lady, she stepped in when his parents were killed in that car accident. I even helped 'em out a little when he was having trouble at Yale. Made a few calls, that sort of thing, nothin' much but it seemed to help.”

“You knew him all his life?”

“Gave the bride away at his wedding. I sure thought that would settle him down. You ever meet his wife?”

This was out of the blue. Dan stammered, “Yes, nice woman, smart.”

“Bet your sweet bippy. Elaine's nice as they come. And pretty, don't you think?” Billy Roland had turned to look at him.

“Classic beauty.” That wasn't a lie. He thought that.

“It's the legs. Never seen a heifer with a better pair.”

“But I take it that didn't keep Eric around the house?”

“Maybe at first.”

“But later?”

“Everything just kept turning brown, if you know what I mean. He was an ambulance chaser. His practice never did take off. Oh, he did some work for your brother-in-law, nothing challenging, glorified bookkeeping. But he'd rather play. He burned through his inheritance on one plane or another. He was a good pilot. A lot of us tried to keep him busy, crop dusting, delivering cattle, odds and ends like that.”

“Guess it wasn't enough.”

“Nothing would ever be enough for Eric.”

Dan thought of letting things drop, not question him about Eric anymore, then he decided against it. Why not go for it? What did he have to lose?

“Did you have any idea he was smuggling drugs?” He was curious as to how Billy Roland would answer. If he had offered the two million and then took it away….

“I still get hot under the collar. He threw everything in my face—all the help, all the years of knowing his family. Used my plane, even. He deserved to get caught. God knows how many trips there'd been where he'd sneaked through. And you know what's funny? I never suspected. I just didn't think he'd do anything like that. Goes to show you, you can be dead wrong about some people.”

You can say that again, Dan thought. He scanned Billy Roland's face in the half light of early evening. The pain was etched deeply around his eyes but he couldn't see the guilt, couldn't hear it in what Billy Roland was saying. How could this man pretend innocence? It was his connection with Enrico Garcia. Eric was just his pilot.

“How'd the family take it?”

“'Bout killed his aunt.”

“And Elaine?”

“Devastated.”

“But she didn't divorce him.”

“They don't make 'em like that anymore. She'd stood by him through affairs—”

“She knew about his philanderings?”

“Looked the other way. Every once in a while, Eric would slip across the border with some little thing. Underfed, underage, wanting a chance at a good life. I'd find something for her to do here. But he never fooled me. I always knew he was getting a little special thank you, if you read me.” Billy Roland paused to look up at him. “There just wasn't ever any keeping it in his pants. Hornier than a three-peckered billy goat.”

“Do you think he was working on his own?” Dan was finding himself vaguely uneasy with all these references to Eric's sex life. And the old man seemed vehement about not being involved, not even knowing about the drug smuggling.

“Don't know. He said he was. But who could believe him?”

“What do you think?”

“Part of me wants to believe he was set up. That he wouldn't get involved in drugs on his own. It's hard to say. Roswell has a few secrets, but its leading citizens don't push drugs, that I know.”

“Was it unusual that he pulled time so close to home?”

“Now that took some doing. Judge Cyrus, his brother-in-law, a little help from yours truly—took a lot of clout to pull that one off. Thought it'd be better for Elaine and Matthew.”

“Was it?”

“Maybe at first. But, you know, she and the boy never visited him after the first year. Just stayed away, went about their business, but never went back to Milford Correctional.”

“Wonder why?”

“Guess I always thought she finally gave up. 'Bout the time he was supposed to get out, she served him with divorce papers. Probably couldn't see the rest of her life with a felon. With Matthew off to college, guess she thought she'd start over.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“You know she deserves a good man, a good life.”

Dan was glad he didn't have to answer. He wanted to be that man, and now things were out of his control. And he didn't see any way of changing them. Would Eric talk to Elaine? Would she still leave him?

“You all going to sit out here till morning?” Iris stepped out onto the porch. “Supper's getting cold.”

“Iris, honey, I didn't know you were back from town. What you got on that table in there?”

“Couple of your favorites, yams with apricots and a pork roast. Some of that crusty old French bread you asked me to get.”

“Now, that does sound worth moving for. Dan give me a hand here.”

Supper was quiet. Billy Roland picked at his food but blamed his loss of appetite on the headache he'd recently circumvented, said that's what happened, he'd get rid of the headache but be a zombie the rest of the evening. He excused himself before dessert and went upstairs to bed.

Hank had lost the loquaciousness he had shown driving back from town but offered to stick around to play cards even though he couldn't stop yawning. Jorge declined and left without dessert. Iris said she wanted to go to bed early, and Dan said he needed to do some reading. The peach cobbler was eaten in silence, and everyone left the dining room without coffee.

He had the study to himself. Dan picked a leather recliner and pulled down two books on Charolais cattle, then another on Coronado and his trek through this part of the country in 1541. That ought to put him to sleep. Actually, he needed to plan his evening. He found the box of supplies Roger had said he'd mailed on the hall table. He'd go through it when he was certain everyone was asleep. Tonight might be the best time to look at the plane.

He waited until midnight then started out on foot. It had crossed his mind to saddle Belle, but he might have made too much noise in the barn. He didn't want to explain why he felt the urge to go for a night ride all of a sudden, burdened with an assortment of plastic containers with labels, a camera, and a mini-vac. It'd be better if no one saw him, coming or going.

He wore a denim, long-sleeved shirt and jean vest, its pockets crammed with supplies. The flashlight and gun were in separate hip pockets, each reassuring in its own way. He estimated the walk to the hangar would take forty-five minutes. The night was perfect, clouds obscuring the moon, no wind.

At first he kept to the row of poplar and hedge along the fence leading away from the house to the south. Billy Roland had ordered a mounted patrol of the property after the incident in the woods. The rider seldom came close to the house and made one wide circle of the property once a night.

He stood for a few minutes behind the trees watching until he was satisfied that no one had seen him leave. The house remained dark. From a distance its silhouette loomed on the horizon, secure, inviting, nestled into an extended windbreak of trees, the only inhabited shelter for miles. There was no sign of the patrol. Still a little early.

He jogged part way until his knees let him know enough was enough. He decided to approach the hangar from the west, follow the edge of the woods until he could cut across the runway to the back of the building. He wasn't sure how he'd explain this snooping; he just hoped he wouldn't have to.

The moon popped out for a few minutes and he hung back shielded by the thick underbrush and waited for clouds to float over it again, then dashed forward to the corner of the building before pausing. Again, he listened for noises by sucking in his breath and letting it escape through his mouth, all the time straining to catch some unfamiliar sound, some indication that he might not be alone.

Something that could have been a coyote sang in the distance. An answer came from over his shoulder to the east. But there was nothing else. He flattened his body against the cold of the corrugated steel and inched forward; his rubber soled shoes crunched on the gravel path along the side of the building.

The door at the back of the hangar was locked. He'd expected that and reached into his tool kit for a screwdriver. This lock wouldn't even be a challenge. It was not a talent he was proud of, but one that came in handy. It took less than ten seconds to open the door.

Dan quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The echo of steel on steel sounded like an avalanche as it rolled through the building, gradually faded, then stopped. He continued to wait by the door before moving on, letting every sound register and implant on his brain. The creaks and groans of the large wood truss and steel sheet building gave it a language all its own—and it talked to itself. Unnerving if you were by yourself and weren't supposed to be there, Dan thought.

The building covered five thousand square feet at least, a warehouse, hangar combination. Something rustled overhead. Pigeons, probably. Maybe a bat. His flashlight illuminated a collection of droppings on the concrete floor under one beam. Boxes stacked at the back had the logo of farm equipment, could be replacement parts. He'd check later.

But first the plane. Only in this case, planes. The cargo plane was easy to pick out with its pregnant-looking undercarriage and ramp doorway underneath in the back. The second was a surprise. A Lear jet. It seemed to be in mothballs. Its engine was dismantled and in a few thousand well-ordered pieces, some in trough-like trays with numbers and notes tacked to the sides, some, bigger, unwieldy, on the cement floor, and still others in crates. But it hadn't flown in awhile, that was for sure. It looked like it hadn't been worked on in awhile, either. Dan wondered who the mechanic was, a hobbyist, maybe?

The cargo plane showed signs of use but was well-maintained.

Dan walked underneath it, then around to the front. It could hold two to four passengers and probably another two or three four-legged creatures. The outside walls were obviously reinforced. The plane was heavy. From its shape, it looked like it shouldn't be able to fly, sort of a bumblebee that would heave itself into the sky and stay airborne against all odds.

The ramp doorway was locked from the inside but the cockpit was open. Someone had left a ladder in place and Dan hurried on board, shutting the door securely behind him. He'd need to muffle the sound of the battery-run vacuum however possible. He was fifteen feet above the hangar floor. He squatted down beside the pilot's seat and waited for any unfamiliar sound before switching on the flashlight.

The plane wasn't new, just well cared for. The buttery soft leather upholstery and wood instrument panel belied the plane's age. They just didn't make them like they used to. Dan dropped to hands and knees to inspect the flooring, a long strip of rubber mat glued in place at the edges and immaculate. A person could eat off the floor.

But in keeping with why he was there, Dan revved up the miniature vacuum and ran it under the seats and along the sides of the walkway leading to the cockpit. He emptied a minute amount of particles—three grains of sand, the stem of a crushed leaf, a knotted piece of string—into a plastic container and labeled it appropriately, then moved on to repeat his gathering in front of the pilot's seat and beneath the instrument panel.

It was slow going. He glanced at his watch, one twenty. He worked his way backward to the cargo hold, lowering himself into the padded stalls. These would be time consuming. Here, he scraped paint and metal from the tie-downs to collect dried saliva as a precautionary measure. Probably would tell the lab what they used to sedate the animals, and who knew whether or not that would be important. Next, he pulled threads from the canvas-covered padding that lined the walls, using a hollow needle to go between the seams to sample the stuffing.

The cleanliness astounded him. Here was a good example of safeguarding the animals…or destroying evidence. The plane was beyond clean. Dan supposed it helped to have a plentiful supply of cheap labor.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

There had been times in life, like now, that Dan was pleased that he had strong sphincters. In spite of his heart pounding crazily, he quelled the fight-or-flight reaction and turned slowly to look at Eric leaning over the top of the opposite stall.

“I could say the same.”