Gossip Can Be Murder (17 page)

Light/Stanworthy might be a fake, but would his repertoire include this kind of stuff? Trudie might be crazy but would she be this calculating? Would either of them actually know how to mechanically rig the car?

Chapter 21

With the afternoon’s grilling still fresh, there was no way Drake could envision going home to an empty house and quiet evening of TV so he stopped in just long enough to change clothes and get Rusty. The two of them headed out to Double Eagle Airport, where Drake could finish his logbook entries from the Pecos job and check the aircraft over. It was due for an oil change and couple of minor inspections that he could do himself. The airport’s A.I. and a couple of other mechanics were there, hovering around a private jet that had come in during the afternoon. Drake greeted them and walked over to the shiny white jet with its trimwork done in burgundy. Rusty loped over to the hangar, sniffing the ground, establishing that this was a place he already knew well.

“What a beaut,” Gordon, the A.I., said, looking up at the jet’s cockpit.

“No kidding. Who’s she belong to?”

“Some corporate type from Chicago. The pilots are sitting in the lounge. The guy and his wife got met by a limo about noon.”

Drake nodded. He’d met lots of corporate pilots over the years, and sometimes looked at them with a little envy—easy hours and good pay. But mostly he saw that they did a lot of sitting around. Did a two or three hour flight, then sat around for a day or more waiting until the hotshot owner showed up and told them where they were going next. Not for him. He loved having his own ship, taking the jobs he wanted to take, and being in the middle of the action. He chatted with the guys for a few more minutes, and when Johnny Ramirez offered him a beer from his cooler, Drake took him up on it. With the first few sips he felt the day’s tension receding.

He asked Johnny to pull the JetRanger out onto the tarmac and the two of them set out with the power washer to take off the small traces of grime. As Johnny dried the fuselage, Drake went over the windows with a soft cloth and let the mundane chore relax him.

The sun had set and they worked under the lights. The two jet pilots came out and watched from the sidelines for a while. Drake could tell that one of them had some helicopter time. The guy’s face held that particular wistful look common to those who’ve had the chance to hover. Can’t do that—and can’t back up—in a Citation. He smiled their direction and they walked over to talk story for a few minutes, the one thing that every pilot of every type of aircraft has in common—stories. By the time Drake had finished polishing the windows, the chief pilot got a buzz from the cell phone in his pocket. The two men said goodbye and crossed the tarmac to begin their preflight for the return run to Chicago.

By this time, Johnny had finished his part of the cleanup so Drake had him pull the ship back into the hangar. The jet’s engines started and a gleaming black limo was heading toward it, coming from the entry gates across the way. Drake quickly completed his logbook entries and left orders with Gordon and Johnny to start the hundred-hour inspection in the morning. He needed everything ready by next week for another job.

A sharp whistle brought Rusty to his side and the two of them headed through the lobby of the general aviation facility, toward the parking lot. Drake unlocked the pickup’s door and the dog climbed inside. Before he could twist himself into the driver’s seat an arm reached past him and slammed the door shut.

“What—” Drake started to whip around but a massive dark body slammed him face first against the truck.

Rusty was barking furiously, clawing at the driver’s side window. A hairy forearm pressed against Drake’s neck and beery breath warmed the side of his face.

“The mechanic didn’t do it,” the gravelly voice whispered.

“What?” His mind worked furiously, thinking of the instructions he’d just given to Gordon and Johnny.

“You’re not going to testify that the mechanic was the one that brought that aircraft down.”

Comprehension dawned. The court case.

The pressure on his neck increased, forcing his windpipe against the top of the truck’s cab, cutting off his air.

“You hear me?” the voice rasped, like rocks against metal.

Drake couldn’t form words. His throat closed tighter. He worked to produce a feeble nod.

“I said, did you hear me?” The lips were right against his ear, whiskery stubble scratching. The pressure on his neck eased a fraction and he nodded firmly.

“Good. When you go back there, you’re going to tell them the engine failed.”

“It did.” Drake grunted out the words.

“It failed because the factory did something wrong.” The arm jammed against him again, and sparks danced before his eyes.

His legs started to give way and he forced himself to stay in control. His arms felt like rubber as he swung ineffectively at the attacker. The window vibrated in its frame as the dog threw himself at it repeatedly. Just about the time Drake thought he was going down for the count, the guy gave one final shove. When the momentary blackness cleared he was gone.

Drake spun around, scanning the parking lot, but saw no one, only rows of parked vehicles. He leaned against the truck, lungs grabbing for air, digging his feet into the pavement to stay upright. He considered letting Rusty out of the truck and turning him loose to search out the attacker, but thought better of it. The dog was getting too old to stand up to someone that dangerous. A hundred yards away, at the far end of the lot, a vehicle started up and sped off in the opposite direction. The lot was so dark by now that he didn’t even get a good enough look to know whether it was a car or a truck. It became no more than twin red lights, which quickly disappeared as it turned onto the frontage road and went behind a hill.

Anger replaced fear. By the time he’d opened the door and reassured the dog, buckled himself in and started the engine, he felt ready to kill. If only he had a clue who it was, he might have followed that urge. The only ones who knew what he’d said today at his deposition were the lawyers.

He headed for Interstate 40, his mind churning with possibilities. Flooring it, and not giving a damn about the consequences, he raced eastbound to the Rio Grande exit and roared down the off ramp. Less than ten minutes later he whipped into the parking lot at RJP.

A light was on in Ron’s office and the rest of the place was dark. The back door stood locked and he pounded on it, impatient as he imagined Ron getting up slowly from his desk and looking out an upper window to see who it was.

“Ron! It’s me. Open up!” The shout ripped Drake’s raw throat, without producing much volume. Eventually the back door opened.

“What’s up, man?” Ron looked liked he’d been dozing with his head propped on his hand. The hair on the left side of his head stuck out in tufts.

“How much do you know about this Santa Fe law firm representing those families?” Drake demanded.

Ron’s eyes crinkled as he thought about it. “Not a whole lot. Never worked with them, ourselves.”

“I was just threatened,” Drake said. He’d fast-walked down the hall toward the reception area, where he remembered a large wall mirror. He flipped on a light and tilted his head back to stare at his neck. His Adam’s apple looked like a plum and the entire front of his neck was as inflamed looking as it felt.

“God, Drake, what happened?” Ron finally looked as if he were coming awake.

Drake briefly related the past half hour’s events. “How did this guy know I was going back to testify again, if that information didn’t come from the lawyers? There were six people in that room.”

Ron  scrubbed at his face with his hands, spiking his hair even worse. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror he smoothed the sides down and did a little pat-down to put the sparse top in order.

“Go over it again and tell me everything that happened,” he said.

“I suppose the guy in the parking lot could have been the mechanic who worked on that aircraft,” Drake said, after going over both the deposition and the assault at the airport. “He’s the one with the most to lose, probably. But I hardly got into any specifics about that. I mean, those lawyers were so concerned with tearing me a new one that they hardly asked any questions about the accident itself.”

They’d fetched cold beers from the fridge by this time and were in Ron’s office. Drake had dumped the stack of books from the most comfortable chair in the room and put his feet up on the desk. Rusty lay within six inches of the chair, his ears perked and head cocked toward the open doorway.

“You went over the whole thing with Rick Valdez ahead of time, right?”

“Yeah, but geez, you don’t think he’d sabotage me. That just doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. I can’t see him being behind it.” Ron drained the brown bottle and asked whether Drake wanted another one. When Drake declined, he leaned back in his swivel chair. “This mechanic who attended the deposition. What was his role?”

“What I was told, he was only there to hear our evidence. He’s supposedly an expert witness for the other side. Their expert to counter our experts.”

“So, aside from doing his research and presenting his side of things, he doesn’t have any personal stake at all in the case?”

Drake shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”

“You got your folder of notes with you?” Ron asked.

A shock went through Drake. “Shit! I don’t know. They were in the truck.” He jumped up and dashed down the stairs before Ron could speak.

He came back in under two minutes with the thick file folder. “Luckily I’m fanatic about locking my vehicle,” he said to Ron. “Be sure to tell your sister that the next time she rags me about it.”

“Offhand, you know the name of the mechanic who signed off on that work?” Ron asked. “Where does he live?”

“Manuel Salazar,” Drake answered. He spread the file open on Ron’s desk and paged toward the back of it. “Lives in Gallup.”

“It’s not that far, couple hours. He could have driven here this afternoon, if someone in that meeting tipped him that you were pointing fingers.”

Drake thought about that. “I suppose. I’ve never met the guy, that I recall. Could have been him out at Double Eagle tonight.”

“Tomorrow, I say we take a little drive over to Gallup,” Ron said.

Chapter 22

Drake woke up well before dawn. He’d talked to Charlie after he got home last night and managed to skim past the attack at the airport with little explanation. She told him there had been an ‘incident’ at that resort place, but didn’t go into detail, just that Linda wanted her to stay over and it was simpler not to argue with her friend.

When he spoke to her his voice was sounding like something off an old 78 record from the 1930s and she’d immediately asked him about it. He passed it off by saying he might be catching a cold. Following her advice of drinking a warm honey and lemon concoction helped for awhile, long enough to fall asleep. But by midnight he was tossing and turning. He renewed the honey drink a couple of times during the night, when he couldn’t stand it anymore but nonetheless, he was awake for real by five. He put on a soft turtleneck, although a lot of the redness was already fading. The bruising on his Adam’s apple would probably go through all sorts of color changes before it was really gone.

The injured throat was only part of the equation, he knew. His and Ron’s plan to drive to Gallup today and confront Manuel Salazar seemed like a great idea at the time but during the night he began to question it. Now, after easing some warm oatmeal down his throat and wincing at his first tentative sip of fruit juice, he was torn between wanting to find the guy and dish out some of the same treatment and wishing he could just put his feet up and watch football until Charlie got home. Before he’d entirely decided which way to go, he heard Ron’s car in the driveway.

He whistled out the back door for Rusty and the dog came inside. Drake filled his food and water dishes, figuring that would keep him happy for a few hours.

“Ready?” Ron asked when Drake opened the front door.

“Yeah.” Meeting Salazar face to face would put a lot of questions to rest.

Ron hadn’t eaten breakfast yet so they made a pass through the drive-up at the first McDonald’s down the road. Drake declined. The drive to Gallup went smoothly enough. Most of the traffic on the interstate at this hour were eighteen-wheelers, bound for Arizona and California. Ron’s style, Drake discovered, was to crank up the CD player and let Creedence Clearwater Revival drown out the sounds from the big trucks. “Proud Mary” precluded any attempts at conversation, which was just as well.

Manuel Salazar still worked at the Gallup airport, doing mainly the types of routine maintenance that any fixed-base operator handles. Oil changes, hundred-hour inspections and that sort of thing. Once in awhile an airplane might come in with a problem and the local mechanics might have some real work to do, getting it airworthy before it could leave. Drake had spent a good part of his career around such facilities and pretty well knew the routines they followed.

He also knew, from the accident file, that Salazar had previously worked for Greenwood Aviation, one of the larger helicopter operators in the country. With a fleet of over a hundred craft, there was enough maintenance to keep a dozen or more mechanics busy. Between the routine stuff and the occasional hull damage from an accident, things were always hopping at those types of facilities. He sat back in the Mustang’s comfy seat and formulated a few questions for Salazar.

The plan was to approach him cautiously. If it looked like Salazar might have been Drake’s attacker they’d have to be careful what they said. If he wasn’t, Drake could still use the time to ask a few pertinent questions about the case, a few little things to round out the information in his file.

They parked in the public area outside the main building on the airport property. Calling it a terminal was probably a bit hopeful, since there were only two daily commercial flights here, when an airline employee probably showed up to act as ticket agent, baggage handler and perhaps even flight attendant. But there was a lobby, a guy at the front desk who monitored weather reports and handled radio calls, and some public restrooms. Ron went there first, while Drake inquired about their mechanic.