Gossip Can Be Murder Page 14

  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.

  “The full-time guy, Manny, or part-time Leo?” asked the desk guy, who wore a gray twill shirt with Marker Aviation logos on the sleeve and “Bob” embroidered over the chest pocket.

  “Manuel Salazar,” Drake told him.

  “Yeah, he’s back today.”

  “Back? Was he out?” Drake asked.

  “Had the flu the last couple days.”

  Bob pointed toward a door that said Employees Only in bold red letters. Below the big lettering was another placard with all kinds of disclaimers about insurance regulations and such. Ron reappeared and the three of them walked past the few couches and chairs in the waiting area, pushing through into a large hangar.

  “Manny!” Bob’s voice echoed amazingly large in the open space. “Somebody here for you!” He turned and went back inside, leaving Drake and Ron standing there.

  Three planes pretty well filled the space. A small one, something aerobatic by the look of it, was tucked into the nearest corner. It looked like it probably stayed there most of the time, in storage until some rich daredevil type of guy came out and put it through its paces. The other two were in the midst of maintenance. Cowlings were off the closer one, an older Cessna 210, and hatches were open all over the other, a nice Piper 301. The rat-a-tat of an air wrench bleeped through the air and Drake began to wonder whether Salazar had heard Bob’s shout. He was about to call out again when a slender Hispanic man ducked beneath the wing of the Cessna and came toward them.

  “Manual Salazar?” Ron asked.

  The guy nodded hesitantly and paused, about twenty feet away. Even at that distance, Drake knew this wasn’t the man who’d pinned him against the side of his truck last night. This guy probably came up to Drake’s shoulder and underweighed him by thirty pounds. Salazar gave Drake and Ron wary looks as he wiped grease off his hands with a red rag.

  Drake stepped forward. “Manny, I’m Drake Langston. This is Ron Parker.” He held out his hand and the other man took it. “We’re with the investigation firm that’s looking into the forest fire crash, last year. Do you have a minute?”

  Salazar looked cautious. If he had a lawyer of his own, Drake knew this was when Salazar would have been advised not to talk. Even if he didn’t, the guy might have watched enough cop shows on TV to know better than to volunteer information. Still, he decided to give it a try.

  “I just want to get a little bit more about your side of it,” he saying, keeping his voice gentle. “Can you take a break and chat for a couple minutes?” He nodded back toward the lobby.

  “Can’t really tell you anything,” Salazar said. “I’ve been asked about it already.”

  “I know. I just wanted to see if there was anything we might add to our own files.”

  “I don’t think so,” Salazar said.

  “Do you remember the day you performed that last inspection on Walters’s helicopter?”

  “Not really. I mean, I didn’t until this came up and I had to go back through my logs. They showed me the aircraft log. Then I kinda did.” He glanced over his shoulder at the two airplanes. “But nothing specific.”

  “You don’t recall replacing the nut on the engine? Whether you used safety wire on it or not?”

  Manny began twisting the red rag and shifting from one foot to the other. “No. I don’t. We do a couple dozen inspections a month. That was way over a year ago.”

  Drake nodded, giving him a moment longer. When Salazar didn’t volunteer anything more, he knew it was time to let the guy off the hook. “Okay, thanks. I understand.” No point in grilling the man; the lawyers would be doing plenty of that, if they hadn’t already.

  “Well, I better . . .” Salazar again glanced back toward his work area.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks, man.” Drake watched him turn back, then looked at Ron.

  “Guess that’s it,” Ron said. Under his breath he muttered, “Outside.”

  Drake followed, refraining from saying anything at all until they were back in the car.

  “I take it that wasn’t your assailant,” Ron said the minute the doors closed.

  “Nope. Couldn’t have been. But he sure seemed nervous. Think it was just jitters over being questioned?”

  “No way. He didn’t give any real information either, did he?”

  “Not a scrap,” Drake agreed.

  “Did you catch sight of the other guy?” Ron asked.

  “Hunh-uh. Other than his legs. Bob said they had two mechanics. That must have been Leo.”

  “At one point, when you were paying attention to Manny, this other guy peeked out from behind one of the planes. I got a pretty good look at him. Great big guy, closer to the size you described last night.”

  “And . . .”

  “And he sure was listening to our every word. You notice Manny didn’t want to come outside with us, where he could really talk? I got the impression he wanted this guy to know that he wasn’t giving us anything useful.”

  “Makes sense. He sure got antsy when I asked specifically about the nut.” Drake put his hand on the door handle. “Maybe it’s the other guy I really should be talking to.”

  “Let’s wait on that,” Ron said. “This is one of those times when we might learn more by watching than by asking a direct question. The guy’s guilty, he’s just gonna clam up. Probably worse than Manny did.”

  He started the car and backed out of the lot. “Let’s just see what happens. We’re not in any big hurry, are we?”

  A short half-block away was a light-industrial area of small warehouses, the kind of area where shipping companies and home-grown manufacturers were often located. Ron pulled into a parking slot beside a place with “Navajo Candles” painted on a sign at the door. He made sure he had a good view of the side street.

  “It’s nearly lunch time. I’d be curious to see whether either Manny or Leo take a break.”

  Of the three slots marked Employee Parking Only at the airport, one had held a Marker Aviation vehicle, the other two had pickup trucks—one red Nissan and one white Dodge Ram. Drake was willing to guess which one belonged to Leo.

  Within fifteen minutes the white Ram with its bulky driver drove past. Speed limit on the street was only thirty-five, so they had no trouble getting to the driveway before Leo made it to the stop sign at the next intersection. He made a left turn and Ron quickly got to the stop, where they could watch his next move. Leaving a couple of vehicles between them, they stayed behind until he took the entry ramp onto I-40, eastbound.

  They stayed close, allowing no more than two cars between them, until it became apparent that Leo wasn’t pulling off at any of the Gallup exits for lunch. Within ten minutes they’d bypassed the whole town. Ron let a couple of big rigs get between them and paced himself so Leo never got much farther ahead. Once they’d cruised past Grants, an hour later, it became obvious that Leo was probably going all the way to Albuquerque.

  “Shit, it’s going to be hard to track him if we get into city traffic,” Ron said, “without being spotted.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “About all we can do is see how it plays out.”

  As they passed the casinos on the city’s western edge, Ron closed the distance between them, back to the requisite two cars. Keeping the big Ram in sight had, so far, not been too difficult. Keeping Ron’s Mustang out of Leo’s sight could prove more chancy. After another fifteen minutes, Drake tapped Ron’s arm.

  “He’s signaling.” Sure enough, the Ram slowed for the
ramp at 98th Street.

  “This is where it’s going to get tricky,” Ron muttered.

  He slowed and exited but now there were no other cars between them and their quarry. The Ram stayed to the right and pulled into a truck stop.

  “Whew. Lucky for us,” Ron said. He steered the Mustang to the car-sized gas pumps, watching as the Ram whipped to a quick stop in the parking slots in front of the convenience store.

  “What now?”

  “He’s not getting out. Let’s just watch.”

  The pumps weren’t busy and no one was yet clamoring for their spot so they held tight. Within minutes a silver BMW pulled in beside the Ram. A slim man got out and walked over to the driver’s side of the Ram. He spoke with Leo through the open window, then went inside.

  “I can’t be sure from here,” Drake said, “but that looks like David Ratwill, one of the opposing attorneys.”

  “David Ratwill? Charlie had me check that name—his ex was just killed in Santa Fe.”

  Chapter 23

  The office had a hollow, unoccupied feel when Drake and Ron arrived. Something in the kitchen trash was going bad, Drake noted, along with a scum of old coffee in the bottom of the pot that always sat on the counter. Little touches that betrayed the fact that Charlie hadn’t been here in several days.

  Ron glanced at his watch. “Rick ought to be here any minute,” he said. They’d phoned the lawyer from the truck stop and asked him to stop by. A lot of unanswered questions remained, about Salazar and Leo and how it all related.

  Almost in answer to Ron’s statement, a firm knock sounded at the front door. They traversed the long hall from kitchen to reception area and Ron opened the door to Rick Valdez.

  “Let’s go up to my office,” Ron suggested.

  “Maybe Charlie’s would be better,” Drake said after one peek into Ron’s den of uncontrolled paperwork.