Gossip Can Be Murder Page 9

  He checked the aircraft one more time, belted himself in and spooled up the engine. It was nearly five and the sun would be going down by the time he reached Double Eagle airport on Albuquerque’s west side.

  It was almost six-thirty by the time he’d landed and watched the tug put his aircraft into the hangar. He retrieved his pickup truck and drove to the RJP Investigations office near downtown. Ron’s Mustang sat in the parking area behind the gray Victorian building and lights were on all over the place. He shook out the tension that had settled in his neck.

  Drake entered through the back door, into the old house’s kitchen. Kid voices came from the hallway and one of the little creatures zoomed through the doorway and nearly crashed into him. The munchkin slid to a stop and stared up at him with wide dark eyes.

  “Hey, slow it down a little,” Drake told him.

  An ear-piercing shriek came from the front of the building, followed by Ron’s roar—“Jason! Cut it out!”

  Whichever kid—Justin or Joey—had nearly collided with Drake now raced away, heavier-than-possible footfalls thundering down the hardwood floors in the hall.

  “Boys! Right now!”

  Drake shook his head and allowed himself a moment of secret gladness that he and Charlie had not let themselves in for this. He reached the bottom of the stairs and called out to Ron.

  “Up here,” came the response. “In my office.”

  Drake waded through a tangle of plastic soldiers and little-boy bodies at the foot of the stairs and headed up. Ron’s office looked about the same as usual, a solid layer of papers covering the top of the desk and Ron sitting in his chair with the phone to his ear.

  “I’m on hold,” he said, waving Drake toward the visitor’s chair.

  Since it was stacked with books, Drake opted to stand.

  “I’ve got the Valdez file here somewh— Yeah, Bill, I’m here.” He shrugged at Drake and turned his attention to the phone.

  Drake wandered into Charlie’s office, where he knew he’d find a little oasis of calm. The exact opposite of her brother, Charlie kept everything filed away or ordered with precision. Her phone, stapler and calculator stood in straight ranks on the desktop. Her chair was pushed into its cubbyhole, and her computer monitor and keyboard hadn’t moved from their standard placement. An Oriental rug in pastels added a feminine touch, along with some potted plants that hung in the bay window. Atop a bookcase stood a tin ‘cookie jar’ undoubtedly filled with dog biscuits for Rusty. The one concession to untidiness was a pile of mail, which Sally the receptionist must have left in the center of the desk—precisely in the center, he noted.

  “Okay, all set with that,” Ron said. His appearance in the doorway startled Drake.

  He held out a thick manila file, and Drake sensed a slight hesitancy in his manner.

  “Hey, man, things are fine. I know I came off a little testy yesterday.”

  Ron shrugged. “It’s okay. Charlie said you were dreading the deposition.”

  “That’s all it is. Really.”

  Ron gave him a little pat on the shoulder and handed over the file. “I’ve added some reports on the legwork I’ve done—addresses, phone numbers, interviews with a couple of the family members.”

  “Good. Good.” Drake felt the previous awkward moment drift away. He fanned a few of the pages. “All my notes in here?”

  “Yeah, everything so far. Charlie filed some data from your simulator tests in there somewhere . . . I don’t understand all the technical lingo.”

  “I’ve got a few more things at home, photos and notes that I never did type up. But I’ll get it all in order tonight. I’m supposed to call Valdez at ten in the morning to go over my testimony. Deposition’s at one o’clock.”

  Ron reached over and flipped open the cover of the file. “I stuck a note inside here,” he said, indicating a yellow Post-it, “with the address of the downtown office where you’re going. One of the families has a Santa Fe firm representing them, and that guy’s name is right . . . here. David Ratwill.”

  Something about the lawyer’s name felt familiar but he wasn’t sure why. “Okay.” Drake took a breath and looked his brother-in-law in the eye. “Guess I’m ready.”

  He threaded his way back through the mass of kids and toys at the foot of the stairs and walked out to his truck. Tossing the file on the passenger seat, he started the engine and realized he was clenching his jaw. Why was the idea of giving a deposition bothering him so much? He knew perfectly well why, although he hadn’t said anything to either Charlie or Ron.

  Like a flash, the whole scene from Seattle came back in a rush. Five years ago. The crash which killed a search and rescue crew he worked with, the calls from media, then from lawyers, finally from the FAA. What was the cause of the crash, they all wanted to know. How had a high-time pilot lost it and planted the craft into the side of a hill? Upshaw had never wanted to preflight the aircraft. Thought that was for wimps and suck-ups. If the helicopter was checked over every couple of days he thought it was fine. He ragged Drake more than once for being so meticulous in his inspections, checking every hatch, wiggling each moving part. Huh! He never bothered with that stuff. Their job was to get off the ground fast—lives were at stake in search and rescue and you didn’t mess around. He held to that position right up to the day he died.

  He died, and left everyone else to answer the questions. Drake knew exactly what had happened. A mechanic, earlier in the day, had opened a hatch to check fluid levels and Upshaw had called him away on some other duty. The mechanic had told him about the open hatch and was told, according to his later sworn statement, that Upshaw would take care of it. But then the pilot became distracted with concerns of his own (probably a woman, although Drake never mentioned that part of it), and when the call came a few minutes later, Upshaw had hopped in and been airborne immediately. Mere minutes into the flight the hatch door ripped off and flew into the tail rotor. It was all over.

  Lawyers flocked to the scene, crawling all over the company records and the maintenance facility like cockroaches. The media pounded everyone with questions and the operator had to issue orders to the crew not to talk. But people want to talk, to speculate, to offer their ‘expert’ opinions, so the frenzy continued for months. Then the subpoenas came. Drake had managed to keep his mouth shut up to that point but you can’t ignore a court order.

  At the deposition the lawyers came at him from all sides. He told what he knew, which, first hand, wasn’t much. He’d been off duty that day. He only knew Upshaw’s work habits and what the mechanic had told him. He passed that along, but the lawyers weren’t really interested in getting at the truth. They’d dug out the maintenance records on the aircraft since the day it rolled out of the factory. They wanted to find a mechanical failure that could be blamed on either the helicopter manufacturer or the engine company. The deep pockets. You can’t win a multi-million dollar suit against a dead pilot or a poor mechanic. They went after, and got, the maximum limit on the liability insurance but the cost of the lawsuit put the mid-sized operator out of business. Drake had ranted at the unfairness of it and at the win-at-all-cost attitude.

  Even now, as he drove west on Central, he felt his blood pressure rise. Here he was in the middle of another one. This time, as a favor to his own brother-in-law, he’d agreed to do some basic research into the maintenance records and flight history of the European-made helicopter that had gone down. From day one, he’d regretted the agreement. He wanted out, away from all the memories and emotions, away from the lawyers.

  He turned off Central and wound through the quiet neighborhood that he now called home. The minute he pulled into the driveway he could hear Rusty barking from the house next door. Charlie’d left the dog with Elsa, the surrogate grandmother who’d adopted Drake as surely as she’d taken Charlie in as a teenager. He saw Elsa peek out through the front curtains and give a small wave when she recognized his truck. A moment later, Rusty came trotting out, crossed the two yards, and flung
himself at Drake.

  “Hey, boy.” He rubbed the Lab’s ears and tussled him for a minute. “You’re sure glad to see me.” A man could always count on a dog. He grinned as he watched the big canine head toward the front door, eager to get there first.

  He gathered his jacket and papers from the truck and went inside. The house felt cold and empty. They’d only been gone four days, but it wasn’t that. It was the fact that Charlie wasn’t there. In the two years they’d been married, their lives had meshed so completely that he just didn’t feel whole when she wasn’t with him. He knew she felt the same because she’d said so. But for him, the feeling was tangible.

  He flipped on lights and tossed the folder on the dining table. In the kitchen he opened the pantry and gazed inside. This would be a long night, he had the feeling, and he debated what he wanted that would keep him alert. He settled on a Coke and stuck a bag of popcorn in the microwave. Rusty kept watch as the kernels began to make noise and the buttery smell started to drift into the room.

  When the snack was ready, Drake carried the bag and his drink to the table, the dog trotting along, never taking his eyes off the goodies.

  Drake opened the folder he’d brought home with him, along with the others he’d kept here at the house. Among them were photos and notes he’d taken of the crash wreckage. The mangled helicopter now sat in a corner of one of the maintenance hangars at Albuquerque International, kept there by court order until the investigation was complete. Drake had been there twice in recent weeks.

  The first time he felt like he didn’t have a clue what to look for. The twisted heap of metal held a story—he knew that. But it was hard to look past the blood stains and charred paint on the fuselage, the result of what happened when the aircraft went down into a flame-ringed field during a forest fire. Mike Walters and two fire fighters—gone.

  He’d steeled his emotions that day. Taken pictures of the tangled metal from all angles. Avoided looking at the passenger compartment.

  Now, after weeks of research and the data from the simulator, he knew a little better what to look for. He pulled every photo of the engine and studied them. Found a magnifying glass in a desk drawer and studied them closer. Answers. They were here—if he just looked hard enough.

  It was nearly two a.m. when he stood up to stretch. He’d reread every page of the file, and now he knew what he was going to tell them at the deposition. He needed to call Valdez in just a few hours, and he knew the lawyer wouldn’t like what he had to say.

  Chapter 14

  I watched Drake pull pitch on the JetRanger and shielded my eyes at the little cloud of grit that accompanied his takeoff. By the time the aircraft had become a tiny dot in the sky I’d walked back through the gate and started the Jeep. I’d almost gotten my grease fix at dinner, consuming fried shrimp and three cheese biscuits, but something was still nagging at my hunger module. Sweets. For only a buck I could get a hot fudge sundae at McDonald’s and I’d bet money that it didn’t have any tofu in it. I pulled out onto Airport Road, knowing the yellow-arched garden of earthly delights was just a couple miles away on Cerrillos Road.

  It seemed that half of Santa Fe had the same idea. The line at the drive-up window snaked around the parking lot, nearly to the street. A small growl formed in my throat; when I want my sugar, I want my sugar. I spotted an opening and whipped around the line of cars, into the one empty parking space near the door. Going inside was going to be quicker than sitting out here, and I could be back on the road in just a few minutes.

  Surprisingly, for the number of vehicles outside, there wasn’t much of a line waiting to order so I stepped forward and told the girl my wishes, adding a Coke to the order so I could be good and syrupy by the time I got back to tranquility base.

  Turning from the counter, I nearly bumped into a man in a dark suit who was preoccupied talking into his cell phone.

  I almost sputtered an invective but my newfound inner peace led me to simply turn away and take a deep breath instead. Although he was one of those who seems to believe that his conversation is important enough for the entire room to share, I shook my head and moved aside.

  The guy continued to talk about some stock transaction, dropping his voice occasionally, as he ordered a meal. I busied myself at the soft drink machine, finding a lid and straw for my Coke, keeping one ear tuned to the counter so I could snatch up my hot fudge sundae the minute it was ready. I found myself watching phone guy’s back, amazed at his agility as he managed both phone and tray. Finally, he ended the call and headed toward the seating area. As I walked to the counter for my ice cream, I saw his face clearly.

  With his longish hair neatly combed back, wearing a dark suit with white shirt and tie, I wouldn’t have picked him out in a crowd. In the persona of a high roller businessman, Celeus Light looked like anything but the pious, spiritual man in flowing robes who presented himself to the Lightness In Living group.

  Light never glanced my way as he walked toward a corner table. I decided on a quick change of plans and chose a table where I could observe him. I casually picked up a newspaper and sat with my shoulder toward his side of the room. He went on to a corner table where he joined another man, also dressed in suit and tie. I sneaked occasional glances over the top of my paper.

  It was clearly a business meeting, with folders of legal-sized documents changing hands and signatures being applied. Curious. The man whose sole driving force in life seemed to be spiritual and above earthly concerns was certainly in full swing now on the other side of the worldly spectrum. Once it appeared that all the papers had been signed the two of them turned to their hamburgers. I finally got a clear look at the other man and was surprised to see that it was the dark-haired man I’d seen peeping into Trudie’s window on Tuesday. This was truly becoming confusing. If he knew Dr. Light, why hadn’t he gone directly to Light’s office, rather than peeking into guestrooms? Why hadn’t they met at the resort instead of here?

  I folded my newspaper, capped my Coke, and walked out to my car. Keeping the restaurant’s door in my rearview, I waited fifteen minutes for the two men to come out. Light walked over to a white Lexus, which I remembered seeing in the parking lot at Casa de Tranquilidad. My attention shifted to the other man, who had already climbed into a tan Suburban and was backing out of his parking slot. I quickly cranked my ignition and followed suit.

  The Suburban pulled around to the back of the McDonald’s building and signaled a right turn onto a side road leading away from the main drag. I noticed that Dr. Light had already gone out the main exit and joined the traffic on bustling Cerrillos Road. Staying behind the big SUV didn’t prove difficult. He made a couple of turns, then pulled into the parking lot of a small office building. I drove past it in time to see the dark-haired man open his door and kick a foot out as he turned to gather items from the passenger seat of the vehicle. I pulled into the parking lot of the next building and watched.

  He didn’t notice me. With briefcase in hand and a newspaper tucked under his left arm, he clicked the remote switch on his keyring to lock his car before heading toward the front door of the one-story adobe. In keeping with Santa Fe’s laws on signage, the office building had only one discreet, carved-wood sign on the front. Once the guy had entered, I pulled out and cruised slowly past. LAW OFFICES read the top line. In smaller lettering, turquoise against white, his name stood out among the three listed. David Ratwill.

  Confusion reigned for a full ten seconds. David Ratwill. Rita’s husband. What was his connection with Celeus Light? Why the business meeting away from either of their offices? Had the Ratwills known Light socially? Maybe Rita had gotten her job with the Lightness conference through that connection?

  An impatient horn jolted me back to the present. I’d nearly come to a stop in the street. Now I’d managed to call attention to myself. I hit the accelerator. By the time I’d negotiated the traffic through Santa Fe and up the winding mountain road to Casa de Tranquilidad I still didn’t have any real answers.


  Meditation session was just letting out and people were milling in the lobby as I entered. I caught Linda’s eye.

  “Hey, how’s Drake?” she asked.

  “Fine. No problems.”

  She gave me a quizzical look.

  “No, really. I just saw something really puzzling, though.” I glanced at my watch. “Look, I have a massage in a couple minutes. Meet you later?”

  “I’ll be in the dining room at seven.” I felt her eyes on my back as I walked through the lobby to the spa building.

  By the time I’d shed my clothes in the locker room, donned my robe and showed up in the treatment room, Joanne was waiting for me.

  “Boy, everyone’s got tense muscles today,” she said as she began rubbing my shoulders.

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re getting the energy enlivening massage today. First, we’re going to relax you to the state of a puddle of mush then we’ll rejuvenate you so you can face life with the energy of a tiger.”

  I visualized a bunch of tigers lying around and yawning those huge lazy yawns with lots of pointed teeth showing. It probably wasn’t exactly the comparison she intended but maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I settled into the soft surface of the massage table and let my body meld with it. After thirty minutes or so of Joanne’s gentle touch with some heavenly scented oil, I’d completely put aside the events of the morning and the strange encounter at McDonald’s.

  “Now just lie still for a few minutes while this herbal oil does its magic,” Joanne said in her most relaxing voice. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes to start the enlivening part of the treatment.” She pulled a light blanket over me.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. With my face buried in the table’s oval slot, the word came out more like “umphm.” I never heard the door close behind her.

  I dozed lightly, only vaguely aware that the door had opened again. Quick ten minutes, I thought. A second later a hand clamped down on the back of my neck.