Deadly Detail (19 page)

Angie was wriggling her tail between springs to get comfortable. “Shall we head for the airport and pick up the Buick?”

“No, this is transportation for a few days, and it’s perfect. Remember, the Buick is parked in the tie-down slot where we got the 310. Someone knows we took the 310 out, and they may or may not know where we went, but they aren’t expecting us to come back. We’ll leave the Buick right where it is, sort of a decoy. Meantime, this rig looks as if it could belong to any dirt farmer around Fairbanks, and notice we didn’t sign anything. What say we check on Turk?”

Chapter Twenty-Four

For breakfast Angie served grits, ham, and biscuits and gravy. I was surprised and delighted. “Hey, there’s a southern belle lurking inside that stoic Indian exterior.”

“Little antidote to coming winter. Smell the magnolia blossoms?”

“Love ’em. Notice the cotton has been blowing outside?” I do love a bowl of grits with a generous mound of butter melting on top and a liberal sprinkling of salt and pepper. Can’t explain that because I don’t have any southern roots, only the occasional visit to the sunny south. Some things are just universally good.

Angie was alternating between grits and gravy. “Remember the Robert Service poem,
The Cremation of Sam McGee
? He was from Tennessee where the cotton blooms and blows.”

“Yeah, I think about him sometimes.
Why he left his home in the south to roam ’round the pole, God only knows.
Have you ever been south?”

“Only in dreams. Maybe someday. How about you?”

“A few times, Mardi Gras and such. When you said you and Stan were whiffing down Hurricanes at the Maranatha, I thought maybe it was a New Orleans thing.”

“It was. Stan was planning to take me outside this winter.”

“Angie, we could do that this winter. I could get away in February. Charter business stops and all we do is try to keep the planes from blowing away.”

“Maybe, let’s talk about that later. How long do we have to play dead? Can I go to work?”

“Yeah, that might be safe. I need to call Jim Stella, so he’ll know we’re alive. We only have to be dead at the airport…I think.”

“Oh, I love those positive statements of yours. Want to be a sweetheart and rinse the dishes while I dress for work?”

***

I dropped Angie at the back door of the Lathrop Building. Being dead might take the heat off us, but I couldn’t help scanning traffic for snipers.

I drove the Power Wagon to the airport, parked between hangars and just watched Interior. Both the Skyvan and the Otter were tied down, engines covered, as if in winter hibernation. The sky was dark, but not the black of a blizzard, just punctuated with occasional snowflakes. Celeste’s Miata was in the lot with a dusting of snow on it. Reginald came, Marino came, Reginald and Marino left in Marino’s car, they came back. It was every bit as exciting as watching paint dry or grass grow.

That detective course I took warned about time spent on stakeout being the longest hours you’ll ever live. It also suggested that you keep an empty gallon jug in the car so your bladder doesn’t burst. I’d forgotten that nicety, so when I was threatened I drove up to the passenger terminal, solved the problem, and had a cup of coffee in the shop to restart the cycle. Same waitress, different blouse, still unbuttoned. I tipped her a dollar and drove back to my blind between hangars.

Airplanes were still tied down, cars in the lot, little more snow on them, I hadn’t missed a thing. The Buick still sat in the tie-down spot where the 310 was missing and I wondered how long it would be before Avis would have found it, if we really had been killed. Undisturbed snow on the Buick had a macabre connotation. Whoever had loosened the nuts on our oil lines must see the Buick every day. I wondered if they viewed it with satisfaction or a twinge of conscience.

Angie came out the back door of the Lathrop Building at six forty-five. I had the Power Wagon parked next to the dumpster, where it looked right at home.

I shoved the door open for her. “Hi, did you have a good day in the salt mine?”

“Tolerable. Did you solve any crimes or shoot any assassins?”

“Very few. I really didn’t do anything to deserve the hunger pangs that are killing me. Want to hit a restaurant and fix that?”

“Chicken-fried steaks tonight, the beef is already thawed. Pop on the siren and the flashers and get me home. I’m wearing a new bra and it’s killing me.”

I checked traffic and pulled out. “Hang on tight, we’re on our way. All this concern about killers, but me dying of hunger and you dying of a bra…unworthy anticlimax.”

The city streets were tracked up, ugly brown slush, but the Steese had just a few tracks, and after the Rendezvous, we were making the first marks in virgin snow. I tried to stay cynical, but it was sort of magical so long as the heater kept pumping and we stayed on the road.

With no tracks in the new snow, we didn’t have to worry about an ambush. Angie was out of the car and running toward her bedroom before the engine died. I tromped around back, fired the generator, and took Turk’s pans in for refills. The furnace had kicked on automatically when the generator started. Angie was in the kitchen wearing jeans and a smock. It wasn’t really obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She filled Turk’s food bowl, I filled the water, and delivered the pans back to the doghouse.

When I got back inside, she tossed me a paring knife and pointed toward two potatoes. I peeled them, then dug ice out of the freezer and mixed two rum and Cokes.

“Angie, remember that one of the ways I wasted time a couple of days ago was setting up an alarm system. If a school bell suddenly rings in the spare bedroom, don’t jump out of your skin. It just means a moose has crossed the road.”

“I thought we were safe now that we’re presumed dead.”

“Probably, but you know the macho drill, layer upon layer of safeguards.” I handed her one of the frosty glasses. “You know the shotgun is still in the Buick at the airport, but the .30-06 is in the closet. Naturally, you’re a world-class expert?”

“With the .30-06 I can shoot the mustache off a gnat at fifty yards and leave him smiling. Go worry somewhere else. I’m busy here.”

Angie took a sip and set her drink on the drainboard where she was busily pulverizing a couple of flank steaks. I carried my glass to the living room and watched a new snow flurry cover the Power Wagon.

I was doing some serious internal examining. The comfort of coming home with Angie and the quiet domesticity were very different from my usual evenings alone in the cabin in Bethel. At home I’d be drinking the same drink, maybe pounding a steak myself, but compared to knowing Angie was in the kitchen, my life seemed pretty bare. Connie invited me to dinner now and then. She’s a terrific cook, sets a classy table, and dresses as if we’d gone out for the evening, but I always had the feeling of being a guest.

Connie was just too good for me. Her forty-foot trailer in Bethel was immaculate, everything polished and shining. Angie’s house was clean, but I wasn’t afraid to step on the carpet. Connie had ceramic knickknacks and curios, so I was a little afraid I might break something. Angie’s house had two pictures on the mantle, her extended family, which was every soul in Crooked Creek, and her wedding to Stan, also in Crooked Creek with her mother and her uncle/father Willie. I remembered Connie’s bed, and yeah, I do know about that. White satin sheets, down pillows, down comforter, clean, clean, clean, and classy. The bed’s an experience, even if Connie weren’t in it and an experience in herself. At times like that, Connie is the answer to all my dreams, and I think we’d be contented together forever. Maybe we would be, if we could spend our whole lives in bed. I’m only too happy to spend a night with her when the details work out, but I don’t think I’ve ever relaxed there. Even in the bed, I had the feeling of being a guest, a welcome one, but I couldn’t feel proprietary.

I finished my drink, wandered back to the kitchen. Angie’s was down to half, so I replenished both, then on an impulse, I caught her from behind and gave her a hug. Her hands were covered with flour, she was anything but dressed for going out, and she struck me as the prettiest sight I’d ever seen.

She leaned into my embrace for a moment, then pointed toward the cupboard. “Why don’t you set the table? You’ve obviously got too much time on your hands, and I have flour on mine.”

I set the table with plates, knives, and forks, but resisted the impulse to set out a candle. Linen napkins were in the drawer below the silverware, wineglasses in the cupboard, a bottle of cabernet sauvignon on the sideboard. I pulled the cork and let it breathe. Steaks were simmering in a covered frying pan. Angie stuck a fork in the potatoes and replaced the lid on them. I carried the wine out to the table. Clearly, my life was being wasted by staying single, and the profound sense of what Angie had lost was really sinking in.

I wondered if I should grab Connie by the shoulders, shake her, and insist on getting married. Maybe the two of us could make dinner together and I could hug her when she had flour on her hands. Still, her memories of marriage were not quite the idyllic picture I was conjuring up, and could we compromise to the point that I could wear muddy boots into the house?

“Alex, grab the gravy boat and the potatoes.” Angie was carrying the platter of steaks in both hands and I noticed she was wearing hot mitts. I scrambled for the two bowls on the kitchen counter. Angie removed the mitts and we sat down. I reached across the table to pour the wine.

I don’t know which was better, the dinner or the quiet camaraderie. It wasn’t a time for banter; we were both shoveling in food, but there was a lot of smiling going on.

A sudden clanging from the bedroom had me jumping up and reaching for the pistol. Angie took another sip of wine. “I thought you said I shouldn’t jump out of my shorts if the bell rang.”

Car lights whiffed past the end of the drive and the bell rang again. I shoved the pistol back in my belt and sat down.

“Why did the bell ring twice?” Angie wasn’t ruffled, just curious.

“It rang once when he was coming, and again when he was leaving. If he stops and comes back, it’ll ring again. You could humor me by showing some concern. Diving for the rifle would be good.”

“Okay, got it. Two rings you panic, one ring we both panic.”

“Panic may not be the right word.
Assume a protective stance
sounds better.”

“Sure thing, we’ve got to protect that fragile male ego.”

We stuffed ourselves and took the last sip of wine. Angie carried dishes to the kitchen and came back with coffees.

“Angie, that was fantastic.”

“Naturally. I told you, I’m a world-class chef. Why don’t you look relaxed and happy?”

“Oh, happy I am. Relaxed is a little tougher. I need to get into the freight office one more time, just to verify what we already know. You’ve been accusing me of not making positive statements, and I’d like to change that.”

“So, you want to sneak back into the office and have another look? Do I get to sit on my cushion again?”

“Seems indicated. This time I won’t turn on the computer, so if we get invaded, I’ll beat you to the freight shed.”

“Good enough. Tonight, instead of the generous tips you always leave, you can help wash the dishes.”

More domesticity. She washed, but I dried and put things away. I was enjoying it until I noticed that Angie was crying. I put down the dish towel and pulled her into a hug. She rested her head on my shoulder and sobbed.

“Oh, Alex, I miss him so terribly. Will I ever get over it?”

“No, sweetheart, our lives will never be the same again, but we will learn to live with it. There aren’t any more men like Stan, and we were both lucky to have had him for a while.”

“Damn, we were talking about having babies and I wish we had. If I had his son or daughter, it would be better, you know?”

“Angie, nothing in this world lasts except memories, and you have those.” I squeezed her until her ribs bent, and it seemed to help. She finally stepped away, picked up the dish towel and dried her eyes.

“Okay, I’m all better now, you may lead the innocent lamb to the slaughter.”

***

We drove slowly past the office, no cars, no lights. I parked the Power Wagon in an empty tie-down spot and we hiked back. Angie had loaned me one of Stan’s coats; the jacket season had definitely passed. I noticed that my oxfords were out of season, too. Angie was sleek and warm in her Cat Woman suit with the leather jacket, faux fur collar nestled around her incredibly smooth cheeks.

I looked both ways, no security truck. The office door creaked a little, we stepped inside and snapped on flashlights. Angie assumed her stance, I ducked under the counter and parked at Celeste’s desk. The folder for today’s flights was missing. Otherwise they were up-to-date. I checked the brunette’s desk and the current folder was there, so she must have been doing something with it.

I did slip into Reginald’s office and tapped the spacebar on his computer. The screen came to life. I called up Orbitz, clicked on
My Stuff.
No more first-class tickets, so if there were more assassins around, they were locals. Maybe our already-dead act was working. I closed the file and left the computer to go to sleep.

I went back to Celeste’s desk, spread the first folder out and started through the flight tickets. The first ticket was the Howard, two hours, Barrow, Prudhoe and return. No mistakes. Yesterday’s date, Alvin Hopson pilot, aircraft tail number Zero One Victor. Charge, four hundred fifty bucks. The second ticket was the Otter, three hours to Stevens Village with a five o’clock return. Funny I hadn’t noticed it was gone. Then another Otter flight, four hours to Copper Center at ten in the morning, and I had been sitting out front watching the Otter at that time. I got the picture and started adding hours.

By the time I’d worked through folders for the last ten days, I’d passed seventy hours that I was sure hadn’t been flown, and another ticket was signed by Tommy. Then I found one signed by me that I hadn’t flown. Finally the low hours on the Hobbs meters made sense, and at eight hundred dollars per hour, the Otter had earned over twenty thousand dollars for the month, and as far as I had seen, most of it without ever being untied.

“Jiggers, security pickup.” Angie hit the deck. I snapped off my flashlight.

“Hey, Angie, did I remember to lock the door?”

“Hell of a time to think of it.” She crawled over and reached up. I heard the lock snap and ten seconds later a guard’s light flashed through the office and the door rattled. I kept my head on the desk until we heard the pickup drive away.

“Damn it, Alex, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”