The Probability of Murder (30 page)

“Thanks,” Virgil said, putting the photo back in his pocket. “Things like this always help. We can say he was familiar with the campus.”

“I can’t say for sure that I saw him at my house, but I believe he was in the group leaving with Daryl and some other students.”

“We don’t need that ID now, so it’s all good,” Virgil said. “The question is, is he just a small-time alarm clock thief or a killer? There’s nothing really violent in his past, but that’s not to say a little robbery or even a meeting couldn’t go bad and put someone like him over the edge.”

I gulped. What if I’d been home and the tipping point had come for Garrett in my garage? I chose not to believe Garrett would turn violent.

I told Virgil about Marty’s version of things and his testimony that Garrett wasn’t a killer.

“But you already know all this if you’ve talked to Garrett.”

Virgil nodded. “The stories mesh pretty well.”

“Did you confirm that Garrett planted the bug in my den?”

To my surprise, Virgil shook his head no. “And I doubt he did. I spent about four minutes with the guy before I left Archie with him, and I could tell he’s not even smart enough to follow the instructions on the bug package. I mean, who isn’t going to at least unzip a duffel bag partway before he carts it off and sets off an alarm?”

“Good point. I hope he liked the hotel shampoo and conditioner. But where does that leave us? With two break-ins
in my house? A house burglar and a garage burglar at the same time? What’s the probability of that?”

“You’re the probability girl, but that’s what it looks like.”

“Someone was in my house before Garrett entered the garage, someone who knew how to defeat the alarm.”

“And plant a bug,” Virgil said. “Are you thinking who I’m thinking?”

“Daryl,” I said, and Virgil nodded.

“The scenario is looking good for your favorite old man, Mr. Gold,” he said.

“Mr. Gold saw Daryl enter the house. Daryl defeated the alarm, so STA wasn’t alerted. He set it again so he’d know if I came in. Then when Garrett entered the house through the garage, the alarm went off. Daryl probably wasn’t expecting a second thief, and may even have thought I was the one who entered the house.”

“Until the alarm keep ringing.”

“Then Daryl went out the way he came in.”

“It’s a wonder Daryl and Garrett didn’t smash into each other,” Virgil said.

“What are the chances you’ll ever find Daryl? If he’s as good at hiding as he was at finding someone who wanted to hide, it’s low probability, right?”

“We have some pretty good guys, too.”

Uh-oh. “I didn’t mean to insult your IT department.”

“No offense taken,” Virgil said with a grin. “Even the smartest bad guy is going to make a mistake. He’s going to order a phone or rent a movie or sign up for a personal trainer, whatever. The trick is to be watching at the right time and place.”

“You’ll get him,” I said, mostly to make up for the near insult to the boys and girls of the Henley PD.

I leaned back, a little dizzy and distressed that two people had violated my home, but satisfied that we’d solved another puzzle.

“Is Marty in custody? I saw Archie headed into the admin building.”

“He’s there for questioning. Marty is so clean, it’s hard to imagine he jumped right from gambling to murder, in spite of all his debts. We can’t tie him to fraud yet either, and if we jailed everyone who was in debt, there wouldn’t be enough cells in the state. We’re just waiting to see what shakes out between him and Garrett.”

It seemed my work might be over. But I knew I wouldn’t rest completely until Daryl was in, out of the wind.

Virgil drove with his right arm hanging over the back of the seat, in the manner of the cool kids in nineteen fifties movies. All that was missing was a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. Bruce, a huge fan of films from all eras, would have been able to quote a movie title, car, and actor-driver in a minute. Maybe I’d be challenging him with a quiz in a couple of hours.

I hoped the perfectly clear and snappy weather would continue all the way to New Hampshire.

“I’m sure the pumpkin patches are on display all the way up ninety-five,” I said to Virgil. “It should be a beautiful drive.”

“Who said anything about a drive?” Virgil said.

I looked at him and then out the window. I hadn’t noticed that we were still in town, having veered off to the west instead of picking up the highway due north. With any other driver in the car, I might have been frantic, certain that I’d been kidnapped. But in the next minute, I saw a very familiar sign.

HENLEY AIRFIELD, 1 MILE.

“What’s this about?” I asked.

“You don’t think MAstar is going to let its star pilot and super-nurses come home by ground transportation?”

“They’re going to pick them up in the helicopter?”

“Make that
we’re
going to pick them up in the helicopter.
Well, not me. But you and Ernie will be in the plane. I forget, do they call it a plane?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think they ever call it a plane. Planes have fixed wings. I’ve heard Bruce refer to his
aircraft
. Never
plane
.” As if that mattered. “I’m going to New Hampshire in a MAstar helicopter?” I all but squealed. Too much time with Chelsea and her peers.

Virgil had a wide grin, clearly pleased with his little surprise.

Things just went from good to better.

I held my jacket closed up to my neck as Virgil and I walked, heads down, in what always seemed like a wind tunnel between the Henley Airfield parking lot and the MAstar trailer.

We passed row after row of small planes, lined up wingtip-to-wingtip on the gravel. Several aviation-related businesses and flying clubs were housed here along with MAstar. The roar in the air was as though all the planes had their engines revved, about to move up and over in formation, though I was sure they all had ignitions turned off, if that’s what they were called.

The last time I was here, I was with Charlotte and a kid who’d called himself Noah. It would be a while before I’d be able to forget the real purpose of that special tour. How had I not realized why Charlotte was more interested in the outlying private planes than in the MAstar flight nurse’s demonstration of a new unit for transporting critically ill newborns?

I called up a happier visit, one Christmas Eve when the team hosted a party for kids with disabilities and Santa made an early afternoon appearance. One of his elves (pilot Jonathan) flew the helicopter onto the airfield, then Santa (flight nurse Rocky) jumped out with a bag of toys and a good time was had by all.

I wanted those days back.

*     *     *

Inside the chain-link fence that defined MAstar’s property, Virgil and I climbed movable orange metal steps to the door of a trailer and entered a strangely homey environment.

I’d been inside the double-wide many times and was familiar with its home-away-from-home setup. Coffee perking on a Formica counter; someone’s aromatic, spicy lunch heating in the microwave; the large logo mat on the floor of the kitchen, soaking up spills.

The signage throughout the trailer reminded me of dorm décor. Printed or hand-lettered instructions and warnings appeared everywhere. On the microwave, the printer, the small washer/dryer set in a corner of the kitchen. Walls were covered with maps of the area’s topography; computer screens showed weather maps; whiteboards held schedules; corkboards bled memos.

I smiled every time I read the sign above the rack that held the crew’s helmets: “Thou Shalt Not Whine!” I assumed this was an especially pertinent warning when a call came in the middle of the night.

Pilot Ernie Sims, whom I’d met a few times, was waiting for us in the den, a room with flimsy paneled walls and a mishmash of furniture, not unlike the lounge on Hannah Stephens’s dorm floor.

“Hey, Virgil, Sophie. Always a pleasure,” Ernie said. “Good news, huh? Going to pick up those crazy dudes?”

A woman who’d been eating a sandwich and watching an action flick clicked the TV off. She stood and brushed crumbs from her slick pants. “I’m Irene. I’ll be your nurse today,” she said to me, with a big smile, gripping me with a strong handshake.

Irene, newly hired to replace a nurse I’d known, was among the few females in the company. All of the pilots and technicians and most of the flight nurses were ex-military males, guys who apparently hadn’t had enough excitement and emergency situations in combat.

Tall and lean, Ernie Sims was a perpetual smiler, but of the sincere kind. He and Virgil exchanged small talk that went over my head.

“How goes the ten sixty-one?” from Ernie.

Followed by “As good as your HAPI,” from Virgil.

“Don’t let these guys fool you into thinking they’re really having a conversation. They’re just showing off,” Irene told me. “Ernie asked about Virgil’s miscellaneous public service and Virge meaninglessly answered, ‘Helicopter Approach Path Indicator.’”

“Thanks,” I said. “I did learn ETOPS from Bruce.”

And we all laughed at the acronym for “Engines Turn Or People Swim.”

It seemed strange to be in these quarters without Bruce. I knew exactly where he slept on his night shifts, where his favorite cereal was shelved, which videos in the vast collection were the ones he liked best. I shut my eyes for a minute and pictured him stretched out on the faux leather couch, safely leafing through a movie magazine.

Both Ernie and Irene were in their flight suits, one-piece black jumpsuits with purple and white stripes running down the legs and arms. Irene had “MAstar FLIGHT NURSE” stenciled on the back of her jacket, under a purple cross that was part of their logo.

“Back to work,” Ernie declared. “The techs have cleared us. Ready to go, Sophie?”

I could hardly express how ready I was.

On the field, ready to board the helicopter, I thanked Virgil for all he’d done to track Bruce’s status and to book me on the flight to New Hampshire.

Our good-bye was reminiscent of a
Casablanca
moment, with the aircraft waiting, the roar of the rotors drowning out my farewell words. I blamed Bruce for my growing tendency to make parallels with movies. When I started comparing myself to Ingrid Bergman—she was six inches
taller, with about eight inches more hair, and dreamy, not ordinary, brown eyes—it was time to take stock.

The four long, narrow rotors at the top of the helicopter looked almost too thin to do the job, lifting all of us plus the craft, plus heavy equipment. But I’d been a passenger before, and I knew it was up to the task.

With Irene’s help, I hoisted myself from the ground onto a step and then up to the interior of the aircraft. I was privileged to buckle myself into one of the gray fabric seats next to Ernie, while Irene slid the door shut and sat in the back.

“Thank you for flying MAstar,” Ernie announced, as if to the population of a fully booked commercial airliner.

And we were off.

Though it wasn’t my first time in a MAstar helicopter, the other trips were short hops, for pleasure or enlightenment about what was Bruce’s office in a way. I reminded myself that
r
in MAstar was for
rescue
.

I understood why Bruce liked to fly. Soaring above both suburban and city life had its pleasures. Looking down on everything from SUVs to backyard swimming pools to office buildings gave an unmistakable sense of exhilaration and power. The largest, most expensive home on Boston’s Beacon Hill was like a dollhouse; the highest horsepower muscle car, like a child’s toy.

“Is everyone going to fit in here coming back?” I asked Ernie—or rather,
shouted
to Ernie over the noise in the cockpit. I knew the usual working crew comprised one pilot and two flight nurses, plus two spaces for patients on gurneys. It seemed one too many for the carrier.

“I didn’t tell you. Only two more on the return.”

I swallowed hard and felt a shiver through my body. But it was silly to think Bruce might be the one staying behind. I wouldn’t be on this flight if Bruce weren’t okay to travel home, would I? Wouldn’t Virgil have warned me if
this trip was simply to take me on a visit to a New Hampshire hospital?

In spite of his formidable task of piloting, Ernie noticed my distress.

“We heard a little while ago. Eduardo is in bad shape.”

A leap of logic told me that meant Bruce was in good shape. I had no trouble going with that loose reasoning for now. A form of survivor guilt took over and I was on a roller-coaster of emotions from great relief that Bruce was able to go home to concern for Eduardo.

“Is he going to make it?” I asked, regretting that I had to shout out a question that should be whispered, if spoken at all.

For some reason, benign I hoped, the engine noise grew louder at that moment, or it might have been increased ringing in my ears. The words I heard were
surgery
and
neck
.

That couldn’t be good.

“Does Jenna know?”

The engines went back to their normal thunderous roar, and I understood Ernie to say that another MAstar pilot knew Jenna best, and he was dispatched to talk to her in person.

“I didn’t want to tell you about Eduardo back there,” he said, cocking his neck toward the trailer far behind and below us. “Cell phones, you know?”

“Cell phones?” I asked. I spread my palms and shrugged, hoping my body language would make the question more clear.

“You might have called someone or gotten a call on the ground.”

“I wouldn’t have told anyone,” I said.

“Not deliberately, but it’s only natural that you might mention what’s on your mind. Eduardo has this thing about one of us talking to Jenna before anyone else does since she’s a little high-strung.”

I had no idea there were so many unwritten, personal
protocols among the MAstar team. I’d have to ask Bruce what his were. Did he think I was high-strung? If that meant feeling like my whole body had been turned inside out and its pieces needed reassembling, at this moment he’d be correct.

Poor Jenna. She had every right to be strung however high she wanted. And Todd. I shook my head in sympathy for him. I was his age when we lost my father to cancer. My mother did a heroic job, making sure I knew who Peter Knowles was, what a wonderful math teacher he’d been, how much he loved me. I had new respect for how she’d handled the challenges.