Off to the left, flags stood in barbered turf ringed by low white fencing. The nine-hole golf course.
“Poor darlings,” said Milo. “They go to college, it’s a step down.”
All the buildings bore brass plaques. The largest was fronted by a cool, dim loggia and merited a double-wide slab: Administration.
Dr. Mary Jane Rollins’s office was the prize beyond a hushed, green-carpeted, oak-paneled reception room overseen by a black woman in a red silk dress. Sheila McBough was stamped on her personal chunk of brass. The foundry loved this place.
Milo’s card didn’t impress her. “You don’t have an appointment.”
He said, “We have something better,” and held out the warrant.
Before she finished scanning, he continued past her desk.
“You can’t do that.”
“That, madam, is an obvious misstatement.”
Mary Jane Rollins’s personal space was her secretary’s office on steroids. The same honey-colored oak, green carpeting, enough carving and moldings to spell out Authority.
She was on the phone, said, “I’ll have to call you back,” and slammed down the receiver. “Now what?”
Milo told her.
Her initial reaction was the expected panic. Then she smirked. “Well, unfortunately for you, they’re not here.”
“Doctor—”
“It’s a senior cut-day, Lieutenant. We have several, throughout the semester, prefer to bleed off tension on a regular basis rather than—”
“Where are their lockers, Doctor?”
“In the locker area.”
“Show me. And bring your master key.”
“What makes you think I have one?”
“You don’t?”
“Your warrant says I need to answer personal questions?”
He showed her his badge. “This says if you don’t cooperate, I’ll cuff you and haul your educated but morally unschooled derriere off to jail.”
She blanched. “I never—”
“Neither have I. Show me their lockers. Now.”
“This will not go unreported.”
“Mercy me, pass the defibrillator.”
As we left, Rollins told McBough, “Sheila, phone Dr. Helfgott immediately. There’s a situation.”
Milo said, “Sheila, don’t phone anyone. There’s a situation.”
The lockers lined two walls of a cavernous building labeled Repository. Oak, brass-fitted.
Milo said, “Open Wydette’s and Glover’s.”
Rollins sniffed as she checked a list. “Calling me morally unschooled was unnecessary.”
“I’m looking for two vicious murderers and all you care about is semantics.”
“Not semantics,” said Rollins. “I’m a good person. One day you may find yourself in special circumstances and react in a way that surprises you.”
“Gee,” he said. “That could never happen to me.”
Both lockers were empty.
Rollins said, “So much for your evidence.”
“Do you have any idea where I can find Tristram Wydette and Quinn Glover?”
Silence.
“Doctor, if you know where they are and you withhold that information, you’ll go to jail on obstruction charges right now.”
“I may go, but I won’t stay long.”
“Trust me, Dr. Rollins, you won’t enjoy a single minute behind bars.”
Her lips pursed.
Milo said, “A job’s that important?”
“It’s not a job, it’s a calling.”
“So was the Nazi SS.”
“That is outrageous—oh, all right, seeing as cut-day leads into the weekend, they’re where you’d expect them to be: embarking on a family holiday.”
Her voice rose as the Briticism rolled off her tongue. Creepy ebullience.
“Both families?”
“I believe so.”
“Where are they going?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you know the families are traveling together?”
“I chitchatted with the boys yesterday. They were in excellent spirits and I find it difficult to believe—”
“What exactly did they tell you?”
“Tristram told me. They were going to use the plane. That it would be… wonderful. I believe his term was ‘awesome.’”
“The plane.”
“Mr. Wydette’s Gulfstream Five,” she said. “It’s a marvel.”
CHAPTER
37
As I sped to Santa Monica Airport, Milo celled Reed.
“Nothing, Loo.”
“That’s ’cause we may be too late, both families are scheduled to leave for the weekend. Check with the mannequin in the booth and don’t take any bullshit. Tell Sean to find out what’s happening at Wydette’s place. If everyone’s gone, we’ll go ahead and search the houses and given the size, I’ll need a small army, so get in touch with the lab and the duty sergeant and start recruiting.”
Moments later Reed phoned back. “Mannequin’s cooperative, ex–Rampart Division, hates the family ’cause they treat him like dirt. He’s absolutely certain no one left today except Tristram, after Quinn Glover picked him up in his Hummer. That was an hour and a quarter ago, right before I arrived. They took luggage, Loo. A lot of it.”
♦
The search warrant was extended to the Gulfstream by the time I reached Bundy Drive, takeoff to Aspen aborted by the tower at LAX as I turned onto Ocean Park. As far as the crew was aware, “unanticipated air-traffic buildup” was the reason.
I got buzzed through the gate at Diamond Aviation by mentioning Milo’s name, drove onto the landing field, followed a porter in a golf cart to the G-V.
The plane’s engines were running, as were those of two smaller jets. The noise level was at brain-puree.
When I reached the plane’s left wing and stopped, the pilot looked down from the cockpit, curious, but not alarmed. Milo’s badge-flash didn’t change that. People who loft tons of metal in the air should take a low-key approach to life.
Milo motioned him out.
The engines switched off.
When they’d quieted to merely deafening, the door opened and the pilot lowered the foldout steps, descended two rungs, turned and shut the door.
Rock-jawed, the same man who’d flown Edgar Helfgott halfway around the globe and back on high school business. Rawboned, gray-haired, built like a runner.
Milo introduced himself, shouting to be heard.
The captain pointed several yards away and the three of us walked until we could hear our own voices.
The pilot said, “Rod Brewer. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’ve got a search warrant for your plane and arrest warrants for Tristram Wydette and Quinn Glover. They inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who else is in there?”
“Captain Susan Curtis. Is she in danger?”
“Anything in the boys’ demeanor worrying you?”
“Not really,” said Brewer. “They’re spoiled little bastards all caught up with their iPods and the shades are down. But with too much delay they might get curious. Mind if I tell Sue to lock the cockpit?”
“Good idea.”
Brewer made the call, ended by instructing the co-pilot to answer any questions from the boys with “mechanical problems.” To us: “Okay, what do I need to do?”
Milo said, “Where are they sitting?”
“First row on either side,” said Brewer. “It’s always that way. I can be flying over the Grand Canyon, they’re into their own thing.”
“The boys or the entire family?”