The cash did put a different spin on it. “I assume you think they might be carrying some illegal substance?”
Gordon nodded.
“So why don’t you tell Sam to search their cases? The FAA gives him the authority to, as pilot in command.”
Gordon got up and went to the window, opened the blinds and motioned at the field. “You see all those aircraft sitting idle? There’re pilots sitting idle, too. Sam doesn’t get paid when he doesn’t fly; my overhead doesn’t get paid while those planes are tied down. In this economy, neither of us can afford to lose paying customers.”
“Security at the main terminal X-rays bags-”
“That’s the main terminal – people expect it there. If Sam suddenly demands to go through those women’s personal effects the word gets out, people might take their business elsewhere. If he does it in a way that embarrasses them-and, face it, Sam’s not your most tactful guy-we’re opening the door for a lawsuit.”
“But you also don’t want your planes used for illegal purposes, I see your problem.”
In the end, Gordon and I worked out a plan where I would ride in the fourth seat of the Cessna that Sam would fly to Calistoga the next Wednesday. My cover story was that I was a new hire learning the ropes. I found myself looking forward to the job; it sounded a whole lot more interesting than the stakeout at a deadbeat dad’s apartment that I had planned for the evening.
“They’re babes, all right,” Sam Delaney said, “but I’ll let you judge for yourself.” He grunted as he stowed his bag of take-out cartons in the back of the plane-his lunch, he’d informed me earlier. Business had been so bad recently that he couldn’t even afford the relatively inexpensive airport dinners. Eating bad take-out food, I thought, probably accounted for the weight Sam had gained in the year or so that I’d know him. He’d always had a round face under his mop of brown curls, but now it resembled a chipmunk’s, and his body was growing round to match. Poor guy had probably hired on with Wide Horizons thinking to build up enough hours for a lucrative job with the airlines; now he wasn’t flying enough to go to a decent restaurant.
“Here they come,” he whispered to me. “Look at them-they make heads turn, especially when they’ve had a few pops of that Napa Valley vino.”
The women were attractive, and a number of heads did turn as they crossed from the charter service. But people take notice of any woman tripping across the tarmac in high heels, her brightly colored silk dress blowing in the breeze. We women pilots are pretty much confined to athletic shoes, shirts and pants in cotton and denim-and the darker the color, the less the gas and oil and grease stains will show.
The woman Sam introduced as Melissa Wells had shoulder-length red hair and looked as though she could have used a few more hours’ sleep; Angie Holbrook wore dark hair close-cropped and spoke in a clipped manner that betrayed her tension. Neither had more to say than basic greetings, and they settled into the back seats quickly, refusing headsets. During the thirty-minute flight, Melissa sipped at a large container of coffee she’d brought along and Angie tapped her manicured fingernails against her expensive leather briefcase. Sam insisted on keeping up the fiction that I was a new Wide Horizons pilot by chattering at me-even though over the noise of the engine the women couldn’t hear a word we said through our linked headsets.
“Gordon’s real strict about the paperwork. Plan’s got to be file and complete. Weight-and-balance calculation, too. It’s not difficult, thought; each of us has got his own routes. Mine’re the Napa and Sonoma Valleys. I’d like to get some of the longer trips, build up more hours that way, but I don’t have enough seniority with the company. At least I get to look at some pretty scenery.”
He certainly did. It was springtime, and the length of California’s prime wine-growing valley was in its splendor. Gentle hills, looking as if someone had shaped bolt after blot of green velvet to their contours; brilliant slashes of yellow where the wild mustard bloomed; orchards in pink and white flower. It made me want to snatch Sam’s takeout and go on a picnic.
We touched down at Calistoga shortly before ten. The limo was there for Melissa and Angie, as was the rental car Wide Horizons had arranged for me. I waited till the limo cleared the parking lot, then jumped into the rental and followed, noting the other car’s license number. It took the main road south for several miles, past wineries offering tours and tasting, then turned off onto a secondary road and drove into the hills to the west. I held back, allowing a sports car to get between us; the sports car put on its brakes abruptly as it whipped around a curve, and by the time I’d avoided a collision, the limo had turned through a pair of stone pillars flanking a steep driveway. The security gates closed, and the car snaked uphill and disappeared into the trees.
I pulled my rental into the shade of scrub oak on the far side of the road and got out. It was very quite there; I could hear only birds in a grove of acacia trees on the other side of the high stone wall. I walked its length, looking for something that would identify the owner of the heavily wooded property, but saw nothing and no way to gain access. Finally I went back to the car to wait it out.
Why did everything always seem to boil down to another stakeout?
And three hours later was when I found myself up to my neck in mud.
The limo had departed the estate in the hills and, after a few wine tasting stops, deposited Melissa and Angie at the Serenata Spa in Calistoga. Calistoga is famed for is hot springs, and initially I’d fancied myself eavesdropping on the pair while floating in a tub of mineral water. But Calistoga is also famed for its mud baths, and in order to get close enough, I’d had to opt for my own private wallow. As I sunk into the gritty stuff-stifling a cry of disgust-I could clearly hear Angie’s voice through the flimsy pink partition. In spite of the wine they’d sampled, she sounded as tense as before.
“Well, what do you think? Honestly?”
“They’re high on it.”
“But are they high enough?”
“They paid us, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but…”
“Angie, it was the best we could come up with. And I thought it was damn good.”
“It’s getting more difficult to come up with the stuff without making it too obvious what we’re doing. And this idea of yours about image-the charter flights cut into our profits.”
“So, I’ll pay for it out of my share from now on. I love to fly. Besides, it’s good for Carlos’ people to see us getting off a private plane. It established us a cut above the competition.”
Silence from Angie.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing-people getting high; difficulty coming up with the stuff; Carlos…In the eighties, nine out of ten fictional arch villains dealing in terrorism and drugs had been named Carlos. Was I to assume that one had materialized in the Napa Valley?
“Angie,” Melissa said impatiently, “what is with you this week?”
“I don’t know. I’m really spooked about getting caught. Maybe it was the way Sarge looked at me last night when I told him we wouldn’t be in HQ today.”
“He can’t possibly suspect. He thinks we’re out in the field, that’s all.”
“But all day, every fourth Wednesday? We’re going to have to shift the deliveries around among our clients. If Sarge finds out we’ve been stealing-“
“Stop, already!”
Now what I couldn’t believe was that they’d discuss such things in a public place. A sergeant, headquarters, being out in the field, deliveries, stealing…Was it possible that Angie and Melissa were a couple of undercover narcs who were selling the drugs they confiscated?