Estelle turned as I stepped into the dispatch island. Ernie Wheeler, tall and lanky and one of those guys who looks thirty going on sixty-five, nodded toward the young lady.
“She has a question for you,” Ernie said. “I think that she wants to use the phone.”
“Our phones are restricted now?” I asked, puzzled. “She doesn’t need to ask permission from me.”
“She wanted to talk with you first, sir, but then went ahead and used the one in the conference room.”
Not more saint stuff, I almost said, but instead held up my now empty coffee cup. “Anybody fueled the pot?”
“Fresh an hour ago,” Ernie said, and I beckoned to Estelle as I headed for the work room.
“Good night’s sleep?” I asked as she followed me into the room. “We need well-rested staff, you know.” If I successfully managed a touch of amused reproof, she didn’t acknowledge it. Besides, she appeared fresh and well-rested. Even her tan pants suit was wrinkle free. Did she own a rack of the damn things?
“I got to thinking, sir.”
“Uh oh. You need to know, by the way, that they found Mo Arnett’s car in Albuquerque International’s long-term parking lot. No Mo yet.”
That brought no response, and I glanced at the young lady as I snapped off the coffee flow. I held up the cup, offering her some.
“No thank you, sir. His car was at the airport?”
“Correct. APD and airport security are following up on it for us. I was just heading over to the Arnetts’ for a few minutes to let them know. Maybe news of finding the car will jar something loose.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “He hadn’t taken a flight?”
“Not yet, at least. And they’re continuing a sweep of the airport. If he’s there, they’ll find him.” I watched her face as she mulled all this. “What’s your concern?”
She took a deep breath, and I got the strong impression that she was trying very hard not to be too forward with her opinions. “I’m surprised that he didn’t consider the train.”
“Ah. Amtrak.”
“He loves trains, sir. I’m just surprised that he was at the airport. There wasn’t a single model or photo of an airplane in his room.”
“Well, that’s true. Old steam engines, yes. He also loves Corvettes, but as far as we know, he didn’t steal one.”
“He’s too smart for that.”
“I’m not convinced of that.”
“He got rid of the Pontiac right away, and parking it at the airport was good thinking. Even if the car was discovered promptly, it makes us think he was planning on air travel.”
“That’s a possibility. A conniving little bastard, he’s turning out to be. So what’s he do? Take a taxi down to the train station?”
“That or a shuttle or city bus, sir. No I.D. required. Or he could walk. It’s not that far.”
I gazed at her with interest, enjoying the way the excitement of the chase made her dark, almost Aztecan features glow.
“Train four eastbound was more than two and a half hours late, sir,” Estelle offered. “It left Albuquerque northbound at two fifty six. Train three westbound was nearly four hours late. They said that they had a medical emergency near La Junta, Colorado, with one of the passengers. It should have left Albuquerque at 4:55 p.m., but didn’t actually pull out until 9:27 p.m. Albuquerque is a fuel stop, and that put them even further behind.”
“Nine thirty, then. Okay.”
“Security on both the bus and the train is lax, sir. You can even step onboard and pay your ticket after the train is in motion. I’ve done that.”
“The Southwest Limited goes north out of state and then swings east to Kansas City,” I mused. “And then the route ends in Chicago. There are connections all along the way to God knows where.”
“Yes, sir. And the westbound train heads out to Flagstaff and finally Los Angeles. Even though it was late, eastbound left the city first.”
“Which way, then. If he jumps east, he’s out of here at two yesterday afternoon. In Kansas City by mid-morning. Or he could wait around for the west-bound…hell of a wait until 9:30 last night. It all depends, I suppose. Does he have a particular destination that makes him choose a train, or is he just jumping on board the first one that shows. Just the two trains each day, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
I dumped the remains of the coffee into the utility sink. “Let’s see where this leads us.” Ernie Wheeler was on the phone with someone when I reappeared, and he leaned forward, nodding, trying his best to cut off the conversation.
“Dogs,” he said, and scanned the roster. “Just what Miracle needs.” I didn’t interrupt as he forwarded a radio call to village unit 327, requesting that part-time officer J.J. Murton respond to a barking dog complaint over on Llano del Sol.
“We need a copy of Mo Arnett’s photo faxed up to Amtrak security in Albuquerque,” I said. “We want to know if he boarded either east or westbound, and if there’s a destination on his ticket.”
Wheeler nodded, excited at having something worthwhile to do. “They have a seat manifest?”
“I would think that they do.” Then again, I thought, who knows. I hadn’t ridden a train in a long time. I had picked up a passenger once in Albuquerque not too many years before, and it seemed to me that the platform had been a disorganized flood of people, a swarm. Any nimble person could have slipped on or off without much notice. And someone familiar with trains would know where to hide to avoid the conductors.
Buses didn’t keep track of anything but the gross number of passengers, making them the absolute best public transportation for those wishing to stay under the radar. It was entirely possible that Mo Arnett might be handing us a fast one as he boarded a friendly Greyhound.
“And mention to both rail and bus security that the subject might have a firearm…” The telephone hand buzzed again, and Ernie took the call. As he listened, he raised a hand toward me. I waited, and in a moment he covered the receiver.
“No gun, nothing in the trunk.” He held the phone toward me. “You want to talk to the sergeant?”
“Nope. That means Mo likely has the gun with him, unless he got smart and ditched it. Tell ’em to be careful.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned back to the phone.
The only safeguard the transportation folks had was sharp-eyed conductors, agents or drivers who might recognize a nervous passenger when they saw one. Hopefully a pudgy kid, sweating with strungout nerves and trying to conceal a big.45, would trigger their radar.
Chapter Thirty-five
“Sorry for the hour,” I said when Mark Arnett answered the door, and I spoke before his blood pressure had a chance to spike. I held up a hand. “Some developments,” I said matter-of-factly, making sure that he heard me. “May we come in?”
He nodded and held the door for us. “We’re in the living room.” Mindi was sitting in a padded rocker, her hands clasped in her lap. She rose as we entered, her hands remaining locked together. None of the office-boss spunk stiffened her shoulders now.
“Mr. and Mrs. Arnett, Albuquerque police have found your vehicle in the Albuquerque airport parking lot. There’s no sign of your son yet. The handgun is not in the car.”
Mark gestured toward a couple of chairs. “You mean he just left the car?”
“It would appear so.” I settled on a stout, straight-backed chair, all leather straps and heavy wood. Estelle took the end of the sofa an arm’s length from Mark. “The car was locked when they found it in the long-term lot. Nothing in the trunk, but the gun was taken. We don’t know if Mo still has it, or if he chucked it somewhere. Maybe in a garbage can or something.”
“Why the hell would he do a stunt like that?”
“Maybe he didn’t want it taken from the car if someone broke in. Maybe he took it, then found it too hard to conceal. Maybe he just got scared with it. We don’t know.”