“Yes.”
“After you’ve picked up the package, you’ll receive another text. It’ll instruct you where to fly, the drop-off point. If the package doesn’t arrive within half an hour of the specified time of delivery—”
“—My lady dies. Yeah, I get it. When, exactly, are you hoping to pull off this operation? Because nobody’s flying in this weather.”
“The snow’s forecast to let up tonight. Clearing skies the rest of the week. You should be airborne by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, no worries.”
“You mind my asking a question?”
“You don’t get to ask questions, Mr. Logan.”
“What did it feel like to murder that kid from the airport? Was it worth it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, mate,” Crocodile Dundee said with a nervous little chuckle.
Then he hung up.
He knew exactly what I was talking about. He also knew exactly what he was doing. Whatever it was he’d removed from that airplane and committed murder over, was evidently so precious, or dangerous, that he wanted to minimize his risks at getting caught with it by having someone else transport it for him. With law enforcement officers watching the roads, what better way to get away with the goods than by air?
I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself meditatively, but it did no good. I wanted to kill Crocodile Dundee more than I ever wanted to kill anybody. I wanted to rip out his throat the way I’d been trained, to jam my thumbs into his eyes and implode them like hardboiled eggs. True Buddhists, even in their darkest moments, harbor no such fantasies. I didn’t care. He’d kidnapped my woman, terrorized her gentle soul.
He would pay for that with his life.
I drove through the cold and snow, back to the bed-and-breakfast, hoping to find Deputy Streeter to see if he’d gone to question Preston Kavitch, but his Jeep wasn’t there. With nothing better to do than foment vengeful thoughts, I parked on the street with the engine running, my phone in hand, and attempted to send Streeter my first-ever text message.
My fingertips were too big for the tiny keypad. I kept misspelling words — when the phone’s infuriating autocorrect function wasn’t misinterpreting them for me. “At Tranquility B&B, need to speak with you ASAP” became “At tranquility choice Neemm too spew Witt you’ll,” followed by, “Bees to speak with youth,” followed by, “Am tranquilizer B&F I homered to spa why you!” Whoever dubbed them “smart” phones must’ve been pretty stupid. It took me five attempts before I finally was able to hit “send.” Streeter responded almost immediately.
“En route your loc 7 min ETA.”
Welcome to the Technology Age, Logan, where the telegraph has become the preferred method of human communications.
Streeter arrived exactly seven minutes later, pulling in behind me. I turned off the engine, stepped out of the Yukon, and got into his Wrangler.
“Got your voice mail,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Crazy day. We got the preliminary autopsy results back this morning on Chad Lovejoy. Looks like Mr. Lovejoy got tapped with a .40-cal, three rounds. We got some good plaster casts, shoeprints leading away from the plane, before the snow covered them up. Fairly unusual tread design.”
According to Streeter, law enforcement records showed that Chad Lovejoy had done two tours in the less-than-loving embrace of California’s Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. He’d logged sixteen months at Chino on an intent-to-distribute cocaine beef, and another year at Chuckawalla Valley State Prison for residential burglary. He was on parole at the time of his murder.
“How does a two-time loser land work at a high-end airport like Tahoe?”
“His uncle’s Gordon Priest,” Streeter said. “Priest is the manager at Summit Aviation Services.”
“I already know that. Did you talk to him yet?”
Streeter shook his head. “We’re still putting a list together. Lovejoy ran with a pretty sketchy crowd, given his arrest record. He had no shortage of ‘friends’ who would’ve slit his throat for a nickel. We’re talking to them first.”
“What about Preston Kavitch. You talk to him yet?”
“Soon as you and I are done here.” The deputy wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “What was so important, you had to talk to me A-SAP?”
Part of me, a big part, wanted to fill him in on the call I’d received from the man calling himself Crocodile Dundee, but I knew doing that would likely doom Savannah. Well-intentioned though they may be, few rural law enforcement agencies have the expertise to bloodlessly resolve real kidnappings. The track record of federal law enforcement isn’t much better, which was why I wasn’t about to fill in the FBI, either, not with the prospect of special agents flooding Lake Tahoe in their raid jackets and black Chevy Suburbans. The German army marching into Paris was only slightly more conspicuous.
“You wanted information on the locked-down FAA file,” I said.
“You got something?”
I filled him in on the downed airplane’s apparent ties to the CIA.
Streeter’s eyes lit up. “The CIA? In El Dorado County? Oh, man, that’s awesome.”
“If it were my investigation,” I said, “the first thing I’d do is try and establish whatever it was that was in that crate. You nail that down, you find out where a thief might fence it. You establish the market, you establish the market’s primary players. Then you start squeezing. Hopefully, they lead you to your killer.”
“Not to pry or anything,” Streeter said, “but you seem pretty familiar with the process.”
I opened the passenger door and got out.
“If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know. Lemme know if Preston says anything worthwhile.”
“I’ll tell you what I can,” Streeter said.
I started back for the Yukon.
“Mr. Logan?”
I turned.
“We’re gonna do our best to find her and bring her back to you safe.”
I tried to thank him or at least smile. It would’ve been the civil thing to do, but I wasn’t feeling all that civil.
A motel room is a motel room. All I really cared about was whether the shower produced hot water and the bed was reasonably free of parasites. The thirty-six dollar a night Econo Lodge on Lake Tahoe Boulevard would more than do until I heard back from Crocodile Dundee.
Savannah would’ve rolled her eyes at the prospect of spending five minutes in such a room, let alone all night. The art that decorated the room — reproductions of badly composed landscapes — would’ve commanded her attention. The paintings were bolted to the walls. Why, she would have wondered aloud, would anyone in their right mind even think about stealing such tacky art? She might’ve made some snide remark about the floral print bedspread, and how humans occasionally have been known to spontaneously combust rubbing up against that much polyester. She would’ve accused me of being tight with a buck for having booked us into such a room, while I, in turn, would’ve accused her of being spoiled by her daddy’s oil money. Then we would’ve thrown the bedspread on the floor and made intense love. Entwined and wholly spent after that, we would’ve pondered our future together and that of our child. All would’ve been perfect in our world. For a while, anyway.
A burning, acidic pain traveled up the back of my throat from somewhere deep beneath my sternum. Standing in the hallway, card key in hand, surveying my new temporary digs, I felt something wet on my cheeks and reached up to wipe it away, surprised by my own tears. The last time I’d cried about anything was, well, I couldn’t remember the last I cried.