"But how would you manage it without flying over the island? You could ignore the Restricted Area, of course, but that would ring alarms with the people on the ground."
Burke considered that for a moment. "One way might be to use a hand-held camera. Fly by the island off to one side and shoot down at an angle."
"Could somebody like an aerial mapping outfit do it?"
"They should have the proper aircraft and equipment. That's an area of photography I've never really delved into. I don't know any of the players."
"Let me check it out for you in the morning. I'll give you a call."
Chapter 32
Burke found Scooter Peyton in his usual place, feet propped on the desk in his cramped office. He figured Scooter for a contemporary of B. A. Casteel, with thick, unruly gray hair and skin like elephant hide, the result of too many years on deck under a merciless sun. Now he was probably content with giving cursory supervision to the marina business and swapping yarns with his cronies at a local bar. Port St. Joe boasted a museum marking the site of Florida's first constitutional convention, but its real claim to fame was as one of the state's most popular salt water fishing centers.
"I'm Doug Bell," Burke said, handing over one of his CIA-furnished business cards.
Peyton read the card soberly, where the "Private Investigator" line lurked beneath the name, then focused a pair of red-rimmed eyes onto his visitor. Apparently the sun hadn't been too kind to his eyes, either. "You don't look like Magnum," he said.
Burke smiled. "I would if I could take off about twenty years and forty pounds. Guess I'd need to stay down here awhile, or go out to Hawaii to get that tan, though."
"Don't know what to do about the years," Peyton said, "or I wouldn't look like this. But you wanna work off some pounds? Get yourself out in a boat and do battle with a feisty marlin." He swung his feet down and motioned to a nearby chair. The finish on its seat was worn down to the bare wood. "I got a hunch you didn't come here to talk about years and pounds, though. What you after?"
Burke sat down. "I understand you rented a landing craft recently for use in hauling something out to Oyster Island."
Peyton squinted at him. "Now who told you that?"
"B. A. Casteel."
"Hmph! That old fart always talks too much about other people's business." Then he grinned, showing a missing tooth on one side. "But like he said, I did rent that old tub for once. Guess maybe I talked too much about it. But you know how a feller likes to brag a little bit now and then."
"Don't we all. Would you mind telling me who rented the boat?"
Peyton shrugged, then dug into a battered metal filing cabinet beside the desk. It was becoming obvious that he, like Casteel, enjoyed talking about other people's business. "Ain't no secret, I suppose. Here it is. Let's see, Blythe Ingram. Should've remembered that. Ain't never heard a name like that before."
Burke wrote the name on his pad.
"Said he used to be a Marine," Peyton said. "Damn fool, if you ask me. I wouldn't take that boat out that far. Spray over that flat bow'd damn near drown you."
"Where's he from?"
"Houston, Texas. Didn't look no more like a cowboy than you do like Magnum."
Burke laughed. "Did he say he was a cowboy?" Keep it light, he thought. Keep the old man talking.
"No, said he worked for PWI. What is it? Pan something-or-other."
"Pan West Industries?" Burke prompted him.
"Yeah, that's it."
"What was he hauling out there?"
"Just vehicles, I believe he said. Equipment for some kind of tests. You after this Ingram feller? What'd he do?"
"Just a routine check. Sort of like a bank does when they make you a loan."
Scooter snorted. "Damn bank better not nose around in my affairs. I don't need their money, anyway."
"When is Ingram planning to return the boat?"
Peyton consulted the paper again. "This Saturday."
Lori called him at the Angler's Inn at mid-morning. She had found what appeared to be his best bet. There was a firm in New Orleans called Aerial Photomap, Inc. Its majority owner and president, Kevin McKenzie, had a reputation as an experimenter with new materials and techniques. They were located at Lakefront Airport, the place where he had picked up Jeffries' trail.
"Good job, Lori. I'll head over that way right now. You might do a little quiet research on Blythe Ingram of Houston. He's some kind of higher up with Pan West Industries."
"The company that owns Oyster Island?"
"Right. He's the man who rented the landing craft."
The prospect of turning over a few more rocks along the trail to Jabberwock brought a note of excitement to her voice. "I'll get onto it. You'll call tonight at the appointed hour?"
"You can set your watch by it."
Before leaving, Burke stopped by the office, paid in advance and told Casteel he'd be staying until Saturday.
Aerial Photomap had its own building adjacent to the airport. It was a prefabricated metal structure painted sky blue, with lots of windows. There were equipment rooms, labs specially designed for processing and printing the wide film used in photomapping, an operations center for flight crews and the usual offices. Except for McKenzie's, which was anything but usual.
Burke was ushered into the office, where he immediately faced a wall dominated by a large replica of Aerial Photomap's logo, an "AP" superimposed over a stylized version of a long-lensed aerial camera. Another wall featured striking aerial photographs and sections of maps mounted in unusual shapes. In a corner that flanked the windows, McKenzie had his desk, a wood-based creation with a white plastic top in the shape of a seven-foot square. A cutout in the center provided room for his chair, with a hinged panel permitting access. The section normally at his back held an array of high-tech equipment. McKenzie was clearly an innovator, a man who liked to stretch horizons and bend light into bold new shapes.
"Have a seat," McKenzie said, taking Burke's business card. He appeared to be early forties, tousled flaming red hair, dressed casually in a T-shirt emblazoned with the AP logo and pants with large black and white checks. He had the unkempt look of an eccentric professor, the kind you'd expect to find with smoking beakers in a chemistry lab. "Burke Hill." He twisted his mouth. "I feel like I ought to know you."
It was a calculated risk, but Burke thought it better to use his real identity with McKenzie. The card identified him as a professional photographer. He had spent quite a bit of time during the long drive from Apalachicola fashioning the complicated cover story necessary for this phase of the effort to unmask Jabberwock. It was part truth, part half-truth, part fiction. He no longer felt any qualms about the necessity for such subterfuge. It seemed obvious that national security was involved now, though as yet he had no real handle on the threat. What he was doing was an extension of the job Cam Quinn had given him. The fact that he was no longer under contract to the CIA made no difference. It was now a moral imperative.
"I've had my work in The National Geographic, Smithsonian, a number of other publications," Burke said.
McKenzie nodded. "I'm sure I've seen it. But that doesn't… oh, well. What brings you here?"
"In the first place, you were recommended to me as a man on the cutting edge of technology."
He grinned. "I've been known to run an experiment now and then. What did you have in mind?"
"Before becoming a professional photographer, I was an FBI agent for several—"
"That's it! That's how I knew you." McKenzie's eyes beamed. "It's been twenty years ago at least. I was a freshman at Cal-Berkeley. It was back in the protest years. They had found a bomb at Lawrence-Livermore Labs, and the evidence pointed toward somebody in my dormitory. You were one of the agents who questioned us students."