“Are you getting paranoid on the lady’s behalf?” Croft asked.
“Just being observant. They taught us that at the academy, or did you miss that day?”
Billy turned in his rental car at the Hayward FBO and filed an IFR flight plan to Napa County Airport. It wasn’t far, but going IFR would help him deal with the controllers. He did a quick preflight, then got the airplane started and asked for his clearance and permission to taxi. Shortly, he was airborne, and the ATC controllers vectored him around and out of the busy San Francisco Class B area. He had been in the air for only twelve minutes when he spotted Napa County. He pressed the transmit button on the yoke. “I have the airport in sight. I’ll cancel IFR at this time.” The controller said goodbye and Billy descended for his landing.
He rented another car, this one a brand-new Chevrolet Impala, which impressed him, and he drove to St. Helena. He found the Grosvenors’ house, a handsome, shingle-style McMansion on a little hill, then he parked in a partially hidden road across from it. Twenty minutes later, the white Mulsanne appeared, followed by the red Korean car containing the two policemen. The Bentley turned into the driveway, drove through some trees, and appeared on the hill in front of the house, where Barbara exited while Blunt Instrument retrieved her minimal luggage.
The Korean car drove slowly past the house.
“What do you want to do now?” Morales asked.
“Let’s give her time to settle in before we knock on the door,” Croft said. “In the meantime, let’s go back to St. Helena and find a men’s store.”
“Did you see the new Impala parked in the side road?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Two things: it’s the new model, which is getting rave reviews, and the guy inside was driving the silver BMW back in the city.”
“You’re nuts. How could he beat us here and be in another car?”
“I’m just observing,” Morales said. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
42
Late in the day, Stone’s curiosity got the better of him. He called the West Los Angeles LAPD station and asked for Detective Morales. The extension rang, and a male voice answered. “Homicide. Detective Angelo.”
“May I speak with either Detective Morales or Detective Croft?” Stone asked.
“They’re out of the city on a case,” the man replied. “May I help you?”
“Thank you, no,” Stone replied, and hung up. He called Peter’s office and asked for Billy Burnett.
“I’m sorry,” a woman said, “he’s out with the flu, probably for a few days.”
Stone thanked her, hung up, and called Billy’s cell number.
“Billy Burnett,” a voice said.
“It’s Stone Barrington. I’m sorry to hear you’re ill.”
“Thanks, Stone, but I’m fine.”
“I just wondered if you’d heard anything from Morales or Croft.”
“Not a word,” Billy said, “but they’ve gone to San Francisco to talk with her.”
“How do you know that?” Stone asked.
Billy looked up and saw the red Korean car, which had been gone for nearly an hour, approaching the Grosvenor house again. “Trust me,” Billy said. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Stone. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hung up without waiting for a reply. He watched as the little car turned into the Grosvenor driveway.
Morales and Croft followed the long driveway through some trees and up a hill and came to a halt in front of the house. “Nice place,” Morales said.
“Let’s get in there and brace her,” Croft said, opening the door.
“Shall we use our new SFPD ID?” Morales asked.
“We’re not in SF anymore,” Croft replied, ringing the bell.
A huge young man in a well-cut suit came to the door. “Good afternoon,” he said. “How may I help you?”
The two detectives flashed badges. “We’d like to speak with Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.
“May I know the nature of your business?”
“It’s police business,” Croft replied. “Tell her that.”
“Please come in,” the man said, stepping out of their way and indicating that they should go into a room to their left. “Please have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
He left and the detectives found themselves in a handsome library, with shelves lined with leather-bound books. Croft took one off a shelf and looked at it. “Winston Churchill,” he said. He replaced the book.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Barbara Grosvenor said, in her pleasant, well-modulated voice.
They turned to find an elegantly dressed woman with straight gray hair to her shoulders. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.
“Won’t you please sit down?”
They both sat on a sofa, and she took a chair opposite them. “Would you like some refreshment?” she asked. “It’s late in the day — perhaps something more substantial?”
“Anything soft would be very nice,” Morales said.
Barbara lifted a phone on the table next to her and said, “May we have a pitcher of iced tea, please?” She hung up. “It won’t be a moment. I understand you’re from Los Angeles, is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Morales said. “We’re conducting an investigation, and we think you can help us.”
She started to speak, but a uniformed houseman entered the room and set a pitcher of iced tea, three glasses, and a plate of cookies on the coffee table before them.
“Thank you, Benito,” Barbara said.
He poured the tea, then left. Everyone took a sip of iced tea.
“Excellent,” Morales said.
Croft let Morales do the talking; he took a cookie and watched the woman closely.
“An investigation?” Barbara said. “What sort of investigation?”
“Early this morning, before dawn, an airplane exploded at Santa Monica Airport. Perhaps you saw something about it on TV.”
“No, I haven’t seen a TV all day. Was anyone hurt?”
“Only the man who placed the bomb in the nose of the airplane,” Morales said. He decided not to tell her Gregg was dead.
“I’m a little confused,” Barbara said. “Why would you come all the way to Napa to ask me about the explosion of an airplane?”
“The airplane belonged to your ex-husband, Ed Eagle,” Morales said.
“And Ed wasn’t harmed?”
“No, he had not yet arrived at the airport.”
“How unfortunate,” she said with a smile.
“I take it you and your ex-husband are not on good terms.”
“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t seen him in years, and I was married to someone else after Ed and before Mr. Grosvenor. My former husband died in an automobile accident.”
“Mrs. Grosvenor, are you acquainted with an employee of Centurion Studios named Harry Gregg?”
“I don’t think so. Is he a producer there?”
Nice touch, Morales thought. “No, he worked in the armory, where the studio keeps weapons used in films.”
“I have an investment in Centurion Studios, but I have visited the place only once, for a stockholders’ meeting a few years ago. The only person I know there is Leo Goldman Junior, who is the chief executive.”
“I see,” Morales said. “Before we go any further, Mrs. Grosvenor, I’m required by law to read you your rights.” He took a card from his pocket and did so. “Do you wish to have an attorney present while I question you?”
“My goodness, no. Why would I need an attorney present?” Barbara said.
“As you wish, Mrs. Grosvenor. Now, I should tell you that Harry Gregg had placed the bomb in the airplane and, while he was doing so, the bomb exploded, killing Mr. Gregg instantly.”
“Poor Mr. Gregg,” Barbara said, with ironic sympathy.
“In our investigation of the explosion we visited Mr. Gregg’s home in Venice and searched it thoroughly,” Morales said. “During the search we opened a safe in his home office and found multiple weapons and a great deal of cash.”