“Sure,” Ralph said. “There are only about three hundred airports in this country that handle commercial jet traffic, but there must be at least five thousand that serve the private, corporate, and charter-jet end of the business. Every one of them has at least one FBO. Some of them have several.”
“And they keep a record of planes that land and take off under their auspices?”
“Especially if landing fees or fuel purchases were involved,” Ralph said. “Why? What does any of this have to do with the price of peanuts?”
“I’ll tell you later, Ralph. Right now I’ve got to go.”
I closed the phone and turned to Todd Hatcher. “Do you happen to have your spreadsheet handy?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Why?”
“You know what an FBO is?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” he returned.
So I explained it as well as I could, bearing in mind that I had only heard the term for the first time a few minutes earlier. “I want you to go to each of the crime scenes we know about, the ones you’ve been putting in. Then I want you to locate all the FBOs in the area and find out if a plane with the tail number November eight six one Alpha Bravo was anywhere in that vicinity at the time of any of our mysterious deaths. Ditto the case in Salt Lake City,” I added.
“The one I read about in the Destry Hennessey stuff?” Todd asked. “The Escobar murder?”
“That’s the one.”
“What do I say if they ask me who I am or what right I have to ask for any information?”
“Tell them you’re a cop,” I told him. “You work for the Special Homicide Investigation Team, an arm of the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. And if they give you any trouble, tell them to call Ross’s office and check. Tell them to call collect.”
While I had been talking to Todd, Mel had located a phone book. “Here,” she said. “T. Rayburn. She lives in Kent.”
“Don’t pilots all have licenses?” I asked.
“I’m sure,” she said. “They’re handled by the Federal Aviation Administration. Want me to see what kind of information we can come up with? If nothing else, it would be helpful to know which is which.”
Suddenly my Belltown Terrace apartment was a beehive of activity as our mini “task force” swung into action. With Todd using the landline to track FBOs, Mel got on her cell phone to start working her way through the powers that be at the FAA. Meanwhile, I poked away at my cell phone to dial my own favorite weapons analyst, a self-described “gun guy” down at the crime lab, one Larry Crumb.
Larry and I go back a long way. We used to be pals-drinking buddies. And for a while, back when we were both still married, we were on each other’s Christmas card list. Every year, Larry’s card was a photo featuring Larry posing with some outrageous weapon or other.
“Hey, bro,” Larry said, when I identified myself. “How’s it hanging?”
Typical drinking-buddy BS. And typical drinking-buddy conversation-never say anything real.
“I’m working on a case,” I told him.
“This is not news,” he replied.
“The problem is, it crosses a few international lines,” I explained. “Like between the U.S. and Mexico. I have the ballistics workup that was sent from the crime scene, and I’m trying to figure out a way to run it through NIBIN.”
“No can do,” Larry returned. “NIBIN would be the National Integrated Ballistics Information Network. Nobody’s calling it the International Whatever, if you get my meaning.”
“I understand that,” I said. “And I don’t want to rattle cages, but I think the case from Mexico leads directly back to at least one case and maybe several more here in the States. If you could just walk this past-”
“Look, Beau,” he said. “You don’t hang around the crime lab much these days, but I can tell you, it’s hell. When Destry Hennessey comes riding through here on her broom, we all run for cover. If she finds out I’m doing an unauthorized analysis on her equipment and on her watch, she’ll have my balls-and my job.”
In other words, Analise Kim wasn’t the only pissed-off employee at the Washington State Crime Lab. There were other avenues I could have used, but those would have taken more time. And lots more documentation. The material I had in hand through Ralph’s unofficial efforts would have to be reobtained, this time going through channels and across desks, something that would take time-a commodity we didn’t have. So I punted.
“As it happens,” I said, “Destry Hennessey could be part of the problem.”
“Whoa!” Larry Crumb exclaimed. “Bring down what you have, then. Let’s see what I can do.”
CHAPTER 24
Because Mel had commandeered my bathroom, I had been trying to work while still lounging around in my robe-not a good plan. Now I went to shower and dress. By the time I emerged, Mel was still arguing with the FAA, but Todd had a hit.
“I’m on the phone with Million Air in Salt Lake City,” he said gleefully, holding one hand over the telephone receiver as he spoke to me. “Their records show tail number November eight six one Alpha Bravo was tied down there from October 9 through October 11, 2003. They flew out the morning of October 12.”
I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Todd Hatcher had caught on to the FAA lingo, and we both knew that Juan Carlos Escobar had been released on his twenty-first birthday, October 10, 2003. “Do we have any idea who all was on the plane?” I asked.
Todd held up his hand. “You can’t?” he said. “I just want to…But…All right, then. Someone will have to get back to you.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“They blew me off. I wanted to know if they had any details about the passengers or pilots, but they said they can’t or won’t provide that information, not without a warrant.”
“When Mel finishes with the FAA, put her on it,” I advised. “Either she’ll figure out a way to worm the information out of them, or she’ll figure out a way to come up with enough probable cause to get a warrant.”
“Where are you going?” Todd asked.
“I’m on my way to the crime lab with the ballistics stuff. You keep tracking on FBOs.”
I started for the door, but Mel waved me down, signaling for me to wait.
“Thank you so much,” she was saying into the phone. “Yes, I can hear it. The fax is coming through right now. You’ve been a huge help, David.”
Mel hurried over to the fax machine and then had to stand and wait until the documents finished printing. She handed the first one to me and I saw it right away. Whoever had drawn the composite had done a wonderful job. Diane Massingale and the nun in the composite from the Bountiful Police Department were clearly one and the same.
“So Diane it is, then,” I said.
“Maybe it’s both of them,” Mel replied. “They both trained with the Air Force in the first Gulf War. Both left under less than optimal circumstances-as in don’t-ask-don’t-tell.”
“The FAA told you that?”
“Not the FAA per se. David told me that. He just happens to work for the FAA,” Mel answered. “Anyway, after that they both worked for commuter airlines, then they flew charters. They’ve worked exclusively for Anita Bowdin since 2002. And they both live at the same address in Kent, the one we found for T. Rayburn. Now where do you think you’re going?”
“The crime lab, to drop off the ballistics info.”
“I’m coming too,” Mel said determinedly.
“But Todd needs you to work on the FBO situation,” I objected.
“Todd has a telephone,” Mel declared. “And I have a telephone. If Todd needs me to do something, he can call. Right, Todd?”
“Right,” Todd said, ducking his head into his computer screen and not meeting her eye. I suspected that he had seen more of Mel Soames than he expected that morning. She seemed to be coping with the situation far better than he was. And leaving them alone to work together clearly wasn’t an option.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Come on. Bring along our Destry and Anita info. That’ll give us something to read if we end up having to sit around somewhere and cooling our heels.”