I for one was delighted to see Trudy Rayburn exhibiting such classic defensive behavior, and I was sure she wasn’t doing it out of concern for Anita Bowdin, either. This was a lot more personal.
“When was the last time you flew Anita somewhere?” Mel asked conversationally. “Where did you go and when did you return?”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t be answering these questions,” Trudy said.
“It’s really more a matter of corroboration than it is answering questions,” Mel returned. “We know what Anita told us about her recent travels. We’re simply trying to confirm what she told us from an independent source, but that’s all right, Ms. Rayburn. Not to worry. I’m sure we’ll be able to check out your aircraft’s past flight plans with the FAA. That’ll take some time, but it will accomplish the same end. In the meantime, though, go ahead and keep my card,” Mel added, “just in case you or Ms. Massingale decide there is something you’d like to tell us about. And don’t forget, if the plane has been used in the commission of any crime, the two of you, being the pilots, could well be implicated as coconspirators.”
Mel turned and sauntered off the porch, with me trailing discreetly behind her. We were all the way to the sidewalk before the interior door closed behind us. “Now we wait,” Mel said as we headed back to the BMW.
“What if she calls Anita?” I asked.
“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”
We had just settled into the car when Mel’s phone rang. “Okay, Roy,” she said after listening for several seconds. “Good work. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Who was that?” I asked. “And thanks for letting you know what?”
“Roy Porter,” Mel answered. “He’s an interagency information officer for the King County Sheriff ’s Office. Ross asked him to do some background work for us. According to him, Trudy Rayburn has a CPL.”
That was bad news. It meant King County had issued a concealed pistol license to Trudy Rayburn. It’s one thing to do an ounce of prevention and put on a Kevlar vest to go chat up a suspect who may or may not be armed. Once you know for sure the suspect is carrying, though, it’s a whole other can of worms.
“Great,” I said. “That’s just what I want to know.”
“And they’ve located Anita’s plane,” Mel added. “At least they’ve established that she rents a hangar at the Renton Municipal Airport. They’re still working on getting a search warrant. If they can get it, it’ll include the house here, the hangar, the plane, and the minivan. The problem is, even if a judge grants it, how long will it take to get it here?”
“Good question.”
We settled in to wait. Stakeouts can be incredibly boring. We didn’t try to catch up on our reading for fear we might miss something, but there was plenty of time for thinking and for considering the very real difference between “bulletproof” vests as the public thinks of them and the far less definitive reality of “bullet-resistant.” And then there’s the problem of how much of the human body a Kevlar vest doesn’t cover-Captain Paul Kramer’s life-threatening injuries being a prime case in point.
So Mel and I sat there side by side thinking but not talking. In that tense silence I found myself grappling with some serious life-and-death issues-and contemplating what’s important and what isn’t. Once I came face-to-face with what I was really thinking, I went ahead and said what was on my mind.
“Will you marry me?” I asked. “I know there should be hearts and flowers and moonlight and all that other stuff, but…”
Mel didn’t reply right away. She just looked at me. “Yesterday you thought I was responsible for Richard Matthews’s death,” she said finally. “And today you’re asking me to marry you?”
If this was an answer, it wasn’t the one I wanted.
“What can I tell you?” I said. “I’m a hopeless romantic.”
Which is precisely the moment Trudy Rayburn chose to appear at the end of her driveway lugging a pair of heavy-looking suitcases. She opened the back of the minivan and hefted those inside. Then, leaving the cargo door open, she hurried away, most likely back into the house to fetch another load.
“Showtime,” Mel said, which was true, but it wasn’t an answer to my question at all. “The bad news is, she’s wearing her uniform. And where’s Diane?”
After the minivan left the driveway, Mel gave Trudy a several-block head start before she pulled out after her. I called Olympia and talked to Don Hastings, Harry I. Ball’s Squad A counterpart. “What’s the story on that warrant?” I asked him. “We don’t have much time.”
“We’ve got it,” Don told me. “A judge in Tacoma finally issued it a few minutes ago. Haley Mitchell is on her way with it. She’s just now leaving Tacoma headed for your location in Kent.”
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “We’re on the move here.”
“What’s that?” Don said. At first I thought he was speaking to me, then I realized he was dealing with a second conversation with someone else at the same time. “Okay, okay,” he agreed, coming back to me. “We’ll redirect Haley and the search warrant. Did you hear that, Beau?”
“Hear what?”
“November eight six one Alpha Bravo just filed a flight plan leaving from Renton Municipal at thirteen hundred thirty and flying to a place called Puerto Penasco, Mexico. Flight time approximately four hours.”
The clock on the dash of Mel’s 740 read twelve forty-eight. We didn’t have much time at all.
“How many passengers?” I asked.
“Two souls on board indicated.”
That meant it was most likely the pilots only. Trudy and Diane hadn’t alerted Anita Bowdin after all. They were meeting up, taking the plane, and making a run for it on their own.
“Where are you now?” Don asked.
Trudy’s blue minivan had pulled off Kent’s main drag and into a Wells Fargo Bank branch. Mel switched on her signal and parked at the edge of a Safeway parking lot across the street. We sat with the engine idling and watched while Trudy, carrying a briefcase, hustled into the bank.
“The suspect just went into a bank branch here in Kent,” I told him. “Most likely picking up some cash.”
“All right,” Don said. “SHIT’s got a standing mutual aid agreement with Renton, so I’ll let them know what’s up and that we’ll need units on the ground there at the airport. And Haley wants you to know she just passed the Kent/DeMoines Road exit coming north, so she’s making good progress.”
I rang off and gave Mel the lowdown on what Don had told me. Then, silent once more, Mel and I sat and waited. Again. She hadn’t given me an outright no to my impulsively impromptu proposal, but she sure as hell hadn’t said yes, either, and I had far too much male pride to bring it up again. Instead I sat there and wondered how slow the bank tellers could possibly be and wished to hell I hadn’t had so much coffee earlier in the morning.
When my phone rang again, I expected it would be Don Hastings, calling to give me a minute-by-minute update on Haley Mitchell’s progress. It wasn’t.
“You son of a bitch,” Detective Kendall Jackson said. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Just had a call from Larry Crumb at the crime lab. He got a hit.”
“A hit on what?”
“On the weapon that killed LaShawn Tompkins. And guess what? Where do you think it came from? From you, you worm. From a case in Mexico! What the hell-?”
“Sorry, Kendall,” I told him. “Gotta go.”
I dialed Don back. “Is Ross Connors there?” I asked.
“No, but-”
“Never mind.” I hung up and dialed Ross Connors’s cell. He answered after only one ring. “What?” he asked. “Is there some other problem besides the plane?”
“We’ve got to move on those rape kits,” I told him. “Now! If there’s any media coverage at all of the plane takedown, it’ll be too late.”