After all, I thought. Fair is fair.
26
Professional courtesy to say nothing of good manners dictated that I call Sue Danielson and invite her to come along on my proposed search-and-rescue operation with Puget Sound Helicopters. When she learned that Seattle P.D. wouldn't be paying the freight, she suggested the possibility of calling on the deep-pocket expense account of our friends from Wiesenthal.
My response to that suggestion was instant and negative. "Are you kidding? Absolutely not."
"So who's paying for it, then?"
"I am."
"The whole thing?"
There was a big difference between Sue Danielson's economic reality and my own. I didn't want to rub her nose in it. "It's not that big a deal," I said.
"Seven thousand dollars would be a big deal for me," she returned. "The bottom line is typical territorial homicide dick, isn't it? You'd rather foot the whole bill yourself instead of sharing the glory with somebody else."
Responsibility for Else and the others was what was driving me, not territorial imperative. I couldn't see trying to explain that to Sue Danielson, not right then.
"I'm sharing with you, aren't I?" I volleyed back. "Now cut the lecture, Sue. Are you coming or not?"
"Coming," she answered. "I'll meet you down at the department in twenty minutes."
"That's what you think," I said. "Have you been listening to the news?"
"You woke me up, remember?"
"There's been a bad wreck on I-Five near the Ship Canal Bridge. Whatever you do, don't try coming down the freeway."
"I never drive the freeway," she responded. "And if your car was in the same condition as mine is, you wouldn't either."
After further discussion, we agreed to meet at the Puget Sound Helicopter operations center at Boeing Field. That way, in case Sue did get tied up in traffic, I could go ahead and start the ball rolling without her.
It was dark but edging toward watery, overcast daylight as I wandered around the King County Airport at Boeing Field. It took two passes before I finally located the office, tucked in behind a massive, vine-covered wall. The person behind the reception desk was a young man wearing a white shirt and striped tie.
"Oh, Detective Beaumont," he said. "I'm Roger Hammersmith, Paul's assistant. Paul's still in the air. Would you care for a cup of coffee while you wait?"
At ten past seven, Hammersmith ushered me into a comfortable conference room. Settling in to wait, I noticed that the most striking piece of art was a framed print of a grinning groom carrying his wedding-gown-clad bride toward a waiting helicopter. The picture gave me cause to count my blessings. At least my daughter, Kelly, and my son-in law, Jeremy, hadn't required that kind of three-ring circus.
Hammersmith brought in two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for me. Armed with a stack of charts, he set about gathering the necessary information. "How long ago did this missing vessel clear the locks?" he asked.
"Between ten and eleven."
"How fast can they travel?"
"I'd guess eight to ten knots."
It was refreshing to deal with someone who took what I had to say at face value without segueing into a debate about whether or not J. P. Beaumont was off his rocker. Roger Hammersmith simply wanted to get the job done in the most expeditious fashion possible. When I told him that bit of news-about how long One Day at a Time had been under way-he sighed and pursed his lips.
"By the time we get our guys in the air-eight-thirty or so at the soonest-that boat could be all the way out to Neah Bay and Cape Flattery. Is it likely the skipper will head for the open seas?"
I nodded. "That's what I think."
"Why?"
I couldn't very well say, "Because he has a load of gold bullion on board and he's making a run for it." What I actually said was, "Alan Torvoldsen is a commercial fisherman. He's been at sea all his life. He's more at home there than he is on land."
"What kind of boat is it?"
"A T-class lighter."
"Fully fueled?"
"Most likely," I answered.
Commercial fishermen usually top off their tanks when they settle up with their crews at the end of a fishing trip. The boat expenses are paid before the crew can figure their take. Aside from the settlement question, filling the tank helps prevent condensation over the cold winter months.
"How far do you think they can go without refueling?" Hammersmith asked.
I remember hanging around Fishermen's Terminal in the spring when the fleet was getting ready to go out. "I don't know for sure, but most commercial boats have tanks that hold a lot of fuel. Worst-case scenario, I suppose they could go a long way-maybe even as far as the Panama Canal-without refueling."
Hammersmith raised one eyebrow. "When they hit open water, you think they might head south, then?"
Once again, I couldn't very well tell him all my reasons for thinking so, not without giving away too much. "Maybe," I answered.
"Are they loaded with food and water?"
"Again, I couldn't say for sure," I answered, "but I doubt Alan Torvoldsen would be dumb enough to set out without adequate stores of food and water."
Shaking his head, Hammersmith excused himself and disappeared into another part of the building. His absence gave me time to think some bad thoughts about how easy it would be for someone to dispose of hostages once One Day at a Time hit that great expanse of blue water known as the Pacific Ocean. Bodies tossed overboard would disappear without a trace. Even if they washed up on land, months might pass before they were discovered on the deserted stretches of Washington's wintertime shore.
I was lost in thought when a recently showered and still wet-haired Sue Danielson blew into the conference room. "So what's the word?" she asked. "What's happening?"
"Not much," I answered. "But at least we're starting to work on the problem."
Roger Hammersmith returned moments later. After a brief introduction to Sue, he sat down to plot strategy.
"I've talked it over with the operations chief up in Everett. He and I agree with you that it's doubtful they'd head for the south end of Puget Sound. Sure, there are plenty of places to hide temporarily, but not forever. If they are trying for the open ocean, as you seem to believe, then they have a couple of choices, especially if they don't want to be seen.
"For one thing, they might head north, dodge between Camano Island and Whidbey, or maybe duck through the Swinomish Channel. The other alternative, especially considering how much lead they've had, is to not worry about being seen in the shipping channels and just make a run for Cape Flattery."
"So what do we do?" I asked.
"We've come up with two separate tactics. Fortunately, we have enough aircraft and pilots at our disposal to execute both plans at once. The first one is based on the assumption that they're putting the pedal to the metal and making a run for it. We counter that maneuver by plotting the most direct route from here through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We send helicopters out beyond the far end of where they could possibly be by now, going full steam. We have the pilots work their way back to base by doing a track line search."
"And the second one?"
"That scenario assumes that they're going to try to duck into someplace reasonably unobtrusive and wait for the heat to die down some before they head for open water. At this time of year, when most of the tourists are back home for the winter, they might reasonably expect to disappear for days at a time, either up around the San Juans or across the border in Canadian waters.
"But dodging around like that uses up a lot more time than straight-line navigation, where they'd be more likely to stick to the easiest, most tried-and-true courses. That means we'd end up doing a much broader-based grid-pattern search closer to home."