When the tanker and the topped-off Ghost Leader started climbing back up to their cruising altitude, the boom operator's eyes remained transfixed on the jet-black aircraft. Finally, he shook his head. He still couldn't believe something that weird-looking could fly.
The cabbie pulled up to the U-Stow-It warehouse complex and parked. "You want me to wait this time?"
She looked around. "No. This doesn't seem too threatening. I appreciated your staying at the other place, though. Those bikers gave me the shivers."
"Me, too," he agreed.
Strand counted out some bills for the fare, including a generous tip, then parted company with the taxi.
The U-Stow-It establishment looked like any self-storage warehouse that you could find across the country. When the household closets, attic, and garage overflowed, the mini-warehouses took up the slack — for a fee. This one had several rows of low corrugated-steel buildings with overhead doors and was surrounded by a ten-foot-high cyclone fence.
She walked over to the building with MANAGER painted over the door and entered. The office had a counter, and a doorway that led into an unkempt living room. Obviously, the management lived on the premises.
The proprietor walked through the doorway. He had a beard and wore his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a generous and hairy beer belly. He was carrying a Coors in one hand, indicating he'd gotten an early start on the first of his three daily six-packs. Although surly-looking, he brightened up when he laid eyes on the major. "Morning, er, afternoon I guess it is, now. What can I do for you today, honey?" He was trying to be charming.
Inwardly Strand winced at the primitive come-on and quickly slipped into her sergeant-major mode, as she had with Tedesco, the FBI man. In a flintlike voice she said, "My name is Major Lydia Strand, United States Air Force." She opened her purse and laid out some documents on the counter. "I have a federal search warrant to inspect the contents of warehouse number P-thirteen, leased to Julian Kapuscinski of Colorado Springs."
Upon hearing the words search warrant, the manager took a step backward, thinking of the hashish he had hidden in the medicine cabinet. He'd done time in Cook County jail once and didn't like it. He also didn't like that tone of voice in a woman. "Search warrant? Where does the Air Force get off handin' out search warrants? You ain't no cop."
Strand kept her posture erect. "I have special authorization from the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington to execute this warrant. If you wish, you may call the local FBI office. Ask for Agent Wilkerson. He will confirm what I've told you. He will also deploy additional agents if necessary. Now if you don't mind, I'm in a hurry."
Director of the FBI? Shit. He didn't want any part of this. "Okay, okay. Don't get excited." He picked up the warrant and looked at it. "P-thirteen?" he asked.
"Correct."
He went to a lockbox full of keys and extracted one. Then he put on an overcoat and picked up a crowbar. "Come on," he said.
They walked outside and down row P of the buildings, finally stopping at number 13. The manager fumbled with the keys and unfastened one of two padlocks. Picking up the crowbar, he said, "The customer gets to put his own lock on the door, too. Security, you know. I don't have no key for this one here, so I gotta break it — seein' how you got a warrant and all… Stand back a little."
The major complied, and the manager inserted the crowbar through the padlock loop. He jerked a few times before it gave way. Then he lifted the overhead door and exposed the room, which held a single laige wooden crate — nothing else.
"Can I borrow your crowbar?" she asked.
He looked at her skeptically. "Sure you don't need no help?"
"I'll manage," she said evenly.
Having been a student of physics, Strand knew the principles of the fulcrum. She put her purse on the floor and began working on the crate with the crowbar. Using it on just the right pressure points, she dismantled it quickly — with leverage, not brute strength.
"You need me for anything else?" he asked.
"I'll let you know if I do. I'd like to hang on to the crowbar for a litde while if you don't mind."
"Right. Just be sure and bring it back. I gotta pay for it iffin you don't bring it back," he said in a self-righteous tone.
"Rest assured it will be returned."
He retreated toward the icebox of Coors.
The crate contained a two-drawer filing cabinet and an assortment of cardboard moving boxes. Strand started at one end and methodically went through them.
An hour later the contents of the wooden crate were neatly spread over the warehouse floor. Apparently they were all that remained of Iceberg's mother's estate. The two-drawer filing cabinet contained the probated will of Victoria Kapuscinski. Julian was named his mother's executor, and other documents in the filing cabinet showed Iceberg had liquidated virtually all the assets of the estate at auction. He'd also filed the appropriate estate tax returns.
The remaining contents were apparently the unsold items from the estate sale and family keepsakes, and they didn't amount to a hill of beans. Some old clothes, a few cheap oil paintings with ornate frames, some kitchenware, Iceberg's Air Force Academy yearbooks and memorabilia, an RCA television set, and a stack of old mystery books.
Strand was starting to get tired, and her stomach was growling. She hadn't eaten all day, and this was beginning to look like another dry hole. She had one last box to open, then she could grab something to eat and head back to Colorado.
The remaining cardboard box was sealed with tape. She split it open with the pocketknife from her purse. Inside was an ornate wooden chest with a padlock. Strand cut away the rest of the cardboard to reveal the entire chest, which was bigger than a jewelry box but smaller than a hope chest. She picked up the crowbar again and easily forced the small padlock open. Then she lifted the chest and put it on top of the two-drawer file cabinet so she could sort through it.
On top of the open chest was an inset compartment that held some costume jewelry. Strand pawed through the necklaces and bracelets but found nothing out of the ordinary. Same sort of stuff you could get at J.C. Penney. She figured it had belonged to Iceberg's mother.
She lifted the compartment out, and underneath she found an album of pictures showing Julian Kapuscinski growing up — as an infant, on his tricycle, his first day of school, high school graduation, and his first year as a "Dooley" at the academy. Strand remembered Iceberg's mother had been murdered when he was a sophomore at Colorado Springs. She had never lived to see her son graduate or get his wings and become an astronaut. A damn shame, she thought. Digging deeper, Strand found Julian's certificate to the high school National Honor Society, as well as his diploma from Pembrook High School and his acceptance letter to the academy. Typical stuff you'd find in a proud mother's heirloom chest.
Finally, on the bottom, was an item bundled in soft black velvet. Strand picked it up and took off the velvet wrapping. It was a small leather notebook. She gently leafed through the old, fragile pages, and was a little perplexed. Although it was a bound volume, the text on the pages was not printed. It was handwritten. The handwriting was definitely masculine, as well as jerky and unintelligible — and obviously not in English. In fact, the writing looked like a bunch of hieroglyphics to Strand. The elder Kapuscinski's diary, perhaps? She shrugged wistfully to herself and decided to take it back to Cheyenne Mountain.