“I’ll go get him,” the detective said. And strode through the rain toward where Wilson was parking his fuel truck, which apparently he’d just replenished. Rhyme saw the man glance Gillette’s way and then, pretending he hadn’t seen the detective’s wave, walk fast to a battered Honda Accord, jump in, and speed away.
“He’s rabbiting,” Sachs said. She instinctively glanced at the only wheels available to her here — the van. Sachs loved cars. She worked on them, rebuilt parts, and drove like lightning. But she wasn’t going to be doing any high-speed chases in an accessible van.
Not that it mattered. Detective Gillette was pretty good at the wheel himself. He was in the driver’s seat of his car in five seconds and, with the lights and siren going, he sped forward. The big Chrysler skidded once, but he kept it from careening into the fuel truck and instead spun around it. Then he blew through the gate and disappeared onto the main highway.
An hour later Detective Gillette led a handcuffed Joey Wilson into the hangar.
He directed the refueling man into an orange fiberglass chair and helped him sit. None too gently, Rhyme observed, thinking it must have been a harrowing, if short, chase.
“What’s the story?” Rhyme asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Please. “Why’d you run?”
“I wasn’t running. I just wanted to get home and close up my windows. Because of the storm. I forgot about them.”
Rhyme said, “You were lying to us. You did go out to the plane.”
“Maybe I did.”
“When?”
“Maybe eight thirty, a little later.”
“To plant a bomb in Nash’s plane.”
“No!”
“But you didn’t refuel the plane. We can check the logs.”
The man grumbled, “I told you no.”
“Perhaps an attitude is not what we need now. What did you go out to the plane for?”
But just that moment the answer came via a phone call. Gillette spoke for a few minutes and then hung up. He grinned as he looked over Wilson. “The crime scene people just went over your car.”
“Oh, hell.”
“And guess what they found?”
“I don’t know.”
“A kilo of very high-quality pot.”
“I don’t know anything about that!”
“Not even how it ended up in your spare tire?”
Wilson closed his eyes.
Rhyme said, “That’s why you were out at the plane, Joey, right? You didn’t plant any bombs; you were getting a delivery.”
“I swear... I didn’t kill him. But I lied about going to the airplane. I did, sure.”
“Because you’ve got a network of people who work on planes, right. They smuggle some drugs on board in equipment holds or wheel wells. That’s how you knew his flight plan.”
The sigh said, Yep, that’s right. He muttered, “It’s not even very good shit. All this trouble and it’s lousy pot.”
“Was Nash involved?”
“Naw, none of the people who fly the private planes know. That’s what makes the plan work so well. See, they don’t get nervous talking to Customs.”
This was undoubtedly true — using businessmen beyond suspicion made sense.
Rhyme continued, “Where were the drugs?”
“Port side. Left. An access compartment to the hydraulic system under the engine.”
Gillette said, “Opposite of the bomb.”
Rhyme wasn’t pleased. Had the drugs been sitting next to the bomb, there might have been a transfer if the two items had touched. But, no, this case was simply not going to be a forensic one.
“And you didn’t see anything else?” Rhyme asked.
“No, sir.”
Gillette escorted him to his feet. Several other officers from the Dade County East Sheriff’s Department took him away.
Sachs said, “Well, at least it’s clear he didn’t plant the bomb. We can believe him there.”
Gillette nodded. “No, he’s not going to kill his golden goose.”
“Well, on the surface, seems that those three suspects aren’t suspects after all. We’ll have to see what the NTSB says, but my conclusion from these facts is that it was an accident.” Rhyme gazed out over the tarmac. The planes seemed fragile in the wind and rain, as if the smallest of disruptions, let alone a bomb, could bring them down.
“Can they bring up the plane eventually?” Sachs asked.
“Five miles down?” Gillette said. “Maybe, for a few million bucks. But no police department in the world’s got that kind of money. Well, I thank you both, Lincoln and Amelia. Especially for coming out to help us on one of our oh-so-pleasant Florida days.”
Rhyme extended his good hand and the men shook. Sachs, too, gripped Gillette’s palm. Rhyme said, “Let’s check in with New York, Sachs. Find out if there’s anything that needs our attention. And I wouldn’t mind a few more of those stone crabs.”
But the case was not quite as closed as it seemed.
The next morning, Gillette, Sachs, and Rhyme were reassembled on the tarmac once more, at Rhyme’s request. Thom was nearby. He’d occasionally wipe sweat from Rhyme’s forehead; today was much clearer, sunny and bright, and not a breath of wind, but the temperature was already soaring.
Sachs was explaining to Gillette, “When I was canvassing yesterday at those buildings and the restaurants, where I got the video tape...?”
“Remember.”
“I gave my number to all the businesses there, told them if anybody remembered seeing anybody next to a jet parked on the tarmac by the Southern Flight Service’s office, to let me know. I got a call this morning. Seems a tourist and his family were sitting at that Burger King, outside around the time Nash’s plane was there.” She pointed. “They heard the story of the investigation on the news last night and got my number. The father has some pictures.”
Rhyme squinted as he studied the fast food place. “He’d have had a perfect view of the engine.”
Gillette asked, “Tourist? Where is he, still in the area?”
“Blue Heron Inn.”
“Sure, I know it. Five miles from here. Let’s go talk to him. You want to follow me?”
“Will do,” said Thom.
“I’ll call dispatch on the way. Have a forensic team meet us there — with those programs they have to enhance photos.”
“Forensic,” Rhyme said, drawing a satisfied breath. “If I believed in clichés, I’d say the fish is back in the water.”
Dade County East Patrolman Jim Cable pulled off the highway and nosed his car — his personal Buick — into a stand of magnolia. Pulling on latex gloves, he reached into the glove box and removed a cold gun, a.38 special Smittie. He’d taken it off Billy or Rodrigo or Juan sometime, someplace, over the past six months.
And he’d told the kid to get lost. Because a collar for a little coke and firearms possession wasn’t as good as getting a gun that couldn’t be traced to Cable. A gun that could be used in a situation like this.
Cable loaded it with bullets fresh from the box — rounds were always untraceable, if you touched them only with gloves. And then he slipped into the marshy field behind the Blue Heron Inn and made his way toward cabin 43, which was where the tourist was staying, the tourist who’d videoed Nash’s private jet the other day — and had very possibly gotten an image of him slipping the bomb into the right engine hydraulic access compartment.
At thirty-two, Cable was too old to be a patrolman, looking through airport restrooms for illegals and chasing Billys and Rodrigos and Juans for little bags of drugs and big pistols. But he had a mouth on him and a temper and a problem with the bottle, so he hadn’t moved up the way he should have — the way he deserved to.