The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗

shook his head. “The CHP isn’t the CIA. I mean, maybe he was smart enough to know he might not get away with it, so he might have had something set up, I guess, but I think most people overestimate their own ability to fool the police.”

“And there’s an officer with Rachel?”

“Yes,” the first dispatcher said from behind the sergeant. “I got ahold of him. He just got to her apartment. He’s outside her door now.”

“Okay.” Fenway took a deep breath.

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of the dispatchers on the phone with Amtrak, then the Estancia Municipal Airfield, then Vandevoort Regional Airfield, then the bus station in Estancia, then the one in San Miguelito, then Uber, then Lyft, then some company Fenway had never heard of before (“they’re a new SoCal startup,” the second dispatcher assured her).

“Dammit,” Fenway muttered. “His office. He might have a stash of cash, or a go bag at his office.”

Mark looked skeptical. “Stotsky probably wouldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t be able to get in and out in a hurry there.”

“He might not have to. Security might not let us into the building. They all report up to him, don’t they? They’d at least delay us as long as possible. We’d probably need warrants, court orders, subpoenas, whatever.”

“But Stotsky wouldn’t be able to leave.”

“He might already have been there and gone,” Fenway said. “If that’s where he went, Stotsky could still escape and be in Tijuana before the bars close.”

“We’ll get a couple of deputies there,” the first dispatcher said to Fenway, and called out on the radio.

“And I got a flight plan,” the second dispatcher said. “It’s the Challenger. It’s at Estancia, headed to Burbank. Leaves in twenty minutes.”

“Let’s go.” Mark grabbed his sportscoat from the back of the chair, and he was out the door.

“Can I come?” Fenway called after him.

“Hurry.”

She kicked off her high heels and picked them up along with her purse, and rushed after Mark. Dispatch was on the radio immediately asking all available units to respond.

She followed Mark out to the squad car area. The sun had set, and the sky was rapidly darkening.

He slid into the front seat of a cruiser. He had already started the car by the time Fenway got in the passenger seat.

“I probably shouldn’t have let you come.” Mark turned hard, tires squealing, siren wailing as he exited the lot.

“So why did you let me?”

“Because I like you. And you haven’t said anything about me being gay.”

Fenway paused. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Exactly.” Mark accelerated through a green light. “You don’t have a firearm, do you?”

“No.”

“Know how to shoot one?”

“Not really,” she admitted.

“You should probably learn.”

She snorted a laugh. “Yeah, well, I was waiting until my second week.”

“You’re funny. Especially when you’re scared out of your mind.”

She hung on as they took a corner at seventy, joining another cruiser with its lights and siren also going full blast. They caught a little bit of air going on the ramp to the freeway, which Fenway thought was thrilling. Mark was a good driver, and when she thought the car might start careening out of control, he was calm, and the tires kept their grip. They passed through traffic without any close calls.

She saw the exit for the airport and braced herself as they crossed three lanes of traffic to get off the freeway. Mark and the other cruiser ran the red light past a few stopped cars, and they headed down the airport road.

Mark pointed out the window. “The private aircraft are housed on the other side of the airport.”

“I haven’t been here since I was a kid. I don’t even remember it.”

They passed freight, and the United entrance, and turned into General Aviation. There was a chain-link fence, which the security team had left open for them, and beyond that, the tarmac.

“There should be a bullhorn in the trunk,” Mark shouted over the roar of a plane overhead. “When we stop, get out of the car and get down. I’ll open the trunk. You stay down and get to the rear of the car. The bullhorn will be in a red and white box in a nook on the right side of the trunk. Get it, and come around the left side, where I’ll be waiting. Remember, stay down the whole time.”

A white and blue Bombardier Challenger 350 was parked at an unusual angle, with an airport security SUV blocking its path. Two security officers were crouched down behind the vehicle.

The sergeant screeched the cruiser to a stop. “Now!”

Fenway threw open the door and awkwardly rolled out of the car. She left her shoes and purse inside. Even though night had fallen, the tarmac was still warm on her feet. She crawled around to the back.

She raised the trunk lid with one hand and put her head up to look for the red and white box. It was on the right side, like Mark said. It took her a few tries to get the box open, but she finally undid the catches and took the electronic bullhorn out. She shuttled around the left side, crouching again, and gave him the bullhorn.

“Get back. This side is more exposed. Go behind the trunk and stay down.”

Fenway followed his instructions. She shuttled halfway around the left rear fender when he switched the bullhorn on.

Mark’s voice boomed across the asphalt of the tarmac. “This is Sergeant Mark Trevino with the Dominguez County Sheriff. Anyone on board the aircraft, come out with your hands on top of your head.” She glanced around. Both officers from the other patrol car were kneeling behind the side of the cruiser with guns trained on the airplane, steadying their aim with both hands.

She stole a glance forward and Mark had his gun drawn too, and was also in a crouch behind the car, one hand holding his firearm, and one hand holding the bullhorn.

“Come out with your hands on top of your head,” he repeated.

A few seconds later, the door to the plane swung down. The pilot, hands on top of his head, came out. Next was a blonde woman in a crisp skirt and a tank blouse, maybe thirty-five years old.

“Ugh,” Fenway mumbled. “Charlotte.”

Next—and last—was Nathaniel Ferris.

They all stood on the runway with their hands on top of their heads. Even from this distance, Fenway could tell her father was unhappy. Charlotte didn’t look pleased either.

“Everyone out of the airplane!” Mark’s voice rang through the bullhorn.

Ferris yelled a response. Fenway couldn’t hear it over the engines.

Mark looked at the other officers and did a few movements with his hand. They ran toward the aircraft and went up the stairs. About three minutes later they returned. “All clear,” Mark’s radio crackled.

He started walking up to Ferris. Fenway followed, barefoot.

“Robert Stotsky isn’t on this plane?” Mark shouted.

“No.” Ferris was angry and defiant. “What the hell, Fenway? You knew where we were going. We didn’t make any secret about it.”

Then it struck her. That’s why he had dinner with her last night—which to Fenway seemed like an eternity ago—instead of over the weekend. “Burbank. You and Charlotte are going to the movie premiere this weekend in Hollywood.”

Ferris took his hands off his head, pursed his lips, and nodded.

Fenway turned to the officers who had searched the plane. “Guys, this plane has an access door to the luggage area inside, near the bathroom. Did you see if anyone was hiding in there?”

Her father’s face scrunched up in anger.

They looked at each other. “No, ma’am. We’ll go check that out right now.”

“Did you really think I’d fly Stotsky somewhere?” Ferris shook his head in disappointment.

“You told me you wanted him to make it out of the country before we caught him.”

“Rooting for someone to escape the law isn’t a crime, but being an accessory after the fact is.” He set his jaw. “You may not like some of the decisions I make, Fenway, but you know where the line is with me.”

“Most of the time.”

He laughed, a harsh, sarcastic laugh. “Yes. Most of the time.”

Fenway looked at Charlotte and nodded in greeting. “Hi, Charlotte.”

Charlotte still had her hands on her head. “I know we don’t see each other often, Fenway, but next time, you can just stop by the house for dinner. You don’t have to pull us out of our plane with the whole sheriff’s department just because you miss your daddy and me.”

Fenway tilted her head and smiled sardonically at Charlotte. She hated that Charlotte was only seven years older than she was, and she hated that Charlotte had replaced her mother, and she hated Charlotte’s smart-ass comments.

Mark’s radio crackled again. “Clear.”

He holstered his weapon. “Sorry, folks. You’re free to go.”

Charlotte took her hands off her head. “Finally.”

Nathaniel Ferris looked at Fenway. “If you weren’t my daughter, I’d have my lawyers on you like you wouldn’t believe.” He shook his head. “I’m starting to really regret recommending you.” He turned back toward the plane.

The airport security people got back in