Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 56

Tony Wheeler sat in the copilot's seat of the old Beech Baron, relishing the flight to Santa Monica. He had eleven hours of dual instruction under his belt, and his instructor, Bert Corley, was his pilot today.

"How long do you reckon, Bert?" Tony asked as they leveled off at their cruising altitude.

"Couple hours," Bert replied. "You want to fly her for a while? It's not all that different from the trainer you've been flying, just heavier."

"Thanks, but I have to think about what I'm going to ask this guy," he said.

"What is it you want to know from him?"

"Well, I think he flew a guy up here last night and gave the Santa Monica tower a wrong tail number to keep anybody from finding out. He didn't file a flight plan, either."

Bert nodded. "That would be easy enough to do," he said. "How you going to get him to admit it?"

"I don't know," Tony admitted.

They landed at Santa Monica on schedule and pulled off the runway and into Cloverfield Aviation. Bert cut the engines. "You know where this guy's place is?"

"Nope."

They got out of the airplane, and Bert flagged down the fuel truck and had a word with him. He thanked the man and came back to where Tony waited. "Down this way a couple hundred yards," he said, pointing. "Let's just walk down the taxiway."

"Okay."

A short time later they were approaching the tin shed that housed Barnum Flying Service. An airplane's nose poked out from the hangar.

"He's got a Baron," Bert said, "like ours, only newer." He pointed at the airplane in the hangar next to the office.

Tony nodded. "I'll go on in and talk to him."

"I'll hang around out here," Bert said. "I want to have a look at his airplane."

Tony opened the door and walked in. There was a tiny reception area, with a couple of seedy armchairs and a lot of posters having to do with flying; there was a door with Shorty Barnum's name on it, and Tony opened that. Barnum, who had been dozing with ' his feet on the desk, started.

"Oops," he said. "Caught me catching forty winks. What can I…" Then he saw Tony's badge, and he didn't seem happy about it.

"My name's Tony Wheeler," the deputy said. "From the Napa sheriff's office; we spoke this morning."

"Yeah? Well, what brings you down here, deputy?" Barnum took his feet off the desk, but he didn't offer Tony a chair.

Tony took one anyway. He wanted to begin in a way that would put Barnum at a disadvantage right away, but he was more nervous than he had planned. "You told me this morning that you didn't make a flight to Napa last night, didn't you?"

"That's what I told you," Barnum said, then he looked at the door.

Tony followed his gaze and found Bert standing there.

"Can I see you a minute?" Bert asked.

"Sure." Tony stepped into the little reception area and closed the door behind him. "What's up?"

"I had a look in the airplane," Bert said. "His logbook shows no flight last night, but his Hobbs meter-the little dial that records engine times-shows four point two hours more than his logbook total shows."

"Thank you, Bert," Tony said. He opened the office door and returned to his chair.

Shorty Barnum was looking at him with concern. "What's going on?" he asked.

"I thought I'd let you tell me," Tony replied. "Listen, Shorty, it makes a difference if you didn't know what the guy was going to do."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Shorty said.

"All right, I'll spell it out for you," Tony replied. "Last night, 'round eight, eight-thirty, you took off from Santa Monica VFR, after telling the tower you were a twin Cessna and giving them a wrong tail number. Then you flew up to Napa County and landed at the Wilburn Winery's private strip, and after a while, you flew back to Santa Monica and gave them the wrong tail number again."

Shorty shook his head. "You're full of shit, fella."

"Shorty, as far as I'm concerned, you haven't committed a crime, yet, unless using a wrong tail number is a crime. But if you lie to me, it's a whole new ball game. You can tell me what happened, and I won't have any reason to arrest you, unless you helped the guy do it."

"What'd he do?" Shorty asked, looking worried. "I mean, what did this alleged guy do after I allegedly flew him up there?"

"He tried to murder somebody, but it didn't work."

Shorty shook his head again. "Look, I know you got your job to do, but I can't help you, pal."

"Shorty, let's have a look at your logbook," Tony said.

"What for? It won't show any flight last night. I didn't go anywhere."

"Then why does your Hobbs meter show a flight of four-point-two hours?"

Shorty was suddenly at a loss for words.

"Come on, Shorty, was the guy a friend of yours? I mean, he couldn't have paid you enough for you to risk becoming an accessory to aggravated battery and attempted murder."

Shorty's shoulders sagged. "You're right," he said. "He didn't pay me enough for that."

"How much did he pay you?"

"Five thousand. I was in a hole, and I needed to get out."

Tony raised a placating hand. "I understand, and I'm not looking to break your back. I just want to know about the guy. Did you know him?"

Shorty shook his head. "Never saw him before; said his name was Prendergast, but I didn't really believe him."

"Why not?"

"Well, a guy comes around with a lot of cash, says he wants to make a very confidential flight, and he's wearing what looks to me like a false beard and a wig."

"No kidding?" Tony was excited now.

"Looked phony to me."

"Describe the guy as best you can."

"He was a lot taller than me-I'm not called Shorty for nothing-six-two, six-three, on the skinny side, I think. He was wearing a black raincoat and a floppy hat. And black gloves."

Tony was writing fast in his notebook. "What kind of nose?"

"Uh, straight and kinda long."

"You notice the color of his eyebrows?"

"Dark, I think; not all that different from the color of the wig."

"Any kind of accent?"

"Funny you should mention it; he didn't sound quite American-maybe Canadian, English. His phraseology was a little on the English side, you know?"

"What did he do after you landed at the Wilburn strip?"

"He took off into the woods with a flashlight."

"In which direction?"

"Let's see, the strip ran northeast-southwest, so it would have been to the north."

"How long was he gone?"

"I'm not too sure about that; I dozed off for a while."

"How did he behave when he came back?"

"I can't help you there; he got into the backseat, sat right behind me, facing aft. He did want to get out of there in a hurry, though, and after we took off, I saw a police car or an ambulance headed in the direction he'd come from."

"That was probably me," Tony said. "I caught the call. Did he say anything after you landed?"

"He was out of the airplane before I had time to cut the engines, drove off."

"Did you see the car?"

"Yeah, but only from a distance going away. I don't know what it was, sort of mid-sized, maybe."

"You hear from him again?"

"Nope, and I don't think I will."

Tony stood up. "If you do, don't tell him we talked, okay?"

"Okay. Am I going to have to testify or anything?"

"Probably. I'm going to have to talk to the sheriff about arranging some sort of lineup, so you may have to come to Napa. We'll pay your expenses, though."

Shorty shrugged. "It's not like I'm all that busy," he said. "You think you could recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Beats me. I mean, he was wearing the beard and all."

"You'll be hearing from me," Tony said, laying a card on the desk. "Call me if you hear from the guy again."