Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 6. Whole No. 790, June 2007

“Good. Keep me informed, okay?”

“You got it, boss.”

Next I dialed Malone. No answer. I called Malone’s wife Brenda at her TV studio. She’s a producer for a cable reality show on forensic science. She hadn’t heard from Cus but promised she would have him call me as soon as she did.

There was nothing to do at that point but wait. Stowicz cleared his throat.

“What is it, Stan?”

“The Pincus matter. Malone had me look into this patent business.”

“What did you find out?”

“Somebody’s lying.”

“Quick. Call the Action News hotline.”

“Very funny. Seriously, I talked some more with that Armenian lawyer, and also with house counsel at Pleiades Computer. The Armenian said that young Pincus owned the patent and licensed it to the company against future profits. House counsel—”

“The shyster nafkeleh.”

Stowicz did a double-take. “What?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“Well, house counsel said the company owned the patent, that they purchased it from the Pincus boy outright, but for an undisclosed amount. Still, it must have been a pretty big sum. So where’s the money?”

“Well, that’s the sixty-four-dollar question, isn’t it? If Yarjanian is right, that explains why there was no cash. But if house counsel is telling the truth, which seems unlikely — what did you say his name was?”

“Her name. I didn’t, but it’s Amber Gerhardt.”

“Amber Gerhardt.”

“What? You look like you swallowed some air.”

“Stan, what’s a nafkeleh?”

“Shandeh. A nice New York boy like you, and you don’t know? It’s Yiddish for ‘little whore.’”

“Bound to be Buffy in a bikini.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Yes, I am.”

My phone sang “Ch’ella mi creda libero.” Well, not sang, exactly, but I set the ringer to play the tune. It’s from La Fanciulla del West. After Sinatra, Caruso is my guy. But anything by Puccini will do.

“I was right. She’s a hooker,” said Zavala triumphantly after I’d answered. “She just got picked up in a stretch Caddy, dressed in a clingy silver lamé camisole, leather miniskirt, and stiletto heels that would do a dominatrix proud. And she’s got a suitcase, so I guess it’s a long date. I’m following. But I haven’t been able to get through to Malone.”

“You’re close — she actually belongs to the world’s second oldest profession. Stay with her. I’ll talk to Cus. Be discreet.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

She hung up.

There was something still tickling at the back of my mind. Suddenly I had it. “Stan, do me a favor.”

“As long as I get paid. What?”

“The wit I mentioned told me he and Buddy always traveled together in an executive jet. Either Pleiades owns the airplane, or part of it, or they lease it. It’s called a Raytheon Hawker 1000. Call around to the local general aviation airports — start with Van Nuys, since it’s the biggest — and see what you can dig up.”

“Your wish is my command.” He sat down and reached for the phone.

I sauntered over to Malone’s desk. He had left a yellow legal pad on the blotter. There was something written on the top page. The top word was all in caps and underlined:

BACKPACK

Below that, but in smaller script, was: H2O?

Cus had left his long-distance phone log next to the pad. Remember, Rule Number One is document everything, so I wasn’t too surprised to see it there, except for the fact that he usually kept it under the phone. He had made several calls to different numbers in the 928 area code, one for longer than fifteen minutes, that very morning.

I’m a detective. I did what detectives do. I asked about it. “Hey, Stan, where’s nine two eight?”

“Between nine two seven and nine two nine. What do you mean, where’s nine two eight?”

“Never mind.” I pulled out the fax showing where Buddy had died and read the transmission machine’s phone number. 928.

The area code for northern Arizona.

“All right, Carmine, I’ve got your information on the plane,” Stan said. “A Raytheon Hawker 1000 executive jet hangared at Van Nuys, jointly owned by four companies, including Pleiades Computer. Because it’s a jet, it usually flies at altitude, over 18,000 feet, and that means they have to file flight plans.”

“So there’s a record of Buddy’s trip to the Grand Canyon.”

“Sorry. One of the other companies was using it that week. The plane was mostly in Pennsylvania and New Jersey.”

So Buddy had kept the Grand Canyon trip a secret. Not hard to see why. Going off to get lucky in Arizona with the kind of girl you wouldn’t introduce to Mom. Not only that, but the girl wasn’t some tech groupie, she was house counsel, an employee. Office romances can get sticky.

Then it struck me. I speed-dialed Zavala again.

“Tell me you aren’t at the airport in Van Nuys,” I said.

“What are you, psychic?”

“Did you see who’s with Ms. Gerhardt in the limo?”

“You are psychic,” she said, her voice a little in awe. “I was about to call you and tell you. It’s not a john like I thought. She’s with subject.”

Tarkauskas.

“Jess, they have to file a flight plan. Find out where they’re going. A donut will get you a dozen they’re headed for Flagstaff. Call me as soon as you find out.” I hit End and dialed the airline. There was a flight at six to Phoenix, with a connection to Flagstaff. I made the reservation and read off my credit-card number to the reservation clerk.

“Stan, you’ve got to drive me to LAX. And see if you can get ahold of Mr. Malone after you drop me off. Tell him I’ve gone to Arizona. And tell him he was right.”

Some airlines won’t let you pack any handguns at all in your baggage. America West follows federal guidelines requiring the weapon be declared, unloaded, and stored in the manufacturer’s hardshell container, locked, in your regular unlocked suitcase. You’re allowed eleven rounds per weapon, likewise locked in a separate container. Arizona recognizes my California CCW permit, and frankly, it’s real easy to get a gun there, so I had to think twice about packing, if you’ll pardon the expression. But I didn’t know if I’d have time to get another gun, so I packed my main piece, intending to wear it on my belt holster once on the ground, and a little.380 AMT backup, which would go in an ankle holster. I hoped they wouldn’t get ripped off en route.

I wasn’t sure I’d need a gun, but it seemed like a good idea.

I was almost aboard the jet going to Phoenix when Zavala got back to me. My hunch was right, as I knew it would be. Tarkauskas and Gerhardt had filed their flight plan for Flagstaff. They would get there before me, of course, but if they were going there for the reason I thought, they wouldn’t be able to do anything until morning.

My guns came through safely. In Flagstaff, I rented as nondescript a car as I could find, a dark green Ford Escort. Discreet enquiry (a detection trade term of art, that, by which we mean being sneakier than an alley cat at a canary convention) had led me to find out that Tarkauskas had likewise rented a vehicle, predictably a black Escalade, so I spent some time riding around Flagstaff looking in hotel parking lots until I found their car. Then I hunkered down to wait. I knew they’d be up early.

It was before dawn when I saw Tarkauskas, Amber Gerhardt, and one of his bovine thugs climb into the Cadillac. It was the first time I’d actually seen Gerhardt, but this time she wasn’t dressed up like a slutty starlet condescending to get loaded in a trendy nightspot. Instead, she was in a khaki ensemble that included a military-cut short-sleeve shirt and a pair of tight shorts revealing her shapely bronze legs, and looked like a stripper’s take on Indiana Jones — the effect was only partly spoiled by her big Wolverine hiking boots. Zavala was right, she was cute in a kittenish way, more like a high-school cheerleader than some sultry, sophisticated vixen already out of professional school. I would never have pegged her as an attorney.