Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“Like what?” Macy asked.

“The district attorney wants to sign off on it. I think he’s talking to your DA as we speak.”

“Are there any political issues regarding Claudia Spalding I should know about?” Macy asked.

Chacon chuckled. “I don’t think Claudia Spalding has any political clout at all in Santa Fe. From what I know about her, she didn’t come here to engage in civic affairs, if you get my meaning.”

In spite of himself, Macy laughed. “Okay. Thanks for pushing it along, Detective.”

“No problem. I’ll have it to you as fast as I can.”

Macy called Bill Price, who had a team of officers on stakeout at the Spalding mansion. “Is everything quiet?”

“No problem, LT. She hasn’t moved, and no one’s been to visit since the lawyer dropped her off.”

“We should have a warrant from New Mexico in two or three hours. I’ll let you know as soon as it comes through.”

“Ten-four,” Price said.

Because Ramona’s tickets had been booked a day before her departure, she wasn’t able to fly directly to San Luis Obispo and had to lay over at the Phoenix airport and catch the last flight to Santa Barbara.

For a time, she sat in the busy concourse oblivious to the people around her and read through the chief’s case notes on George Spalding.

Kerney had put everything in chronological sequence, and his narrative style was crisp, clear, thoroughly detailed, and filled with solid observations. The notes read like a compelling mystery, and by the time Ramona finished she was caught up in the case, eager to know where George Spalding was and why he’d faked his own death.

Ramona wasn’t surprised by Kerney’s investigative skills. She’d watched him work several major crimes, and knew he’d spent most of his career in the major felony crime unit as he rose through the ranks.

Because of his background in investigations, Kerney paid a bit more attention to the unit than most chiefs normally would. But he didn’t shirk his larger responsibilities, and Ramona hadn’t heard any complaints of favoritism from members of the other divisions.

She put the case notes away and did some people watching. Businessmen and -women in rumpled suits traveling home for the weekend wandered back and forth pulling their wheeled carry-on bags and talking on cell phones. Weary parents chased after hyperactive children. Electric carts with flashing red warning lights passed by carrying senior citizens, frail and disabled people, and young mothers holding infants. Teenage girls in tight jeans showing bare midriffs clattered along. There were middle-aged men in baggy shorts and T-shirts, and an abundance of overweight people.

Her flight left on time and the small turbojet flew west into the sun, with Phoenix and its suburbs below spreading out for miles across the desert floor. Not yet immune to the fun of flying, Ramona passed the time looking out the window. When the plane banked and turned on its final approach to Santa Barbara the ocean came into view, shimmering like an enormous undulating sheet, each wave tufted in white as it broke against the shore.

The Santa Barbara airport was much like the one in Santa Fe, which also served only commuter jets and private aircraft. Portable stairs were rolled up to the plane to unload the passengers, and the terminal, a quaint, tidy California mission-style building, was just a few steps away. Inside, the passenger area was empty, and a small cluster of people waited behind the security barrier, manned by a bored-looking guard sitting on a stool next to the baggage screening machine.

A pretty woman, perhaps two inches taller than Ramona, with short, dark hair and a dimple in her cheek, stepped forward and waved in her direction.

“Ramona?” the woman asked with an easy smile.

“You must be Ellie.” Impulsively, she stepped forward and gave Lowrey a hug.

“Welcome to California,” Ellie said. “Let’s get your bags and hit the road.”

As they waited at the covered baggage stall next to the terminal, Ellie’s cell phone rang.

“Is Sergeant Pino with you?” Lieutenant Macy asked.

“Yes, she just arrived,” Ellie said.

“Good. I need you both here now,” Macy said. “Claudia Spalding is out of jail.”

“What happened?”

“The judge threw out the arrest on a technicality and released her. She’s home, but I’ve got people there making sure she stays put.”

“Do you want us at Montecito?” Ellie asked.

“No, the sheriff and the DA want you and Pino here to vet the new arrest affidavit before it’s served. They want everything in perfect order.”

“Does it need vetting?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are they just covering their butts?”

“I didn’t say that either,” Macy replied.

“We’re on our way.”

“Problems?” Ramona asked as she picked up her luggage.

Ellie smiled. “We’ve been called into work. I’ll tell you about it on the drive.”

“Another Friday evening shot to hell,” Ramona said cheerfully as she followed Ellie to her unit.

Much more than three hours passed while Detective Bill Price waited in his unit with all the windows down so that no outside sound would go unnoticed. Every ten minutes he checked in with his team by radio. All the entrances were covered, two detectives were constantly circling the estate perimeter in units looking for any sign of movement, and an officer was on station at the bottom of the hill ready to stop, ID, and question the destination of any drivers entering the street.

Price checked the time as he unwrapped a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth. The night breeze whispered through the trees, soft and soothing, and a full moon flung tangled webs of shadows from the branches across the roadway.

The distant sound of rotors made Price stiffen, listen intently, and look up at the empty sky through the windshield.

He got out and did a three-sixty scan. Tall trees blocked his line of sight in every direction.

The sound grew closer and a helicopter broke into view, traveling fast, descending quickly, veering toward the estate.

Price decided he couldn’t wait for Macy’s call. He reached into the car and grabbed the microphone. “Go, go, go,” he yelled. “Stop that chopper.”

Car engines roared to life, entrance gates opened, and police cars barreled onto the grounds from three directions, converging on the house. Price swerved around the lead car and braked hard by the front door just in time to see the chopper rise above the rooftop, displaying only the tail boom and rear fins as it flew away.

His cell phone rang. He took a deep breath to swallow his frustration and answered.

“You’re good to go,” Macy said.

Price watched the flashing anticollision beacon on the upper fin of the chopper recede in the sky. “It’s too late. A helicopter just picked her up.”

“Dammit,” Macy said. “You’re sure of that?”

“It just left, Lieutenant. We’re at the house now, but we haven’t searched it yet.”

“Do it,” Macy snapped. “I’ll notify all the area airports and local police departments.”

Price thought about LAX and Burbank, which weren’t that far by air, Santa Barbara just minutes away, and all the other, smaller fields Spalding could land at before any cops could get there in time. It seemed hopeless.

“Ten-four,” he said.

“Did you ID the chopper?” Macy asked.

“Negative, I couldn’t read the markings.”

“Dammit,” Macy said, this time with more feeling. “Seal that place off and search every inch of it. I’ll take care of the warrant affidavit. I want to know exactly what Spalding took with her.”

“Roger that.” Price put the cell phone away, gathered his team, and began the search.