Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

The only person they found on the premises was Glenn Davitt, the estate manager, waiting for them in his quarters. He cheerfully admitted that he’d seen Claudia fly away.

“Did she say where she was going?” Price asked.

“No,” Davitt replied, “just that her arrest had all been a big mistake.”

“Were you with her when she arranged for the helicopter?”

Davitt shook his head. “I didn’t even know about it until it landed.”

“But you saw her leave.”

“Yeah.”

“What air charter company did she use?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“What was she carrying?”

“Two bags and a briefcase.”

“Did you see her pack?”

“No.”

“Where’s the housekeeper?” Price asked.

“She gave herself the night off.”

“But you stayed here. Why?”

“Look, I didn’t help Claudia, if that’s what you mean. And even if I had, like I said, she told me everything was cool and you guys had fucked up.”

Price didn’t believe one word of it. Pissed beyond belief, Price told Davitt he would be held as a material witness.

“What does that mean?” Davitt asked.

“You’re going to jail, and you’ll stay there until you’re called to appear at Spalding’s trial.”

“When will that be?”

Price smiled wickedly. “Who knows? Months, maybe. It depends on how long it takes to find her. What air charter company did she use?”

“Valley Air, out of Burbank.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard,” Price said as he dialed Lieutenant Macy’s number.

“Do I still have to go to jail?” Davitt asked.

“Maybe not.”

The full moon Kerney left behind in Santa Fe was hidden by a bleak night sky and a light wind that carried a mist of rain across the river into Arlington. A warm glow came through the windows of the house, and the exterior light was on in anticipation of his arrival.

He paid the cabbie and carried his bags inside just as Sara stepped out of the kitchen. He could feel the grin on his face spread the moment he saw her. Barefoot, dressed in shorts and a halter top that showed the flat muscles of her stomach, her long, slender legs, and the rise of her breasts, she hurried to him and he held her tight, smelling her scent.

After a long look at Patrick, sound asleep in his crib, they sat in the kitchen, Sara sipping wine and Kerney a glass of iced tea. They talked idly, comfortably, about small matters.

Kerney told her of his faulty attempt to build the rock retaining wall at the ranch, and described in detail the horses he’d bought. Sara told him Patrick was about to start teething, and that she was planning to have the old-fashioned radiators enclosed to protect him from accidental burns.

Later, with the bedsheets tangled at their feet, pillows pushed aside onto the floor, damp legs intertwined, Sara talked more about their son. How he was starting to say words, how he would sit quietly and stare at the pages in his picture books.

“He’s already reading and talking,” Kerney said. “What a genius. Do the three of us have the weekend together?”

Sara reached for the pillows, brought them up to the bed, and yawned sleepily. “We do.”

She ran her foot along Kerney’s leg and snuggled close. In the darkness, he listened until her breathing slowed into the quiet rhythm of sleep.

A cooperative Glenn Davitt supplied Price with phone numbers where Cora, the housekeeper, and Sheila, the personal assistant, could be reached. After making contact with them by phone, Price sent detectives to fetch them. Once they arrived, he had them show him the secret places where the Spaldings kept their important papers, cash, and valuables.

Cora took him to the hidden safes in the walk-in closets off the master bedroom. In the library, Sheila opened a sliding wall panel that concealed another safe.

All of them were locked, and since Price and his team didn’t know diddly about safecracking, he called in an expert, which meant waiting for the guy to show.

Once they were opened, Price found the closet jewelry safes had been cleaned out. Inside the library wall safe were insurance policies, prior year tax returns, real estate documents, car titles, personal property inventories, and current year quarterly investment statements.

One of the insurance polices carried a three-million-dollar jewelry endorsement. Appended to it was a list of the items with an appraised replacement value for each. A thick envelope contained photographs of the jewelry and watches. He called Lieutenant Macy.

“From what the housekeeper could tell me, Spalding packed casual traveling clothes. I don’t know how much money she has with her, or if she took her passport, but she cleaned out three million dollars in jewelry that can be pawned or sold for cash. I’ve got photographs of the jewelry we can circulate.”

“There’s a BOLO and fugitive warrant out on her,” Macy said. “Customs, the Mexican authorities, and Interpol have been alerted. Valley Air dropped her off at Burbank, where a car was waiting. We don’t know yet who picked her up or where they went.”

“I’m going to shut it down here, Lieutenant.”

“Leave a detective behind until I can get the Santa Barbara PD to put a close watch on the place.”

“Affirmative.”

Price gave the word to his team, walked outside, and studied the deep marks in the grass left by the helicopter landing skids. A daring escape from justice in a helicopter was something right out of a novel. Who would have thunk it?

Over the years he’d listened to a lot of tales by other cops about their biggest cases, the tough ones, the bizarre ones, the headline grabbers. Price figured he was smack in the middle of a doozie that topped them all.

O n his trips to Arlington, Kerney tried to take over as many childcare chores as possible. He got up early Saturday morning while Sara slept, and found Patrick stirring in his crib in need of a diaper change. He cleaned Patrick up, dressed him, and fed him breakfast. Then father and son slipped out of the house for a walk around the neighborhood.

Patrick’s affectionate personality, inquisitive nature, and sunny disposition delighted Kerney. Whenever he saw something that stirred his curiosity, Patrick’s face lit up in a happy smile.

Kerney let Patrick totter along the sidewalk within easy reach, scooping him up whenever he veered toward the street. While riding safely in his arms, Patrick chewed contentedly on Kerney’s shirt collar until it was damp and soggy.

The neighborhood, known as Aurora Heights, fascinated Kerney. Developed prior to World War II, the houses borrowed heavily from Tudor, Colonial, and Craftsman-style architecture, giving the area a settled, prosperous feel. Lush lawns were neatly tended, mature trees canopied homes, and tall shrubs screened front windows.

It was a tame, orderly slice of the world, much different from New Mexico’s raw deserts and rugged mountains. Although it was pleasing to the eye, the absence of a distant horizon against an immense, limitless sky made Kerney feel hemmed in.

Back at the house, Sara was soaking in the old cast-iron claw-foot tub, reading a book.

She closed the book and put it on the windowsill above the tub. “You don’t know how much I love it when you come to see us.”

Patrick stood at the edge of the tub trying unsuccessfully to climb in. Kerney picked Patrick up and let him splash his hands in the bathwater. “I try to be helpful.”

Sara smiled wantonly. “Actually, my thoughts were more about last night.”

He leaned over the tub and kissed her. “It’s my turn to fix breakfast.”

“Put Patrick in his high chair while you do,” Sara said, “and let him help.”