Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

"I don't think I have to kill him," Sandy said. "I think, if he's the coward you believe him to be, it will be enough for me to make him believe that I'll kill him, that he's made me desperate enough to do that."

"I don't like this," Cara said.

"Neither do I," Sandy replied, "but I don't know what else to do." He went to the phone, got the number of the gallery from the operator and dialed the number.

"Hello?" Peter Martindale's voice said.

Sandy took a deep breath. "This is Bart." he said. "We have to meet."

There was a long silence, then Martindale spoke. "Where?" he asked.

"At the same place we met the first time out here. Take the four o'clock boat."

"All right," Martindale replied.

Sandy hung up and turned to Cara. "I have to go to San Francisco," he said.

"I'm coming with you."

"No, it's better if you aren't involved."

"But I am involved, right up to my ears."

"I'm going to take your car."

"Sandy, I'm coming with you."

Sandy shook his head and got her car keys from the hall table.

"Sandy-"

"No, my darling," he replied. He kissed her, then got a raincoat from the hall closet. "The forecast is for cool in the city today," he said, then left the house. He walked to the car, then stopped. He was unarmed. He walked around the house and, peeking through a window to see that Cara was not in the kitchen, he entered through the back door. Half a dozen knife handles protruded from a wooden block on a counter. He chose a slim, sharp boning knife, wrapped the blade in some paper towels, put the knife in his raincoat pocket, and returned to the car.

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?"