Final Approach Page 3

  Mattie, in the arms of one of the policemen, squirmed and reached for the woman. The officer carrying him wouldn’t hand him over, and Mattie’s outstretched arms and wriggling upset this woman even more. I asked whether I could hold him, and the officer told me, “Not yet, ma’am,” and whisked him past me, out the door.

  Morgan and Cole asked me to follow them to the station to give a statement. Confused, I asked about the second man from the table. The detectives and the patrolmen had a brief discourse outside, and when Morgan and Cole returned, I learned that, whoever the second man was, he was gone by the time my call had been answered.

  But where did he go? And when? I’d watched all of them at their table during my call and was standing at the exit after that.

  I described the guy and the three of us searched the restaurant without luck. The place had video surveillance of its parking lot though. It showed a hurrying man, in clothes like I remembered, leaving through an employee entrance. His face was grainy, but I felt pretty sure it was the guy. He got into a dark pick-up and booked it out of the lot. Morgan rewound the tape, paused it, and wrote down part of a license plate number.

  I called Nora on my cell while following the detectives to the police station. I started with, “I found Mattie!” and never got around to the nuts and bolts of how that happened. She was hysterical. Listening to her carry on, my eyes started tearing so badly I had to keep wiping them so I could see the road. Keith picked up on another extension and asked questions that made me feel useful. Am I sure it’s him? Where did I find him? Does he look mistreated? Who has him now? He gave his cell number and said they’d be on the next flight to Austin. I heard keys jingle in the background as he said it. I promised to call them with more updates and the street address for the station as soon as I knew it. And I promised to stay with Mattie.

  When we got to the station, Mattie was undergoing a physical exam in a private room but I was told I could be with him shortly. I’m not sure how cops divvy up their questioning, but apparently Cole got me and Morgan got the “parents.” He led them to an office and I watched as the crying woman collapsed into her husband’s arms. I think she said “we were so close” right before Morgan shut the door.

  Cole sat me at his desk with a small stack of statement forms and told me to write about my experience using as many continuation sheets as I needed. It took fourteen hand-written pages.

  Next, it was off to a computer station where I used special software to create a likeness of the mystery man. It wasn’t perfect, but gave the detectives a start.

  Meanwhile, Keith had been in touch with the Austin PD and asked that I be allowed to stay with Mattie until he and Nora arrived. Keith’s company has a corporate plane; his VP was happy to help any way he could. They traveled on a private flight and would arrive at the station in a few hours.

  Finally, I got the little guy. When I scooped him into my arms, I imagined how this would feel to Nora and Keith when they got to hold their baby again. As soon as he settled into my lap, I dialed them. When Nora answered, I said, “I have somebody here who wants to talk to his mama,” and got teary again.

  After our call, the hard part started. The station is no toy land, and I wasn’t allowed to leave with the baby. Entertaining a toddler for nine hours in a police station was…well, shitty. But what are friends for?

  Detective Cole walked up with two Dr. Peppers and a carton of milk in time to see Mattie try to decapitate me using my necklace. I searched my purse for something safer and came up with a library card and the keys to the rental. What he really wanted was my lipstick. I made a mental note to tease Keith.

  Cole noticed my parachute pendant. I pulled a picture of Annette from my wallet and explained why I quit skydiving. He produced his own photo of two cute kids, the reasons he sometimes worries about being a cop.

  He went back to work and Mattie and I were relegated to the waiting room chairs. Keith and Nora burst through the doors around 11:30 p.m. and I’ve never seen parents look worse or better.

  ***

  Even after so much time, those memories were sharp.

  My cell phone rang, muffled within the bowels of my purse, and jolted me back. I sniffled and brushed away tears. When I answered the phone, I tried to sound normal.

  “Where are you?” Jeannie wanted to know.

  “In a Houston hotel.” I crashed backward on the bed with my feet hanging over the edge of the mattress. My eyes closed involuntarily.

  “Is Richard there with you?” she whispered.

  My eyes popped open. “Of course not.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is, this is a mistake,” I said. “The only reason he wants to explore the drop zone angle is that police found a jump ticket in some lady’s bushes.”

  I thought of the staff member who’d evaded Richard’s questioning, but left that part out. I stared at the swirls on the ceiling.

  “What about you?” I said. “What’s going on there?”

  “Sure, I’ll get that ready before I leave. No problem.”

  I knew the cover. She’d called from her desk at work—and had been busted.

  “Talk to you later,” I sighed.

  I tried to concentrate on the BioTek work I owed Bowman, but Richard’s case was distracting. After forty-five minutes, I closed my laptop, changed into running clothes, and left to explore the city on foot.

  I started east at an easy pace, toward what I thought was downtown. Traffic often moved slower than I did, and for blocks I passed only apartments, strip malls, and donut joints. But within a mile, establishments like the Taco Cabana and local pregnancy crisis center faded off the landscape, replaced by more upscale businesses like leather vendors and gourmet smoothie shops. High rises in shades of green and blue loomed ahead and, even though it sure looked like downtown, signs said otherwise. I’d found the Galleria.

  On Post Oak Boulevard, I passed Williams Tower. The building reminded me of a 1920’s skyscraper, except that it was fronted with glass, and it was so tall I stumbled when I tried to look up at it. Ahead, a series of ornamental silver arches spanned each intersection. Running beneath them felt like going under a bunch of chrome rainbows. The effect was too over-the-top for my taste, but at least there were no creepy men leering at me like in Cleveland. Instead, the quizzical looks from suited businessmen and swanky women seemed only to ask why I’d reduced myself to public exercise.

  I continued in the shadows of parking garages and high-rise offices, and each time I spotted a luxury hotel—they could be found in any direction I looked—I wished Richard had put me up in one of those suckers instead. The air quality in Houston was disgusting, I realized, but at least none of the cars had chains on their tires. They didn’t seem to rust, either. Without salted roads, even older models still looked strangely new. On two occasions, I noticed “Don’t Mess With Texas” bumper stickers.

  My new environment was certainly interesting, but even fancy landscaping and posh architecture couldn’t take my mind off the reason for my visit. At the drop zone, I’d meet potentially dangerous people. I had no undercover experience, no reason to believe I’d be any good at my assignment. I was a thirty-two-year-old burned out chemist, for Pete’s sake, not a swashbuckling private eye. My imagination went haywire, conjuring wild cloak and dagger scenarios. I ran faster, imagining myself a tough she-woman like Jaime Sommers, Sydney Bristow, or Xena.

  When I finally got back to the hotel, sweaty and spent, my GPS watch reported a distance of 4.2 miles. That warranted overpriced cookies from the mini-bar. I headed upstairs to claim my reward.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday morning, the only indication I was in the right place was a faded wooden sign nailed to a post that said “Gulf Coast Skydiving. Howdy, Y’all!”

  With an impressive lack of verbiage, Richard had pushed a Houston area map and a set of car keys across the breakfast table at my hotel. The car was his teenaged son’s. It was my loaner. The ma
p led to the drop zone, about seventy miles south of Houston, six miles from the Gulf of Mexico.

  I eased onto the dirt road and watched a plume of dust rise behind me in the rearview mirror. Ahead, down a half-mile stretch of pitted dirt road, a compound of small airport hangars was clustered in a field. I grew anxious thinking about what and who I would find.

  Private planes were tied down between hangars, but the place looked otherwise deserted. I figured the owners of the little planes must be weekend hobbyists, busy today at work.

  Then a Cessna came into view, making a final approach to a grass runway. It dropped out of sight behind hangars at the end of the drive. I checked the sky. Four parachutes swirled overhead.

  The road dead-ended in a grass lot next to the largest hangar. Enormous sliding doors, large enough to pull a plane through, were wide open on both sides. I looked straight through the building to the landing field behind it, where orange windsocks flared sideways, then flopped beside their posts. The Cessna was taxiing back.

  I parked next to a dusty Mustang with a license plate that said SKYD1VR and got out of the car.

  It felt good to stretch. I pulled my gear bag from the backseat and was about to head for the hangar when I had a shameful thought. My chances of befriending jumpers, at least the men, might improve if I took off my wedding rings. I slipped them off and shoved them deep into the pocket of my jean shorts. The naked sensation on my finger felt dishonest, and I longed for Jack. I imagined he’d understand; maybe even scold me for not doing it sooner.

  Inside the hangar I found an office, where a friendly looking hippie in his mid-forties was going over student rates with a caller on the phone. He wore a Dave Matthews Band concert shirt, cutoff jeans, and Teva sandals. A skinny ponytail snaked down his back. He winked at me and gestured he’d be a minute, then flipped through some paperwork stacked behind the counter.

  I set my gear down and inspected pictures hanging on the office’s scuffed walls. One showed silhouettes of a beautiful round formation at sunset. I estimated it as a forty-way. Several photos captured the exaggerated smiles of tandem students in freefall, their instructors giving two thumbs up behind them. A collage showed various jumpers with pie smeared on their faces. I remembered my own hundredth jump from back in the Stone Ages, it seemed. My friends had gotten me with six key-limes, a vanilla crème, and a cheesecake. I smiled, remembering Jack. Later that night, when we’d gone to bed, he’d gotten me with a chocolate pie.

  I scanned one photograph to the next. Who in those pictures knew something about Casey?

  The man behind the desk hung up. “Thanks for waiting. What can I do ya for, hon’?” His smile was warm; it reminded me of my dad’s.

  I explained I was new in town and needed a re-pack. Unlike the main canopy, which we pack ourselves, reserves have to be packed by a certified rigger every ninety days.

  He shook my hand. “Rick Hanes. My wife and I own this shack. What brings you from out of town?”

  “Work.” I’d hatched a cover story during my lonely night in the hotel and felt a little self-congratulatory because my burst of foresight was about to pay off.

  He leaned on the countertop between us, resting on his elbows.

  “What line of work?”

  I’d once heard it’s best to stick with what you know. “Chemistry.”

  An eerily silent tabby cat sprung onto the countertop to investigate me. I started petting it.

  “That’s Otter,” Rick said. “Showed up one day and never left.” He stroked her under the chin, then turned toward the window. “Who you working for?”

  Cat hair began to stick to the palm of my hand.

  “NASA.”

  It seemed easier to function inside a huge, open-ended lie than small, specific one, so I’d selected a fake employer accordingly. For good measure, I’d even Googled the surrounding area and decided on a pretend waterfront apartment on Clear Lake. “I found a cute little place in Kemah, not too far from some great seafood restaurants.”

  “Excellent!” Rick said. “We have several space nuts here. I’ll introduce you.”

  He tapped a stack of flyers on the counter and explained that a boogie—jumper lingo for a major skydiving event—was planned for the weekend. He was bringing in a couple hot air balloons and a Twin Otter from Tulsa for some special jumps.

  In addition to regular weekenders, boogies often attract other regional jumpers. If a skydiver in southeast Texas was responsible for Casey’s kidnapping, I thought there was a good chance he’d be at the boogie.

  “Let me introduce you to the gang,” Rick said, “Then we’ll take care of your rig and waiver.”

  He held open the office door and followed me outside into the expansive hangar, where I met a love-struck young couple lounging on carpet remnants covering the cement floor. They could hardly look away from each other long enough to meet me.

  Rick leaned close to me and whispered, “Hot pants,” as we walked outside.

  I laughed, and it felt good. Good to laugh, and good to be at a drop zone, where a person can walk into a crowd of total strangers and almost any of them will make room for a newcomer on their dive.

  Outside, in alarmingly quick succession, I met three women and four men. I realized immediately my problem linking names and faces would be a severe handicap in my new role as Richard’s operative.

  Two names stuck.

  The first was Marie, Rick’s wife. She dog-eared a page in a paperback when Rick brought me over. Petite and athletic, she was in her forties like Rick and had a gorgeous tan. She smiled from her perch on a picnic bench and extended a hand toward me.

  In the first Texas accent I’d heard on the trip, she said, “Welcome. We need more girls around here.”

  Another woman nodded in agreement but was unable to speak because her mouth was full of Fritos. She gave an embarrassed chew-smile and held out her bag to offer some chips, which I accepted. The third woman tossed a cigarette to the ground and smashed it under the toe of her Nike. Marie’s friends were younger than she, but all had bronzed skin, a definite perk to life in the south as far as I was concerned.

  Standing next to them were four men, still in jumpsuits.

  “I saw you guys when I was coming up the road,” I said.

  Rick told me their names, but as soon as the final handshake was complete, the entire list was wiped from memory, save one.

  “Scud” had a face that should be in magazines. He used his grip on my hand to pull me into a swift hug, as if he’d known me all his life. I’d met the resident flirt, and couldn’t help but ask about his name.

  “It’s because of the way he flies that damn Batwing,” Marie snickered, referring to his high performance parachute, which handled like a sports car in the automotive world. She said “flies” like “flas.” “Crazy fool whizzes through here like a missile.”

  “Don’t believe a word of it, sweetheart.” Scud lifted my hand and kissed it. Marie rolled her eyes.

  The skydivers carried their gear into the hangar. I followed Marie’s gaze and watched Scud trudge away with a slight limp.

  “When you gonna fix that knee, tough guy?” she called.

  “No sense doing it before the boogie, woman.”

  She shook her head and opened her book again. “Man’s got the sense of a tin can.”

  I dropped some quarters into a vending machine beside the door and popped open an A&W, eavesdropping while the jumpers went over their dive. They spaced themselves throughout the hangar, laid out their lines across mismatched swatches of old carpeting, and started packing.

  I noticed a guitar case in the corner and asked the closest jumper if it were his.

  “Nope, that’s Vince’s. You play?”

  I swallowed a sip of root beer. “A little.”

  “Well, he sure can’t,” he said, and the others laughed. “Help yourself. He’s a good guy. No worries.”

  I set down my can and unfastened the case’s latches. I was surprised to find a Ma
rtin inside.

  “For somebody who can’t play, he sure has a Cadillac in here.”

  “Whatcha gonna play, sweetheart?” Scud called from across the room, where he was folding the Batwing’s cells.

  His flirting was relentless, but it went a long way toward breaking the ice and I needed the help. He was also nice to look at, so all the better. I decided I could keep up with him, even though I was years out of practice. There’s a certain level of courage gained by pretending to be someone you’re not.

  “Whatcha wanna hear, sweetheart?” I lifted the guitar and took a seat in a nearby folding chair.

  “‘American Pie’?” He laid belly-down on the floor and straddled his folded nylon parachute cells. He pressed as much air out of the fabric as he could and began to compress the canopy into an S-pattern.

  I played, and Scud sang along badly. We finished while he muscled his canopy into its D-bag and stowed the lines. When the song ended, he shouted across the room, “When are we getting married?” I felt myself blush.

  The woman with the Fritos said she was having a mellow day and asked for a ballad. I chose Marty Robbins’ “Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me” and sang that moody, soulful old song while I watched the group finish packing. It was hard to believe any of them could have something to do with Casey’s disappearance, but that was a hunch based on intuition alone. As far as facts went, I realized, the only thing I knew with moderate certainty was that nobody so far worked for NASA. I didn’t imagine Richard would find that very useful.

  Part-way through the song, I glanced out the front doors of the hangar and watched a modern day cowboy approach from the parking area with a sack of fast food in hand. His plain white tee showed off a strong chest and well developed arms, and Jeannie would have said his jeans fit “mighty fine.” He walked into the hangar in a pair of dusty, brown boots. A black Stetson hid his eyes.

  Jeannie would never believe my luck, meeting two men that good looking in the same day.