Burn Out (24 page)

“Who else works there while they’re gone?”

“My neighbor: she did the housekeeping. But Mr. Han-over called her in October and told her her services would no longer be needed. He gave no reason, but did send a large severance check. She used the money to take a trip to Philadelphia to spend Thanksgiving with her daughter. And there was a gardener and handyman, but he recently moved to Arizona.”

“How recently?”

“A month ago. Around the time Mr. Hanover fired my neighbor. I don’t know who’s doing the outdoor work out there now.”

The timing was interesting. Another generous severance check?

“Did the Hanovers always arrive by private jet?”

“Always. He’s a pilot, you know.”

“Did you ever hear anything that would explain why he chose to buy a ranch here?”

“I once heard him tell his daughter Alyssa that he’d grown up in Vernon and had always loved it here, but then his family moved to Nevada and his life was never right again. He said he was happy to come back as an important man to the place where he was born.”

“But he bought the ranch in strict secrecy and never showed his face in town.”

“Probably afraid somebody would find out who he really was. And he seemed content sitting out on that big old terrace and looking down on Vernon. I guess it was enough for him.”

Until his daughter Hayley showed up and wanted him to acknowledge her.

“When did Bud Smith come to the ranch for dinner with Hanover?”

“Two years ago, the last Saturday in July. I remember because it was quite an evening. . . .”

It had started out pleasantly enough, Linda Jeffrey told me. Hanover had been alone on the trip and in an expansive mood, ordering her to serve special hors d’oeuvres and wine on the terrace; the dinner menu was similarly elaborate. Bud Smith, who was Linda’s insurance broker, arrived about five o’clock and was given a tour of the property by Hanover. Bud called Hanover Davey, and Jeffrey assumed it was a nickname. The two men seemed reserved but were getting along well enough through drinks and hors d’oeuvres and the soup course of the dinner.

“Then their voices got louder. I was shocked to hear Hanover call Bud his brother. Hanover wanted to pay Bud half a million dollars for what he called ‘his trouble.’ Bud said he preferred to earn an honest living, that no amount of money could make up for those lost years in prison.”

Hanover then began pressuring Smith to take the money, and Smith blew up at him.

“He said he had been in touch with Izzy Darkmoon’s and Davey’s child from the rape, Hayley Perez. She called Bud periodically to ask him about her little sister, Amy. Bud told Hanover to put the half million in trust for Hayley and also retain a good lawyer for her, because she was a prostitute in Las Vegas and headed for serious trouble.”

“What was Hanover’s reaction?”

“He said he didn’t want anything to do with his trailer-trash bastard. That’s when Bud threw a glass of wine in his brother’s face. He told him he’d better establish the trust and retain the lawyer as soon as he went back to New York, and provide him with confirmation. Otherwise he’d go straight to the authorities over in Nevada and tell them the truth about the rape. And then he stormed out of the house.”

“What did Hanover do?”

“Wiped the wine off and called for me to serve the next course. He asked if I’d heard any of their conversation, and I said no, I’d been listening to my iPod. He believed me because there’s a light in the kitchen that flashes when somebody presses a button in the dining room, and a lot of times I do have my iPod on while I work. So I served him the roast. He didn’t eat much or ask for the dessert course. Afterward he gave me a hundred percent tip on top of my usual fee, which is fairly generous to begin with.”

“To ensure your silence, in case you
hadn’t
been listening to music.”

“Yeah.” Linda Jeffrey smiled wryly. “But me, I’m like Bud: I prefer to make an honest living. I wrote a check next morning to Friends Helping Friends for the amount of the tip, and then I went to see Miri Perez.”

So Linda Jeffrey hadn’t been summoned to Rattlesnake Ranch in five to six months. And the housekeeper had been let go and the handyman and gardener had suddenly moved to Arizona.

I had nothing if I couldn’t somehow prove Hanover was at the ranch on the date Hayley died.

Who would have the information I needed?

Amos Hinsdale. He practically lived in that shack at Tufa Tower. Monitored the UNICOM constantly. No one in a private jet could land in this territory without Amos knowing about it—even if the pilot didn’t broadcast to other traffic.

Now, if I could only get the old coot to talk with me . . .

“Canada Dry ginger ale,” the bartender at Hobo’s said. “Amos hasn’t had a drink of alcohol in his life that I know of. But he comes in here every Saturday night and always has three or four Canada Drys. Likes company and conversation that one day of the week. I keep a supply of the stuff on hand for him.”

“Would you sell me a cold six-pack?”

“Sure. You planning on seducing him?” He winked.

“If only what I have in mind were that simple.”

Hinsdale gave me a suspicious look when he opened the door of the shack at the airport. “We’re closed, lady pilot.”

What on earth could be closed? There were no avgas or mechanic’s services here, just the UNICOM and a rudimentary landing-light system that had ceased to work reliably years ago.

I held up the six-pack of Canada Dry. “I thought we might share a couple. It’s my favorite, and I hear it’s yours, too.”

Now he scowled. “I’d think a woman like you, married to Ripinsky, would prefer beer.”

“I like a brew sometimes, but not tonight.”

“So you decided to visit an old man and sip some ginger ale. Hard to believe.”

“Hell, Amos, you’ve nailed me. I need help.”

“Something wrong with that plane of Ripinsky’s? What did you do to it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with the plane. But something’s very wrong in this town.”

His eyes narrowed, wrinkles deepening around them. “What d’you mean—wrong?” But his downturned mouth told me he already knew the answer.

“Hayley Perez, her sister Amy, and her mother Miri. Tom Mathers and Bud Smith. And a private jet that landed at Rattlesnake Ranch around the day Hayley was murdered.”

His features seemed to fold inward, and his eyes grew bleak.

“Please, Mr. Hinsdale . . .”

He opened the door wider, motioned me in. “I’ll take that Canada Dry, thank you.”

Surprisingly, the shack was comfortably furnished, with two overstuffed chairs beside the table that held the UNICOM. Yellowing rental forms for Amos’ clunker planes, scribbled slips of paper, old newspapers and magazines, and even older aviation sectionals were scattered beside the unit.

I sat in the chair he indicated, opened two cans of ginger ale and handed him one. He sipped and stared silently at the opposite wall, where a framed photograph of a young man in a U.S. Navy flight suit was hung; he stood beside a fighter plane, his gaze stern, jaw thrust out aggressively.

Amos caught me looking at it and said, “Me. Down at Miramar before we shipped out for ’Nam on the
Enterprise
. December second, 1965.”

“You fly a lot of missions?”

“Yeah. I was one of the lucky ones: I lived to tell about them. A lot of my buddies didn’t.”

“My father was a Navy man—NCO. In fact, we lived in San Diego and could hear the planes out of Miramar.” The sonic boom from one had cracked our swimming pool so badly that my parents had filled it with dirt and turned it into a vegetable garden.

Amos nodded absently, sipped more ginger ale. “Wasn’t a private jet.”

“What . . . ? Oh, you mean at Rattlesnake Ranch.”

“That’s what you’re asking about, isn’t it? That jet, I don’t even have to see it approach the ranch; I can hear it. You wouldn’t think my hearing could be so keen after all these years around aircraft, but it is. No, that day I was standing in the door trying to work myself up to cutting the grass alongside the runway when this Cessna 152 flew right over the field. Damned low, and the pilot didn’t even announce himself to traffic. UNICOM was dead silent. I watched the plane make its descent at the ranch.”

“You get the plane’s number?”

“I did. Was going to report it to the FAA, but”—he shrugged—“things get away from me these days.” His eyes strayed to the photograph on the opposite wall. “It’s hard to admit that you’re not as energetic or clearheaded as you used to be. But it’s a fact, you can’t challenge it.”

“It was clearheaded to take down the Cessna’s number. You still have it?”

“Somewhere.” He sifted through the items scattered on the table, came up with a blue Post-it note. He was more clearheaded than he gave himself credit for; I was willing to bet he knew where every item in that clutter was. “Yours,” he said, handing it to me. “How about we have another ginger ale?”

“Sure,” I said, surprised at how mellow he’d become toward me. I popped two more tabs, passed a can over to him.

“How’d you get interested in flying?” he asked.

“Ripinsky. I’d been at the controls of a plane a few times, years before I met him, when I was dating a Navy pilot stationed at Alameda, but I didn’t enjoy it all that much. He was a hotdog pilot and liked to scare people.”

“Guy was an asshole then. Ripinsky breaks a lot of rules, but never at the expense of a novice passenger.”

“That’s true. And he’s a terrific pilot. Once I got comfortable flying with him, I asked him to teach me—he’s got his CFI, you know. But he didn’t think it would be good for the relationship, so he found me an instructor near San Francisco. And I’ve been happily flying ever since.”

Amos pursed his lips; I suspected he was trying not to say something. But the desire to speak won out: “You been flying happily and beautifully. Nobody around here—male or female—makes the kind of landings and takeoffs you do.”

I was genuinely touched, but I said lightly, “Not even Ripinsky?”

“Not even him. And I’m not bad-mouthing your husband, because he admits you’re the better pilot.”

Somehow I—and Canada Dry—had won grouchy Amos Hinsdale over. I’d been promoted from “lady pilot” to just plain “pilot”!

From the FAA’s Internet site, I found the Cessna whose number Hinsdale had noted down belonged to a flight service in Fresno. I called the service, got a machine. By then it was nearly eleven. Hy hadn’t called today. No one had, except for Patrick and Ted with terse reports they’d left on the machine. Hy’s silence didn’t bother me; I could sense him urging me on.

I flipped the TV on to the national news. The recent happenings in Mono County had become a major story. Apparently they had been for nearly two days, when the media smelled links between the murders. Come to think of it, I’d seen a CBS van in town the previous afternoon, but had been too distracted to take much notice. Tonight’s follow-up said the sheriff’s department was searching for both Bud Smith’s boat trailer and the keys to his Forester, so far with little success.

After watching the weather report—more snow—I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to think.

Trevor Hanover—wherever he was—would be monitoring the news. He’d be aware of the interest the cases had generated. But would he suspect someone had also linked the events to him?

Maybe, maybe not.

I began to construct my view of what had happened.

Hanover had been intimidated by his brother Bud’s threat to tell the truth about Miri’s rape to the Nevada authorities. He’d retained the attorney for Hayley and probably put the half million dollars he’d offered Bud in trust. When Hayley returned to Vernon and took out the life-insurance policy, Bud gave her her mother’s letter. After reading it, she asked Bud to set up a meeting with her father; again the threat hanging over Hanover had worked, and he’d agreed. Perhaps he’d expected some kind of trouble, since he’d flown his jet to Fresno and rented a small plane that wouldn’t be recognized as belonging to him.

Still, I couldn’t believe even as cold and calculating a man as Hanover was reputed to be would have planned his own daughter’s murder.

An accident, then. Hanover refusing Hayley’s demands for money and recognition as his child. Hayley taking out Boz’s .32. A struggle, and the gun going off and killing Hayley. Happens all the time when irresponsible people untrained in the use of firearms have access to them.

Hanover left the scene, taking the gun with him. And someone saw him leaving. . . .

Tom Mathers. T.C. had told me her husband had a woman friend in that trailer park—a woman friend who’d left to care for her supposedly ailing mother shortly after Hy and I found Tom’s body. Mathers could have heard the shot and followed Hanover. After that, he did some checking and made a phone call to the ranch, thinking he had a big deal going.

Blackmail—the fool’s crime.

From this point on, my thinking became more speculative.

Bud Smith knew as soon as he heard the news of Hayley’s death that his brother had killed her, but for some reason he didn’t go to the authorities. Lack of proof? Shock? The habit of lifelong loyalty and protectiveness? The hope he could persuade Davey to turn himself in? Family ties could be that strong: I’d seen it over and over again, in my own life and those of others.

Did Bud try to talk with his brother, but found himself unable to because Hanover had forted himself up at the ranch?

No way to tell.

On November second, a meeting between Hanover and Mathers at the lava fields. More demands on Hanover. His financial empire is crumbling, his wife has left him, he’s killed his daughter, and now this. He snaps, and when Mathers turns away from him, he shoots him in the back with Sheppard’s .32.

Premeditated? Yes. Maybe he wasn’t expecting the meeting to turn out that way, but the possibility must have been in the back of his mind, or he wouldn’t have brought along the gun.

Now he’s panicked. He’s in the lava fields with a dead man and two vehicles. He doesn’t want to leave the body there—the proximity to his ranch. He can put the body in its owner’s truck, drive it to some remote place, and dispose of it, but then how the hell does he get back?