Dead Red Cadillac, A (15 page)

He swallowed, his Adam's apple dipping. "You're right. I haven't seen my wife and kids for more than two hours out of this whole week. All I seem to do is drive."

Pretending I didn't know, I asked, "By the way, who owns Hollander Chemicals these days?"

"Uh, guy by the name of Clark hired me, but I think he said the owner's name's Machado. I've never met the guy. Not that I would, being on the road all the time. I call in the orders anyway."

I shrugged, like it didn't matter to me. "You take Merced to Modesto. Fill that in with Patterson Flying on the west side and Hawk Dusters on the east, and you've got a full-time job and our loyalty."

We shook hands, and he left, looking a little less exhausted than when he came in. He wasn't out of the yard before I had the book of California Aero Ag Owners and Operators on the desk, looking for an address. I found John Machado still listed as being in the industry.

I went to the house to shower and dug into the back of my closet and pulled out two hangers covered in thin plastic. Choosing the taupe linen knee-skimming sheath over the other, more brightly colored dress, I put it on and shoved my foot into a size nine sandal, grabbed my wallet and keys, and left.

Bobby Norquist was working for Machado when he died. And Norquist was the murder witness for Eddy McBride's defense. The question was, did he die by accident or design? I decided it was time for me to find out.

A "No Trespassing" sign dangled from a chain-link fence in front of the work yard at John Machado's Aero Ag Service. I drove around the fence and parked next to a huge WWII Quonset hut. Stepping between buildings, I saw men and forklifts hurriedly moving equipment and supplies around. I'd let all of my crew go home by three because tomorrow it would all start again at three-thirty a.m. It made for one very long day. Machado was either working two shifts or only worked nights. Which was odd, since nobody north of Merced flew nights. Cotton is flown at night, as that's when the wind is down and the bugs are out.

I followed the driveway to an airstrip where two helicopters and three Ag-Cats lined up. The planes looked like dark, grumpy elephants shuddering behind the motion of their huge propellers. A pilot with an orange helmet in the crook of his arm passed by me, giving me a leer that said, "I would've slapped you on the butt, lady, but I'm busy right now," and then he disappeared around the corner of the building.

A screen door slammed and a heavyset man in overalls lumbered over to me. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't carry a club either. I suspected I wasn't going to stun him with the hundred-watt smile I kept for the old codgers, but a corner of his mouth did quirk up a bit.

"Hi," I said.

"Afternoon," he said, looking at his watch, grudging the time. "What can I do for you?"

I held out a hand. "John Machado?"

He ignored my offering. "No, he's in the office. I don't mean to be rude, ma'am, but if you're from the newspaper, he's not giving out any more statements, and as you can see this is a real busy place." He waved his arm in the direction of the loaders filling a tank with familiar and noxious chemicals. The loaders were wearing the requisite coveralls and masks, but no respirators. I looked away quickly before the surprise registered on my face, and before he suspected I might be a county inspector. Good thing I wasn't from county, or he'd be in for a big fine.

Mr. Overalls stood guarding the office door. "Like I said, this is an awfully dangerous place to be about now. Chemicals, airplanes, and a very tired crew can be a dangerous mix."

"I get your point, but I'm not with the newspaper. I just want to speak to Mr. Machado for a minute." I tried again to move around him toward the screen door.

He blocked me. "If you have a complaint about the noise or the chemicals, take it to the county."

"That's not it either," I said, feinting to the right, I slipped by him on the left. He lumbered after me as I walked through the front door.

In his late fifties, graying hair combed over a balding pate, John Machado sat behind the vintage metal desk. His beefy face reddened when he looked up.

"Mr. Machado?" I asked, sticking out my hand and giving him my hundred-watt smile. "Could I have just five minutes of your time? I'm not a reporter." That was certainly true, and I hoped I could pull this off before he connected me to my daily dose of fame in the local newspaper.

"Gimme ten minutes?" he said, stacking papers. "I gotta get this ground crew on their way."

"Sure," I said. It would give me a chance to snoop.

He motioned to the guy I brought in with me, and they went out together.

I watched them walk a few feet from the office, stop and talk. I was just paranoid enough to worry. Were they talking about me? Of course they were. The guy in the overalls glanced back and caught me staring. He quickly looked the other way, then nudged his boss further from the door. What? Like I'm going to read your lips? I wish I had been able to read their lips. Save me some questions.

Mr. Overalls went on out to the crew and John Machado, with his back to the office, started waving his hands in the air and shouting after him. Overalls was right, this might be more dangerous than I thought. While they were still shouting at each other, I did an about-face and rifled through the papers on his desk. Nothing that could tell me what he was doing tonight. No work orders with today's date, and no recent invoices for chemicals. I tried a couple of drawers, but they were locked. When I heard footsteps, I turned away from the desk and pretended to be studying the set of photos on the wall behind his desk. In a line of old black-and-white photos, guys in soft leather caps and jackets stood in front of their Stearmans, goggles lifted to show raccoon faces and watery eyes rimmed with sulfur.

The door opened and a voice behind me said, "That one was taken in the fifties, when we spread sulfur over everything, cows, kids and crops. See the people in the field waving? Today they shake their fists at us and call county." Mr. Machado and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder while he tapped the glass on another picture. "Poor Bud was so allergic to the stuff, watery eyes, skin rashes, he finally just gave it up and bought a bar down the road. You may have passed it? Big old Stearman with a neon dust trail? Bud's happier running a bar than he ever was pitching chemicals out of an airplane."

"Who's the guy on the right, the one with the funny haircut?"

"That's not a haircut, that's burn. It got the whole right side of his face."

"Was he a bad pilot, or just unlucky?"

"Unlucky, but thankfully not on my dime. I needed a hand and Bob was helping out for the season. I don't think his wife even had a photo of him after he was burned in his first accident. He didn't like pictures of him around, so I put this one up after he died."

"Died?"

"Yes, Ms. Bains. That's Bob Norquist. He was the pilot who crashed and burned to death just before he was going to testify twenty years ago on behalf of Bill Hollander."

"Okay, you got me."

"Yes, the question is, what am I going to do with you? Just kidding. Want some coffee?"

"Thanks, but I'll pass. By the way, I never thanked you for clearing me for landing at your strip. And I presume it was you that called the ambulance?"

"It's been a long day." He poured the coffee, then topped it off from a bottle of Jim Beam and put the bottle back in his desk. "Odd that this is the first time we've actually met. Thought I'd have a chance to speak to you before they hauled you off to the hospital, but glad that you made it as far as you did." He came around to my side of the desk and nodded at the cast. "How's the leg doing?"

I followed his glance down to my walking boot-cast. "Coming off this week, I think."

John Machado was sizing me up. He was also inside of that precious eighteen inches of space anthropologists say is essential to Americans, though not to Orientals, or so I'm told. He didn't look Japanese, but then I was in his office so I let it go, for now. He pointed a finger to another frame, brushing his arm across my chest. Annoyed, but not quite ready for a showdown, I bit down on my lip and moved out of range.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face at my withdrawal. "This here bunch are boys from twenty years ago. Jeff Sperry, Bobby Norquist, the guy with the burn, and John Shanahan." He leaned into me again, and the pointing arm made another swipe at my chest. I ignored the arm, letting him think what he would, and just when his lips twisted in something like a grin, I leaned into him and stepped hard on his left foot and then quickly backed off.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I step on your foot? It's this darn cast."

His mouth slammed down into a thin line of pain, but he did look at me with renewed respect. He folded his arms over his substantial gut and said, "So, what can I do for you today, Ms. Bains?"

"I was hoping you could help me figure out why Eddy McBride would be running around pointing a gun at people, though so far, mostly at me." I wasn't going to mention last night, not if I wanted to keep my father's relationship to Eddy separate. Luckily, Machado didn't seem interested in specifics.

His face lost all its ruddy color. "Eddy McBride? The guy they convicted for killing Bill Hollander? I thought they already caught the little bastard."

"Not that I've heard. Not yet anyway."

"I always thought the guy did in his wife's boss and tried to weasel out of it by fingering poor old Bobby Norquist. You say he's going after people with a gun?"

"He held it on me, twice. So, can you tell me exactly what it was that Bobby Norquist was supposed to testify about? "

His reply was a guttural whisper. "I thought they'd found him."

"Eddy? Does he have any reason to come here?"

The color in his face dropped another shade. The blood probably went to puddle where it could do some good, like close to his pounding heart. He leaned his hairy arms on the metal desk and swallowed, then he pushed off, and crossing his arms over his chest again, said, "Lady, if Eddy McBride walked through this door right now, I'd call the police. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to do a report for the county and it's due yesterday."

He turned his back to me and proceeded to rummage in a file cabinet, but I could see he was leaning on the open drawer for support. Though the air conditioner was on high, dark sweat stains were soaking through the back of his shirt. Here was another person who had underestimated Eddy McBride. If Eddy had been framed, then was John Machado involved? Was Machado responsible for Bob Norquist's death? If that was so, then was he also involved in Bill Hollander's murder? Either way, I now had something to share with Detective Rodney—and someone more interesting than me or my father.

Chapter Sixteen:

I drove back the way I came, down Geer Road, then into the strip mall where a replica of Bud's bi-plane soared above the bar in green neon. I left the rental car unlocked, hoping maybe someone would steal the damn thing. The air conditioning was driving me crazy. It came on intermittently, long enough to turn my knees blue. And no amount of insults or banging on the dashboard would stop the cussed thing, unless I turned off the engine. That's what I get for wearing a dress.

The interior of Bud's Place was similar to most, maybe a little cleaner from a frequent and substantial use of Lysol. I sat down on the nearest stool and waited for the bartender to notice. The guy behind the bar wore a white dress shirt buttoned up to his bow tie. His chin, or what there was of it, was draped in wattles down to the top button, the bow tie an X-marks-the-spot where his chin left off and the shirt began. When he dragged his cloth along the bar and in my direction, I smiled and nodded a friendly greeting.

Spaniel eyes in the stoic face calmly appraised this latest client. "Good afternoon. It's still afternoon out there, isn't it?"

"It's going down fast, so I guess I'll have a beer."

"Coors, Coors Light, Heineken, Lowenbrau, Miller, Miller Light? We also got your Mexican labels, Dos Equis, Pacifico, Modelo, Tecate. Or, how about ale? We got—"

"Whoa, that's way too much already. Whatever's on draft."

"We got Coors, Coors Light, Heineken, Lowenbrau, Miller, Miller Light,— "

I held up a hand and ordered a Coors Light, the same beer Noah kept in the fridge. The bartender went to pull the tap and brought it over in an icy mug.

Looking for an opener, I remarked on the heat.

"Supposed to cool down," he replied, his sad brown eyes bouncing from the cocktail tumblers he was rinsing under the counter to the two guys at the end of the bar and back at me again.

If there was a secret password, handshake or code, I wasn't going to get it, so I came right to the point. "Are you Buddy Rutland, the owner?"

"Selling something?"

"No, this," I said, grabbing a paper from the counter and turning it around so he could compare an old publicity photo with the real thing, "is me."

He nodded, then mopped at the bar for a minute. "Noah Bains's daughter, right? I knew your dad. You look better in person."

"Thanks."

He pulled thoughtfully at the sagging flesh at his neck. "What can I do for you?"

"I was led to believe you were a friend of Bob Norquist."

"Bob's wife died of cancer yesterday." He lifted a hand at my expression of concern. "That's okay, Miss Bains, I know your family has been preoccupied. Funeral will be in a few days, so I thought I'd mention it. Your dad would remember Bob's wife Isabel from the Aero Ag conventions. Bob couldn't abide the pity stares at his burns, so he sent her instead."

"I'll make sure we send flowers. Could I ask you a couple of questions?"

When he nodded, I thought for a minute, then said, "Tell me how Bobby Norquist died."

"Huh. Ya wanna know something funny? Nobody else has thought to ask my opinion, not since the accident that killed him and not now. I decided poor Isabel already had enough grief. Insurance don't pay up if there's suspicion of foul play, you know."

"You think it wasn't an accident? How? Why?"

He looked suspiciously at the guys at the end of the bar.

The two men gave us a bored look. One of them held up his empty and said, "When you get a minute?"

Bud nodded and, secure in the knowledge that there were no hovering spies, said, "Don't you believe what that Port'age Machado told the press in that last interview. Bobby wasn't careless with his equipment."

I leaned closer and nodded that he should continue.

"Oh, he had a couple of forced landings all right—neither were his fault. He went over every one of the planes before he took 'em up. He had his mechanics license as an A&P: that's Airframe and Powerplant. It's the FAA license required to work on these babies," he explained, then blinked. "Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot. Don't mean to sound sexist er nothin'. It's just that not many women are Ag pilots, much less mechanics."

"My A&P was purely meant for my own self-preservation." I dismissed the apology with a wave of my hand. "You think somebody did it to shut him up so he wouldn't be able to testify? But he was a witness for the prosecution, and Eddy was already in jail, soo-o—Oh. Machado?"

Bud's eyebrows rose a fraction as he swiped at the counter and waited for me to make the connection.

Then something else struck me. "You think Bobby Norquist was going to change his mind and implicate Machado?"

"Look at the facts: Machado let some of his guys go before the end of the season. I had to quit anyway, allergies were giving me fits. I bought this place, and then the rumors started. Machado's having a turnaround, he's got new Ag-Cats, business for Machado is good, better'n anybody else's."

"Did you know John Machado now owns Hollander Chemicals?"

"Yeah, and I know he sells more than Benlate."

"Want to clarify that statement?" I asked, thinking of Machado's suspicious manager, the loaders without respirators, and the late hour they were working.

Bud shook his head. "Look, I try real hard not to care anymore. Bob's dead, and now so's his wife. I figure nothing I got to say is going to change that."

"I hate to think this guy's giving all of us a black eye if he's running drugs. If it made a difference now, would you give a statement to the police?"

"I already asked a lawyer when all this came up again. It wouldn't do any good coming from me. But," he added shrewdly, looking at me with those spaniel eyes, "you come up with something to pin a tail on that donkey and I will. Yes indeed, I sure will."

"Thanks for your help, Bud." I laid down a five for the beer, but he pushed it back toward me.

"It's on me, young lady. I put in a bid on that Caddy you got when it came up for sale. At the time I thought it was just bad luck, since I lost it to some hotshot car dealer in town. But now that I think of it, it seems to me I'm the one who got off lucky. That Caddy seems to be nothin' but bad luck."

I thanked him for the information and the beer. Unlike some people I knew, Buddy didn't seem to see anything wrong with me working on the investigation. If John Machado was Bill Hollander's partner in drug smuggling, then he also was the most likely person to sabotage Bobby Norquist's Ag plane to keep him from testifying. And if the police had completely missed interviewing Buddy Rutland, they surely missed out on the potential connection to John Machado.

I got back into the rental, slapped at the vents on the AC and hoped to God I got home before my kneecaps iced up. When I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed another car pulling out onto Geer Road behind me. With the westerly sun in my eyes, I couldn't make out the driver, but I could see the car. It was white and, from where I sat, looked like a Ford Tempo. Was it my part-time stalker? Or somebody sent by John Machado to silence the nosy-girl crop duster who should be minding her own business? Either way, my antenna was up.

Gunning the engine, I pushed the sluggish accelerator down and maxed out at fifty-five, whizzing past Stanislaus State College and several new subdivisions at warp zero. I charged up the freeway on-ramp and then got stuck behind a chain of bored commuters, every single one of them looking for that elusive one-car advantage.

The white car was keeping its distance two cars away. Who was following me? I knew, and Machado knew, OSHA would have something to say about his crew working without respirators. But OSHA might be the least of his worries if the authorities caught him running drugs at night. Would he send someone after me to silence the witness? You betcha!

I called the sheriff's office. Caleb wasn't in, nor could Dispatch find him. When asked if I wanted to leave a message, I told them never mind. Not yet. At least, not until I was sure I was being followed and by whom.

At my exit, I peeled off the freeway, taking the ramp at sixty and causing a wrinkle in the line of cars as they slammed on their brakes. Behind me, furious that their tight formation was broken, commuters honked and waved fisted digits at me. At the stop sign, I noted the number of cars patiently waiting, held my breath, and flew through the intersection. Exhilarated that I'd made the leap unscathed, I hunched over the wheel and aimed for the long stretch of road to home.

I looked in the rearview mirror and almost lost my grip on the wheel. The white car was nosing up to my bumper.

"No!" I cried, frantic for a way to get away from this car crowding me. But I couldn't get away, and I couldn't pull off the road either. In preparation for crop irrigation, a low wall of earthen dikes had been run up parallel to both sides of the road. It cut off any chance of an emergency roadside stop. I couldn't leave the road without hitting an embankment or flipping the car. It went on like this for miles, forcing me to stay right where I was. There was no escape. I looked back to see the car's left turn signal calmly beating a steady rhythm.

How stupid could I get? He only wanted to pass. This entire exercise was due to nothing more than another exhausted commuter not paying a lot of attention to his driving.

I eased off the accelerator, rolled down the window, and indicating it was safe, waved him ahead.

When he pulled out into the passing lane, I breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah," I said out loud, "that's it, pass me up."

But instead of leaving me in his wake, he pulled up to my rear bumper and stayed. There was no one in the opposite lane, so why didn't he pass?

"Come on, don't be a dweeb, pass!" I was beginning to sweat, and those bees were starting up again in my ears. I swiveled around to glare at the driver. It looked like a man, cowboy hat pulled low over his brow. "Get away from me, you nutcase!" I yelled, motioning for him to go around.

He must have seen my nervous wave and decided it was safe to pass.

I huffed out a sigh, and motioned him to pass. I took my eyes off the rear view mirror and that's when I felt the impact. My wheel jerked, pulling it out of my sweat-slicked hands, and then he backed off to hang on my bumper.

"You asshole—you hit me!"

Did he expect me to pull over? Exchange insurance cards? I wasn't liking the prospect of this scenario; deserted road, no one around to take note and not enough time between a call for help and what he might do to me before the cops showed up. Besides, I couldn't care less about the little dent in this rent-a-wreck. I punched the gas pedal and watched the car behind me get smaller with the distance. Then it was back hugging my bumper. I couldn't believe it. Then he swept into the passing lane, yanked his wheel to the right and hit me again, but this time I was ready for him and, though the wheel jerked under my grip, I was able to keep it under control.

Again, another direct hit at my rear bumper, harder, and I felt the car spin out of control, whirling in circles like a dog chasing its tail, again and again, kicking up dust, until everything outside the windows of my enforced mad carnival ride disappeared behind a wall of choking brown dust.

Suddenly, with a jolt strong enough to knock my back teeth loose, the car struck something solid, the air bag smashed into my face, and I was choking and coughing and waving away the fine, powdery dust seeping through the doors. With trembling hands and tears streaking down my dirty face, I reached out for my purse and cell. Where is the damn thing? Hot and dizzy and feeling the migraine digging in, I gave up on the cell phone and fought my way out from behind the exploded air bag.

Suddenly claustrophobic, I felt the strongest need to get out, now! Right now!

I shoved at the door. Stuck. I pushed again, felt it give a bit, then stick again.

I shoved again—nothing. I was sweating and shoving against the door when it gave a little more.

I heard a voice through the dirt-smeared window. A dark shape was pulling at the door from the other side, and I thought I could hear his swearing through the buzzing painful headache that was fast becoming a roar inside my head.

A cowboy hat. He was wearing a cowboy hat, like the driver who hit me.

Was he here to finish me off? I could feel, rather than see, my vision begin to tunnel as the migraine started to peel away from the back of my head and take over. I could hear him swearing as he pulled at the door, rocking the car, and jarring my screaming nerves.

Blindly reaching for my purse, I found it under the seat, and clutching it tightly against my chest, I shoved while he pulled, until the door flew open and I swung my purse at him. Still tethered to my seat belt, I fell halfway out, uselessly flailing.

A man's voice snarled, there was a glint of a knife, and I cringed away, holding the purse up to protect my face. I felt an iron grip and the voice growled, "Dammit, hold still!" I couldn't make out the rest of what he was saying through the machine gun firing in my head.

Then I was falling, falling down a long dark tunnel.

I came to on the ground beside the car with someone shaking me and trying to force water down my throat.