Suicide Season (28 page)

“We have that picture—the one Vinny took of him and Margaret talking. Stan can blow it up for us.”

“Let’s do it.”

“You want just the man’s face?” Stan Hupp, senior partner of Hupp and Twomey Photo Labs, Inc., adjusted the magnifier so that the negative swelled to picture only Loomis against the screen inside the bottom of the cramped hood.

“How tight can you make it and still have a clear picture?”

“That’s about it. That okay?”

I stared at the face with its mouth open in speech. The magnification had caused the picture to become grainy, but the features were still identifiable. “It’ll have to do.”

With a set of glossy and still-damp prints, Bunch and I headed over to Stapleton Airport. It was possible that Loomis would have driven wherever he was headed, but my hunch told me he flew, and for good reasons. For one thing, he had been selective about what he took from his home—enough to fill maybe two suitcases rather than a whole car. For another, his Audi Quattro had license plates, and Bunch had already managed to get the number on the wanted file that went out to the Colorado Highway Patrol and to neighboring states. And finally, I figured that if Neeley was after Loomis, the professor wanted to cover as much distance as he could in the shortest time possible.

“You think Loomis knew something about Busey? You think that’s why he ran?”

I pulled the ticket from the machine guarding the airport parking ramp and the arm lifted to let us speed up the concrete lane. “I think so. I think he and Busey and Haas were all in this together. Now he’s the only one left alive and all of a sudden he’s getting phone calls from Neeley. If Loomis does know where the Aegis payoff is stashed, or if Neeley thinks he’s working with us to shake him down, Loomis has a right to be worried.”

“That’s really funny, Dev. We shake the tree for the scumbag boys, and one fat professor falls out. Birds of a feather all on the same branch.” Bunch grinned, pleased at his metaphor. “Not all that bad for a cowboy, right?”

“Not for one cowboy, anyway.” I swung the car into a dimly lit slot under the garage’s low concrete sky. Among the regularly spaced piers reaching up to the next level, caged bulbs shone dully and glinted on the domes of parked cars. Somewhere in the shadows tires squealed on a ramp as Bunch and I hustled toward the glassed bridge that crossed to the airport and its ticket booths.

“I’ll start at the south end.” Bunch strode off the slowly moving belt that carried us through the almost deserted hallways. In the evenings or on a weekend, or during ski season, the concourses would be jammed with people and their luggage. But at this hour, before the afternoon flights from both coasts began to stack up in the approach paths, only a few travelers strayed down the carpeted hall.

“See you at the escalator.”

There were maybe thirty airline counters, including the commuters, and some of them did double duty by selling tickets for sister lines. But the question was the same for all of them: Did this man buy a ticket this morning? Ask each person behind the desk and make sure to include anyone on a coffee break. Occasionally someone would ask if I was police, and I’d flash my p.i. identification, but usually they just looked at the photo and shook their heads. I had hoped to get lucky at one of the big carriers, those that had direct flights to New York where Loomis had lived before coming to Colorado, but their answer was as negative as the others, and I was two-thirds down my half of the counters and hoping Bunch was having better luck when a large hand wrapped around my arm. Bunch’s excited voice said, “Dev—I got him. He went out on United this morning. Ten o’clock flight to Mexico City.”

“Mexico? You’re sure?”

“No question about it—they remembered him. He came in at the last minute and booked for a no-show. He gave them a Canadian passport in the name of Edward Holtzmann and paid cash.”

“Mexico.” Or farther down. Someplace in South America that had no extradition.

“The plane stops in Houston and then goes straight to Mexico City. He didn’t have a connecting flight, but he could get one there.”

“Nora Challis … Doesn’t she live in Houston?” I glanced at my watch. If the plane was on time, he would now be somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico lounging back against the seat and sipping a glass of wine. Smiling, probably, as he thought about his unanswered telephone still ringing.

“Let’s see if Nelson’s found out anything yet.”

At a pay phone, Bunch—his shoulders blocking the two adjoining booths—jabbed at the numbers for our office code and then for the Nelson Hunt Agency. After a series of rings he nodded at me and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Nellie? This is Bunch. Did you get anything on that female we asked about? Nora Challis?”

I watched while Bunch grunted answers and nodded as if the man on the other end of the line could see him.

“And that’s it? Nothing else on her at all? Hang on a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece. “He says she’s clean. No record of arrests, no credit problems, nothing in the automobile files.”

“Is she married? Single?”

Bunch asked the questions and then told me the answers. “Single. She’s a sales rep for an encyclopedia company out of Chicago. He didn’t get any closer than that because he didn’t know if we wanted him to.”

“Can he find out if Loomis got off the plane in Houston or if she got on?”

“Nellie? One more favor.” Bunch explained it. “Yeah. United from Denver to Mexico City this morning.” He gave him the flight number and our thanks and hung up. “He’ll call our office as soon as he finds out.”

“Okay.” I dropped a quarter into one of the three telephones that Bunch vacated and dialed Margaret’s number. She answered on the third ring, slightly breathless. “It’s Devlin. How are you and Dutch getting along?”

“Fine. Actually, I don’t see much of him. He’s working outside in the yard right now—he said he feels stale unless he gets some exercise.”

And he could keep a better eye on the neighborhood that way, as well. “Do you know a Nora Challis?”

“Challis? No, I can’t place the name.”

“She’s the one who visited you in the rental car—on the eleventh.”

The line was silent for a few breaths. Then, “Miss Challis! That was her name!”

“Whose name?”

“The encyclopedia salesman—saleswoman. I sent in one of those cards for information on a set of encyclopedias for Austin and Shauna. And then she showed up.”

“She was selling encyclopedias?”

“Yes! I’d forgotten all about that—she came to the door and told me who she was and I told her I’d changed my mind and didn’t want to see any samples. I was a bit irritated—they advertised that no salesman would call. I suppose technically they were right—it was a woman. But I remember being not at all certain that I wanted encyclopedias anyway, just a little more information. And then when the salesperson showed up I just said no thank you and closed the door.” She asked, “Is it important?”

“I’m not sure. But your information fits what we have from Houston.”

“Houston?”

“That’s where she lives. That’s why she had a rental car. Colorado’s probably part of her sales territory.”

“I’m sorry it’s nothing more earth-shaking. But it completely slipped my mind.”

“It still may turn out to be important if she’s tied to Loomis. Or to Carrie Busey.”

“Tied how?”

I wasn’t sure how much she really wanted to know. Her husband’s suicide was almost a year old by now, but the scar was, I knew, still tender. And here I was leading her to pick at the scab.

“How, Devlin? How do you mean they’re tied?”

“May be tied. Just a distant possibility.”

“I don’t understand. And I want to.”

“I think Loomis was involved with your husband in selling McAllister’s plans to Aegis. He did the same thing back in New York, at Columbia. And I’ve found evidence tying him to one of Aegis’s executives.”

“My God!”

“You didn’t hear of anything like that when you were his student?”

“No—and I’m not sure I believe it now. Are you certain, Devlin? Something like that—even a rumor— could ruin the man’s life.”

“There’s not enough for a court case. But I’m certain.”

“But … I mean—are you really sure you’re being objective?”

“Because of my father?”

“Yes.”

“I have evidence, Margaret. It has nothing to do with my father. I think the man ingratiated himself with your husband, made the proposition to him, and served as the go-between with Aegis.”

“That means … that means I helped cause it. It was through me that he met Austin.”

“Did you know what he was up to at Columbia?”

“Of course not!”

“Then don’t blame yourself for his faults. Or your husband’s. You trusted him and it turned out that he’s a hypocrite and a thief. That’s his responsibility, Margaret. Not yours.”

“Yes. Of course. But it still makes me feel … an unwitting accomplice or something.”

“You’re not, and that’s all there is to it. You dared to trust him—you dared to take him for what he said he was. It’s the kind of daring my father used to say made the world worth living in.”

“I … I suppose that’s true. It’s good to trust. And to love. But it’s not so good when that’s betrayed.”

“But the betrayal doesn’t diminish the quality of love and trust. Just of the person who betrayed it.”

“Yes.” The line was silent and I thought her mind was on her husband. But apparently it wasn’t. “Then that explains where the payoff money is.”

“You keep thinking like that, and I’ll make you an associate in the firm. That’s the way I see it, too: your husband’s death came before he and Loomis split the money and Loomis kept it all. That’s probably what he used to skip with. That and whatever else he had socked away from his other deals.”

“Skip? You mean he’s gone?”

“Last seen this
A.M.
heading for Mexico. In haste.”

“Oh, my God … then it is true. All this you’re telling me really is true!”

I could sense some of the remaining props of her familiar world melt and collapse. She’d heard what I’d been telling her, but it had not yet reached the center of belief. Now she believed. And once again the outside world was suddenly as unyielding as a flash of icy light, or a raw stench, or a heavy, cold stone. “It’s true, Margaret.”

“Of course it is. I’m sorry. It’s just so shocking—it has so many implications.”

“Not for you to be upset over. The man’s gone, and I doubt that we’ll be able to find him. Latin America’s a big place, and a safe one for a man with that much money.”

“Why do you want to find him?”

“For what he knows about Aegis. With him, McAllister could have a strong case against them. And I still think Loomis knows something about Busey’s death.”

“I thought you were off that.”

“McAllister reduced our incentive, he sure did. But the woman’s dead, and Loomis might be a link of some kind.”

“You should let him go. Let him run and hide for the rest of his life—he deserves it!”

“He won’t hide forever. When things simmer down, he’ll come back to the States and get a new job. He’ll con the university into giving him a clean record—temporary insanity or a nervous breakdown—and they’ll do it. And he’ll start all over again.”

“That’s the university’s worry—it’s not yours or ours. Just let him go!”

“Hey, take it easy. There’s not much I can do about it anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Devlin. I’m just so disappointed—in him, in Austin. In myself for being so blind to what he was.”

“He fooled a lot of people who trusted him, Margaret. It’s nothing to blame yourself for.”

We talked for another minute or two and I promised to come by as soon as I could. And I made her promise to stay where Dutch could keep an eye on them. When I hung up, Bunch was moving restlessly between the plate-glass windows that overlooked the increasing number of cars and limousines and vans that had begun to arrive for the afternoon flights.

“Visiting hours started about twenty minutes ago,” he said. “I’d like to swing by the hospital before we head for the office.”

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

The message on the office answering machine was terse and to the point. “Kirk, it’s McAllister. I had an appointment with Loomis and he didn’t show. Nobody knows where he is. You call me and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“Maybe he’ll put us back on the payroll again.” Bunch poured a cup of coffee from the Silex pot and sniffed it gingerly. “I think we left this on too long.”

“Just since yesterday.” I dialed McAllister’s private number and his secretary put me through immediately. “Well, Kirk? What can you tell me?”

I told him.

“Mexico? The son-of-a-bitch ran to Mexico?”

“Or points south. Under a different name and with a Canadian passport.”

“I’ll be damned. I’ll be double-damned!” I could hear the hiss of McAllister’s disgusted breath. “I suppose I should offer you an apology.”

“Accepted.”

“I said I should offer it, I didn’t say I’d do it!” He added, “But I do.” Then, “Do you have enough for a case against Aegis? Can we tie those bastards up in court?”

“Only if we get Loomis to testify. But I don’t think he would even if we find him.”

“I’ll drop every charge against him. It’s the bastards behind him that I want.”

“They’re the ones he’s afraid of, not the law. He’s worth a lot more to them dead than alive, now.”

McAllister pondered that. “You think they would do it? Kill him?”

“Yes, sir. I do.” I told him what I’d learned about Aegis.

“Good Lord. They have to be stopped.”

“They haven’t broken any laws that we can prove. So far, they’re more or less legitimate businessmen.”

“That galls!”

“If it makes you feel any better, the police have been notified about them and their connections. I think they’ll make what they can out of the construction rip-offs and then sell off the projects or claim Chapter Eleven. The FBI, IRS, local police agencies—they’ll all be camped on their doorstep if they stay.”

“That does make me feel a little better. But the bastards should be behind bars—and they would be if it wasn’t for the damned left-wing courts. Damned liberals soft on crime!” He sighed heavily. “Well, the older I get, the more limitations I seem to discover. As for Loomis, what the hell—let him go. I don’t want anyone else dead because of this mess. Let him enjoy … Cabo San Lucas! By God, that’s where the bastard is: Los Cabos!”