Picking up the pieces.
Monday afternoon, two days after losing the kidnapper and the rich ransom. The pieces, lots of them, were all over the place. But a few were beginning to fit into a coherent picture. Unfortunately, the picture kept telling them the same thing. Falling was smarter than they were.
Kelly and Charlie stood outside a rental shop in Newport Beach—and inside the harbor—not far from the jetty. Another overcast day, white winged sailboats drifting into an ocean of gray. From conversations on the phone, they were already ninety percent sure Falling had rented two boats from this place—Kamin’s Rentals. One boat they knew—the Scallop, the one David had taken to Catalina. The other one they didn’t know, not its name, and yet they were fairly certain the kidnapper had used this latter ship to escape into an early retirement. They had driven down to Orange County to verify these facts, and to get away from Vicki, who was kicking wastepaper baskets, and any agent foolish enough to cross her path.
They were all crushed, perhaps no one more than Charlie. He had not slept the last two days, pushing himself relentlessly to figure out where they had gone wrong. The
sad thing was, they already knew. Yet, they still did not know the identity of Falling. He was not big on leaving behind clues.
The owner of the shop came out to talk. A big brawny guy aged by sun and surf, he looked like he wrestled lobsters in his sleep. His story sounded familiar. Sure, he had rented two boats to a guy on the phone. Said his name was John Smith. It seemed John had sent him a cash deposit and told him to leave the keys to the twin boats in an envelope beneath the mat. He said he would pick them up sometime late Friday night. The owner had never met John. He couldn’t even remember what he sounded like. Charlie asked the man about the second, mysterious boat, and the guy pointed it out. The ship was docked nearby, looked like it had plenty of horsepower.
“Was he a criminal or something?” the guy asked as he led them onto the dock.
“He was something,” Charlie said. “We’re going to have to impound this boat. Do you mind?”
“You’ll have to pay me for it,” the guy replied.
“No, we won’t,” Charlie assured him with a hard look.
Charlie could be scary when he wanted. The guy immediately backed down.
Charlie called Sharp and arranged for the powerboat to be examined. In the car on the way back to the office, Kelly called Agent Lentil, asked about the Farallon propulsion device they had found. Lentil had more depressing news.
“He must have bought it through a private party,” Lentil said. “The Farallon people say they haven’t sold any of their devices to anyone in California in the last ten weeks.”
They knew Falling must have had at least two of the devices, not one.
“Ten weeks back is nothing,” Kelly snapped. “For all we know, he could have bought them a year ago. Get a copy of all their records for the last twelve months. No, go back two years. Look for anyone who bought two or more of the devices anywhere in the country. And Lentil, the purchases do not have to be at the same time. Understand?”
“I know that,” he said, insulted.
“While you’re at it, check all dive magazines for the last year. Look at the ads in the back for anyone selling Farallons. I want all those people contacted, even if they were only selling one.”
“That will take time,” Lentil said.
“Take as long as it takes.” Kelly broke the connection and turned to Charlie. “How did Lentil become an FBI agent? Is his dad a senator or a congressman or what?”
“He’s not so bad. You just intimidate him.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
Charlie nodded. “A woman with a dick.”
“He said that?”
“He meant it as a compliment.” Charlie paused. “I want Lentil to organize our south-of-the-border canvassing. He speaks Spanish.”
“You really think Falling will dump the child in Mexico?”
“Somewhere down there. I don’t think he’ll kill him.”
“Could he make a second run at more money?”
Charlie shook his head. “He knows he was lucky to trick us the first time. And he knows we know he won’t return the child.”
Kelly snorted. “Why doesn’t he just give us Jimmy? If he is such a swell guy.”
Charlie looked weary. “I don’t know.”
Kelly regretted her outburst. “You blame yourself too much.”
Charlie gestured. “We should have seen what he was going to do once he put David on the boat. We talked about it. Catalina was not an option for him. David was lousy hostage material. The water and the ransom were what mattered. He needed us to put the ransom in the water. That meant he must be in the water—waiting. The formula was simple and we failed to solve it.”
“No one could have anticipated the water was shallow there.”
“We should have figured that he would have found just such a spot.”
“You feel you should have figured it all out, in a split second. That’s asking too much of yourself. You didn’t fuck up, we all did.”
Charlie shook his head. “None of that matters. Only the kid does. At the end of the day excuses are for losers.”
Kelly wanted to argue the point but realized he spoke the truth. A child did not care about strategy. The kid only knew love and comfort. He just wanted to be home with his mom and dad.
Like Charlie, she did not believe the guy would kill Jimmy. Dumping the child south of the border was the logical step for a compassionate kidnapper—and he had shown definite signs of affection for the boy. Kelly made a mental note to tell Lentil to push their canvassing as far south as Brazil. Rio had a big market for white male infants. Falling might try to sell the kid, not that he needed the extra cash.
Kelly had heard a legitimate rumor that Carl Techer, the grandfather, was filing a lawsuit against the FBI for “gross negligence.” He had already hired a team of lawyers, Vicki said, obviously wanting to cash in on the loss of his flesh and blood. Kelly asked herself—if she ended up in court—would she admit that excuses were for losers?
When they got back to the L.A. office, Kelly did not hang around long. Charlie got yanked into a private meeting with Vicki, and Lentil was not around to go over the strategy on Latin America. The time was half past three and Kelly was already tired. Fatigue came quickly and without warning these days. Even protein powder mixed with juice did little to revive her flagging reserves. She suspected she would have had more energy if Jimmy was safe at home. Which reminded her, she had an unpleasant task she was avoiding. She had to talk to Amy and gently explain that their chances of getting Jimmy back were now dismal.
Kelly found Amy at the side of her house, working in the garden. Staying with the Techers, Kelly had been amazed how much time Amy spent on her flowers and plants. Amy
said the feel of the soil calmed her. But as Kelly walked up, she looked far beyond calm—somewhere south of the valley of Valiums. Amy raised her head in greeting, but her gaze lingered too long without recognition. Then she shook herself and coughed.
“I was just thinking of you,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Amy. I’m so sorry.”
Amy stood and pulled off her plastic gloves and dropped them on the ground. “Everyone’s sorry,” she whispered.
Kelly put a hand on her arm. “How are you doing?”
Amy lowered her head and rocked unsteadily on her feet. It was as if she tried to recall something she had striven to forget. “I used to love to smell Jimmy when I picked him up,” she said. “It was one of the things I loved most about him. But just now, out here with the flowers, I realized that I’ve forgotten that smell. I try to remember it and all I see is his face. But his smell, the feel of his skin, the sound of his voice—they’re all leaving me. Why do you think that is?”
“You must miss him an awful lot.”
Amy raised her head and looked nowhere. “Yeah. That must be it.”
“Amy …” Kelly began.
She suddenly turned on her. “Or is it because he’s dead?”
“I don’t think he’s dead.”
“But will I ever see him again?”
Kelly could not lie. “I don’t know. We lost our best chance on Saturday.”
Amy stood staring for a minute. She never did respond, though, merely walked away, into the house. Kelly could only follow, not sure she had fulfilled the reason for her visit, or even if her visit served a legitimate purpose. Amy had been depressed and now she was more depressed.
Yet as Kelly entered the house a part of her felt as if it searched for a clue that had been overlooked. A silly thought but one that persisted despite her best efforts to dismiss it. The FBI had turned the house upside down.
What clue could the kidnapper have left that they could have missed?
Then it hit her. Not all clues could be touched. Words for example, they came and went like ghosts. The image of a young man’s dead face in the newspaper haunted her. Why? Because she had seen his face in this house. Amy had even spoken to her about the guy.
“He was flying from Catalina to Santa Barbara at night. He had just finished scuba lessons and he was going to his birthday party. He was an excellent pilot. They don’t know why his plane crashed.”
Catalina and scuba lessons. Falling had directed David toward Catalina. Falling had been an experienced scuba diver. The coincidence was not overwhelming but it was real. Not to mention the fact that Matt Connor had been that mysterious ex in Amy’s past, the one she refused to discuss.
Had she hurt him? Had he wanted to hurt her?
Kelly wondered if it was another coincidence when she followed Amy into the house and Amy headed straight for the studio where Kelly had accidentally discovered Matt’s picture. Amy was still lost in a fog, moving without purpose, touching unfinished paintings, shifting used brushes from one jar to the next. Without asking permission, Kelly stepped to Amy’s desk and opened the drawer and took out Matt’s picture. Handsome guy, dark hair, powerful eyes. Had the picture been taken before he met Amy or after? Amy might have read her mind.
“I took that picture exactly a year before he died,” she said, coming up at her side. “On his twenty-ninth birthday.”
“He was a real boyfriend?”
“Yes.” Amy took the picture and stared at it with affection. “Greatest guy I ever knew. Matt was … he was perfect.”
“Why did you two break up?”
Amy sighed. “I married David.”
“May I ask a personal question?”
Amy continued to look at Matt but her toned hardened.
“Was Jimmy Matt’s child? No, he wasn’t. Any other questions?”
“Did Matt love you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love him?”
Amy put away the picture. “Yes.”
“You miss him?” Kelly asked.
“What do you think?”
“When his plane went in the ocean, did they recover his body?”
“No. They said the water was too deep.”
The other night, when the ransom had been dumped, every agent on the case had thought the water was too deep for the cash and diamonds to be recovered.
“I see,” Kelly said.
THE NEXT morning Kelly headed to Ventura, along the coast, to the airport. The sky was a brilliant blue. She drove with the windows down and the music up loud. Since living alone she had started to play the piano again. As a child she had been considered a prodigy on the instrument, and she had been happy to discover she could still play with feeling. But nothing sounded as sad as a lonely piano late at night. Tony never called, he never would.
Before leaving for Ventura she had contacted the airport tower and spoken to the air traffic controller who had been on duty the night Matt Connor’s plane had gone down. The guy happened to be working that afternoon. He said he would be happy to meet with her. But he sounded puzzled with her request for information on Matt’s flight. The feeling was somewhat mutual. She was not sure what she was looking for.
Ventura Airport was modest. She met Gabe Adams in a small office adjacent to the radar room. A small man with the squarest head she had ever seen on a human being—outside of someone who had been purposely tortured by the Mafia with a vise—he looked like a robot who could be
plugged directly into his equipment. Across a wooden desk, he pushed a file that contained the records of Matt’s last flight. There was a DVD enclosed—a copy of the radar path his plane had taken, Gabe explained.
“We automatically record the flight path of every plane that enters our airspace,” he said. “If later there’s a problem with a plane, that record is transferred to a permanent disc.”
Kelly glanced at the disc. Gabe had already informed her that Matt’s crash had been investigated by the National Transportation and Safety Board (NTSB), and ruled an accident caused by pilot error. She planned to contact the federal agency later but felt she could get information out of Gabe more quickly.
“I’ll study this file later,” she said. “But I’d like you to tell me as best you can what happened the night Matt Connor’s plane crashed.”
“He came on our radar thirty miles south of here, which is normal. His altitude was relatively low—a thousand feet—and I contacted him personally to ask how he was doing. He explained about the low overcast. I asked if he was instrument trained and he reminded me that he was not, but that he was comfortable with the conditions. We had spoken before over the radio. He was an experienced pilot. He was flying low so he could keep a visual on the water.”
“Could he see the coast at that point?”
“I doubt it. It was a lousy night to fly. I wished him good luck and he thanked me.”
“What happened next?”
“His altitude dropped to five hundred feet. I assumed he was still troubled by the overcast. I knew his destination was Santa Barbara and I considered calling to tell him to move closer inland since we had better visibility here. But I never got to it.”
“Why not?”
“He suddenly climbed in altitude, to near three thousand feet. But he was hardly at that height when he started to dive. He went almost straight down into the water.”
“Did you try to contact him during this time?”
“Yes. He did not respond.”
“What do you think caused him to dive?”
“He got disoriented. He lost sight of the water and the sky and couldn’t tell up from down. In such a situation it’s easy to overcompensate and send the plane into what’s called a graveyard spin. Before he could pull out of it, he hit the water.” Gabe paused. “That was the NTSB’s conclusion as well.”
“If Matt was struggling with overcast and was flying low to avoid it, then why did he suddenly climb so high?”
“I’m not sure. The overcast might have suddenly opened up and he felt confident to go higher.”
“Is that likely?”
“No. Five hundred feet would have been low to fly in poor conditions at night. But he did not need to climb to three thousand to get comfortable—especially with the threat of the overcast so near. Also, his climb was bizarre. It was as if he pulled back hard on the wheel. He shot almost straight up.”
“How do you explain that?”
“The same way the NTSB did—total disorientation and panic.”
“Yet you say Matt was an experienced pilot?”
“He was—he had logged over a thousand flight hours. He often flew to Santa Barbara to see his mother and I had spoken to him many times. But I must stress again that he was not instrument trained. Once he lost all visual clues, his experience did not count for much.”
“Was it totally dark when he crashed?”
“Yes.”
“You say he regularly flew to Santa Barbara to see his mother. That means he was flying a familiar route?”
“Not exactly. He was not coming from Santa Monica Airport—as he usually did—but from Catalina. That’s why he was so far over the water.”
“How far out?”
“Five miles.”
“When his plane went down, what did you do?”
“I notified the Coast Guard and the NTSB. Also, I contacted the Santa Barbara tower and the Santa Barbara police. I wanted the latter to get ahold of his mother.”
“Did the Coast Guard find his plane?”
“They found nothing that night. In the dark—even with our best estimate as to where he went down—it was hard to see much. But in the morning they saw scattered wreckage from his plane.”
“Was this a rescue attempt? Did the Coast Guard think he could be found alive?”
“No. At the speed he was traveling when he hit the water, it would have been like hitting a stone wall. He couldn’t have survived the crash.”
“I assume the bulk of the plane sank. Did it show up on the Coast Guard’s sonar?”
“Yes.”
“Were divers sent down?”
“No. The water in that area is over five hundred feet.”
“How long did it take the Coast Guard to send a ship to the area?”
“I’m not sure. About an hour.”
“That doesn’t sound like a speedy response.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Did the Coast Guard see any other boats in the area?”
“You would have to ask them.” Gabe paused and looked uncomfortable. Perhaps he feared his own performance that night was being questioned. “May I ask a question?”
“Sure,” Kelly said.
“What is the FBI’s purpose in investigating this crash?”
“It might have bearing on another case that I’m not at liberty to discuss. Tell me, Gabe, can you think of another reason why Matt’s plane behaved the way it did besides pilot disorientation and panic?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Again he paused. “Suicide.”
“Come again?”
“He might have been trying to kill himself.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really know him.”
Kelly thought of Amy. “I suppose he might have had his reasons.”
KELLY CONTINUED north to Santa Barbara, to see Nancy Connor. This time she did not call ahead and she had to question her reasons. She had already pulled the record on Mrs. Connor from the computer in her office. The woman was seventy, lived alone, and had no family now that Matt was dead. She apparently subsisted on a small pension her husband had willed to her. To receive an unexpected visit from a stranger—even one with a badge—might intimidate the woman. But Kelly suspected she did not call ahead because she had no idea what excuse to give for her interest in Matt. She just hoped one came to her when the time arrived.
Mrs. Connor lived in a small apartment not far from downtown. Kelly had to ring a few times before she answered. The sight of the old woman took Kelly back a step. She looked like her dead son: with the same intense eyes, the kind mouth, the handsome face that conveyed both strength and fragility at the same time. Kelly immediately glimpsed the woman’s intelligence. She would not be easy to snow.
Did that mean Matt had also been bright?
“Can I help you?” Mrs. Connor asked.
Kelly showed her badge. “Kelly Fienman, FBI. Are you Mrs. Connor?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been working with the kidnapping of Amy Techer’s child. I was told you know about it?”
“Yes. I’m friends with Amy’s father. What can I do for you?”
“May I come in? I would like to ask you a few questions.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
Kelly would have loved coffee. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water,” she said as she stepped inside and cursed her medical condition. Yet with each day she felt stronger. The doctors had said the liver was a forgiving organ. Portions of it might be growing back. A shame her intestines couldn’t do likewise.
The apartment was small but neatly furnished. Pictures of a dead husband and a dead son on the wall. Nice one of Matt standing beside a Cessna 172. No pictures of Amy and Matt together. Kelly sat on the edge of a sofa as Mrs. Connor returned with water and coffee. Kelly gestured to the photographs of Matt.
“I understand you lost your son a year ago,” she said.
Nancy’s lips quivered. A long year it had been. “Yes. He died in a plane crash.”
“Amy told me. I’m so sorry, it must have been devastating.”
Nancy tried to smile, failed. “He was such a dear boy.”
Kelly suddenly seized on a strategy. “I’m not here to question you about Matt. But with this kidnapping, to solve it, we feel we have to get a better grasp on Amy. For that reason, I’d like to ask about your son’s relationship with her. All we know is they had one, but that it ended suddenly. But we don’t understand why. Whenever I broach the subject with Amy, she gets evasive.”
Nancy scowled and set down her cup. “That girl isn’t who she pretends to be.” Then she stopped and shook her head. “But to lose a child—no one deserves that.”
“Amy hurt Matt?”
Nancy stared at her. “Oh yes. She hurt him badly.”
“Tell me.”
And so Kelly heard the full story of Amy Techer’s betrayal. It would have made her angry anyway, but given her experience with Tony—and ironically, the Acid Man—it made her feel sick. Because it was obvious from the start that Matt was an innocent, one of those rare creatures the
Acid Man said did not exist. Innocence and insanity were often close friends, however. Amy’s cheating had given Matt the perfect motive to seek out revenge, and consequently made him the perfect suspect in the kidnapping.
Except Matt was supposed to be dead.
“It amazes me Amy tried to convince David she had hardly known Matt,” Kelly said when Nancy finished speaking. “That must have been quite a task when your son and Amy had been together so long.”
“I don’t think it was as hard as you think for Amy,” Nancy said. “Matt was cut off completely. He wasn’t allowed to speak to David. He wasn’t allowed to speak to Amy. He was discarded like garbage.”
“There’s no worse feeling,” Kelly said quietly.
Nancy gave her a penetrating look. “Yes, you know that. But I think you knew how to deal with it when it happened to you. Matt didn’t, he bottled up the pain inside. He would hardly talk to me about it.”
“What about his friends? Couldn’t he talk to them?”
“Matt lost most of his friends while he dated Amy. She consumed his whole life. She took everything from him, she demanded it. But she gave him so little in return.”
“Do you hate her?”
Nancy was reflective. “I did hate her. How could I not when I saw what she had done to my son? But when she lost her own son … . I don’t know. I pitied her as well. I’m sure it was the last thing Matt would have wanted to happen to her.”
“Are you sure?” Kelly asked, the question popping out before she could stop it. Above all else she did not want to give Nancy a clue as to her purpose in visiting. Nancy might have caught her drift, it was hard to be sure. She did not answer directly.
“Matt was a very kind man,” she said.
Kelly spoke carefully. “But he was depressed. I hate to ask this, Mrs. Connor, but is it possible he crashed his plane on purpose?”
She shook her head. “No.”
They spoke a few minutes more but the conversation was essentially over. Kelly decided she had gotten what she had come for—an insight into the dark side of Amy. Her vague theory took on greater clarity. Yet it almost crumbled as she went to leave. It was then Nancy brought up Cindy Firestone, Matt’s girlfriend at the time of his death. The fact that there was another woman threw Kelly off balance. If he had been seeing someone else, maybe all her ideas were wrong.
“Why didn’t you mention her earlier?” Kelly asked, standing at the door.
“I didn’t think Cindy had anything to do with Amy.” The reply held a taunt. Isn’t that why you are here in the first place? Or do you have another reason?
“How long were they involved?” Kelly asked.
“For two or three months before he died. Why?”
“Just curious. Do you have Cindy’s number?”
This time Nancy wasn’t buying. “What exactly is it you want, Mrs. Fienman?”
“I told you. An insight into Amy’s character.”
“Cindy never met Amy.”
“Yes. But I’m sure Matt told Cindy things about Amy that he told no one else.”
“Hardly. Cindy said Matt never spoke about Amy.”
Kelly acted casual. “If you don’t have the number, that’s okay.”
Nancy’s eyes never left her face. “It’s okay because you can get the number in five minutes. I may as well give it to you myself, and at least warn Cindy that you’ll be calling. Wait here a moment.”
“Thank you,” Kelly said, feeling like a fool.
Nancy returned with the number and they exchanged strained good-byes. Driving back to Los Angeles, Kelly regretted the poor ending. Because she knew if her wild idea possessed substance she might need to return to Nancy for things the woman would not want to give.
Kelly called Cindy from the road and they spoke. Nancy had already talked to Matt’s old girlfriend. Cindy sounded
cautious but unafraid. She agreed to be at home in ninety minutes, the time Kelly told her it would take to get there.
CINDY FIRESTONE appeared younger than Kelly would have expected. Kelly was surprised to learn she was twenty-six. Tall and lanky, with long red hair and a thousand freckles, she was built from the stuff of endless youth. Kelly tried to remember an old redhead and could not. Did they all die young? Cindy invited her inside and Kelly had to refuse another offer of fresh coffee.
Cindy had none of Nancy’s walls up. They quickly got down to business.
“How upset was Matt about the way Amy dumped him?” Kelly asked.
“It tormented him. He tried to hide it from me but I could see.”
“How did he show it?”
“We dated three months and never had sex. We would sleep together naked, but when I’d try to initiate something, he would flinch. He would deny it, but I knew he was thinking of her.”
“How could you stand that?”
“I really cared for him. He was an extraordinary guy, funny and brilliant. There was almost nothing he wouldn’t do for me. I thought I could help him get over her. But I couldn’t, I don’t think anyone could.” Cindy paused. “I sometimes think he died thinking about her.”
“Do you think he committed suicide?”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Please just answer the question.”
Cindy hesitated. “No.”
“But you think he was obsessed with her?”
“I don’t like to use that word. But yes.”
“How did he show his obsession with her?”
“Once I stopped by unexpectedly. I caught him as he was leaving, but he didn’t see me. I followed him. I wasn’t trying to pry, I was just curious where he was going.”
Cindy was prying. “And he drove to Amy’s house?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know it was her house?”
“He had told me about where she lived.”
“What did he do? Park in front of her house?”
“Just down the street from where she lived, yes.”
“Did she come outside? Did you see her?”
“No.”
“He just sat in his car and stared at her house?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“An hour.”
“An hour?”
“Yes.”
“At any time did he go behind her house and hike up to a bluff that overlooks her backyard?”
Cindy was uncomfortable. “He was obsessed with her but he wasn’t a pervert. I hope I haven’t given you that impression.”
“Did he ever talk about wanting to hurt her?”
“Of course not! Matt wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”
Kelly raised her hand. “I’m sorry, I have to ask. It’s part of the job.”
“I don’t understand, he’s dead. And this child was kidnapped after he died. How can it be part of the job?”
The job is often more about the dead than the living, Kelly thought, although she did not say it aloud. She chose to ignore the question.
“Why did you say Matt was brilliant?” she asked.
“He could do anything he put his mind to.”
“Was he an exceptional student while in school?”
“He was above average, although he never finished college. I remember this one time there was an online IQ test, we both took it for fun. I missed half the questions but he got a perfect score. The explanation at the end of the test said that meant he was one in a million.”
Kelly thought of hovering in a helicopter over a black ocean.
So close and yet so far. He had just slipped away.
“I can believe it,” she said.
KELLY DID not get back to her office until late. Charlie was already gone for the day, which made her both sad and relieved. Already she could see she was repeating the pattern she had displayed while pursuing the Acid Man. She had the same rationalization for her secrecy—she was chasing a wild lead, nothing more. Yet she was finally able to admit to herself that she was emotionally ill-equipped to be an FBI agent. She resented the chain of command. She wanted to be the boss. Worse, she wanted to be the hero.
She read over the NTSB report and uncovered a couple of facts Gabe Adams had not mentioned. Matt had been flying a Cessna 172 when he had gone down. The NTSB investigators noted that plane did not easily slip into a graveyard spin. Indeed, the plane was designed so that when one released the controls it spontaneously righted itself. Yet Matt had plunged into the sea as if his plane had been slapped from the sky.
Another point she found interesting was that although Matt was not technically instrument certified, he had completed most of the course requirements and should have been able to fly in zero visibility. Gabe had not fully grasped Matt’s skill level. The poor conditions would not have intimidated Matt.
What exactly did she have? She took out a piece of paper and made a list.
1. Matt had been infatuated with Amy and she had devastated him when she had dumped him for David.
2. Matt’s obsession had continued long after the relationship ended.
3. Matt’s plane had behaved suspiciously before it had crashed.
4. Matt’s body had never been found.
5. Jimmy had probably been kidnapped by someone who knew the family.
6. Matt had died after learning to scuba dive, while flying from Catalina.
7. The kidnapper had known how to scuba dive and had tied Catalina to his ransom scheme.
The points were intriguing, but they proved nothing. She had to think backward. She had to assume that Matt had in fact plotted to fake his death and then kidnap Amy’s baby. She had to figure out how he could have done it.
How does one crash a plane in the ocean in the middle of the night and survive? Obviously he couldn’t have been in the plane when it hit the water. The tape of the radar confirmed that his plane had been traveling in excess of a hundred and fifty miles an hour when it crashed. Therefore, he must have parachuted out of the plane into a waiting boat.
He must have learned to parachute ahead of time.
He must have planted a boat off the Ventura coast ahead of time.
Kelly called Cindy. Did Matt know how to parachute? The answer was a definite no. Cindy wanted to know why she asked. Just wondering, Kelly replied. She told Cindy to keep the call private and rang off.
What Cindy said did not dissuade her. If Matt had intended to fake his death, he wouldn’t have advertised the fact that he was learning to parachute. Kelly called the local skydiving school in Perris and asked them to check their records for a Matt Connor. Did he take any classes? The answer was another no.
Still, Kelly did not feel put off. If Matt had wanted to be careful, he would have learned to parachute in another city. He flew regularly—besides Santa Barbara, what was his favorite destination spot? The NTSB report contained a phone number of the agency where Matt had rented his plane. Kelly called and learned that Matt often went up to Fresno.
By chance there was a large skydiving facility there. She rang and asked them to check their files for a Matt Connor. But again she came up with nothing.
Nevertheless, Kelly felt she was onto something. Falling had been fanatical in his attention to detail. He had probably not only learned to skydive in another city, he had undoubtedly used a false identity. Before leaving Cindy’s apartment, she had asked for a picture of Matt, which was different than the one Amy had taken. There was a chance if she took that picture to the Fresno skydiving facility, she might strike gold.
Too bad she herself did not fly. It would be a long drive tomorrow, by herself.
NO POT of gold waited for her at the end of the road. No one in Fresno recognized Matt’s picture. At first she felt disappointed but then it struck her how strange that was. Matt had flown into the small airport regularly. She spoke to over two dozen locals. Someone should have recognized him. Then it occurred to her that besides having false ID, he might have used a disguise as well.
But what kind of disguise?
Kelly returned to Los Angeles. The next day she set to work on the other half of her basic assumption—the boat. A call to Cindy confirmed that Matt did not own one. Therefore, he must have rented it, probably on the same day he vanished. Ventura was the easiest place for Matt to have borrowed a boat and placed it in the path of his flight plan. Santa Barbara was also a possibility, not to mention all the harbors in Los Angeles.
Kelly spent the morning on the phone, a stack of yellow pages by her arm. From the start her efforts were handicapped. She was asking the rental agencies to help her identify someone who did not have a name. A person who did not even resemble her suspect. The best she was able to do was to get them to pull their records for the date of February 12th. She realized soon enough that she would have to visit
each harbor and feel her way around. Charlie would have been a big help right about now.
Still, she avoided him at the office and let him focus with Lentil on the south-of-the-border connection. Preoccupied, he did not press her about what she was up to. Vicki was also heavily burdened. The lawsuit from Amy’s father-in-law looked real. There had been an article in the Los Angeles Times about the botched ransom delivery. The mayor had called, complaining. Kelly was able to continue her research without having to answer too many questions.
Checking out the rental places at the harbors proved exhausting. She spent two full days at Ventura alone and came up with squat. Santa Barbara was another dead end. After both experiences, however, she realized she was complicating the situation. Matt had lived in Santa Monica. Although the harbors up north were closer to the spot where the plane had crashed, Marina Del Rey had been closer to him. When she arrived at the marina, she cautioned herself to take her time and examine every rental record personally. She had been to see Cindy once more and had obtained a sample of Matt’s handwriting.
She was at the marina ten minutes when she walked into Harry’s Ocean Rentals.
Of course she had called ahead of time and the owner—Chuck—had already pulled his records for last February. Studying them she noticed nothing unusual. None of the signatures on the credit card receipts resembled Matt’s handwriting. But there was one rental, to a certain Simon Schiller, that had no credit card receipt. She asked Chuck about it and the guy said the customer must have paid in cash.
Falling had paid in cash for his Newport boats.
“Do you remember this guy, Schiller?” she asked.
Chuck himself was memorable. An ex-marine who still favored battle fatigues, he had a four-inch scar down the right side of his face that looked as if it had been treated by a bottle of whiskey the night it had been inflicted. He rubbed his scar as he considered.
“Yeah. That day was not the first time he had rented a boat from us.”
“He was a regular?”
“No. But he had been in a week or two before that.”
“Has he been in since?”
“Not that I know of.”
She took out Matt’s photograph. “Is this him?”
Chuck studied the picture and shook his head. “No. Schiller was blond. He had a beard and mustache. I remember that much.”
She glanced at the rental agreement. “He took the boat for two days?”
“Yes.”
“And he returned it in fine shape?”
“He must have or I would have charged him more.”
“Do you remember exactly when he returned it?”
“No. That was four months ago. What did this guy do?”
“I don’t know if he did anything. Did anyone else speak to Schiller when he was here?”
Chuck shook his head but then caught himself. “You know, I think Timmy spoke to him. Yeah, I remember now because Timmy said the guy loaded a dinghy onto the boat.”
“What’s so strange about that?”
“When he came in to rent the boat he said he was going fishing. But then he told Timmy he was going diving with some buddies on the far side of Catalina.”
“So this Timmy talked to him some?”
“Yeah.”
A dinghy, Kelly thought, and felt a thrill. Matt would have needed one to get back to shore if he parked a boat in the middle of the sea.
Timmy was out back, filling scuba tanks. He had straw blond hair and a goofy smile, a cartoon character who had been exposed to drugs at an early age. He must have liked the look of her—he leapt up and offered his hand and told her his full name. Asking about Schiller and last February, she was disappointed when he drew a blank. But the mention of the dinghy stirred his memory.
“Oh, yeah, I remember him,” he said. “He was kind of rude. I tried to help him but he kept trying to shoo me away.”
“What kind of dinghy did he load onto the boat?”
“Can’t tell you the brand, but it was the inflatable kind. It came with a heavy duty motor. That’s what I helped him carry to the boat.”
“Did he tip you?”
“What?”
“Did he tip you for helping him?”
“Yeah. I think he did.”
“Then he wasn’t so rude, was he?”
Timmy looked mildly insulted. “Well, he did lie to me.” “About what?”
“His lights. He had these lights in his trunk, and he said he wasn’t taking them with him. But then later, I saw him sneak them aboard.”
Kelly’s heart pounded furiously. Matt would have needed lights to spot the boat in the dark from the plane. “Tell me more about these lights,” she said.
Timmy scratched his head. “It was just a row of lights set in a metal bracket. I think there were four of them.”
“Were the lights larger than what a boat would normally be equipped with?”
“Yeah. I imagine they would have been pretty bright at night.”
“Did you ask him what he was doing with these lights?”
“At first, yeah, when we were hanging out by his car. He said they were stage lights. But like I said, he told me he wasn’t taking them with him, then he did.” Timmy shook his head. “He was acting real weird. Chuck and I talked about him afterward. We thought he might be picking up drugs or something out at sea.” Timmy acted hopeful. “Was he a drug dealer?”
Kelly took out the photograph. “Was this him?”
Timmy’s whole face screwed up in concentration. Kelly had to give him a full minute before he responded. “No. That guy had blond hair.”
“Did he have a beard and mustache as well?”
“Oh yeah. This guy doesn’t.”
Kelly could see that. “How long was his hair?” she asked patiently.
“Pretty long.”
“Down to his collar? Way over his collar?”
“Way over his collar.”
“How long was his beard?”
“Long. Six inches, maybe more.”
“What color were his eyes?”
“I don’t know.”
“How tall was he?”
“I’m not sure. Tall as me, I think.”
Timmy was six foot. Matt had been six foot.
“Is there anything else you remember about Schiller?” Kelly asked.
“Yeah. He looked haunted.”
KELLY RETURNED to the office and scanned Matt’s photograph into the computer. The FBI had a program that helped them build up composite sketches. Ordinarily she would have sought out assistance but the program was not difficult to work and she was in a hurry. It took her awhile but she managed to add a variety of blond wigs and beards to Matt’s picture. She also played with his eye color. When she was done she had a dozen different takes of Matt in disguise. Printing them out, she called Chuck and Timmy and told them to remain at the marina until she returned.
She separated them before showing them the pictures. Picture number six—they both agreed, that was Simon Schiller. Neither of the guys even realized they were looking at a modified version of the same picture they had seen hours earlier. Kelly thanked them for their time and returned to her car and let out a scream.
“You sonofabitch!” she cried.
Yet it proved nothing. She could not take what she had discovered to her superiors and say she had solved the case. Her proof needed more layers—or so she told herself as she
subconsciously rubbed her scarred abdomen. Falling was not the Acid Man. He was not a murderer. She could proceed alone with her investigation. She was not in danger.
Kelly drove toward Fresno. The next morning she checked the skydiving school for records of a Simon Schiller. Several people at the airport recognized the photograph. He had learned to skydive in the last six months. One instructor said Simon had been an excellent student.
“He could land on a dime,” the guy told her.
Back at the office, the same day, she contacted the lawyer who had handled Matt’s affairs at the time of his death. Matt had left his mother a meager five thousand dollars in cash and a rundown truck. But Cindy had said Matt had worked almost nonstop the last few months of his life, even though his bank statements showed he had made few deposits. Kelly suspected he had started to work for cash. That he had tried to save up enough money to survive a year or more without taking any jobs.
Was it proof?
“Oh yeah,” she said to herself as she lay in bed late at night, unable to sleep. She could not get the name Falling out of her mind, and all that it meant. Had she needed one last stroke of proof, he had given it to her on a platter. Matt must have fallen far the night he had leapt from his doomed plane. He must have fallen into an even deeper darkness when he had caught Amy with David. Sure, she would collect more data and analyze all the facts but in her heart she knew already that she had her man.
Matt was alive. He had Jimmy. He had the money.
But where would an obsessed young man who’d plotted such an elaborate revenge go? To locate him she would have to think like him. More, she would have to duplicate his mental processes from beginning to end. But was that really possible? She had been betrayed herself but she was neither obsessive nor a genius.
Yet she knew such a person.
One who could help.
One who could hurt.