“Somebody local?” Hardy asked.
Chance shook his head again. “An ex-convict just released from prison a couple a days ago,” Chance said and noticed Kev Murphy in a crowd at the far end of the long bar, laughing and swilling a beer with a group of guys.
“Whose plane?” Hardy asked.
“Belonged to some business exec from Nebraska, but the plane came from Moab.”
“No shit?” Hardy said. He seemed curious now.
Chance nodded. “Looks like somebody just waltzed into Doc Jeppsen’s place, picked the keys off the board, and flew away.”
“Doc was probably rock hounding. What did the plane’s owner have to say?”
“Busted his head riding down White Rim Trail. When the rescue squad picked him up, he didn’t have any ID. Nobody knew who he was. Good thing his buddies biked out a day early and came looking for him. That’s when the police came looking for the plane and found it missing.”
Hardy shook his head and smiled. “Riding alone, no ID. No corner on stupidity. Hurt bad?”
“Well, he’s not feeling any pain right now. He’s in a coma.”
“You’re kidding,” Hardy said. “You figure he’s connected to the dead guy?”
Chance smiled. “Now, Hardy, you’re starting to scare me, thinking like a cop.”
“Just curious, is all,” Hardy chuckled.
“I sure as hell can’t figure a connection. The dead guy apparently came to Butte to see a woman here. Far as anyone knows, he came straight from the state prison in Idaho and had never been anywhere near Moab.”
“You mean he had a girlfriend in Butte?” Hardy said in disbelief.
“Guess it depends on who you ask,” Chance said, thinking about the letter Lowell had kept with him.
“Turns out the woman is the daughter of a man the ex-convict killed.”
“Straight up?” Hardy said and whistled faintly. “Man, this sounds like a soap opera.” The announcer had reached the mike on stage and was getting ready to introduce the next comedian. “I’m gonna get another beer. Want one?”
Chance made one more sweep of the bar and, seeing neither Perryman nor his partner, shook his head. “I got a date with a lady,” he said and made his way to the exit and the parking lot.
* * *
“What do you think changed Mesa’s mind?” Adrienne asked. She had fashioned a bedroom space in the loft apartment by angling two bamboo screens together in one corner. She and Chance cuddled under a duvet on the futon. No wham-bam, thank-you ma’am for him.
“I’m not sure she has changed her mind,” Chance said, resting his chin atop Adrienne’s head and stroking her arm. “She’s just sorry she said anything.”
“My sister came around expediently when I told her you looked mature,” Adrienne said with a smile. When Chance didn’t laugh, she continued, “Of course, it is true that when you were starting first grade, I was already in med school.”
Chance grinned at the thought of Adrienne, the eager, fresh-faced med student. If he had seen her when he was six, he might just have fallen for her then, too. “Yeah, well, that was twenty-five years ago and now I’m bigger, if not smarter.” He turned her face toward him and they kissed again.
“And what else?” Adrienne asked.
Chance liked that she could tell he was preoccupied, not pressing him to make love again like she might otherwise.
He reached for the pint container of huckleberry ice cream next to the bed, half-eaten before they had succumbed to temptations more carnal. “I think part of what’s bothering Mesa is that she’s uneasy, feeling her way around at the paper. This afternoon she got more involved with the crash story. Maybe that lifted her spirits.”
“Involved how?” Adrienne asked and took the teaspoon full of ice cream from him.
“She tracked down the woman Lowell Austin wrote to.”
“Good for Mesa,” Adrienne said, her tone genuinely enthusiastic. “Anybody you know?”
Chance took the spoon back and shook his head. “But that doesn’t stop the story from getting weirder.” He described Kathy DiNunzio’s revenge plot gone wrong. “I’m still blown away that some soccer mom would go that far.”
Adrienne mused for a moment, and then said, “If you lost a parent when you were a child, you might fixate on getting even. You might not ever reach the place where you recognize that serious revenge usually means risking a great deal—which is more or less the conclusion the rest of us reach.”
Chance smiled at her, holding her in his gaze.
“What?” she said, beginning to blush.
“You’re so clever and smart,” he said and fed her a spoonful of ice cream. Chance almost lost his train of thought watching Adrienne slowly lick ice cream from her lips.
“Do you think she had anything to do with Austin’s death?” she asked.
“Mesa seems to think the woman is genuinely sorry for what happened to Austin. Supposedly, she and her kids were at Georgetown Lake when the crash took place. So unless she’s a pathological liar, I’d say she’s off the hook.”
“So you’re without a suspect again,” Adrienne said.
“Maybe not. I talked to this insurance investigator about the plane,” Chance said, carefully apportioning the last of the ice cream between them. “It was stolen from an airport in Moab. Belonged to some mountain-biking enthusiast with more money than brains.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, her smile bathing him in warmth. She always had another question.
“He went down into Canyonlands solo and then crashed his bike. Took a day and a half to figure out who he was.”
“Somebody could have borrowed his plane while he was gone.”
Chance smiled and gave her his last bite of ice cream. “He’s one hell of a generous guy if he lent somebody his $100,000 plane.”
“So, maybe they didn’t ask.”
“Well, maybe when he comes out of his coma, he can tell us all about it.”
“If he’s in a coma, he may not remember anything one way or the other when he does wake up.”
“Think so?” Chance said and put the ice cream carton back on the floor. He didn’t buy the notion that Simian had lent his plane to anyone. As far as Layton James knew, Simian had hardly talked to anybody in Moab, let alone knew anyone there well enough to hand over the keys to his Cessna.
Out of ice cream, they made love again—grizzly bear love, Chance called it, on account of the huckleberries. They teased each other about who tasted sweeter and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Chance was awakened by the sound of his own voice yelling, “Unlatch the doors, quick, before we hit the ground!”
Then, strangely, he heard Adrienne. “Chance, Chance, it’s okay.”
Chance turned toward the voice and then realized he was sitting up, with Adrienne next to him stroking his chest, talking softly.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
Chance realized he had been dreaming about crashing his plane. He took a deep breath, hoping to slow his pounding heart. He shook his head and chuckled to himself. “Investigating this crash is taking its toll.”
“You were talking about doors,” she said with a puzzled look on her face.
“The cabin doors. Fitz used to say if you think you’re coming down hard, at the last minute unlatch the doors so they don’t jam on impact.” He looked at her and shook his head. “Like you could remember to do anything at that point besides pray.”
They lay back down and snuggled under the covers. Soon he felt the steady breathing that signaled she had fallen back asleep. He lay there in the dark, wishing he could do the same.
Instead, he kept going over what Layton James had told him about Moab. While Simian couldn’t be completely ruled out, he hadn’t been the pilot of the plane that flew to Butte. The question remained whether he could be connected to Austin’s death and whoever else had been in the plane.
Chance would let the FBI use all their resources
to cross-reference Simian’s and Austin’s lives. Maybe something would come of it, but Chance could do nothing about that one way or the other.
His thoughts drifted to Hardy. He was accustomed to making the rounds of Butte bars when he came home, but what was he doing at Shoestring Annie’s on Comedy Night, which he always claimed to hate? The comedians were too lame. And what was he doing driving one of his father’s trucks? Chance had seen the Yukon Glass pickup in the parking lot. Like most Montanan guys, Hardy drove a classy pickup and was usually damn proud of it.
He wondered too, if that was who Mesa had hooked up with last night at Mercury Street. Not that he was going to act like it was any of his business. Not after Mesa’s apology.
Maybe tomorrow he would talk to Kathy DiNunzio himself. And he would ask Rollie Solheim for another look at the evidence photos of the plane’s interior. Something in the photographs of the cockpit of that plane bothered him.
Chapter 18
When Mesa agreed to meet Hardy at Chance’s place, she told herself that this would be the last time. She knew Tara was right. While Hardy was always enthusiastic, sex for him was just another form of exercise. “Friends with benefits” was all their relationship would ever be.
At least she was able to get out of Nan’s house without the previous night’s anxiety. She had found a fleece jacket to wear, and the moon was full. The walk was actually relaxing. She didn’t worry about seeing Chance and wasn’t surprised to find his apartment dark at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night.
Hardy arrived a few minutes later. Bearing a six-pack of Bud and a look on his face she had not seen since the night he realized his prospects as a pro baseball player had evaporated, she suddenly wondered if he actually had something besides sex on his mind.
“What’s up?” she asked when they had cozied up to one other in front of the fireplace in Chance’s living room, curious now that he had made no move to go upstairs to the bedroom.
Hardy stared into the flames for way too long. Finally he said, “You know that feeling when you make a huge mistake and, like, realize there’s no frigging way to make up for it?” His voice was low and measured, as if this were some philosophical discussion.
Mesa sat quietly, deciding to assume that this was a rhetorical question.
“Sometimes you make a decision on the spur of the moment,” he said between sips of beer, “out of frustration even, but you never mean for it to get out of hand.”
Mesa looked at Hardy from the corner of her eye. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was he talking about them, their on-again/off-again relationship? More likely, some other failed opportunities in his life, like the snafu in Moab maybe. She realized she wasn’t sure, and she really wanted to know.
The light from the fire danced across his cheek, and he looked lost. She felt an overwhelming affection for him. Then he turned and looked at Mesa. “Shouldn’t intention count for something?”
Could it be that Hardy actually regretted the way their relationship had gone? Now after all this time, now that she was really ready to move on, did Hardy have something else in mind? “Hardy, what are we talking about?” she said.
He took a long pull off his beer and sighed. “My life’s a mess, Mesa, and you know, you’re the one person I can think of to tell who might understand.”
Mesa pulled her feet under her and put her hand on Hardy’s. She still had no idea what he was trying to tell her, but it was obvious he was worried, and she couldn’t take the suspense any longer. “Hardy, are you in trouble? Did something happen in Moab?”
Hardy sighed again, the air leaving him in a long, low hiss, like a tire going flat. “I got mad and said some things to my boss I can’t take back. Then I did a favor for somebody that didn’t work out, and it’s coming back on me. Truth is, I can’t go back now even if I wanted.”
Mesa didn’t know what to say. She had known Hardy since they were teenagers, and in that time she had never seen him back down from any situation, no matter how difficult. He was a Butte boy through and through.
He held her hand tight. “If I can just get past the next couple of weeks, I can get back on my feet. Start over. I know I can.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Then, I’m going to make some changes.”
Mesa didn’t know what to think. She wasn’t sure what, if anything, all this had to do with her. What she knew for sure was that Hardy was actually upset about something, and she wanted to help. “Hardy, whatever happens, you’ll get through it. I’ll help you.” He put his arms around her and hugged her with all his might.
* * *
Hardy dropped Mesa off at 7:30 the next morning. This time she had decided not to forgo her beauty sleep. Sneaking home at five in the morning to avoid Nana’s questions was no longer part of the program. In the end, Mesa had nothing to worry about.
A cheerful “Good morning, dear” accompanied by hot tea and toast was all that met Mesa when she opened the back door into the kitchen. Nana busied herself flipping through the newspaper, trying almost too hard not to seem the least bit inquisitive. Mesa said good morning, grabbed a triangle of toast, and excused herself. “Have to get ready for work,” she said and bounded up the stairs with a smile on her face.
She drove Nan’s Trail Blazer and arrived at the office at 8:30, surprised to find the newsroom bustling and Chance pacing back and forth in her office.
“I want to go see Kathy DiNunzio. Since she’s met you, it might go down easier if you go with me,” he said even before she sat down.
“Good morning to you, too,” Mesa said. “A little early to be feeling obsessive, isn’t it?”
“I went to the sheriff’s office this morning to talk to Rollie,” Chance said, his hands on his hips. “While I was in the lobby, I looked at the daily police reports. Kev Murphy got beat to a pulp at the Copper Baron last night.”
Kevin Murphy’s bouts with the bottle were legendary, but Mesa could see Chance wasn’t taking it lightly. “This isn’t the first time Murphy’s—”
“The police report says Kevin was found lying in the middle of Harrison Avenue, attacked by ‘assailant unknown.’ It’s a pure miracle someone didn’t run over him. No one in the bar saw anything, and Kev didn’t want to file any kind of complaint.”
Mesa could tell she had to be careful how she asked the next question. “Chance, you know how annoying Murphy can get when he’s had one too many. Guys were probably lined up to give him a smack down.”
“Yeah, I know. But I can’t help but wonder if this had something to do with that plane crash. Kev saw whoever boarded that plane. Maybe they decided to help him forget.”
“Why don’t you talk to him?” Mesa said quietly, trying to get Chance to calm down. “Maybe he’ll tell you something he wouldn’t tell the police.” Which was true. Chance usually had that effect on people. He had a way of convincing people to do things others couldn’t.
“I’m trying to track him down now. Apparently, they admitted him to the hospital last night, but when I call over there, he’s not in his room. He may have taken off. If he calls into work, which he always does, Tyler’s going to tell him to call me.”
Irita stuck her head in the door. “Am I interrupting? That’s a stupid question. Of course I am.” She walked in the office, closed the door, and leaned against its handle so that no one else could do the same. “I’m sorry, but . . .” She stopped for a minute and wrung her hands. “Look, I just talked to Kathy and she still hasn’t called the sheriff. I don’t want to get anybody’s ass in a sling, particularly hers. But I especially don’t like the idea of the sheriff’s office getting the idea that the Messenger knows something they don’t.”
Mesa was surprised to hear this. Kathy had no difficulty telling her story to them. “Why wouldn’t she call the police?”
Irita sighed, “She just said she had to think about it. If you ask me, she’s worried about Garrett. He still doesn’t know anything about her connection to Austin, and I think she
’s afraid the police are going to want to question him too. What with the AWOL thing, she’s afraid he might run from the cops. I thought maybe Chance”—she gave him a pleading glance—“you could talk to her.”
Chance looked at Mesa and said, “Just what I had in mind.”
* * *
“I have to be in district court at ten-thirty,” Kathy DiNunzio said when she met Mesa and Chance at her front door ten minutes later. She wasn’t impolite, but she was in a hurry. While she spoke, she was slipping on the jacket of her day-in-court navy suit.
“This is my brother,” Mesa said, hoping that attention to the relationship might segue into a conversation about Garrett. “We won’t take much time, I promise. Just a few more questions.”
Kathy opened the door with a sigh. “Okay,” she said, “but you’ll have to come in the kitchen while I finish cleaning up.”
They followed her through the hallway and stood next to an island counter in the square kitchen while Kathy rinsed breakfast dishes, put cereal boxes away, milk in the fridge. Like most single moms, she found it necessary to do at least two tasks at once, none of which were probably primary in her mind, Mesa suspected.
“I know I need to talk to the police, if that’s what Irita sent you here to convince me to do. One of the detectives will be in court today. I’ll ask him who is working the case.”
“That’s good to know,” Chance said. “They’re definitely looking for whoever Lowell knew in town. Eventually they’ll get your phone number from the phone listings from the house where Austin called you. It will put you in a better light if you volunteer the information.”
“Did you know him?” Kathy asked, concern filling her voice. “I mean, you called him by his first name like you had met him or talked to him.”
Chance shook his head. “I feel like I’ve gotten to know him in the last few days working on this story. I talked to Preach—Daniel Swoboda—the guy that Lowell was staying with.”
Kathy nodded her head encouragingly. Mesa could tell she was hungry for whatever Chance could tell her about Austin.
“He’s pretty upset about what happened. Kind of feels like it was his fault.”
Kathy wiped her wet hands on a dishcloth and shook her head. “If anybody in Butte is to blame,” she said quietly, “it’s me. You can tell him that.” She walked into the den where she had poured her heart out the previous afternoon, replacing the newspaper on the coffee table. Mesa and Chance were right behind her. She picked up a stuffed bear and a toy truck from the floor and then sank into the sofa. “I was the one he came here to see.”