“Hear what?”
“November eight six one Alpha Bravo just filed a flight plan leaving from Renton Municipal at thirteen hundred thirty and flying to a place called Puerto Pe?asco, Mexico. Flight time approximately four hours.”
The clock on the dash of Mel’s 740 read twelve forty-eight. We didn’t have much time at all.
“How many passengers?” I asked.
“Two souls on board indicated.”
That meant it was most likely the pilots only. Trudy and Diane hadn’t alerted Anita Bowdin after all. They were meeting up, taking the plane, and making a run for it on their own.
“Where are you now?” Don asked.
Trudy’s blue minivan had pulled off Kent’s main drag and into a Wells Fargo Bank branch. Mel switched on her signal and parked at the edge of a Safeway parking lot across the street. We sat with the engine idling and watched while Trudy, carrying a briefcase, hustled into the bank.
“The suspect just went into a bank branch here in Kent,” I told him. “Most likely picking up some cash.”
“All right,” Don said. “SHIT’s got a standing mutual aid agreement with Renton, so I’ll let them know what’s up and that we’ll need units on the ground there at the airport. And Haley wants you to know she just passed the Kent/DeMoines Road exit coming north, so she’s making good progress.”
I rang off and gave Mel the lowdown on what Don had told me. Then, silent once more, Mel and I sat and waited. Again. She hadn’t given me an outright no to my impulsively impromptu proposal, but she sure as hell hadn’t said yes, either, and I had far too much male pride to bring it up again. Instead I sat there and wondered how slow the bank tellers could possibly be and wished to hell I hadn’t had so much coffee earlier in the morning.
When my phone rang again, I expected it would be Don Hastings, calling to give me a minute-by-minute update on Haley Mitchell’s progress. It wasn’t.
“You son of a bitch,” Detective Kendall Jackson said. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Just had a call from Larry Crumb at the crime lab. He got a hit.”
“A hit on what?”
“On the weapon that killed LaShawn Tompkins. And guess what? Where do you think it came from? From you, you worm. From a case in Mexico! What the hell—?”
“Sorry, Kendall,” I told him. “Gotta go.”
I dialed Don back. “Is Ross Connors there?” I asked.
“No, but—”
“Never mind.” I hung up and dialed Ross Connors’s cell. He answered after only one ring. “What?” he asked. “Is there some other problem besides the plane?”
“We’ve got to move on those rape kits,” I told him. “Now! If there’s any media coverage at all of the plane takedown, it’ll be too late.”
“Done,” he said. “I’ll put the DNA lab on an immediate lockdown. No phone calls in or out. No e-mails, either. Now where’s that blasted list thing you were telling me about?”
“Todd Hatcher has our copy.”
“How soon can he have it there?”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Send someone to pick up Analise Kim at her house and take her to the lab. It’s her list—the one we have is only a copy. She’s the one who organized the whole storage system, and she’s the one who’ll be able to find what we need.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m on it. Where are you?”
“In Kent, waiting for Trudy Rayburn to finish up in the bank.”
Which happened almost at the same time I said the words. Trudy emerged and headed for her van. Once Trudy’s vehicle had merged into traffic, Mel pulled in behind her. The minivan was tall enough that we were able to stay several car lengths back. Within a matter of seconds it was clear Trudy was headed for Highway 167.
“What was that all about?” Mel wanted to know.
“Larry Crumb got a hit. The gun that killed Richard Matthews is the same one that killed LaShawn Tompkins.”
Without warning, Mel jammed her foot on the accelerator. The BMW shot forward, passing several of the intervening vehicles and putting a permanent whiplash-style crink in my neck.
“I hate vigilantes,” she muttered.
“So do I,” I agreed. “But please don’t kill us in the process.”
She eased off on the gas, slowing a little and dropping back into the right-hand lane behind the minivan. “Okay,” she said.
I thought she meant okay, she would slow down. I didn’t get it at first.
“I meant okay, I’ll marry you,” Mel explained.
“Oh,” I said.
Don’t think I wasn’t grateful—ecstatic would be a better word—but Mel Soames is not the world’s best driver.
“Great,” I told her. “But how about if we discuss this later? Right now, shut up and drive.”
CHAPTER 25