In the world of law enforcement, takedowns can go either way, very good or very bad. The one at Renton Municipal Airport went off without a hitch. The blue van pulled up to the security gate, and after a pause was allowed onto the tarmac. Soon the van disappeared behind a long line of hangars, but I wasn’t overly concerned. Once the gate closed behind her, I knew for sure we had her. In a post 9/11 world, the Freestyle wouldn’t be coming back through that secured gate, not unless someone opened it for her. And I knew their plane wouldn’t be taking off, either, not without clearances from the FAA, which, I was sure, wouldn’t be forthcoming.
Haley Mitchell, waving frantically, pulled up behind the BMW in her Jeep Cherokee. I hopped out and hurried back to collect the search warrant, which she held out the window for me. As I started back to the BMW, another vehicle pulled into line behind hers—a Suburban—and I was gratified to see the remainder of Squad B—Harry I. Ball, Brad Norton, and Aaron Oliver—come spilling out of it.
Harry strode up to the BMW. “Where are these turkeys?” he demanded.
“They went around the building.”
By then Mel had negotiated with the keeper of the gate. And, because she’s a female, she had asked for and received directions. “We go around the end of this building and then turn right,” Mel said. “Anita Bowdin’s hangar is at the far end.”
“Okay,” Harry announced. “I’m in charge here. Renton already has units inside the airport grounds, but they’re waiting for me to give the word. If necessary, they’ll surround the aircraft and make sure it doesn’t go anywhere.” He looked back at his little band of SHIT squad soldiers. “Everybody wearing vests?” We all nodded, Haley Mitchell included. “Okay, boys and girls,” Harry said. “Lock and load, back in your vehicles, and let’s hit it.”
The gate opened—with an astonishing lack of speed or urgency, but in the long run, I think slowing our approach actually worked in our favor. There were no sirens and no lights, nothing to alert Trudy Rayburn and Diane Massingale to our impending arrival. Once we came around the near end of the building we could see the van parked at the far end, where two people were engaged in hauling things out of the back and carrying them into the hangar. They never saw us coming.
Because Mel and I were leading the way, we got there first. In the movies and on TV, cops always arrive in a squeal of tires and a spray of gravel. Mel brought the BMW to a smooth and silent stop directly behind the van where Trudy Rayburn was leaning deep inside to pull something from the far end of the cargo area. Trudy was the one with the concealed weapon permit, and I didn’t want to take any chances. I tackled her and brought her down before she ever knew what hit her. Once she was on the ground, Mel removed her weapon.
By then Haley, Brad, and Aaron were out of the Suburban. They rushed into the hangar, where Diane was coming back from the plane for another load of luggage. She hit the tarmac when ordered to do so and placed her hands on the back of her head. It was a by-the-book operation, over almost before it started, which was fine by me. Kevlar vests are okay in their place and in theory, but I prefer not to field-test them if at all possible.
One of the things we good guys have going for us is that most crooks are under the mistaken impression that all cops are stupid. Trudy Rayburn and Diane Massingale were true to type. They both seemed thunderstruck to think someone had actually caught on to them. As the ranking officer present, Harry enjoyed introducing himself and taking charge of the two suspects. Their consternation at hearing his name was well worth the price of admission. As I’ve said before, people who regard Harry I. Ball as some kind of joke do so at their peril.
By then a whole phalanx of Renton PD patrol cars had appeared out of nowhere. Harry ordered the handcuffed suspects into two of them. Then, with Harry leading the way in his Suburban, a mini-motorcade set off for the King County Justice Center, where the suspects would be held for questioning.
Armed with our search warrant and several eager helpers, Mel and I turned our attention to Anita Bowdin’s slick jet—November eight six one Alpha Bravo. We emptied the Hawker’s cargo hold. One by one we went through all the pieces of luggage we found there and inventoried the contents. From the amount of clothing we found there and from the amount of money stashed in Trudy’s confiscated briefcase, it soon became clear that their trip wasn’t planned as a short south-of-the-border getaway. It was a real getaway. Trudy and Diane had expected to go to Mexico and stay there.