Part 11 (1/2)
”What am I hearing?” Daggett asked.
”Listen. WFO is the Office of Origin on Bernard. We're the O.O. on this crash.”
”And Dougherty?” Daggett asked. ”Where the h.e.l.l does Dougherty fit into this?”
”Bring me something. Okay? You like the Dougherty connection, so do I. Bring me something my squad supervisor can get hard over and we'll take over this crash investigation in one phone call.”
”You're helping me?”
”I'll help where I can.”
”Why the sudden change of heart?”
Huff took a moment before replying. ”I didn't sleep last night. Not because of this crash, but because of Backman. I f.u.c.ked up the Bernard surveillance, Daggett. I admit that. I see that now, okay? I let it get away from me. I let that briefcase get away from me. Where did he make the drop? In the men's room? The coat check? s.h.i.+t, I don't know what went wrong, but it went about as wrong as it can go. First Backman; now this. What the f.u.c.k? You reach a certain point, you realize it's time to change your act.” He studied his unlit cigarette and then threw it into the mud. ”Where are you going, in case I need to reach you?”
Daggett could hardly find the words. Huff apologizing. You reach a certain point, you realize it's time to change your act. The words echoed inside him like the last penny in a piggy bank. They could have come out of his mouth just as easily.
Huff repeated, ”Where you going?”
Daggett answered, ”To find us some evidence.”
The tire tracks outside the home of Kevin Dougherty produced quick results. Measurement of the wheelbase, as defined by the two opposing tire tracks, identified the vehicle as a Chrysler either a Dodge Caravan or a Plymouth Voyager. Betting on a rental, Daggett turned his attention to the local agencies. The killer's rental car in Seattle had given him a credit card to flag and trace; maybe this rental car would be worth something as well.
A phone call placed early Wednesday morning revealed that Chrysler had an exclusive rental agreement for Caravans in the L.A. area with Overland Car Rentals. Overland kept only eight Caravans at its airport agency. Of the eight, two had been returned the day of the crash one a few hours before the crash, and one only minutes after. In a city where forty-five-minute drives were common, Daggett was grateful to be working out of the airport Marriott, which was all of five minutes from LAX and the Overland agency there.
Daggett b.u.mped over the security spikes at the entrance, pa.s.sing the gatehouse on his left. Ahead of him a sea of returned cars awaited cleaning. A Vietnamese boy of about eighteen, leaning awkwardly over two pieces of electronic gear that hung from his belt, approached a returning car and began punching numbers into one of the heavy boxes.
Daggett found the supervisor, Milton b.u.t.ts, in a small office through a door behind the main counter. The room reeked of aftershave, reminding Daggett of Backman. b.u.t.ts was a black man with graying temples, a dead front tooth, and the stump neck of a former wrestler or lineman. He had wide-set brown eyes that flashed between vacancy and annoyance as Daggett made his requests. He wore a company blazer and a s.h.i.+rt that couldn't b.u.t.ton around that thick neck, the knot of the company tie attempting to hide its shortcoming. The left lens of his reading gla.s.ses was thumb printed He had missed a spot below his nose in this morning's shave, leaving a triangle of black stubble on his upper lip.
He typed slowly, but with accuracy. As he read from the screen he said in a deceptively tranquil voice, ”Both of them vehicles rented to women, if that matters any.”
”But one of them paid cash,” Daggett said, feigning confidence Worry written on his face. ”Will the computer show that?”
Milton b.u.t.ts reexamined the screen and asked, ”Now just how did you know that?”
”A lucky guess.” He closed his eyes and thanked whoever was watching over him.
b.u.t.ts puckered his lips, not liking the answer. ”Her name is Lyttle, with a y. Maryanne Lyttle. A one-day rental. Reserved it with a card but paid cash. She kept the car for about six hours that's fairly common with our business customers,” he added editorially. After studying the screen a moment longer he added, ”Nothing out of the ordinary here.”
Daggett requested a copy of the agreement, and b.u.t.ts printed one out for both of them.
Daggett read the agreement over.
”Has the van been cleaned?”
”Sure it's clean,” b.u.t.ts said angrily. Then adding, ”You don't look too pleased about that.”
”How clean? Inside, I mean.”
”Truthfully? This time of year, as busy as it is, probably not perfect. You seen that parking lot out there. Packed with returns. Every day it's like that,” he complained. ”And between you and me, our employees are not exactly highly motivated. Know what I mean?”
Daggett placed a phone call and ordered the van be towed to a garage where field office personnel could go over it immediately.
”This got something to do with the crash, don't it?” b.u.t.ts asked when Daggett hung up. ”s.h.i.+tty thing, that crash. Hurts all of us. You should have seen our cancellations this morning. I wanna tell you, even a G.o.dd.a.m.ned accident hurts business. People is very superst.i.tious when it comes to flying.” Then his eyes rolled and he exclaimed, ”You telling me it wasn't no accident? That what you doing here?”
Daggett sized him up and answered, ”Officially, I can't comment. Unofficially I can use all the help I can get.”
”I be G.o.dd.a.m.ned,” b.u.t.ts said brightly. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n Arabs or what?”
Daggett asked, ”What do these letters in the return box refer to, Mr. b.u.t.ts? Can you tell me that?”
b.u.t.ts looked his own copy over and nodded. ”We rent and return right from Baggage Claim. The majority of our return business is done out here, off airport where we clean and service the fleet. But our Express customers are handled on-airport. Both pickup and return. That's all that's saying. This van was rented and returned on-airport.” In boyish enthusiasm he added, ”Say! You know what I bet would interest you?” He checked his watch. ”But s.h.i.+t, we had better move quick.”
Daggett didn't like the sound of we. ”What's that?” he asked. ”What might interest me, Mr. b.u.t.ts?”
”We had a whole series of holdup problems down there on-airport. Put in a hidden video system not six months ago.”
”Video?” Daggett asked, his mind racing ahead to the possibilities.
”Thing of it is,” b.u.t.ts said, obviously worried, checking his watch again. ”It's a twenty-four-hour loop system. Endless tape, or something. You know. Same as they do in the terminals.”
”The terminals?” And now Daggett exploded out of his chair, frantically waving for b.u.t.ts to hurry, for it suddenly occurred to him how to catch this Maryanne Lyttle.
On Thursday morning, August 30, Daggett entered the Los Angeles County Federal Building an innocuous white structure surrounded by suspiciously green gra.s.s. The Feds apparently weren't paying much attention to the drought.
The audio-visual technical services lab of the Los Angeles Field Office of the FBI used a small windowless office on the sixth floor. Daggett knew the video techs here in L.A. were among the best in the country. Not only was L.A. at the heart of such technology, but LAFO saw more than its fair share of practice: the drug squad used video surveillance extensively. Drugs in L.A. were big business and a central focus for the LAFO. The room was crowded with every kind of video and television equipment, some recognizable to Daggett, some not. Daggett b.u.t.toned his sport coat to hold off the added chill, reminded of the computer room at Duhning. He'd left the letter jacket in the hotel room.
Cynthia Ramirez steered her wheelchair over to Daggett and shook his hand strongly. She had fire in her gla.s.sy eyes and a sly little smile. Daggett saw the chair and thought of Duncan. Ramirez was rail thin, wearing a cable-knit sweater with a plaid blanket covering her legs. Her dark hair was held off her bony face by a red plastic clip in the shape of a bow. Her fingers were ice cold and as long and slim as chopsticks. ”They call me Fragile,” she said, still maintaining the smile.
”Michigan,” he said, careful not to crush that hand.
”It suits you. Don't ask me why.”
He withheld any similar comment.
”What's this?” she asked, eyeing the cardboard box of videotapes he had brought with him.
”I'm told you're the best we have in video enhancement.”
”Compliments will get you everywhere.”
”Black and white, endless loops. One tape shot in an airport garage. The other fifteen are on loan from a private firm that runs the video work out at LAX.”
She grinned. ”That's Bernie Shanks's company. He came out of this office, you know?”
He nodded. ”Yes. That is, I found out. It's how I was able to walk right out of there with these things. Without Mr. Shanks I have a feeling it would have taken a few weeks in court.”
She reached for the box and pulled it down into her lap, where it landed hard. Enough to break bones that small, if indeed there were any bones under the blanket. It was hard to tell. ”Endless loops don't offer very good quality. Oxide wears right off 'em.”
”That's why I asked for you. For the enhancement.”