Chapter 6
-
The phone buzzed a third time on the coffee table. Flint pressed a button to record the call and then leaned forward to hear as Scarlett punched the speaker button.
“This is Kathryn Scarlett.”
A woman whispered. “Have you watched the video?”
Scarlett said. “Who’s asking?”
“I need your help.”
“You’re calling my phone in the middle of the night. You sent me a package with no return address. I don’t know who you are or what you want,” Scarlett’s tone was reasonable, if a bit peeved. “Give me a reason to keep listening.”
“I need to discuss this in person,” she replied. “I can’t ask anyone else.”
“Why not?”
She inhaled deeply, as if she needed courage. “There were only three people on that plane, not four.”
“The news coverage you sent said four. How do you know there were only three?” Scarlett said.
A loud crashing noise came through the speaker. Flint cast an inquisitive glance toward Scarlett. She shook her head indicating she couldn’t identify the noise, either.
Whatever it was, the woman seemed even more rattled. “Meet me somewhere we both know. The fort. I’ll be there in two days. Please come.”
She disconnected the call.
Flint checked the clock. “Forty seconds. We can run voice recognition on the recording, but we don’t have anything we can match it to yet. Did you notice anything that might identify her?”
Scarlett shook her head. “We checked the photo and the USB for prints and DNA, but we didn’t get anything usable. The phone number and the call are consistent. No help at all.”
“What did you find about the Gulfstream explosion that might corroborate her three passengers claim?” Flint asked as he refreshed their drinks.
“Official records say four souls were on board. The NTSB filing, the reporting at the time, the original aviation records filed with the flight plan. I verified it myself,” Scarlett said, taking a gulp of the whiskey.
“It wouldn’t be the first time initial crash investigation reports were wrong. They get corrected as the NTSB goes through their process,” Flint resettled in his chair. “Say she’s right. What if only three people were on that plane? If she’s lying, that’s specific and verifiable.”
“Should be. Yet, I found nothing to even suggest only three passengers were on the plane,” Scarlett said, arching her eyebrows while staring at the phone on the coffee table as if the answers might be stored there somewhere.
“That’s one thing to chase down. I’ll make a few calls as soon as the world wakes up.” Flint replied.
“Spread a few bribes around to the right crew is all it takes,” Scarlett said absently. “But you’ve got to have the cash and the contacts to do it.”
“What about her meeting place. The fort, she said. What’s she talking about?”
“There must be a dozen or more old forts in Texas. Could be any one of them or one of the hundreds of old forts anywhere in the country.” She frowned and shook her head slowly.
“If we assume the caller is Nora Weiss or knew Nora, then she might be talking about something at the Lazy M because I had no contact with Nora after she left there.”
“I don’t remember us having a fort back then. Do you?” Flint asked.
“Remember something kids called a fort when I was ten?” she said, as if the answer were obvious.
He let it go. The memory was buried under years of everything that came after. The caller had planted the seed of memory. It might germinate and develop into a real memory. Sometimes the mind worked like that.
“So she got impatient and called because you sat on the number. Suggests something changed between the time she’d sent the package and tonight,” he said.
“Yeah. Two days ago she put an envelope together and found a kid on a bike to deliver it. Tonight she wants a meeting. Could be her situation is worse,” Scarlett agreed. “Or, whoever she really is, maybe she just got tired of waiting for me.”
“You don’t think it’s really Nora?” The way she’d explained things to him, he wasn’t sure.
“Did you miss the part where I told you Nora died of an overdose years ago. I saw the death certificate,” Scarlett replied.
“Public records have been falsified before,” Flint said reasonably. “And she’s in trouble.”
“Everybody’s in trouble. That doesn’t make her story true.”
“No. But the missing fourth passenger detail might.”
Scarlett gave him a stare. “There’s no record of that.”
The kitchen clock ticked down the hall. Outside, a car passed slowly along the street, headlights sliding across the front windows.
He’d noticed a slow vehicle ten minutes before the phone call and ignored it. Two slow passes in less than thirty minutes was unusual enough to verify. This was a quiet residential street. As far as he knew, none of his neighbors were late night types.
Flint stood and walked to the window. He moved the curtain with the back of his hand and looked at the block.
Scarlett’s armored SUV sat under the oak tree at the curb. Streetlight glinted off the hood and windshield. There were no other cars parked on either side. Along the block, porch lights were off and most windows were dark.
He turned to scan the other direction. A black sedan was parked four houses up on Flint’s side of the street. He hadn’t noticed it when Scarlett first arrived, but he’d been looking at her, not the street.
Flint turned from the window, collected his handgun, and crossed the living room. “I’ll be right back.”
Scarlett watched him pull on a dark jacket and slip out the back door.
The underwater pool lights were enough to see the immediate area after his eyes adjusted. Jasmine along the stockade fence hung thick in the humid air. No breeze.
He went through the gate and into the alley. Gravel crunched under his boots. He moved along the fence line toward the street. At the corner he stopped to confirm the heavy silence that had settled over the neighborhood after midnight.
The sedan was running but hadn’t moved. From this angle he could see the plates but not read them.
Staying in the shadows, he crossed to the grass strip between the sidewalk and the curb and moved toward the sedan.
Now he saw a man seated in the driver’s seat. From that viewing angle, Flint confirmed, the guy must have been watching his house through the windshield. He’d settled in like he’d been there awhile.
Flint came up to the driver’s door and tapped the Glock against the window.
“Hands on the dash,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the air-conditioning blasting inside.
The man’s head snapped left. He looked at the pistol, then at Flint. His hands moved from the wheel to the dashboard. He didn’t reach for anything.
“Open the door. Left hand. Slowly.”
The man reached across and popped the door. Flint stepped back. The interior light came on.
The man was early fifties, heavy through the shoulders and chest, with short brown hair going gray at the temples.
His canvas jacket was creased at the elbows, and the flannel shirt underneath had been washed until the plaid was fading.
His jeans and work boots had the same worn softness as the rest of him.
“Step out.”
He was Flint’s height but thirty pounds heavier. He stood with his feet apart and his hands open at his sides, as if he’d been in this position before.
“Toss your weapons onto the grass,” Flint said while holding his aim.
He tossed a revolver removed from a belt holster on his right hip under the canvas jacket.
“Now the backup.”
The man bent to an ankle holster and tossed the backup gun next to the revolver.
Flint said, “Show me your wallet.”
The man reached into his breast pocket and pulled it out. Flint took it but with no streetlight nearby, he couldn’t read the contents.
“Turn around.” Flint pulled a plastic zip tie from his pocket and bound the man’s hands.
“What’s your name?”
“Cody Patterson,” the man replied.
“Why are you sitting on my house?” Flint asked.
“I’m not. I followed a woman here.” Patterson shrugged.
“Why?”
“Long story. Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you all about it,” Patterson said. “Or I could start making noise out here and wake up your neighbors.”
“Or I could shoot you. This is Texas. My neighbors would understand.”
Patterson shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”
Flint grinned. The guy had a good grasp of the obvious, at least.
“Okay. Let’s go.” He marched Patterson along the sidewalk and into the alley. Through the back gate and across the dark yard to the detached garage. Flint opened the side door and found the light switch.
A single overhead bulb lit the space. A workbench ran along the back wall and a metal stool stood beside it. The floor was bare concrete, the walls cinder block, and there were no windows.
“Take a seat.”
Patterson plopped onto the stool. He put his bound hands between his thighs and waited as if he were comfortable and unconcerned.
Flint opened the wallet and flipped through it.
An Indiana driver’s license identified him as Cody Arthur Patterson, age fifty-three, with an address in a town Flint had never heard of.
Behind the license was a photo ID card issued by the same town’s police department identifying Patterson as a retired officer.
Next to it, a current Indiana firearms qualification card.
The revolver on Patterson’s hip was legal.
A retired officer in good standing with a current firearms qualification could carry concealed in Texas.
His former department had issued the ID, which meant he’d left on decent terms. It said nothing about what he was doing at Flint’s house or why he was following Scarlett.
Trust but verify was a solid approach here. He slid the wallet into his pocket.
“You’ve been sitting outside watching my house in the middle of the night, Mr. Patterson. Why?”
Patterson said nothing.
Flint set Patterson’s pistol on the workbench out of Patterson’s reach.
“Either tell me what you’re doing here or I’m calling my friends at Houston PD.
They’ll be more than glad to put you in a holding cell until I figure things out on my own.
” Flint gave him a smirk. “I’m pretty good, but sometimes it takes me a while.
You could remain in jail for a month or more. That what you want?”
“You can’t hold me for a month without a court order,” Patterson replied.
Flint smirked again. “You think? We could test your theory, if you’d like.”
Patterson seemed to be thinking about the question, but he didn’t respond.
“My friend’s building security was breached today.
Her SUV was stolen.” He watched Patterson’s reactions.
“Now you’re here. On the same street as her SUV.
My assumption is that you’re engaged in criminal activity.
I think Houston PD would agree. You were a cop once, not so long ago.
How would you interpret those facts if you were me? ”
When Patterson looked up, his gaze was flat and exhausted, as if he’d been carrying heavy weight far too long.
When he replied, his voice was low and hoarse. “I’m looking for my brother. He came to Texas a few months ago. I haven’t heard from him since.”
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“Kyle Patterson. We’re twins,” Patterson replied.
“Is it unusual not to hear from him for a few months?”
“Very.”