Drone: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 4

  My mind moved from focusing on the running to thinking about my second case.

  With pinpoint accuracy, a drone had slammed into Jackie Brand’s podium. The senator had been well separated from the crowd and the posse. From my days as a reporter, I’d learned to be suspicious of anomalies, especially when it came to politics, big business or the law. The setup yesterday didn’t look normal.

  Meanwhile, with few solid facts and no real clues, I applied wild-guess percentages to some possibilities, leaving room for other likelihoods. It was an imprecise but useful tactic for zeroing in an elusive truth.

  Odds of this being an assassination attempt: ninety-nine percent. Hard to imagine anyone but Brand was the intended target.

  Likelihood the drone was on autopilot: eighty percent.

  Chances the pilot, or whoever programmed the drone, was highly skilled: ninety-five percent, leaving room for luck. I could not have pulled off what I saw yesterday without some serious honing of my skills, and probably some help.

  I drank some water from a tube connected to a pack on my back. Felt the heat and sweat. Smiled at the efficiency of muscles and joints and chemicals churned out by the brain, giving me the natural high that was just settling in.

  Increasingly I thought there might have been a homing device on the senator, in the microphone, or somewhere under the podium. That would’ve simplified the targeting. And it would mean someone involved in setting up the event had helped. Or one of the deputies or posse members. Or Sergeant Lasko. I didn’t know enough to put percentages on any of this yet, but my brain blurted some out anyway.

  Seventy percent chance that more than one person was involved in the assassination attempt. Sixty-forty someone was on the inside, part of the setup team or law enforcement. Fifty-fifty it was Lasko.

  Odds were probably higher on Lasko. But I needed some evidence before those odds could be raised. Reason and intellect can deduce truths, or so the theory of rationalism goes. The downside of rationalism is that you can be one-hundred percent convinced of something and, on closer examination, find out you were dead wrong.

  But in the absence of a smoking gun, or even much of the smoking drone, or hardly any evidence at all, I had only rationalism to move the investigation forward, so I embraced it warily, just as I’d often done as a reporter.

  Two miles in. Checked my form. Elbows in. Hands relaxed. Strides efficient. This southern trek on Pima Road was slightly downhill, as Pinnacle Peak and the rest of the mountains of the North Valley gave way to Scottsdale and the broader Phoenix Metro Area, so it was easier than the return leg would be. The sky was still blue, without blemish, the air still dry and hot. I put my body back on autopilot.

  Earlier I’d gone back to the office and watched the video of the drone taken from the TV helicopter. Just as Beach had said, the drone came in from the west.

  From above, the drone could be seen heading perfectly eastward, parallel to the roof lines, just south of Tranquil Trail. The drone was mostly a blur in the video, but I could make out its shape, confirming four rotors. As it approached Pleasant Way, it jogged at a forty-five-degree angle and flew northeast over Café Amir and directly toward the podium on the east side of the central circle, in front of Ringo the cactus.

  I’d grabbed an old-fashioned printed map of Pleasant from the bookshelf. Used a ruler and pencil to draw a line from the site of the explosion to the center of the roof over Café Amir. Then westward. There was no way to tell if the drone had made other turns along the way. But if you were programming a drone to go from point A to point B, it would make sense to fly it in one direction until it was close to its target, then adjust for the final stretch. Not the only way to do things, but the logical way. Odds: seventy-thirty. Something to go on. A lead. Might point toward a clue.

  I hadn’t deciphered anything new, but I’d organized my thoughts, and that’s all I needed to work out for now.

  Ahead, a familiar boulder off to the side of the road. Three-mile mark. My breathing was light and even. I’d keep the same pace on the return leg but have to work harder to do it. Glanced at my watch: 20:54. Right on schedule. Turned, crossed the street, headed home.

  My brain was empty for a moment, then it pictured Sam. I shook my head to get her out of it and focus on the run. Didn’t work.

  Chapter 7

  My iPhone was ringing when I stepped out of the shower. I dried my hands and found Beach on the other end.

  “Beach, twice in one day. You must be lonely.”

  “You find anything out yet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When you gonna start detecting?”

  “You only put me on the case a couple hours ago,” I pointed out.

  “Lazy ass. Listen, I got a tip. But.” He paused.

  “But?”

  “I’m not sure if I should tell you.”

  “We both know you’re going to.”

  “If anyone finds out . . .”

  “Beach, you been giving me tips since way before I became a detective.”

  “You were a good reporter.”

  “I was a great reporter. And I never let on that you helped me. Mum’s the word. You know that.”

  “Just be extra careful with this. Don’t use it to try and stir anything. Don’t be obvious.”

  “On Lincoln’s Bible.”

  “They found something.”

  “They who?”

  “The team investigating the scene. Not sure exactly who.”

  “What’d they find?”

  “Official word is it was just part of the loudspeaker system.”

  “But.”

  Beach lowered his voice. “Guy I know at HQ says there’s a rumor it was a homing device. Figures it was supposed to get destroyed, so whoever put it there didn’t expect anyone to find it.”

  “But someone did. And that would explain the accuracy of the strike.”

  “And it means . . .”

  “Somebody on the inside is involved.”

  “You bet your ass it does.”

  “But it’s just a rumor,” I said.

  “And if Otto or one of his inner circle guys wants to make it go away, that’s all it’ll ever be.”

  “Why do you think they’d do that?”

  “Bad publicity, at the least,” Beach said. “If that’s it, they’ll try to find the guy, fire him for some other reason, make it all go away quietly.”

  “And not worry whether they solve the case.”

  “Otto’s got no love for Jackie Brand.”

  “Yes, I keep getting reminded of that.”

  “Worst case,” Beach said, “inside guy is one of his, Otto knows it, and he’s covering for him. Or somebody is.”

  “Well, it’s not likely Jackie Brand’s assistant did it.”

  “Not likely.”

  “TV crews and reporters wouldn’t be high on my list of suspects,” I said.

  “Mine neither. And I don’t remember any of them being near the podium during setup. I was there most of the time.”

  “I’ll have to find out who set it up. Third parties involved or not. Who else on Brand’s staff was there before or during the event.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “For a dollar.”

  “You could drop the case, give me my money back, admit defeat.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Chapter 8

  Despite the afternoon heat, we walked. It was dry. Sweat evaporated before it could get sweaty. It was two blocks from my office, down Pleasant Way, past the central town circle to Tranquil Trail. Sam had left the paper early, showed up as I was leaving the office. Solo was between me and Sam, panting eagerly. I had the sudden urge to hold Sam’s hand. I didn’t try. Wondered if I ever would.

  “Probably.”

  Sam looked at me sideways. I didn’t look at her, but in my peripheral vision I saw her pull her hair behind her ear. I knew she was smiling. I realized I’d said it out loud.

  “Quinn?”

/>   Figuring I should say something, I told Sam what Beach had told me. Well, I told her some of it.

  “The video from the helicopter shows the drone heading due east, over the buildings on the south side of Tranquil Trail. Then it takes a sharp turn just before it gets to Pleasant Way. You know the rest.”

  “Probably,” she said.

  I smiled.

  I didn’t tell Sam about the rumor of the homing device. I’d promised Beach I wouldn’t mention that to anyone. Sam wasn’t just anyone, but telling her about it probably wouldn’t help me solve the case. Withholding something from Sam didn’t feel good. But it felt right. Right wasn’t always comfortable. We jaywalked across the empty street and turned right on Tranquil Trail.

  “So we’re going to walk west and look for clues.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “And what exactly are we looking for?”

  “No clue,” I said. “Yeah, I know. I have to stop saying that. But it’s not a clue until you find it, so how can you know what it is ahead of time? Anyway, stop interrogating me. I’m supposed to ask the questions.”

  Sam smiled again. This time I saw it directly. Jesus, it was a helluva smile.

  “I figure maybe the drone originated somewhere nearby,” I said. “Was maybe set up the night before or something, programmed for the mission and waiting for a green light. The shorter the distance of the mission, the less room for detection or error. Too close and you’re in the busiest part of town, risk being caught setting it up.”

  “The mission,” Sam said. “That makes it sound like a good thing. Like a NASA voyage. Or a Navy Seal operation to rescue our guys.”

  “The deadly mission?”

  “The senator is still alive. Christ, Quinn. You really need to work on your crime vocabulary.”

  “The assassination attempt.”

  “Now you’re getting the hang of it. So how far we going to walk?”

  “Don’t know. Until we find something or run out of places to walk.”

  The center of Pleasant, the old part of town, was a grid four blocks north-south by six blocks east-west. There were just three blocks before we’d get to the edge of the old part of town and the transition to suburbia. I hoped we’d find something interesting by then. Following a straight path out through the suburban streets was impossible without hopping walls and navigating swimming pools in back yards. The streets were all giant curves, meandering to follow the contours of the desert landscape and provide a faux sense of randomness to the placement of homes. Or to simply confuse anyone passing through.

  We passed the yogurt shop, the flower shop, an insurance agent, a realtor. I knew the owners of all but the yogurt shop personally, and she seemed pleasant enough. No reason to suspect any of them. But you never knew. For now, they were all suspects of low probability. That was about as useful as saying everyone was a suspect. My thoughts were spiraling beyond reason.

  We crossed the next street, walked past a doctor’s office, an eye doctor and a dentist. The next block marked a shift away from professional services to grittier retail. There were fewer people around. An auto repair shop, tire shop and then a bland, two-story building with dusty windows and nothing but bare walls inside. Like most buildings in the old center of Pleasant, this one was old, wood-framed. The windows were intact but the panes were prehistoric, the paint cracking and peeling, gaps where wind and dust would get in. A red and white for sale sign was taped to the inside of the window, with a phone number written in black marker. I stopped. Sam stopped. Solo stopped.

  I asked Sam: “You know who owns this?”

  “Nope,” she said. “But it’s been vacant for months. Used to be a cleaners.”

  I checked the doorknob. Locked. I looked up at the second floor. More dusty windows, but smaller. An apartment. I logged the phone number in memory.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a window shade move on second floor of the building across the street. I’m not the paranoid type, but ever since I’d been jumped by the big Slav in the Bernstein case, right in front of my own house, I paid more attention to anything unusual that might tip me off to danger. Especially when I was doing things like trying to turn locked doorknobs on abandoned buildings while looking for an assassin. I also knew better than to look up. If there was someone watching, I wouldn’t want them to know I knew. If I’m going to be surprised, and I know it, I want to retain the element of counter-surprise.

  Solo tensed slightly, too. I don’t think he saw any curtains move. Probably sensed my tension. I tried to stay relaxed, move on to the next play.

  There was a narrow passage between the building and the tire shop. A gate was meant to discourage anyone from going back there. I opened the gate and we went back there. I was pretty sure we were noticed.

  Solo felt it, too. He perked his ears up and dropped his hindquarters a bit, prepared to spring forth if needed. Solo was no ordinary dog. He’d been trained by the sheriff’s K-9 unit and was ready for service, except for a couple personality flaws. For one, he didn’t feel the need to bark incessantly when cornering a bad guy. One bark was it for Solo, then he’d get down to business and growl in a way that’d scare the crap out of the meanest of the mean. But the training manual called for more barking. He was also a bit of a free spirit. He’d sometimes anticipate the next move before his trainer released him, such as trying to rip the arm off the pretend bad guy before he was commanded to try and rip the arm off the pretend bad guy. Two no-no’s in the training manual. Solo made it all the way through school but flunked the final. While I was still getting over Jess’ death, my friend Jack Beachum helped find Solo a home. Mine.

  We stepped around a pile of broken shelving and rusted florescent light fixtures that’d been left behind, then around a loose stack of empty buckets and a few withered cardboard boxes. Solo looked at me, looked toward the back of the building. He seemed to know something was up. His training must have included investigations into abandoned buildings.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Don’t know,” I whispered. But if you were going to launch a drone on an assassination attempt, wouldn’t the roof of an empty building be the perfect launch pad?”

  “Feels like a stretch,” she whispered.

  “One of the key strategies of private investigating is seeing something that feels like a stretch, and then pulling at it.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to find obvious stuff to pull at?”

  “I haven’t seen any obvious stuff.”

  “And if there was some, you’d see it.”

  “That’s why they call it obvious.”

  “Not everyone sees the obvious.”

  “But I get paid to.”

  “Why are we whispering?”

  “Well, we’re trespassing, and I don’t see any reason to shout about it,” I said. “That’s the obvious reason.”

  “There’s another reason?”

  “I think we’re being watched.”

  Sam just nodded. We’d worked together enough—on investigative stories at the paper, on my quest to hunt down Jess’ killer, and on my first case—that we trusted each other’s instincts.

  At the back of the building more junk was piled on the concrete. Boxes, clear plastic garment bags, a few ragged clothes, and a mountain of wire hangers. There was a six-foot concrete block wall surrounding an area about eight feet deep and the width of the property. The buildings on either side and behind were single story.

  “Private spot,” Sam said.

  There were two small windows on the second floor, none on the first floor. The door was nondescript, windowless. I tried to turn the knob. It wouldn’t turn, but the door drifted open. Solo growled once, low and barely audible.

  The jamb had been shattered. I looked at Sam. Sam looked at me. We went in. The space was cool and dark. A thin layer of dust coated the floor. What I saw there could not have been more obvious.

  “Footprints,” I whispered.

  “First you think
we’re being watched. Now you see footprints. What’re you, Shawn Spencer?”

  “I can sense these things,” I said. “Why aren’t we whispering anymore?”

  “Two sets of prints.” She pointed them out. “One going in, one coming out. The ones coming out are farther apart, less distinct. Walked in. Ran out. Nobody’s here.”

  “What’re you, Veronica Mars?”

  Solo sniffed at the first footprint. Not sure if he knew all the details, but humans are dropping dead skin cells all the time, and they leave a trail that any well-trained dog can pick up. Solo looked up at me for instructions on what to do next.

  “Good boy,” I said. I wasn’t sure what the command was for “see if you can sniff out clues to a potential assassin who might’ve come in here with a drone,” so I said: “Keep your nose open.”

  “Keep your nose open?”

  I shrugged.

  “Should we report the break-in?” Sam was thinking clearly.

  “The building has been empty for more than a year. Anyone planning to burgle the place could clearly see from the street that there’s nothing to steal. Footprints seem to be pretty fresh. Whatever happened here, I doubt it was a theft.”

  “Still, maybe the sheriff should know.”

  “Sheriff already knows plenty,” I said.

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t think the sheriff is going to work very hard on this case.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I can’t say. Sorry. I know something but I can’t tell you.”

  “Confidential source.”

  “Right.”

  “Beach?”

  “Can’t say,” I said. “Confidential source.”

  But Sam knew. That was OK. Sam wouldn’t get me or Beach in trouble. Now she knew enough to understand why we should not report the break-in, and I hadn’t told her the thing I’d sworn not to.

  I pulled my iPhone from its holster and took photos of the footprints. I was not a footprint expert, and I didn’t know any footprint experts, and these didn’t strike me as unusual footprints in any way, but as a private investigator, it seemed like the smart thing to do. We followed the footprints across the floor to the stairs on the far side, followed them up. The stairs creaked a bit, ended on a small landing with a door. Solo sniffed the doorknob, growled a bit. It was unlocked. We went in.