“I don’t know about an arrest,” I admitted. “Everything we have on Chris Danielson’s possible homicide is circumstantial. There might be enough there to take her in for questioning. Right now the best we can hope for is wire fraud. We have actual evidence on that. With any luck that will be enough for them to issue an arrest warrant.”
The phone rang just then with Marvin Price’s name in the caller ID window. “Great minds,” he said. “You were going to be my next call. For a change the AST is riding to the rescue instead of giving me grief. Harry Raines contacted Captain Blake Fordham earlier this afternoon and told him that the DNA profile from Jared Danielson has confirmed that the human remains previously known as Geoffrey 4/25/2008 have now been identified as belonging to Christopher Anthony Danielson.”
I allowed myself a sigh of relief. Chris was dead, but at least he was found.
“Harry suggested that a good starting point would be to contact you or Homer PD,” Marvin continued. “Between calling in Homer PD or a visiting private eye . . .”
“Never mind,” I said impatiently. “I know the drill, get to the point.”
“Once I told Fordham what we had, particularly the blood evidence in the back of the Subaru, he was willing to go for a homicide arrest warrant. He’s faxing it over, and I’m waiting to have it in hand before I head out to take Shelley Adams into custody.”
“Sounds good,” I said, “but you’d better get a move on. I have it on good authority that Shelley Adams is on her way out of Dodge. She’s headed for the airport.”
“Here in Homer?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Her Piper’s tied down there, and she’s probably planning to fly herself out. We’re en route there now.”
“Who’s we?” Marvin asked.
“My driver and I. Her name’s Winkleman.”
“Not Twink?” Marvin replied. “Really? Tell her I said hello. She gave me a lift from Anchorage to Homer once. I was bringing an escaped convict back to Alaska from Arkansas. When the plane finally landed, the only driver in Anchorage willing to go the distance from there to Homer was Twinkle Winkleman.”
Clearly my traveling companion was every bit as much of an Alaskan legend as the late Jack Loveday had been. Marvin remembered Twink, and she probably remembered him, too.
“Marvin Price says hello,” I told her, putting the phone on speaker.
“Right back at him,” came the reply.
“So where are you?”
“About three miles out,” Twink said, answering for both of us.
“And you’re sure she’s there?”
“Reasonably sure,” I said. “Not one hundred percent, because we don't have eyes on her vehicle.”
“One hundred percent or no, I’ll dispatch units as soon as I’m off the phone here, and once I have the warrant in hand, I’ll be on my way there, too.”
The gods had been smiling on me when I lucked into Marvin Price. There are plenty of good guys in law enforcement, but there are also plenty of jerks. Lieutenant Price was definitely one in a million. For that matter, so was Harriet Raines.
Because Twink was who she was, when it came time to turn off the imaginatively named FAA Road, she bypassed the exit to the terminal and headed straight for the civil-aviation end of the airport where the fixed base operator handled fuel and flight issues.
“The FBO will be straight ahead,” Twink informed me, gesturing. “The flight school is on the right. If she’s got a plane based here, my guess is that’s where it will be, near the hangar that Jack used for the flight school.
I’ve traveled aboard private aircraft enough that I know what it takes to navigate airport entry rules. In a post-9/11 world, security at airports, even small ones, is paramount. Everybody knows about security in airport terminals, but the same holds true in the world of civil aviation. Vehicles don’t enter or exit airport properties without the drivers being properly identified, and all entrances and exits are controlled by locked and remotely operated electronic gates, usually installed in sturdy chain-link fences.
Twink was pulling up right outside the entrance to the FBO. “Just drop me here,” I told her. “With any luck she’s still inside handling paperwork.”
I hit the ground running before the wheels came to a full stop. It was nighttime, and the building’s doors were locked. I had to wait seemingly forever to be buzzed in.
“May I help you, sir?” the clerk behind the counter asked.