“Maybe you should use a more sultry tone,” I tell her. “Next time he asks you out, at least tell him you’ll think about it. That way he’ll take your phone calls.”

“You’re the one who keeps talking about him. Maybe you should go out with him,” she says.

“He’s not my type. It seems that I tend to argue with male lawyers.”

“From what I’ve seen, you don’t do too well with female lawyers either,” she says.

“No? Now that all depends.”

“On what?”

“On who’s on top.”

“Oh, jeez,” says Herman, “let’s not go there.”

“From back here it looks like you dropped a flare in your investigator’s lap,” says Joselyn. “That is blushing, or do those little veins in your ears always throb like that?”

I look over. With Herman it’s hard to tell. But she’s right. His head’s turned the other way, one hand covering part of his face. He’s shaking his head and laughing.

“That’ll teach me to get in the car with two horny men,” she says.

“Who’s horny?” I say.

“You,” says Herman. “Shut up and drive before you get us in an accident.”

The other Tucson storage facility is about twenty miles out into the desert. It is much smaller, nestled against some low-lying sandstone cliffs. By the time we get there, it’s almost ten. I pull up in front of what looks like the office, an old wooden building that was a barn at one time. The Dutch gambrel roof is missing enough wooden shingles that it looks like a toothless hag.

The planes in storage look older and not as well maintained. The entire facility has a kind of seedy appearance, faded paint on the wooden facade of the office, scrapped-out parts lying around, and some old airplane tires piled against the fence. There is a single long runway and about twenty planes, some of them parked on an apron in front of the hangar, and others on a diagonal along the far edge of the runway. Six of these are jetliners. The rest are all prop jobs, and from the faded paint and dust, none of them looks as if it is in great shape.

“Let’s get it over with so we can get some lunch,” says Herman.

Joselyn and I open the doors and step out at the same time. “You want to be the lawyer for the bank this time?” I ask.

“No. I’m not good at telling lies.” She looks at me with an innocent smile.

“Right. This way, Pollyanna.” She follows me up the rickety wooden steps to the porch that leads to the office. The window air conditioner is rattling a few feet away, vibrating in the wall, dripping condensation, and expelling hot exhaust.

I open the door and the three of us step inside. It’s a small office with two desks, a lot of paper clutter and dust.

“Looks like there’s nobody home,” says Herman.

There is one of those antique bells with a button on top of the desk. Herman walks over and slaps it a few times and a voice from the bowels in the back hollers, “Be there in a minute.”

A few seconds later a guy I would guess is in his late forties comes through the door in the back. “What can I do for you?” Dark stringy hair, and oil ground into his fingers.

“We’re looking for someone,” I tell him. I pull the photographs from my leather portfolio, the enlargement of Thorn on top, and hand them to him. I can tell the moment he looks at them that he recognizes Thorn. You can smell the rubber burning behind his eyes. He looks at me and then back at the pictures.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m a lawyer.” I give him my card, and then lead him through the story of my client the bank and Thorn’s fraudulent loan, the fact that we’re chasing assets, trying to nail anything that moves to the ground.

He stands there impassively looking at my card and then says, “Is that so? Sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”

“Do you recognize him?” I ask.

“I see a lot of people in here,” he says. “It’s hard to remember all of ’em.”

“Yeah, I can see you’re doing a booming business,” says Herman. “Gonna have to take a number next time we come in. Why don’t you just make it easy on yourself? Tell us when you saw him last. And what it was that you sold him.”

“I didn’t say I did,” says the guy.

“No, but your eyes don’t lie as good as your lips,” says Herman.

“Is that so?” says the man.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Why do you want to know?”

“So I can forward it to the FBI along with your place of business. You see, there’s a federal warrant out for this man’s arrest. And the FBI is going to want to talk to you and take a close look at your records of sale.”

“I see,” he says. “Let me take a look at the pictures again.”

“Take your time,” I tell him.

“Could be this guy was in here early last week,” he says.

“That’s better,” says Herman.

“But he wasn’t using the name Thorn. He called himself George Michelli. It looks like him. He was representing a buyer out of Latin America. He bought an old 727-100C. And he got a good price. He paid with a certified check drawn on a corporate account down in Colombia. That’s all I know.”

“Did he take the plane?” I ask.

“Yeah. Flew it out of here himself that day, along with some onboard equipment.”

“What kind of equipment?” says Herman.

“A generator, a new-model transponder. I can’t remember what else,” he says.

“Where was the plane headed?” says Joselyn.

“I assume Colombia,” says the man.

“Did he file a flight plan?” says Herman.

“Not with me,” says the guy. “As soon as I was sure the certified check would clear, he was out of here. Now that you mention it, he seemed to be in a hurry.”

“Do you have the contract of sale and the rest of the paperwork?” I ask.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I should be showing it to you,” he tells me.

“Your choice,” says Herman. “You can either show it to us or to the FBI.”

The guy thinks about it for a second. “All right, you can look, but I’m not making any copies until I talk to my lawyer.”

“Agreed,” I tell him.

He rummages through one of the filing cabinets behind his desk.

The chances of finding anything useful in the contract or the other papers is slim. No doubt Thorn used a false front, an empty corporation in Colombia, solely for the purpose of buying the plane. I doubt that’s where it’s headed. Thorn wouldn’t leave that kind of a trail.

“Here it is.” The guy turns around holding a manila folder, reading the label on the tab. “Gallo Air, SA. That’s the name of the company. Bogotá, Colombia.” He carries it over to the other desk, wipes off some of the dust with an old rag, and sets the file down. “You want to take notes, that’s fine, but don’t take anything out of it,” he says. “I’m gonna have to call my lawyer.”

In which case Joselyn, Herman, and I are going to move fast, before his lawyer can step in and start asking particulars about my client and the bank. The contract lists the tail number of the plane. Herman makes a note.

“How much fuel did the plane have when he left?” I ask.

“Full load,” says the guy.

“What’s the range of that particular plane?” I ask him.

He thinks for a moment. “Cargo plane, stripped, no seats, light load, I say maybe five thousand nautical miles.”

“He could be anywhere in the Western Hemisphere,” whispers Herman.

Joselyn and I page through the pile of forms in the folder, transfer of title documents, most of them NCR forms, pink copies, meaning that the top sheet on the multipage forms went somewhere else.

“Who got the original top copies?” I ask him.

“The seller. A bank in Texas,” he says. “I mailed them out late last week.”

I am flipping pages when Joselyn stops me. “Wait a minute. Go back.”

I flip back one page.

“What’s this?” She points to a handwritten note in the margin on one of the pink forms.

“Numbers. Looks like somebody made a note,” I say.

“That’s not the purchase price,” she says.

“Is this your handwriting?” I ask the guy behind the desk.