“I can fly you there.”

“You can fly?”

“Not in the Peter Pan sense. But if your question is, ‘Do I own a Cessna 172 currently parked at Montgomery Field, and do I possess the capacity on short notice to transport you and your partner to Yuma,’ then I suppose the answer all depends on whether your department is willing to reimburse me for fuel and wear and tear on my airplane.”

“I think we can arrange that,” Rosario said, getting excited by the idea.

“Then I’d say we’re good to go.”

She said she and her partner could meet me at the airfield in forty-five minutes. I gave her the name of the jet center where the Ruptured Duck was tied down, told her I’d be on my way there shortly, and tapped the red button on my phone.

Savannah spooned into me sleepily, wearing my polo shirt and nothing else. Her hand draped over my hip and dangled over a particularly sensitive sector of my anatomy.

“What’s so important in Yuma?” she purred.

“I’ll tell you all about it when I get back,” I said, and derricked myself out of bed.

Savannah rolled over on one elbow and watched me pull on my jeans, biting her bottom lip, pouting.

“You can’t go later?”

“I only wish.” I sat back down and laced up my hiking shoes.

She leaned over and kissed me softly on the small of my back. “If you stay, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I can’t, Savannah. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

“This isn’t Kmart, Logan. There are no rain checks. Supplies are limited.” She flopped back on the pillows and exhaled in frustration. It took every ounce of conviction to go brush my teeth and not climb back in bed with her.

“You could at least tell me why you’re going.”

“The police need a lift.”

“To Yuma?”

“To Yuma.”

“Why?”

“They’re investigating a murder. It’s no big deal.”

“Murder is always a big deal, Logan. Who died?”

“That friend of Hub Walker’s daughter, Ruth. The one I told you about last night.”

“She died? I thought you said she was in the hospital.”

“People do die in hospitals, Savannah. Except maybe on House.” I spat out the toothpaste and rinsed my mouth with water from a glass sitting on the pedestal sink.

“Do you think it had anything to do with Ruth’s murder?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe? You worked for the CIA. They didn’t teach you how to figure out all that stuff?”

“I never worked for the CIA, Savannah.”

“Well, you worked for somebody. You and Arlo.”

“Can we not talk about this now? I really do have to go.”

I pointed to my polo shirt. She took it off reluctantly and tossed it to me, gathering the sheets around her. I pulled the shirt on and reveled in her scent.

“When’ll you be back?”

“Hopefully tonight.”

“What should I tell Hub and Crissy?”

“The truth.”

I leaned down and kissed her.

She kissed me back like she meant it.

“Be safe, Logan.”

“Always.”

I telephoned Flight Service from my rented Escalade and got a weather briefing: the forecast called for unrestricted visibility between San Diego and Yuma. Winds below 12,000 feet were forecast to be light and variable. There were no pilot reports of any turbulence or other adverse conditions. Like the old beer commercial said, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Detectives Rosario and Lawless were waiting outside Champion Jet Center in a white unmarked Dodge Charger when I pulled in. Lawless asked to see my pilot’s license.

“Nervous flyer?”

“Just want to make sure you’re legit,” he said.

I removed the credit card-size certificate from my wallet along with my FAA-issued medical certificate.

“Five bucks apiece in Chinatown,” I said.

Lawless glowered as he handed them both back to me. That he saw scant humor in my lame attempt to put him at ease hardly came as a surprise. Like most people who have little experience flying in small planes, both he and Rosario were nervous but trying not to look it.

“Let me assure you,” I said, “that you stand a greater chance of being struck by lightning than expiring in the crash of a light aircraft. Small planes are relatively safe — assuming, of course, your pilot hasn’t had his license revoked once or twice for minor heart problems.”

“I’m sorry, did you say heart problems?” Rosario said, her eyebrows elevated.

I assured her I was kidding.

Lawless grunted and held the door open, following us into the jet center.

Kimberly, who’d made fun of my plane upon my arrival in San Diego three days earlier, was still hunched behind her computer at the reception desk like she’d never left work. Maybe it was my imagination, or the way the afternoon sun slanted in, but she looked even more Irish wolfhoundish since I’d seen her last.

She gave me one of those I’m-paid-to-be-pleasant smiles as I walked past her with the two detectives in tow. There was a glass door adjacent to the receptionist’s desk leading outside to the flight line. I pushed on it. Locked.

“May I help you?” Kimberly acted like she’d never seen me before.

“That’s my Cessna 172, parked out on your ramp.”

“I’m sorry. Your tail number is…?”

“Eight two four Charlie Lima.”

She took her time typing the number into her computer.

“I landed three days ago,” I said. “You rented me an Escalade, remember?”

Kimberly stared up at me blankly, milking the moment, like any memory of me was somehow beneath her.

“You may recall,” I said, “you implied my airplane wouldn’t win Miss Universe.”

Kimberly brightened, pretending to suddenly remember.

“Oh, right,” she said, “the homely beast.”

Takes one to know one, Kimberly.

I told her that I’d be flying to Arizona and planned to be back that night. She asked if I wanted to keep the fuel charges and overnight parking fees I’d already accrued on the credit card I’d given her earlier. I said I did.

She reached under her desk and pushed a button, electronically unlocking the glass door.

“Have an extremely safe flight,” Kimberly said as we walked out to the flight line.

Have a good flight. Have a nice flight. Those are among the standard salutations uttered by people in aviation. They might even say, “Have a safe flight.” But to have an extremely safe flight?

I wondered if Kimberly wasn’t some sort of visionary.

Nine

“Montgomery Tower, Four Charlie Lima is ready, 2–8 right.”

“Skyhawk Four Charlie Lima, hold short 2–8 right, landing traffic.”

“Charlie Lima’s holding short, 2–8 right.”

We were buckled in, the three of us wearing headsets, the Ruptured Duck’s engine humming at idle, all set to go. Detective Rosario was riding shotgun. Lawless hunkered in the back. His white dress shirt was one big sweat ring.

“Make sure your belts are nice and tight,” I said.

“I can’t believe you talked me into doing this,” Lawless said to his partner, glancing around the Duck’s passenger cabin like a trapped animal.

“We’ll be fine,” Rosario kept saying as if to convince him and herself that we actually might.

“Relax, kids. I haven’t lost a passenger yet.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Lawless said.

I could smell their adrenaline.

I triple-checked to make sure the Ruptured Duck’s fuel selector was set to both tanks; that the fuel-air mixture control knob was all the way in; that the flaps and trim were properly set; that oil pressure was up and cylinder head temperature down; and that my window and both doors were closed and latched, then watched a red-over-white Cirrus float in on final approach. It crossed the numbers, flaring a bit high, before settling down on the runway. After the Cirrus turned off onto an adjacent taxiway, the tower controller radioed: