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Authors: Michael Craven
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sixty, seventy, eighty mil.
“What is it?” I said.
“Why do you ask?”
“I need to know if it’s something illegal. Occasionally I will do something illegal. Okay, maybe more than occasionally. But when I do it’s because I know what’s happening, and I choose to do it. I don’t know enough about this story yet.”
I grabbed the envelope out of his hand.
“So if this is anything illegal, deliver it yourself.”
He nodded and said, “It’s just a letter that says I miss talking to her and, well . . . John, we had a connection, and, as I’ve told you, hell you know now, there’s something about her. So if she’s through talking to me, I want to tell her just one last time that she’s . . . great. And that I’d like to talk to her from time to time. And that if she ever needs anything to call me. That’s it. I don’t want to send a letter she might not get, or that will come back to my house for my wife to open. And I don’t want to deliver it myself because if she doesn’t want to talk to me, if she feels she needs to end all communication with me, I doubt she wants me just showing up.”
“Stalker.”
“Right.”
“Can I open it and read it? I’ll put it in a fresh envelope to deliver it.”
“Yes. If you need to do that, fine.”
Gina Vonz reappeared at the top of the steps. Like: Let’s go. I held the envelope openly. Always the best way to go. Nothing to hide. Maybe it was just a payment from Vonz.
Vonz turned around and headed up the steps. Halfway, he looked back at me. “Thanks, John.”
I nodded. And Vonz and Gina went in.
Almost instantly, the stairs retracted, the door shut, and the plane began to head out to the runway. So fast. None of that bullshit you get on a regular old flight.
Then I noticed a profile in one of the back windows—Mountcastle. He was already on the plane. He’d boarded with the crew. He wasn’t creepily looking out at me. He was just sitting there, like a good little schoolboy, all buckled up and ready to go. Man, these big shots take their assistants everywhere. So they never have to do anything the rest of us do.
Then, just moments after the stairs had been enveloped by the plane, Vonz, Mountcastle, and his wise, glamorous wife rocketed skyward in a zillion-dollar machine, parting the darkening orange and purple sky, the water on the jet of the plane catching sunlight and sparkling, the wings for quick moments looking like they were covered in fireflies.
I followed the plane for almost five minutes until it was a black dot in the distance.
And then I turned and walked back to the Cobalt.
9
D usk as I drove back to Suzanne’s Ocean Avenue condo. Thinking: Hmm, how do I get this letter to Suzanne without blowing my tourist cover that I used to get her picture? Or did it matter at this point? Don’t know.
Why did I feel like I’d need the cover later? Don’t know that either.
Some obvious information: Sometimes it’s better to use a cover when you’re trying to get information. Especially early in a case. Because you don’t want people to clam up when you say: I’m a detective and I’m on your case. Which they do. And you often don’t want people to know that you’re looking into something at all. Because often that’s when they tell you exactly what you need to know.
Some not-so-obvious information: Sometimes it’s better to tell people exactly who you are and what you want. Especially later in a case. This approach allows you to be yourself, to not have to keep up with your cover. And it allows, when the circumstances call for it, to instill some fear.
Back at Suzanne’s. Back out front in a spot, same side of the street as her condo. Sitting. Waiting. Again. I put Pavement’s Brighten the Corners on. That song that goes: “Sherri, you smell different . . .”
“Type Slowly”—that’s what the song’s called. Just love it. I listened to it six times in a row, then let the CD play.
I just sat there, thinking,
“What is it?” I said.
“Why do you ask?”
“I need to know if it’s something illegal. Occasionally I will do something illegal. Okay, maybe more than occasionally. But when I do it’s because I know what’s happening, and I choose to do it. I don’t know enough about this story yet.”
I grabbed the envelope out of his hand.
“So if this is anything illegal, deliver it yourself.”
He nodded and said, “It’s just a letter that says I miss talking to her and, well . . . John, we had a connection, and, as I’ve told you, hell you know now, there’s something about her. So if she’s through talking to me, I want to tell her just one last time that she’s . . . great. And that I’d like to talk to her from time to time. And that if she ever needs anything to call me. That’s it. I don’t want to send a letter she might not get, or that will come back to my house for my wife to open. And I don’t want to deliver it myself because if she doesn’t want to talk to me, if she feels she needs to end all communication with me, I doubt she wants me just showing up.”
“Stalker.”
“Right.”
“Can I open it and read it? I’ll put it in a fresh envelope to deliver it.”
“Yes. If you need to do that, fine.”
Gina Vonz reappeared at the top of the steps. Like: Let’s go. I held the envelope openly. Always the best way to go. Nothing to hide. Maybe it was just a payment from Vonz.
Vonz turned around and headed up the steps. Halfway, he looked back at me. “Thanks, John.”
I nodded. And Vonz and Gina went in.
Almost instantly, the stairs retracted, the door shut, and the plane began to head out to the runway. So fast. None of that bullshit you get on a regular old flight.
Then I noticed a profile in one of the back windows—Mountcastle. He was already on the plane. He’d boarded with the crew. He wasn’t creepily looking out at me. He was just sitting there, like a good little schoolboy, all buckled up and ready to go. Man, these big shots take their assistants everywhere. So they never have to do anything the rest of us do.
Then, just moments after the stairs had been enveloped by the plane, Vonz, Mountcastle, and his wise, glamorous wife rocketed skyward in a zillion-dollar machine, parting the darkening orange and purple sky, the water on the jet of the plane catching sunlight and sparkling, the wings for quick moments looking like they were covered in fireflies.
I followed the plane for almost five minutes until it was a black dot in the distance.
And then I turned and walked back to the Cobalt.
9
D usk as I drove back to Suzanne’s Ocean Avenue condo. Thinking: Hmm, how do I get this letter to Suzanne without blowing my tourist cover that I used to get her picture? Or did it matter at this point? Don’t know.
Why did I feel like I’d need the cover later? Don’t know that either.
Some obvious information: Sometimes it’s better to use a cover when you’re trying to get information. Especially early in a case. Because you don’t want people to clam up when you say: I’m a detective and I’m on your case. Which they do. And you often don’t want people to know that you’re looking into something at all. Because often that’s when they tell you exactly what you need to know.
Some not-so-obvious information: Sometimes it’s better to tell people exactly who you are and what you want. Especially later in a case. This approach allows you to be yourself, to not have to keep up with your cover. And it allows, when the circumstances call for it, to instill some fear.
Back at Suzanne’s. Back out front in a spot, same side of the street as her condo. Sitting. Waiting. Again. I put Pavement’s Brighten the Corners on. That song that goes: “Sherri, you smell different . . .”
“Type Slowly”—that’s what the song’s called. Just love it. I listened to it six times in a row, then let the CD play.
I just sat there, thinking,
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