Dante checked the terminal with its small waiting room and sliding glass doors. No sign of Nora and no sign of the police, so maybe he was home free. He’d given Abbie enough misinformation to throw the cops off the scent. He knew she’d leak it all to Priddy, who no doubt prided himself on having the inside dope. In the meantime, Dante had told Lou Elle to change the first-class tickets to Manila from Nora’s name and his to her own name and her husband’s. He’d sport the couple to the trip as a reward for services rendered over the past fifteen years. If the CHP intercepted the limousine on its way to LAX, they’d discover the fish had slipped out of the net.
Dante climbed the steps and boarded the plane, ducking to clear the door as he proceeded to his seat. The interior was cream-colored leather and burled high-gloss cherry with a forward galley and an aft lavatory. He carried a toothbrush in his pocket, but aside from that, all he had was the cash. He chose the second forward-facing club chair on the right. One of the two pilots left the cockpit and made his way through the cabin so he could brief Dante about emergency exits and the drop of oxygen masks if the plane lost altitude. He also told him there was freshly brewed coffee and assorted snacks, along with the catered meals Dante had ordered in advance.
“Questions?”
“I’m good. I’ve flown privately before.”
“Let me know if you need anything. We’ll be under way shortly.”
Dante picked up one of the newspapers that had been provided. He buckled his seat belt and opened the bottle of water offered in the console. The engines came to life and he could see the two pilots go through their preflight routine. The plane began to taxi down the runway. He could almost feel the familiar sensation of the aircraft lifting and climbing. In moments, he’d be gone. He hadn’t expected the sense of loss to be so sharp. He was a patriotic guy. He loved his country. Now that departure was imminent, he couldn’t imagine that he’d never again set foot in America. There was no compromising his defection. The number and nature of his crimes made it impossible to remain in the United States with his freedom intact. The plane slowed to a stop.
Ahead, in the cockpit, he saw the pilot unbuckle his seat belt and make a second trip into the cabin. When he reached the door, he swung the handle to the left in preparation for opening it. The door pivoted outward and the retractable stairway settled into place. Dante looked out the window and saw Nora’s turquoise Thunderbird speed along the runway. The car came to a stop and the engine shut down. She got out on the driver’s side, pausing to remove a garment bag and an overnight case from the trunk. She was as beautiful as he’d ever seen her, in soft-fitting black sweats that looked comfortable for travel. A young man emerged from the passenger side and came around the front of the car to trade places with her. She tossed him the car keys and headed for the plane. The pilot walked out to meet her so he could carry her bags.
As she boarded, she said, “I left Channing a note, telling him good-bye and god bless. I left instructions for my lawyer, so he can handle the rest of it. I ought to have my head examined.”
Dante said, “For that, we’ve got time.”
32
AFTER
Santa Teresa, California May 27, 1988
There’s always a story that comes after the end of a story. How could there not be? Life doesn’t come in tidy packages, all neatly wrapped up with a pretty bow on top. The raid resulted in seventeen arrests, with criminal charges filed against twelve. To all intents and purposes, the theft ring was shut down and the organization at large suffered crippling effects—at least until they gear up again. If it hadn’t been for Len, Pinky Ford would be dead, which Pinky claims he’d have preferred. With Dodie gone, he doesn’t feel he has anything to look forward to, but that may change in time. Len was put on administrative leave and then decided to take early retirement before Internal Affairs could conduct a review. With thirty officers and an additional two dozen witnesses on hand, the facts about Cappi’s shooting death were never in dispute. After consideration, the district attorney’s office decided not to pursue the issue. Publicly, Len was hailed as a hero, which annoyed me no end. I remembered all too well the shooting years before, when he’d been called to an accounting for inadvertently killing a fellow officer during a drug bust gone bad. At the time, he was cleared, but I was never convinced he was without blame. Word on the street had it that the other officer had threatened to report Len for certain questionable transactions that he’d observed in the course of their partnership. In the matter of Cappi’s death, the consensus was that Len had done law enforcement a favor, so nobody cared if I begrudged him the praise.