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Denton Carter.
At first Ray couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw him standing under the porch light at Bellamy Price’s front door. But there was no mistaking him.
“Cocky flyboy,” Ray muttered now as he hunched over the bar and rolled the empty shot glass between his hands. Resentment bubbled inside him. Dent Carter was one of those lucky sons o’ bitches who could be dragged through shit but somehow always came up smelling like roses. Ray knew he’d suffered some hard knocks over the years. He’d gotten fired from an airline. Something about a near crash.
But, true to form, Dent had rebounded. Parked at the curb in front of Bellamy’s house was a sexy red Corvette, and Ray had seen for himself Dent being welcomed inside. Why wouldn’t he be, when, in her book, she’d all but labeled his character a superstud?
The whole thing made Ray spitting mad.
He signaled the waitress and pulled a wad of bills from his front pocket. Warmed up by the sight of cash, she came right over to him, bringing the bottle of Patron with her.
“Another for you, handsome?”
Oh, now he was handsome? Money sure had a way of changing people’s minds. He wondered how far it would get him with her. How friendly would she be if he reached out and yanked her chain? Literally. She’d probably scream like bloody hell.
“Make it a double.”
She reached for a second shot glass and filled it. “What are you celebrating?”
“I’m holding a private wake.”
“Oh, sorry. Who died?”
“Nobody.” He raised his glass to her. “Yet.”
Chapter 4
Dent fumbled for his ringing cell phone, squinted at the caller ID, and answered with a snarl. “Are you kidding me? Two mornings in a row?”
“Get your ass out here.”
Gall hung up without saying anything more, which wasn’t like him. He lived to argue. He reveled in arguing with Dent. Something was up.
Dent threw off the sheet and repeated the procedure of the day before, except that he didn’t shave and substituted a chambray cowboy shirt for the white shirt and necktie. He was out the door within five minutes.
In under twenty he got to the airfield, where Gall was inside the hangar, standing beside Dent’s airplane. His hands were planted on his hips and the soggy cigar was getting a workout between chomping teeth.
As Dent walked toward him, Gall motioned with disgust toward the aircraft, but Dent had seen the damage the moment he got out of his car. The cockpit windshield had been cracked. There were dents as large as softballs in the fuselage. The tires had been punctured. A blade on one of the propellers had been bent. The worst of it were the gashes cut into the top of each wing, like they’d been taken to with a giant can opener.
He made a slow circuit of the aircraft, surveying the vicious handiwork, his outrage mounting. When he rejoined Gall he had to unclench his jaw to ask, “Mechanical?”
“I haven’t checked anything yet. Thought I ought to leave it as it is till the insurance man sees it. Called the sheriff’s office, too. They’re sending somebody out. The wings alone, or the propeller by itself, either one would ground you for a spell. But both…”
Dent looked at him.
He shrugged, saying ruefully, “A month, at least. Probably longer.”
Dent swore elaborately. To him this wasn’t just an airplane. Or just his livelihood. This was his life. If he’d been attacked with a hammer and sharp blade he couldn’t have felt it any more personally. “How’d he get in?”
“Used bolt cutters on the padlock. I’ve been meaning to replace it with one of the newer kind, but, you know… never got around to it.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Gall. You didn’t do this. If I ever get my hands on the person or persons who did—”
“Promise to save me a piece of the son of a bitch.” He tossed his cigar into the fifty-gallon oil drum that served as a trash can. “Here comes Johnny Law.”
The next hour and a half were spent with the investigating deputy, who s
eemed capable enough, but Dent could tell this crime wasn’t going to get top priority when it came to detective work. The deputy’s questioning implied that the vandalism was retaliation for which Dent was responsible.
