"I wish," I said releasing the brakes.

"This is great, Max," Brad said as soon as I had retracted the wheels.  "This is really going to save my ass.  One of the 172's is stuck in the shop waiting for parts and my brand new one is on a charter that promises to keep me solvent for the next month.  I have never seen such a surge of budding commercial pilots as of late.  I didn't think the job market was that good."

"I don't think the legitimate job market for pilots is that hot right now," I said.

I bit my tongue. The check ride was uneventful.  It was one of my better landings.

"Thanks, Brad.  I plan to be back in three days but if I run into a snag it could take as long as a week.  I will leave you a message where you can contact me."  I cut the starboard engine so that he wouldn't get an eyeful of grit as he opened the door and prepared to step off the wing.  "Anything you want from LA?"

"Just my bird back," he said. "Oh by the way," he hesitated as if he did not really have to say what he was about to say but somehow thought it necessary or reassuring or whatever.  "You have my word, Max.  All I know is that you have chartered my Aztec for three days.  I never ask.  This close to the border, it just ain't healthy.  Have a safe flight."

In thirty-five minutes, from the time that I had turned over the Cessna, I was screaming down the runway for the second time. This time I was in earnest.  The Aztec lifted off cleanly at about 80 knots and maintained a steady 1,600' per minute. I was already becoming used to it. I was in my glory.  What with one thing or another, it had been almost two months since I had flown a twin, except for Friday's excursion with Julian and of course the fifteen-minute check ride.  The flight with Julian does not really count though because I had just been playing dumb. Even if Julian had seen through my counterfeit novice pilot routine, he can think Cessna if he wants to now, I thought.  What harm could it possibly do? Once I had the aircraft trimmed for climb, I filed a flight plan for Yuma. Before, I knew it; I would be doing a let down.

Leveling off at eight thousand, I set the autopilot and opened my snack box to see what sort of goodies, Christie had packed for me: date squares, two granny Smiths still crispy cold and a thermos of coffee.  I poured a cup and placed it in the cup holder. It was too bad, I thought that this trip was such a risky one.  I would have loved to have brought Christie with me or Frank Jr. for that matter.  Heck, I could have brought both of them and our golf clubs. The only problem was Christie hated flying, Frank Jr. was in school.  I guess it wouldn't be practical; there could be violence.

Yuma was hot.  Of course it was.  It's never anything else.  The patio at the Garden Cafe was quiet and cool. The misters were doing their job.  I had an early lunch, juevos caliente. In the heat, Yuma is transformed into the Old West.  Down in the corner of the state, they still love to chinwag.  I got into a conversation with a couple of other pilots and wangled a ride back to the strip. It was cooking in the aircraft.  I left the door open until I had fired up both engines. 

While I was waiting for the aircraft to cool off, I called Christie on my cell and learned that she had developed the prints.

"The quality for the most part is excellent, Max.  I think you will be pleased with them."

"As soon as I have checked in, I will call you so that you can courier a set to me," I said."

I was overly meticulous doing my run-up.  However, by the time that the Aztec had lifted off, I had put all those thoughts on the back burner.

Clearing the Chocolate Mountains to the northwest was easy.  A series of thermals that were now popping off the valley floor assisted me. Three minutes at three thousand feet per minute did it nicely. I skirted to the north of Mexicali and then squeezed south of San Diego. Once out over the Pacific, I put the aircraft on a heading so that I would keep San Clemente Island on my left. On approach into Santa Barbara, I ran into an immature rain squall.  At about three hundred feet, I broke free of cloud and was elated to find that I was right on the money. It was a fairly good landing but then again any landing you walk away from is a good one.

As I was taxiing in, I spotted 66 X-Ray Tango taxiing out.  That would be just great, I thought, if I were to accidentally bump into Julian Fairfax and have to explain how I so readily learned to fly a twin in just three days. What a stupid thought, I told myself. It couldn't possibly be Julian.  His aircraft had gone south in a hurry. What a coincidence, I thought.  No.  Coincidence is not the right word. I remember Julian saying that he owned real estate in the vicinity of Santa Barbara. How could I have been so stupid? I should have been content with holing up anywhere but Santa Barbara.  But it couldn't be Julian.

I picked up a rental Geo, what a little shit-box!  It would not do to draw attention to myself by renting a southern California special, a classic Mercedes or a replica car, the 'Dusenburg' being my favorite. No one in southern California pays any attention to anyone in a Geo.  I soon found a middle-of-the-road motor inn.  It was big enough that there was not much danger that the desk clerk would remember a whole heck of a lot about a guy who straggled in at midday and paid with a visa card and who knew his plate number without being asked.  Actually, I didn't remember precisely what the plate number was but I put down a number.  Desk clerks never patrol parking lots.  Depend on it. I parked at the farthest extremity of the lot from my ground floor room.

The room was not skuzzy but it was not overly opulent either, just comfortable and quiet. It seemed to have been decorated in end-of-the-roll motif. There were the usual accoutrements: TV, coffee maker, ice bucket, and even a surplus of coat hangars. I unpacked, rinsed off the Arizona dust and put on my trunks.  After a few laps I went back to my room rinsed the chlorine off, toweled myself dry, and got under the sheet, propped myself up with a couple of pillows and phoned Christie. No answer. I left the name of the motel.  I drifted off for an hour or two.

I went out for a walk and had a late lunch in a Mom and Pop coffee shop about a block and a half from the motel. Sitting in a quiet booth at the back where I could keep an eye on the door. While working my way through a fresh California salad, heavy on the avocado, I made notes for the Fairfax file.

I couldn't believe that I  had been that stupid. Why hadn't I noticed it before?  Julian's aircraft is November X-Ray Tango, not X-Ray Tango November.  It's not the same airplane, I told myself.  Could there be two Barons with exactly the same paint trim?  I just wanted to get the assignment done. Tomorrow, I would terminate this accursed task.  I would persuade Clarissa to provide all that she knows about Julian and Woda Didi and consider it a wrap. Thank God! 

After lunch, I phoned Clarissa again but there was no answer or else I had the wrong number.  No answering machine came on, not even after twenty rings.  I phoned Christie and told her that I was working and to send me a text message if she needed to get in touch with me. I phoned Apio, my FBI contact, to inform him that I would definitely be finished with the file in twenty-four hours.  I had probably prepared more information than they would deign to read.  That's their problem, I thought.