He started his patrol car, switched on the flashers and the siren, and stomped on the accelerator. He crossed the runway and drove down the row of aircraft parked there, stopping fifty feet from what seemed to have been a Citation.

He got out his cell phone and dialed 911. When the operator answered he said, “This is airport security at Santa Monica Airport. An airplane has exploded, and I need the police right away. Hang on.” He had spotted something lying a dozen feet from the airplane and now illuminated it with his spotlight.

It appeared to be most of a human body. “You’d better send an ambulance, too,” he said. “No, on second thought, make it a coroner’s hearse.”

Then he hung up and pressed the speed-dial button that called his boss’s home number. It rang four times before it was answered.

“What the fuck?” a sleepy voice said.

“Floyd,” the security guard said, “it’s Roland. You’d better get your ass over to the airport right now. We’ve got an exploded airplane and a dead man on our hands.”

Chapter 37

At around seven-thirty, Stone, Ed Eagle, and Susannah Wilde were having breakfast out by the pool. Ann was sleeping in after an exciting night.

The phone buzzed next to Stone, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“Is this Mr. Ed Eagle?”

“No, please hold.” He handed the phone to Eagle. “It’s for you.”

Eagle pressed the instrument to his ear. “This is Ed Eagle, how can I help you?” He listened thoughtfully, a frown on his face. “You’re sure it’s mine?” he asked. “Yes, that’s my tail number. All right, I’ll be there in half an hour.” He hung up and handed Stone the phone. “That was somebody with security at Santa Monica Airport,” he said. “Sounds like somebody has vandalized my airplane. I’d better get a cab out there.”

Stone took his last bite of omelet and put down his fork. “I’ll drive you,” he said. “Are your bags packed?”

“Yes, they’re in the front hall.”

Stone buzzed Manolo and asked him to put Mr. and Mrs. Eagle’s luggage into the Arrington Cayenne parked in the driveway.

—

THEY WERE BUZZED through the gate at Atlantic Aviation, then met by a security car that, after ascertaining that Eagle was in the car, waved them to follow him.

Stone followed the patrol car around a large hangar and down a taxiway where a long line of airplanes was parked. A hundred yards down the taxiway were a number of vehicles—security, police, and a medical examiner’s wagon. “That’s a lot of attention for a vandalism call,” Stone said. He pulled to a halt a few yards from the police car, and a sergeant walked over to meet them. “Mr. Ed Eagle?”

“My name is Eagle,” he said, offering his hand.