Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 01 - A Deadly Change of Course--Plan B by Gina Cresse Page B

was signed by the official FAA investigator , and a copy of his card, with his office address and phone number, appeared in the corner.  The next page was brief and to the point:
     
    Mr. Kephart ,
    This would appear to be a messy detail.  I thought I made it clear that there should be no reason for speculation into this matter.  I have been forced to use my own resources to take care of this potentially disastrous mistake.  Consider this your final assignment from my office.
                                              C.H.
     
    There were no other items of importance in the deleted items directory.  I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the FAA investigator identified on the report.
    “Hello.  May I speak with Mr. Frank Eastwood, please?” I asked.
    “I’m sorry.  Mr. Eastwood is no longer with us,” came the reply.
    “He isn’t?  May I ask how I can reach him?”
    “I guess you could try a séance — Frank passed away about a year ago.”
    “Oh.  I’m sorry to hear that.  How did it happen?”
    “He and his wife were killed in a plane crash — very tragic.”
    How ironic , I thought to myself.  “Was it a commercial flight?” I asked.
    “No.  His own private plane.   Both Frank and his wife were killed.”  The woman sounded distressed.
    “I’m sorry I had to bring it all up again.  Thank you for your time.”
    I made one more call to Uncle Doug.  I didn’t want to be too specific over the phone — in case anyone was listening in on the conversation.  “Can you meet me for lunch at that place you and Arlene took me to for my thirteenth birthday?”
    He hesitated for a moment — trying to remember back that far, I guess.  “Oh.  Sure.  I’ll meet you out front at noon.  Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine.  I’ll see you at twelve.”
     
    I stopped to pick up a battery for the laptop and a box of CDs on my way back to San Diego.  I sat in the car in the parking lot and made several backup copies of the E-mail documents Robert Kephart had left on his computer.  A man’s voice startled me while I waited for the last copy to be made.
    “Nice car,” he said as he leaned over the passenger side door, admiring the sports car.  He hid his face behind a pair of dark reflective sunglasses that looked as if they came right out of the seventies.  He wore a pair of jeans about as tight as the casing of an overstuffed Polish sausage.  His dark shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, exposing a collection of gold chains that would put Mr. T to shame.  On his right hand was a hideously gaudy piece of oversized gold jewelry.  On his other hand, he wore a mood ring.  I hadn’t seen one of those since high school.  He also sported a pair of pointy, high-heeled alligator-skin cowboy boots, complete with sterling-silver toe caps.  To top off the entire ensemble, he wore a black mohair cowboy hat with a confederate flag pinned to the front of it.  He reeked of Calvin Klein’s Eternity for Men, a scent that I used to find very appealing — at least up until that moment.
    “Thank you,” I said, not offering any other words to encourage a conversation.  He gave me the creeps and I wanted him to be on his way.
    “BMW ?”
    “Yes,” I replied.
    “Like the one in the James Bond movie.”
    “Yeah, I think so.”
    “Cool,” he said as he stepped back to admire the car.  “Think I could take her for a spin?”
    I laughed.  “You’re kidding.  Right?”
    “I’d be careful.  Just once around the block?”
    “I don’t think so.  I’m late for an appointment,” I said and started the engine.  As I backed out of the parking spot, I watched him walk to his car — an older model bright-yellow Porsche Targa .  He followed me out of the parking lot and tailgated me all the way to the highway.
    “Great,” I said to myself.  All I needed was for this guy to pester me all the way to San Diego. 
    I made several turns to try to lose him,