Paul Drake to the Rescue
The headline in the L.A. Times screamed out at him in two-inch block letters:
Perry Mason, Famed Attorney, Feared Dead
The report told of the charter plane carrying Perry and Della disappearing from radar enroute to Denver. Search and rescue aircraft had been dispatched to the last known contact point, but so far no sign of the plane or wreckage had been found.
Unable to sit still in his own office, Paul Drake had made himself at home behind Perry's desk. After his third read-through of the article, he threw the paper down and grabbed the telephone, tersely barking an order for Gertie to connect him with his contact in the Air National Guard. When that call failed to give him any further news or information, he slammed the receiver down with a force that knocked the pens from their stand.
His hands shot to his hair as his frustration got the better of him, and he swore. Luckily, no one was there to rat him out to Della, but he made a mental note to deposit a dollar in her newly acquired Swear Jar. He was just about to reach for the phone again when he was interrupted by Lieutenant Tragg.
Slamming the receiver down, he waited for the cop to speak.
Tragg took off his hat, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. "Drake, I—"
"Dammit, Tragg!"
The weathered cop looked with pity at Paul. He was as anxious and worried as the detective. "No news?"
"No news," Paul repeated. "We have to do something. I know they're alive—but if we don't find them, if we don't act fast, they may not be for long."
Tragg understood. If . . . Paul needs to remember we have no facts. He can't go on wishful thinking, any more than I can. Still, if they are alive, they need to be found before the elements kill them, before any part of the wreckage explodes, before they run out of food, before they succumb to their injuries . . . Damn! I'm as bad as Drake is!
The ringing phone caused them both to jump.
"Drake!" Paul thundered. Seeing Tragg's questioning look, he shook his head, then sighed heavily back into the receiver. "Are you serious, Gertie? I don't think that's a good idea. No. Oh alright, bring her in."
Placing the receiver back in its cradle, Paul leaned back, smoothed his ruffled hair and his tie, and then smirked at Tragg. The police detective did not share his amusement.
"What?"
"Well, now we are in for a treat."
"What?" Tragg repeated, his irritation growing. "Who's waiting to—"
"It seems we are getting a visit from . . . ready for this? . . . a psychic!"
Tragg's features smoothed and his mouth curved up. "Is this how you work, Drake? All this time, and with all your operatives, I thought you followed leads!" he laughed, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Well that's just fine. We have half the country looking for Mason and Della and you're seeking help from some wacko."
Paul lit a cigarette and put his arms on the desk. "I didn't seek the person out, ya know! Besides, what can it hurt? We're up a blind alley here. It isn't like the authorities are sharing information in Colorado." He tapped the ash from the tip of his cigarette into the tray next to him. "We've tried everything else."
Just then Gertie's soft knock came on the door.
"Come in."
Opening the door with a flourish, Gertie stood aside as the mystery guest entered, then announced with a smile, "This is Miss Broussard."
Paul stood and Tragg swept the woman in a glance. Neither man expected the vision who entered. Tall, even without the high heels she wore, with a gracefulness of movement that drew attention to her nicely shaped legs, Miss Broussard had a direct, appraising gaze. Her long, black hair was pulled away from her face in a severe ponytail, which only served to enhance the effect of her unusual eyes. Gray in color, they were almost clear, yet it didn't take a pair of detectives to realize they saw plenty. The makeup she wore was subtle, with the exception of deep crimson on her lips. She was dressed in black, but rather than having a gothic appearance, the look merely enhanced her beauty and gave her an air of sophistication.
Paul had to check his wolf whistle. Shaking his head again, he blurted simultaneously with her, "Are you looking for Mr. Mason?"
Then they both laughed while Tragg's eyebrows arched in consternation.
She came closer to the desk, extending her hand. Paul took it in both of his and smiled at her.
"How do you do, Miss Broussard? Forgive the asinine question. I'm usually not in Mr. Mason's office."
"Please call me Marica. And you are Paul Drake."
At the sound of a clearing throat, Paul turned and introduced Lt. Tragg.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Lieutenant."
Tragg grinned like a schoolboy. Paul pulled a chair over to the desk, inviting Marica to take a seat. Paul resumed his seat in Perry's chair.
"When I came in, I asked if you were looking for Mr. Mason," she started again, then hesitated. "I— I would like to help."
"Alright, Marica, what exactly is it you think you can help us with?"
"Mr. Drake, I know you have been told I'm a psychic and I am confident you're not ready to believe in me."
"I'm not sure what…"
Marica held up her hand. "Please, just wait a moment. Mr. Mason helped me some time ago and I wanted to reciprocate. I want you to understand . . . I really do have a gift. I'm not always able to . . . see, or to . . . know . . . "
"Marica…I'm not sure what you can do to help. We know the plane went down but we only have the approximate area. It's a wilderness area . . . "
"Yes, the Weminuche Wilderness in Colorado."
Paul looked from Marica to Tragg. The cop just shook his head. Looking back at the lady, Paul studied her, trying to find a crack in her demeanor. Her gaze back at him never wavered.
"How did you know that? The authorities haven't released that detail to the public."
Marica dipped her head, then raised her eyes to his once again.
"If I attempt to explain, you will only be more skeptical." She lifted a hand, then let it drop into her lap.
"Try me."
She studied his face in total silence, weighing him, judging his reactions, trying to decide how much to say and how to say it. But before she had a chance to open her mouth, Paul decided he had enough. She saw the flash of impatience in his eyes. Clamping her mouth closed to keep from making a fool of herself, she braced for what she already knew was coming.
Paul had indeed had enough. She's obviously a fake and only after the publicity. Women like her are a dime a dozen, and I'm not about to waste time when my two best friends are missing and possibly . . . hurt.
Paul stood abruptly, coming around the desk and grasping the woman's arm. Hauling her to her feet, he grunted, "Thanks for coming in, Miss Broussard but I have better things to do."
Marica pulled her arm from Paul's grasp and, without meaning to, slapped him hard across the jaw. It was reflexive, and she was immediately sorry, but she composed herself nonetheless.
"Don't bother showing me out, Mr. Drake. I was only trying to help. Good luck." She turned to Tragg. "Thank you for giving me a chance to explain, Lieutenant. If I have any further information, I'll leave it with you—or with the men who are actually actively searching."
She hurried from the office, just barely managing to not slam the door.
Paul sat back down, lighting a cigarette, then crushing it out in frustration. "What a colossal waste of—"
"Beauty?" Tragg supplied, a knowing look aimed in the direction of the private detective. "You were rather dismissive. She might have had more to say."
Paul glared at him. "Doubtful. You've never depended on the spirits to bring you a crack in the case, and you know it." He rubbed his jaw, then winced. "And now we're no closer to finding them."
Tragg watched the detective in silence. He understood Paul's feelings since they mirrored his own. He might often butt heads with Mason but his respect for the man was obvious. And Della . . . well, his feelings for her were his own. How the hell is Drake going to survive if they don't?
"Paul, I'm heading back to my office. I'll call you if I hear anything."
Paul's only response was a dismissive wave of his hand.
