by Marc Rainer
Wonderful. Full flight, and I’ve got a middle seat. Three hours of cramped misery to follow. I’ll probably be wedged between a Ravens reserve linebacker going home for a visit and a 250-pound grandmother, in seats designed for anorexic runway models.
The boarding ritual was the usual crawl, but to Trask’s amazement, at the end of the process, the only two unfilled seats on the plane were seats A and C in row 21, and he was sitting in 21B. His seat assignment earned several curious looks from his fellow passengers. The question on their faces was plain: “Who is that guy, or who does he know?”
One of the crew reminded the passengers to turn off their cell phones, so Trask pulled his phone out of its holster to put it in airplane mode. He silently scolded himself as he put the phone back.
Nice going, genius. You should have called DEA. They could have contacted their airport detail in Kansas City and had them follow this clown. Odds are he’s a new soldier heading to a stash house to sling crack. If he’s not carrying a load in that suitcase, he’ll soon be carrying rocks of crack on the street, and just the address where he’s hanging his hat will be valuable information. Now your phone’s out of commission.
A possible solution hit him.
Your phone’s down, but the aircraft has a radio, and Dreadlocks isn’t going anywhere until we land. Have the crew make a radio call to DEA’s interdiction team at the airport when we get in range of the KC tower.
They took off on time, and Trask waited until the beverage service started. It took a while for the flight attendant to work her way back to take his order. She was an attractive brunette, with one of those upbeat personalities that always made him wonder if she stayed that way when she got home at night. He doubted it.
“Hi there, lucky,” she said, smiling. “Got the whole row to yourself! Something to drink?”
Trask opened his credentials as discreetly he could and showed them to her.
“My name is Jeff Trask. I’m a federal prosecutor, and I have reason to believe that another passenger on board may be a drug courier. When we get handed off to the Kansas City tower, I’d like the cockpit to forward a message to the Drug Enforcement Administration’s interdiction squad at the KC airport. They can follow him and check him out.”
She did a double take.
“Wow!” she whispered, “That’s a new one. Exciting! I’ve never had this happen before.” She frowned and hesitated. “How will they know which person to follow?”
Trask tried to smile reassuringly.
“In this case, it won’t be hard. He’s sitting about five rows in front of me, in the middle seat on the other side of the aisle. He’s the only guy on the plane with dreadlocks down to his butt.”
“Ohhh.” She nodded, being careful not to look in the Jamaican’s direction.
“Thanks for being careful,” Trask said. “Good idea to just play it cool. No need to disturb him or make him uncomfortable. In any event, he’s not going to be running anywhere at 38,000 feet, and the DEA guys can easily follow him out of the gate, see who he meets and where he goes.”
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll tell the captain.”
She started to turn away, but then turned back to Trask.
“Did you want something to drink?”
“Diet Coke. The whole can if that’s possible. That way you don’t have to pour it, and I get my full dose of caffeine in a can.”
“Sure.”
She smiled again and made a note on her order pad.
It took about ten minutes for her to work her way back to him after handing out the other drink orders. She handed Trask the Diet Coke and a glass of ice.
“They’re not sure how to handle this in the cockpit,” she said.
“It’s a simple radio call,” he said. “Tell the tower to call their DEA team. Brief description of the guy, suspected drug courier. That’s all there is to it.”
“I’ll tell them again,” she whispered, turning to pass out the rest of the drinks on her tray.
She was back about five minutes later, handing him a second can of Diet Coke. When she saw the question on Trask’s face, she answered it.
“I wanted this to look as natural as possible,” she said.
Trask nodded, wondering at the same time how many passengers “naturally” downed an entire can of soda that fast and then asked for another. He noticed that some of the other passengers were turning and wondering why the guy with all the seat room was getting a special drink service as well.
“The co-pilot wants to discuss this with you in person,” she whispered.
“Okay, how—”
“He’ll meet you in the aft lavatory in five minutes. Just wait until he goes by, give it a few seconds, then follow him back.”
Before Trask could voice a protest, she winked and was walking back toward the front of the plane. He watched as she took a mic off its cradle on the cabin wall and said something over the intercom. The cockpit door opened, and she waited for the co-pilot to leave the cockpit before taking his place in the cockpit and closing the door behind her.
The rules after 9-11, Trask reminded himself. Two crew members in the cockpit at all times, door secured. Pilot or co-pilot has to go to the john, a flight attendant replaces them until they’re back in their chair. They just usually use the forward restroom.
This time, the co-pilot chose the head in the back of the plane.
He walked slowly down the aisle, nodding knowingly in Trask’s direction as he passed. An elderly woman on the aisle two rows up turned as he passed. She caught the co-pilot’s nod and smiled at Trask.
Probably thinks I’m an air marshal or something. I wonder what she’ll be thinking ten minutes from now.
Trask waited about half a minute, unbuckled the seat belt and headed for the rear of the plane. He shook his head as he opened the door to the little lavatory, then he crowded into it and closed the door behind him.
The co-pilot was a thirty-something, and he was probably six-two. The two men faced each other in the cramped compartment, their noses barely an inch apart.
“Was this really necessary?” Trask asked him.
“Janine thought it was,” he said.
“Janine—oh, the stewardess?”
“Flight attendant,” the co-pilot corrected.
“Sure, sorry. Flight attendant. This really isn’t necessary, and it sure looks and feels weird, wouldn’t you agree?”
“First time for me.”
“That’s good to know. Listen, this isn’t hard. Like I told Janine, there’s a guy sitting a few rows up from me. He’s got dreads down to his butt, speaks with a Jamaican accent. He had a handler buy his ticket with cash in Baltimore, and he fits the profile of a drug courier. I’m a federal prosecutor, I’ve worked Jamaican drug gangs before, and it would be worth the DEA’s time to check him out after we land.”
“I see,” the co-pilot said, nodding. “You have to understand this is new to us, and we don’t know exactly how to handle it—”
No kidding, Trask thought. I might have figured that out already.
“—so, the captain asked me to personally check this out with you.”
“This surely is personal,” Trask said. He twisted enough to pull his credentials—a wallet with an embossed Department of Justice logo on it—out of his rear pants pocket. He showed them to the co-pilot. “Do you have all the information that you need now?”
“I think so. Do you have a full description of your suspect?”
Trask winced. We’ll do this one more time.
“Sure, black dude, about my height—say five, eleven—clean-shaven, black shirt, olive-green cargo pants, sneakers, and—like I said before—dreadlocks down to his ass. He’s the only passenger on this whole aircraft with dreadlocks. You know what those are, right?”
“Braids?”
“Yeah, braids. These are four feet long.”
“Okay. I think I’ve got it.”
“Great.”
The co-pilot opened the
lavatory door and squeezed out. Trask waited a few seconds to give him time to get about halfway up the aisle before Trask left the lavatory and returned to his seat. He could feel the eyes of every passenger in the rear of the plane following him, and the little old lady in 19D was looking back at him again. She was scowling now instead of smiling. It didn’t take much of Trask’s imagination to imagine what they all were thinking, and it wasn’t good.
Five minutes later, Janine brought him a third Diet Coke.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I wasn’t quite that thirsty.”
“Just didn’t want to raise any suspicions,” she said.
“I think that ship has sailed. Was that little meeting in the lavatory really necessary?”
“The cockpit thought it was. I think they understand now.” She smiled and then giggled a little. “This is really exciting.”
She turned and headed back toward the cockpit, past the lady in 19D, who whirled her head back toward the front of the plane.
Five minutes later, Janine brought him another Diet Coke. Trask just took it and lined it up with the others, unopened, on the tray table for seat 21A. What she said next made his lower jaw drop so fast Trask thought he strained a connective tissue.
“The captain would like to speak with you in the same location.”
“What!?? Wait! NO!!” Trask whisper-yelled at her, but she was already on her way forward again.
The weird little ritual repeated itself, much to Trask’s extreme embarrassment and to the shock and apparent disapproval of the entire rear of the aircraft. The cockpit door opened, the captain came out, Janine went in, the door shut, the captain came walking down the aisle, looked at Trask, the rest of the passengers looked at Trask; he waited a little, then followed the captain into the damned lavatory.
“Really?” he said before the pilot could say anything.
“We’ve never done anything like this before,” he said. Trask could tell from the pilot’s breath—very close to Trask’s nostrils—that the captain had partaken of the plane’s supply of peanuts shortly before their little meeting.
“So I gathered. What’s hard about this? Radio KC tower when you’re in range, tell them you have a federal prosecutor on board who has identified a probable Jamaican drug courier, have the KC tower tell their DEA team, and include the fact that the suspect has dreads down to his butt. Do I need to write that down?”
“No, no. We understand all that. We’re just worried that we might be subjecting the airline to some liability issues, racial profiling and all that, you know?”
“Don’t you hate lawyers?” Trask asked him.
“Kind of.” He smiled, and Trask smelled the peanuts again.
“Does the intercom back here have a private channel to the cockpit?” Trask asked him.
“Of course.”
“How about this, then. Since I know the regs prohibit me joining you in the cockpit, have Janine show me how to work the mic back here in the rear galley. I’ll make the call to the tower to avoid your liability worries, and you just patch me through over your radio. Will that work?”
He nodded. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”
“Excellent. Can we get out of here?”
He left, and Trask just followed him out this time, knowing that the minds in the rear of the plane were all now certain that he was probably some sort of pervert, and that he was apparently good enough at his chosen perversion to be able to lure the entire cockpit crew away from their inflight duties.
Another hour passed, during which time Trask had to visit the aft lavatory alone for the usual reason, the natural consequence of downing three Diet Cokes.
At about the time he calculated that the plane had been handed off to KC control, Janine brought him another Diet Coke. He put it on the tray with the others in his collection and handed her the empty cans.
“I’m not going into that bathroom with anyone else, even if it’s you,” Trask told her.
She giggled. “Follow me back into the galley.”
He did, as the other passengers followed them with their eyes, wondering if his expertise was one that was available to both genders. A couple of them seemed to be disappointed when he and Janine did not go into the lavatory.
Trask made the call, patched through the cockpit radio to someone in the KC tower, who in turn patched him through to a DEA agent.
As Trask deplaned after landing, he followed the progress of the Jamaican toward baggage claim, and saw that Dreadlocks was being tailed by a middle-aged guy in a tweed sport coat, and an athletic-looking young lady in jeans and a windbreaker. They had not been passengers on the aircraft.
Kansas City, Missouri
Sergeant Jerry Dalton of the Missouri State Police sat in the office of Sergeant Thomas Land of the Kansas City, Missouri, Police Department’s Career Criminal Unit. The CCU was housed in a somewhat secret and somewhat secure location, away from the patrol division units and police headquarters buildings. It was located instead in a warehouse district in a row of nondescript, single-story office buildings. The unit’s office bore no nameplate on the façade, no signage to identify it. The detectives and agents assigned to the unit all wore plain clothes. The building and CCU were designed to facilitate the unit’s role as a concealed and flexible team, ready to monitor and respond to any call involving the city’s worst and most habitual offenders.
Sgt. Tom Land’s office was essentially a ten-by-ten-foot, glassed-in cubicle with windows through which the supervisor could view the twenty or so officers and agents in the large bullpen just outside. Desks lined the walls, and large conference tables occupied the center of the room. The desks had computers that served to process inquiries into a multitude of law enforcement databases. When an investigation went into a take-down phase, the tables served as processing stations for mounds of seized evidence. In less busy times—such as the current one—they served as platforms for lunch. A dozen or so cops now sat at the tables devouring a variety of burgers and sandwiches.
Dalton stood at the front of Land’s desk and looked over his friend’s shoulder as Land watched the casino video on his own computer screen.
“See, Tom?” Dalton narrated. “They followed Big John out right after he cashed in his chips. Your timeline says he was dead half an hour later, and then these same clowns show back up at the blackjack tables with a new bankroll. I checked with our cashier’s cage, and they said that Big John left with about four grand in cash.”
“Our homicide guys will love this, Jerry, especially with Little Dom in the middle of it,” Land nodded as he spoke. “Great work. Thanks.”
Land used his mouse to zoom in on the faces of the three men, frozen on the screen in the act of stalking their victim as he walked out the doors of the casino.
“No doubt about it. The tall one’s Little Dom. It’s funny how we still call him that. He’s six inches taller than his dad.”
“I think his dad could still kick his ass six ways to Sunday,” Dalton said. “Big Dom was a hell of a linebacker in his day. Not that tall, but thick as an oak.”
Land zoomed in on the faces of the two men who flanked Dominic Silvestri, Jr., in the frozen image.
“You know those two?” Dalton asked. “I know Little Dom, but I don’t recognize his little posse boys.”
“Yeah, we know ’em. Jimmy and Joey Gonzalez. They’re not in Dom’s league, but they’ve been on our radar. Their mom’s Italian, and they’re mob wannabes, so they hang around Little Dom like a couple of shark remoras, trying to catch any crumbs the big fish drops for ’em. Dom always likes to be the center of somebody’s attention, so he tolerates ’em, even if they’re what the pure mob boys call ‘half-breed peckerwoods.’ They’ve popped up as suspects in a couple of pharmacy jobs, breaking in after hours, stealing Oxycontin to sell on the street. We’ve got a couple of sources who’ve told us that they’ve moved from the pills to selling heroin.”
“There are your first subject interviews for your homicide guys,
then,” Dalton said. “I thought this might help. Hope it puts that psycho Little Dom on ice for a while.”
Land nodded again. “Can’t hurt, that’s for sure. I just keep wondering if the mob’s big boys checked off on this. Big John was a made guy. A made man doesn’t get hit without the bosses’ permission—not by another one of the mob, anyway.”
“I’ll let you sort that out,” Dalton said, patting Land on the shoulder. “I gotta get back to the boat.”
“Thanks again, Jerry.” Land chuckled as his friend closed the door.
“The boat.” They still call ’em all “boats,” Land thought, smiling.
Missouri’s ruling politicos had initially convinced the state’s electorate that the state’s statutes and constitution permitted the establishment of gambling venues on bodies of water, especially the great Missouri River. The first casinos operating on the banks of the river had been actual riverboats, either cruising the waterway or tethered to docks. As the populace grew more accustomed—and addicted—to the casinos, and as their lawmakers became addicted to the gambling taxes that poured into the state’s coffers, the “boat” fiction went the way of the actual sternwheelers, and massive complexes took their places on the riverbanks, complete with restaurants, parking garages, and hotels.
Sergeant Land placed a call to another police sergeant. This sergeant ran one of the department’s homicide squads.
“Micky? This is Tom Land. I’m calling about the murders of Big John Porcello and his wife. I’ve got something for you.”
Jimmy Gonzalez finished his half of the pizza, using the box for a plate. He got out of his recliner and folded the cardboard container in half before cramming it into the small trash can tucked under the sink behind the bar. His brother sat in the other recliner in the apartment’s modest living room, watching a basketball game on a huge—and immodest—curved-screen smart television.
“Pizza is the ideal meal,” Jimmy said, unsuccessfully attempting to suppress a belch. “No dishes or silverware required, nothing to wash.”
