by Les Abend
“We may be able to track their location via the cell phone signal.”
Robin nodded and said, “Kim is like her father. That thing is surgically attached.”
Alvarez said, “If we can still receive a signal, it will be a tremendous help. All I need is the number.”
“You mean like the program, Find My iPhone?”
“Yes, only we’ll use a more sophisticated type of tracking.”
Robin leaned over Tracey’s desk and scooped up a small pad of pink sticky notes. She grabbed one of the pens standing in a tall coffee mug and scribbled Kim’s phone number onto the sticky note pad. She peeled off the top piece and handed it to Alvarez.
Alvarez nodded and said, “In the meantime, it would be best if you went home and tried to relax. Call family or friends to help get you through this. Can I have one of our officers drive you?”
“No, Detective. I’ll drive myself. I’ll be fine. I have to break the news to my husband anyhow. I’m sure with the emergency landing that he’s going to have more than enough to fill his plate.”
Alvarez nodded and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed one to Robin and one to Tracey. “My cell is listed also. Call me with anything.” He stood up, took a step toward Robin, and reached out to shake her hand. “We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Townsend.” He turned toward Tracey seated at the desk. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Abbott.”
Tracey nodded.
As Alvarez exited the vice principal’s office into the school corridor, he met up with the uniformed cop who had earlier requested the release of the security officer’s body to the coroner.
The cop asked, “Find out anything useful, Detective?”
“It’s what I didn’t find out that’s useful, Tom.”
“How do you mean?”
“Is this school part of your normal patrol?”
“Yeah, for the most part. Why?”
“Have you had any dealings with the security officer?”
“Just the usual stuff. Delinquent kids. Vandalism. Fights.”
“Did he seem like a stand-up guy?”
“Retired cop. Just got divorced. He’s a little bitter. The usual pissed-off attitude. Drives an older Lexus. Seen him in the local gin mills. Always seems to have a friend or two around. Mostly cops.”
“Something isn’t right,” Alvarez said scratching his temple. “Even an idiot like me can figure out that the abduction is not a coincidence. The airline pilot father has an emergency landing in Bermuda, and his daughters are snatched from their school within hours of the event?” Alvarez slowed his pace for a moment. “How did the perp or perps know that the kids were being released from school early? Did our bitter, retired cop have a hand in this thing?”
“Good question,” the uniformed cop replied. “You’re thinking that maybe he was shot because he would be an information liability later?”
“It’s possible,” Alvarez said. “I’ve also got other ideas…”
12:45 EDT
Hart rolled to a stop in the driveway and parked his truck in front of his girlfriend’s home, an old-style Florida ranch house. The tangerine stucco paint was a refreshing change from the drab colors of the surrounding neighborhood. He got out of the truck and walked past the long windows that led to the front door. He glanced at his reflection, making an assessment of his appearance. Khaki pants with cuffs. Good. Pin-striped, slightly tropical short-sleeve shirt. Not bad. Casual braided belt. Cinch it up one more notch? Probably not. Was that a hint of flab protruding over his waistband? Couldn’t be. More gray hair or was that just the effect of the sunlight? He sighed. Hart tapped on the door and then walked into the house toward the kitchen.
Cathy was using her favorite knife to chop a colorful array of vegetables on a wooden cutting board. Blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. She looked up from her chopping and smiled. It was the same sexy smile that had captivated Hart years ago.
Hart flashed through an image of Cathy wearing only the apron. His eyes scanned Cathy’s hourglass figure. He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Cathy asked, the big knife poised over a red pepper.
“Oh, nothing really,” Hart said with a grin.
“Yeah, right. I’ve known you way too long. Nothing is something.”
“Well, okay. It’s that ‘Don’t-fondle-the-cook’ apron that you’re wearing. It’s turning me on in a weird way.”
“You’re full of crap.” Cathy pierced the red pepper with the knife and began to cut the vegetable into thin slices. She grinned. “So…you’re going to leave me and my salad tonight? Notwithstanding the fact that you could be spending a wonderful evening with my neighbors…the ones that own your favorite dog that barks at the wind?”
“It’s not a dog. Real dogs aren’t able to fit into tote bags. It’s a rodent.” Hart rolled his eyes and smiled. “Tell me again…why are you having your neighbors over for dinner?”
“Remember when they watered my plants while we were skiing in Park City? And they checked on your boat.”
“Oh...yeah. I remember. Didn’t they kill the cactus by over-watering it? Who kills a cactus? That takes talent.”
“Details. It was the thought that counted.”
“You’re right. I also forgot that he didn’t check to see that the shore power attached to the boat had tripped. The bilge pumps operated on the batteries until they died. Guess I should be thankful for small favors that the boat didn’t actually sink.”
“Just more details, Hart.”
“Aside from the rodent dog thing, the husband’s conversation usually starts with a riveting weather report and then goes directly to how I can better manage my 401(k).”
“He’s a financial planner, Hart. Not everybody can be a daring and dashing airline pilot,” Cathy said with a smirk. “And it couldn’t hurt to consider some of his financial advice considering your abilities to spend money.”
“Funny. Well, enjoy them without me. I’ll take a rain check.”
Cathy put the knife down and looked at Hart. Her eyes softened. “This isn’t going to be like the last one is it?”
“No, Cath. It’s not. Only two fatalities. We’ve got a live flight crew. An intact airplane. And no nasty crash site. I’m the party coordinator this time. Being the boss means I can delegate. I don’t have to focus on the ugly stuff.”
“Give me a break. I know you,” Cathy said, shaking her head.
The sound of Hart’s cell phone playing the theme song to the original Airport movie rang at his side.
Cathy rolled her eyes and said, “Get the phone. I’m sure it has something to do with the accident. Promise me that you’ll schedule the surgery to remove that Bluetooth headset thingy from your ear as soon as you come back from Bermuda.”
Hart smiled and looked at the display screen. “Unknown caller.” He had been getting a lot of these all day long. Had the circumstances been different, he would have let the call go to voice mail. He put the headset in his ear.
“It’s Hart Lindy.”
“Captain Lindy?”
“Yes. How may I help you?”
“The investigation of Flight 63…you’re the PAPA party coordinator, right?”
“Who is this please?”
“It’s not important. Just listen.” The barely audible voice had a commanding tone. Hart detected a hint of an accent. He couldn’t place it. “Be careful with the investigation. You are in dangerous territory. People who have a different regard for human life could destroy you and your team.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No, Captain. I’m only offering you a warning.”
Hart gritted his teeth and said, “It sounds like a threat.”
“Take it any way you would prefer. But you’re out of your league. Even your own government authorities won’t be able to assist.”
“I plan on doing my job, making sure the investigation of this accident is conducted fairly and accurately along with the NTSB.”
“You�
��re living in a fairy tale, Captain Lindy. Take a good look at that pretty woman in front of you.” The voice transformed into a throaty whisper. “She’s worth seeing again, isn’t she? Don’t jeopardize her happiness with something inconsequential.”
Hart glanced at Cathy and then focused on the orange of the Mexican tile floor. “What are you saying?”
”You’ve been warned. Good luck, Captain.”
The phone went silent. Hart pulled the headset out of his ear and stared at the display.
Cathy had resumed her preparation on the cutting board. She glanced at Hart and then back at the counter. “Everything okay?”
“Uh…yeah, everything is fine.”
“I didn’t like the tone of the conversation. Who was that?”
Hart said quickly, “Oh just some anonymous overzealous moron that thinks he knows more about the accident than the experts.” He snorted. “Probably just one of our pilots that contributes nothing but to bitch. We hear from those kinds of guys all the time.”
Cathy nodded, looking unconvinced.
Hart peered out the kitchen windows. Was the caller staring at them with a pair of binoculars? The only movement was from the coconut palms that lined the opposite side of the street. They jittered with the breeze.
Cathy said, “Please come back without injuries, physical or otherwise.” She sighed. Her eyes narrowed. “And come back without another phone number on your contact list. I hate having you tell me that it’s a wrong number in the middle of the night.”
Hart grimaced as he smiled. “Ouch, that hurts.” He picked up a piece of shredded chicken from the cutting board and popped it in his mouth. “Don’t worry. The girls in Bermuda are too expensive. They’re looking for investment banker types, not poor airline pilots. And the other women are blissfully involved with their honeymoons.”
“Not funny.”
“I’m sorry,” Hart replied. “You know that I’ve been a good boy.”
Hart thought of his mother. The trail of boyfriends during and after her marriage to Hart’s father could have filled a hotel suite. His mother had just recently returned from rehab after her second DUI and her second divorce.
Hart walked behind the kitchen counter and grabbed Cathy around the waist. He twisted her toward him. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long few seconds. And then Hart drew them into a tight embrace. Their lips melted together.
12:55 EDT
Rod glanced at the desk phone. The flashing green light and warbling tone indicated that the call was the office intercom. Rod picked up the handset and put it to his ear.
“Rod, it’s Donna. You need to pick up Line 1. It’s the crew schedule M.O.D.”
“This can’t be good,” Rod said.
Calls from the crew schedule manager on duty usually concerned a pilot who had missed a trip, or had some issue that could potentially turn into a discipline problem, or...
Donna said, “No, it’s not good. That’s why they’re calling you. More shit has just hit the fan.”
“Great. Do I get paid extra for this?”
“Not as far as I know, but you do get Princess parking.”
Rod aimed a finger at Line 1. “I’ve got it, Donna.” He pressed the button.
“Rod Moretti. What can I do for you, crew schedule?”
“Captain Moretti, this is Misty Adams. I’m the M.O.D. We just got a call from a Robin Townsend. I believe that is First Officer Townsend’s wife. Apparently crew schedule was her only point of contact in an attempt to reach her husband. She didn’t know any other way. Considering the circumstances, I thought it best to call you.”
“Thanks, Ms. Adams. You did the right thing.”
“Understandably, she sounded very distraught.”
“I’m sure she is. I’ll handle this. I’ll call First Officer Townsend in Bermuda right away.”
Misty Adams cleared her throat and said, “The emergency landing is not really the concern.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m getting this information second-hand through the crew scheduler that got the original call…but it appears that the first officer’s daughters were abducted this afternoon at their high school.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir. I know. It gets worse. The security officer escorting the two girls was shot and killed during the abduction.”
Rod listened to the M.O.D. as she conveyed the remainder of the story. Unbelievable! How was he going to break the news? It didn’t matter. He had to get the man home, NTSB investigation or not. He’d make the call to Bermuda, but…
Hart Lindy should be informed regarding the development with the copilot’s family. He didn’t like it much, but it was the right thing to do. Hart’s group would be better prepared to deal with this crisis. Plus, the pilots union would have more influence…at least for the moment.
“Shit.” Rod muttered under his breath. He had hoped his new position would avoid contact with Hart. How many years had it been now? How many years had they been friends? His falling out with Hart had been almost as disappointing as his divorce.
It wasn’t important now. His priority was to a pilot at his base who was about to enter crisis mode.
Chapter Seven
Friday
13:10 EDT
The traffic on I-95 was beginning to clump into fast and slow sections. Rush hour and its ensuing South Florida madness were in the early stages. Hart noticed that his grip on the steering wheel had tightened. If he were lucky, the highway wouldn’t turn into a scene from “Mad Max” before he got to the employee parking lot at MIA. Maybe he should have taken the turnpike…
As the traffic slowed to a crawl near the Griffin Road exit, Hart reached for his iPhone. Gliding his thumb across the home key, he selected the program that contained the latest audio book download. The book was a series detective thriller--his adult pacifier. The baritone words of the narrator filled the speakers. He sighed.
Traffic began to once again resume a more frantic pace. Hart glanced at his speedometer. The flow of cars had now reached sixty mph. Not bad. Maybe a few more sticky spots and he would be home free.
Hart peered into his rearview mirror. A lunatic driving a black Mercedes with over-tinted windows was swerving in and out of lanes. How much faster did the schmuck think that he was going to get there ahead of everyone else? The Mercedes accelerated past Hart on the right, coming within what appeared to be only a foot from his door.
“Moron!” Hart uttered out loud.
The Mercedes darted to the left across two lanes of traffic and then unexpectedly began to slow. The car was now only a few yards ahead. The right rear window began to roll down, leaving a gap of about six inches.
A black rifle barrel slid its way into the gap. The business end of the rifle pointed directly toward Hart’s line of sight. Time began to move in a series of snapshots as if the scene ahead of Hart was an old, animated flip-book cartoon.
“Really...? You can’t be serious,” Hart muttered. Instinctively, he ducked behind his dashboard while still maintaining a grip on the lower part of the steering wheel. Hart hoped he could keep control of the truck without hitting another car.
The sound of muffled thumps reverberated inside the cab. He felt a handful of faint vibrations. No crack of a gunshot. No shattered glass. What the hell?
Hart peered to his left. The view through his driver’s side window and rear passenger window were obliterated by a line of quarter-size red dots. Each dot had spattered outward in the form of a mini explosion. Hart heard the shriek of tires and the increasing rpm of a high-performance car. He sat up and watched as the Mercedes accelerated away in a flash of gleaming black.
As his heart rate and adrenalin rush began to dissipate, Hart took a deep breath. He slid his foot back onto the gas pedal and surveyed the mess on his windows. He shook his head. He had been the victim of a paintball attack.
“You’ve got to be kidding?” Hart said out loud. Other drivers were passing him, glancing a
nd pointing. Some had serious expressions. Others were smirking. “Great. Thanks for your concern, folks. No, really. I’m okay. Idiots!”
Hart glanced at a grinning twenty-something guy who was driving a jelly bean-shaped Toyota. The chassis of the car was low enough to the ground that it appeared to be sweeping the pavement. The Toyota spit out a series of crackling pops through its chromed barrel muffler. The twenty-something guy was wearing a baseball cap turned backwards. His seat was slid far enough rearward that he might as well have been sitting in the back of the car. The kid nodded his head with an exaggerated motion, acknowledging the paintball attack with a smirk.
“I’ve got to reconsider that log cabin in Wyoming. The black bears out there have more compassion than these South Florida maniacs.” Hart said through his closed window.
The narrator of the detective novel continued to drone through the truck’s speakers. Hart reached for his phone, pressed the audio book exit button, and ended the narration. He couldn’t focus. The silence was more soothing. Should he call 911? Probably. Hart divided his attention between the highway and his phone. He began to press the number buttons but was startled by the vibration as his phone began to ring.
Hart glanced at the display. It read, “Unknown caller.”
“Of course,” Hart thought. He pulled the Bluetooth headset from his shirt pocket, pressed the answer button, and wiggled the device into his ear.
“It’s Hart.”
“Captain Lindy, that little paintball episode was a warning. Perhaps you’ll take me seriously now. The next time the rounds could be real.”
Hart could feel another surge of adrenalin as his heart began to thump. He exhaled and said, “Nice. Couldn’t you have at least met my deductible with the damage?”
“You’ve been warned, Captain.”
“Your little paintball stunt attracted a lot of attention. Is that really helpful?”
