by Les Abend
Mike nodded with a smirk and said, “People actually wear jackets and ties…even on the airplane…in coach no less.”
A buxom waitress stopped in front of the table. She smiled and began to collect the empty dishes. She stacked them neatly in the crook of her arm. She twirled and walked away.
Jim sighed. He looked at his copilot and asked, “Terrorism?”
“Anything is possible.”
“But why not just blow up the whole damn airplane?”
“Maybe it was a failed attempt,” Mike replied.
“Could be.” Jim crossed his arms over his chest. The printed tropical flowers on his shirt bunched together over his stomach. “Hopefully the investigation will find answers.”
“Hopefully,” Mike said. He stared off into space. Both pilots lapsed into a comfortable silence.
The sound of tapping footsteps took Jim and Mike away from their thoughts. A twenty-something man wearing a gold nametag over the breast pocket of a crisp, white shirt was approaching. The man was holding a cordless phone. He stopped in front of the table, his eyes darting between the two pilots.
The man queried, “Mr. Townsend?”
“That’s me,” Mike said, raising his eyebrows.
“Phone call for you, sir.” The island cadence of the man’s voice made the statement sound elegant. He handed the phone to Mike.
“Excuse me, Jim.” Mike pulled the napkin from his lap and stood up. With a tentative stride, he walked away from the table.
The man with the nametag nodded and trotted toward the hotel front desk.
Mike stared at the phone for a brief moment and then put it to his ear. “It’s Mike,” he said.
“Hi, Mike. It’s Rod Moretti.” Five seconds of silence passed. “Your new chief in Miami, Mike.”
“Uh...sorry, Captain Moretti. It’s been a long day.”
“I understand.” Rod cleared his throat. “How are you holding up, sir?”
“Just fine.”
A seagull swooped across a table of dirty plates. The bird snapped up a half-eaten bun and flew away toward the beach.
Mike said, “Jim and I are trying to wind down from this morning’s adrenalin rush. We’re on our third martini, and it’s only lunchtime. Do you think it would be okay if we swapped with the New York crew and flew the afternoon departure to JFK? I don’t think our blood-alcohol content would really make much of a difference.”
Rod tried to chuckle. He said, “Guess you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” He drew in a deep breath that was audible in the phone. “I’m afraid that I’ve got some serious news. There is no real easy way to tell you.”
“Go ahead, Captain Moretti. I’m listening.”
Rod began to give Mike the details of the abduction of his daughters. As Rod conveyed the information, Mike backed up against a wooden column. He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the hard surface. His eyes grew moist. This wasn’t happening…
Somewhere within the confines of his brain, in the far distance, Mike heard the voice of the chief pilot offer to help in any way that he could. He heard something about a flight that he could return home on in the morning. He would be given Class-1 pass status. And then he heard himself say “Thank you.” And then, click.
Mike dropped the phone to his side and walked as if in a trance back to the table. He bit his lip for a moment and then looked at Jim. Mike stood rigid. He detailed the crisis involving his daughters in factual terms as if the methodical handling of the airplane emergency and the abduction were equal in magnitude.
Jim stood up from the table and clasped Mike’s shoulder for a brief awkward moment. He offered to help in any way that he could. He promised to check on Mike later in the day. He insisted on paying the lunch tab.
Mike nodded and strode away from the dining area. He stopped at the front desk and dropped the cordless phone on the counter. He mumbled a “thank you” to the clerk. He walked slowly back to his room and opened the door. He sat down on the corner of the bed and dropped his head into cupped hands. He sat unmoving for a few long minutes and then looked up. He rubbed his eyes and stared out the window. He scanned the multicolored boats moored in the bay. The tranquility of the scene clashed with the thoughts in his head. His temples throbbed.
He had to get home. Finding his daughters was paramount...at all costs.
14:10 EDT
From a far corner of the boarding lounge, the three men greeted Hart, shaking his hand and smiling. They offered small snippets about the latest from their lives at home and their lives at the airline. They bantered in typical fashion, dry pilot humor permeating the conversation. The men were comfortable with each other. Having worked together on other events, the team had bonded through past history.
Hart shifted his feet out to a wider stance and clasped his hands behind his back. He glanced at the line of passengers streaming past toward the jet bridge. Some of the passengers stared, curious as to the purpose of the small gaggle of men wearing airline ID tags around their necks. Hart interrupted the discussion and said, “Gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a moment.”
The team members finished their separate conversations and looked at Hart.
“First of all, my apologies. As you are aware, as a result of low standards, our union leadership decided to put me in charge. That being said, I will be relying on your superior expertise.” Hart cleared his throat. “It’s obvious you guys have no life and no judgment skills, otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to participate in this investigation.” Hart’s expression became solemn. “You guys are part of the 10 percent that does 99 percent of the work for this union. Thank you for coming.”
The three men nodded and grinned.
Hart gestured at the line of boarding passengers. “This is neither the time nor the place, but let’s just say some interesting dynamics have come into play outside of the actual field investigation. I’ll discuss this and the ground rules in my room tonight when you guys have an appropriate beverage in your hand.”
The team members’ grins widened at the thought of free cocktails.
Hart gestured toward the open jet bridge door. “Bermuda, anyone?”
The men collected their rolling bags and laptop cases. One by one, they merged with the rest of the boarding passengers.
Don Patterson, the systems investigator, knew more about a Boeing 767 than Boeing did. His mechanical background included an airframe and power plant license, an inspector’s authorization, and an electrical engineering degree from Purdue University. He had single-handedly helped Patriot Airlines rewrite the electrical section of the operating manual. Don had found glaring errors in switch functionality that had gone undiscovered. He had been a captain with the airline for almost fifteen years.
Hart snickered to himself as he watched Don shuffle toward the airplane. If Don could only ditch those knit shirts with the damn alligator…
Matt Mattson, the power plant team member, was equally as qualified. In his first life, he had helped Pratt & Whitney design a turbine section for the first generation of highly fuel-efficient jet engines. After a couple of years he decided that he’d rather fly jet engines than design them. Still enjoying hands-on work, he got involved with rebuilding old radial engines, mostly for a new breed of billionaire aviation enthusiasts who collected WWII vintage bombers and fighters. His two-car garage became his shop. But his wife evicted him after he relocated her BMW outside. A sympathetic friend offered a hangar at the local airport. Matt’s oil-speckled topsiders were a reflection of his priorities.
Ron Stephens walked past Hart while pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of a very short nose. A pair of khaki pants and a slightly wrinkled dress shirt with two pens clipped to the pocket gave Ron the appearance of a corporate accountant. In addition to his day job as a 737 copilot, Ron was actually a bona fide member of the Florida Bar Association. Many of his cases involved contract law. He had a photographic memory for anything nauseatingly dry. He was the expert
for the operational procedures part of the investigation. Ron was the guy you wanted on your side in a Trivial Pursuit game.
It wasn’t long before the shuffle of passengers shoving bags into overhead compartments and plopping into seats was complete. Soon after, Hart felt the gradual motion of the airplane pushing back from the gate. He stared outside the window, focusing on nothing in particular. Fatigue from the events of the day had made its way into his head. When the airplane lurched into the sky, he pushed the recline button on his seat. He closed his eyes.
It wasn’t until Hart felt the buffeting of the spoilers on the wings being extended that he realized he had dozed. They were nearing Bermuda. Hart stretched his legs under the seat in front of him and twisted his neck until he heard that satisfying crack. He peered above the rows of seats and watched the flight attendants scurry through the aisle collecting passenger trash into blue, plastic garbage bags.
Eight rows ahead, a passenger turned in his seat, placing an empty soda can into a plastic bag. Was that the thin, creepy guy? Or was he just starting to lose his mind? Hart noted the seat number.
14:25 EDT
“Are you going to play hard to get?” Jonathan asked. He took another sip of merlot from his long-stemmed wine glass.
“Whad’ya mean?” Chris asked. His stomach felt queasy again. He knew exactly what Jonathan meant.
“Well…you’re pacing around my living room like a mountain lion. Thanks for admiring the artwork, but my prints aren’t really all that interesting.”
“Sorry. I’ve never been able to sit still for very long.” Chris gripped his Corona bottle tighter.
Jonathan smirked and said, “You sat still long enough to eat my lasagna special at the restaurant.”
Chris forced a contrived grin. “Yeah, well…food is different.”
“Okay, then. Pretend I’m a piece of New York strip. Come sit down.” Jonathan patted the cushion next to him on the cracked leather couch.
The evening had turned into a perverse cat and mouse game. It had long ago gone from a challenge to a serious annoyance. Chris needed to end the madness sooner rather than later. He wasn’t sure he could last another minute in the two-bedroom townhouse on Los Olas. He had the information he needed anyhow. The faggot finally confessed over the last glass of merlot. The news wasn’t going to make his slick-haired boss happy. For that matter, it wasn’t making Chris happy either. Somehow, he would be held responsible.
With a coy smile, Chris said, “I gotta go to the bathroom. I’m thinking about a shower.”
Jonathan grinned and said, “Really? Good idea.” He lifted his glass off the sculpted dolphin coffee table and took a gulp of wine. “Use the shower in the master bath. Towels are in the cabinet opposite the sink. Get started without me. I’ve got some dishes to clean.”
“Okay,” Chris replied in a low tone of voice. He walked away from the expansive living room and down a mosaic tiled corridor to the master bedroom. He could feel each individual heartbeat thumping in his chest. Think Iraq, he told himself. This is war.
Chris walked directly into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He glanced at the shower. It was the cavernous step-in type with large bell-shaped showerheads on opposite ends that adjusted the spray pattern.
Perfect. Glancing at a tall cabinet, Chris opened a door. Towels were carefully rolled, stacked as though they had come directly from the department store display at Macy’s. Chris removed the thickest towel that he could find.
With a twist of the handle, Chris turned the spray to its maximum flow. Steam started to permeate the bathroom, reducing visibility and fogging the mirrors. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled with a slow and deliberate effort. He waited for the sound of footsteps.
Although it seemed like an hour, only minutes passed before Chris heard the padding of Jonathan’s bare feet. The bathroom door swung open.
Jonathan cooed. “Wow! Very cool. You do like it hot and steamy!”
In one fluid motion, Chris stepped out from behind the open bathroom door. The mist made his target just a tall silhouette. Chris lunged. He grabbed Jonathan’s shoulders and thrust him into the shower.
“Hey! I like it rough too, but this fucking hurts!” Jonathan half shrieked.
Pushing Jonathan against a corner, water streaming over his clothes, Chris raised the towel that concealed the barrel of his H & K semiautomatic. As trained, he squeezed the trigger with a painfully slow movement. A loud crack echoed in the bathroom.
One hollow-point bullet exploded shrapnel inside the cavern of Jonathan’s skull. Red splattered against the smooth tiled shower wall and onto the sliding glass door. An inky river of dark red began to flow into the drain. Jonathan’s eyes were locked in a stare that focused on nothing. His knees buckled. His body slid down the corner of the shower stall until it hit the tile floor and crumpled into an unrecognizable pile.
Chris surveyed the damage he had inflicted, his eyes unblinking. The shine of his bald head was streamed with rivulets of water from the shower. It was time to clean up his mess. This would be his most difficult and dangerous chore.
When Jonathan didn’t show up back at the restaurant the next day, sooner or later someone would call the cops. But that would take time. Chris would have a head start. He had clipped the wiring of the security cameras, so his description would only come from eyewitnesses, if there were any.
Before the panic button was really pressed, a victim had to be found. And the victim would be concealed in a dumpster. Chris hoped garbage pickup day was sooner rather than later. Well…regardless, it solved the problem…at least for a while.
The old adrenalin rush was back. Cool.
Chapter Nine
Friday
14:30 EDT
Todd O’Malley peered over Detective Alvarez’s shoulder. The two men were watching blotchy images on the screen of the principal’s laptop. After spending almost two hours with tech support, the principal had finally unlocked the secret to reviewing the high school’s security camera footage. He had invited the detective to sit in his office chair.
Alvarez grinned and said, “Don’t know why you spent all that time on the phone with tech support. This school is full of little eggheads that could dance circles around us on the damn computer.”
“Believe me, Detective. I thought of that.” O’Malley sighed. “The rumors on this tragedy have made the rounds. I didn’t think it necessary to add more fuel to the fire. The most popular story among my student body is that one of our…” The principal paused and scratched his chin. “Hmm…how should I say this? One of our most qualified candidates for Fed U ordered the hit on our security guard.”
Alvarez looked away from the computer screen and said, “You’re right. Computer assistance from a student was just a passing thought.” The detective turned his attention back to the security footage.
An image of a female student and a male student meeting in the back parking lot a half-hour prior to the abduction appeared on the screen. The two figures stood next to a low riding, vintage BMW. A wadded up roll of green was exchanged between the two students. A clear, plastic sandwich bag containing a leafy substance was passed next.
The two students smiled at each other, embraced, and then kissed. The male student opened a rear door of the car. With suspiciously awkward expressions, the two students slid inside the BMW and closed the door.
Alvarez slid his finger on the mouse pad. He moved the cursor over to the pause selection. The action stopped.
The principal leaned forward, moving closer to the laptop screen. He said, “That explains the new blue jeans and tennis shoes every month…and the boy’s stunning 2.0 grade point average. The little bastard was telling me that he was helping his dad with the plumbing business. Should have known that he was dealing pot.”
Alvarez said, “Don’t feel bad. He’s not a good businessman. It looks like he’s discounting his product for sexual favors.”
“Ironic that the kid’s worst subject is math
?”
Alvarez shook his head and smirked. He said, “As painful as it may be, I’m going to watch the remaining footage.” He pointed at the screen. “Those horny kids may be my best witnesses to a crime.”
The principal nodded. “I’ll check with my secretary and make sure that the two lovebirds are still in the building.”
As O’Malley began to walk out of the office, Alvarez moved the cursor over the “Play” selector and clicked. He leaned back in the chair. He scanned the footage as the parking lot scene progressed. This was going to be painful.
By the time Alvarez reached the moment in time where the action started, the fast forward button had become his friend. He slid the cursor over the Pause selector and began to advance the video forward one frame at a time. Clicking away, Alvarez watched as the two Townsend sisters walked to the curb with the security guard.
A white Escalade drove a sweeping arc around the parking lot. The bulky SUV stopped along the sidewalk. A discussion ensued for less than fifteen seconds. A hand with red nail polish emerged through the driver’s side window holding what appeared to be a semiautomatic. Nail polish? A female perp? No kidding…
Alvarez continued to click away on the Forward button. A puff of smoke. The security guard fell awkwardly to the ground. The two sisters stared at the man crumpled on the sidewalk. They abruptly turned their attention to the driver’s side window. Sheer terror was written on their faces. The younger girl opened the rear door of the Escalade. Both girls jumped into the car. The Escalade accelerated to the end of the parking lot and out the driveway exit.
The detective glanced at the upper corner of the laptop screen. The elapsed time indicated that the entire episode had taken thirty-two seconds. Amazing. This was a well-planned and well-executed event.
Alvarez clicked on the Reverse arrow until the image on the screen displayed the rear view of the Escalade. He moved the cursor over the Zoom selection. He enlarged the SUV until the view was adequate enough to read the license plate number. He wrote the numbers and letters down on his notepad. It was a long shot. Judging by the professionalism exhibited, the odds were great that the plate number would lead him nowhere. He would probably have better luck with the two students in the BMW. Fortunately for Alvarez, the kids had picked the wrong day for sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
