by Les Abend
Hart felt his chest pound. He could feel his adrenalin level rise. The image of the copilot continuing to plod around the airplane remained on the screen. It didn’t matter. Hart’s vision was unfocused. His mind raced. Shit! This couldn’t be…
Like a train that had been traveling at high speed suddenly stopping at a station, the video froze. Hart hadn’t noticed that the FBI man had leaned over his shoulder and paused the action.
“You saw it didn’t you?”
Regaining his composure, Hart asked, “Saw what?”
“Don’t screw with me, Hart. The IDG access panel. That’s part of the reason I was out at the airplane this afternoon. Your team told me what it was. Flight 63’s copilot opened it.”
“Yeah, and…”
“Is that normal procedure for a preflight inspection?”
“Not every pilot inspects that area. No, it’s not a requirement.”
“I looked into your background at the airline. You were a check airman on the 767. Did you instruct your guys and gals to open that panel?”
“No, I didn’t…but other check airman might have.”
“Look, don’t bullshit me. My understanding is that the access panel is a maintenance function.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Hart looked at Ryan and said, “What do you want me to say?”
“Okay, I had a feeling it was going to play out this way.” Ryan took a puff of his cigar. He directed the smoke toward the floor. “I like your sorry ass, Captain Lindy. And I respect you for trying to protect one of your own. But this is how it’s going to work.” Ryan grinned. “I’m going to give you forty-eight hours. If you give me a better explanation, I’ll back away from your copilot as a suspect.” He took another long puff on his cigar. “But if you withhold information from me, I’ll shoot you as promised and then have you arrested for interfering with a federal investigation. Clear?”
“What happened to the new and improved FBI?” Hart asked with a sly smile.
“Don’t press your luck when you’re on my good side, Captain.”
Ryan walked over to a dresser and grabbed the bottle of Dewars that had been sitting on top. He twisted open the cap and poured the caramel liquid into two separate plastic water cups. He handed a cup to Hart.
“Cheers, my friend,” Ryan said as he tapped his cup to Hart’s. “Here’s to crime fighters and pilots everywhere.”
20:05 EDT
The foggy numbness in Mike’s head was attributable to fatigue. The evening’s two glasses of merlot had virtually no effect other than to act as a mild tranquilizer. He had once again been unsuccessful at a nap. The bed had served only as a relief from the exertion of pacing. Regardless of his energy level, it was important that Mike focus. He had formulated a plan.
A glance out his kitchen window offered a positive sign. All but one news station van had departed the neighborhood. And only one patrol car was parked in the driveway. Mike took a sip of coffee. He would have to make a rapid exit.
Peeking into the master bedroom, a place he hadn’t occupied for months, Mike caught a glimpse of Robin. She was sprawled across the king-size bed, her face almost completely buried in an overstuffed pillow. He was amazed that she was asleep. She must be exhausted, he thought.
He sighed and walked quietly down the hallway out the French doors to the dock. He carried a small duffle bag. He could feel the weight of the .45 caliber Glock at the bottom underneath his extra clothes. He hoped not to employ its use.
Mike walked at a brisk pace toward the boat. The thirty-six-foot Sea Ray express cruiser creaked as it rocked against the pilings. The white hull was dull and chalky. He felt a twinge of guilt. He had bought the boat before Ashley was born. It had been part of the family. Fishing. Overnights. Vacations. Restaurant hopping.
But now that the girls had grown older, other interests took precedence. Neglect had taken its toll. For the past two years, Mike’s primary activity with the boat was only to start the two cranky, gas-guzzling engines. His hope now was that they wouldn’t fail him.
He sat down on the railing at the aft end of the boat and swung his feet inside onto the deck. He shuffled to the cockpit, pumped the left throttle, and turned the left ignition key. The engine thumped and whined, finally uttering a throaty warble as it came to life. White smoke blossomed from the exhaust, curling up over the transom. The right engine offered the same resistance, sputtering as its rpm increased to idle.
“Yes!” Mike whispered to himself. He clenched a fist and shook it at the deck underneath where the engines lived.
He jumped off the boat and untied the lines, leaving them scattered on the dock. He jumped back on the boat, hopped onto the cockpit bench seat, and pushed both transmission levers forward. Within moments, Mike and the Sea Ray were motoring down his neighborhood canal toward the Intracoastal.
With the boat steering straight ahead, Mike dug into his pocket and slid out his iPhone. He slid his finger across the screen and tapped the Sprint Family Locator icon.
Mike had used the tracking program more as a safety net then a snitching tool…although he did eventually admit to Robin that the program was useful in verifying his oldest daughter’s location. He had caught her in a typical teenage lie just last week. Kim claimed to have been visiting her girlfriend. The tracking program had proved that she was located two neighborhoods in the opposite direction…at her boyfriend’s home.
Not wanting to reveal the source of his information, Mike smiled when Kim walked through the front door. He asked how his daughter’s day had gone with the girlfriend. She averted his eyes and simply said, “Fine.” Mike chuckled to himself. He conveyed the story to Robin later that evening. Robin had grinned and then no longer expressed resistance to Mike’s cyberspying.
Like most kids, Kim was a savvy iPhone user. She knew how to temporarily disable the Find My iPhone app. Mike caught on to her wisdom on a handful of occasions when her phone location disappeared off the grid. The Sprint program did the trick.
And now Mike would be using the program to rescue his daughters. Involving the cops would make things complicated. The chilling phone call he had received in Bermuda was motivation enough. It was a page right from the script of a bad TV movie. But he wasn’t going to take a chance.
He had turned on his iPad last night and found a cell phone signal…but it wasn’t Kim’s. The signal was from Ashley’s phone. That fact disturbed him. Why hadn’t he found Kim’s signal also? Her phone was always at her side. Was she okay? He had kept the phone purchase for Ashley a secret from Robin. Mike had given it to her before the agreed-upon birthday. But Ashley was an A-student…and her maturity level often exceeded those of girls ten years older. She deserved the phone.
The signal location was curious, indicating that the girls were not on land. If the location was accurate, it appeared the phone was located just offshore from Fort Lauderdale. Initially, the location made no sense. But then Mike understood. That rich chisel-jawed bastard was probably using that flashy Tiara to abduct the girls. He had met the arrogant prick and his boat months prior.
The Tiara had been tied up against the dock during the Shooter’s hot bod contest. The day was sizzling enough to distort the air above the pool deck into visible shimmers. The asshole was sitting shirtless, sandwiched between three or four overly tanned thong-bikini-clad women. The bikinis did little to hide the finest in Florida plastic surgery.
When he saw Mike approach, the chiseled-jaw guy dismissed the bikini girls with a wave of his hand. The two men sat alone underneath an umbrella that hovered over the top of a round, plastic table. The conversation with Mike was condescending and brief. Mike left with a bad taste in his mouth.
The memory of the bastard’s pristine boat and his pompous attitude had remained. Mike clenched his jaw. Nothing mattered now except for bringing his daughters home safely. He had narrowed their location. They were about a mile off the beach, opposite the Oakland Street Bridge.
But first Mike would pick up Jon
athan near Los Olas. He would need his partner’s help…and his encouragement.
20:25 EDT
Writing reports was an activity that Hart would just as soon leave to secretaries and college freshmen. When the phone rang in his room, he was glad for the distraction. He yanked the handset off the cradle with zest.
“Hart Lindy.”
“Hey, Hart. It’s Anne at PAPA headquarters.” Her voice held her typical cheery tone but it was uncharacteristically guarded.
“I know I haven’t screwed up an expense report because I’m yet to file one. To what do I owe this pleasure…and after business hours nonetheless? ”
“Well…I’m not sure that you’re going to consider it a pleasure after you hear what I have to say.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had my second adult beverage.”
“Do you know anything about the law firm of Horton and Carty?”
“Don’t think so. Should I?” Hart asked.
Anne said, “If you recall, the board of directors passed a resolution last month to conduct monthly internal audits of union expense disbursements. It’s part of the belt-tightening initiative. I started an informal audit yesterday. I found something curious.”
“Does it involve my group?”
“Not from an expense perspective.” Anne took a breath. “It may relate to your investigation.”
“You’ve got my attention,” Hart said.
“Apparently, a number of wire transfers in various amounts have been going to Horton and Carty. The transfers have flowed in that direction for almost a year. Interestingly enough, the transfers seem to have been disbursed within a couple of days after a deposit for the same amount. Sometimes the transfers are multiples of the total deposit, unequally divided.”
Anne cleared her throat and continued. “The law firm has an office in New York and in Port of Spain, Trinidad. The money leaving PAPA headquarters has been going to Trinidad. The firm will be providing legal counsel in anticipation of potential bankruptcy proceedings with the airline. The board of directors approved a retainer expense.”
Hart said, “Interesting…but other than the fact that Flight 63 departed Port of Spain, how does this relate to our investigation?”
“The wire transfers were authorized by our secretary/treasurer.”
“Mike Townsend? The copilot on Flight 63?” Hart asked.
“None other.”
“Nobody else noticed these wire transfers until now? How can that be? What happened to membership transparency?”
“The secretary/treasurer is responsible for monitoring all transactions and expenses.”
“Great system. Only one person is in charge. I think the by-laws need to be rewritten.” Hart exhaled a deep breath. “But you indicated that the wire transfers were of equal amounts to the deposits. If it’s embezzlement, that’s a strange technique.”
“My thoughts exactly,” the union secretary said.
“Have you provided this information to anyone else, Anne?” Hart asked.
“Not just yet.”
“What’s the chance that you could keep this under your hat for a little while? I need to sort out some details with this investigation.”
Anne said, “I can give you another couple of days. The official audit has to be submitted in time for the special board of directors meeting.”
“Thanks, that’s all I should need.”
“Hart, one last thing.”
“I’m not sitting down, so go easy,” Hart said with a sigh.
“The last deposit to our PAPA account was made within a week of the accident. It was about $5 million, the largest this year. The next wire transfers out of the account went to the Horton and Carty Law Firm. As you probably guessed, the disbursements occurred within a few days. They totaled $5 million, almost to the penny.”
“This just keeps getting better. Five million? Seems to me that’s above and beyond a retainer…even for a New York law firm.” Hart thought for a moment. “Any idea how much of this particular account has made its way down to Port of Spain?”
“I’m crunching the numbers now. But I’d guess close to $35 million.”
“Nice,” Hart said.
“Yeah, I thought you would be impressed.”
“Anne, I appreciate the call. I’ll be in touch.”
“My pleasure,” Anne said.
Hart heard a click on the line. He replaced the handset in the cradle and shook his head. The vision of Mike Townsend opening the jet engine’s IDG access panel ran through his head.
“This is not good,” Hart muttered to himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday
21:30 EDT
She looked through the bedroom window out at the empty dock. The moon wasn’t quite full, but its silver luminescence was enough to shower the canal side of the backyard with a white glow.
Robin remembered sultry summer nights on the boat gazing at a similar scene. Kim and Ashley were barely out of diapers. Robin and Mike would wrap them with blankets on the bench seats that surrounded the cockpit, a place they loved almost as much as the bow. When the giggling stopped, the girls would fall fast asleep. Robin and Mike shared the day’s stories and their dreams over a bottle of cheap merlot.
Had she been living a lie with the man she loved all this time? Where were the fucking signs? Was it something she had done…or something she hadn’t done? And where the hell was he anyhow?
The boat was gone. In the middle of this crisis, he had decided to go for a cruise. Great. She wasn’t that surprised. The boat had always been Mike’s therapy. The last time he had taken it out for any length of time was when the airline had negotiated with the union for a 25 percent pay cut…among other things…to avoid bankruptcy. He was thinking of the mortgage and the MasterCard bill, and all the other debts that were barely being paid. And he was thinking of the tuition when he sent the girls to college. That was almost a year ago.
But Mike had never stayed out past dark. She hadn’t heard his departure from the dock. Even through closed windows, the rumble of those old engines was unmistakable. She must have finally passed out. Before Mike had arrived home, despite her exhaustion, insomnia had been winning the battle over sleep. This time she’d had enough. The little blue pills came out of the medicine cabinet.
Still a little groggy, Robin shuffled from the bedroom hallway into the kitchen. She brewed some tea. She took a slow sip and peered out the kitchen window. A patrol car was parked in the driveway. Through the glow of the dashboard lights inside the car, she could see the silhouette of the officer in the driver’s seat. One lonely TV news station van was perched on the other side of the street.
The crowd of strangers outside the house was gone. The blinding blue police lights no longer reflected off the side of the garage doors. Other than the occasional bark of a neighborhood dog, all was quiet. It appeared that the world was losing interest in the disappearance of her daughters and her hero husband who helped land a fiery airplane.
Robin shook her head and set her mug down on the counter with a thwack. Some of the tea splashed over the rim and onto the tile surface.
“Screw him!” Robin said out loud to the kitchen refrigerator. “I’m not dealing with this alone!” She took a few strides to the other end of the kitchen island and grabbed her purse. Robin fished her hand inside the purse and retrieved her cell phone. She pushed a speed dial button and waited. She pressed the phone hard against her ear.
The ringing continued until Robin heard Mike’s voice-mail message. She cringed. She hated the rhythm of his DJ-like greeting. It sounded condescending and shallow.
She waited for the beep and then said, “This isn’t the time for a boat cruise. Where the hell are you? Call me back if it’s not too much trouble.”
Robin mashed the End button with her thumb and tossed the cell phone onto the kitchen counter. It clacked as it slid. He was ignoring her calls. Bastard!
Maybe something was actually wrong. Should she contact the detec
tive? Robin stared at her cell phone again. Why the hell not? She pulled the cop’s business card out from beneath the magnet on the refrigerator and entered the number into her phone. She pressed the Send button. A number of rings later, Robin prepared to leave a message. But a familiar voice finally answered.
“Alvarez here,” the voice said. The detective’s speech was distorted. He was chewing and talking.
“Detective Alvarez, this is Robin Townsend. I hope it’s not a bad time.”
The sound of clattering silverware wafted from the background.
“No, not at all,” he said with a squishy snap as he chewed his last bite. “Your call might get me out of doing the dishes.”
Robin took a deep breath and said, “I may be overreacting, but Mike…well…he disappeared on our boat. I had taken some sleeping pills. I was probably comatose because I didn’t hear him start the engines…and he’s…he’s not answering his cell phone. I woke up about an hour ago.”
“Mrs. Townsend, you did the right thing. Are you still at home?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there, please. I’ll be right over.”
The phone went silent. Robin glanced at the phone’s background display of last year’s family Christmas portrait. Mike’s smile in the photo now appeared forced. The screen displayed “Disconnected.” She felt her eyes begin to fill with tears. She gritted her teeth knowing that beyond the emotion, another bout of stinging and burning was next. Her eyes had drained out more tears than she thought humanly possible. Why couldn’t she wake up from this nightmare?
