Paper Wings

by Les Abend

  Having the need to focus on accomplishing some type of task, Robin reached for the mountainous stack of mail at the end of the kitchen counter. She began to sort the envelopes of junk mail into a pile. The chore was brainless, but somehow it soothed her anxiety.

  A few minutes later, as Robin scooped envelopes into the tall trash can, a pair of headlights appeared in the driveway next to the patrol car. The lampposts outside bathed the nondescript sedan in yellow light. The driver’s side door opened, and the round shape of Detective Alvarez stepped onto the dark pavement. He walked around the front bumper toward the patrol car.

  21:55 EDT

  The uniformed cop in the patrol car emerged from the darkness. He greeted Alvarez with a warm smile. The two men shook hands.

  “Sorry, Detective. I must have been in transit to replace the last uniform that was on duty here at the Townsend house. I missed Mr. Townsend’s exit,” the uniformed cop said.

  “No big deal, Tom. I’ve got Marine Patrol on the lookout. We’ll find him. I just want to know what the hell he’s up to in the damn boat.”

  Tom nodded and said, “Understood.”

  Alvarez folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against his car. He asked, “So…your phone call got me curious. What you got?”

  “I did some snooping around at the high school. Got some of the kids to talk. They’re reliable types. A-students. Lacrosse team. Baseball team.” Tom slapped a mosquito that had landed on his forearm. “Anyhow…our vice principal is just not adding up.”

  “Tracey Abbott? How so?”

  “She’s got a girlfriend.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Alvarez responded.

  “I know…I know. Being a lesbian is underwhelming info in this town, but there’s more to the story.”

  “Well, it does beg the question on an ulterior motive regarding her relationship with Mrs. Townsend. I don’t get the impression that the pilot’s wife swings that direction.”

  “That’s part of my story, because the VP didn’t begin a relationship with Mrs. Townsend until about a month ago.”

  Alvarez sighed, swatted at an airborne mosquito, and said, “Tom, I spent the other day scouring the security video. I’ve got two student witnesses to the homicide abduction. Unbeknownst to them, they were stars of their own parking lot porn film. The two students offered Tracey Abbott as another witness. Apparently, at some point prior to all hell breaking loose, she was receiving something in an envelope by the corner of the building hidden from the cameras. According to one of the porn stars, she had been receiving these envelopes on a few prior occasions.”

  “Interesting,” Tom said, smoothing his wavy brown hair with his hand.

  “Last night I missed my wife’s Cuban pork roast.” Alvarez patted his protruding belly. “Instead of adding more shape to my figure, my eyes were bleeding at the office. I was looking at security footage. I’m trying to find the car that belonged to this unshaven, skinny guy that made the delivery to the vice principal.”

  “Don’t damage your retinas anymore. Betcha the skinny guy drove a black Mercedes,” Tom said with a smile.

  Alvarez narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m listening.”

  “That’s the reason I brought the girlfriend thing up. The kids that I talked to would open the back gym door for fresh air while they practiced. At the end of the day they had occasionally seen Tracey Abbott climb into the back seat of a black Mercedes. She would throw a big lip lock on a redhead that was already sitting in the back.”

  “Wait…let me guess. The driver of the Mercedes was an unshaven, skinny guy,” Alvarez said, shaking his head.

  “That’s why you’re the detective.”

  “I’ll be damned. Nice work, Tom. Maybe I can have you out of that uniform soon.”

  “Maybe. Not sure homicide is my gig though.”

  “It grows on you,” Alvarez said with a smirk. “Anyhow…I’ve been looking at the wrong time frame to try and find a license plate. I never considered going beyond normal school hours.”

  “Let me know when you get a good plate number. I’ll run it.”

  Alvarez nodded. He looked at the front entrance of the Townsend house and said, “Duty calls inside. Maybe Ms. Townsend has more information than she admits.” The detective reached out his hand and shook with the uniformed cop. “Thanks for your help, Tom.” Alvarez began to walk away.

  Tom smiled and said, “Keep me in the loop, Detective, if you don’t mind. Writing speeding tickets for my high school seniors is what I live for, but a change of pace is always welcome.”

  “Will do, Tom,” Alvarez said, waving a raised hand.

  22:55 EDT

  Staring unfocused at the black water of the canal, Mike took a bite of his mahi-mahi sandwich. Even though the meal was one of his favorites, it was cold and tasteless. The waitress at the Southport Raw Bar had made her rounds through the clutter of outside tables at least three times to check on his status. On each occasion, Mike’s plate showed no evidence of activity. His brain was preoccupied, drifting in a haze of confusion.

  Southport Raw Bar was his refuge. Familiar surroundings. Familiar faces. He was incapable of any form of decision process other than to drive a boat and consume food. In a robotic trance he had tied up the Sea Ray at the restaurant an hour ago. He couldn’t stay where he had been on the New River, or anywhere near Los Olas Boulevard. Mike needed time to breathe, to consider his options. He never envisioned the horror he had found at Jonathan’s place.

  After escaping from home, Mike had motored up the New River. He was excited at having located his daughters via the GPS program. The prospect that he would be able to recruit Jonathan for the rescue was even more encouraging. And even more so, he would have Jonathan’s attention for the remainder of his plan. Despite the setback with his daughters, the plan would still prove successful.

  Mike had tied up at an open spot along the city dock. Ignoring the tourist circus of Riverwalk, he strode directly toward Jonathan’s restaurant on Los Olas Boulevard. When Mike turned the corner from the side street, the usual flow of sunburned, T-shirted people was interrupted by a barrage of green and white Broward Sheriff’s Office patrol cars and motorcycles. The police activity surrounded almost the entire block of the restaurant.

  A small platoon of BSO cops and plainclothes men with short haircuts bustled around the entrance. A sinking feeling began to envelope Mike’s stomach. Where was Jonathan?

  A crowd of curiosity seekers had formed, eyes wide, darting their focus around the outside of the restaurant. With cautious steps, Mike walked over to the crowd. He blended into the mass of people from behind. He listened to the murmured conversation.

  Never showed up for work. Gay basher. Questioning employees. Body recovered in a dumpster. Pieces.

  After a few minutes of eavesdropping, Mike’s anxiety level began to peak. He dreaded asking the obvious question, but it was unavoidable. He tapped a white-haired woman on the shoulder. She turned.

  “Who was it? Do you know?” Mike asked in a strained whisper.

  The woman shrugged her shoulders and said, “I think it was the owner of this place.” She pointed at the open door of the restaurant. “He was shot in his own townhouse down the street. The cops are questioning the staff.”

  It took only a moment for Mike’s vision to narrow. The world became gray. He leaned against the post of a street sign, hoping it would support him while his knees resumed their normal function in keeping him upright. He turned away from the crowd.

  Maybe the information was inaccurate. How would anybody really know unless they were cops? The thought gave him enough comfort to regain his composure. Perhaps a visit to Jonathan’s townhouse would prove the information wrong. Mike slithered away from the madness at the restaurant and walked west on Los Olas.

  It wasn’t long before Mike’s hopes began to shatter. A similar scene to the restaurant was unfolding a few blocks away. More BSO uniforms. More patrol cars. Yellow police tape. And th
is time the non-uniform types were wearing latex gloves.

  As he slowed his pace to a crawl, Mike peered up six levels to the top floor and Jonathan’s kitchen windows. A silhouette of figures seemed to be moving back and forth within the townhouse. Mike stopped at the corner. It was pointless to continue any further. The cops were obviously conducting an investigation. His worst fears were confirmed. Mike took a few steps toward a newly painted park bench. He sat down and dropped his head into cupped hands.

  Unaware of how much time had passed, Mike rose from the park bench. In a mind-numbing fog of thoughts, he walked back to the boat still docked on the New River. As much as he wanted to just sit and try to further absorb the situation, he had to maintain the momentum. Inaction would render him useless. He had to move forward. And soon, the cops would connect him to Jonathan. But where would he go?

  Surprisingly enough, his stomach was protesting with periodic rumbling. Mike hadn’t eaten since chomping on a stale bagel at breakfast time. Food would help him think. Southport Raw Bar was the only idea that made its way into his limited decision process. The restaurant was a local’s hangout, a frequent boat stop for Mike and the girls. Kim and Ashley loved the conch fritters. The girls treated the fritters like an exotic delicacy. And the place was hidden at the end of a long canal. It made perfect sense.

  Before he left the dock on the New River, Mike stepped down below into the salon. He needed a drink to take the edge off his nerves. He grabbed a plastic tumbler from the cabinet above the sink. He scooped up a handful of ice from a small Playmate cooler and dumped it into the tumbler. Mike pulled out a bottle of gin and poured the clear liquid into the glass. He closed his eyes and took a few sips.

  And now, as Mike took the last couple of bites of his sandwich at Southport Raw Bar, the low visibility in his mind began to clear. He had only one decision to make. It was simple. He would find his girls and return them home safe and sound. And then he would face the consequences of his actions.

  Mike slid the iPhone out from his pocket. He drew in a deep breath. He began to type a text message. Mike stared at his words for a moment. Satisfied, he pressed the Send button. Hopefully the message would reach both Kim and Ashley in time.

  Picking a french fry off his plate, Mike took a small bite. He stared at his Sea Ray. The wake of a center console boat that had just left the adjacent slip lapped against the hull of the express cruiser. The rub rails creaked against the wooden piling of the dock. Mike sighed. It was time to go.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills. He shoved the money into the check wallet that the waitress had dropped off over an hour ago. Mike rose from the table and walked a few steps down to the dock. He climbed into the boat and started the engines. He untied the lines from the pilings and then resumed his position at the helm seat. He slid both transmission levers into forward gear.

  As he turned the boat south on the Intracoastal, Mike gazed upward at the night sky. The moon was glowing like the sun. The glow would be helpful and a handicap at the same time. The silvery brightness would assist in his navigation out the Port Everglades inlet and in his ability to locate the boat where his daughters were held hostage. But the natural illumination would make his arrival easier to detect. It didn’t matter. Somehow he would make it work.

  Sunday

  00:05 EDT

  He glanced at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed. The blue numbers glowed “12:05.” Hart sighed and clicked the power button on the remote. The color images on the flat screen TV faded to black. He had been watching a mindless romantic comedy. The name of the movie escaped him. He didn’t care. Hart was using the TV as a sedative, hoping that his most recent yawn was a positive sign for sleep.

  He closed his eyes. Seconds later he heard tapping. Was it his door? Couldn’t be… It was too late. The tapping started again, slightly louder than the first time. Crap! The sound was at his door. Hart slid off the bed and reached for a pair of jeans he had tossed over the back of a chair. He pulled the jeans on, took a step toward the door, and then stopped.

  Remembering the beating that Flight 63’s captain took last night, Hart didn’t want to be the second victim. He scanned the room for an impromptu weapon. His eyes found an iron on the top shelf of the closet. He walked over to the shelf, grabbed the iron, and wrapped the cord around his wrist.

  With cautious steps, Hart moved to the door. He peered through the viewing port. The hallway was empty. Only the closed door of the room opposite him could be seen. Should he investigate? His curiosity was getting the best of him. Hart tightened his grip on the handle of the iron. He took a step backward and opened the door. He raised his weapon to shoulder height. He braced for a human form to rush toward him. Nothing…

  What the hell…? He waited. Still nothing. Hart took a deep breath and began to close the door. He heard a faint shuffle. He moved his feet to a wide stance and drew back with the iron as though he was about to swing a baseball bat one-handed. The figure of a woman appeared in the opening at the threshold.

  “Nice,” Maureen Blackford said as she moved her gaze from Hart’s bare chest to the iron in his hand. “I love a half-dressed man who gets the wrinkles out in the middle of the night. I would have brought a few of my blouses over had I known.”

  With a heavy sigh, Hart released the tension in his muscles. He shook his head and said, “Shit, Maureen. I thought I was going to have to wrestle the same nasty guy that our captain had to deal with last night.”

  “Sorry. My bad.” Maureen said with a coy smile. Her perfectly aligned white teeth sparkled even in the dim light. “Are you going to let me in…or do you need to take a nitroglycerin pill?”

  “Maybe not nitroglycerin, but a martini might help. Come in.”

  Hart shuffled his bare feet backward and closed the door behind Maureen as she glided into the room. He dropped the iron on the dresser. Maureen leaned against the end of the couch. Her form-fitted jeans followed the curve of her hips. The jeans contrasted with the T-shirt that hung loosely off her shoulders. The shirt did nothing to hide the soft shape of her breasts beneath. A bra was absent.

  Hart surveyed Maureen, making no attempt to disguise his focus. He smirked and asked, “I assume this visit concerns the investigation?”

  “You are an asshole,” Maureen murmured.

  She slithered over to Hart and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled him toward her, meeting his lips. She enveloped his mouth with hers. She moaned in quiet gasps. Hart squeezed Maureen closer. He reached his hands behind her waist and pulled the T-shirt up and over her head.

  With a dreamy smile, Maureen moved a hand between their fused bodies and over Hart’s zipper. With a gentle tug, she pulled the zipper lower. She slid her fingers into Hart’s jeans and began to caress his hardening penis.

  Hart smiled and whispered, “I thought we had checked off the sexual tension square. Are you still tense?”

  Maureen grinned, “Not only am I very tense, but I need to punish you for your procedural improprieties.”

  “I thought my admonishment at the progress meeting was my punishment.”

  “I work differently than other government employees,” Maureen said as she pushed Hart toward the bed.”

  Hart chuckled and then allowed Maureen to give him a shove onto the mattress. She slithered on top of him. Hart reached into her jeans, feeling her soft bottom. He began to gently pry her pants lower. Maureen moaned. Their bodies writhed together, their lips intertwined.

  When the phone rang, the sound initially melted into the passion of the moment as if part of a dream. It took a couple of rings for Hart to comprehend that the intrusive sound was a reality. He grunted and lay still. Maureen slowed the undulating motion of her hips, her hair flowing across Hart’s chest.

  Maureen sighed and said, “Really? Now?”

  Hart shook his head and said, “Sorry. At this hour…and the way things have been going…my guess is that it’s not somebody about to tell me that
my lottery numbers hit.”

  With a groan, Maureen rolled to Hart’s side. She allowed him enough room to stretch over her and reach the phone by the nightstand.

  Fumbling, Hart put the receiver to his ear and said, “Hart Lindy.”

  The familiar voice at the other end of the line said, “Sorry to call so late.”

  “Cathy? Are you okay?”

  Hart glanced at Maureen with raised eyebrows. Maureen offered a look of resignation and then buried her head in a pillow.

  “I’m okay now. I just wanted you to be aware of something,” Cathy said, her voice indicating strain. “How’s your investigation going?”

  “Let’s just say that it’s been interesting.” Hart took in a breath. “Forget that. What’s up with you?”

  “Well…it’s over now, but today was a little scary.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I was running around all day. And almost everywhere I went, the same creepy guy was in the immediate vicinity. Winn Dixie. Macy’s. The gas station. I know he was watching me.” Cathy paused for a moment. “When I got home, this freak parked his yuppie Mercedes at the end of the driveway.”

  Hart cringed and asked, “Did he try anything, Cath?”

  “No…no. He just stared for a few seconds and then rolled down his window. The freak grinned at me like he was taking off my skirt with his eyes. I was thinking that I shouldn’t have showed that much leg for just running errands around town. And then I got up the courage to ask him what he wanted.”

  “And…?”

  “He said that he wanted nothing except to give me a warning.” Cathy’s voice cracked slightly.