Paper Wings

by Les Abend

  Tom smiled and said, “Start with Jenny Craig. At least you get to eat.”

  “Good thinking.” Alvarez clasped his hands in front of his stomach. “Whatcha got for me?”

  “I’ve been staying after class, so to speak. Had nothing going on this weekend, so I’ve been keeping an off-duty eye on our high school vice principal.”

  “A little overachieving. Very nice,” Alvarez said with a grin.

  “Ms. Abbott lives in a condo just off Atlantic Boulevard in Pompano. I’m making unverified assumptions, but apparently, she shares the residence with an unidentified brunette woman. Before Ms. Abbott exited the condo, she engaged the brunette woman in a kiss at the front entrance.”

  Tom watched an egret flap its wings and then dive into the water off a nearby piling. He continued. “Ms. Abbott made two separate trips to a canal home off Bayview Drive in Fort Lauderdale. I think you know the neighborhood. Let’s just say that you don’t find too many Hyundai station wagons in the driveways.”

  Alvarez nodded.

  Tom said, “Ms. Abbott rang the doorbell at the canal home. No one answered. She did this numerous times. The more she rang the doorbell, the more exasperated she appeared to be. She left with a very frustrated expression.”

  “And she’s done this routine twice this weekend?”

  “Yup.” Tom pulled a small notepad from his pocket and flipped open to a page scribbled with blue writing. “I checked the city records. The house is owned by a law firm with a mailing address listed in New York City.”

  “Interesting. This just gets better and better. If you are correct about Ms. Abbott’s sexual orientation, perhaps her friendship with Robin Townsend may have ulterior motives.”

  Alvarez glanced over at Tony Cusmano. He was standing up against the side railing and drinking a bottle of water that one of the Marine Patrol cops had given him. “Honestly, my gut tells me that those two morons didn’t have anything to do with the murders. I made the Cusmano guy squirm with a cockamamie motive story just to gauge his reaction. They might have some peripheral participation in this whole mess, but I don’t know what it could be. Sooner or later, we’ll get some blood tests back from the boat and the Los Olas crime scene. The ballistic tests on the Glock found in the Sea Ray are in progress. I only hope that the forensics doesn’t add more confusion to this investigation.”

  “This story has a lot of legs,” Tom said.

  “It does. But nice work, Tom. Thanks.” Alvarez sighed and brought his arms across his chest. “And chances are good that Mr. Cusmano will have an alibi of sorts when we hear back from Bimini.”

  “So what are you going to do with your good Samaritans?”

  “Until I get back some forensic information, those guys are all I’ve got. Maybe they’ll come up with some useful information.” Alvarez sighed. “Mr. Cusmano has threatened to lawyer up. If he does it again, I’ll probably throw them both in a patrol unit and bring them in for an official interview with their attorney present. I’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to arrest them.”

  Tom nodded and said, “I agree. It sounds like a reasonable strategy.”

  The two men began to walk toward the Marine Patrol boat. But before they had reached the boat, a petty officer, third class, with an alabaster complexion jogged toward them, waving a hand. His physique was such that the officer’s uniform seemed to be wearing him rather than him wearing the uniform.

  “What’s up?” Alvarez asked.

  The petty officer darted his eyes from one cop to the other and said, “I think you’ll want to hear this, sirs.” He gestured at the main building. “Please come with me.”

  The young man turned and began a crisp walk down the perimeter dock. Tom and Alvarez exchanged curious glances and followed, attempting to match the petty officer’s pace. They were led inside a building that housed a control room. An array of computer monitors, communication equipment, and console desks were scattered about the room in a pattern of organization that only the officers seated about the area probably understood. The control room was relatively quiet except for the occasional murmur of conversation and the low-pitched hum of electronic cooling fans.

  The petty officer walked over to a uniformed man seated in front of a console. The uniformed man was speaking into a flexible boom microphone.

  “Say again your position, Tiara?”

  “Just south of Hillsboro Inlet, continuing southbound on the Intercoastal,” a squeaky, female voice replied from a speaker on the console.

  “Are you injured?”

  Alvarez raised his eyebrows. Was that the voice of one of the abducted daughters? He stared at the black speaker as if he could see an image of the young girl.

  “No. We’re okay.” A few seconds passed. “But there is a dead guy down below in the salon.”

  Taking a deep breath, Alvarez tapped the shoulder of the Coast Guard officer that was using the mic. He asked the officer, “Have you identified the communication as one of the Townsend sisters that was abducted?”

  Still facing his console, the Coast Guard officer nodded.

  “How the hell did they end up on a boat?” Alvarez asked, thinking out loud.

  The Coast Guard officer shrugged. He keyed his mic again and asked, “Can you shut down the boat, Tiara? We will have Marine Patrol at your position in ten minutes. They will transport you home.”

  “Negative. We are continuing to our house on Southeast Fourteenth Street,” a more assertive female voice answered.

  “Are you able to dock the boat, ma’am?”

  “If you let me get off this radio, I can.”

  Alvarez chuckled. To the Coast Guard officer he said, “Please tell the young lady that’s fine. Call Marine Patrol and have them provide an escort. I’ll get a couple of BSO patrol cars and an EMT unit to meet me at the Townsend residence.”

  The squeaky female voice was back on the radio. She said, “You need to search for a 1984 Sea Ray express cruiser. The name of the boat is ‘Fearless Flyer.’ Our dad, Mike Townsend, should be on board. He tried to rescue us. He disappeared last night just south of Commercial Boulevard, off shore.”

  The Coast Guard officer on the radio swiveled his chair to face Alvarez. He looked at the detective with a sad, inquisitive expression.

  Although the old Sea Ray was hidden from view, Alvarez turned his head toward where the boat was tied up at the dock. He sighed and said to the radio officer, “Tell them that we’re looking for her dad’s boat. Just leave it at that.”

  The officer nodded in resignation and swiveled back toward his mic.

  Turning to Tom, Alvarez said, “Now is not the time.” He shook his head. “At least we are dealing with some resourceful teenagers. I wish this story had a completely happy ending.” Alvarez glanced away from the console.

  Tom shrugged. “You’d better get over to the Townsend residence before the media storm descends on the property.”

  Turning his attention toward a TV monitor hung in the corner of the control room, Alvarez rolled his eyes. A muted screen tuned to CNN displayed a block letter caption that read, “Abducted girls escape aboard yacht.” An aerial view above the yacht was following its progress as it motored down the Intercoastal Waterway.

  “Too late,” Alvarez said, gesturing at the TV monitor. “How the hell did they get eyes on the scene already?”

  Tom said, “Somebody was monitoring Channel 16 and got a drone airborne most likely. Want somebody to shoot it down?”

  Alvarez replied, “I’m really starting to hate those things. Didn’t the FAA announce a new mandate for flying drones? Yeah, shoot it down. Just don’t hurt my girls.” He smiled and added, “Nice yacht. Do you think the department will let me borrow it for a few days?”

  “Good luck with that, sir,” Tom replied with a snort.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday

  09:30 EDT

  A passing rain shower that occurred sometime during Hart’s absence had smeared the red paintball dye that
peppered his truck on I-95. Although the addition of water only made the appearance more of a calamity, at least it gave hope that a good wash and wax would clear the mess. Maybe a little brainless chore was what he needed to clear his mind.

  Unfortunately, the call from the VP of Ops’s secretary had disturbed Hart’s attempt at a homeopathic mental health strategy. He had barely left the employee parking lot when his cell phone rang and, with clenched teeth, Hart had agreed to return to Miami International Airport.

  Assuming that the meeting would be brief, he had afforded himself the luxury of using the short-term parking garage. He rolled into a miraculously open space on the ground level just across from the terminal entrance that led to the Patriot Airlines administration offices. Hart closed the door of the truck, pressed the lock button of his key fob, and stepped out from behind. His peripheral vision momentarily caught a glimpse of a black vehicle. The vehicle was stopped, about ten cars away.

  Within a fraction of a second, Hart heard the motor race as it accelerated toward him. He didn’t waste time assessing the black car’s movement. Hart leaped onto the rear bumper of his truck and catapulted into the open pickup bed. The car sped by within inches, the driver hidden behind the opaqueness of tinted windows. As quickly as it had come, the black car was gone.

  Collecting his thoughts, Hart stood up in the truck bed and brushed himself off. Another warning? Seriously, how often was he going to be an actor in a bad spy movie? Should he report this incident? What good would it do? He hadn’t memorized a license plate number let alone been quick enough to identify the type of vehicle. Maybe the Miami/Dade cops could review security footage, but by the time a positive ID was made, the car would be history. And chances were good that the plate, or the car itself, was stolen anyhow.

  Was this just another scare tactic or had it been a bona fide attempt at keeping him quiet permanently? The fact that he was questioning the motivation behind a hit and run was unsettling enough.

  Hart took a few deep breaths, jumped down from his truck, and strode uneasily toward the terminal. He crossed the pedestrian walkway, looking both ways with an abundance of trepidation. What the hell was next?

  As he walked through the doors of the chief pilot’s office for the second time that day, Hart felt his chest constrict with tension. Crap. Apparently the angst leftover from his conversation with Rod still lingered.

  Donna peered over the top of her cubicle and said, “I’d like to believe that you couldn’t manage another moment without me, but I’d probably be disappointed.”

  Hart managed a smile.

  Pointing at the conference room on the other side of the office, Donna said, “They’re waiting for you.”

  “Thanks,” Hart said with a nod.

  It had been over two years since Hart had seen Bob Redmond. The crow’s feet embedded in his tan face did more to accent his affable demeanor than to reveal his age. His perfectly combed brown hair didn’t even offer a hint of grey. He wore a sport jacket over a crisp, open collar, blue shirt. Not a wrinkle in sight. Why did Redmond remind Hart of the manager that sat behind the glass windows of a used car dealership while pretending to agonize over a piece of paper that a salesman had just presented from a negotiation with a customer?

  As Hart approached, the VP of Ops grinned with a mouthful of perfectly aligned teeth. Towering over Hart, he reached out a hand and shook with a firm grip.

  “It’s been a while, Captain Lindy.”

  “I’m guessing the last time was at a standardization meeting with all of us ace-of-the-base check airmen,” Hart said with a hint of factiousness. “I think you were discussing the financial impact of our line captains requesting additional fuel when statistically it didn’t appear necessary.”

  “If I recall, my speech went over like the proverbial lead balloon.”

  “Well, yeah. Anything involving captain’s authority is received with a heavy dose of resistance. It’s a little like maneuvering a Carnival Cruise ship. It’s hard to overcome inertia. But we did eventually increase awareness among our line pilots.”

  “But you left the cadre of intrepid check airman?” Bob asked.

  “I did. It was time. My union called. I thought it was better to sacrifice without pay rather than to sacrifice with pay. I’ve never been very smart.”

  Bob Redmond chuckled. “You were one of the good guys. Sorry you left.”

  Standing off to the side of the conference table, Rod Moretti took a step forward and said, “Gentlemen, now that the pleasantries are complete, I don’t think you need my assistance.” Rod walked toward the door and smiled. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I have some knives to sharpen and some pilot beatings to schedule.”

  The VP of Ops and Hart nodded in unison, watching as Rod exited. Hart felt relieved that his former friend would not be a participant in this informal meeting. Bob Redmond waved an upturned palm at a chair. They seated themselves at the far end of the long conference table.

  Bob leaned back in his chair and said, “Thanks for coming, Hart. I know it’s been a long couple of days.”

  “No worries. How can I help?”

  “Can you offer some insight into where this investigation is going?”

  “How much have you been briefed?”

  “Well, I’ve got the basic facts. But your perspective would be appreciated,” Bob said with a polite smile.

  Hart took in a deep breath. He began a narrative of the investigation in chronological order of discovery. He ended with the last press conference briefing, offering details in the areas he was most familiar. Hart excluded the ramp security footage in Port of Spain.

  The expression of the VP of Ops remained impassive throughout Hart’s entire dissertation. He would not want to bet a poker hand against the man. It left Hart feeling uncomfortable.

  “Has the FBI indicated a terrorist organization has claimed responsibility?” Redmond asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Hart replied.

  “Why would a terrorist place an explosive device in an engine versus placing one in a cargo hold?”

  “Perhaps a terrorist might have theorized that destruction of the engine would also result in destruction of the airplane. Maybe it was simpler to access the engine than the cargo bays. A new terrorist innovation, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” Redmond said while tapping his fingers on the conference table. “Got anything else?”

  “Nope. That’s it.” Hart found it difficult to look Redmond directly in the eye. No doubt, the man suspected Hart was withholding information.

  The VP of Ops stared at Hart for a few moments and said, “Well, I’d appreciate if you’d pass on any further developments.” Redmond reached inside his sport jacket, pulled out a business card, and slid it across the table toward Hart. “Please feel free to call me directly”

  Both men rose to their feet and shook hands.

  Redmond said, “Have a safe drive home, Captain Lindy.” He began to exit the conference room, but turned back to face Hart. “I know that your accident crew probably won’t have any issues, but if they do…in regard to potential civil lawsuits from the victims’ families perhaps…the company will provide legal assistance at no expense to the union or the pilots.”

  “I am aware that our crews are indemnified for the responsible performance of their duties, but I appreciate that, Bob.”

  Nodding, the VP of Ops said, “We retain a good law firm in New York for such things…Horton and Carty.” Redmond flashed a smile and strode out the door.

  Hart took in a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. Holy shit. The same law firm? It now was even more compelling to conduct a little snooping in New York. He would take the first flight out of Miami to LaGuardia the following morning. And at some point, he’d have to call Special Agent Fredricks.

  09:35 EDT

  The golden rays of the sun were slicing through the edges of the cotton clouds that dotted the hazy, blue sky. The rays stabbed at the dark, green water of the canal, fl
ashing with an almost painful brilliance into Kim’s eyes. Kim had decided it was a better vantage point to steer the boat from the upper fly bridge. Besides, it was just way cool.

  Scanning the view from the port side of the fly bridge, Ashley asked her sister, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “A little late in asking that question now, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.” Ashley pondered. “You have whacked our boat a few times trying to dock at the house. Remember that Saturday you went for a joy ride with your crazy girlfriends when Mom and Dad left for that weekend getaway in New York? Didn’t Dad have to spend megabucks to have the side rail fixed? How long were you grounded for…like…until you turned thirty?” Ashley gestured at the Marine Patrol boat that had been escorting them for the last twenty minutes. “I’m sure those guys wouldn’t mind helping.”

  “Ash, give it a rest. We just survived a kidnapping.” Kim pointed an index finger at the deck below. “And we killed a giant…a freak. Just maybe we can live through my docking skills.”

  As the mundane, yellow ranch house on the corner of their neighborhood canal slid into view, Kim slithered the two throttle levers aft. The wake behind the stern of the Tiara began to flatten and uncurl as the boat slowed. Even before the girls got a view of their house, a display of blue and red flashing lights was making an appearance.

  With raised eyebrows, Ashley said, “I have a feeling they’re expecting us.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Kim snickered.

  “I think I see a satellite dish. You sure you want to embarrass yourself on national TV?”

  “Ash!”

  “Just sayin’.” Ashley shrugged her shoulders. “I’m looking out for my big sister.”