by Les Abend
The phone on Rod’s desk warbled its electronic tone. An amber light blinked next to his direct line. And it seemed that all the other lines were blinking also. Rod raised his eyebrows. Normally, his calls were not routed to him during a meeting. “Saved by the bell,” he thought. Rod snatched the handset off its cradle.
“Moretti.”
“It’s your favorite admin assistant, Captain Moretti,” Donna said. Rod could hear the faint sound of her actual voice coming from the cubicle around the corner. “I was thinking that you could probably use a little comic relief.”
“You’re clairvoyant, Donna,” Rod said, attempting not to grin.
“Yup. I’ve been reminded to use my psychic powers with caution. Unfortunately, I can’t really offer comic relief. But what I have does merit an interruption. You need to turn on the news. Try Channel 7, as much as I know you love to hate that station. The office lines are overheating. It isn’t good.”
“What’s up?”
“Trust me.”
“Donna, I’m already aware that Mike Townsend’s daughters are safe. Is that what this is about?”
“No. Different stuff. Get rid of your meeting.”
Shaking his head, Rod plopped the handset back onto the cradle. He scanned the faces in his office and said, “Something urgent has developed. I’m sorry. I’d like to believe that we’ve reached an understanding on this matter. Can we all agree?” Heads nodded, some with a degree of reluctance. “Cool. Thank you all for your time.” Rod stood from behind his desk and began shaking hands from left to right. The meeting participants walked out of his office in quiet procession.
Reaching for the remote control buried under a manila folder, Rod aimed at the TV and pressed the power button. He selected Channel 7 and was immediately presented with a recognizable image.
The screen displayed a photo of a younger Mike Townsend in uniform. The Patriot Airlines logo was in the background. Divided by a thin white line, a snapshot photo of a black-haired man wearing a clinging V-neck T-shirt was displayed next to the copilot’s image. A caption beneath it read, “Jonathan Goodman.”
Rod pressed the volume button. The afternoon news anchor was narrating.
“The copilot of Patriot Airlines Flight 63, who helped to land the crippled airliner, was found dead on board his boat…gunshot wound…attempted rescue of his abducted daughters…secret life…relationship with gay restaurant owner…owner brutally murdered at Los Olas home…contestants from hot bod circuit thought to be involved in abduction found floating over reef by honeymoon divers.”
The intensity of his focus on the news prevented Rod from noticing that Donna had walked into his office. She stood beside him and turned to view the TV.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Donna said.
“This is right out of a Hollywood script.” Rod looked back at the TV and exhaled a deep breath. “Get Sammy on the phone. He needs to get a trained union rep to the house. The family needs support from PAPA.”
“Sam already called. They’re on the case.”
“Good. I should make a visit to the Townsend home.”
“Do you want to wait for the dust to settle first?” Donna asked.
“The dust won’t be settling for a long time. Mrs. Townsend and her daughters need to know now that this flight department will do everything in its power to assist in this crisis.”
“You could be stepping into a quagmire. Be careful, Captain Moretti.”
“Thanks, Donna. I’m aware of that. In that regard, get Bob Redmond on the phone please.” Rod glanced out the window at the monsoon. “We need to work out a strategy.”
“I’ve tried the VP of Ops numerous times. Office number. Cell phone. Texts. E-mails. No response. His secretary can’t find him. It’s a little unusual.”
“He’s probably holding his finger on the dam. He’ll turn up.”
Just as Rod was about to press the power button of the remote, the anchor announced, “On what might be a related story…”
“Shit, there’s more?” Rod grunted.
The camera zoomed in on a residential street lined with manicured lawns and tiled driveways. As the live scene enlarged, charred and blackened wood that at one time framed a roof, smoldered. Wispy, white smoke rose from an unrecognizable pile of rubble. Off to the side, orange flames and a black cloud engulfed the remaining structure. It was somebody’s nightmare.
And then Rod recognized a truck parked off to the side. A tall, lanky figure with short, straw-colored hair was leaning against the cab. His arms were drawn tight across his chest. His hair was becoming matted from the slanted rain that was beginning to fall, his shirt dotted with the drops. He seemed oblivious to the approaching storm. Was it? No. It couldn’t be.
The news anchor’s voice droned, “Hart Lindy, a Patriot Airlines captain and pilots union accident investigator involved with Flight 63 in Bermuda, arrived to his Lighthouse Point neighborhood today to find his home in flames. According to some sources, arson is suspected.”
Donna stared at the screen and said, “Oh, shit.”
“This has not been a good day for Captain Lindy,” Rod said, shaking his head.
“At least you have an alibi, Captain Moretti.”
Rolling his eyes at Donna, Rod said, “Very funny. Despite what you think, my heart pumps blood at a temperature of 98.6 degrees like everybody else.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I just hate to see you guys at each other’s throats.”
Momentarily locking soft eyes with Rod, Donna smiled and began to walk out of the office. Just before leaving, she turned back toward her boss and said, “Make the call. You guys were friends for a long time.”
Donna closed the office door behind her.
11:35 EDT
The sun was attempting an appearance from behind the remnants of gray clouds left behind by the storm. Detached palm fronds were scattered about the grounds of the building and throughout the parking lot of the FBI’s Miami field office. Pools of dark water splotched the pavement.
The little flight school airplanes from North Perry Airport were resuming their westbound departures like locusts escaping from the fields. As Ryan Fredricks looked out his fifth-floor office, he was certain that the day would come when one of the damn things would impale itself into the mirrored glass of the contemporary-style building. Pilots are all insane. He thought of Hart Lindy and his team.
Hart was not having a good day. Ryan had just got a tweet with a photo of the captain’s charcoal-grilled house from a secretary. Twitter? That’s how the Bureau was communicating? Gee whiz. Anyhow, he’d wait for the locals to complete the arson investigation. He was confident that it was all linked to Flight 63. He just had to connect the dots. And if Hart would just sit still for a minute, he could offer the guy some protection.
When he got the intel that the Flight 63 copilot had been murdered in what appeared to be a botched rescue attempt of his abducted daughters, Ryan’s radar went on high alert. What was this gay airline pilot attempting to accomplish? Why would he sabotage his own airplane? No matter what Hart Lindy was trying to rationalize, the security footage at Port of Spain’s Piarco Airport was undeniable--Mike Townsend had placed something in the engine nacelle.
Ryan’s train of thought was interrupted with the buzzing of his cell phone vibrating itself across the wood veneer of the desk like the miniature players of the old electric football games. He glanced at the caller ID and raised his eyebrows. The number was from the Miami P.D. He placed the phone to his ear.
“Special Agent Ryan Fredricks.”
“Agent Fredricks, Detective Rita Sanchez.” The voice was sultry with no trace of a Hispanic accent.
“What can I do for you, Detective Sanchez?”
“Actually, I have some information for you. We have word that your field office is investigating the circumstances surrounding Patriot Airlines Flight 63.”
“That is a true statement,” Ryan said, his curiosity piqued.
&nbs
p; “Well, it seems that Patriot Airlines is having a bad week. Don’t know if this info is related, but we’re investigating a fresh homicide.” In the background, the static of a police radio crackled with the unemotional voice of a dispatcher responding to a disturbance call. “Wanted you to get the word before it was posted on Facebook.”
“Apparently the Bureau prefers Twitter these days, but thanks.”
“A Robert Redmond, white male, age 55, was found in his 5-series BMW in the parking lot of the Intercontinental Hotel, just south of Bayfront Park. Gunshot wound to the head. His title with the airline is VP of Operations, which is a big deal. He would have direct knowledge of the Flight 63 situation.”
“Any suspects?”
“Possibly. We’ve traced one of the victim’s calls to a burner phone that was found in a housekeeper’s cleaning cart at the hotel. The housekeeper gave us a sketchy description of some scruffy guy with bad teeth and a strange accent that was on her floor when she discovered the phone among a pile of dirty towels.”
Ryan glanced out the window and watched another airplane lurch skyward. “Security footage?”
“We’re reviewing footage from inside the hotel and outside the hotel. The shooter must have known that the camera view was out of range in the section of the parking lot that Redmond was murdered.”
“Of course,” Ryan said with a sigh.
“We’re working all the angles.”
“Understood.”
“One of the victim’s other recent calls was to the direct line of an office in the Tobago Bank of Trinidad.”
“Interesting.”
“The last app the victim used on his iPhone was Notes. In addition to the phone number I just mentioned, Redmond had typed in ‘N’ as in November, 3-2-1-4, ‘W’ as in Whiskey. Not sure what that means, but you probably do.”
“I’m fairly certain that’s a registration number for a U.S.-registered airplane.”
“Makes sense. I can secure-email all the info we have so far if you’d like.”
“Please. That would be great, Detective.” Ryan paused. He thought of Hart Lindy’s I-95 paintball encounter with a black Mercedes. “Do me a favor. Check the outside security footage again. If a black E-series Mercedes is in the vicinity at the time of the murder, let me know.”
“Agent Fredricks, you do know that those things are like M&M’s around here?”
“Humor me, Detective Sanchez.”
Ryan slid the phone from his ear and pressed the End button.
Security footage? Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier? If the copilot had sabotaged the airplane, it might stand to reason that he had planned the Bermuda diversion. And the security footage of Flight 63’s arrival at the gate might have some clues. Had something of value been placed in the cargo hold? Would the cargo manifest have an answer?
Ryan glanced out the window for a moment. He picked up the half-smoked unlit cigar from an unused ashtray on his desk and then rolled it around in his mouth. He trotted over to the main secretary’s desk.
Momentarily surprised by Agent Fredrick’s stealthy appearance, the pepper-haired woman looked up from her computer screen and forced a smile.
“Please find me the manager of Bermuda’s airport security police. Tell him it’s urgent that he contact me ASAP. Also, contact the Patriot Airlines station manager with the same urgency.” Ryan began to turn away and then pulled a scrap of notepaper from his pocket. He scanned the notepaper. “Call the Bureau’s local contact with Air Traffic Control at the FAA. Have them locate an airplane with the registration number N3214W. Thanks.”
The secretary nodded. Ryan walked back toward his desk. He wished he could light his damn Monte Cristo stogy in the environmentally controlled, smoke-free building. A cigar made him focus.
No matter. His gut told him that he was on the right track.
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday
14:45 EDT
After speaking with the cops, the fire department, Diane Yellen, and the insurance company, he was as burned out as his charred house. Hart just wanted to disappear. Having planned on a visit to Manhattan anyhow, he hopped on the next available flight to New York.
For all intents and purposes, Hart was now homeless. On the flight up from MIA to LaGuardia, he had half-chuckled to himself that he was appropriately traveling to the homeless capital of the world. Maybe he could find a cardboard box and a bench with a view in Central Park.
The doors rattled open to the twenty-fifth floor of the Hudson Hotel. Hart stepped out into the darkened, euro-décor of the hallway. His concentration over the last several hours had been a jumbled mosaic of thoughts: Cathy. The pile of smoldering rubble that had been his home. Flight 63. Mike Townsend. Rod Moretti. His dad and the family airport. His career.
Hart stood for a moment, the elevator doors clanking closed behind him. So why would a law firm rent an office suite in a hotel on Fifty-Eighth Street near Columbus Circle anyhow? Hart walked down the corridor, noting the room numbers. He nodded a greeting to an Asian housekeeper who was scurrying about a wheeled cart full of towels, miniature shampoo bottles, and mops. He stopped in front of a door with a brass placard mounted off to the side of the jam. The placard read, “Horton and Carty, Attorneys.”
Hearing the sound of a muted voice from behind the door, Hart rapped, twisted the decorative knob, and walked inside. A blonde, barely in her twenties, sat behind an ornate cherry wood desk. The handset of a console phone was pressed against an ear. The curly black cord of the handset that draped across her chest brought attention to an ample amount of cleavage, enhanced by an appropriately chosen push-up bra. Every other sentence from the woman’s conversation seemed to end in a giggle. If she had been chewing gum, the young woman would have been a living cliché.
The woman smiled at Hart and said into the handset, “Gotta go. Someone just walked into the office. Hee-hee! Call you later.” She clicked the phone down onto the console cradle. “How can I help you, sir?”
Smiling, with an attempt at remaining focused only on the blonde’s eyes, Hart said, “I have an injury matter that I would like considered.” He cleared his throat and continued with his rehearsed scenario. “Heard good things about this firm.”
“Really? Hmm…well…their cases are all done through referrals. Were you referred by someone?”
“Uhh…I was. But I can’t remember his name. Sorry.”
Hart shuffled his feet and scanned the office. Except for a handful of small art deco paintings, the walls were bare. The office was void of the typical certificates, accolades, and award plaques. Not a file cabinet anywhere in sight.
“Were you given a business card?” The blonde asked, leaning over and exposing additional cleavage along with the white outlines that the sun hadn’t quite reached. “Usually that’s how I get things started.” She twisted a finger into a lock of hair and giggled.
“Nope, sorry. No business card.” Hart sighed. “Where did you get the nice tan? Couldn’t be here in New York.”
“The boss has a really awesome home in Fort Lauderdale with a huge boat. I get to go every once in a while.”
“Cool.” Hart said with a half-serious attempt at sounding twenty-something. “So does your boss see clients in this office?”
“If he does, I don’t know about them. I just answer the phones and take messages. Usually, Mr. Horton comes in by himself and closes his office door. He brings a leather briefcase and that’s it. And then somebody else picks up the briefcase and leaves.” The blonde giggled again. “It pays better than my cocktail waitress job. And I don’t have to deal with creepy assholes.”
“Got it,” Hart said with a nod. “Well, guess I’d better get a business card from my friend and come back later.”
“Sorry,” the blonde said shrugging her shoulders.
“No problem.” Hart turned and reached for the doorknob behind him. “Thanks for your help anyhow.” He walked out of the office and back into the dark corridor.
; Asking more questions of the quasi-Victoria’s Secrets model behind the desk may have aroused suspicions, notwithstanding the real possibility of security cameras. Hart got the picture anyhow. A law firm that really wasn’t. Great. So where were the union’s mysterious wire transfers really going? And what was the source of the deposit money? And according to Bob Redmond, the airline was utilizing the same attorneys; that just seemed contrary to union common sense.
14:50 EDT
“Are you serious, Tom?” Alvarez asked. He pressed a thumb to a button on the steering wheel, raising the speaker volume.
“Positive, sir.” Your E-Class Mercedes, license plate number India-Mike-Alpha-7-8-7, rolled into the very same Bayview Drive home that I observed our high school vice principal had visited the other day.”
“And let me guess, the car is registered to an address in New York City that belongs to a law firm?”
“Yup. And the yacht that the Townsend sisters were abducted on belongs to the same law firm. It’s a documented vessel. The Coast Guard did a search just after you left the base.”
“Sit tight, Tom.” Alvarez watched a man wearing ragged jeans and an oil-stained parka roll a rusty shopping cart full of aluminum cans through the intersection. “Are you in a BSO patrol car, today?”
“I am.”
“Stay out of sight for the moment. I don’t want to alert this guy. I’ll let you know when I’m a couple minutes out. At the moment, I’m southbound on U.S. 1 at Atlantic.”
“Roger.”
Ending the call, Alvarez felt the familiar adrenalin rush. Maybe he would actually be able to catch a bad guy. The light turned green. The detective pressed down on the accelerator with a heavy foot.
