by Les Abend
Despite the construction traffic he encountered, Alvarez arrived sooner than anticipated. Before he could redial his patrol cop partner, he noticed Tom’s patrol car parked in a strip mall just prior to the turn onto Bayview Drive. Smart man. Alvarez waved for him to follow. Within minutes, both cars rolled quietly onto a circular driveway in front of an impeccably maintained two-story home.
Tiny puddles, remnants of the storm, dotted the surface of the meticulously laid pavers in the driveway. The palm trees planted in the island at the center fluttered against a light breeze. The only sound that disturbed the tranquility was that of a distant yip from an over-indulged lap dog.
Both cops exited their cars simultaneously.
Alvarez asked in a restrained voice, gesturing at the house, “Ted Horton is the name of the owner?”
“It took some digging through county records, but yes,” Tom answered. “That being said, I don’t think the guy I’ve been following is Horton. I’m placing bets that it’s the courier that handed off the cash payments to our school VP.”
With a nod, Alvarez said, “Stay by your car, Tom.” The detective turned and walked toward the ornate front door. The etched glass on the upper section of the door glinted a brief reflection of the sun.
Fishing for his credentials in a pocket with one hand, Alvarez raised the other to knock. His clenched knuckles never made contact with the door. With a quiet mechanical whir, the garage door of the house began to rise. Alvarez watched Tom bolt to attention. The patrol cop was sliding his hand to the top of his holstered .40 caliber Glock 22.
When the garage door was less than halfway up, both cops moved forward. The pant legs of a man and an open car door became visible. The legs stopped their movement for a split second. Alvarez and Tom remained motionless, poised like mountain lions espying their prey.
As the garage door reached its upward limit, a wiry man appeared. His Mediterranean complexion was further darkened by the shadow of beard stubble. His pupils were dark and wild.
Time seemed to progress in a series of photo frames, advancing like the old-time kinescopes in a penny arcade. The driver’s side door of the Mercedes was open. Alvarez watched as the man began to swing an arm toward the opening of the garage door. A black object was silhouetted in the man’s grip. A voice from somewhere within Alvarez’s throat, heard him scream, “Police! Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon now!”
From nearby, the detective heard an ear-splitting crack followed immediately by an explosion of sound that vibrated the air surrounding him. His peripheral vision processed an instantaneous flash of tangerine light. In the next instant, the unshaven man was thrown into the open car door by an invisible force. He convulsed and then began to slump halfway onto the garage floor and halfway onto the driver’s seat of the jet-black car.
The brief moment of silence that followed lasted an eternity. Alvarez swiveled his head toward Tom. The patrol cop was slowly lowering his extended two-handed grip on his service weapon. If not for Tom’s wide-eyed expression, the Academy could have made his stance a recruitment poster.
With robotic movements, the patrol cop took a few steps toward the motionless man in the garage, his hands still gripping the Glock with stiffened arms. Alvarez followed, forgetting that he had unsnapped his holster and had drawn his own weapon.
Careful not to alarm Tom’s adrenalin-infused body, Alvarez gently rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. He said, “It’s over, Officer. I’ll take it from here. You did it by the book. Get on the radio and call this in with an ambulance request.”
Tom stared into Alvarez’s eyes, nodded, and with a deliberate effort began to holster his weapon. He straightened and began to walk toward his patrol car. Alvarez knew that there was no turning back from this day. The young police officer would keep this memory forever. The memory would define him.
14:55 EDT
It was therapeutic to sit in the lobby of the Hudson Hotel. If Hart wasn’t staring into space, he was people-watching. The activities and expressions at the expansive front desk were curious and amusing all at the same time. Cathy would enjoy the whole scene. He was tempted to call her. But what would he say?
Hart’s phone vibrated in his pocket. The white noise of footsteps and conversations prevented him from hearing the ring tone. He yanked the phone out and pushed it against an ear without looking at the caller ID. He plugged his other ear with a finger.
“Hey, it’s Hart.”
“Hart, it’s Rod. Can you talk?”
A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed. Hart watched an elderly couple shuffle past, a dachshund skittering ahead of their feet. The dog was attached to a bejeweled leash held begrudgingly by the husband.
“What’s this about? Is my sick time usage on your radar? Do you need a delay code for my last tardy departure?” Hart made no attempt at disguising his sarcasm.
Rod sighed and said, “Glad you’ve maintained that famous sense of humor. It sounds like you’re going to need it.”
“You caught me during a good minute. The next minute I could be manic depressive.”
“I’m very sorry about your house. That had to suck.” Rod glanced up at the TV in his office. The weatherman was waving his arms over a map of Florida; the spikes of a cold front were marching in animation across the screen.
“I’ve had better days,” Hart said.
“Is there anything I can do?” Rod asked.
“You mean other than pay off my mortgage and find that Picasso painting that was hanging in the foyer?”
“Seriously, Hart.”
“No. Thanks. I just have to work through this mess.”
“I’m coding your pay as a special assignment for now. Take all the time off you need.”
“Special assignment? Really? Why not just do the standard drill and give me some emergency days off? It will come out of my vacation allotment anyhow.”
“You’re working on an airline investigation, aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah. But PAPA’s got me covered. Paid union leave.”
“No worries. We’ll work it out from the flight office.”
Hart exhaled a deep breath and said, “I’d rather not be in indebted to you at the moment. Honestly, I thought you would have been the one to show up at the house with marshmallows.”
With a sigh, Rod said, “Look, we’ve both been shitty to each other.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”
“I’d rather not have this discussion over the phone.”
“Agreed,” Hart said.
“When the dust settles, let’s grab a beer and work this out. In the meantime, can we be civil to each other?”
“I’m on my meds. I don’t see why not.”
“Good. I hope you share pills.” Rod paused. “In the interest of sharing, I’ve got some intel for you.”
The elderly couple and the dachshund finished their business with the front desk. A bellhop pushing a brass-framed luggage cart nodded and directed the couple toward the elevators. The dachshund poked its nose nervously at Hart’s shoes as it trotted by accompanying the procession of humans. Hotel patrons greeted the sausage-shaped animal with affectionate smiles.
“What’s up?” Hart asked.
“You may be getting a call from the Miami P.D. It isn’t good. I hope you’re sitting down.”
“Great.”
“Bob Redmond was murdered a couple of hours ago. He was found in his car. And you were one of the last people to talk with him.”
“Holy shit,” Hart exclaimed.
“I know. This is getting ugly.”
“Are they looking at me as a suspect?”
“No. I don’t think so. I didn’t get that feeling. The Miami detective that just showed up here in the flight office is aware that you’re part of the Flight 63 investigation. They’re connecting the dots. And you may be able to provide some insight.”
Exhaling, Hart said, “Crap. OK. Thanks. I’m hoping that they hold off for a bit. I’m juggling a few
balls of my own.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“It’s better that you don’t know for the moment,” Hart said in a softer tone.
“Understood.”
Rod glanced outside his office window. A 757 was taxiing out the main ramp, its winglets flexing as it rolled. He said, “Try to keep in touch. If I can help, let me know.”
“Will do,” Hart said. “Gotta run.” After pressing the End Call icon, Hart shoved the phone back into his pocket. He walked out the hotel exit and hailed a cab.
Mend fences with Rod? The thought relaxed him. The investigation of Flight 63 was taking a bizarre turn. Hart needed time to think. In the meantime, he owed his father a visit. Maybe a road trip to upstate New York would be his best therapy. He could handle the new developments long-distance…at least for the moment.
15:05 EDT
Seated with her legs laid out across the long couch, a half-full glass of pinot noir clutched in one hand, the remote in the other, Robin Townsend stared at the TV. Images flashed across the screen. Nothing was comprehensible. It was just noise for the eyes and the ears, a way to fill the void.
A CNN correspondent, microphone in hand, appeared on the sidewalk in front of an art deco building. The camera panned over the anchor’s shoulder and to a second floor window. The caption, “Breaking News,” was displayed at the bottom of the TV screen. With a crown of wavy black hair subtly flowing in the breeze, the correspondent began speaking.
“In the latest development surrounding the accident of Flight 63 in Bermuda, it appears that the copilot had a relationship with the murdered owner of a local restaurant frequented by gay clientele.” The correspondent turned toward the building and then back toward the camera. “The restaurant owner lived in this Fort Lauderdale condominium building. He was brutally murdered, and then his body parts were found in a nearby dumpster.”
“The police have not yet found a specific motive for this homicide. Through questioning of restaurant employees, it appears they have one suspect. And some of our sources are indicating that the suspect may have been killed himself.”
With her eyes still focused on the TV, Robin felt the gentle touch of two hands on her shoulders. Kim had walked into the living room and had sat down on the arm of the couch. Robin patted Kim’s hands and offered a feeble smile. They stared intently at the screen.
“The murder is thought to have occurred within hours of the emergency landing in Bermuda. And as we have previously reported, the copilot was found shot and adrift in his boat just a few miles offshore from the Port Everglades inlet.”
Kim’s eyes began to fill with tears. She was tempted to turn away from the TV but continued to watch. A side-by-side photo of her dad and the restaurant owner appeared in the corner of the screen.
“Sources close to this story are telling CNN there is an indication that the copilot, Mike Townsend, may have been involved with some type of scheme embezzling union funds from the Patriot Airlines Pilots Association. We are working to confirm this information.”
Interrupting the report with a press of the pause button on the remote control, Robin turned toward Kim. She looked into her daughter’s eyes and said, “Don’t believe everything you hear, especially if it’s on the news.”
“I know, Mom,” Kim said with a quivering lip.
“Your dad was not that kind of person.”
Nodding, Kim rose from the couch. She smiled and then walked down the hallway toward her room. She passed her dad’s office and then stopped in the doorway. Manila folders and papers sat in an organized pile on the desk. A coffee cup half-filled with brown liquid was perched on top of the pile. Placed to one corner of the wood veneer surface, a magazine sat open to an article. A pen with the airline logo rested in the open binder of the magazine. The scene looked normal, as if any minute Dad would walk in and sit down.
Kim lowered her head, once again attempting to fight the tears forming in her eyes. The only item that seemed to be missing was Dad’s MacPro. The forensic cops had taken the laptop, along with an assortment of paperwork. Had they already found evidence that Dad was stealing money?
And the note that she found in the glove compartment of her VW Bug in Dad’s handwriting…What exactly did that mean? “Check your computer. Everything is there. Everything is taken care of. I love all of you.” At the bottom of the sticky note were the capital letters, “N-I-B-O-R-M-I-K-Y-E-L-H-S-A.”
Should she get Ashley involved? Something told her that it was best not to bring it to Mom’s attention…and certainly not the cops’…at least for now.
15:30 EDT
Glancing down at the digital display of his speed, Hart read the number “74.” He peered into the rearview mirror. The lights were flashing on top of the ominous black police interceptor five hundred yards behind him. Seriously? The speed limit on this section of I-81 was sixty-five mph. Hart had already been passed in a blur by at least ten lunatics traveling at the speed of stupid. So why him? It was par for the course. He clicked off the cruise control and allowed the rental car to coast to a stop on the shoulder. Hart waited for the cop to roll up behind him.
A quick warble of a siren announced the New York state trooper’s arrival. Was that really necessary? Hart pulled the driver’s license from his wallet, snatched the Hertz rental agreement from the glove compartment, and carefully placed his hands on the steering wheel at the 12 o’clock position. Maybe the cop wouldn’t shoot him.
Looking into the side view mirror, Hart watched as the long, grey-uniformed figure walked toward the open window of the rental car. The man’s face was made of stone. Crap. Just what he needed--a speeding ticket. Guess it was time to put on the charm and beg for mercy.
As the trooper leaned into the window, Hart said, “You got me fair and square, Officer. Thought the cruise control had kept me at a reasonable speed, but it’s my fault for not monitoring.”
A long moment of silence passed. The officer said, “License and registration, please.”
“Yessir,” Hart said as he passed the documentation through the open window. He watched as the expressionless man with the fresh Marine haircut examined Hart’s license. He was doomed.
“Mr. Lindy, I need you to follow me, sir.”
“Uh…are you arresting me, Officer?”
“I have not been instructed to arrest you at this time. I will be escorting you to the State Police barracks.”
“For what purpose?”
“I am unable to say, sir. Those are my only instructions.”
“Great. And if I don’t comply?”
“Then I am instructed to arrest you.”
Hart grinned and said, “I’m not seeing a lot of choices here, Officer.”
The trooper’s thin lips lifted at the corner of his mouth forming a facsimile of a grin for only a fraction of a second. He said, “I will retain possession of your driver’s license, Mr. Lindy. Please follow me.”
Shaking his head, Hart said, “Checkmate.”
As Hart maintained a reasonably safe distance from the state trooper’s interceptor, he glanced at his speed: sixty-five. Hart chuckled. He was following a Boy Scout with a gun and no sense of humor. Nice. Hart could only imagine the scene when he arrived at the barracks. Handcuffs. Fingerprints. Phone calls. Lawyers. Was this episode the work of that Middle Eastern asshole? Could he and whatever organization he belonged to have connections with law enforcement?
The police barracks was a small austere building in the middle of mostly nowhere. Adobe paint. Two flag poles. A parking lot with two patrol cars and a Ford pickup truck. It was a testament to the budget constraints of New York state taxpayers. Nobody would find Hart’s body.
The state trooper parked directly in front of the building and got out of his car. Hart parked one space over and followed the cop inside. Another state trooper, with three chevron stripes sewn to the shoulders of his uniform, looked up from his desk and smiled as Hart approached.
“Mr. Lindy, we’ve been expecting you.
” Hart raised his eyebrows and said nothing as the state trooper rose from his chair and reached out a meaty hand. “I’m Sergeant Jack Mulvihill.” Hart shook. As expected, the man’s hand was made of iron. The sergeant gestured toward a back room. “You’ll have privacy in that office. There is a secure computer on the desk. Special Agent Fredricks indicated that he wanted you to view some video footage. I’ll call him now and then leave you alone.”
“Special Agent Ryan Fredricks?” Hart replied, not able to utter any other words.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said with a grin. “The FBI works in mysterious ways.” He picked up the handset from a console phone that was propped on the desk and pressed some numbers while looking at a notepad through a pair of bifocals resting on his nose. The sergeant handed the phone to Hart and waved an arm at the desk chair. “Have a seat.”
Hart nodded, lowered himself to the worn fabric cushion, and put the phone to his ear. A familiar voice answered on the second ring.
“Ahh…my favorite airline pilot. It’s about time, Captain Lindy,” Ryan Fredricks said.
“My favorite G-man,” Hart said with a sullen tone. “Has the FBI ever heard of cell phone technology? Or does your protocol require the theatrics I just experienced?”
“You should feel privileged, Captain. Only the governor gets a State Police escort.”
“The governor has a choice.”
“I tried to call actually…went right to voice mail. Anyhow, I’ve been tracking your movements. You make it very easy, by the way. Oh…and I’m very sorry about your house.”
“That almost sounds sincere,” Hart said with a good dose of sarcasm.
“Honestly, it is.” Ryan cleared his throat. “I can only imagine how that must feel. The arson investigators will find the culprit. Anyhow, I need to move onto more serious business. The Miami P.D. is not happy with you.”
