Paper Wings

by Les Abend

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s the reason I saw urgency in contacting you. Does the name Bob Redmond mean anything?” Ryan didn’t wait for a response. “Of course it does. You could be considered an accessory to a homicide since you skipped town. But don’t worry, I put the brakes on.”

  “I owe you a box of Monte Cristos.”

  “Thanks, but it won’t make up for your escapade in Manhattan. Since when is conducting a criminal investigation part of your job description?”

  “But I am conducting an investigation.”

  “Don’t piss me off, Captain. You get my drift. Besides, I cut you some slack in regard to your copilot on Flight 63.”

  “I appreciate the consideration. Do you want to know what I found in Manhattan?”

  “Go ahead,” Ryan said with a hint of annoyance.

  “Absolutely nothing…as in the law practice doesn’t seem to really be a law practice.”

  Hart described the office and the conversation he had with the secretary at the Hudson Hotel.

  Ryan said, “I’m not surprised. We’re doing some forensic research on our end. The results so far are leading us down an ugly path.”

  “What kind of ugly path?”

  “For starters, money laundering,” Ryan replied. “But let’s forget that for the moment. I need you to watch about fifteen minutes of an Academy Award performance. The good sergeant should have the secure website set up on the computer in front of you. Watch it, and I’ll call you back.”

  The phone connection went quiet. Hart set the handset back on the cradle and shuffled the computer mouse resting on a pad in front of him from side to side. The screen illuminated with a grainy, frozen image. He moved the cursor over the Play arrow and then clicked the mouse button.

  The video was of a 767 parked at a gate taken from in front of the nose at an elevation slightly higher than the top of the fuselage. Hart leaned forward, closer to the screen. He recognized the soot and gnarled pieces of the compressor blades on the damaged right engine. It was Flight 63.

  Men wearing asbestos suits and reflective gear were scattered about the perimeter of the airplane. The airline’s ground handlers were scurrying around the cargo compartments, baggage equipment mated to the airplane. A handful of passengers were deplaning down the portable air stairs from the L1 entry door.

  From behind the nosewheel, a slim man wearing a white shirt with three stripes on the shoulders and a pilot’s hat appeared. It was Mike Townsend. He was surveying the destruction. A minute later, Mike Townsend could be seen with a cell phone to his ear. More time passed and the captain joined his copilot, both men pointing at various damaged sections of the airplane.

  At nearly the end of the video clip, Hart observed an armored vehicle park next to the bulk cargo compartment at the aft end of the airplane. A uniformed man exited the truck, had a brief conversation with the baggage crew chief, and was handed a package wrapped in clear plastic the size of a small file cabinet. The armored car drove off the ramp and out of view of the camera. The video ended.

  Hart stared at the computer screen. He tried to process the video. What were the implications?

  The console phone chirped an electronic ring. The sound briefly startled Hart. A light was blinking. He looked up at Sergeant Mulvihill seated back at his desk. The state trooper motioned for him to pick up the handset. Hart snatched the phone off the cradle and slid the phone over his ear.

  “What did you observe, Captain?” Ryan asked.

  “Not really sure. But it doesn’t seem YouTube worthy. Do you want to tell me?”

  “Did you see your copilot place a phone call?”

  “I did.”

  “How about the armored car arrival? Did you notice that?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, we traced the phone call that Mike Townsend made.”

  “And?”

  “The phone call was made to the dispatcher of the armored car company.” The connection remained silent for a few moments. “Are you still there, Captain?” the FBI agent asked.

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” Hart, answered with a deep sigh.

  “And here’s the kicker. I hope you’re sitting down. The cargo manifest listed the recipient of that armored car freight as Horton and Carty, Attorneys, New York City. But as we know, the shipment remained in Bermuda.”

  Hart stared at the grainy image still paused on the computer screen. He shook his head. “Shit…”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday

  15:35 EDT

  Alvarez had no doubt that the quiet, BMW/white Cadillac neighborhood, wasn’t accustomed to the army of police vehicles that arrived at the canal community off Bayview Drive. The only visitations from police were the occasional house security alarm investigation. And, most likely, no burglary was ever in progress, just a drunk husband or a housekeeping service that forgot to enter the appropriate code.

  After the CSI team had examined the body of the victim, Tom had draped it with a gray blanket from his patrol car. The unshaven, dark-skinned man was still slumped halfway out of the Mercedes parked in the garage, his legs splayed out from underneath the blanket at an unnatural angle. The patrol cop had felt compelled to cover the man, perhaps as a gesture of respect.

  Alvarez understood. The first time he had pulled the trigger of his service weapon in the line of duty was at an eighteen-year-old kid who had just robbed a liquor store. The kid had bludgeoned the Polish immigrant owner with a bottle of Chivas Regal and then used his gun to shoot a reluctant cash register. Alvarez’s decision to fire was instantaneous once he saw the kid brandish his weapon.

  Six rounds were discharged according to the Internal Affairs investigation, but it didn’t matter. In the midst of his adrenalin rush, Alvarez hadn’t a clue whether it was six or sixteen rounds. Besides, a child’s life had ended for idiotic reasons. Despite the insistence of the detectives that he leave the scene, Alvarez had hovered over the body. The realization that he was responsible for taking a human life was more than he was capable of processing at the time.

  And now Alvarez watched as Tom paced around his patrol car, the performance a thinly veiled attempt at normal behavior. Behind the patrol car, a glossy black Ford F-150 with sparkling chrome running boards rolled to a stop and parked. The truck body was raised high above its black, knobby tires like a panther ready to strike.

  A stocky man wearing an open neck Tommy Bahama shirt, covered by a blue windbreaker, climbed down from the cab and strutted toward the detective. The man clenched a stubby, chocolate-colored cigar between his teeth, a puff of smoke billowing from his mouth like the exhaust of an old fashioned locomotive.

  As the stocky man approached, Alvarez noticed the white letters “F-B-I” emblazoned on the jacket.

  “Seriously?” Alvarez thought. “Where did Quantico get this guy?”

  The stocky man stepped within two feet of the detective and asked, “Where do I find Detective Alvarez?”

  Grinning, Alvarez said, “You might just be looking at him.” He scanned the cigar-smoking man and pointed at the F-B-I letters. “I’ll need you to badge me, Special Agent. Sorry, I haven’t seen many like you.” Alvarez gestured at the black truck. “Especially a fed that drives that thing. What happened to the Crown Vic, the gold cuff links and the pretentious initials embroidered on the sleeve?”

  Expressionless, the FBI man reached into a back pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet. He flipped the wallet open, displayed his credentials and reached out a hand.

  “Detective Alvarez, I’m Special Agent Ryan Fredricks.” The two men exchanged firm grips. “I damaged my cuff links along with the embroidered shirt at my last gunfight in a Miami Starbucks. They wouldn’t serve me a caramel macchiato. As for the Ford, it was my favorite ride as a kid. You know the lyrics to the Don McLean song, ‘…a pink carnation and a pickup truck…the day the music died.’ I figure when the music does die, I can mount a nice Browning .50 caliber M2 in the bed and wait out the Apoca
lypse in true Mad Max style.”

  Alvarez smirked and wrapped his arms across his chest.

  Ryan said, “If it wasn’t for my vivacious personality and my Batman costume, the Bureau would probably move me to a file clerk position.” Ryan remained stone-faced. He puffed on his cigar, the red embers glowing brighter.

  “How can I help, Special Agent Fredricks?”

  “Well, I think we can help each other. We’re operating in parallel universes.”

  “I kind of figured. My investigation started with a high school homicide and abduction. Yours probably started with an airplane.”

  Ryan nodded, and said, “Yup, I did some research on your investigation. But would you mind bringing me up to speed with your pieces of the jigsaw puzzle?”

  In cryptic fashion with typical police jargon, and a sprinkling of dark humor, Alvarez discussed his case. Ryan listened in silence, hands clasped behind his back and feet spread apart in a wide stance. The FBI man acknowledged various facts with the appropriate nods.

  Ryan asked, “Did you arrest or detain the high school VP?”

  “No, sir. I don’t have enough evidence to charge her with anything at the moment. And she could be a more useful asset outside of police custody, especially if she feels pressure enough to lawyer up. I put her on notice to remain in the neighborhood.”

  “Nicaraguan wife? She could be a flight risk,” Ryan said, rolling the cigar around in his mouth.

  “Agreed. I have that covered with Customs. Her passport and her wife’s passport are tagged. And I believe you guys also have a pony in that show.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Okay, Special Agent Fredricks, what do you have for me?’

  “Well, it would seem that all of your homicides are connected directly to a New York attorney that owns this property.” Ryan pointed a finger at the house behind Alvarez. “And he also owns that yacht the daughters were abducted on.”

  “Is Ted Horton the lawyer?”

  “You’ve done your homework, Detective. Yes.”

  “Then who is my dead guy in the Mercedes?” Alvarez asked, turning toward the buzz of police activity still occurring in the open garage. “At the moment, the only thing we’ve got is a false ID that was traced to some recently deceased elderly gentleman in Manhattan.”

  “Your dead guy is Sayid Abdul-Qadir. He is a resident of the UK. However, he has ties to Syria. Mr. Abdul-Qadir has a finance background from the University of London.”

  Alvarez frowned and said, “Wait. Don’t tell me. ISIS?”

  “We think so.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I’ve got our financial analysts at the Bureau connecting the dots, but it seems at first glance that the law firm is laundering money for not-so-nice purposes in the Middle East.”

  “And how is my deceased airline pilot connected to this mess?” Alvarez asked.

  “Not sure just yet, but it appears that he and the pilots union were complicit in laundering money for this Manhattan law firm. We’re working with the bank in Trinidad. They became cooperative when we started to connect the dots to Syria for them. It just wouldn’t help their business if word got out to the Wall Street Journal.”

  “It’s always about the money.”

  Ryan sighed and said, “I think your airline pilot got more than he bargained for. The emergency landing in Bermuda was most likely sabotage, a plot he devised on his own. A large sum of cash was in the cargo bay of the airplane. It was removed by an armored car to a Bermuda Bank through his direction.”

  “Yikes. Copilot Townsend was getting crafty.”

  “I think our lawyer, Ted Horton, suspected this occurred, and used his army of thugs and beach beauties to abduct the Townsend daughters as leverage.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “The airline pilot botched the rescue attempt as you know. But I assume that you have firsthand accounts from the daughters.”

  “I do,” Alvarez said with a nod. “And with reference to the dead bald guy on the yacht, he was probably attempting to garner intel from Townsend’s boyfriend. Once the big, bald guy had confirmation of what the airline pilot was plotting, the boyfriend became a liability and was murdered.”

  “That would be my guess,” Ryan said. The FBI agent scanned the bustle of activity around the house. Police vehicles were backing out of the circular driveway. Two paramedics were rolling a stretcher with a body bag into the garage. “And the bathing suit beauties died in the line of duty, so to speak?”

  “It would appear the women had no real criminal record. I would imagine they were well compensated…in many ways.” Alvarez released a long breath. “Have you guys located this Ted Horton guy?”

  “Not yet. But I think we found his Global Express corporate jet. It was tracked on a departure from Opa Locka Airport on a flight plan to the Caribbean.”

  “Mystery and intrigue. Very nice.” Alvarez sighed. “Well, let’s stay in touch. Hopefully your loose ends can tie up my loose ends.”

  “I’ve got one loose end that’s really puzzling.”

  “What would that be?” Alvarez asked.

  “Robert Redmond, the VP of Ops at Patriot Airlines was found murdered in his car at the Intercontinental Hotel’s parking lot. When you work out the forensics on your crime scene, I’m willing to bet that the round in Redmond’s head will match the gun found on Abdul-Qadir.”

  “Okay, sounds plausible. What’s the puzzling part?”

  “I’m confident that Miami P.D. will have security footage that will confirm Abdul-Qadir’s presence at the hotel at the time of the murder. The puzzling part is that Redmond called Abdul-Qadir’s burner phone. And he called the Bank in Trinidad, all within minutes of his murder.”

  Alvarez frowned and said, “This gets better.”

  “So, all the more reason for us to play well in the sandbox.”

  “Agreed.”

  The two men exchanged business cards.

  Ryan glanced over at the patrol car nearest their position on the street. He gestured his chin at the uniformed officer leaning against the driver’s side door and said, “That cop has been running laps around his vehicle ever since we started this conversation. The man’s expression looks as though he just put his kid’s dog to sleep.” Ryan sighed. “He shot Abdul-Qadir didn’t he?”

  Alvarez nodded and said, “He’s been assisting with my investigation. Really good guy.”

  “It was his first, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “About one hundred years ago I put a textbook, center of mass shot through the chest of a Wells Fargo robbery suspect that had taken hostages and murdered an elderly man. When it was over, the Bureau gave me all the official pats on the back. I replayed the shooting in my dreams every night for almost two years. I can still remember the day like it happened last week.”

  “We’re on the same page, Special Agent Fredricks.”

  “Make sure he gets some help,” Ryan said, his eyes softening.

  18:35 EDT

  As Hart turned off Route 41 onto Route 174, a flash of childhood memories flooded his thoughts in a jumble of images. Nearby Otisco Lake was where he had first learned to water-ski. Older friends had coached him both on the art of water-skiing and on the art of consuming Pabst Blue Ribbon. Apparently, neither was mutually exclusive. Hart excelled at water-skiing. But beer consumption required a few more lessons.

  Hart winced, recalling the chunks of the ham and cheese sandwich that had speckled the water and the side of the boat. Laughably, PBR was now considered a craft beer. Till this day he can’t even look at a blue and white can without his stomach turning.

  Above the tree line in the distance, Hart caught glimpse of a small low-wing airplane. A dagger of sunlight flashed off the white wings. It looked to be a Cherokee that had just departed the west runway at Otisco, his dad’s airport. The nose was angled in a climb. But as a quickly as the airplane appeared, it began to vanish below the trees tops.

  “Crap!” Hart sai
d out loud. “Why today?” He pressed down on the gas pedal of the rental car. He knew exactly where to drive.

  Arriving at the west end of the airport perimeter fence, Hart rolled onto the tall grass, parked the car, jumped out, and ran toward the locked gate. Peering through the crisscrossed mosaic of the fence, he caught sight of the Cherokee. The airplane had skidded off the paved runway surface and was cocked sideways to the grass overrun area, the nose partially embedded into the brown earth. The propeller tips were mangled, curled back at the tips like ribbon candy.

  A woman with flowing blond hair, strands separated in clumps, was exiting the airplane. The only door, located on the passenger side, had been flung open. Despite her frantic movements, she attempted to gracefully step down the nonskid surface of the wing in her platform shoes.

  In a flurry, Hart pressed the numbers of the gate code into the mechanical lock. With the gate open, he jogged toward the crippled airplane. As he drew closer, Hart heard a familiar chug-chug in the distance. His dad was driving the “Tank,” an old Korean War vintage tug, down from the main hangar. Most likely, Dad was hoping to tow the airplane away from the departure end of the runway once the FAA had an opportunity to investigate. But the airplane didn’t look towable. Hart was certain the nosewheel had collapsed.

  “Are you okay?” Hart yelled out to the blonde as he approached the front of the airplane.

  “I’m fine,” the woman responded in a feeble voice. Moisture filled her eyes. “But my boyfriend may be hurt. He’s bleeding bad. I think his forehead struck the dashboard.”

  Grimacing at hearing the woman’s terminology for the airplane’s glareshield, Hart glanced through the tinted windscreen and into the cockpit. The boyfriend was sliding himself off the pilot’s seat and over to the door. A couple streaks of crimson had streaked the man’s forehead. Hart wasn’t terribly concerned, aware that head wounds appeared more dramatic than they were serious.