by Les Abend
Rod raised his eyebrows, smiled, and then asked, “Why are you telling me this, ladies?”
“Because we’re certain this is important, but didn’t want the police to get involved just yet,” Kim said.
Kim and Ashley nodded in unison.
“I’m flattered that you two consulted with me, but how can I help?”
Clutching a laptop in her arms, Ashley set the computer on the desk in front of Rod. She turned on the screen and said, “This is Kim’s computer.”
Ashley stepped over to Rod’s side of the desk and began to tap on the keyboard. A website appeared on the display. The website was from a bank in Bermuda. Ashley typed a password into the login box. An account displayed with Mike Townsend’s name. A few clicks on the touchpad and a series of numbers appeared opposite various lines of investment names.
The amounts of the investment balances were a blur to Rod. He blinked. The dollar values were staggering, many worth tens of millions. The figure he viewed at the bottom of the page was his last point of focus. $152,543,654.32. He drew in a deep breath and shook his head. He really shouldn’t be viewing this information.
Rod looked up from the screen and said, “You’ve got to report this to the police, ladies. There is no way around it.”
“Does this mean our dad was embezzling money from the union?” Ashley asked.
“Frankly, I don’t know what it means.”
“Our dad will be considered a criminal. He’ll be disgraced,” Ashley said.
“Not necessarily.”
Kim responded in a stern and sarcastic tone, “Really? A gay airline pilot? An elected officer that embezzled money from the union? We’ll all be abused.”
Rod lowered his head and massaged his temples. He said, “Your dad was clever. It appears that all the transactions were performed on Kim’s computer.”
“I wish Dad was clever enough to still be alive,” Ashley said, wiping her damp eyes.
19:05 EDT
It had taken four of the firefighters and Hart to lift the nose of the damaged airplane off its position embedded in the dirt. The divot that remained looked as though a small meteor had impacted the spot. Although Hart had resisted the plan, a local tow truck was being used to transport the Cherokee back to the maintenance hangar. It was a messy operation. Hart feared additional damage to the airplane, preferring the more expensive method of using the combination of a crane and flatbed truck. Rather than argue with his dad, Hart had just shrugged his shoulders.
While the recovery operation was being organized, Hart had received a phone call from Rod. The information he conveyed was disturbing. The investigation would only get worse for the copilot and his family. After the discussion with Rod was over, Hart had immediately dialed the union president, leaving him a voice-mail message to call ASAP.
In addition, Hart had called Maureen Blackford. It was another tense and awkward phone call, but eventually they were able to discuss business. The forensic evidence of the engine parts that were being gathered in Washington at NTSB headquarters indicated overwhelmingly that an explosive device had been used. Detonation had occurred via a satellite phone signal
As the tow truck winch began to drag the airplane onto its ramp, Hart felt his phone vibrate. He waved one of the firefighters over to where he was holding the right wing tip. The firefighter nodded and walked over, exchanging positions with Hart.
Glancing at the caller ID, Hart took a deep breath. He pressed the Talk button. “Isn’t it way past cocktail hour, Sammy?”
“I would have preferred to skip cocktail hour actually. I was involved with an anger management candidate in the form of a domicile chairman who had one too many vodka tonics. It was a pleasant finger-pointing discussion involving my failure to reduce the list of presidential grievances not yet scheduled for arbitration.” The union president sighed. “So this better be good.”
“I’m afraid that what I have to say will seem like waterboarding compared to your finger pointing session.”
“Wonderful.”
“Sam, you need to organize people you trust for damage control. I hope PAPA’s attorneys are on speed dial.”
“You’ve got my attention, Hart. Can we do without the melodrama?”
“Sorry. I’ll make it simple. Mike Townsend, our recently deceased secretary-treasurer, has been transferring funds from PAPA accounts to a bank in Trinidad. The funds were coming into our accounts via deposits from an unknown source. It appears that First Officer Townsend arranged to have these funds physically moved from Trinidad via Flight 63.”
“But Flight 63 diverted to Bermuda and never arrived in New York.”
“Sammy, are you connecting the dots yet?”
A few moments of silence passed.
Sam said, “Oh, shit. He blew up the engine and caused the diversion!”
“Correct. According to the latest info I got from the NTSB and the FAA, Townsend used a sat phone to send a signal to a sat receiver that was connected to a detonator hidden in the engine cowl. They’re not quite sure if the signal originated from a source outside the airplane or from within the cockpit. If it originated outside of the airplane, then Townsend had at least one accomplice.”
“And he attempted to steal the funds once they landed in Bermuda?” Sammy asked.
The cable on the tow truck had now grown taught under the weight of the wounded airplane as it slowly rolled onto the beginning of the ramp. Hart heard a metallic scraping sound as part of the belly began to drag. With his phone pressed against an ear, he looked at his father and gestured at the Cherokee. Hart’s dad nodded, moving his thumb and finger to shape an OK sign. Apparently, his dad had already planned on repairing the underside of the fuselage.
Hart said, “Mike Townsend had already set up an account in Bermuda for a funds transfer. He was seen on security footage making a call. According to cell phone records obtained by the FBI, the call was made to an armored car company for them to pick up the physical cash.”
“But why not just steal the cash when Flight 63 arrived in New York?”
“Good question. Maybe he wanted the funds unencumbered by U.S. law. Considering that New York and Miami are our only destinations out of Trinidad, the island of Bermuda was the best diversion choice along the route. I can’t think of any other Caribbean islands that would have been more armored-car friendly.”
“This is great stuff, Hart. Just the kind of discourse the union needed. It’s bad enough that the company’s finances look bleak and we’ve been negotiating a contract for five years. Now we get the opportunity to air our dirty laundry in public. The membership is going to love this new development.”
“I know, Sam. It sucks.”
“Are you sure about everything?”
“There may be more to the story.”
“Keep me in the loop, Hart.”
“Will do.”
Hart’s screen displayed “End call.” He slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket and shook his head. The apocalypse was near. What was next? In a way, it was comforting to be in his hometown with Dad. Maybe he could stay out of the line of fire. Probably not.
19:15 EDT
The ride over to the Townsend home was mostly quiet. Alvarez had thought it best to let Tom talk whenever he felt the need rather than attempt idle conversation. The effects of the shooting had subsided for the moment. Tom’s face was a sober mixture of numbness and solemnity. The detective had asked the patrol cop to accompany him in his car. Aside from his general support, Tom had developed a rapport with Robin Townsend. In addition, a uniformed cop added an element of official police business to the visit.
Expecting to be greeted by Robin Townsend, Alvarez instead was met at the door by a pepper-haired man. The man introduced himself as Rod Moretti, the Miami-based chief pilot for Patriot Airlines. Moretti ushered both cops into the house, leading them into Mike Townsend’s office. The two daughters and Robin Townsend stood anxiously around the desk. Pleasantries were exchanged and handshakes
extended.
Alvarez asked, “So, you have something on a computer to show me?”
Rod Moretti pointed at the swivel chair behind the desk and said, “Please, Detective. Have a seat.” Alvarez nodded, sat down, and looked at a laptop screen. “As Ms. Townsend explained over the phone when she called you, Kim and Ashley brought all of this to my attention. You’re looking at Kim’s computer. Apparently, Mr. Townsend utilized his daughter’s laptop to transact bank business without her knowledge.”
Alvarez studied the screen and without looking away, said, “Interesting. I suppose that explains why we found virtually nothing on Mr. Townsend’s MacPro.” The detective looked at Kim. “And you had absolutely no part in this, young lady?”
Ashley interjected before Kim could speak, and said, “She only knows how to use Facebook and Google.”
Kim stuck out her tongue in mock disgust and rolled her eyes. Kim said, “No, Officer. I didn’t have a clue that Dad was using my laptop. I mostly use my phone and my iPad anyhow.”
Standing in the office doorway, the corner of Tom’s lips turned up ever so slightly. It was the first smile Alvarez had seen on the patrol cop in the last twenty-four hours.
“So, how did you get the password for this bank account, Kim?”
“Dad left me a note in the center console of my VW Bug,” Kim said, handing the big detective a yellow sticky note.
More explanations and speculations were discussed. The balances in the account were stated with subdued amazement. Robin Townsend remained silent, her expression unreadable. In the midst of the conversation, the gong of the doorbell sounded.
Tom said, “I’ll be glad to get the door.”
Alvarez nodded and watched the patrol cop walk out of the office.
Standing under the portico on the front step was the same stocky man wearing the same sailfish jumping, Tommy Bahama shirt and FBI windbreaker that Tom had seen at the Bayview Drive house. A stubby cigar protruded from the side of his mouth.
“Special Agent Fredricks, I believe?” Tom asked.
“Yes, Officer. May I come in?”
“Can you lose the cigar, sir?”
“It’s not lit, Officer.”
Tom stared at the FBI man for a few seconds without saying a word.
“All right, I get the point,” Ryan Fredricks said, shoving the cigar into a pocket of the windbreaker. “Nobody appreciates a good Romeo and Juileta these days.” He grinned.
“Detective Alvarez is in Mr. Townsend’s office. Please follow me.”
The two men walked down the corridor, nodding to a handful of people that had straggled in earlier to support the family. Tom gestured a hand at the open doorway of the office. Ryan trotted in.
Alvarez stood up from behind the desk and introduced the FBI man to the Townsend family and Rod Moretti. A couple of handshakes. A handful of somber nods. A lot of anxious expressions. A lot of feet shuffled.
“What do you have for me, Detective?” Ryan asked.
Sliding away from the desk, Alvarez motioned for Ryan to sit in the chair he had just vacated. The FBI man nodded, sat down, and studied the laptop screen.
“As per our phone conversation, Special Agent Fredricks, the Bermuda account is in Mike Townsend’s name. For the moment, the laptop is not critical to my investigation. Am I to assume the FBI would like to take custody?”
Still scanning the screen, Ryan said, “I would appreciate that, Detective.”
Reaching over to a corner of the desk, Alvarez picked up the sticky note given to him by Kim Townsend. He handed the note to Ryan and said, “You’ll need this too. It has the password for the account.”
Ryan nodded and abruptly closed the lid of the laptop. He shoved the computer under an arm, stood up, glanced around the room, and said, “Thank you, everybody. If I have any questions, I’ll be in touch.”
With barely a flurry, Ryan disappeared from the office. Before anyone could comment, the front door clacked. The FBI agent was gone.
Shaking his head, Rod Moretti said, “Interesting man. ‘Verbose’ is probably not an apt description of his personality.”
Alvarez grinned and said, “Agreed. Most likely, the bank account information was self-explanatory. There wasn’t much to say.”
But judging by Ryan’s expression, the detective was certain that the laptop had connected a lot of dots. The federal investigation was becoming more complicated.
19:30 EDT
The shouting and clanking from the maintenance hangar had subsided. The accident airplane had been slid off the tow truck ramp and rolled toward the west wall. The Cherokee had a lost and forlorn appearance, as though it were crying for attention. The two A&P mechanics scoured the damage, mentally assessing their repair strategy. The FAA inspector continued to take notes on a clipboard.
Hart said that he would lock up, dismissing his dad’s protests of paperwork to complete. In the midst of all the activity, he hadn’t quite decided whether to be angry with his old man or just plain sad. How should he react knowing that he now had a brother?
For the moment, Hart was content to tilt back the chair in his dad’s office and sling his feet up on the desk. He soaked in the silence and scanned the photos on the walls. He was surrounded by memories. For the first time in days, he felt a sense of calm.
Hart had just glanced out the window to catch a glimpse of the orange glow left by the setting sun, when a tall figure suddenly appeared as a silhouette in the open door frame. Surprised by the unexpected intrusion, Hart instinctively sat up and slid his feet off the desk and onto the floor. The figure was smiling, white teeth contrasting against the fading light. Hart heard a recognizable, deep-throated chuckle.
The man took a step forward and said, “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to surprise you, especially at your age.” His smile broadened, the white handlebar mustache widening across a creased, brown face. He reached out a leathery hand and extended it to Hart.
Rising to his feet, grasping the man’s hand, Hart grinned and said, “Captain Don Peters, you still have the ability to materialize out of thin air. Only you and the childhood monster of my nightmares can take credit for that talent.”
“Are you calling me a ghost?” Don chided.
“Well, you haven’t aged since the day you soloed me.”
“No need to suck up, Hart. Even my copilots at the airline weren’t that blatant before I retired.”
“I’m completely serious.”
Snorting out a laugh, Don Peters said, “I watched you for a moment before I walked in. It looks like you have the weight of a 747 on your shoulders.”
“I wish our airline flew those airplanes.”
Hart pointed an upturned palm at the couch, motioning for Don to sit. Don nodded and sunk slowly onto the worn fabric.
Don said, “I’ve been following you vicariously through your father’s reports. The 767 accident in Bermuda. Your dad’s health. Your house. And maybe that beautiful woman in your life. Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate.”
“No more than anybody else, Captain Peters.”
“I see. It’s best if you internalize everything. Just like your dad. He taught you well,” Don said with a frown.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have become an airline pilot. I would have been happier just running the airport with Dad. Fixing airplanes. Fueling them on days when my hands were cold enough to go painfully numb. Screaming at flight instructors for leaving the master switch on. Chasing rich people down for hangar rent. But, no, you got me into the airline mess.”
“You’re full of shit, Hart. I had nothing to do with it. You went to the airline because it was a goal ever since you were a kid. You were motivated and you persevered. And your dad wanted the same for you. He’s proud of his son. All I did was sign my name to a recommendation letter.”
“Don, you’re full of shit, too.” Hart sighed. “You did more than you realize. You were always around to kick me in the ass even when I thought my future would never go beyond Cherokee
140 flight instructor.”
“True. And look at your sorry ass now,” Don said with a wide grin. He ran his fingers through a cloud of wavy, white hair.
Over the next few minutes the two men discussed various subjects from airplanes to the latest town gossip.
“How’s the Bonanza running these days?” Hart asked.
“Haven’t been flying it much. It’s not the same without my copilot.”
“Sorry, Don. How long has she been gone?”
“Five years now. I miss her every day.”
“She was a wonderful woman.”
“You should be so lucky, Hart. If you’ve got something special now, don’t fuck it up.”
“Guess you’ve been talking to Dad,” Hart said with a wince.
“I just know you. The grass is always greener somewhere else.”
“I’m mostly afraid that if I don’t pay attention to the grass, it will grow weeds.”
“Don’t let your mother dictate your happiness, Hart.”
Hart exhaled a long breath. He stared out the window at the darkening sky. “Can we change the subject? Whatever happened to the old Super Cub? I was thinking of buying it.”
“I’m not sure. The last I heard some overpaid software executive bought it.” Don Peters pointed at an old photo of Hart standing by the strut of the Super Cub. “You’re pursuing a memory, Hart. It can be dangerous.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll figure it out someday. It’s part of the grass-is-greener mentality,” Don said with a wry smile.
As Hart was about to probe Don for further explanation, his cell phone warbled Roy Orbison’s, “Pretty Woman.” Cathy was calling. She hated that ringtone. It embarrassed her. He was surprised that she would call. Even simple arguments took a few days for both of them to cool. And this last argument went beyond simple.
