Paper Wings

by Les Abend

  Although Hart motioned for Don to remain, he shook his head and rose from the couch. The mustached man saluted and walked out of the office.

  “Hi,” Hart said, not knowing if he had used the appropriate amount of enthusiasm.

  “Hi,” Cathy responded. A moment of silence passed. “I just called to make sure that you were doing okay.”

  “Thanks. I’m good.”

  “Same old, Captain Lindy. Suppress the real emotions.” Cathy sighed. “I’m very sorry about your house and the airline.”

  Raising his eyebrows, Hart asked, “What about the airline, Cathy?”

  “Are you under a rock? It’s all over the news.”

  “Yes, I am under a rock. I’m at Dad’s airport in Otisco.”

  “Patriot Airlines went Chapter 11. They declared bankruptcy.”

  Slithering back down into his dad’s chair, Hart shook his head. He rested an elbow on the desk, cupped his forehead in a hand, and said, “Shit.”

  “I’m sorry, Hart.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. We all knew the assholes were looking for a way to circumvent any semblance of management skills. It’s the best solution. Screw the creditors. Screw the stockholders. And screw the employees. Hopefully, their bonuses will remain intact. This had to be the plan all along.”

  “I’d be angry too, Hart.”

  “I can’t wait to see how they decimate our pensions.”

  “Look, I hadn’t intended on being the messenger of shitty news, Hart. I just wanted you to know that I cared.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hart, I know you’re going through a rough time at the moment, but I can’t keep letting you fuck up this relationship. It’s not healthy for you or me.”

  “You’re right, Cath.”

  “Look, don’t say anything right now because I don’t know if it’s the angry Hart Lindy talking or the sad Hart Lindy talking.” Cathy exhaled. “Your parents’ baggage dictates our relationship. It has to stop if we have any hope of a future together. And I’m not even sure that we have a future at this point.”

  The phone was silent for a long time.

  Cathy asked, “Did any of that make sense?”

  “Is it okay for me to talk now?”

  “Don’t be a jerk, Hart.”

  “Yes, it makes sense. But I need to think this all through. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, but this time is different. It goes beyond your screwing around and me forgiving you until the next bimbo comes along. You need to find the real Hart Lindy. And honestly, I may not like him.”

  “Well, you don’t like him very much now.”

  “Hart, you know what I’m saying.”

  “I may spend some time up here in New York with Dad.” Hart exhaled. “Rod said that he’d work out getting me some time off.”

  “Good idea. And you’re talking with Rod again?”

  “We’re being polite. Nothing has been resolved at the moment. But we’re working in that direction.”

  “That’s a step, Hart. Maybe there is hope for you.”

  “I’m thinking I’ll DVR a few episodes of ‘Dr. Phil.’ Maybe that will give me perspective on just how mentally deranged I really am.”

  “You’re an idiot, Hart.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anybody has said to me all day.” Hart began to fiddle with a model airplane on the desk. He exhaled a large breath.

  “The next call is yours to make, Hart. I’ll give you some time.”

  The phone went quiet. Hart rose to his feet and walked out the office door. He snapped the light switch off. Bankruptcy. Great.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  19:45 EDT

  Ryan Fredricks cursed at himself for the decision to take I-95 after leaving the Townsend home. He had moved faster leaving the parking lot of the new Miami stadium after a Dolphins game. In a moment of exasperation, he deliberately bonked his forehead on the steering wheel. Maybe it was time to mount that M2 in the bed of his truck sooner than later. The demented thought helped him pass the time.

  As Ryan fantasized about the first target he would shoot among the sea of cars ahead of him, his government issued cell phone rang through the speakers in the truck. Glancing at his display, the caller ID indicated an international number. He pressed the talk button on the steering wheel.

  “Special Agent Fredricks here.”

  “Ryan, it’s Frank in Port of Spain,” a soft-spoken, monotone voice said.

  “Hey, Frank. What’s the word? Did you catch my globe-trotting attorney?”

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Crap, Frank. Did you lose the bastard?”

  “The short answer is, yes.”

  “What happened?” Ryan asked with an annoyed tone.

  “Before we got to the bank, he had already headed out to the airport and hopped in his jet. According to Piarco Center, the flight plan lists the destination as Manaus, Brazil.”

  “Manaus is in the middle of nowhere. Couldn’t you have just shot the airplane down?”

  “As you know, the Bureau has been discouraging those tactics. It makes us look bad on CNN…and FoxNews for that matter. Don’t worry. We’ll catch up with Horton.”

  “And there’s good news?” Ryan asked with a sigh. He shook his head at the crawling traffic.

  “Well, apparently a meeting was arranged with the bank manager. Two other white males dressed in jackets and ties accompanied Horton to the meeting. The unidentified white males were also passengers from Opa Locka Airport on Horton’s Global Express. According to the manager, the exchange was heated. The conversation was recorded on audio and also on video via the security cameras.”

  “Give me the Reader’s Digest version,” Ryan said tersely.

  “Horton and the other two males were attempting to recover a large sum of cash that had been liquidated from an account--approximately $152 million. The liquidation occurred without their authorization.”

  “Let me guess. The cash was transported on Flight 63.”

  “That’s why you get paid the big bucks, Ryan.”

  “So, please make my day and tell me that you identified the other two white males?”

  “We did. Are you ready?”

  “Frank…please…I hate suspense novels.”

  “Burt Cummins and Gary Allen. The CFO and CEO of Patriot Airlines.”

  “Holy shit,” Ryan said with a voice that was barely audible.

  “My sentiments, exactly.”

  “Where are these guys now? In your custody, I hope.”

  “Nope, we’re sending them to you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “We discovered that they had already booked reservations via their company travel system back to Miami. Why deal with extradition if they’re already on their way back to the U.S.?”

  “Cummins and Allen are not very good criminals,” Ryan said with a snort.

  “Alleged criminals.”

  “Text me the flight number and seat numbers. I’ll assemble a team at MIA to greet the ‘alleged criminals.’”

  The cars in Ryan’s lane began to move at a pace that could be considered actual driving speed. A few hundred yards ahead, he could see the flashing lights of a tow truck and a couple of patrol cars. The vehicle mess of the accident that had apparently caused the traffic jam was being reshuffled out of the travel lanes and onto the shoulder. Ryan caught sight of a crumpled hood and a mangled windshield facing opposite the flow of traffic.

  The soft-spoken voice said, “And Ryan. I’ve got one more thing for you to munch on.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When the bank manager left the office temporarily during the meeting with Horton, et al, the recorded conversation indicated that the bankruptcy filing for Patriot Airlines had already occurred prior to their departure from Opa Locka Airport.”

  “Interesting,” Ryan replied. He thought of Hart Lindy and the other hundreds of employees that worked for the airline. This was going t
o be a miserable experience for those people and their families

  “I thought you’d like to corroborate the bankruptcy filing with the forensic accounting geeks.”

  Ryan heard a beep over the truck’s speakers. He glanced at his phone that was resting in a cup holder of the center console. The phone displayed a Broward County number. He was getting another call.

  Ryan said, “Not bad work after all, Frank. If anything else pertinent comes to your attention, you know where to find me. I’m getting another call. Talk to you soon.”

  “Will do, Ryan.”

  After mashing the Talk button on his steering wheel, Ryan answered, “Special Agent Fredricks.”

  A familiar voice asked, “I was wondering if you guys carried those laminated, give-me-immunity-from-prosecution cards these days?”

  “It depends. Who is this?”

  “It’s Detective Alvarez. In the interest of cooperation and brotherly love, I’ve got a witness that you may just want to join me with in a nice chat.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “The sister of the pilot’s dead boyfriend and owner of the restaurant on Los Olas. She claims to have information regarding Mike Townsend’s motives. And she wants immunity.”

  “You’ve got my attention.”

  “Thought so. Swing your monster truck on over to the crime scene at the restaurant on Los Olas. The sister will meet us there.”

  “On my way,” Ryan said. He pressed the button on the steering wheel, ending the call.

  Fortunately, the flow of cars on I-95 had continued to accelerate. Even with the multitude of traffic lights on Broward Boulevard and Los Olas, Ryan arrived at the restaurant in fifteen minutes. Despite the angry eyes of two patrol cops, he rolled a couple of tires up on the sidewalk and parked the truck just west of the crime scene at the far end of the yellow tape.

  He grabbed an unlit cigar from his ashless ashtray, shoved it between his teeth, and climbed out of the truck. He flashed his credentials at the approaching cops who appeared anxious to unholster their weapons. Acknowledging his FBI status, the cops nodded with rolling eyes.

  The restaurant had a small frontage with large, open-framed glass to one side of a cherry-stained wooden door. Both an American flag and a rainbow flag mounted above the door flapped quietly in the breeze. Ryan pulled on the door handle and walked into the restaurant.

  When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, Ryan spotted Alvarez and a round-faced brunette seated at a wooden table. Her elbows were perched on the tabletop. She was rubbing her forehead, the locks of her short hair in mild disarray. The woman had a bowling pin shape to her stout figure.

  The big, brown detective waved Ryan over to the table. After introductions were made, Ryan sat opposite the woman. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and rolled it around between his fingers.

  Nodding at the woman, Alvarez said, “Sharon Goodman has requested immunity from prosecution based on information she is willing to provide concerning her deceased brother and Mr. Townsend.”

  “What kind of information, Ms. Goodman?” Ryan asked in a serious tone. He locked eyes with the brunette.

  “I am aware of the finance aspect regarding Mike Townsend’s strategy and his motivation,” Sharon responded in a matter of fact tone.

  “Okay. And how would you have knowledge of such information?” Ryan asked.

  “My brother and I were close. Our blue-collar father did not approve of Jonathan’s lifestyle. He did his best to avoid contact with my brother except for the occasional holiday. And Mom did her best to avoid conflict with anybody. So in essence, I was really my brother’s only family.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “You probably don’t, Special Agent Fredricks, but it doesn’t matter.” The brunette sighed. “Jonathan loved Mike Townsend. Mike had a glamorous occupation. He traveled the world. He was a type-A personality. And Mike’s other life, the one with kids and two cats in the yard, added an element of mystery and even danger. But Mike’s slow acceptance of his homosexuality made him vulnerable, an attractive quality to my brother.”

  “I appreciate the background insight, but I can’t offer immunity based on your opinion.”

  “I have fairly specific information, Special Agent Fredricks.”

  “Ms. Goodman, I can’t guarantee anything, because it’s not completely up to me. But if you weren’t directly involved with your brother’s murder, or anyone else’s for that matter, then immunity is a possibility.”

  The stout woman glanced around the restaurant for a brief moment. She clasped her hands together and placed them on the tabletop. She drew in a deep breath.

  “I am a licensed financial advisor and a CPA. The information I disclose could jeopardize my career and/or subject me to an SEC investigation. The fact that the FBI might criminally prosecute would seem minor in comparison.”

  Ryan nodded and held out his hands with palms up, beckoning her to continue.

  “Before my brother and Mike Townsend developed their relationship, Mike had made a bad financial decision. He had dumped a major portion of his investments into a fund that financed rock concerts and other similar venues. The concert promoter promised an outrageous rate of return.” The brunette shook her head. “I think you can predict the end of the story. The promoter declared personal bankruptcy and literally disappeared from the country.

  “Apparently, during a break at a negotiating session with Patriot Airlines and the pilots union, Mike compared notes with one of the company executives. His name was Bob Redmond.”

  Alvarez raised his eyebrows and exchanged glances with Ryan. Simultaneously, they both drew their arms across their chests.

  “Redmond had also lost a substantial amount of money investing in the same concert fund. Apparently, because the promoter was a former airline pilot, he was trusted. In any case, Redmond offered Mike an opportunity to recoup his losses simply by transferring funds from union accounts to an escrow account held by a New York law firm. He would collect a commission based on a percentage that was deposited and then transferred. Mike was PAPA’s secretary/treasurer, so such transactions would be under his control.”

  “But why utilize the union’s account?” Alvarez asked.

  Ryan looked at Sharon and said, “Because if anything went wrong, it wouldn’t be traced to a personal account. But if the transactions were discovered, the pilots union could be blamed. It would be a nice corruption scandal.”

  Sharon said, “Correct. Which is how the news media is portraying it anyhow. Mike accepted that risk for the reward. His straight family was never aware of the financial loss. His conscience was keeping him up at night. Although Mike never asked, he was fairly certain that the money was coming from executive stock bonuses.”

  “So what compelled him to steal the cash?” Ryan asked.

  “Just before he was almost made whole from his concert fund losses, he received information that the company was going to declare bankruptcy. It was confirmation that the executive stock options that had been cashed out a little bit at a time were insurance that management paychecks wouldn’t be in jeopardy.

  “Mike wanted out. But Redmond refused to release him from his services. The bastard threatened to reveal Mike’s homosexuality to his family. Gay pilots are not exactly accepted with open arms in the profession. In addition, Redmond threatened to reveal his concert fund loss and his money laundering activity. So Mike took matters into his own hands, and removed the funds from the bank in Trinidad as extortion to use as leverage so he could end his money laundering role.”

  Clearing his throat, Ryan asked, “And what was your role in this scheme?”

  “I advised my brother on various aspects of transferring funds without drawing attention both domestically and internationally. And I advised Mike on an appropriate investment portfolio.”

  “Anything else, Ms. Goodman?” Alvarez asked.

  “No, not that I can think of at the moment.” The brunette exhaled. “I just wanted Jonathan
and Mike’s relationship to work out. Mike was setting the foundation to establish his family’s financial independence without him. In colloquial terms, he was going to come out of the closet. But my brother knew better. He felt Mike was unrealistic. And the scheme to extort over $150 million was beyond his comprehension. In the end, my brother got caught in the middle. I miss him more than anything in the world.”

  A moment of silence permeated the group. The activity of a few detectives scurrying about, others snapping photos of various items surrounding the bar area, and hushed conversations of uniformed cops became more noticeable.

  Slipping the cigar back in his mouth and rising from the table, Ryan said, “Thank you, Ms. Goodman. That was a riveting story. We’ll be in touch. Please don’t stray far from home.” The FBI man nodded at Alvarez and then disappeared out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Monday

  07:55 EDT

  It had been a fitful night’s sleep for Hart. He had attempted to rid his mind of thoughts, but the exercise became a vicious circle. The harder he attempted, the more he focused on his thoughts. It didn’t help matters that the mattress in his old room had developed a sag precisely in the geographic center. Nor did it help that Piper, Dad’s elderly cat of twelve years and twenty pounds, was determined to share the exact same space.

  Still groggy, Hart scanned the walls surrounding the bed. The room itself hadn’t really changed since the day he had left for college. But over a period of time, Dad had made it a shrine to Hart’s accomplishments. Photos of him wearing a cap and gown. His first 4-bar, captain’s epaulets. Plaques. Trophies. Posters. More photos.

  In the midst of Hart’s fuzzy reminiscing, his cell phone vibrated. The phone rattled a shaky dance across the top of the marred nightstand. He looked at the caller ID. Crap. It was Ryan Fredricks. What had he done now?

  Hart pressed the Talk button and said, “I told the front desk not to bother with a wake-up call.”