Layover

by David Bell

  “We’ve started talking to the employees. It’s one of those hippy-dippy places. Ping-Pong in the cafeteria. People bringing their dogs to work. Everyone seems to show up whenever they want, so we’ve only talked to some of them.” Kimberly rolled her eyes as she took in the lack of amenities surrounding her. Burned coffee. Broken door. Peanut butter crackers in the vending machine. “So far we’ve got nothing. The employees I’ve talked to are giving the impression that Giles was distant, hands-off. A little odd, a little cold. He founded the company, but the other guy, his partner . . .”

  “Steven Hatfield,” Brandon said.

  “He handles the people side of things. He’s the guy who’s always on the local news touting the company’s achievements, giving big checks to charity. It doesn’t sound like Giles’s thing, although a lot of it is Giles’s money. That’s why the mayor cares so much. Giles donated to her campaign. Big-time.”

  “Money makes the world go round.”

  “It does.”

  “And Hatfield’s out of town?” Brandon asked.

  “Coming back late tonight or tomorrow. He cut his vacation short.”

  “And the only thing missing is the engagement ring. Giles’s mother’s engagement ring.”

  “No electronics,” Kimberly said. “TV’s there. Computers.”

  “His car too. A meth head or junkie would have taken something else.”

  “Hmm. It’s odd. The place was ransacked, but only the ring was missing.”

  “But the ransacking . . . ,” Brandon said.

  “Yes?”

  “Is it possible for ransacking to be half-hearted? Stuff was thrown around, but some drawers were untouched. Like you said, there was stuff that should have been stolen. But it wasn’t. Like the thief barely looked.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “It almost looked . . . fake. Like staged ransacking to make it look like a robbery. Like someone went through the house and threw some things around but didn’t really want to trash the place. Could Giles Caldwell have wanted to disappear and make it look like a robbery? Or did he just pack in a hurry and toss some clothes around as he filled his suitcases?”

  “Maybe our crook got interrupted. Someone drove down the street, the headlights spooked him.”

  “I don’t know,” Brandon said. “It’s all very odd.”

  “We’re actually wondering if it’s possible Giles Caldwell staged his own disappearance? We haven’t found any reason for him to do something like that.”

  “I’m thinking out loud. About everything.”

  “And the ring was sitting out in that creepy display dedicated to his mother. It didn’t take much effort to find, and there wasn’t any other expensive stuff around. Giles didn’t buy a lot of finer things. So we have a criminal who only takes antique jewelry and ransacks half-heartedly. I’ll say this—it’s original.”

  Brandon tapped the file folder against his knee a few more times. “What do you want to do now? I’ve got another report to finish, then court this afternoon, but I can stay late tonight.”

  Kimberly reached out and took the file. “You should go home to your wife and baby. That’s what you should do tonight.”

  “What about you? You have a daughter to go home to.”

  “She’s spending the night with her dad, a benefit of being divorced,” Kimberly said.

  “Aren’t the schools on break?”

  “They are. All week. Why couldn’t Giles Caldwell disappear when I didn’t have plans to bond with my daughter? I’m going to look this over in more detail and then make more calls. But you have other work to do. There’s more happening than just Giles Caldwell.”

  “That’s not how the mayor feels.”

  “We’ve got plenty of eyes on this. And the State Bureau of Investigation is sending people down. Aren’t you trying to wrap up that assault? And wasn’t there a drug bust in the projects on the east side?”

  “There was. I’m finishing all of that.”

  “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  Brandon stayed in his seat.

  “What?” Kimberly asked.

  “I hope you get promoted to lieutenant. I really do.”

  “Thanks, Brandon. I hope so too.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay late?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” Kimberly said. “We’ve got two other detectives helping. And that little blob of a baby you have at home? Before you know it, he’ll be a moody teen. And then he’ll be in college. Enjoy it while you can.”

  She watched Brandon go and opened the manila folder.

  11

  My hands remained locked on the armrests until we reached our cruising altitude and the seat belt sign dinged off. My joints ached from squeezing the seat so hard, and I hadn’t even bothered to open the book I’d purchased in the gift shop, the one meant to take my mind off flying. But as soon as that sign went off, I breathed a little easier. We were up high, above the clouds, unable to see land. Like being in the airport, being in the air felt like a moment of suspension, a temporary break from whatever rules governed behavior on the ground. Real-world problems receded out of sight.

  I kept my phone turned off because I didn’t want to hear back from Dad. Whatever he had to say—and it wouldn’t be good—could wait until I was on the ground again. Back in the real world of consequences.

  The thought of landing gave me pause—what exactly did I think was going to happen once we arrived in Nashville? I had no business there, no friends, no family.

  So what did I think was going to happen when she saw me? Were we going to fall into each other’s arms and then run off together? I pushed all of those thoughts aside, since they were several steps ahead of me. After all, I didn’t know yet if Morgan was even on the damn plane. Maybe I’d bought a ticket and boarded the wrong flight, fouling up my day and things with my dad for nothing.

  I unbuckled, the metal clasp clinking against the armrest I’d gripped so tight, and stood up. A couple of other first-class passengers also rose, stretching and taking things out of the overhead bins. The curtain to the rest of the plane had been opened, affording me a view of coach, but several people were up and milling around back there as well, so I still couldn’t see much.

  A low hum of conversation filled the confined space. My ears had popped on the way up, so everything sounded like we were underwater. The recirculated air cycled through the plane with a dull rush, and the fuselage rocked gently as we knifed through the soft, puffy clouds. Little could be seen outside but blue and white. The sun was in the distance, a bright yellow disk on the far horizon.

  I started back, excusing myself around my fellow travelers. As soon as I passed the curtain to coach, I scanned the seats, looking for the telltale hat and glasses. If she’d taken them off, would I even be able to recognize her?

  Some people looked up as I moved by. Others were lost in their own worlds. They wore headphones, read books and magazines, whispered gently to their partners or children. Two flight attendants pushed a drink cart my way, the ice and beverage cans rattling as they moved. I thought I’d have to turn around and go back, wait for them to clear out, and I felt like a man swimming against the tide. My patience waned as I contemplated a further delay in my plans.

  But then I saw Morgan, sitting on my left near the rear of the plane, the bucket hat and sunglasses appearing among the sea of faces.

  The flight attendant’s cart still blocked my way. But I caught a break. The aisle seat next to the cart was unoccupied, so I stepped into it, then squeezed around the cart, drawing an irritated look from the attendant. Then I rushed down the aisle the rest of the way to where Morgan sat.

  I thought she’d sense me coming, that she’d automatically look up and see me moving down the aisle, but she kept her head down as though reading something. My mouth went dry, and I t
ried to think of what I was going to say when she did see me standing there like a beggar.

  Before I could formulate anything brilliant, I was next to her, standing over her and looking down.

  She stared at her iPad, headphones in her ears. She still hadn’t noticed me. So I reached out slowly with my right hand and tapped her shoulder.

  Her head whipped up as quickly as it had spun toward me in the gift shop. She moved so fast, it startled me, and I took a step back, then held my hand up, palm forward, in a gesture of peace. The plane hit a pocket of rough air, which caused it to shift, and I lost my balance for a moment, stumbling back one step before regaining my footing.

  Not the most graceful approach.

  “It’s me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I again saw myself reflected in her sunglasses. She kept them directed my way for what felt like a long time, her facial expression below the hat and the shades not changing, even though her cheeks flushed.

  She kept in the earbuds she was wearing, and I pointed at my ears so she would remove them. She did, but her face showed no joy or surprise at seeing me. She simply looked put out, as if I were a complete stranger interrupting her private reverie.

  “I changed my flight,” I said in a rush. “I’m in first class. That’s all they had left. I know this is nuts. . . .”

  Morgan still hadn’t spoken, but a couple of the people around her—the gray-haired woman in the middle seat, the college student right in front of her—stopped what they were doing and stared up at me, not even trying to hide their fascination with our one-sided conversation. Behind me and up the aisle, I heard the flight attendants offering my fellow passengers drinks, their polite questions punctuated by the fizzing of newly opened soda cans and the tearing of peanut and cookie wrappers.

  Morgan said nothing, so I looked around, desperate for my next move. A guy about my age, wearing a flannel shirt and eating a fast food hamburger, sat across the aisle from Morgan. He too had turned his head our way, his face impassive as he chewed his food and took in our little drama.

  “Do you want to sit in first class?” I asked him. “We could trade seats so I can sit by her.”

  The guy looked confused. The stubble on his face was patchy, and a bright red pimple grew on the left side of his nose. He looked eager to sit in first class, but when he glanced Morgan’s way, his face grew uncertain.

  “Hold it,” Morgan said. “Don’t do this. I don’t want to sit by you.”

  The guy turned his head away, focusing on his hamburger as though it held all the secrets of the world between its buns.

  I felt my mouth drop open. I wasn’t even sure what to say. If I’d been standing out on the wing with the wind and the clouds buffeting me, I couldn’t have been more exposed.

  I sensed more sets of eyes turn to me. I was quickly becoming the hottest thing to watch at thirty thousand feet.

  I leaned toward Morgan, speaking in a lower voice, although I was certain everyone around us could still hear me. Let’s face it—there isn’t much privacy to be found in the cabin of a 737 with everyone wedged on top of one another like strangers in a flying elevator.

  “I know this is crazy, me changing my flight. I didn’t think I’d ever do something like this. And I didn’t even know for sure if you were on board when I did it. But we had a real connection back there, at the bar, and I just . . . I couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing you again. When you said that, Morgan, that we’d never see each other—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in the coldest voice I’d ever heard. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. That’s not even my name.”

  “But—”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  The woman next to Morgan gasped, then pursed her lips, staring at me in disapproval. She held an architecture magazine in her hand, which caused my mind to flash to Renee back in Chicago, and the woman looked like she wanted to throw it at me. And then I noticed the same disapproving look rippling across the faces of our other fellow passengers. With those few words, Morgan had transformed me into an aggressive creep, a stalker, a weirdo, and there was no coming back from something like that.

  I couldn’t understand her behavior.

  Why speak so intimately, why kiss me that way in the bar, if she wanted to send me away?

  “Morgan, I don’t—”

  But instead of listening, she stuck her hand straight up and hit the “Call” button, summoning a flight attendant.

  The woman next to her leaned over and said, “You’re fine, honey. We won’t let him bother you this way.”

  My mind raced, searching for what I could say to change the direction of the encounter, but I pressed my lips tight. None of this was going the way I pictured. In no scenario did I imagine Morgan would pretend not to know me, never to have met me.

  A flight attendant materialized out of nowhere behind me. Her hair was streaked with blond highlights, and the red of her lipstick matched the pimple on the face of the guy across the aisle. Her perfume tickled my nose. She ignored me and asked what Morgan needed.

  “This man,” Morgan said, nodding my way as though I were a road sign or a pile of trash. “This man thinks I’m someone else. He’s bothering me and won’t return to his seat.”

  The woman with the magazine joined her, all too eager to participate in my execution. If there’d been a guillotine, she would have gladly let the blade fall. “She’s right. He’s being very insistent and rude. He tried to make that gentleman move so he could sit down.”

  “Where is your seat, sir?” the flight attendant asked me. She wore her hair in a tight bun and had a thick layer of makeup on her face. Her nails were immaculately painted and a gold ring on her left hand caught the faint light through the window.

  “First class,” I said.

  “Would you like to go back and sit down? You can get a beverage up there and something to eat.” She sounded firm and calm, like an animal trainer.

  I looked down at Morgan, at her soft lips, her sunglasses and hat. I saw the indifference on her face. Her jaw was set firm, the muscles working under the skin.

  The flight attendant placed her hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me away and to my seat.

  But I resisted, turning back. “She’s wrong,” I said loudly, trying to explain the injustice of it all to a preoccupied jury. For some reason, I held my hands out as if I really thought I could convince them. “I do know her. She’s wrong.”

  The flight attendant spoke low enough so that only I could hear, her face close to mine. “Sir, I don’t want to have to get the pilot involved.”

  I knew it was no idle threat. And I didn’t need to get arrested on top of everything else. I didn’t need a scene, so I dropped my arms and let the flight attendant lead me away. Everyone was staring at me as I went up the aisle. But before I passed the curtain to first class, I stopped.

  This was my last chance. I could slip past the flight attendant and dash down the aisle, back to the only person who’d made me feel alive in months, maybe even years.

  Or I could do what was expected of me, return to my thousand-dollar first-class seat and sit quietly for the rest of the flight.

  So I took one look back at Morgan, her blank, stoic face, and walked to the front of the plane.

  12

  I stayed in my seat the rest of the way to Nashville.

  The image of Morgan—if that was even her name—reaching for the “Call” button, the memory of the flight attendant providing the subtle threat of summoning the pilot, the realization that everyone thought I was a stalker . . . It all brought a flush of embarrassment to my cheeks. It had been a long time since I’d misread a situation so badly.

  I knew I’d never made a fool of myself like that, in front of a plane full of people. It reminded me there was a reason I didn’t
do impulsive things like jumping on an airplane to be near a woman I’d kissed once in the Keg ’n Craft.

  I wasn’t good at it.

  And I returned to my dad’s lifelong advice—play things close to the vest.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe nothing good came from laying it all on the line.

  It was an hour-long flight, but the time in the air dragged interminably. I tried to read the book with the running man on the cover. I learned about his drinking problem brought on by the loss of his wife and child in a tragic accident. And how that tragedy turned the man into a loner who killed for hire. But only criminals who deserved it. Soon enough, I found myself reading the same lines over and over again and put the book aside.

  The woman next to me, who looked to be in her seventies, paged through a photo album. From the corner of my eye, I caught scattered glimpses of smiling grandchildren of all ages. Kids with bright eyes and missing teeth, kids in front of a Christmas tree, kids in a dance recital. I envied her—she seemed to have a safe, fulfilling life, one full of shining memories. She looked over and smiled at me, and I nodded back. But we didn’t speak.

  When the plane rolled to a stop and reached the gate, I grabbed my bag as fast as I could and shouldered my way past the other first-class passengers to get out as soon as possible. If I never saw Morgan, the flight attendants, or the passengers around her again, it would be too soon. Surely they’d all go home and tell the story about the weird guy creeping after the beautiful woman on the plane. I was so embarrassed I vowed never to fly to Nashville again unless I did it in disguise.

  I needed a new plan. I knew that when I turned my phone back on, a blast of texts and voice mails from my dad would be waiting. I couldn’t make the meeting in Tampa, no way, but I could try to get there by early evening. He’d likely scheduled a dinner with the other developers, and I could swoop in and turn up the charm, present the united front of father and son working side by side. I could never mention that I’d been chasing a woman in the wrong direction, and I knew if I did he’d shake his head, his eyebrows lifting in bafflement as if to ask himself what kind of idiot child he had raised.