Under Pressure

by Kathy Brandt

  I had the feeling this was news to the lawyer. Finally, he agreed to let us talk to his client with him present.

  We headed down to the cells. The mechanic was lying on his cot, feigning boredom until the lawyer clued him in about the charges. Then he got real talkative.

  “Why did you bring down that plane?” Stark asked, going for the jugular.

  “What?” he demanded, suddenly on his feet. “No way. Why would I want to do that?”

  “We know about the drug running. We talked to the copilot’s wife. She told us that her husband was getting out. Maybe you wanted to send a message to all the other runners in your little operation.”

  The guy spent a good ten minutes denying that he knew anything about drugs. Finally, his lawyer took him aside and explained the facts of life—those being that trying to kill cops was highly frowned on by the courts and that cooperating with us would be in his best interest.

  “Hell, for all I knew you were sent by my connection when he heard about that plane. How was I supposed to know you were cops?”

  “Hey, Stark, I distinctly remember identifying ourselves in that lunch room, don’t you?” I said, dripping sarcasm.

  “Yes, I do believe we did,” Stark said.

  The mechanic scrambled for an excuse and finally said he thought it was a trick and that he never saw any IDs. “I mean, look at him,” he said, indicating Stark. “Tell me he doesn’t look like a dealer?” He had a point.

  Eventually, we agreed to back off on attempted-murder charges if he’d give us the information we wanted, but we weren’t about to promise him he’d be walking out of jail anytime soon. He’d definitely be doing time for assaulting police officers and drug running. Still, he knew he was in no position to refuse the offer.

  He couldn’t turn his colleagues in fast enough. He told us he was just a middleman, had good contacts at the airport because he worked there, and got a couple of other pilots and flight attendants signed on. He swore up and down that he had not tampered with the plane. Why would he? His drugs were lost. Besides, Saturday was his day off, so he had been nowhere near the aircraft.

  Dunn was hidden behind the newspaper when we walked into his office. “Interesting picture, Detective Sampson.” That’s all he said, but I knew he was perturbed. Dunn was a “keep a low profile” kind of chief and he didn’t appreciate his people making headlines. Before this day was over, I planned on finding an opportunity to threaten Lorenzo’s life if one more word appeared in the papers about me.

  “What do you think about this mechanic?” Dunn asked after we’d given him the details about the interrogation.

  “We’ll check to see whether he was anywhere near the plane while it was at the airport,” I said. “I’m guessing he’s off the hook in terms of sabotage and the break-in at the warehouse. It just didn’t fit, especially since he was in jail last night.”

  About that time Dickson knocked on Dunn’s door. He’d run the serial numbers on the Beretta.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have good news,” he said, holding a fax in his hand. “The gun was reported stolen last year from a pawn shop in California. It hadn’t turned up since, until we recovered it from the plane.”

  “Another dead end.” I could hear the frustration in Dunn’s voice.

  “What do you want to do about the drug running, Chief?” Stark asked.

  “I’ll call the coast guard and get them to start looking for the boat that the mechanic described. I wouldn’t be surprised if word is already out that we’ve arrested this guy. Anyone involved is probably halfway back to South America by now. In the meantime, the mechanic stays in jail and you two stay focused on the plane crash.”

  Dunn was interrupted by the phone.

  “Chief Dunn,” he said, then listened for a good five minutes before he responded. “How long has he been gone?” he paused, then asked, “Does he miss work often?” Another pause. I could hear a woman’s voice on the other end.

  “All right,” Dunn responded. “We’ll look into it if he hasn’t shown up in twenty-four hours. Please, keep me informed.” He paused again. “Yes, I know you’re concerned, but chances are he’ll be in his office in the morning. Call me if he’s not.”

  Finally, he hung up. “That was a report about a missing person, a Conrad Frett,” he said. “He’s with the Department of Natural Resources. His secretary was calling to say Frett didn’t show up for work today. When she phoned his home, his housekeeper said he wasn’t there when she arrived this morning to get his breakfast.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Stark said. “He probably decided to take the day off.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Dunn said. “If not, you two will have to get on that too.”

  The phone rang again. The longer Dunn talked, the more frustrated he got. After about ten minutes he hung up.

  “You know, a couple of days ago,” he said, “I was sitting here, caught up on all my paperwork, enjoying my view, and actually getting home in time for supper. Now it seems everyone in these islands has gone crazy. That was the manager of the dolphin park. He’s been calling me at least twice a day because someone released his dolphins. He’s worried about his job, I guess. Whoever it was swam in after dark and cut a huge opening in the netting. The manager wants the person caught and punished. We’ll never catch him. Lots of folks on this island were up in arms about what was happening over at that park. Anyone could have decided to set them free. I have to admit I thought about it myself.”

  “What night did that happen?” I asked Dunn.

  “Saturday night, sometime after the place closed.”

  I thought about Kiersted and his lecture to me about the dolphins that first night we’d talked on the beach at Pickering’s Landing. He’d just been coming back to the marina, his clothes wet. That had been Saturday night. I decided I would talk to Kiersted myself about it.

  Dunn’s phone was ringing again as we headed out the door.

  “We need to regroup,” I said to Stark. We were sitting out in the central office on a couple of cracked vinyl chairs with wheels. “Nothing is making any sense here. Things just aren’t connecting. The crash, the break-in, the stolen gun. Shit. Maybe nothing is connected.”

  Stark wheeled his chair over to an old blackboard that had been gathering dust in the corner. It was cracked and marred by use. He picked up a piece of chalk and we started trying to find some organization in the confusion. Stark and I both had thought that things would be solved quickly with the copilot and mechanic and their involvement in drug running. It was the most straightforward scenario and more often than not the most obvious solution proved correct. Now we were starting over.

  The warehouse break-in was a red flag. We needed to look at everyone closely. Stark drew an airplane on the board and started filling in the details. Why not? I thought. Maybe something would shake loose. I sat with my elbow on my knee, knuckles propped under my chin, contemplating Stark’s diagram:

  Left side/Right side

  Row 1: William Riley (DOA)/Louise Riley (DOA)

  Row 2: Vacant (Debra moved)/Vacant

  Row 3: Newlywed husband/Newlywed wife

  Row 4: Lawrence Redding (DOA)/Vacant (Simon Redding in bathroom)

  Row 5: Sammy Lorenzo/Zora Gordon

  Row 6: Debra Westbrook/Daniel Stewart

  Finally, we started through the names. We knew little about the Rileys except what Senator Westbrook had told us. They’d been filthy rich. Their seats in the front row had pretty much insured their deaths.

  The second row of seats had been empty. Debra Westbrook had been lucky that she considered the back of the plane safer and moved to the rear section. All we’d learned about her was that there’d been trouble between her and Jack and that she might have hired a divorce attorney.

  In the third row were the newlyweds. All we knew about them was that they were well prepared for their honeymoon.

  On the left, behind the groom, was Lawrence Redding. The fact that he had the power to give or
withhold hundreds of thousands, if not a million, dollars meant he’d have enemies. But at the moment we were aware of only one person he’d had any contact with—Enok Kiersted. If Redding was recommending against the grant, Kiersted would not have wanted him to make his report to the foundation. Simon had said they’d had a fight.

  Zora Gordon was seated behind Simon. Seemingly she was staying alone on a yacht. Until I’d seen her card, I would never have pegged her as a lawyer. She had the look of someone who spent all her time in gyms and health stores. I wondered what kind of law she practiced. It was possible that she’d made enemies along the way—some disgruntled client who’d just been released from jail or was pissed about her billing structure.

  “What about Sammy Lorenzo and Daniel Stewart?” Stark asked.

  “We know they were here on vacation. Stewart said he needed to get away. Sammy came down later to meet him. I suppose it’s possible that Stewart has enemies. He’s certainly well known, but it seems more likely that he’d be stalked by beautiful women than targeted for murder.”

  “They sure were able to turn the crash to their advantage.” Stark was smiling now. “Looks like you’re on the road to fame as the love interest of the stars.” He had managed to resist the temptation to ride me about the morning headlines. Now he just couldn’t stop himself.

  “I told you, Stark, I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “Let’s look at the warehouse. Why did someone break in?”

  “Only one reason,” Stark said. “They were after that gun.”

  “Why?” I asked, pushing him to figure this out.

  “It would implicate them in something?” he suggested.

  “Yeah, but how?” I asked. “Whoever lost it probably knows it can’t be traced. Why risk it?”

  “Let’s think about it,” Stark said. “The gun has to belong to someone on the plane or someone who was on the plane while it was on the ground. We’ll assume for now that it wasn’t the mechanic.”

  “Okay. That leaves every one of the passengers and practically anyone who was working at the airport on Saturday morning. Hell, Stark, maybe the gun had been wedged in that seat for weeks.”

  “Yeah, maybe it’s not related at all. Shit. What a mess. Maybe it was a random break-in. Whoever it was saw the gun and took it.”

  “But why not take the other stuff—like the jewelry?”

  “Because Capy interrupted them,” Stark said. “Let’s hope he pulls through and can tell us something.

  “Maybe they didn’t find whatever they were looking for,” I said, a random thought that took hold as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

  “It’s possible. Whoever broke into the warehouse might have been after something that would implicate them in the crash,” Stark said.

  The only items from the plane that had not been left in the warehouse were the coke and Redding's laptop. Dunn had wanted the coke locked up in the police department and Gil had taken the laptop to see if he could retrieve any data.

  “Or they were looking for something else that was on that plane,” I countered. “The gun? Possible. The coke? Maybe. The laptop? A stretch, but I’ll ask Dickson to move it up on the priority list.”

  “Hell, it’s feasible that the crash was an accident,” Stark said, throwing the chalk into the trash.

  “Yeah, it could be, but right now we need to assume it wasn’t,” I said. “We need to know more about these passengers. It’s the most likely strategy for getting what happened on the plane and in turn uncovering a motive for the break-in at the warehouse.”

  We divided the list. Stark would go out to the airport and interview airline personnel and check the mechanic’s story, then head to the hospital to talk to the newlyweds. I needed to pick up Simon and get the kid something to wear. Then I’d go talk to Debra Westbrook.

  “Parental responsibility? Could really cramp your style,” Stark said as he banged out the door.

  “That it could,” I muttered to no one. “That it could.”

  ***

  Jean, Dunn’s secretary, was hidden behind the front page of the damn Island News when I stopped at her desk.

  “Wow, Hannah, you be one lucky lady. Dat Daniel Stewart is a hunk!” she said.

  “Jean, it’s not what it looks like,” I said.

  “Well, dat’s a shame. Maybe you want to introduce me to him?”

  “Do me a favor and don’t be showing that paper to everyone in the office.” I could tell by her expression that she already had.

  “Has there been any word from Simon’s aunt?” I asked.

  “No. I called her office again this morning. Her secretary said she’s left several messages with no response. Dat boy okay?”

  “As good as he can be, I guess.” Christ, was there anyone out there besides me who was concerned enough about the kid to take care of him?

  Chapter 18

  When I got back to Pickering’s Landing, Tilda was just taking in the laundry. I saw Simon down the beach. He was holding Daisy’s hand as they hurried toward me, each carrying a red plastic bucket. Daisy’s was filled with shells. At five, Daisy could rarely be found without some sort of ocean artifact, usually deep inside one of her pockets. She and Rebecca had lived at the water’s edge their whole short lives. It was their playground. When I knelt to inspect their treasures, she handed me a tiny hermit crab.

  “This is Herman,” she said. “Isn’t he cute? I’m going to put him under my pillow.”

  “Maybe you should put him back where you found him?” I suggested. “Remember how your mama said they didn’t like being away from their own homes?” More than once, Tilda had found such creatures dead and smelling in Daisy’s bed.

  “But, Hannah, I don’t want to take the crab back to his home,” she said, sticking a finger in her mouth.

  “Why not, Daisy?” I asked as she worried another finger into her mouth.

  “It’s scary up there,” she said, nodding toward the brush at the edge of the trees, where the hermit crabs could be found hiding under palm leaves.

  “What do you mean, Daisy?” I asked. “You’ve never been scared of the trees. You went up there to get the crab didn’t you?” I figured this was a smart five-year-old’s strategy for avoiding the directions of an adult, especially one whom she knew damned well would never want her to be afraid.

  “It’s scary there now,” she said. I could see the anxiety in the kid’s eyes.

  “Why, Daisy?” I asked, looking at Simon. He just shrugged his shoulders.

  “When I went to find Herman I saw a man in the trees.”

  “A man? What man?” I was alarmed now.

  “I don’t know, but he looked mean and he didn’t smile when I smiled at him. He just went away, but maybe he’s hiding up there.”

  “Did you see anyone, Simon?” I asked.

  “No. Daisy came running back saying there were monsters in the trees. I thought it was a game. I pretended to be a monster and chase her, but she started to cry and said she wanted her mom. I’m sorry I scared her.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “Just a few minutes ago. Daisy didn’t tell me anything about the man. She just said she was scared and didn’t want to play anymore. We were on our way back to the marina to find Tilda.”

  I knew that Daisy wasn’t normally frightened by monster games. She was at the age when she knew it was just pretend.

  “How about I go with you to put Herman back and you can show me where you saw the man?” I said, picking her up and holding her tight.

  She pointed to the place and I carried her up to the trees. Simon followed with the buckets. Once in the palms, she insisted I put her down so she could release the hermit crab under what she seemed sure was exactly the right leaf.

  “Where did you see the man?” I asked Daisy.

  “He was standing right there near that big palm,” she said, indicating a tree a few feet away and then sticking her finger back in her mouth.

  “Okay, you and Simon wai
t right here.” I went up into the trees and crouched near the huge coconut palm. The sand looked disturbed at the base, but it was impossible to know whether anyone had actually been standing near the tree. The area was just too dry and disturbed by land crabs.

  “Did you see where the man went?” I asked, returning to the kids. If someone had been there, it had to have been within the last ten minutes. Maybe I could find him. I didn’t like the idea of some stranger watching the children from the trees. I was sure it wasn’t someone who was there by accident. There were just weren’t that many people wandering around on this section of the beach unless they had business at Pickering's Landing. She pointed down the palm-lined beach.

  “Okay, Simon will take you to your mother. I’ll go have a look and be right back.”

  I watched the two of them until they made it back to the marina. Then I walked along the edge of the trees looking for any signs of the man. I imagined that I could see a trail of disturbed brush and leaves, but it was hard to tell. I walked around the point and was greeted by an empty beach that stretched for a mile. I headed up into the trees and out to the road, where the occasional car zipped past. There was no point in going farther. If Daisy had seen someone, he was long gone.

  Daisy and Simon had already told Tilda about the man. By now, he’d turned into a troll with warts all over his face. Daisy was unable to give me even a semblance of a description except to say she was certain that the man was white. That was something, anyway.

  Tilda was concerned. She could think of no one who would have been wandering around up there. “Do you think it be someone meanin’ ta hurt da’ children?” she asked. “Dat sort a thing jus’ not be happenin’ in des islands,” she said. I could see her anxiety at the thought that someone might be intent on grabbing a child.

  “I don’t know why the man was there, Tilda. Maybe it was just someone who wandered down looking for a public beach and once he realized this was not one, went on down the road to the next likely spot. But, I think it’s a good idea to keep the children close to the house for a while.”