by Kathy Brandt
“That airplane wanted to fly out on the currents once we started to raise it. Then one of the straps around the right wing snapped,” he said, glaring at Harper. “The plane was hanging in the water sideways with one of the wingtips buried in the sand. We’re damn lucky we got the thing up in one piece.”
“Anything apparent when you brought the plane up?” Stark asked as we walked Sturtevant out to the street to find a taxi. Harper was hanging back, shooting the shit with Harrigan. I could hear him making excuses about why that strap came loose and implying that it had to do with Sturtevant's carelessness.
“No, but I’m no expert. I just bring ‘em up. Harrigan will take it from here. If there’s something to be found, he’ll find it. Harper and I are done here. We’re heading back to the hotel to change and get our gear and then catching the next ferry back to Saint Thomas.”
“Things were kind of rough out there?” I asked.
“You could say so. When that strap let loose, I was still in the water. It almost took my head off. I’ll tell you one thing: Harper won’t be contracted on another salvage operation if I’ve got anything to say about it. If I ever do another job here, I’ll call you, Sampson, get you to help me.”
I held up my hands. “Not on your life, Sturtevant. Sounds way too dangerous.”
He was climbing into a taxi when Harper caught up with him. He had pulled his wetsuit off his upper body. The arms dangled around his calves and he wore a T-shirt with a huge red and white dive flag plastered across the front, leaving no doubt that he was one macho diver.
Stark and I went into the warehouse. It was at least twenty degrees cooler inside. Harrigan was walking around the exterior of the plane, jotting notes on a clipboard. Edith Leonard had come by and was hovering, looking over his shoulder. He obviously didn’t like the fact that she was interfering, and he was doing his best to let her know it. I could see him scowling under the brim of his Stetson.
“This airplane hasn’t been made for almost twenty years,” he was explaining to Leonard. “That means the manufacturer is off the hook. So is the company that made the engine.”
“Who is liable?” I asked. I could see Leonard’s discomfort. She clearly knew the answer.
“That depends on what we find,” Harrigan said. “Unless it’s sabotage, it will fall on the airline’s director of operations and on maintenance at the airport, maybe both.”
“We are very thorough with our aircraft. I’m sure this will not be shown to be neglect on our part,” Leonard said.
“In my experience, the airline is always more concerned about protecting itself from a lawsuit or having to make expensive fixes than about getting at the truth,” Harrigan said. “Too many times I’ve seen companies trying to divert attention so that the investigation loses focus on what might be the true cause.” He was clearly not going to let Leonard or anyone else interfere. I was beginning to think that the way he dressed was designed to throw people off guard, that he was really hard-nosed, smart, and covering it under a cowboy hat.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but not much of what you say will carry any weight with me,” he continued. “I’ll be examining your records along with every other piece of information that I can gather.”
“You must have insurance,” I said to Leonard.
“That’s not the point. Our reputation is at stake.” She was pissed that Harrigan wasn’t going to be swayed by anything she said. And of course, the fact that the Leonard family had clout in the island meant nothing to him.
“Any speculation yet about what caused it to go down?” Stark asked.
“It could be any number of things,” he said. “I pulled the records for these planes when I was asked to come down to investigate. The Beech 99 has had a few problems that have caused the plane to take a dive.”
“We have never had an incident like that with one of our planes,” Leonard said.
“Sometimes it’s just a matter of time,” Harrigan said, giving Leonard a disarming smile and hooking a thumb through a belt loop in his jeans. “All kinds of things can go wrong, and usually, sooner or later, they will. And sometimes it’s simply not straightforward. A couple of years back, one of these ninety-nines stalled and crashed after it climbed steeply to four hundred feet after takeoff. All seventeen on board died. It turned out to be a combination of things: mis-trimmed horizontal stabilizer that caused trouble in the trim system. Other factors played in—the crew’s inadequate training, deficient trim warning system check procedures, and insufficient maintenance procedures. But perhaps disaster would have been avoided, even with all the mechanical problems, if the crew had been quicker on the uptake. So what’s the cause? The crew, the equipment, maintenance?
“We could have an engine failure here,” he said to Leonard, “but if the pilots knew what they were doing they should have been able to bring her back into the airport on one engine—no problem.”
“Believe me, my pilots knew what they were doing,” Leonard said. She’d been told about the cocaine smuggling but had never conceded a thing about the copilot’s competence. She knew that we’d found no alcohol or drugs in his system and argued that both he and the captain had done everything they could to bring that plane back to the runway.
“Maybe,” Harrigan responded, “but sometimes even the best get careless. Pilots are no exception. A few years ago the National Transportation Safety Board investigated the crash of a plane that went down a few seconds after take off because the pilots forgot to set the flaps. It happens. I’ve known of pilots that have gotten lost or flown right into the side of a cliff because they weren’t looking where they were going.”
Harrigan continued walking around the plane. “I haven’t discovered any signs of fire or explosion on the exterior. It could be bad fuel, a broken fuel line. Christ, maybe someone left a rag in the fuel tank. Right now, I’m not ruling anything out. Including sabotage,” he added turning to Leonard.
“I’ll want to see everything—the witness reports, passenger statements, and the autopsies. I intend to calculate the speed that this thing lifts off the runway and when it would stall and fall out of the sky, look at the engines, maintenance records, and the flight control system. I’ll also be talking with air traffic control, and operations, which is responsible for fueling and cargo.”
“How long will it take before you’ve got something definitive?” Leonard asked.
“That depends on what I find. Could be a matter of days, could be a matter of weeks, maybe months. I’ll be sending some things out for analysis.
“In the meantime, I suppose you’ll be carrying on your investigation of the passengers?” he asked, turning to Stark and me. “In my experience, if it’s sabotage, it almost always involves someone who was targeted on the plane. Have you learned anything yet?”
“Things are very muddy at this point,” I said. We’d told him about the break-in at the warehouse and the missing Beretta. Dunn had tightened the security as a result. Right now two officers were standing outside baking in the sun and no one without authorization was allowed inside.
Harrigan went through the same reasoning process that Stark and I had engaged in. “Why would someone break in and take nothing but the gun?” he asked, then answered his own question. “Maybe we are looking at sabotage. I’ll let you know the minute I have anything at all.”
Leonard followed us out. Evidently, no one had mentioned the break-in to her. We listened to her complain about not being kept in the loop all the way to her Lexus.
After she pulled away, Stark and I went down to the waterfront for lunch. He had his mind set on a deep-fried flying-fish sandwich. By the time we found a spot on a bench in the shade, Stark was consuming his second sandwich. He talked as he chewed, filling me in about his visit to the hospital to talk to the newlyweds. The bride was the only passenger who had not been released. She was still unconscious and in intensive care. Her parents had arrived late last night and were keeping a round-the-clock vigil in her room.
&nbs
p; The new husband had been more than willing to talk with Stark. He said he and his bride had stayed on Frenchman’s Cay and then gone over to the little cabanas on Cooper Island. They were supposed to have stayed only a week, but had prolonged their visit by three days. They both had demanding jobs in Silicon Valley. They knew that once they returned, they would be back in the rat race and were putting it off as long as they could. Though their jobs were high-powered, the work was not the kind that put them at risk. Besides, why would anyone go to the extreme of bringing down their plane as they returned from their honeymoon in the BVI?
“Maybe it was a jealous ex,” I said. I knew it was a stretch.
“I thought about that,” Stark said.
“Ah, great minds think alike. What did you find out?” I asked.
“The groom said they’ve been together since college. Neither was ever serious about anyone else. Thinking they had anything to do with the crash was a reach anyway. Hell, this whole investigation will probably turn out to be a wild-goose chase when Harrigan discovers the plane crash was accidental.”
“Yeah, well, in the meantime, let’s scratch the newlyweds off our list and focus on the others. Did you learn anything at the airport?” I asked.
“The mechanic’s story held up. He’d been off all day Friday and Saturday. One of the other mechanics said that the two of them had been over at Long Beach drinking Friday night and stayed over there till the next afternoon with a couple of ladies. I verified it with the ground crew on duty on Saturday. No one saw him anywhere around the airport on that day and the plane had only been on the ground a couple of hours. It was the first plane in on Saturday morning. It came from Puerto Rico around seven, turned around, and was headed back at nine thirty,” Stark said between mouthfuls of fish.
“No one saw anything out of the ordinary. Luggage was taken off the incoming flight, more put on, the plane refueled. A one-woman cleaning crew gave it the once-over inside. She was sure nothing, including a gun, had been left on the plane before passengers boarded.”
“She could have missed it,” I said.
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. She seems like one of those anal-retentive types that doesn’t let anything get past her.”
“What else?” I asked.
“Everyone who was supposed to be on the flight was on it, except for Westbrook, who canceled the day before. The only passenger who didn’t have a reservation was Zora Gordon. She had gotten on at the last minute.”
“Guess that would mean she wasn’t a target,” I said.
“Yeah, unless someone followed her out there. No one at the Island Air ticket counter noticed anything unusual,” he continued. “It was just a typical day—a bunch of sailboat charterers returning home, businessmen heading to San Juan or continuing on to the States, families visiting relatives.
“The flight was scheduled to be on the ground in Puerto Rico for a couple hours, then it was turning around and coming back. It was due to be on the ground in Tortola for the next twenty-four hours for routine maintenance.”
“Did you find out anything about the flight back from San Juan?”
“Yeah, there was one thing. When Zora Gordon bought her ticket, she purchased a return on that flight coming right back.”
“How long before the return?” I asked.
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Let’s go talk with Zora. She’s the only one we haven’t yet questioned.”
Stark and I headed over to the marina in Brandywine Bay, where Zora said the boat she was staying on was docked. On the way, I told him what I’d learned from Debra Westbrook. Then Stark got quiet. I could tell something was on his mind.
“What, Stark?” I demanded.
“Heard you moved back on the Sea Bird,” Stark said, getting right to the point. That was the thing about Stark. Once he decided to talk, he didn’t ease into the conversation. It was pretty much the same technique he used with a suspect. I kept telling him he needed to use a little finesse. That, however, was not in Stark’s repertoire.
“What’s happening with you and O’Brien?” he asked.
“How did you hear I’d moved out?” I asked. A stupid question. Absolutely nothing stayed a secret on the island for long.
“Jimmy told me. He said he was on the Sea Bird last night waiting for you to bring pizza when O’Brien dropped your cat off. So what about it?”
“O’Brien keeps pressuring me to quit the job. I know he’s scared. He thinks I’ll get hurt or that all the violence will get to me.”
“Maybe he’s right.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, on the defensive.
“You know you’re worse than most, Hannah. You blame yourself every time something goes bad.”
“Come on, Stark. I’ve been doing this for almost fifteen years now. I think I’ve learned to handle it.” Christ, Stark was sounding just like O’Brien.
“Naw, you don’t let anything go.”
“And you do?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think I’m better at it than you are. I’m not saying that’s necessarily a good thing, Hannah. I’ve learned to close down, find distance. You can’t do that and it puts you in a lot of jeopardy. Someday you’ll end up stepping in front of a bullet because you are too emotionally involved.”
“Give me some credit, Stark. I can handle it.”
“Maybe that’s what O’Brien worries about the most. That you’ll be so loaded down that eventually you’ll stop caring at all about anything. We all saw how you beat yourself up about Elyse. You can’t carry that kind of guilt around forever without it getting to you.”
“I’m past that.”
“Sure,” he said and dropped it.
I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes, and thought about what Stark had said. He was right about the guilt. But Elyse’s death was my fault. I’d pulled her out of a fiery ocean after her boat exploded, only to fail her when the murderer had come back to finish the job. I’d failed as a cop and as her friend.
It had been six months now and I was still waking up with the same nightmare. In it, I was swimming through a viscous liquid, trying to get to Elyse before sea creatures consumed her.
O’Brien had sometimes diverted the dream before it was fully formed. He would recognize the signs while I slept, pull me in and hold me. In the morning, I’d wake up with my head on his chest and remember the half-formed images. He never asked me about the dream, but somehow he knew what they were about.
Chapter 20
Stark pulled the car into the marina lot. It was an exclusive facility, the equivalent of a high-end gated community in the States with million-dollar homes, except here they were million-dollar boats. The Mystic was among them. The guard saw us coming and spent several minutes ignoring us before he eventually turned to acknowledge the fact that we were standing in front of his guardhouse. Stark glared at the guy as he examined our IDs.
Finally, he opened the gate and pointed to the dock where the Mystic was tied. The hull had a navy blue sheen with “Mystic” etched on the back. She was huge, over a hundred feet long, sleek and modern, with windows that encircled the lower deck and reflected the sun. A satellite dish was perched on the top deck. On the back was an array of ocean toys—a wind surfer, a couple of Jet Skis, and a Zodiac.
One of the crew was leaning over the side of the yacht’s hull, cleaning it with a brush. She wore navy blue shorts and a yellow polo shirt with “Mystic” embroidered over a pocket. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She stood and tucked a loose strand behind her ear.
About then a guy appeared in a matching outfit, biceps bulging against the shirt, suspicion in his eyes. His hair was bleached blond, spiked, and cropped to an inch all the way around. He wore a gold hoop in one ear. The clothes were out of place on the guy.
He looked like the guardian of the Grail. I guessed the crew had been instructed to keep all intruders at bay. He introduced himself as Burke, the captain, but he looked more like muscle for the Mob th
an the captain of a yacht. When we told him we were police, Burke reluctantly allowed us to board and showed us to the salon.
I’d been on some nice boats before, but this thing qualified as palatial. Pillows in earth tones accented plush carpeting, overstuffed chairs, and a couch in muted browns. A bronze sculpture took up a corner, an angular abstract figure, arms lifted to the ceiling. The blinds were down and soft lighting cast a glow. A vase filled with orchids decorated the coffee table. Another was placed on the marble top of a wet bar.
Through an open door, I could see the dining room. The table, polished to a fine sheen, was set for two, with crystal goblets, china, and elaborate candelabra. A painting that I was sure was an original hung on the wall at the far end of the room.
Burke stepped to the wet bar, opened the refrigerator, and offered us drinks. I chose spring water. Stark took a beer. We settled on stools at the bar while he went to find Zora.
Five minutes later, Burke reappeared and said she’d be along. She was down in the gym finishing her workout. A gym on board? Christ.
Burke propped himself at the end of the bar, his arms crossed, and glared at us in silence.
“Nice boat,” Stark said, taking a swig from his beer.
“Isn’t she,” he beamed. Stark had obviously found something the guy wanted to talk about. “She’s one hundred and twenty-three feet, made of aluminum, has teak decks, and only draws six feet. Her engines purr at top speed—eighteen knots. She has four cabins, each with its own head and sitting area. Of course the master cabin is huge, with a king bed, a private Jacuzzi, and a small office. The gym is on the lower level—even has a sauna.”
“Must cost some money,” Stark said, never one for subtlety.
“Several million,” Burke said.
“Does Zora own the boat?” I asked.
“I guess you have to ask her about that. I just drive it.” He didn’t like the question.
“I see you’ve got a Key West hailing port.” I’d seen it etched on the back and noticed that the boat flew a U.S. flag.
