by David Stever
Single-engine planes lined the length of a blacktop runway. My aircraft knowledge was limited, but I guessed Cessnas and Pipers. Portable canopies covered a few and I noticed they were all anchored in place. To the left of the main building were the two hanger-like structures. On the first was a sign: Shelton Flight Services.
“The sign,” I said. “Shelton.”
“Duly noted. That the hunch?”
“Could be. You ever fly in one of these small things?”
“A couple times,” she said. “Kind of fun. You?”
“No, I got a thing about heights. I need to be in a jet with flight attendants who serve drinks.”
“Sissy.”
A man came out of the building and spotted us, waved, and he walked up. “Hi there, Bill Davis. How can I help you?” He was about six one, my height, but had a rotund belly, full head of white hair with a matching long beard. Easily a mall Santa at Christmas.
“I’m, John…my wife Monica. Curious about flying lessons. We haven’t the first clue. Always been a bucket list thing for her.”
“You are in the right place, come on in.”
We went inside and he began the lesson spiel. Ground school classroom instructions, training hours needed, the expense, medical requirements, all leading up to the first solo flight.
“What do you think, honey?”
“This is all exciting. I’m not sure. Are you the instructor?” she said to Bill.
“Not anymore. Cataracts in one eye got me grounded. We have two other young guys who teach. Excellent pilots, years of experience—both learned to fly in the military. Bobby and Tony.”
“You own all this? You said your name is Davis?”
“Used to. I still have all the land, just sold the flight operations business.”
“I saw the sign. Shelton Flight Operations? Is that Stan Shelton?”
“Yep. The football player, owns the car dealerships.”
“Of course. He flies, too?”
“No, he keeps Bobby on call, mostly. Busy guy, always going somewhere. Fun, though. He comes out here, hangs around, telling stories. Checks on the business. When that good old boy gets wound up talking, hoo wee. He can’t stop.”
“I met him at a party once. He is a character.”
“Oh yeah. That’s his plane over there. The twin-engine Beechcraft.” He pointed through the window.
“It’s bigger than the others. How many seats?” Monica asked.
“Six. Real beauty. He gets his money’s worth, too.”
“Very cool. Honey, you get your license, and we’ll buy one of those and you can be my private pilot,” I said.
“Wouldn’t you love that.” She jabbed my ribs with an elbow.
“Hey, we have plenty of women come here and learn.”
“See,” I said. “Bill, what is the flight-based operations?”
“Sells all the fuel and maintenance. The mechanics work for him. And the flying lessons are his, too. Plus, he plans to build three hangers, so he’ll be able to rent space to pilots. Guys around here love him because a decent injection of cash has been needed for a long time. Can be lucrative if we stay busy.”
“Interesting. Well, a lot for us to digest, right, sweetie?”
“Quite a bit. Who are the instructors again?”
“Bobby Rodriguez and Tony DeRenzo.” He handed us business cards and we thanked him.
As we got in the car, I scanned around for the black Jeep Cherokee. Nothing. “I love it when a hunch pays off, and this one paid way more than I expected.”
“DeRenzo?”
“Yes. Are you thinking what I am thinking? We need to talk to a pilot. I have a thousand questions.”
“I am calling a friend of mine who flies. And by the way, luckily for you the hunch paid off, because if you called me honey or sweetie one more time, you were going to get your wings clipped.”
33
The meeting of the brain trust convened promptly at six o’clock in the ultra-secure isolation of the back booth of McNally’s Irish Pub. In attendance were Detective Monica Mattson of the PCPD, apprentice private investigator Katie Pitts, and me. Carlos Suarez, our part-time bartender and cook was handling the bar duties, so Katie was free to and dig in and earn the hours needed to obtain her PI license. As soon as I told her I wanted her in the meeting with Monica and me, she changed from her jeans and T-shirt into her all-black outfit.
“Any update with your pilot friend?”
“Tomorrow at ten,” Monica said. We had already briefed Katie on our excursion to the airfield and discovering Anthony DeRenzo is a pilot.
“So, they could be flying girls to Port City from Atlanta?” Katie asked, as she typed away on the laptop.
“Possible. Seems it would be easy to track, though. My understanding is all flights need to register a flight plan.”
Katie stopped typing. “I read once where the Mexican drug cartels fly drugs across the Caribbean Sea and the pilots stay under the radar.”
Was flying under the radar actually possible? “You read this where?” I asked.
“No idea. Sometime in college.”
“Monica, a question for your pilot friend.”
“Katie is correct. They can fly low. Not sure about flying up the East Coast with the Coast Guard monitoring air traffic. We’ll find out. Let’s switch to land. What did you find on the trucking companies?”
Katie opened a file on the laptop. “A lot of information on the two you gave me, but nothing that would raise any flags as far as I could tell. Hit the Road Trucking carries consumer goods to the North and Northeast, using regular eighteen wheelers. Deep South Trucking hauls steel from Birmingham to the Northeast and lumber all over the country. They use flatbeds. I don’t know how to search for anything suspicious.”
“Do they both drive routes through Port City?” asked Monica.
“Not sure. I found out trucks are equipped with ELDs—electronic logging devices that track the truck’s movements and hours driven. We would need access to the logs. And you asked for names of drivers, and none of that is online. I say we hack in, access their drivers’ contracts and run background checks.”
“We need warrants to legally hack, and we don’t have probable cause. I don’t know any hackers with those skills,” Monica added.
Katie and I exchanged a glance. We worked with a kid not long ago who could hack into any site anywhere. He paid a price and swore off hacking. Plus, he was somewhere in California touring with his band.
“Forget it, it is a long-shot lead from the FBI. Something tipped them to those two companies, so let them follow up. Our best bet is to stay focused here,” Monica said. “I’m intrigued by the flying aspect. Nothing new—traffickers use any means necessary, but now we add names to the equation.”
“Wait…yeah, this is perfect. Mons, close your ears. What are the chances we can stick a tracker on Anthony’s car?” Katie asked. “We then follow him, and when he is at the airfield, put some eyeballs on the action.”
“Eyeballs on the action?” I asked.
“Sure, surveillance. Duh.”
Mad Dog giggled at her. “Yeah, Johnny, surveillance.”
“Katie, you have the solution for Anthony’s car,” I said.
“I do?”
I nodded. “Details when our detective friend can’t hear us. The less she knows, the better. On to the meeting tonight with Dee Dee. How hard do I press? In my two meetings with her, I bet she has yet to tell the truth.”
“Hard. Tell her the cops are all over the trafficking and she needs to come clean or you will serve her up.”
“I’m not sure. She links Stan to the business and is also the connection to Anthony and Talia. If we spook her now, it might kill any angle into their organization,” I said.
“Fair point. Make Stan the weak link. Tell her you are worried about his mental state and that he is threatening to do something stupid,” Monica said. “The phone call said he needed to complete the deal. If he won’t
fess up to it, maybe she will.”
“Depends which Dee Dee shows up.” My phone rang, Stan’s name on the screen. “Stan?” I pressed the speaker for Monica and Katie to listen.
“They just called again, Johnny.” His voice was animated. “They want the transfer today or something bad will happen. No more of putting my name in the papers—said this has now escalated and I will pay a steep price if I don’t follow through.”
“Where are you?” I motioned to Katie to pull up his GPS.
“Home. What do we do?”
“Stay put. Give me some time.”
Katie showed me her computer screen. His car was at his house. “I will call you later. And don’t worry.” I ended the call. “Just because the car is there doesn’t mean he is.”
“He sounded scared,” Katie said. “Do you think they’re serious?”
“Might be a bluff,” Monica added. “If he is the money, they need him.”
“Yeah, why cut off the source?” I sat for a second. Both stared at me, waiting for me to talk. “Bad Ass One and Bad Ass Two. I hope you are ready, because we have work to do.”
34
“You surprised me,” Dee Dee said, as she sat down at the table in Joey Mac’s. Across from me this time, not beside me as she did in our second meeting.
“Why?”
“I said our paths would cross again but I didn’t think so soon. I thought I blew it the other night. My intentions were obvious, but you didn’t bite.”
“We have another matter to clear up first. Plenty of time for me to bite later.”
She laughed. “Fair enough, but I hope nothing too serious.”
“Our friend, Stan. Who is extorting him?”
“Whoa, right down to business. Didn’t even order a drink yet.”
I waved to Joey, and he stopped at our table.
“Vodka, with some ice,” she said. He went off. “Extorting? I thought all that died with Kenzie.”
“He received another call, asking him to complete the deal. What deal did he make and with whom? I think you know.”
She shook her head. “No idea.”
“He never told you? Confided? Confessed his secrets?”
“No. He is your client—ask him.”
“I have, but he denies any deal.” I paused, leaned across the table a bit and lowered my voice, hoping to pull her into my confidence. “He is embarrassed, and I’m worried about him. The stress is causing erratic behavior and I’m afraid he might do something stupid.”
“Stupid how?”
“Panic. Go to the police. I tell him to stay home and then I find out he is flying down South to some golf tournament. I didn’t even know he owned a plane.”
She paused. To register the fact that I was now aware of the plane? “Yeah, he is unpredictable. We’ll have a date set up, and he won’t show. It happened a few times.”
“Help me protect him from himself. Can you remember anything Kenzie might have said?”
“No, I swear. She was scared, but it was her own doing. She obviously cooked up a plan with some nasty people. I am sorry. Not sure what else I can say.”
“He is the one who is scared. He tells me there is no deal, only the demand for him to pay, or be exposed to the world. He is not a bad guy, just a reckless juvenile. A big kid with money. I want to help him, but to do that, I need you to tell me everything you can about Kenzie. Friends, clients, anything. I need a name.”
I sensed her frustration. She sipped her vodka and sat back with her arms folded. Defensive body language and for all the playacting she did on a nightly basis, this performance was not creative at all. She could do better. And she tried.
“The first time you and I met, I was frightened. Kenzie was dead, and I remembered how she told me to stay out of her business. Then, after the meeting with you, I realized her life had nothing to do with mine. Sure, we compared our regulars all the time, including Stan. No secret he’s loaded, so maybe her harebrained idea sprang from there. She likely seduced some scumbag into making the phone calls, told him there would be a payday. Other than that, I don’t know any of her friends.”
“Who would be calling him now?”
“Same said scumbag.”
“Trying to work the scam himself? He told Stan to transfer money to a bank that is registered in the Cayman Islands. A bit more complicated than handing over cash to some punk on the corner. I listened to the second call and it sounded as if he agreed to a deal. What about Talia? Could he have made a deal with her?”
“Talia? I’m not privileged to company business.”
“You two never talk shop?”
She stiffened in her seat; her eyes hardened. “Gee, we are a long way from me flirting and hoping to go back to your place. Did you meet with her?”
“Yes, and I want another meeting. And I want you to set it up.”
“No, none of this concerns me.”
My frustration was now on the rise. “Talia, Stan, Kenzie, her accomplice—all are spokes on a wheel. And guess where you are? The hub. The bull’s-eye. Smack in the middle. Everything connects to you. If he did agree to some money deal, that’s on him. But the extortion ends now. Or, I bring in the cops on the blackmail of a Fantasy Escorts client, and your name will be front and center. Daniella “Dee Dee” DeRenzo. Sorry, it’s a dirty world, and the cops love a juicy hooker-celebrity case. Ask Paul Ellison. Oh, wait, he’s dead, and I guarantee it was not a suicide. Get in front of this now.”
“A threat? Not very becoming.”
“Not out to hurt you. A name, and time with Talia, and I keep you out of it.”
The flirty woman from two nights ago was gone. She was expressionless, her eyes examining mine. Calculating what to show and what to hold. “She used to buy drugs from a guy. Lamar Shanks.” She finished off the vodka in one gulp and stood. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Understood. The meeting?”
She pulled a twenty from her purse, threw it on the table and walked out.
I sent a text to Katie. “She’s leaving.”
Joey came over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think you two are friends anymore.”
“A blessing, paisan, a blessing.”
Monica and Katie picked me up in the alley behind Joey Mac’s. “Well?”
“A car service both ways,” Katie said.
“I figured as much. Ready for job number two?”
###
We were in Monica’s Camaro with her driving, me shotgun, and Katie and her long legs scrunched up in the back. We parked a half-block away from Mrs. DeRenzo’s rowhouse. The call needed to be made in proximity to the house in case it would be traced.
Katie called 9-1-1. “Yes, I am in front of 1148 Twenty-Seventh Street, and there is smoke coming out of the roof. No, I can’t see any flames, but a lot of smoke. I can hardly breathe. My name? Bernadette Wojokowski. Okay, thanks.” She closed the burner flip phone.
“Bernadette Wojokowski? What?” Monica asked. “How did you come up with that name?”
“We were best friends, but her family moved to Chicago the summer after sixth grade. We decided to be pen pals and wrote letters each week—”
“Katie. Later,” I snapped. “Careful with the names. Never use anything that can be linked back to you.”
“Okay, geez.”
Within four minutes, three fire engines roared down Twenty-Seventh and converged in front of the DeRenzo residence. Firemen hopped off the trucks and went to work, pulling hoses. Two pounded on her door. An upstairs light blinked on and seconds later, she opened the door. Spotlights turned night into day as curious neighbors poured from their homes, many in robes covering their nightclothes. A ladder reached from a truck to the roof of her house.
Two firefighters escorted Mrs. DeRenzo, in her housecoat, away from the action. She had a phone up to her ear while she watched men carefully traverse the ladder to her roof.
Firemen climbed around on the roof, searching for a source to the nonexist
ent fire. Eight minutes had elapsed when a black Jeep Cherokee with black rims screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. Anthony DeRenzo jumped out and ran to his mother.
“Go, now,” I said. Katie pulled her black ski cap over her head, tucking her blonde hair underneath. “Now. You should already have the cap on.”
I opened the car door, and she squeezed out from the back, trotted to the left rear fender of the Jeep, ducked down, and placed the GPS tracker, secured in a magnetized housing, in the wheel well.
“Unbelievable. You know how many laws you two broke?” Monica asked.
“At least three.”
“Try four. And I love it.”
Katie was back in the car in less than thirty seconds. “Okay?”
“Perfect,” I said. “You are becoming quite proficient.”
“At breaking the law,” Detective Mattson scolded.
Anthony DeRenzo’s arms flailed in the middle of a circle of firefighters as neighbors crowded around. I’m sure he demanded answers, as in someone needs to pay for this prank.
“Monica?” I said.
“Yes?”
“You can drive now.”
35
DEA Agent Nick Villano walked into McNally’s at exactly 10:00 a.m. as scheduled. I unlocked the door a few minutes earlier when Monica arrived. Over six feet tall, broad shouldered, muscular, and a flat stomach. I hated him already. He sported an old-fashioned flat-top haircut and had his sunglasses parked on top of his head. In a T-shirt, jeans, and tattoos covering both arms, he was a walking recruiting poster for the military—my guess, a Marine. He gripped my hand with a bone-breaking handshake, and I thought I would never want to be on his bad side.
“Nice to meet you, sir. How can I help?” he said.
Monica filled him in on the sex trafficking case and how our investigations crossed. Also, my background as a detective before going private. Then provided a bit of his resume in the Navy—my guess was wrong—as a pilot.
“Can a plane fly at a low altitude, undetected by radar, is our question. We believe the girls—and it’s all speculation at this point—are being flown to Davis Airfield by a six-seat Beechcraft,” I asked.
