by David Stever
“Sure, happens all the time. On the East Coast of the US, planes are not really undetected by radar, but if they turn off the transponder and maintain a low altitude, it can be done. It would take an experienced pilot familiar with the terrain. People moving drugs, or in your case, people, can be very creative.”
“Transponder?”
“All planes have one. It sends and receives signals to air traffic control. That’s how the controllers identify the plane and its location.”
“And if it is turned off?”
“You are on your own. Stay less than three thousand feet, don’t run into the mountains coming up the eastern part of the county. The problem is, with the transponder off, they can’t find you if you get in trouble.”
When she first mentioned him, I wondered whether he and Monica had a past, but he came off as an ultra-square, follow the rules type, which would not mesh with her roughshod, break all the rules style.
“Davis, huh?” he said. “Bill Davis trained me for my private pilot’s license when I was seventeen. Excellent pilot, one of my favorite people. I stop out every so often to say hello. He could answer all these questions.”
“We met him, but only to check out the place. We were a couple interested in flying lessons,” Monica said. “He has a pilot there we suspect.”
“Copy that. Damn, Bill is an upstanding guy. If he found out his airstrip was used for trafficking, he’d shoot those guys himself and then call the cops.”
“Want a coffee? We have stronger.”
“No thank you, sir. I need to be going anyhow.” We all slid out of the booth. “Monica, Beth says hello.”
“Give her my best,” she said.
They hugged, then he squeezed the life out of my right hand, flipped down his sunglasses, and was out the door.
“Is Beth his wife?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason…just wondering. Seems like a nice guy.” I sat down.
She put her palms on the table with a sly grin creeping across her face. “You thought he and I were a thing.”
“No, I did not.”
“Oh, damn. You did. Delarosa is jealous.”
“Sit down.”
She slid in the booth as Katie walked in the front, locking the door behind her. We were not scheduled to open for another thirty minutes. “Who was the guy I passed and why was the door unlocked?”
“Nick Villano, DEA agent and pilot. Teaching us all about flying aircraft under the radar,” Monica said.
“And I missed him? Damn, he is one tree I’d like to climb.”
“You and me both, but he’s married.”
“Down to business, please? Lamar Shanks?” I said, killing the lustful drool of the Nick Villano fan club.
“Married? Figures.” Katie opened her laptop computer on the table. “What about before he was married? The two of you?”
“How about you and I dish later. Johnny is jealous, and we don’t want to further upset him,” Monica jabbed.
“No kidding?” Katie was eager to take full advantage and pounce. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type.”
“Sit down. Shanks?” I said, not able to hide my chagrin.
“Struck a nerve, Mons. Interesting. Maybe I should threaten to call Leah. Work my own blackmail scheme?”
“I’ll split it with you.” They slapped a high five.
“Are you two finished? Shanks and DeRenzo, please.”
“Mons, are we?”
“For now.”
They both worked last night on background information on Lamar Shanks after Dee Dee gave up his name as a credible Kenzie accomplice. If he connected to the blackmail, my goal was to end it now.
Monica pulled a sheet of paper from her jacket pocket. “Lamar Jerome Shanks. Thirty-three years old. Did two years in Janesville for possession and distribution. Still on parole and his PO says he is clean and current with parole requirements. Works building maintenance for Port City Community College. Address is an apartment in Fulton.”
“Nothing to add. No military background to connect him to Anthony. Remember, we never got an address for Kenzie. If he was her dealer, it must have been a few years ago,” Katie said.
“Monica, when did he come out of Janesville?”
“Year and a half. Do we check him out?”
“I do. If you go, he’ll clam up. I go as a PI helping my client. Katie, our buddy Anthony. Address?”
“Townhouse in Wentworth. He drove there after the terrible fire at his mother’s house. Hasn’t moved all morning.”
“By the way, DeRenzo and Roberto ‘Bobby’ Rodriguez were honorably discharged from the Army, and both did multiple tours as pilots in the Middle East. Rodriguez was from New York. They probably connected in the service. Also, I checked with the FAA and both are rated for instruments and twin-engine aircraft,” Monica added.
“Which means they have the expertise to pull off a low-altitude night flight.” I slipped out of the booth. “Text me Lamar’s address. Monica, we’ll call you if Anthony moves. And by the way, the muscles, flat stomach, and the tattoos are all compensation for being lousy in bed.”
“Sure,” Monica said. “Keep telling yourself that.”
36
The address for Lamar Shanks was in Fulton, an older, worn-out section of the city. Garden style apartment buildings with bars on the first-floor windows were commonplace. Lamar’s was no different. Each building had a glass front door. Beside the door was a directory with unit numbers and names and a button to press. I thought announcing myself was not the smartest move, so I yanked on the door and it opened. So much for security in a high-crime area.
Shanks was one flight up in 2B. From inside the apartment, a game show blared from a television. I knocked. The volume lowered, the locks clicked, and the door cracked open, pulling the safety chain taut. An African American man peered at me.
“Hey, is Lamar in? Name is Delarosa.”
“Not here.” The door slammed shut and the TV volume went back up.
I knocked hard and said through the door, “I’m a private detective, and only want to ask a couple questions about a mutual friend.”
The door opened again, the chain drawing tight. The same man. “I highly doubt me and you have a mutual friend.”
“Kenzie Fitzgerald. I’m not the police, only want a minute. Please.” I held up my investigator’s license. “A minute.”
“Already talked to the cops ’bout that.”
“You did? Who? A detective? Shit, those bastards. They accuse you of anything?”
He stared at me through the opening, his eyes running me up and down. The door closed, the chain slid, and he opened it, nodding for me to go in. I did and walked into a wall of acrid smoke hanging in the air. One way to start your day—smoking weed with the Price is Right. I thought I would be buzzed just by standing there.
Shanks was skinny, in his thirties, with short dreads, a white wife-beater T-shirt, baggy jeans, and three gold chains around his neck. He disappeared into the kitchen, came back and handed me a business card. Paul Ellison.
“When was he here?” Damn, he was a good detective.
“Other day.”
“He ask how you knew Kenzie?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you say?”
“From back in the day.”
“He ask about how she got killed?” He nodded. “And?”
“Like I told him, I don’t know nothing about that or her life. Haven’t seen her since I got out. I’m keeping cool, doing my thing. On parole, with no intention of going back inside.”
The apartment had an L-shaped living and dining area with only a sofa, the television on a stand, and a small table. Nothing in the dining room, no pictures on the walls. If he had money, it certainly was not spent on interior decorating.
“I understand. But how did Detective Ellison link you to Kenzie?”
“Hell if I know. That it?”
“No, because I am now you
r best friend.”
“Shit.”
“I said I am a private investigator, but my concern is not Kenzie Fitzgerald. My concern is Stan Shelton.”
“Who?”
“The car dealer, old NFL quarterback. Every other commercial on TV.”
He shrugged. “So?”
“He’s my client. And I believe Kenzie was running a play against him, trying to jack him up for cash.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“You tell me. Ellison had your name and now I do. Why? Someone is giving you up as her partner in the blackmail scam. Kenzie put you up to making the phone call for a nice payday. Then she gets dead and here you are, in your shitty apartment, so you decide to call Stan again, on your own. Am I getting warm?”
“Hell, no, dude. You need to go.”
“What, you don’t want to find out why I am your best friend?”
He opened the door. “I got to go to work.”
“Detective Ellison is dead. And he took all his notes with him. The only person who can connect you to Kenzie is me, and whoever is handing out your name like candy.”
He closed the door. “Dead?” His eyes were wide.
“Yep, found him floating in the old quarry.”
“Dang. Hey, nothing to do with me. Man, I can’t have any cops coming around to jam me up on a murder thing.”
“All between you and me now. Here’s the deal. Stop the blackmail calls, and I lose your name. All my client wants is for this to go away. So, take it from the top. Kenzie contacts you, tells you about a guy who is loaded, all you need to do is make the call to Stan…”
“Ridiculous, man. How do I trust you?”
“My client is worried his name will be leaked if the cops are involved. You stop calling, it all disappears.”
“Wait, what are you talking about? Stop calling? I only called one time.”
“Once?” We stared at each other for a second. “Tell me what happened.”
“Shit, man, if this goes bad, I will do some damage on somebody.” He paced around in a small circle. “Kenzie shows up here one night. I figure she wants to get high, but I tell her I’m not dealing anymore. Trying to get my life straight, know what I’m sayin’?”
I waved my hand through the haze hanging from the ceiling.
“Nah, man, she went hard. So, she tells me about this other deal. A rich dude, and a shot for some cash. I agreed, made the call, then nothing. I don’t hear from her. I reached out, nothing. I figured I got played and it went down without me. Then I see her on the news. I swear, that’s it.”
“You only called once?”
“Yeah. One time, now she’s dead and I got cops up in my shit.”
I believed him. Not sure why, but he certainly did not seem to be the type to possess the business acumen to open an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands. I handed him my card. “Anyone else comes around, keep your mouth shut, except to call me. You got my word; your name stays with me.”
“I ain’t going back to Janesville for making a call to some dude.”
“Don’t blame you. Trust me.”
I opened the door and stepped out, happy to leave the hanging marijuana haze and breathe the putrid, urine-tainted air in the stairwell.
He stood in the apartment doorway. “She was a fine ass white chick. She never had any money, so we worked out an arrangement. Partied and such.”
“I can only imagine. I bet you miss her.”
“Man, I’m in mourning.”
###
My phone buzzed as I got to my car. A message from Katie:
“Anthony’s car headed to Davis.”
“Okay, tell Monica. I’m coming in.”
If Lamar only made the first call, who made the subsequent demands? Anthony? Was he in on the blackmail from the beginning? And was Lamar their scapegoat in case the scheme backfired? Dee Dee had given me Lamar’s name. With Kenzie dead, how did Paul Ellison link her to Lamar?
37
My second text from Katie came through as soon as I turned on to the highway. Stan’s car was also headed to Davis Airfield. I jumped off at the next exit, and pulled into a gas station and called her.
“I am going to the airfield. Stan has me curious.”
“Pick me up.”
“No, stay on the computer. Text with any changes.”
I ended the call amid her loud protest and opened the maps app on my smartphone, deeply pleased with myself that I learned how to operate the phone. The airfield was on Parish Road, south of Port City, five miles inland from the ocean. A quarter-mile prior to the airfield was Old Church Road, which ran east-west, parallel to the runway, and now my destination.
Thirty minutes later, I first drove past the airfield to check the parking lot. The black Jeep Cherokee and a blue Corvette were side by side. I turned around in a driveway and doubled back and turned left on Old Church, putting a corn field between me and the runway.
After a few hundred yards, I pulled to the shoulder and hoped I was isolated enough that my car would not draw suspicion. I grabbed my camera, the 300 mm lens, and a pair of binoculars from the trunk and headed into the six-foot-tall stalks of summer.
I trudged through the field, staying between corn rows, ducking when the stalks were short, and arrived at the edge of the field, where the corn provided the perfect cover. I took a supine position and the long camera lens brought me to the tarmac, with the small terminal building in the background. Two men walked around the twin-engine Beechcraft in an apparent pre-flight inspection. I easily identified Anthony DeRenzo and assumed the second man was Rodriguez, and snapped off several decent shots of his face and the call numbers stenciled on the tail rudder.
Not two minutes later, the booming voice of Stan Shelton carried across the runway. He had come out of the terminal wearing the most god-awful yellow pastel pants and a white golf shirt. He gathered the men in a huddle. The fact both pilots conducted a pre-flight check of the aircraft was meaningless, but with Stan added to the mix, it meant everything. Was he a willing participant of the alleged trafficking of young girls through Port City on their way to New York, or were Anthony and Talia keeping him in the dark?
The two pilots boarded the plane, started the engines, and taxied to the far end of the runway. The propellers roared as the Beechcraft rolled along the black strip, eventually lifting into the air, climbing in altitude, and disappearing as a shrinking dot in the sky.
For a moment, I thought about the beautiful the sight of this man-made machine taking flight, until I remembered its vile mission. Shelton remained on the tarmac with a phone pressed to his ear. I photographed it all.
He went inside the building and I decided I had seen enough. DeRenzo and Rodriguez leaving on a sunny afternoon proved nothing, but them returning under the cover of darkness with a full-complement of illegals would prove everything.
I emerged from the maze of corn to find a man sitting on the hood of my BMW. He spotted me and hopped off. Not a tall man, but the shotgun in his arms made up for his lack of height. He wore overalls, a blue T-shirt, a John Deere ball cap, and had a long white beard.
“Now, exactly what can I help you with?” He leveled the weapon at my chest.
I raised my hands, camera in one, binoculars in the other. “Nothing. Name’s Delarosa. I’m a private detective.”
“Really, now. And you are investigating, what? Insects on my corn? What did you find? Aphids? Beetles?”
“I was tracking a few men at the airport and your field here made for a perfect vantage point. Didn’t mean to trespass. No harm done.”
A pickup truck traveled down Old Church toward us and stopped behind my car. The driver’s door opened and a man hopped out. Bill Davis from the airfield, with a striking resemblance to the man holding the shotgun.
“What the hell is going on here?” he said.
Mister Shotgun responded, “This man says he’s a private detective investigating something at the airfield.”
&nb
sp; Bill Davis came a little closer. “Hey, you’re the fella from the other day. You came in with your wife.”
Hoo boy. This could work in my favor, or, on the off-chance Bill Davis was a partner in the trafficking operation, this could be very bad for my health. I remembered how Nick Villano said Bill Davis was a great guy.
“Yes, Mister Davis. Sorry about the other day, and not being truthful with you, but the woman who was with me is Detective Mattson with the PCPD. We were working a case that unfortunately could involve one of your pilots.”
“You mean the good-looking gal with the freckles? She’s a detective?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be damned. What kind of case?”
“Rather not say.”
“You’d rather not say? Well, this here is my brother Jacob, and you are on his farm. And the twelve gauge in his hand is kindly asking you to tell us what you’re investigating.”
A reasonable request if I ever heard one. So I did, taking the gamble that Davis could be complicit in the nefarious activity. If he was, then I was soon to be fertilizer in the field. I explained how we suspected Anthony DeRenzo, and possibly Rodriguez, were using Stan Shelton’s plane to bring girls through this area on their way to New York.
After what I thought was going to be a staring contest ending in a shotgun blast, Jacob finally said, “Shelton always was a bullshitter.”
“You’re saying they’re flying in here at night with illegals from South America?” Bill asked. “Sounds far-fetched to me.”
“It does, but Nick Villano can vouch for me. I met with him, and he said you were his instructor. We can contact him.”
“Nick?” He paused for a moment, took a cell phone from his pocket and made a call. After a second: “Hey, Nick? Bill Davis.” He walked away, out of earshot. A minute later, the phone was back in his pocket. “Put the gun down, Jacob,” he said. “Explains a lot.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Fuel usage I couldn’t account for, canceled flight lessons because they said Stan had them flying all night. They would always blame it on him being spontaneous. Like today.”
