by Simon Wood
Josh refused to accept the findings, and he refused to believe Jack Murphy had failed to carry out a thorough inspection of his airplane. Jack was too much of a perfectionist and too much of a craftsman not to have
tightened any bolt to the torque setting laid out in the Cessna maintenance manual. Unsatisfied with the report, he drove to Davis Airfield.
Josh parked the car in the same spot he had the day of Mark’s death. He walked over to Jack Murphy’s
hangar. The orange windsock at the end of the runway hung limply against its pole. The sock looked like it was at half-mast in tribute. Josh thought it was fitting, seeing as the airfield had lost one of its own. Davis Airfield had never lost a pilot in its fifty-two-year history.
Josh entered Murphy’s workshop. The hangar had
the appearance of an elephant’s graveyard. A Cessna 172 in flying school colors lay slumped at the mouth of the building. The engine and its cowling had been removed along with the nose wheel assembly. Tubular
steel stuck out from the fireproof bulkhead like polished bones, and a tangle of colored wires hung down
like veins. The aircraft unceremoniously rested on its tail, no longer able to stand upright without its engine in place. A Piper Archer PA-32 stood propellerless on its wheels looking sadly at the gutted Cessna in front of it. A misshapen object lay hidden under a tarp like a corpse under a mortician’s sheet, but it was probably another of Jack’s unfinished projects.
The workshop was silent. This wasn’t right; it was guaranteed that Jack’s workshop rang with the sounds of him and his employees putting their best efforts into keeping these and other aircraft aloft. Josh called out.
The odor of used engine oil and grease filled his nose. A rustle of movement came from the small, shabby office at the rear of the hangar. Jack Murphy appeared at the doorway.
Josh crossed the hangar. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor.
“Hello, Josh. I thought I might be seeing you.” Murphy sounded defeated. “I suppose this is to do with
Mark.”
Josh raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, I haven’t come to accuse you of anything. I’ve just come to talk.”
“So you got the news from the FAA?”
“Yeah. Shall we go into the office?”
Murphy didn’t look good. It was obvious the loss of a plane and pilot from his workshop had hit him hard.
Murphy looked like dried fruit with all the goodness sucked out of it. To Josh, he had aged ten years in the days since Sunday.
The two men entered the cluttered office. Murphy
squeezed past the bulging filing cabinets and sat behind his wooden desk. Josh removed a stack of magazines from one of the two shabby office chairs before sitting.
He remembered seeing these types of chairs in dentist’s waiting rooms twenty years ago. Aircraft component manufacturers’ calendars, wall planners covered in a graffiti of hastily written notes and magazine articles of aircrafts of interest covered the wall behind the mechanic.
The flying club and the private aircraft owners
excused Murphy’s clutter because of his first-class abilities as an engineer.
“Do you want a coffee, Josh?” Murphy asked.
“No, I’m good, Jack.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
“Why aren’t you working?” Josh asked. “Where is
everyone?”
“I’m not sure there’s much point. The FAA is blaming me for the crash and they’re likely to take action against me. They’ll probably close me down.” Murphy doodled on his desk blotter with a pencil, unaware of what he drew.
“But people rely on you.”
“Well, that’s not a very wise thing to do. Letting me touch their birds is likely to get them killed,” the mechanic said pointedly.
“Jack.”
“Jack, nothing. One of my planes went and killed
someone.”
Josh let the subject die. Murphy wasn’t going to see sense right now.
“What do you say to their report that you left the oil cooler hoses loose and tail section bolts without split pins?” Josh noticed Murphy was unaware he
now doodled on an invoice on his desk and not the blotter.
“I don’t believe it.” Murphy threw the pencil down.
It went skittering across the desk and onto the floor. “I always do a wrench check after servicing. I even do an engine run to make sure everything is sealing. The oil cooler hoses shouldn’t have been loose in the first place, because I had no reason to take them off. What they found are fundamental errors that no mechanic would make. If I were that bad I wouldn’t have been surprised if the prop fell off.”
“So did you undo, then tighten the hose connections?”
“No. I didn’t need to. The same goes for the elevator and rudder controls. I had no need to touch the split pins. The pins were in good shape. I only tighten them when there is movement.”
“How do you know whether there’s movement?”
Josh asked.
“I paint a white line across the nut and bolt. If the white lines aren’t matched up then the bolt has moved, but they were all lined up. I swear to you that aircraft left me in better condition than it did the day it left the factory.”
Murphy’s explanation disturbed Josh. Murphy was
an honest man and a good mechanic. Josh believed his story. He was sure he’d done everything correctly and hadn’t touched the parts of the aircraft that had caused the crash. Josh’s paranoia antenna twitched. Why was he getting the feeling that Mark Keegan’s death wasn’t an accident?
“The thing is, in the twenty-five years I’ve been involved with aircraft, I’ve never known the bolts or the
hose connection to come undone before.” Murphy
spoke as if he were in the witness box. With the way things were going, he would have to be before long.
An uncomfortable silence wedged itself between the two men.
Josh knew no more could be learned. He stood up
and offered his hand to the distraught mechanic.
“Thanks for talking to me, Jack. I really appreciate it.
For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you for what happened to Mark.”
Murphy shrugged.
Josh left Murphy’s office and headed out of the
shade of the hangar for the harsh brightness of day. He was only halfway to the hangar doors when Murphy
called to his back. He stopped and turned to face him.
“If I didn’t know better…” He paused. “I would
say that someone wanted that plane to go down.” Ominously, Murphy’s words echoed throughout the hangar,
ricocheting off the walls like bullets, each one burying itself in Josh.
Josh opened the front door to let Abby and Wiener into the house. He unclasped the dog’s leash from his collar and hung it on a coat hook. The dachshund shook himself and trotted over to his water bowl. The dog was
tired after his walk to the park and thirty minutes of chasing a ball around.
Abby rolled a squeaky ball after the dog. “We’re
home,” she called.
Kate came halfway down the stairs. “You’re just in time. I’m running a bath for my little girl.”
“Oh. Do I have to?” Abby whined.
“Yes. If you don’t, I don’t think we can let you stay up this late on vacation.” Kate kept her tone firm, but not unkind. She was just negotiating her position with her daughter. It was a regular occurrence for Abby to take Wiener for an evening walk with one of them, but because Abby was on spring break Josh had taken
them late, after nine o’clock.
“Dad.” Abby turned to Josh for support.
“I think your mother’s right. A bath before bed.” He paused. “Or you could go to bed now. Your choice?”
The child thought for a moment. “I’ll have a bath.”
“Good girl,” Josh said.
Josh sat in the living room reading a book and could hear the noise of splashing and giggling coming from the upstairs bathroom. Wiener sat on the floor in front of Josh washing his tufted feet. The phone rang and Josh picked up the cordless handset from the coffee table.
“Hello,” he said.
“Josh, it’s Bob. Have you got the television on?”
Bob’s tone was urgent.
“No, I was reading. Is everything okay? You
sound—”
Bob cut him off. “Turn on Channel Three. Look at
the news. It’s on the TV.”
Whatever it was, it was bound to be bad news. Josh looked at the remote control on the coffee table and hesitated. If he didn’t turn the television on he would be ignorant. Ignorance sounded nice.
“Hold on, Bob. Let me turn the TV on.”
Channel Three was in the middle of a commercial
break.
“Bob, what am I meant to be watching?”
“It was on the headlines. It’s the next story up.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“Here it comes.”
The commercials ended and the cameras went to the news anchor, a sharp-looking black man in his thirties with a pencil moustache and glasses.
“We have a breaking story of corruption in the building industry. An anonymous source contacted the station this evening and made the allegation that the
Mountain Vista Apartments in Dixon were built to unsafe construction standards. We don’t have exact details, as yet, but Channel Three will be investigating all angles of this claim when we receive more information.
We now go live to Howard Decker outside Mountain
Vista Apartments in Dixon,” the anchor said.
The television image switched from inside the studio to the reporter, illuminated by television and security lights. He stood outside the apartments, kept out by security gates. The reporter looked serious and concerned
at the same time. He was conservatively dressed in a blue suit and white shirt.
“Thanks, Doug. Howard Decker reporting live from
the Mountain Vista Apartments in Dixon. The apartments behind me were built eight years ago. The development consists of over three hundred apartments and
condos. The anonymous informant alleges the apartments were built to inferior standards to save money.
“Our informant, who wishes to remain nameless,
says they have information detailing the major players involved and the shortcuts made.
“We’ve spoken to some concerned occupants who
didn’t want to be filmed tonight but expressed their concern at the revelation. We, of course, will be pressing for an investigation by the apartment management
company to establish the validity of the claim made exclusively to Channel Three. This is Howard Decker reporting live from Dixon. Back to you, Doug.” Howard
Decker’s serious face immediately brightened as he switched on a broad smile at the end of his report.
The screen returned to the grave-looking anchor. “A disturbing story—let’s hope we can get to the bottom of it. Debbie?”
The camera went to the female coanchor and she began a story about a farming policy going through the
state capitol. Josh turned off the television before she could finish.
“Josh, is that the apartment complex you were
telling me about?”
Josh didn’t answer.
“Josh, are you there?”
Josh had known as soon as they mentioned the name of the apartments that it was the construction project he had taken the bribe on. He couldn’t believe Bell had gone and done it. A chill ran through him, as if a chunk of ice circulated through his bloodstream.
Gooseflesh broke out along his arms and down his
back. Josh fell back onto the couch, relieved to be sitting down.
Bob was still asking if he was there. Josh interrupted him. “Yeah, that’s the project I worked on.”
“Do you think it was Bell?”
“It wouldn’t be anyone else. She came around after I came back from Forget-Me-Nots. She said if I refused to play along with her, she would do something to hurt me.”
“At least she didn’t mention any names.”
This is a warning. She will if I don’t comply with her demands.”
“Which are what?”
“I have no idea, but I’m sure I’ll find out.”
“Hey, man, are you okay?” Bob said. “You don’t
sound good.”
“Everything just seems to be going to hell. I think I’m losing this one.”
“Well, if you feel that way, you might as well give up and concede defeat. Tell Kate about the blackmail and the affair, walk into the cops and tell them about the kickback and tell Bell to go fuck herself,” Bob said sharply.
Josh didn’t understand Bob’s hostility, and the
change in character shocked him. “What’s crawled up your ass?” he asked.
“You. You’ve surrendered.”
“I haven’t given up.”
“Then don’t act like it. And if you need my help, call me. I’m here for you. But don’t give up on me, and more importantly don’t give up on you. You’ve got to bring this mess to a close.”
Bob was right. It was time to drop the self-pity. He had too much to lose by giving up.
“Thanks, Bob. I’ll be talking to you.” Josh hung up.
“Josh, is everything okay down there?” Kate called from the upstairs landing.
“It’s nothing. Everything’s going to be okay,” he said, but didn’t know if he believed it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The professional sat in his rental car, parked several houses down the street from Margaret Macey’s ranch home. He tutted his disapproval.
“Margaret, Margaret, Margaret, what have you
done?” he asked.
A police cruiser was parked outside the old woman’s house.
The cops won’t save you, Margaret. No one can save you. I told you that. The professional had warned her not to call the police; told her it wouldn’t do her any good. He’d discovered the police involvement on his scanner three days ago when he heard a request for a patrol to visit Margaret Macey. And here they were again, and he was certainly surprised to find them when he had something new planned for his target. But he could wait for the police to go. He had underestimated Margaret. She had more strength of character
than he gave her credit for. Her file had stated she was weak in all respects, but no matter, she could do little to hurt him and the police wouldn’t be able to track him. The police were more of a nuisance than a problem.
She would still die and it would look like natural causes. He waited.
He cast a quizzical eye over Margaret’s house. The siding had seen better days and looked as if it had been run through the washer one too many times. The moss covered wood shake was curled and hung at curious angles like the teeth of a none-too-proficient boxer.
The small, unkempt yard was ugly, filled with dead plants and overgrown weeds. Margaret’s house was no different than the neighboring homes. A shitty little house on a shitty side of town, he thought. He mused this was no way for someone to live out their twilight years. In the same position for over twenty minutes, his butt was going to sleep, so he shifted in his seat.
Like a cat watching its prey, he waited for the right time to pounce while he thought of the woman inside the house. A hundred and fifty grand—who’d’ve of thought it? An outsider would have never guessed Margaret Macey was worth a considerable six-figure sum, dead.
But how many times had he read about some old bird who lived like a bum with millions in the bank? Sometimes he failed to comprehend what made people tick. He could get into the lives of those he killed, establishing what they did and when they did things, but the
w
hy always eluded him. A horn blared from behind
and the professional checked his mirror. One car had cut off another turning onto his street and the cars had narrowly missed each other.
He returned his gaze and his thoughts to Margaret Macey. What a sad and pointless life she led. Life to her was a malignant disease prolonging her suffering.
He wondered if anyone besides Pinnacle Investments wanted to see her dead. He considered that he would be doing her a favor, ending her life, like a considerate owner knowing when to have his beloved pet put out of its misery. The near-miss cars sped past. The force made his car shudder on its wheels.
Josh Michaels’s life was in stark contrast to Margaret’s.
He had so much to live for. And if the professional was brutally honest, Michaels was a more challenging target and he couldn’t wait to get back into the thick of that assignment.
But to deal with Michaels effectively he had to
be totally focused on the younger man and not have the distraction of Margaret Macey on his plate. Anyway, it wouldn’t take much for the professional to rid himself of Mrs. Macey. A couple more phone calls and a personal visit should do it. He would be glad when he had disposed of her.
He remembered his nocturnal visit to Margaret’s
house two days after his first phone call from Josh Michaels’s party. His investigation revealed no security systems and poor quality door locks, making it easy to get in and out when the time came. The operation had all the hallmarks of a slick assignment. It would be like taking candy from a baby—or life from an old lady.
The professional smiled smugly.
His smile hardened. A swift disposal of one of his targets would get that prick, Dexter Tyrell, off his back. Tyrell’s attitude annoyed him. The executive knew nothing of the work the professional did for him and the inventiveness needed to meet Tyrell’s criteria.
“I want the people in the files killed in a way that does not raise suspicion. It has to look like an accident or a random act of violence. You know, accidents with machine tools, heart attacks, muggings, car accidents, hit and runs. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what to do,” Dexter Tyrell had said to him during their initial phone conversation two years ago.
