“Haven’t flown on one for fifteen years. It was expensive then.”
“That’s my point. The cost, the inconvenience. It’s dehumanizing. I think seniors in the twilight of their years deserve much finer things. Something that will cater to finicky sensibilities. I couldn’t think of a better way to reach a paradise destination than with one of our corporate jets. No sense in using the Lear five-five. How’s that old Citation holding up?”
Auggie shrugged. “She’s airworthy, I guess. I don’t think the maintenance logs are up to date. The tires are bald. She’s more than behind on a scheduled inspection.”
“We’ve still got insurance on her?”
“Yeah, I think we’re paid up. You might have to ask Linda to make sure. But if you’re thinking about a flight to Bermuda, I wouldn’t advise it. That’s a lot of ocean out there.”
“That’s my point. Bear with me on this. She’s got a questionable airframe, an engine that’s on it’s last wheezing breath. Given her age, she’s not in the best of shape. However, she could make it. The decision to use her might appear a harmless oversight.”
“We’d have to get the engineer and pilot to sign her off.”
“The engineer doesn’t have to know where she’s going. Just that she’s worthy enough to take to the air, which would require him to sign her off with a couple of pen strokes. If the pilot sees a glowing inspection report, he won’t have any qualms about making the trip.”
“Possible.”
“Suppose the Citation had an in-air emergency over the Atlantic. The pilot would send a call out on the emergency frequency. If the situation were dire, a panicked pilot might decide to abandon the aircraft. He might parachute out once he had reached below ten thousand feet. The pilot wouldn’t stand much of a chance for rescue once he hit the water. Unless there was a watercraft waiting below that had those GPS coordinates, the exact location of the incident. If the pilot knew he had a chance for rescue, such a thing could come off without a hitch. If it had a faulty locator device, the craft would disappear into the ocean without a trace.” Drake snapped his fingers. “Poof!”
“That would be a terrible accident,” said Auggie, slathering his tongue over his lips.
“Yes, an unfortunate accident, Augustus. After a five or six-day search by the coast guard, it would be called off with the presumption that the craft, along with everyone aboard, were lost. I think the grieving process alone would go on for weeks. I could imagine how the relatives would take the news. Days off work, counseling, therapy, all of that would be involved.” Drake feigned a sad look, leaning forward. “Buck Reynolds is still our pilot, isn’t he?”
“Yep, Buck’s still with us.”
“I believe Buck is the type who has self-preservation in mind. It wouldn’t surprise me if he followed such a course of action. Auggie, I’m wondering if you can grasp all of the colors I’m using on this canvas.”
“Looks like a Rembrandt to me. But I can make sure it looks like a Picasso to others.”
“That’s what I needed to hear. Any questions?”
“Hmm, passengers on their way to a vacation destination. In-flight trouble. Accident. Check. I was wondering if your parents were frequent fliers.”
“Of course. They deserve a much-needed rest. We all know that flying over an endless expanse of water is enough to put anyone to sleep. Older folks can conk out anywhere. They’d be snoring away, dreaming about sunsets, beaches, hotel reservations. No stress, panic, or pain.”
Auggie stood up, his knees cracked. “The thing I’m wondering about is the departure time, boss.”
“There’s no hurry. Take some time to set it up. Maybe next week. Pick a mild, sunny day. The kind of day that’s perfect for a flight to Bermuda.”
“Can do.”
“That’s what I like about you, Auggie. You can expect a nice bonus in about a month for the overtime. Oh, keep your telephone traffic to me in the normal range. No flags, no tags. I won’t have to be appraised of any ‘mission accomplished’ type message. Just normal business transmissions.”
“Will that be all, Mr. Labrador?”
“I think that’s enough for now,” said Drake. He couldn’t contain a muffled laugh while he watched Auggie cross the carpet headed for the door. “Oh, Auggie.”
“Sir?”
“You can assure Buck that things are going to turn out all right—make it sound harmless and routine. But I don’t think you have to send that pickup watercraft hundreds of miles out there. It would just be an unneeded expense. We’ve got to tighten up a little bit around here.”
“Sure thing.” Auggie left, shutting the door with a soft click.
Drake grabbed a telephone book and thumbed through the pages. He found funeral services in the alphabetical listings. He looked at some of the prices in the advertisements. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “That much nowadays?” There was always a chance they wouldn’t find the bodies, negating the purchase of caskets.
A rap at the door drew his attention. He shut the book. “Enter.”
A man peered around the door edge, smiling with an almost apologetic look. Not any man, Drake noted with disdain. A Catholic priest. He looked like a male model, his blond hair hanging like a wet towel.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” said the priest. “I’m Father Geminus from the local parish. I was just wondering if you were available.”
“How did you get past security?” Drake asked. “My chief just left two minutes ago. You’re in a restricted area.”
“Please forgive me.” The priest cornered the door, then clasped his hands prayer-like. “I must have walked right through him. Hah! On a serious note, I was told that I could find you here. One of your staff gave me directions.”
“What staff? Look, I don’t have time for—please shut the door behind you. My visitor roster is very full right now.”
“Not to worry.” The man held up his hand like a stop sign. “I’m so glad I found you. I’ve seen your picture in Fortune Five-Hundred, People, Computer Age. I’m Father Janus Geminus. You’re Drake Labrador, aren’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“It’s a pleasure, an honor to make your acquaintance.”
Before he could stop him, the priest rounded the desk with his hand extended. Drake eyed him, knowing he was about to have the bite put on him. Why else would a man of the cloth be wandering around Cyberflow hallways without an escort or visitor’s badge? Drake refused the handshake.
Janus raised his arms at the open window expanse. “A breathtaking view. Even if it is a parking lot. Nice garden planters though.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“You know,” said Janus, spinning around and laying a palm on the phone book. “You strike me as the type of man who wouldn’t think twice about putting something back into the community. You have the potential to reach thousands, even millions of people less fortunate than yourself. Some of our greatest philanthropists have discovered this outlet. Their contributions have left an indelible mark on society, not to mention brought their names back up into the spotlight of notoriety. You could reserve a first class seat in the social register.”
Drake winced. “Who do I write this check out to?”
Janus began fanning the pages of the phone book with his thumb while thumping a finger on the cover. “You won’t regret this. I can’t begin to tell you how this will help our organization. You can make it out to the Boy Scouts of America. Regarding the amount? I’ll leave that up to you. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. I just hope you’re feeling generous today.”
Drake ripped a check out of his company binder and began filling it out, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the phone book, or the priest, who kept blathering away, smiling like an idiot. The man grinned like a dopey Samoyed dog, thought Drake, handing the check over. He thought that ended the visit. He was wrong.
Janus eyed him, the grin vanished. “This will never quite make up for it. It never goes away, you know. Somet
imes the severity of the repercussions can fall from the sky and land on us like a mountain. There’s nowhere to hide.”
Drake shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
Janus’s smile returned in all of its idiocy. He waved the check in the air. “I was talking about the financial trouble in the BSA. There! I think the ink is dry.” He looked at the check. “A whole ten dollars! Fabulous. What an impact that will make. You have no idea what you’ve done. But you will. I can’t thank you enough.”
Drake didn’t want thanks. If the priest didn’t want the donation, he’d take it back. All he wanted was for the guy to get the hell out of Cyberflow. Drake started to say as much, but Janus turned away. In doing so, the priest knocked the phone book to the floor. Drake bent to retrieve it, noticing that the pages were splayed out. It was opened to the funeral section, the exact page he had been looking at earlier. He slapped the book back on his desk, but when he opened his mouth to say goodbye, he found the office empty. The priest had vanished.
“I hope you choke on it,” Drake said to the door.
Chapter 6
After showering, Avy decided on her lavender jogging suit. She tugged her hair into a ponytail, then shoved her feet into her best running shoes. Now she was dressed to twist into a pretzel if Sebastian asked her to. But there was one thing she wanted to do before going to the theater—stop by the library.
She drove down Hillsborough Street and parked in the Harvey Sibbitt Library parking lot. Once inside the library, she went to the administration desk with her driver’s license in hand. An aged woman had her back to her, stacking books on a shelving unit. When she turned around, she caught sight of Avy, slapped a hand to her mouth, and dropped an armload to the floor.
Avy stepped back, fearful she’d done something wrong.
“It’s your face,” said the woman, emphasizing the noun.
“What’s wrong with it?” Avy dug in her purse for a mirror.
“Nothing’s wrong with it. You look like someone who used to come in here.”
Avy blinked. “Was it Avalon Labrador? She was my mother, and she used to live here.”
The clerk fanned herself. “It’s just so striking. You could be twins. I knew your mother. She was a peach. I am very sorry about the way things turned out. The trial made the headlines here for months. Dear God, it was a regular media circus.”
“There’s no need to apologize.”
The woman handed her a form. “I’m Abigail Folger. Let’s get you started on a card.”
Avy filled out the form, which got her a temporary. “Do you have an archives room? I might need tapes that go back to the nineteen seventies.”
“Forgive me for asking, but would this have to do with your mother?”
“Well, yes.”
“You’d be swimming in the microfiche for days to search out all of the articles. You could get that information face to face from the man who knew her better than anyone. Raymond Hammersmith. He’s worked at the women’s correctional facility for thirty-five years. He gathered everything in a scrapbook, spending months following the trial like a bloodhound. It would save you the hassle.” She brought out a phone book from under the counter. She wrote down the address and pushed the paper slip across the counter.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” said Avy.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
###
Hammersmith’s residence was on the South Side, on a street called Flag. It was a dusty, silver trailer on an unkempt lot. A large oak tree with a rotted tire swing sat off center in front of the entrance. Flagstones led up to the door, which looked like a submarine hatch. Six pots held rhododendrons under an aluminum eave. A small sedan cowered under a flimsy awning. The place screamed poverty, given its condition.
After she parked, Avy strolled up the walk, then rapped on the door. The trailer suspension creaked under heavy footsteps. The door opened with a squeal. A large man, fifty something, stepped forward holding a coffee cup. He squinted.
“Hello,” said Avy, throwing on her best smile. “My name’s Avy Labrador. I’ve come here because I think you can help me.”
The coffee cup slipped from his hand, swung on a pudgy index finger, its contents splashing on the wooden steps over Avy’s shoes. The man gawked, taking a step backward.
Avy licked her lips. She would try this again. “Like I was saying, a certain person gave me your address. I’m sorry to bother you, but you knew my mom, right? I was wondering if you could answer some questions.” There, she got it out in one breath.
“Man, I’m so fucked up,” said the man. “I mean, I’m super shocked. For a minute, I thought Avalon had dropped out of a cloud to come haunt my ass. But you’re not her!”
She narrowed her eyes. “I sure hope you’re Raymond Hammersmith.”
“They call me Chubby.” He stared at her. “Yes, yes, come in. By all means!” He back-peddled, allowing her in. She entered, looking around for a moment. She chose to sit on the end of a stuffed chair, not wanting to get too comfortable. She watched him hurry around the corner, then heard a racket of clashing dishes. Something hit the floor with a ping. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” he hollered.
“Thanks for inviting me.” she shot back.
She looked around again. Cluttered. A table held a stack of detective novels, sitting on top of an even larger stack of crime magazines. Several rifles sat in corner crooks, while numerous pistols lay scattered about on the top of cushions. A TV hung from wires, eye-hooked to the ceiling. Near the couch, something resembling a fuzzy slipper came to life. The tiny dog stretched once, then walked with an arthritic shiver into the kitchen. Then she heard, “Gretchen. Get out from underneath my feet.” In another minute, Chubby appeared with a cup, saucer, and napkin. “I know just how you like it,” he said. “Guh. I mean, I hope you like it this way.”
She accepted the cup, watching him study her. Avy sipped the brew. “Just right.” What the heck else was she going to say?
He stood in front of her, wound up like a taut spring. She began to fidget under his pop-eyed gaze, wondering how she was going to bring up the subject. According to the librarian, this was the man who had followed her mother’s trial and possibly had the information she was looking for.
Chubby backed up to sit on the armrest of the couch. Now they were both perched on armrests.
“I hope I didn’t freak you out,” Avy tried. “There’s a huge resemblance. I promise I won’t be long. I just have a few questions about my mother.”
Chubby brightened. “Oh, sure. Fire away.” He lifted a thick, three-ring binder from an end table, opened it up, then flipped a few pages.
“I guess I’d like to know if the arrest was as bad as I’ve been told.”
He crossed the floor to give her a clipping. “This pretty much explains what happened.”
Avy read the ink-smudged newsprint, while she sipped the coffee.
Law enforcement officials were tipped off about two bodies found in the vicinity of Interstate twenty-nine. The deceased are Tom Labrador and Judge Ronald Gillian. The identification of one of the deceased men led police to an undisclosed residence, where an adult female was questioned. The woman was taken to headquarters for further interrogation. She remains a person of interest in this case. No one has been formally charged. The investigation is ongoing.
Avy handed the short clipping back. “It sounds like she was the main suspect from the beginning.”
“Yeah, two months later the district attorney was set to go. The prosecution hammered her the first day. They said things like ‘irrefutable evidence’ and ‘slam dunk’ because they were so sure that Avalon was guilty. The defense attorney was a friggin nitwit. All he did was bring in people to testify to her character. Seems like she had the whole neighborhood on her side. They had some nice things to say about your mom. Nobody believed that she could do anything like that. But all of that ended up being immaterial.”
“Do you believe she committed the murders?”
“Nah, not even from the start. I could read her pretty well. I was assigned to her cellblock for a long time, and I got to know her. We talked about a lot of things. Strange thing was that she had no memory of any of it. Plus, she was just too broken up over her husband getting killed like that. They had to remove her a dozen times during the first two weeks of the trial, because she couldn’t look at the autopsy photos. Never have seen a woman cry so much after knocking off her mate. It just didn’t make any sense. There was no hate there.”
“It sounds like you followed the trial, then became good friends with her.”
He looked sad for a moment. “She was the best.” He pointed to his chest. “Inside here, you know.” Then he patted the binder. “I documented everything. Up until the end when the jury reached the final verdict, pronouncing her guilty of capital murder. Then the penalty phase came later—death by lethal injection. Man, the protests flew hot from everyone. There were letter campaigns to the attorney general, the mayor, governor, even the Supreme Court. Nothing worked. Even the appeals. A second lawyer was appointed, but he couldn’t pull any rabbits out of the hat. In fact, he was worse than the first one. She never got a retrial.”
“Then it all came down to the end fourteen years later.”
“Yeah, just over fourteen years. They found out she was pregnant while they were strapping her to the gurney. What a train wreck. They had to lay down a major cover up to keep it from the press. The two doctors assigned to her got canned for incompetence a year later. Nobody could figure out how Avalon got pregnant. They ran all kinds of tests, trying to find out who the father was. The prison reps didn’t have any comments for the media, who were all over the story because they thought it was a botched execution. They never did find a DNA match. All the gals in the prison said that it was the Ghost Lover that came in to do the deed.”
The War Gate Page 6
