The Tipping Point: A Wainwright Mystery

by Walter Danley

  A man, whom none of them recognized, was lying on his back in the dirt alleyway. He’d been shot at close range in the forehead. The exit wound, while not visible, was presumed to be massive, based on blood loss, skull fragments, and brain matter splattered on the Anchor Chain’s brick wall. It was obvious the unknown man was thoroughly dead.

  “Can anyone tell us what happened here?” The chief reached for the closest person’s elbow, a man wearing a bartender’s apron, and turned the man to face him. The man looked pale, with dry cracked lips turning a sickly gray-blue. He had a faraway look in his eyes. He was gazing into the face of the chief constable but didn’t see him.

  “Toby, what has happened here?” The bartender’s name apparently was Toby, but he didn’t respond for several beats after hearing it spoken.

  “They was havin’ an argument, ’bout what, I dunno. Slocum and his new partner was. They got loud and I tells ’em to take it outside. They gets up and walks out of my place, nice as you please, then boom, I hears a shot and we all runs out to see. Attorney Rubens, he’s a hightailin’ it down the street like his arse ’tis afire. Then I looks and sees this.” He pointed to the body lying in the blood-soaked dirt.

  “Bentley Slocum, the lawyer?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, this here guy. I never seed any one move so darn fas’ in all my days as the other guy. He’s some high-steppin’ fool, that one is.”

  “Did you see which way he went from here?”

  “Some place down thar,” he said, pointing north, up the street fronting the alley. “I have no ideer where he was a goin’, but he was in a hurry ta get thar.”

  “Thank you, Toby. I’ll need you to come to the office for an official statement. We’ll call you so you may come when you’re not working.” Addressing the crowd, the chief asked, “Did any of you men see anything Toby didn’t mention?”

  A slightly built man in a Bahamian government postal employee’s uniform stepped up to the chief. He carried a well-used leather mail satchel over his shoulder. “Yes, sir, I was walking my route when Mr. Rubens came shooting out of this alley like the devil hisself was a chasing him. I had no idea then why he was running. Darn near knocked me down, he did, when he rushed right past me.”

  “You sure of the identification?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure. He held a revolver in his hand. I recognized it ’cause it was mine once. I traded Bentley Slocum for some legal work he did for the missus and me about six months ago. Said he needed a piece for protection up to his office. He had some not-very-nice clients, I guess. I was watchin’ his partner, Rubens, run up the street, when all these fellas come pouring out of the bar. Then I seed it, the dead guy was Slocum.”

  “How do you know the runner was Rubens?”

  “I deliver mail to their office, so I know him. It’s Larry Rubens, all right. New to the island, I believe. Also a lawyer, and was a new partner of Slocum’s, I guess. They changed the name on the sign out front and on their stationery to Slocum and Rubens, Attorneys at Law, is what it says now.”

  “My office will contact you for a formal statement in the next day or so. Thank you for the information,” the chief said to the postal carrier. Speaking to the crowd, which had no interest in dispersing, the chief said, “Gentlemen, there may well be a reward for the capture of Bentley Slocum’s killer. Anyone with information should speak to the constable here. He’ll take your statements and keep your name in the event of remuneration. Please make sure he has all your contact information before leaving the scene. And thank you all for your cooperation.”

  Mulholland looked around the group of men for Wainwright. At some point, he had slipped from the crowd. Wainwright was gone.

  Thirty-two

  “If we survive danger, it steels our courage more than anything else.” ~ Niebuhr

  WEDNESDAY—EARLY EVENING—JANUARY | Garth Wainwright ran toward the rental car parked a block from the café opposite the hotel. In his obsession to catch the only man alive who could pay for the deaths of his partners and near-destruction of his company, Wainwright wasn’t thinking rationally. Am I really chasing an armed killer? Leaving the scene of that day’s second murder, he drove in the direction of Freeport’s Grand Bahama International Airport as fast as was possible.

  It was his best guess, because he had no other way to know where Larry Rubens went, but Rubens was on the run and Wainwright reasoned he’d try to get off the island. The airport seemed to be a logical choice. Security at the airport would help Wainwright’s problem. Rubens will have to ditch the weapon before he enters the terminal building.

  He figured Larry Rubens had no more than a ten-minute head start on him—that is, if he was guessing right. If he was wrong, the killer would escape. Wainwright had landed at this airport fewer than six hours ago. Earlier that morning in Fort Lauderdale, Wainwright had studied the schedules while waiting for his connecting flight to Grand Bahama. There weren’t that many airlines. EastJetAir had the most frequent flights, but flew most outbound flights to Canada. He thought Rubens would go to the US, where his connections could help him. Another reason for a US choice was US pre-clearance agreement with Bahama Islands would be quicker with a US passport.

  Wainwright pushed the economy rental car as fast as the four banger allowed, his brain thinking faster than the little car ran. A couple of US carriers, but which would he choose? American Élan Airwaysor Channel? American flies to Miami, and Channelto Atlanta. The small regional carriers fly to other island destinations. It’s the States, I’m sure of it! Which one will Rubens choose—Miami or Atlanta? Guessing the wrong one will put me at the opposite end of the terminal building—ten minutes behind Rubens. I should have asked the constabulary or Mulholland for help instead of dashing off like an asshole. Too late now. Come on, asshole get a move on. Anyway, this is my fight, not theirs. Those were my partners he murdered. If I catch him in the terminal, unarmed, one-on-one, I can take the bastard down. Bravo, asshole! Talk yourself into it, why don’t ya?

  Wainwright’s mind was jumping through hoops as the car skidded to the curb at the terminal building entrance. He flung open the door, jumped out, and dashed for the entrance, abandoning the still-running car on the spot.

  He remembered passing the American Élan Airways gate this morning. He’d flown EastJet Air from Fort Lauderdale and AE was three or four gates down from EastJet. He didn’t know where the Channel gate was and, depending on schedules, he might not have time to find it. Inside the terminal, he found the arrivals and departures board; it indicated an on-time departure of American Élan for Miami was gone. He missed his best shot.

  Still guessing, still trying to anticipate the fugitive’s movements, he scanned the board for a flight to Georgia. That one left from gate eight, and the departure time was close enough that passengers would now be boarding. He sprinted through the lobby toward the departure gate at the far end of the terminal. He executed an acceptable head-fake, then jogged around the security guard and kept going. He did not intend to stop to answer certain curious security questions from the authorities. With luck, the rent-a-cop guy will call for help and follow me to the gate, I hope. A little help please. He also trusted that his guessing was right and Larry Rubens would be found at the place to which he was desperately running. This small island airport, called Grand Bahama had a huge terminal which featured very long corridors. Wainwright ran as fast as he had ever run gimpy leg, cowboy boots and all, for better reasons than he ever had before.

  BJ wanted to find another hotel and think. What she needed now was a man to love her and take care of her. She was painfully aware the role Bennie served had now been savagely severed. She had no time for grief. The truth was, she felt sorry only for herself and her regretful state of affairs. She was rarely without a protector, and didn’t intend for that circumstance to become permanent. She thought through the scattered pieces and parts of a plan. She needed time and a place to think.

  If her idea of a plan worked, she’d be leaving the isla
nd sooner than later. But she did need a car. The Black American Express card would leave an unadvisable trail she didn’t intend to provide anyone. She’d use cash and rent a car.

  Bennie was dead and she was alone: Two ghastly facts BJ must soon challenge. The thought of not being loved by a man of wealth and stature made BJ feel insecure. She detested feeling that way and feeling it now made her mad. She knew her rage would soon overcome the anxiety.

  Barbara Joyce Dreaver, always a resourceful girl, needed every bit of that ol’ BJ now. And that ol’ gal did ride to the rescue, like the hero in a Saturday matinee serial cliffhanger. Her plan was both daring and practicable. If it worked—well, if it worked… La dee da…La dee da.

  Wainwright got to gate eight and saw people queuing for check-in to the docked aircraft as she received her passengers. He didn’t know how many passengers the plane held, but there were less than two dozen people still in line. He had no idea what Larry Rubens looked like; he’d never laid eyes on the man, so he had no way to identify him. All he knew was the name. He’d gotten here by following a series of guesses made on the run. Anyone of them could be wrong. Hell, maybe they’re all off the beam and I’m at the wrong place at the wrong time. All right, think, damn it! This is a guy who killed your partners…killed Keating. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he gave the instructions and money to the one who did. You have one shot at this bastard—one. Do it right the first time, ’cause that is all it is ever gonna be.

  The line was moving and people were departing down the Jetway. The mental pep talk did some good, because just then, Wainwright remembered the law firm brochure in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced again at the back page. That was what he needed: two headshots: one each of Larry Rubens and Bentley Slocum, Attorneys at Law, slick shysters smarmily smiling out at the world. He looked at the remaining people in line. No Rubens there, smiling or otherwise. Wainwright walked over to the gate agent collecting boarding cards. He showed her the brochure with Larry Rubens’ picture.

  “Excuse me, Miss. Did this person board your flight?”

  The gate agent glanced at the picture but continued to receive gate passes, smiling and repeating an insincere “Welcome aboard” to her passengers. Her immediate job was to get the plane loaded and out of the gate on time, not stand around chatting up some stranger.

  “Mmm, I don’t know. He might have boarded, but I can’t be sure.”

  The last passengers in line were walking down the Jetway to board. The gate agent was shuffling boarding passes into a small brick, pretty much ignoring Wainwright.

  “Miss, this is very important—police business. I want you to call your operations center and have the departure delayed. Then call security and get them down here to search the plane for this man.”

  “Sir,” she said in a loud and commanding tenor, “I cannot do that. I don’t have the authority to stop the plane.”

  Wainwright grabbed the back of his neck. Christ, almighty! Why are there people like her that can’t think past the end of their own nose? Before he could think of a way to get around this unattractive attitude of the gate-guard’s, he heard the booming baritone answer to the agent’s excuse coming from another direction.

  “Well, I do.” The chief constable’s deep voice filled the corridor behind Wainwright. “I will take all responsibility for the actions he has asked of you. Now make the calls, and please hurry.” The chief constable marched toward Wainwright with a posse following him: Supervising Special Agent Mulholland, a detective he’d seen at the penthouse suite, and the airport security guard Wainwright ran past. Everyone was armed—everyone except Wainwright.

  Mulholland took the folder from Wainwright and showed the picture of Rubens to the rest of the posse. As the chief finished admonishing the reluctant gate agent, another airline employee emerged from the Jetway, closing the security door behind her, and joined her colleague speaking with the police. She identified herself as the senior gate agent.

  Mulholland offered his credentials perfunctorily and said, “I need the aircraft stopped and searched right now. There is an escaped fugitive onboard. This is a picture of him. Will you check your passenger manifest for Larry Rubens, please?”

  She did, and determined Larry Rubens was on board this flight. “He was assigned seat 24D on the aisle, about a third way back from the front.” Mulholland and Wainwright simultaneously let out a breath neither one of them was aware they’d been holding.

  The senior gate agent picked up the wall phone near the Jetway door. Wainwright followed her to the window next to the security door. He looked down to the ground crew area below the boarding ramp. The senior gate agent spoke rapidly on the phone and then hung up. Wainwright couldn’t hear what she said, even though he stood only a few feet away. She dialed another number, spoke briefly, hung the phone up again, then walked back to where Mulholland was standing with her co-worker and the constable. Wainwright stayed next to the Jetway door.

  “Departure will be delayed until Grand Bahama International Airport police can search the plane,” the senior gate agent told the group. “A security detail is on the way now.”

  The airport security detail arrived en masse—six armed men in uniform and two in suits bulging slightly on their left breast pockets. Uniforms wore a bulky black flack-vest. They spoke to the chief constable, Mulholland, and the two gate agents about how they would proceed to board the plane and extract the fugitive. Mulholland turned away from the boarding party and addressed the chief. “Sir, would you please arrange to have a prisoner transport van sent to the airport right away? I believe we’ll need it shortly.”

  The quiet of the almost-empty gate area was shattered by a security alarm klaxon. The horn clanked while a siren screamed its sound on top of that. Everyone looked at the Jetway door—it was closing on itself and Wainwright was no longer standing at the window.

  The FBI man sprinted after him. He’d gotten away with allowing a civilian to become enmeshed in a criminal pursuit so far, but this was pushing the envelope. Mulholland had to stop this stubborn, dedicated amateur before his bulldog instincts cost him his life and Mulholland’s career. Mulholland drew his weapon and followed Wainwright down the Jetway. At the elbow, where the giant circular knuckle at the end of the ramp emptied into the plane, no Wainwright was to be seen.

  Mulholland saw the plane’s passenger hatch was open and a flight attendant—he still thought of them as stewardesses—stood in the open space. Her bewildered look softened at the same time she saw Mulholland’s badge case hanging from his jacket pocket.

  “He heard the pilot’s PA and got up and ran out this door. He opened it and ran before I could get out of my safety harness. What in the wor—”

  “Did he go down these steps?”

  “I’m not sure… but I did see another guy run down the Jetway, and he went that way,” she said, pointing to the exterior stairway.

  Wainwright exited the Jetway through the door to the exterior stairway. From the top of the stairs, he saw Rubens, the perpetrator of murder using the alias Dallas, attack an airport cop on the tarmac. She didn’t see the attack coming from behind her. Dallas caught her unaware. He connected some kind of long metal tool with a swing to the side of her head. The cop went down in a heap. He dropped the tool next to her unconscious prone body. Dallas grabbed the sidearm off her Sam Brown duty belt before he took off running. Wainwright was not far behind. Nice goin’, pal. You’ve cut the bastard’s lead from ten minutes down to a few seconds. Just hope to hell he doesn’t point that pistol at you.

  Mulholland opened the Jetway passageway door to the exterior stairs and slid more than stepped down the metal ladder to the ground. He looked left, then right. What he saw made an “Oh, shit—no!” slide directly from his brain to his mouth in one long exhale. The crumpled body of an airport policewoman lay sprawled on the tarmac next to a beat-up yellow tug. Her holster was empty.

  Mulholland bent over the prostrate officer. She had a gash on the side of he
r head above her left ear, and it was bleeding badly, but she was alive. He heard the posse that pursued him into the Jetway approaching. “Call for an ambulance. He has her weapon. Close down the airport, now!” he screamed as he ran after his unarmed friend who was pursuing an armed killer. With Wainwright’s hobbling limp, Mulholland thought he should be able to close the gap between them.

  Wainwright’s previous confidence that Larry Rubens dumped Slocum’s firearm before entering the terminal was now moot. He couldn’t have gotten to the gate carrying a gun, but now he had a big bore .40 caliber semi-autoloader in his hands.

  As Wainwright chased after Dallas, he thought, Sonuvabitch, how many people you gonna hurt today? Not one more, if I can help it, and I sure as hell hope I’m not that next one. Wainwright was frightened when he started after Dallas. Now, seeing him take the policewoman’s sidearm, he was scared shitless. But what could he do? There are three possible outcomes here. If he stopped, Reubens gets away. If he keeps chasing him, maybe Wainwright is shot. Then of course, there is the unlikely event he’ll catch him or he decides to give up. Two of three against—lousy odds. Just keep that bum leg pumping and hope that the bastard doesn’t get a shot off.

  Dallas ducked under the belly of a big Boeing parked a few gates up. He turned back, just for the second it took to send a shot at the man chasing him. No time to aim, he just wanted the guy, whoever he was, to stop chasing him.

  Bam!

  The shot went wide, puncturing the cinder block wall next to his head. The gunshot reverberated off the metal skin of the parked plane. So much for getting what you wish for. Wainwright kept running as best he could with a gimpy leg in cowboy boots.