“You’re right, I’m so sorry. It’s wrong for sure. Did she file a complaint?”
Grace calmed down a bit. “No, she told me she was intimidated by him. He’s pretty senior, Charlie. Holly is employed only a year and doesn’t want to leave after just arriving. Looks bad on her resumé, and it’s not even her fault.”
Charlie let a few seconds pass. “Sorry to hear all that.” He waited another moment or two, feeling horrible for Holly, then dove in. “What else? What was second?”
A bar patron waved from behind Grace to talk with someone working behind the bar. A woman appeared with a nametag that said, “Níamh, General Manager,” so Grace leaned closer to talk with Charlie as to not interfere. It helped to get closer to him now that the bar was getting more crowded.
“I can see the congressman’s texts. On his phone. He gave us his PIN last year so we can schedule things with Mrs. Anderson. Dinners and stuff, around kids’ sports.”
“That’s pretty normal, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it would be, except he has outlandish texts from someone named Ray Parker. He also has pretty demanding texts to Richard about something. Wants him to take care of business, real fired-up angry. Wants it done… super demanding.”
“Wants what done?” Charlie asked. Do I know a Ray Parker from flight school? “Wait, isn’t he from a movie?”
Grace just about spit out her wine, laughing. “Sure, Charlie, the congressman is getting threatening texts from some actor.”
“Oh, they’re threatening?” Charlie asked.
“Wait, you’re mixing up the texts. The ones I could see from this Ray Parker, yes, definite adversarial relationship. The congressman had deleted most of the conversations, but I read the most current one. Separately, the texts from Richard are about working on a timeline project, and the congressman is on his ass. Wants him to hurry up and get it done,” Grace explained. She fumbled around in her purse now, searching for her phone.
Charlie ordered a second stout while she opened her phone.
“I took a photo. Look for yourself,” she said, handing the phone to Charlie.
He held the phone up so he could see it, enlarging it with his two fingers. On the image, it read:
“Finish this, Richard. Get it fucking done ASAP. I want it OVER at that base and get Ray off my ass. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I will wrap it up very soon.”
Charlie’s mind was racing, and the first thing he thought of was why she had access to his personal phone. That didn’t pass the common sense check to him.
“This is a bit weird, that you have access to his phone. I don’t allow anyone to have access to mine. It’s that-”
“We do personal things for the Andersons from time to time. Two years ago he missed a campaign stop, and was absolutely mortified because it offended a private donor. He blamed us, his staff, saying it wasn’t on his schedule.”
“And?” Charlie asked with sarcasm.
The band’s instruments were being tested, and a few strings of the guitar were played.
“Well, in response, someone mentioned they don’t have access to his private calendar, so to save face, the congressman gave his phone login info to a few trusted, select people in the office.”
“So, you have access to his schedule. How does that translate to texting?”
“Charlie. Come on, you know. When you pass your phone password, you can see more than just his schedule. That’s a nifty way to see stuff, right? Because if you have someone’s ID and password, you can totally do all that.”
Charlie shook his head and had a look of shock on his face. “Wow, Grace. What in the hell is going on up in that office?”
Chapter 32
Lansing Residence, Sanborn, New York
With the sun’s rays sneaking through the basement window like a laser, the dust particles danced around like they were at a waltz. Despite being clean to the eye, the damp and musty basement could not hide its 200-year-old age.
Richard’s cat Muffin patrolled around the small living room back and forth a few times, looking for her toy mouse. It could have been the one thing in the basement apartment that didn’t have an exact home, a precise place designated for cat toys. With ease, she jumped up to sit in Richard’s lap, and he stroked her smooth fur in silence.
Richard was still in New York and on reserve orders, working at the base this week. He stood up in the dim room and walked over to the worn wooden arm of the mustard-colored couch and picked it up with both hands, rotating it toward the bare wall. He kicked a small table out of the way to make space, and the legs slid on the floor, making a deep screeching sound. Richard then picked up the other end of the couch and moved it so that end was aligned. Richard sat down again so that he faced the bare wall, sitting in silence and staring into the abyss.
The door creaked open at the top of the stairs. “Zoon? Is that you?” his mom asked. Hearing or seeing things well was a challenge because of her old age.
“Ma, I’m busy, all right? Don’t bother me!”
In a frail voice, Mrs. Lansing spoke anyway. “I signed for your meds today from Veterans Affairs. And a separate package came that I had to sign for in my name. Een packet. Wat is het? I didn’t order anything, but it was in my name,” she said.
Richard had the look of terror in his eyes and yelled back. “You didn’t open the package, did you, Ma?”
“Nee, nee. No. Your VA meds and this container of liquid is at the top of the stairs, Richie,” she said, then shut the door.
Once Richard heard the door close, he went back to planning. He kept pressing the knuckle of his thumb on his lip. Back and forth. Tapping. A few minutes went by.
Extending both his legs in the basement living room, he realized now he was too close, so he pressed his feet on the wall and pushed the couch back a few inches. Richard extended one leg at a time, measuring the distance to the wall with his legs, and seemed to be comfortable with the space he created. He then placed his hand on the wall in front of him, measuring the distance, liking the new adjustments.
In an unusual set of repetitive steps, he pressed his left leg off the wall and, with a quick twist, turned his entire body to the right so that he was sliding off the back of the cushion. His chest was on top of the couch when the maneuver was complete. Richard sat once more, looking straight, staring at the wall in silence. Repeating in a quick fashion, pressed off the wall with his left leg, turning to the right so that his stomach was on the top of the couch. He extended his arms out far, like he was reaching for something in the air.
He did it again, and again, and again, even at one point using a stopwatch to time his movement. Richard also was whispering the same three words, in sequence, like a cadence. “Stomp, turn, extend.” Again. “Stomp, turn, extend.” Do it another time. “Stomp, turn, extend.” Again. Satisfied with his performance of the maneuver, counting to himself 547 times so far, stopping once.
He squinted at a sunbeam coming through the window curtains, happy with his performance so far. With his insomnia, he stayed up all night, repeating his steps.
“Stomp, turn, extend, Alex.”
Spaulding Lake, Clarence, New York
The cardinal birds chased each other across the freshly cut lawn like World War II fighters as the spring day took hold with clear skies and calm winds. It was just the opposite of a Buffalo winter day, and everyone in the neighborhood was outside enjoying the weather.
People were out running, kids were playing, and there were plenty of bicycles on the roads and trails. Because of the great weather, Ray thought it was excellent timing for a motorcycle ride, so he grabbed his black helmet, got on his HOG, and rode all over the Buffalo area. His destination was Clarence, New York, just off Route 5, a luxury suburb east of the city.
He drove the bike up the long driveway, making a racket through the entire neighborho
od. People that looked like him just didn’t cruise the area on a loud bike, through neighborhoods with gigantic homes and driveways full of 3- and 5-Series BMWs. Buffalo had some old money in downtown, but in this area, a lot of fat mortgaged homes and car loans out the ass was the norm. The bankers owned the neighborhood, and the neighbors felt they had to keep up with the Joneses.
Strong and confident, he got off the bike and walked right up the front door and rang the doorbell. A little boy answered the double wooden door, opening it real wide, hitting the doorstop.
“Helloooo?” little Owen Anderson answered.
“Hey, big boy. You must be Owen. My name is Ray Parker,” he said. Wearing blue jeans, a dark V-neck that now displayed his extensive chest and arm tattoos and scars, and short hair and earrings, normally seen in a neighborhood other than this type.
Just as he said his name, Janice Anderson came to the door, “Hi, may I help you?” She was wearing a black terrycloth bathrobe, face full of makeup, and looked to have been getting ready for an occasion. To Ray, she looked beautiful.
“Hi Janice, my name is Ray Parker. I work with your husband Bruce at both his Buffalo and Washington offices. He asked me to stop in and wait for him. I know he’ll be home soon,” Ray said, lying.
“It’s nice to meet you, what did you say your name was, Ray?”
“Yes, Ray Parker,” he said, ogling her.
“Come on in, Ray, have a seat in the living room. I’ll bring you in a beer while you wait for Bruce. I know he’ll be home any minute.”
“Thank you, Janice,” he said, smirking.
Owen and Bobby came running in to see Ray, mesmerized that a motorcycle rider with tattoos was in their house. The kids came right up to him and asked him questions.
“Where did you get all those tattoos? Is that a cross? That one looks like a skeleton head.”
The kids also saw the thick scars but didn’t ask about those.
“Prison. And around the city. Lots of talented artists around, yo. They do excellent work. You like these?” Ray said, engaging with them.
Owen’s eyes were huge. “Prison? Wow!” He continued to search Ray up and down. “What are those letters on your fingers?”
Ray chuckled and put his fists together.
Bobby shouldered his 7-year-old brother out of the way. “It says C-H-I-N on that hand. And C-H-E-K in the other. CHIN CHEK! Chin check. What does that mean?”
“Means I can check someone’s chin with my fist, like this, yo…” he said as he moved it across each of their jaws in a harmless manner. Ray was tough as nails and would put a knife in someone in a heartbeat, but compassionate with kids.
“When I grow up, I’m getting tattoos like Ray!” Bobby said, running off. His brother followed, and they ran out of the room past their father.
Bruce walked in on them, pissed off beyond belief. “You have one set of balls on you, Parker. You come to my house on your motorcycle, and you talk to my kids in my own living room?”
“Brucie, I told you in Washington, I’m not dancing around, yo. Right? I like your kids.”
Bruce was growing impatient with the Niagara Red Kings, knowing they didn’t understand the fundamental ways of Washington. Washington was just slow and bureaucratic. The political machine was inefficient, and it was difficult to explain to even legit business leaders and local community officials.
“First, don’t ever come to my house,” Bruce told him, his face scrunched up and turning red.
“Not too shabby of place on a government salary, hey, Bruce?” Ray said, both of them knowing he was taking side cash for years. “Cathedral ceilings. Big in-ground pool out back. Fancy piano here. Plastic surgery for the missus.”
Bruce was heated but didn’t yell. “Second, you tell your father and the leadership I am on board one hundred percent. Just did that presser, which I know you saw, putting it all out for the public to save the base. Got my right-hand man working on a final blow to close the base down. Something embarrassing,” Bruce told him. “It’s gonna happen, damn it.”
“Brucie, we are ready to do some DCR bro, debt coverage ratio. Financing. Shadow banking style. Already checking on, like, price per unit and square footage. You must think we’re amateurs. Sheeitt. Yo, we got plans for retail stores. Maybe that Buffalo Cap company. Our people want this casino and hotel built. They need jobs. We are awaiting your grants. Ready to throw down and make some of this business happen. Need to pay for this material, right?”
A part of Bruce liked Ray and was amazed that someone that grew up so disadvantaged was able to self-educate and grow. While he was in complete disagreement with his style of leadership, Bruce did admit to himself he was both smart and savvy. “I promise you, this week will be big. BRAC is going public and my guy is working something. No later than Friday, alright?”
Smiling, Ray turned and walked to the door to leave, catching both little Anderson boys hiding around the corner watching him. Ray put both of his fists together so they could read his letters one last time, and leaned in close to them. “Chin check!” both little boys yelled, excited. They ran around in circles, repeating, “Yo! Yo! Yo!”
Ray nodded across the baby grand piano and over at the large antique grandfather clock ticking. “You’re running out of time, Brucie. We got commercial leases coming. Class A buildings, bro. Apartments for wealthy Canadians. We’re not idiots. Next time I need to come calling, there won’t be no more talking,” he said. “Remember that.”
Chapter 33
Niagara Air Base, Niagara Falls, New York
Sitting at Zeke’s round office table that afternoon was Ford, Grape, and lab technician Frank. They were conducting small talk until Zeke cleared his throat and nodded to Frank, signaling he was ready to go over his findings.
“Zeke, you want PowerPoint or what?”
“Frank, ya kidding, right? PowerPoint makes you stupid. Just talk us through it.”
Grape laughed out loud, and they all looked at him.
“Frank, plain language. Grape tells me you have a lab report finished?” Zeke asked.
“Yup. Sure do,” Frank said. He passed around a copy of the report, a single sheet. “We were pulling junk out of the engines last time we saw you. So, we ran the research under the scopes, did some materials analysis, and got it. We wanted to know the material composition, structure, chemical properties, and if metals were present.”
“Well, what’d ya find?” Zeke asked.
“Found you some natural fibers located just outside the engine casing, internal to the engine compartments and housing, but outside of turbines. It was in an area that burned most of the evidence, but left some for us to look at. It consisted of bamboo, linen, and cotton fibers. Some chemical dyes were detected, and some synthetic components.”
Zeke’s face said it all and was taken aback. “Like, what Frank, some aircrew member left their flight jacket in the intakes? In each intake, fraying material?”
“No, no, not quite like that.” Frank adjusted his black-rimmed eyeglasses. “Based upon the evidence we’ve seen so far, your young pilot Stevens must have stuffed an excessive amount of his maintenance rags down in the engines and engine compartments. With flight and engine time, which we have from base operations, they heated up, sparked, and started a separate and sequential fire in each engine. Standard foreign object damage. Like a delayed fuse on a detonator for an explosive device. Quite an elaborate plan if you ask me.”
If Ford could have, he would have jumped Frank over the office table, angered. “No one asked you. Tell me about this evidence, Frank.”
Zeke spoke up for Frank, holding his hand up. “Ford, we interviewed Charlie early on. He was a mishap pilot, so it was standard. He admits to being out there late at night prior to his mission. Told us he was learning about the aircraft before his flying missions, with his helmet bag full of rags,” explained Zeke, placi
ng an emphasis with his tone on the helmet bag part. “Security videos match. I bet the lab can find traces of the same rags in his helmet bag. Ain’t that right, Frank? I don’t know the why yet until we interview him real soon, but it looks like we have the how.”
“We don’t know if he did it, right? Intentional… what are you saying, sabotage? Let’s get him in to talk first, and we all discuss it. I don’t see him killing our aircrew and destroying airplanes. That’s completely out of character. I mean, aircrew like these save lives, not take them,” Ford said, shaking his head, “besides killing our brother aircrew, he would be sealing the deal to close this place down. I just don’t see it happening.” He stopped to think.
There was no way Charlie did this on purpose. He had to have left these rags in there by accident, if it was him, Ford thought. These guys are accumulating evidence on him.
Zeke did not say anything for a moment, then nodded over at Grape. “Grape’s going to get a couple FBI Agents from the Buffalo Field Office for the next Charlie interview. We’ll schedule that real soon. When he confesses, the investigation will then be law enforcement jurisdiction.”
Ford snapped back at Zeke, “You mean if he confesses. Innocent until proven guilty in this country, Zeke.”
Zeke continued. “Ford, hear me out. We don’t have all the evidence yet, but it sure looks like it, right? And depending on Charlie’s answers, it could even be terrorist-related, which is why we are bringing in the boys from the Buffalo Field Office.”
“Zeke, come on. FBI? Terrorist related?”
“I don’t like it any more than you do, Ford. Alright?” He held up his hands, palms-out in mock surrender. “But we gotta go where the evidence leads us, and if… if… your brother did anything to intentionally bring down those airplanes, well, I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen. There won’t just be hell to pay, he’s looking life in prison. Dis here… it could be even worse.”
The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3) Page 18