Photo Finish

by Terry Ambrose

  “Alexander told me what you did about finding this Bob Shapiro. That was sweet. And you went to a lot of extra trouble for me in figuring out what happened to him. I really appreciate that. What if we, um—”

  Oh, God, here it was. These young chicks.

  “Well, I’m not very good at this type of thing—but with all your skills—”

  I didn’t know whether I had skills or not, but I sure had a lump in my pants.

  “What if we—”

  Sure, Legs, right here, right now. On the floor if you want. Just let me close the drapes.

  “What if we tried to find out more information about who was flying Shapiro’s plane?”

  Chapter 7

  Shapiro’s plane? Talk about ruining the mood.

  Back when I was skip tracing, I could react to any surprise instantly. I was used to stretching, bending, and reshaping the truth to my will and even flat-out lying when necessary. Right now, I didn’t know what to say to Harris, which probably meant that my reaction skills got lost along with the toaster on my move to Hawaii.

  All I could muster was a deflated, “Okay.” I followed that up with a really snappy, “I—I thought we were going to call CrimeStoppers.”

  “Well, yeah. But wouldn’t it be better if we were able to tell the cops where to look for the evidence?”

  I didn’t say it, but the words, I thought that was their job, flashed through my mind. She wanted me to investigate a dead guy’s plane? The voice of the old man in the dream was back in my thoughts. Why wouldn’t he leave me alone?

  Harris must have caught my change in mood because she took my hand in hers. “Look, my head’s killing me. I’m still having shooting pains. And you look exhausted. Right now, I think the best thing for both of us is to get some rest. Not . . .” She dropped her gaze to the floor, then held mine. “Something else.”

  Uh, oh. I’d been right. She did want me. Anticipation flooded my system again. Screw it. I could call Crime Busters, Crime Dudes, Crime whatever without her knowing about it. After all, it was an anonymous tip. And if finding whoever was flying that damn plane would make Harris happy, I could do that also. I rallied my best macho voice. “Sure, anything you want.” The words came out sounding as though I’d overdosed on aphrodisiacs—too much squeak, too little bravado—and too late for a do over.

  Harris went back to her apartment, I looked up the number and made the call.

  “CrimeStoppers.”

  “I’d like to make an anonymous tip about a possible murder.”

  “Yes, sir. Where did the murder take place?”

  Uh. “I don’t know. I had two friends that were at Sacred Falls Park, and they saw a body thrown from a plane.”

  “Sacred Falls? That’s closed. When did this happen?”

  “They saw it yesterday.”

  “What time? Do they have a description of the plane?”

  It was, uh, white—had wings. I was too tired to remember what I’d seen last night. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea, there were so many things I didn’t know. “I don’t know what time. It was a Cessna. It belongs to a Robert M. Shapiro, Jr.—who is deceased.”

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded skeptical. “Is there any proof that this happened?”

  “We have a picture.”

  “Can you e-mail that in? Or upload it through our web site? Then maybe you could get one of your friends who knows a bit more about what happened to help fill out the tip report.”

  It was a nice way for him to say, “Hey, idiot, have someone who has some real knowledge report this.” I didn’t have all the facts. I didn’t have the photo. I didn’t have a brain! Harris was right; the best thing I could do now would be to take a nap. Hopefully, I could accomplish that without difficulty. In short order, the call ended with me promising to get back to them with more details. The couch looked inviting, so I planted my landing gear there and would have slept a lot longer, but the phone rang. It was some moron with a three-week old paper wanting to know if there was still a unit available. Although it irritated me that someone was stupid enough to be apartment hunting with an old newspaper, the short rest had helped recharge my batteries a bit. I sat down at the computer, determined to learn more about Bob Shapiro and who might be flying his plane now that he was dead.

  My first step involved seeing whether I’d missed anything about him or his death. That meant another series of searches for Robert M. Shapiro, Jr., the same thing without the suffix, then no middle initial. Then, I tried Bob. After going through all the name-combination possibilities, I could definitely say with firm conviction that I’d accomplished, well, nothing. Just like the old days.

  I’d assembled a few small, insignificant details about our Shapiro and a wide variety of facts about other Shapiros of the world. The interesting thing about Internet searches is that you can find out a wealth of information about virtually any topic. Unfortunately, that wealth is much like debris in an old gold miner’s pan. It consists of a large amount of worthless sand, silt and gravel, and maybe, if you’re really lucky, a small nugget or two. Today wasn’t my lucky day.

  Or was it? We were on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It wasn’t like we were in LA with eight billion airports around. That was it! In the entire state, Hawaii had just over a dozen airports. Everyone knew the big one, Honolulu International, the only big commercial airport on Oahu. There were another five commercial airports on the islands, including two on the Big Island, one on Kauai, one on Maui, and one on Molokai. There were some additional state airports on the islands, with only two of those on Oahu.

  I would have smacked myself in the head, but the last time I did that it was while trying to kill one of our giant, island mosquitoes. The mosquito got away, I wound up with a welt from the bite, and a headache from hitting myself too hard.

  All I had to do was start asking questions in a limited number of places. I pulled out the phone book and checked under “Airports.” The listing of numbers for Honolulu International was longer than all the other airports in Hawaii combined. Besides, if someone were going to stuff a body into an airplane and toss it out into the wilderness, they wouldn’t really want to do it at an airport where millions of eyes might see them. So, unless these guys were exceptionally stupid, they must have used one of the smaller airports. And closer to the falls. That meant Dillingham Field.

  The Army constructed Dillingham Field sometime around 1942 while World War II was underway. It’s near Mokuleia, a small town on the northwest side of Oahu that’s popular with locals and surfers. I wasn’t sure who ran the airport because there was no listed telephone number for the airfield. All I knew from my Internet search was that the airfield had something called a Unicom tower. Maybe I could find someone at one of the businesses out there, an overzealous busybody who knew something. It was McKenna’s Third Skip Tracing Secret: people love to talk about their neighbors.

  Dillingham was big on skydiving; I knew that much, so I went back online and did a search for “Oahu skydiving.” I got the typical search results, 80 million or so listings for sites that had nothing to do with what I wanted. I refined my search to “Oahu skydiving Dillingham Field.” Ah, only 40 million or so. That was encouraging. Lucky for me the first page included a couple of businesses that were actually at Dillingham Field, not in Hong Kong, Buenos Aires, or some other remote destination halfway around the world. A few minutes later, I had a phone number and called.

  A man with the classic lilting Hawaiian accent answered. “Sky’s the Limit Charters.”

  Experience told me that there were two ways to approach this guy. Be honest and forthright, or lie. It was time to invoke McKenna’s First Skip Tracing Secret: when in doubt, lie. I did my best to sound bored. “Hey, O’Brien down at the Honolulu Advertiser, we’re doing a follow-up on that hit-and-run with Shapiro a few days back. I’m sure you read it. Can you tell me if he keeps his plane there?”

  “Shapiro? Hit-and-run?”

  “Y
eah, you didn’t read the story? He got run down in front of his apartment.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “The 8th.”

  “Not possible. He took the plane out to Kauai yesterday. Can you call back later, it kine busy right now.”

  “Uh—tell you what, I want to get some pictures of the plane. I’ll bring a photographer out there a little later today. Could I see the plane then?”

  “Hey, brah, it’s not my plane. You betta’ talk to Bob about that.”

  “But he died on the 10th.”

  “Well, somebody flew it. I just assumed it was Bob cause he don’t let no one else fly it. I gotta go.” I heard his greeting to potential customers as he hung up. “Aloha, folks!”

  There was only one problem with going to Dillingham Field, I’d sold my car after a close encounter with a fire hydrant and used public transportation to get around. That saved me a few thousand bucks a year, but at times like this, I needed to get creative. I hustled down to Harris’s apartment and knocked on the door.

  She greeted me, then invited me in. Harris yawned as we sat; even her tanned legs looked pale. “Guess I didn’t sleep well.”

  My brain took the opportunity to delve into the “I told you so” routines it practiced so often. If it hadn’t been for the adrenaline running through me, I might have just gone back to my apartment and dialed 9-1-1 for an ambulance. “I found out which airport the plane is at.”

  She suppressed another yawn and said, “That’s good. Can we go see it?”

  “You sure you’re up to this. You look beat.”

  “I’ll be okay. I just need to wake up.” Her eyes were bloodshot, reminding me of a drunk’s or—gee, someone who hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before.

  How bloodshot were mine? “Why don’t I just call this in and we can let the cops find the plane? We’ll get you to a doctor, get you checked out.”

  “What if it’s not there? You don’t want to call in a tip and not have the plane where it’s supposed to be. The cops would think the whole thing was a hoax and drop it. No, give me ten.”

  While she went off to prepare for our trip, I pondered my predicament. I was starting to care about a woman nearly half my age. I was chasing a dead man’s plane around Oahu. I’d called CrimeStoppers, but hadn’t had enough details to make the report credible. We’d go to Dillingham and satisfy Harris’s urge. Then, we’d get her medical attention.

  Harris’s voice interrupted my internal planning session. “You look deep in thought.”

  She was positively stunning—a twelve on the ten point scale. She wore a flowered sundress that could have easily qualified her for a Cosmo modeling job. Half my age or not, I wanted to roll over on the floor and beg her to scratch my tummy. “Just thinking.”

  She said, “Let me grab my camera.”

  I whimpered, “Okay.” Lucky camera.

  “Can you drive?”

  “Nuh-uh. Sold my car.”

  She stiffened as another of those shooting pains hit her.

  I rushed over and held her shoulder while she staggered to a chair. “Maybe we should take you to a hospital?” I could probably get Alexander to drive me to the North side, but if I had to trouble him, Harris was definitely getting checked out.

  “I just need a minute.”

  “You look seriously hurt to me, like maybe you need the ER.”

  Harris made a helpless gesture, but she appeared determined. “How far is it to this airport?”

  “Not far.” If you’re a seabird.

  Halfway to Dillingham Field, Harris emerged from her world of thoughts and asked, “Do you want to stop and get something to eat? A burger sounds good.”

  “I haven’t had a burger in five years, ever since I was diagnosed as being unable to tolerate wheat. Bread’s out for me.”

  “Oh.” She returned to her little driving world.

  I would have explained further, but she seemed uninterested. It took almost another half hour to reach the turn for Dillingham Field. To our right, where there should be oceanfront, there were houses with only the briefest flash of an ocean view between. The houses were so close together that if you wanted to borrow a cup of sugar, you could practically lean out your window and take it out of your neighbor’s pantry. Still, the scenery had me in awe. Bounded by lush, green trees and fields on the left and glimpses of ocean on the right, I understood immediately why this airfield in paradise was popular with glider enthusiasts and skydivers.

  I glanced at Harris. “You should check out this scenery.”

  Harris shook her head, then massaged her temple. “Hurts too much.”

  So much for paradise.

  We found the turn for Dillingham Field, but a sign at the entrance indicated we should enter under pain of death. Harris said, “There must be another entrance down the road.”

  We drove for over a mile. We were about ready to turn around in frustration when we came across an entrance that seemed to have the welcome mat out. Two glider companies with open-air offices set up under a roof held up by stilts appeared to be open for business. We parked and were greeted by a friendly man dressed in an aloha shirt and khaki shorts who spoke over the drone of engines from a huge gray plane on the runway.

  “Welcome to Dillingham Field, folks. Are you two interested in a glider flight?”

  I shook my head, perhaps a bit too vehemently, because he suppressed a chuckle.

  I said, “We’re actually looking for Bob Shapiro’s plane.” I stared past the man as the revving of the engines increased.

  He smiled. “Paratrooper training. Different National Guard units sometimes come here. Happens maybe a couple of times a year. We’ve got a nine thousand foot runway, so they can take off and land easily. That’s a C-130. Impressive, huh?”

  I nodded, amazed at the plane’s size and power. It lumbered away from us, slowly gaining speed until it hoisted its huge belly from the ground. Slowly, it gained altitude.

  The man said, “Shapiro’s on the other side, almost directly across from here. I’m not sure which hangar, though.” Our lack of interest in flying in something without an engine didn’t seem to faze him. He probably wound up doing a lot of traffic control, given that this was the first apparently legal entrance. He added, “You could have gone in the first entrance. Those signs—they're misleading.”

  Duh. “So we wouldn’t have been shot on sight if we’d have gone in that way?”

  He smiled. “Old signs. We try not to shoot our customers—or their friends.” He pointed further down the road. “Just follow the road, take the first left. You’ll be at the end of the runway so watch out for low-flying aircraft.”

  Great. Just what we needed. A plane without power coming in to land while we crossed the road.

  We started towards the car, but the glider guy stopped us. “You might want to check with Tommy at Sky’s the Limit. I think he and Bob are friends.”

  Chapter 8

  Dillingham Field is a perfect location for skydiving and glider flights due to its consistent North Shore trade winds. The popularity of those activities, along with sightseeing flights, would lead you to believe that Dillingham is a large facility, which it definitely is not. The primary business is just from adventure seekers—Harris’s kind of place. The only buildings here were for flight tours, glider flights, and skydiving—with a parachute.

  Dillingham still has remnants of its historic beginnings, complete with bunkers and revetments—kind of a sloped wall—that the Army had installed during World War II to protect against nasty things like incoming enemy fire or explosives. I could just see the proud pilots and ground crew who worked here in the 40s charging around whenever they ran up the engines on a B-24 Liberator or scrambled the P-40 Warhawks for takeoff.

  We made the turn into Dillingham Field and kept following the road until we came across Sky’s the Limit, then parked out front. As Harris and I walked through the front door, I half-expected to see a guy in a jumpsuit with a parachute on hi
s back. Instead, a small man stood behind a waist-high, green Formica-topped counter. Photos of skydivers, several that had been autographed by the person in the photo, adorned the walls. A poster on one wall gave the rules and regulations for skydiving. I’m sure it must have included something about “open your parachute,” “don’t die,” and “don’t sue if you do.”

  The guy that I thought had been standing must have been sitting on a stool, because he jumped up to greet us. He wore spectacles and was clean-shaven with hair cut short and combed to the left. His eyes swam behind thick lenses. He welcomed us as if he’d had an overdose of happy pills. “Good morning, folks. What brings you to Dillingham Field?”

  His cheery greeting reminded me that I’d forgotten the name I’d given him earlier. I knew better. It was McKenna’s Second Secret: if you lied, make a note to avoid screwing up your “facts” later on. What was the name? Think, McKenna. Smith? Jones? Oh, poop. No, not O’Poop. O’Brien.

  He smiled as if he were expecting a positive response and pointed to the patch on the left sleeve of his jacket. “Gliding? Skydiving?”

  I drew on the old skills and continued the charade I’d started on the phone. “O’Brien. We talked earlier; I’m trying to get the scoop on Shapiro. You are Mr.?”

  Harris hadn’t heard about this, but after giving me a quick glance, she seemed to take the lie in stride. Our greeter’s eyes widened at the apparent recollection of our previous conversation.

  “Ah, yes, we spoke earlier. Leung. Tommy Leung. You were asking about Bob Shapiro’s plane.”

  I nodded and pulled out a little notepad that I’d grabbed just for the occasion.

  “You’d need to talk to Roger Lau about that.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Bob’s maintenance man. He’s always been a very good maintenance man, does a lot of work around here for various pilots and businesses.”

  “So this Roger Lau runs a private maintenance outfit?”

  “Yes. He’s extremely reliable—and a family man. He has two sons that will be going to college soon, a lovely wife. He’s second-generation.”