Photo Finish

by Terry Ambrose

  I smiled. “Meaning that, in another thousand or so years his family might be accepted.”

  Leung’s face went from cordial to righteous indignation to scared shitless in seconds. He rushed over and took Harris by the arm, then guided her to a chair. “Here, sit. You were about to pass out.”

  Harris nodded and said, “Can I take your photo? And maybe one of the plane?”

  And now, Mr. Leung was Mr. Cordial. He primped by combing his hair with his fingers. “Sure, sure. Glad to help. You can take it from the chair, yah?”

  “That’ll work, stand over there.” She motioned for Mr. C to stand a few feet away, then snapped off a few shots.

  Leung raised his eyebrows and focused on Harris, which confused the hell out of me. I was proud to be with a woman he obviously found attractive, and jealous for the same reason. Man, was I screwed up.

  I said, “I heard that you and Bob were friends.”

  Leung shook his head slowly. “Nooo—not really—friends. We knew each other, talked shop. So what do you want to know about the plane?”

  Based on his earlier comment about Roger Lau, Leung’s denial that he and Shapiro were friends didn’t surprise me. “Shapiro’s dead, so who flew to Kauai yesterday? And how’d you know it went there? Did the maintenance guy tell you?”

  “Don’t know. Unicom. And, um, no.”

  “What?”

  “Roger might take the plane out for flight-testing, but he would never take it on an inter-island hop unless he had Bob’s permission. That would be like the serviceman taking your car home after he’s done some repairs.”

  “So how’d you know it went to Kauai?”

  “I told you. Unicom. I heard it when he took off. I remember because you don’t have to file flight plans here unless you’re going into restricted airspace. Bob knows he doesn’t need to announce his destination to Unicom. That’s just for traffic control.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They? They who?”

  This guy was beginning to irritate me to no end. One minute he was Mr. Cordial, now he was Mr. Smart Ass. Was that because I’d interrupted his visual undressing of Harris? My reply was curt, “Unicom.”

  “Oh! Unicom’s not a they, it’s a what. A tower, really. Pilots radio in to announce they’re landing or taking off. It’s like an honor system. Everyone uses it religiously because nobody wants to collide with another plane.”

  “So Lau could have taken the plane out and nobody would be the wiser?”

  “Roger would never do anything to jeopardize his job.”

  I fingered my notepad. Maybe I should smack this guy on the side of his skull to see if his eyes could hula a bit more.

  It was Harris who saved the day when she said, “Mr. Leung, I think what my partner is getting at is that since Mr. Shapiro is dead, it’s obvious that someone else took the plane out yesterday. If we could look at the plane, maybe it would help all of us figure out who ‘borrowed’ Mr. Shapiro’s plane.” She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

  Hmpff. Brains and a ponytail. Nice job, Legs. It also got Leung on the right track.

  He straightened his flight jacket. “Bob’s plane is down the road in the hangars, second from the end.”

  I said, “Is this Roger Lau around?”

  “Come to think of it, I didn’t see him yesterday or today.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Yah. Roger never misses a day of work. Like I said, he’s got two kids he’s ready to ship off to college. He needs every penny he can get. There's no way he’d take time off when he’s got work to do.”

  “How do you know he’s got work to do?”

  “Why, he was scheduled to do some maintenance for us today. He didn’t call, and he didn’t show up.”

  Chapter 9

  Leung walked us to the front door and pointed. “Go almost to the end of the runway. Turn right into the hangar parking lot. He’s in the second slot.”

  Harris said, “How’d his clients ever find him? We’ve been almost all the way around this field and haven’t seen a sign.”

  Leung nodded. “He used to joke that he should just rent space from us because a lot of his clients showed up on our door.” Leung’s phone rang, so he excused himself and hurried back inside.

  Harris drove us to the hangars, where we checked out the second stall and came up with a big fat nothing. So, it was back to see Tommy Leung. On the way, Harris said, “It’s time to report this to CrimeStoppers. You didn’t call them already, did you?”

  Oh, no. Busted. I felt my cheeks growing hot.

  She grimaced. “You should’ve told me. Let’s finish up with Leung and go file that report.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d been afraid she might go ballistic if she learned that I’d done it already. Instead, she just seemed to want to get on with the inevitable. We nodded at each other and went back into the office. Leung was just hanging up the phone and said, “Is there a problem?”

  It was Harris who popped off the good one. “It, um, looks like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard is bare.”

  Leung scrunched up his face as though we were the village idiots and couldn’t follow simple directions. He sidestepped a couple of parachutes as he came around to our side of the counter, then strode out the front door and off in the direction he’d pointed. “You found the hangar, right?”

  I said, “There was no plane. No maintenance guy. No anything.”

  It took him a minute, but he finally came back into the office muttering to himself in Chinese. He started speaking to us in the same language. His cheeks flushed as he switched to English. “Sorry. But this makes no sense. That plane was just there—just yesterday. I’m sure of it. I’m calling Roger.”

  He grabbed the phone from our side of the counter to avoid having to do another rendition of the parachute polka, dialed, then tilted the handset up a bit and said, “I’m calling Roger’s cell. He’ll be able to tell me where he’s got the plane.” After a few seconds, he hung up the phone. “That’s odd, it went straight to voice mail. Maybe he’s on another call. I’ll try him in a few minutes.”

  I said, “If Shapiro’s been dead since the 10th, why would the maintenance guy be doing anything with the plane?”

  “Yes, that’s kine—unusual.”

  Perfect word, I thought. That could be very unusual, a little unusual, it happens all the time unusual or whatever else “unusual” he wanted it to mean. That’s when it happened.

  The thud.

  I glanced sideways at Harris, but she was gone. Then I looked down.

  Bad deal. Before I could move, Leung was at Harris’s side. He checked her breathing, then scampered away.

  I felt a twinge of anger at seeing Leung run from a woman in need. On the other hand, I didn’t know what to do either. Call 9-1-1? We were on the far side of the island. Do mouth-to-mouth? She’d probably slap me. I felt relief when Leung dashed back into the room carrying a washcloth, a pillow, and a small vial.

  He kneeled at Harris’s side. “Give me a hand.”

  I wasn’t feeling much like a smart ass at the moment, so I didn’t clap. Instead, I behaved as instructed and helped him straighten Harris’s body. Then, he propped up her head with the small pillow. He put a cool washcloth on her forehead and popped the top on the vial. He said, “Smelling salts.”

  Harris stirred, then opened her eyes. “Ugh! What happened?”

  “You passed out.” Talk about reality knocking on your door. If something happened to Harris, I’d be back in my apartment doing my same old job tomorrow while I suffered major guilt pangs. Or worse, I could be fired and evicted because I hadn’t forced her to go to the hospital. Once again, McKenna makes the perfect decision—for an idiot. Harris had to be okay. She had to.

  A couple of minutes later, Harris was in a chair, sipping water. She nodded her thanks to Leung, who smiled back. He turned to me, “She should be okay now, just watch her for a minute.”

  I said, “You’re
pretty good at this.”

  He shrugged, “It happens. It’s worse when it happens in a plane.”

  Uh, yeah. I would think.

  Harris was still looking woozy when she said, “Let’s go.”

  I countered, “You’re not ready. A few more minutes, okay?”

  She said, “I’m fine. It’s a woman thing. You know, faint to get a man’s attention, let him get all worked up and worried.”

  I have to admit I’m not the world’s best authority on “women things,” but it all sounded pretty hokey to me. It was as though Harris couldn’t let me see her weaker side. I shrugged, “There’s no rush. Why don’t we stop by the ER?”

  Harris took a last sip of water as she stood. “Thank you, Mr. Leung, for taking care of me in my moment of need.”

  Leung shook off the compliment, “You’re not the first and I’m sure you won’t be the last. In fact, the last time I saw Bob, he was joking about that. He had a family of four, and it was the husband that fainted.”

  Leung and I laughed about that; Harris merely remained cordial. “Thanks again.” She whispered in my ear, “Let’s get out of here.”

  I damn near became the next fainting victim, but the thought of smelling salts kept me going. I glanced at Leung. “One more question. Bob did a good business, right?”

  “Yeah, he had at least one flight every day. Usually more. It’s been much more quiet around here without his clients bugging us.”

  “Right. So, my question is, if Bob’s been dead since the 10th, where are all his clients? Why haven’t they been coming in here, asking why he’s not around?”

  Chapter 10

  In the world of business, everyone knows you can’t just shut your doors without someone noticing. Even if the business has only a few clients, those that hadn’t gotten what they’d expected would be angry that their vacations had been ruined. In this case, Shapiro’s abandoned clients would likely wind up standing in front of Tommy Leung. When he couldn't explain why those people weren’t showing up on his doorstep, we figured our work at Dillingham Field was done and left.

  We were approaching her car when Harris said, “Nobody drives my car, so don’t even think about asking.”

  I nodded and tried to pretend she hadn’t just passed out a few minutes earlier. Harris seemed focused and alert; her driving was better than mine. To pass the time, I sat back and watched the scenery. Every now and again, I surreptitiously took her in as part of the scenery. That’s one of the perks, and an obligation, of being a passenger in a car with a driver wearing a short dress. You have to make sure she’s, uh, paying attention to her driving.

  We were about a block from home when Harris, never taking her eyes from the road, said, “You are such a dirty old man.” She smiled, then faced me and winked.

  Oh, shit, I was so busted—again.

  She continued, “But it’s okay, hon, I like you. You’re cute.”

  Scratch my tummy? “Sorry if I was staring. You’re just so sensational.”

  She turned into the driveway and found a spot to park. As she locked the driver’s door, she said, “Your place or mine?”

  I stared at her, wondering if I should pee my pants, run, or kiss her.

  She laughed. “For the report, silly.”

  Oh that. We went back to her place. She led, I followed, all the time wondering if I should go on blood pressure medication or something so I wouldn’t die if my big moment ever came.

  Inside her apartment, Harris booted up the computer. While we waited, she said, “I don’t understand what happened to Shapiro’s clients. You think the maintenance man’s been running the business in his boss’s absence? Maybe he decided it was time to become the pilot?”

  I shook my head. “This is a helluva lot bigger than a few little tours. No, if Lau got rid of Shapiro, it’s for a lot more than a few hours work.” We easily found the Honolulu CrimeStoppers web site. Harris searched the page for a link to file a report and I found the reward information. “Hey, they offer a thousand bucks for good tips.”

  Harris nodded. “They usually do. My sister needs that money.”

  She continued searching the page until she found what we needed further down. She clicked the link and we both started reading the form. The questions in the first part suggested that it was targeted at drug and gang members. We didn’t know the suspect’s name or age. It wasn’t like we’d done introductions or anything, so we skipped down to the Crime Description field.

  Harris said, “At last, something I know.” She began typing in the form field.

  On May 16, 2011, I was hiking at Sacred Falls State Park. I observed a single-engine Cessna airplane, owned by Robert M. Shapiro, Jr., drop a body from the plane. The body fell and landed on the mountainside. I took a picture of the plane, but then someone in the plane began shooting at me. I was not hit by a bullet, but it was a near miss.

  Today, a friend and I went to Dillingham Field to check on the plane and were told that the plane had flown to Kauai yesterday. The maintenance man is missing also.

  She sat back and said, “How’s that?”

  I read her entry, then we added a couple of more facts to the form. She found a browse button and began uploading the photo of the plane.

  The upload had just finished when she said, “Hey, would you get me some water, I’m parched.”

  Well-trained fetcher that I am, I obediently headed off to the kitchen. Over my shoulder, I said, “Where do you keep the glasses?”

  She kept her eyes on the screen. “On your left.”

  I opened that cabinet. “Nope, plates, saucers, and bowls.”

  She glanced up. “Oh, sorry, on your right. I’m still not oriented to this place.”

  I found the glasses, filled one with water and returned.

  Harris stood, took a sip and said, “Well, it’s gone. It looked good so I sent it off.”

  “Great. Wonderful. Do they send you an e-mail confirmation? Oh, no, they can’t do that, it was anonymous.”

  A nervous tension filled the room. What should I do next? Harris said, “If you don’t mind, I’m whipped. I need to rest for a while. Is that okay?”

  “I’m fine with that. I have landlord stuff to do.” Not really, but it probably sounded good to Harris.

  I had my hand on the doorknob when she stopped me. “Um, McKenna—have you ever wondered where that plane might actually be—right now?”

  “What?”

  “Well, how long do you think it’s going to take the cops to do something with this report? The web site said it’s not like calling 9-1-1. By the time they get around to this, if they even take it seriously, whoever murdered that poor guy could be long gone. He may be gone already.”

  “True, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with us.”

  “We could work together some more. You know, hang out. It might be fun.” She gave me a flirtatious smile. “Track down the bad guys—do some detective work.”

  “These guys had guns, they wanted to kill you. I don’t think—”

  She interrupted, “It would just be a little computer time. We don’t actually have to, like, chase them or anything. I saved the tip with a password, so we could file reports with CrimeStoppers. It would add credibility and probably get this resolved a lot faster. Besides, when we're finished, we can have a nice, quiet celebration dinner. Just the two of us.”

  I didn’t realize that I was wearing talking pants, but the next thing I knew, my pants had said, “Sure, count me in.” Right after that, it was time for a hug. Then, it was a kiss on the cheek. After that, it was a boot in the ass as I got sent back to my apartment to work so Harris could rest.

  My pants started talking again. Screw the landlord stuff. Go find that plane. The nice thing about a clearly defined task is that it gets your mind off of what it shouldn’t be on—like my most recent hug-experience with Harris. It wasn’t hard to surmise that Shapiro’s plane had to be at one of about a dozen airports. And since it wasn’t at Dillingham Field,
that wasn’t one of them. One down, eleven to go. I sat down and hit the power button for my laptop, logged in, and did a quick search for “Hawaii airports.” I could have gone back to the trusted phone book, but I needed something that was going to make me work a bit more, keep me more involved. Besides, the phone just seemed so—mundane. I clicked a link that said it included a listing of airports, but it was only the commercial locations. My second choice got me what I wanted, a list of all public airports in the state.

  Of course, there could always be others that were private and not listed. If they went to one of those, I was out of luck. I’d cross that bridge only if it became necessary. I figured that I might as well start with other airports on Oahu. That meant there were only two possibilities, Honolulu International and Kalaeloa. I’d start with the smaller one just because, I assumed, it would be easier to talk to a real person. The web page gave me phone numbers, so it was time to start calling.

  “Kalaeloa Airport. O’Shaunessy.” If the voice on the other end could sound anymore let-me-out-of-the-squirrel-cage bored, I’d be surprised.

  I donned my reporter persona again. “Hey, O’Brien down at the Advertiser. We’re doing a follow-up story on a hit-and-run victim. Turns out the guy was a pilot and his plane may have been jacked after he got flattened. You got a list of planes that have come in there in the past day or so?” I sounded like a real newspaper guy and considered giving myself a pat on the back for the performance.

  “Look buddy, I’m all alone here and don’t have the time to go checking records.”

  Crap, a prima donna. “I know you’re busy out there, all that itty-bitty airport stuff you have to handle, but this is an official newspaper investigation.”

  “Official newspaper investigation? Oh, excuse me, I didn’t realize we were talking about national security.”

  Ouch. Another smart ass.

  “If this becomes an official police investigation, I’ll do some checking. Until then, you’ll just have to come out here and look over the logs all on your own. They’re public record, so help yourself.”