Plane in the Lake

by Neil Turner

  Brittany has now been missing for the better part of two days, and I’m twenty-four hours into the forty-eight hours Joe has given me to fold. I haven’t slept a wink. Nor has all the time awake wrestling with the problem resolved the impossible conundrum I’m in.

  “Tony?” Penelope asks for the umpteenth time this morning.

  I’m not sure why I’m at work. It may be because it offers a potential distraction, as if anything has a hope of seriously distracting me from the nightmare unfolding around me. Or maybe I’m trying to keep up appearances so that I don’t arouse suspicions that there’s more amiss than “simply” a missing daughter. I’m too fried to even know what the hell I think much of the time.

  Penelope walks around her desk and settles into the visitor’s chair beside mine. She takes my hand in hers and gazes intently into my bloodshot, scratchy eyes. “You don’t need to be here, Tony. Mom and I can hold the fort for a few days.”

  The unspoken end of the phrase is implicit in the river of empathy flowing through Penelope’s eyes and touch… until you find Brittany.

  Tears well up in my eyes and a sob escapes me when Penelope reaches her arms around me and pulls my head to her shoulder. She doesn’t say a word, correctly judging that nothing she can say will soothe me as much as her simple gesture of humanity. We sit like this for a couple of minutes before I ease out of her arms, wipe my nose on a Kleenex that has magically appeared in my hand from hers, and smile sadly. “Thanks.”

  She pats my hand. “Any time, partner.”

  We sit quietly for several seconds while she waits for me to make the next move.

  “Let’s go through this stuff again,” I suggest. It’s been a busy couple of days on the R & B front. My muddled mind is having a hard time assembling it all into a coherent narrative. “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” she replies. “Let me top up my coffee. You want one?”

  I nod. “Please.”

  I pull a print copy of yesterday’s Chicago Sun-Times in front of me and scan through Sandy Irving’s latest “bombshell” story about the investigation into “the Tragic Milton Crash” while I wait for Penelope to return. This time Irving’s been fed a tidbit that “structural failure cannot be ruled out.” She’s also been cleverly served a scoop that “a mandatory inspection that might have revealed structural deficiencies in a failed wing strut may not have been completed by R & B Ramp Services. Authorities are investigating allegations that records pertaining to the alleged non-inspection may have been falsified.”

  “What bullshit,” I grumble. “We’ve seen the damned invoice for the work.”

  Penelope nods. “Windy City never paid that invoice, you know.”

  “They didn’t?”

  “Billy told me that Walton says they aren’t paying for work that wasn’t done.”

  “But it was done!”

  Penelope nods. “Smells of a set-up, doesn’t it?”

  Jesus. How many blind alleys are we going to wander into by the time this nightmare ends?

  “But how?” I ask. “We’ve seen the invoice.”

  “The question is: What are the FBI and NTSB looking at? Sandy Irving suggested that there may be falsified paperwork. If so, who doctored it?”

  “And how,” I mutter.

  She nods.

  I fold the paper closed and launch it at Penelope’s trash can as she circles back to her desk chair after setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. “I hope this Irving bitch is being well compensated for spreading bullshit.”

  Penelope frowns. “Nice as it would be to catch her with her hand in the cookie jar, I doubt any money is changing hands. Sandy Irving strikes me as one of those ambitious people who doesn’t let scruples get in the way of getting her byline on a sensational story.”

  The characterization echoes Pat’s scathing accusation that her cross-town rival “lacks even the most basic respect for journalistic ethics.”

  I sink back in my seat and attempt to organize my thoughts. “What’s the point?”

  “Of Irving’s story?” Penelope asks as her eyes drift to the newspaper on the floor about two feet wide of the garbage pail.

  “Yeah. What’s the point of that article? Who’s her source? What’s their game?”

  She shrugs. “If I had to guess, I’d say someone is laying groundwork for a future trial.”

  My mind drifts away to Brittany. Where is she? Which leads me to thoughts of Joe. Is he behind Sandy Irving’s stories? If so, is he expecting a reaction from me? Am I doing or failing to do something that’s putting Brittany in more jeopardy, assuming she’s even alive? God, this is torture.

  Joan Brooks pokes her head in. “Ben Larose is here, honey.”

  “Thanks,” Penelope says to her mother. Then she glances at me. “Ready?”

  I nod.

  Joan gives me a soft-eyed look dripping with empathy before she backs out. Like mother, like daughter.

  Larose enters. After the initial greetings are dispensed with, he stands awkwardly and meets my gaze. Then he shrugs as if he’s at a loss for words. “Sorry, Tony,” he finally mutters uncertainly. What else is there to say to a father who doesn’t know if his daughter is dead or alive?

  I nod. The topic of Brittany is quietly set aside.

  “Any more news on the fuel sample?” Penelope asks after Larose settles into the second guest chair beside mine. It’s a tight squeeze, two sets of long legs wedged into a space more suitable to the limbs of grade school kids.

  He shakes his head.

  I have a vague recollection about something to do with a missing fuel sample. I ask him to fill me in on the details.

  He shoots a concerned sideways glance at Penelope. I get it. He’s wondering, “How can he not know all about this?”

  She gives him an almost imperceptible nod and graciously says, “I’d like to hear it again, too.”

  Larose nods and turns back to me. “The NTSB recovered an uncontaminated fuel sample from the engine block of the Cessna.”

  I nod. This much I know.

  “The sample they sent for testing went missing sometime in the past week or two,” he continues. “The original thinking was that it had been misplaced in the lab and would turn up when they had a good look around.”

  “It hasn’t?”

  Larose shakes his head with a disturbed expression. “Not only that, but a second sample they held back from testing for just that eventuality is also nowhere to be found.”

  “Casting doubt on the misplaced-fuel scenario,” Penelope adds.

  “Correct,” he agrees with furrowed brow. “This kind of stuff simply doesn’t happen during an NTSB investigation.”

  Apparently, it does, I think before asking, “Do they at least have the test results?”

  Larose nods, but his expression remains troubled.

  “The rumor is that the test results indicated that the fuel was contaminated,” Penelope says. “The problem for us is that nobody but the NTSB can utilize those test results.”

  That’s right. NTSB reports cannot be presented as evidence in a court of law, damn it.

  “Contaminated with what?” I ask.

  “Nothing nefarious,” Larose replies. “It sounds like there was water in it. The contamination was fairly minor, so it may or may not have been a contributing factor. That’s what makes the loss of the backup sample so devastating. Without test results, there’s no way to hold AAA Avgas legally accountable for pumping bad fuel into that aircraft.”

  Even my addled brain can process how dire the implications of that news might be for our clients. Without tainted fuel to hold out as a cause for the crash, the lawyers for the plaintiff will almost surely turn to an argument pointing a finger at faulty maintenance. Penelope sags back in her chair and stares up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Larose sits quietly, as do I. Thoughts of my daughter quickly flood into the temporary vacuum in the discussion.

  Where is she? Is she still alive? If so, how do I keep her that wa
y? Answers are just as elusive as they were the other ten thousand times I’ve posed those questions to myself since Saturday night.

  “Tony?” Penelope says softly, breaking into my reverie.

  Without quite knowing when I assumed the position, I find my forehead resting on my crossed arms on Penelope’s desk. “Sorry,” I murmur as I look up.

  She waves the apology aside before her eyes slide over to Larose. “The insurance company has the aircraft, right?”

  “They should still have it,” he replies. “The NTSB turned it over to them some time ago, though. If they’re done with it, they’ll probably sell it for scrap.”

  “We need to file an injunction to preserve any additional fuel trapped in the engine block,” Penelope says. “Actually, to preserve the entire aircraft.”

  “I agree about the wreckage, but there’s two problems with the fuel angle,” Larose says. Penelope’s brow furrows in disappointment as he continues, “Even if there is more recoverable fuel in the engine block and it’s contaminated, there’s no way to prove it didn’t happen sometime during the past couple of months.”

  A great weariness settles over me. Are we ever going to catch a break in this damned case?

  “Rumor has it that Windy City and their insurance company have reached a settlement in their lawsuit,” Larose says next.

  “What does that mean to us?” I ask.

  His shoulders sag. “I’m told the settlement stipulates that all details and materials amassed by the insurance company are to be considered confidential and privileged information.”

  Penelope groans and swears for the first time in my experience. “Damn!” she mutters while slapping a hand on her armrest in frustration.

  “We can sue for release of the information,” I suggest.

  “I wouldn’t bet on winning,” she says thoughtfully. “That wreckage is starting to look like the only thing we’ll have to work with. We need to get our hands on it.”

  “If the FBI charges Billy and Rick, how are we supposed to defend them?” I wonder in horror.

  “Good question,” my partner replies. Then, as she usually does, Penelope unearths a silver lining. “Mind you, in that case we’d have the urgency of a criminal trial to argue for overturning the confidentiality provision of the settlement between Windy City and their insurance company.”

  So, I’m supposed to be excited about the prospect of criminal charges being laid against our client? How in hell did things come to this?

  Penelope squares her shoulders as if she’s gearing up for battle. “We’ll start by suing AAA Avgas for all their records from the week before and after the crash. Heck, we’ll countersue Windy City to make sure that we get our hands on everything they have when they turn over discovery.”

  “Go after every scrap of paper you can lay your hands on about Megan Walton and the rest of their pilots,” Larose suggests.

  I’m stricken with horror over the potential ramifications from us going after AAA Avgas and Windy City. Joe was pretty clear that he was looking out for their interests. Not for the first time in the past few days, I feel as if I may buckle beneath the weight of the competing interests at war within me. The lives of multiple people—Brittany, Papa, Billy Likens, Rick Hogan, and Bobby Harland—will potentially be put at risk or devastated by whatever we do.

  Penelope is again staring at me with open concern, which fills me with guilt and remorse. It’s hardly fair that her partner is withholding pertinent information. But she can’t know everything. Or can she?

  I throw my hands up and stand. “I don’t know what the hell to do!” I exclaim before I turn away and stalk out the door.

  I may have been brought to a standstill by the paralysis of indecision, but Penelope isn’t. Thinking we’re in agreement, she goes ahead and files suit against AAA Avgas and serves Windy City Sky Tours with a court order for all records pertaining to the hiring and training of their pilots, including Megan Walton. She also files a motion to have the plane wreckage preserved and turned over to us. Moving with her usual efficiency, she files all the actions by the following afternoon.

  The blowback isn’t long in coming.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jake Plummer calls after dinner Wednesday evening, almost a full day beyond Joe’s two-day deadline.

  “I need to see you right away,” he says tersely.

  My stomach twists into a tight, painful knot. “Why? Is Brittany okay?”

  “As far as I know.”

  I’m overcome with relief for a nanosecond before his answer fully registers. “So far as he knows” means he doesn’t know a damned thing more than he did yesterday. Or the day before that… or any of the days before that.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “I’m at home.”

  “Be right there.”

  “No!” I shout before he can sign off. If Joe’s watching the house and a cop shows up, we’re screwed. Not that I’ve gotten a whiff of anyone watching the house, despite continually looking over my shoulder and compulsively peeking out windows at all hours. Still, my fear of Joe’s omnipresence is such that I assume someone is out there. Always.

  There’s a long silence before Jake asks, “What’s up?”

  “Long story, but can you sneak in through the alley and back door?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Please.”

  This is greeted by another prolonged silence. “Why?” he finally asks.

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  He sighs and grumbles “All right” before he signs off.

  I’ve been home for most of the last couple of days. Putting Pat and Deano at risk with my presence at Pat’s doesn’t sit well with me, and the truth is that I’m not feeling as comfortable there as I had been when Brittany was there. Then there’s the possibility, however remote, that Brittany might end up here for some reason. If she does, I need to be here. Trish Pangborne, who has called and texted with her support and managed to do so without being intrusive, has edged into my thoughts surprisingly often, given my preoccupation with Brittany. I’m immensely grateful for all Pat is doing, especially the way she’s smothering the dog with love and attention as he recuperates, but things simply feel off when I’m around her. I’m not sure I’d be spending any time at Pat’s if I wasn’t going by to hang out with Deano as he recovers. There’s no way I want him around Forty-Seven Liberty Street with the likes of Joe dropping in every now and then. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture the outcome of Deano taking exception to Joe and company waltzing into the house uninvited. As for me, I’ve brought the danger upon myself, so it’s my job—and mine alone—to deal with it.

  In a bid to make Jake’s visit as stealthy as possible, I turn off the exterior lights and make a quick sprint to the garage to unscrew the bulbs in the motion-detector lights that cover the yard and alley. I spend the next few minutes pacing around the house, pausing only to stare at pictures of my absent family—especially Brittany. Jake sounded upset. Would he have told me over the phone if something had happened to Brittany? Probably not. That’s how cops do it when someone dies; they tell you in person. I collapse into Papa’s La-Z-Boy and bury my face in my hands. Has Joe retaliated for Penelope’s filings at the courthouse yesterday? If so, he’s moved quickly. Then again, I haven’t exactly gotten with the program.

  The thought of Joe and a mental image of Brittany’s lifeless eyes shoots me out of the easy chair and into the kitchen for the bourbon. I’m well into a tumbler of it when pounding on the back door breaks through my stupor. I turn and spy Jake’s agitated face in the window.

  He steps inside with a look of concern and studies the almost-empty glass sitting on the kitchen table. “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “I got a little concerned when you didn’t answer.”

  I cock a questioning eyebrow at him.

  “The doorbell, Tony. I rang three times, then started pounding on the door before you noticed me.”


  Oh. “Sorry.”

  “You look like hell,” he says after studying me for a few seconds. “Not sleeping?”

  “What’s sleep?” I force a smile, or I think I do while he leads me back to my seat at the kitchen table and plunks his ass down on one of the maple chairs. I can’t bring myself to ask why he’s here.

  “I’ve got some tough news,” he says after a beat.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the hammer to fall.

  “Bobby Harland’s body was discovered this afternoon.”

  My eyes snap open and lock on Jake’s. “Bobby?”

  “Looks like he was killed sometime today and dumped inside the Independence Park pool change rooms.”

  Not Brittany! I think with relief. Then I’m immediately overwhelmed by crushing guilt for momentarily being elated that it’s someone else’s child who has died.

  Jake sits patiently while I process the news. Jesus, Bobby’s death is going to gut Brittany if she’s alive to find out about it. Does Brittany know what happened? Did they make her watch? Dumping Bobby’s corpse across the street is a message intended for me—Joe’s admonishment for me missing his deadline. Is it a warning that worse is still to come if I don’t get my ass in gear and do something to torpedo the R & B lawsuit?

  My thoughts turn to Independence Park. What a god-awful place for Bobby to end up. Recent images of the decrepit building come to mind. The pool and outbuildings I frequented in the summers of my youth have fallen into disrepair in recent years and have become a place for druggies, hookers, and their customers. Condoms, human and animal waste, and all other sorts of filth littered the place last time I saw it. The village has committed to a cleanup; I hope to God it’s already underway. My vision narrows while I stare dumbstruck at a cabinet door and recall the few hours I spent with Bobby. Did I cause this? Might I have prevented it?

  “Are they sure he was killed today?” I ask Jake.

  “Yeah, they are.” When I don’t respond, he moves on. “The kids were obviously kidnapped. That’s FBI turf.”

  “The FBI?” Won’t Joe love that?

  “That’s right,” Jake replies.