Plane in the Lake

by Neil Turner

  “I don’t have the number.”

  That surprises him. He scribbles it on a notebook page, rips it out, and pushes it across the desk. “You also could have called the feds. I gave you a name and number.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t know them, don’t necessarily trust them, suspect they might have fucked things up.”

  Jake takes my little diatribe in stride, then asks, “What’s this other thing you forgot to mention?”

  “Grab your notebook so we only have to do this once,” I suggest. He does so with a wry smile. Then I tell him about Matteo Giordano’s visit.

  Predictably, he blows up. “Another fucking mobster you weren’t gonna tell me about?”

  I suspect he’s angrier about gangsters crawling out of the woodwork than he is about me speaking with them. Still. “I was going to tell you, damn it. And it’s not like I’m inviting these assholes over!”

  Jake sighs and nods. “Fair enough.”

  “The feds would have gone after Giordano if they’d known he was here, wouldn’t they?” I ask. “Even if it put Papa and Brittany at risk.”

  “Probably so,” Jake allows.

  My interests aren’t aligned with the FBI’s interests. Something to keep in mind. “Anyway,” I say, “Giordano called me this morning to follow up.”

  “Did you get a number?”

  “Blocked, of course. He’s probably back in Italy by now.”

  Jake nods in agreement. “Probably so.”

  “Anyway, I told him I’ll do everything I can to raise the 250K tomorrow when the banks and markets open.”

  “And until then?”

  I shrug. “He reminded me that Papa’s safety isn’t guaranteed until I pay up and they take care of the situation.”

  “Speaking of which, any mention of what ‘taking care of the situation’ entails?”

  I swallow and shake my head. “No, and that’s been bothering me.”

  “How so?”

  “What does taking care of the situation mean?”

  He shrugs his shoulders in a “don’t ask me” gesture.

  “They won’t kill him, will they?” I ask anxiously.

  “They might. I doubt they’ll want to keep eyeballs on him for any length of time.”

  “I’m not sure I can live with paying for a hit.”

  “Then don’t think about it, Tony. Remember Ed Stankowski?”

  I swallow and nod.

  “All right, then. Fuck this guy. He’s got it coming to him.”

  He’s right, I suppose, but it’s going to take some time for me to process things. In the meantime, there are more pressing concerns. “Giordano knows where Papa is.”

  The detective’s eyes widen. “He has the address?”

  “He didn’t mention an address, but he knows Papa’s in Penne with his sister.”

  Jake is clearly shaken by the news. “How the fuck can he know that?”

  Like I know.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he explodes. “How? I played that close to the vest. Real close.”

  I shrug again. If Jake doesn’t know, I sure as hell haven’t got a clue.

  “So, what next?” he mutters.

  I feel as if I’m lost in a fun house maze of mirrors. “I don’t know! My daughter is probably dead, and we’re trying to figure out how to bring in Joe without putting her in danger. What do we do about a gangster from Italy who knows where Papa is hiding? Hell, the bastard might have already popped Papa. Either way, he’s going to walk away with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of my money that maybe I could have used to free Brittany.” I push my chair back so hard that it topples over. “The hell of it is, there’s no fucking way to know!”

  Jake watches my blowup without comment. After I pluck the chair off the floor, drag it back to the table, and sit down, he meets my gaze. “There is a way to check on Francesco.”

  There is? Why the hell hasn’t anyone told me? Not trusting myself to speak civilly, I gesture at him to continue.

  We’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Zack Menzies pokes his head in. “Everything okay in here?”

  Jake nods and gestures at me. “Yeah, this clumsy ass fell off his chair.”

  Menzies smirks at me and backs out.

  “The kid who picked up Francesco and Max in Austria… your nephew, isn’t he?” Jake asks.

  I nod. “Beppe.”

  “Odd name, but he sounds like a good kid. Max and Beppe worked out a backdoor channel just in case one of them needed to reach the other.”

  “And?”

  “Beppe’s girlfriend’s sister runs a café that he frequents. Max has a sister who lives somewhere north of Bumfuck, Maine. He and Beppe exchanged burner phones and worked out some kind of code to get messages back and forth. If Beppe needs to talk, he’ll call Maine, Max’s sister will get word to Max, and he’ll call the café in Penne. If Max needs to talk, same routine in reverse.”

  “Great. Let’s find out if Papa’s okay.”

  “My initial thought, as well,” Jake says. “But don’t you think Beppe would have tried to reach Max if anything was wrong?”

  There’s a certain logic in that, but. “What if something happened to Beppe, too?”

  Jake sighs. “Yeah, there’s always that possibility.”

  “There are altogether too many possibilities, almost all of them with shitty endings,” I grumble, then ask, “Why the burner phones? Why not just call her house?”

  “Couple of things. Max had the same question. Francesco’s sister doesn’t have a phone. Phone directories, mobsters bribing phone company employees, just too many ways for that to go wrong. When this all began way back when, they decided that sending letters was too risky. Someone peeks in a mailbox and sees a return address, you know. Anyway, they applied the same principal to phones.”

  “Sounds a little overly paranoid,” I say.

  Jake shakes his head no. “We’re talking about some nasty bastards, Tony. Your dad and his sister might have done the right thing. Worked well enough for fifty years, didn’t it?”

  “True.”

  Jake sits back and plants his palms on the desk. “The Giordano angle gives us another avenue to explore. I’m going to sit down with my FBI friends to see what they know about him and pick their brains on next steps.”

  “Will they be pissed that it’s taken me a day to reach out to you?”

  He chuckles. “Probably, but I think you hit the nail on the head about their knee-jerk reaction. Giordano’s probably wanted in the US, and that would override whatever concern the feds might have about the safety of Brittany and Francesco. The missed phone message may turn out to have been a blessing in disguise.”

  Sounds like I’ve done something right. Inadvertently, of course. “So, you’ll talk to the FBI.”

  He nods.

  I twist in my seat in a bid to get comfortable behind the desk, but there isn’t enough room to stretch, so I stand and push my arms straight up above my head. My fingers touch the ceiling when I do so. How in hell does Menzies work in this cubbyhole?

  I hope to God Joe doesn’t get wind of the FBI’s involvement. “The FBI is being careful, right?” I ask.

  “Sure. This isn’t their first go round with these people.”

  “Will I have any idea what’s going on?”

  Jake thinks that over for a long minute before he replies, “I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can.”

  I slap my hands down on the desktop and lean over to hover above Jake before asking, “Meaning?”

  “What you need to know, you’ll know,” he replies curtly.

  “Where will you draw the line on that?”

  “Need to know. Any plans need to be tightly held for operational security.”

  I think I know what that means. I won’t be told a thing.

  He gives me a tight smile. “Yeah, just what you’re thinking. I’m not telling you a damned thing about whatever operational plans we decide upon.”

  Probably a wi
se idea. I resist the instinct to challenge his decision. He’s not going to bow to whatever pressure I try to exert. Nor will he respond to a heartfelt plea from a worried father. He’ll stand his ground and do whatever he thinks best. It’s a quality I’ve come to admire—even when it doesn’t get me what I want.

  “One more thing about Giordano,” I say.

  “Jesus, Tony. I thought you’d already told me everything.”

  I shrug. “This is a little vague. He said he might be able to help out with Brittany.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not really sure. The Ndrangheta is a bigger outfit than the Lucianos, right?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Would the Lucianos follow an order from Italy?”

  Jake thinks on that for a long moment. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What if Giordano threatened them?”

  “I don’t see it, Tony. I doubt the Ndrangheta is willing to put that much effort and risk their prestige over a matter as minor as this is. At least to them.”

  “What if they get something in return?”

  “You’ve got more money tucked away somewhere?”

  I shake my head. “No. Giordano mentioned me owing him a favor if he intervened.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, really. He caught me off guard.”

  “What the hell else can you do for him of not pay some sort of ransom?”

  “Helping him out if he ever needs legal work done here.”

  “Jesus,” Jake murmurs while he runs a hand through his hair. “Whatever he asks won’t be legal. You know that?”

  I nod.

  “But if it gets Brittany back,” he muses.

  “Exactly.”

  “Cross that bridge when you get to it?”

  “I’m kinda thinking that way,” I agree.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. These are dangerous people, Tony. Cross them, well….”

  “I’m not even sure he can help,” I mutter. “Hell, he might just pocket my two hundred and fifty grand and walk away with it, leaving Papa to twist in the wind.”

  “Yeah, that’s possible,” Jake says unhappily. “Guess you’d better decide how you’re gonna play that favor conundrum.”

  I nod. “If it will get Brittany back, what choice do I have?”

  “Helluva spot to be in, pal. I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do. Detective Plummer says that you should tell him to go to hell. Jake Plummer says you gotta look out for your daughter’s safety. Whatever you decide, be careful with these people.”

  “I will.”

  “I need to get to work, Tony. You go out first in case this Joe character has eyes on the place. I’ll visit with Zack for a bit and then slip out the back door.”

  I’m fully immersed in desperation and melancholy by the time I get home. Commiserating with Puckerface after I feed him underscores Brittany’s absence. I wonder if—just like Mama’s roses—nursing Puckerface along will end up being my way of trying to hang on to a piece of my daughter. I try to drown my sorrows in a fresh bottle of Maker’s Mark that takes me through the afternoon and into the evening.

  I stir in fuzzy bewilderment when the ringer on my phone wakes me up. My neck is bent into some sort of pretzel shape that refuses to yield to my attempts to roll or straighten it, my leg is asleep, and it’s pitch dark in the living room as I fumble about for the phone.

  “Hello?” I ask sleepily when I finally find it and connect the call.

  “It’s me,” Trish says in a tone that is equal parts concern and annoyance. “I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. She’s been so sweet and discreet, touching base now and again, not pressing for details, just letting me know she’s thinking about me and hoping for the best.

  “Have you been drinking?” she asks.

  “Maybe.”

  Her voice softens. “Maybe? You’re an adult, Tony. It’s legal. Can’t say I blame you.”

  Misery loves company. Should I ask her over?

  “No news about Brittany?” she asks, throwing a damper on whatever carnal thoughts are stirring.

  “No news,” I mumble. Mafia visitors notwithstanding.

  “Okay, then. Please keep in touch.”

  “I will.”

  “Now, go sleep it off,” she suggests with a trace of humor in her voice.

  If only I could sleep this nightmare away. Instead, despair burrows into me like a living thing creeping into the very center of my being. I wander the family home alone while I tumble deeper and deeper into a bourbon-fueled waking nightmare in which I’m faced with a life empty of the people I value most. Mama. Amy. Mel. Papa. Brittany. Fate seems to be squeezing me dry… using me up. Swallowing a bottle of pills or taking a long one-way swim in Lake Michigan might be the only way I’ll find peace. That’s the bourbon talking, I know… but I’m starting to listen.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jake Plummer calls late Tuesday morning. “Where are you?”

  “At the office.”

  “I need to see you. Right now.”

  “Not here. Joe may be watching.”

  “Where, then?” he asks impatiently. His urgency is spooking me.

  “Go to our new office,” I reply after a moment’s thought. “It’s not unusual for me to stop by over the lunch hour to see how the work is going.”

  “What’s the address?”

  I give it to him and add, “If you get there before me, just go on in.”

  “Give me and Max ten minutes to get there before you leave. If Joe is watching, we’ll already be inside when you arrive.”

  The ten-minute wait to be on my way is torture. What’s up? Is Brittany okay? Is Papa? What other calamities might they be coming to tell me about?

  “What’s up, partner?” Penelope asks as I pace around the office like a zoo animal looking for a way out.

  “Detective Plummer needs to see me.”

  “Everything’s cool?”

  “Nothing’s cool,” I snap.

  She touches my arm gently. “Just checking that there’s no bad news, Tony.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries.” We stare at each other for an awkward moment.

  “Good luck with Plummer,” she says before retreating to her office.

  I linger for five more slow-moving minutes before setting out for our future workplace. The building itself is a definite step up from the strip mall. We’re on the second floor, up a narrow staircase or a very slow elevator ride from the street. The smell of fresh paint grows stronger as I take the steps two at a time before stepping into a bright space that will be Joan Brooks’s greatly expanded reception area.

  Jake and Max stare at me from the open doorframe leading into my new office. The wooden interior doors are all off somewhere to be stained. The place actually looks substantially complete. The painting is underway, only a couple of electrical fixtures remain to be installed, and the IT connections are mostly in place. The furniture is still to come. A pair of five-gallon paint containers sits beside freshly painted walls. Ladders are scattered about, drop cloths cover the floor, and paint rollers and brushes lie here and there.

  Jake waves a hand around. “Pretty nice place.”

  “Great windows,” Max adds.

  Both Penelope’s and my offices feature tall, wide windows. “One of the things I like best.”

  “When do you move in?” Jake asks.

  “Supposedly for Christmas,” I reply, parroting our contractor’s promise. He might actually keep this one. “That’s not why we’re here, guys. What’s up? Did you find Joe?”

  Jake nods. “Yeah. We’ll come back to that in a minute.”

  What’s more pressing than that? The obvious answer slams into my brain like a sledgehammer. Brittany.

  “Got a note this morning from the Italian police via Interpol to say that the problem in Orsomarso has been resolved,” Jake continues. “Guess you p
aid up?”

  I nod. With Penelope’s help and a margin loan against my investments, I scraped together Papa’s $250,000 ransom by noon Monday and promptly wired it to a bank in the Cayman Islands. The news from the Italian police confirms that it made its way to an account belonging to my latest Mafia buddy. Speaking of which, Giordano called earlier today regarding Brittany and the favor. I told him that I’ll do whatever the hell he wants if he can get her home. He was going to check into it and get back to me in the next day or two. He closed by reminding me that I’m agreeing to an open-ended favor, collectible at any time on his terms. I reluctantly agreed. With any luck, someone will blow him away before he comes to collect.

  “Giordano’s work, I imagine,” Jake says about the news from Italy. “Maybe a quiet word to cease and desist.”

  “A bullet in the head is a hell of a lot more likely,” Max adds from his perch on an upended empty five-gallon paint pail.

  Jake nods. “Yeah. Could be. Anyway, problem solved one way or another.”

  I feel sick deep in the pit of my stomach at the thought of the bullet-to-the-head solution, which would make my $250,000 blood money. Jake is studying me, perhaps intuiting where my thoughts have gone.

  “So, Joe,” he says.

  I’m happy to turn my thoughts elsewhere. “You found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “The FBI still isn’t sure where Brittany is, and moving on Joe is too risky without knowing. They’ll act fast if they locate her.”

  “If,” I mutter.

  “Afraid so,” Jake says sympathetically. “They’ve got a few wiretaps in place and are tailing Joe as best they can.”

  “As best they can?”

  “He’s Mafia, Tony. Most of them know how to shake a tail. There’s also the little matter of not spooking him, so the feds lose him now and then. They hope he’ll lead them to Brittany.”

  “How likely is that?” I ask skeptically. The FBI has known about Joe for four days. Nothing in their vaunted bag of tricks has helped us one whit to this point.

  Jake steps across to lay a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t despair. They’ve been picking up cryptic communications they think might be about Brittany. If so, that suggests she’s still being held.”

  Which suggests she’s still alive! “Held where?” I ask.