Under Pressure

by Kathy Brandt

  Stark was standing over the body when I went back up front. “Sure looks like the gun that was stolen from the warehouse. I put odds on it being the same gun that killed Frett,” Stark said.

  In the out basket at the edge of his desk, right on top, nicely placed out of the way of all the gore was a note—a full confession about how Kiersted had killed Frett and how he’d brought down the plane to save the environment from the likes of people like Lawrence Redding. All nice and tidy, practically wrapped up with a bow.

  We called Dunn and Dickson and then waited outside for them to arrive. The longer we stood around out there, the more I thought about it. I was having a hard time buying the whole scenario. From the looks of the back room, Kiersted had been in the middle of his lab work. Given his obsessive neatness, I couldn’t believe he’d kill himself before cleaning up the lab.

  When I mentioned my skepticism, Stark got pissed.

  “Come on, Sampson, can’t you just accept the fact that we solved this whole thing—the crash, Frett’s death, the break-in. Dunn will be ecstatic. So will Leonard when she learns the airline is off the hook. I swear, you do this every time. You’re never satisfied.”

  “Admit it, Stark. I’m right a lot of the time. Besides, why would Kiersted be working in his lab one minute and the next decide it was time to end his life? He hadn’t even turned the microscope light off.”

  “Maybe something happened. Maybe he saw something under that microscope that he didn’t like.”

  “You’re reaching here, Stark.”

  “He could have heard we’d found Frett’s body. He knew we’d connect it to him. Just like we did.”

  “Yeah, but how did that gun end up in that plane in the first place if it belonged to Kiersted? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe he dropped it when he was out there sabotaging the plane. Somehow he sneaked on board that morning, tampered with something, dropped the gun, and couldn’t take the time to find it because maintenance or someone was coming to service plane.”

  “Except that we already established that no one suspicious was seen anywhere near that plane.”

  “He could have gotten himself a pair of coveralls, blended in with everyone else.”

  “You really want this to work, huh, Stark?”

  “It does work, Sampson.”

  Chapter 27

  When I left Kiersted’s office, Dunn, Dickson, and Stark were in the back checking Kiersted’s lab for anything that might provide evidence to corroborate what they already believed.

  I told Dunn that I’d head over to Pickering's Landing, have a look around Kiersted’s boat, and secure it, then meet them at the warehouse to talk with Harrigan.

  When I got there, Calvin was tying tires around the rails of the Sea Bird.

  “Yours be da last, Hannah. I be movin’ dem out to the moorings and start raftin’ dem together late dis afternoon. Looks like dat storm goin’ to be hittin’ sometime in da early mornin’ hours.”

  Calvin had already boarded up all the windows at the marina and had all of his vehicles nudged up along the leeward side of the building. “I be sendin’ Tilda and da girls inland to stay at Tilda’s sister’s. You and Simon be welcome dar too.”

  “What about you, Calvin? Where will you be?”

  “I be ridin’ things out here,” he said.

  “O’Brien offered to let us stay at his place. I’ll take Simon and the animals there and I’ll stay here. You may need some help.”

  “Hannah, I been through ‘bout four or five of des storms. Now sometimes dey don' amount to nothin’ but sometimes dey be real nasty. I don’ think you be needin’ to be down here.”

  “We’ll see, Calvin.”

  I told him about Enok Kiersted.

  “Dat be a damn shame. I liked dat boy even if he be a little bit of a loose canon,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Folks in town talkin’. Guess Derrick Johnson be seein’ him down at da cruise ship docks threatenin’ a steward ‘cause he done found some bottles washed up on shore with da ship's logo on dem. Everyone knows dat boy be da one let dem dolphins go. Good thing he did it, you ast me.”

  “Did you ever notice anyone coming around to visit him, Calvin?”

  “Nah. You know he only be down here a month. Mostly, he come home late, leave early. Didn’t see too much of him.”

  I told Calvin I wanted to have a look around Kirsted’s boat.

  “I think it be open," he said. “Never did see dat boy lockin’ dat boat. I be goin’ into town for more supplies, den I be back to start movin’ da boats. Best be gettin’ Sadie and Nomad, some of your stuff after you finish.”

  I walked down to the end of the dock, jumped aboard Kiersted’s boat, and went inside. Enok’s compulsive neatness was as obvious here as it had been in his lab. The bunk was made, his clothes were hung in a closet—all the shirts together, long-sleeved at one end, short-sleeved in the middle. They were also organized by colors. There wasn’t even a dirty coffee cup in the galley sink.

  So what was with the stacks of papers that were scattered all over the salon table? Like the mess he’d left in his lab, this clutter was out of character. I sat down and started looking through the material. Most of it was about the mangroves, articles about birds that inhabited them, and reports on the possible effects of the trees being torn out.

  On the top of one stack was an article that Kiersted had cut out of the Island News about development, with a quote from Conrad Frett about how important the development of ocean property was for the economy. Someone, seemingly Kiersted, had underlined the quote with an angry red pen that had torn the paper.

  Nothing about Kiersted’s rage surprised me. Frett’s secretary had confirmed that Kiersted had confronted Frett about his approvals for development. This was probably just one more indication of how pissed Kiersted had been. But it was almost too pat. Like someone had placed it there to be found. I knew what Stark and Dunn would be saying though. I hadn’t found one thing that vindicated Kiersted.

  Kiersted had kept a key for the boat on a hook by the door. I left things as they were, tightened down all the hatches, grabbed the key, and locked up.

  I was surprised to see Daniel Stewart coming up from below deck on the Sea Bird as I stepped off Kiersted’s boat. I caught him by surprise. He looked like a teenager sneaking into his parents’ liquor cabinet.

  “Sorry, Hannah. I was looking for you. I thought you might be down below. I can’t believe you live on this thing. Don’t get me wrong—it’s nice but pretty darned small,” he said, covering his discomfort with a lopsided smile.

  “Why were you looking for me?” I asked. I could feel heat rising in my face, the result of something between embarrassment and desire. The last time I’d seen Stewart, I’d been hightailing it out of his hotel room before I got involved in an act that required I take my clothes off. Now though, I was irritated. I didn’t like people going aboard my boat when I wasn’t home.

  “I thought I might take you to lunch. Simon too. Maybe go up to the greenhouse at the botanical gardens. I figure the kid could take some pictures while we find a quiet place to talk,” he said, his tone suggesting that he wanted to do more than simply converse.

  “Simon’s at school,” I said.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “It would be a shame if we had to have a romantic lunch alone.”

  “I can’t, Daniel. I’m working. In fact, it’s amazing that you happened to find me here.”

  “I just took a chance. Figured I’d at least find Simon. How about dinner?”

  “This is a bad time. Just too much going on and that storm’s moving in. I’ve got to get some clothes together and then head over to the warehouse.”

  “That investigator find out what brought the plane down?”

  “Not that I know of, but it’s possible we know who did it.”

  “Really? That’s good.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said, glad that he didn’t ask for det
ails that I wasn’t about to share anyway.

  He followed me below and watched as I threw some clothes together. I handed him Simon’s camera bag and a duffel, then grabbed the animals’ food and gathered Nomad. Sadie followed me to the car and jumped into the passenger seat.

  “You know you’ve got to eat,” he said as we stood next to the Rambler. “Why don’t you meet me at my hotel for dinner?”

  “That’s going to be hard, Daniel. No telling what the rest of the day will bring.”

  “Look, I’ll be there. If you can make it, great. Around seven,” he said and headed toward his rental car.

  “Daniel, the camera bag,” I yelled. He still had it slung over his shoulder.

  “See what you do to me, Hannah?” he said as he walked to the Rambler and tossed the bag in the back. “Guess Simon would be lost without his camera.”

  “It’s just the underwater case, some other gadgets. Simon’s doing show-and-tell about his camera at school today,” I said as I got into the car.

  “Come tonight,” Stewart said, leaning into the open window and brushing his lips against my cheek.

  ***

  I stopped at O’Brien’s to drop off the animals. The gardener and several other men were outside boarding up the windows. Claire answered the door, gorgeous as always in a sarong the color of an ocean sunset—no doubt another one of her own designs.

  God, I felt like a fool, standing there with my bags, my cat, and Sadie, like a repentant girlfriend. Shit! I tried to cover my stupidity, telling Claire that O’Brien had offered to have Simon and the animals till the danger of the hurricane was over. I walked through the door in a flurry and threw the bags in the foyer. She just stood there, her hand on the doorknob, trying to figure out what to say. Finally, Marta, O’Brien’s cook, saved us.

  “Hannah, I’m glad to see you!” she said, giving Claire a sideways glance. “Let me take your things.”

  “I’m sorry to invade, Marta. Do you mind if Simon and the animals stay here till the storm passes? It’s not safe down at Pickering's Landing.”

  “’Course not,” she said. “Dis place be battened down tight in no time. And you know dat Peter don love dis dog! I be partial to cats myself,” she said, taking Nomad.

  “I’ll drop Simon off after school,” I said.

  “What about you? You know you be welcome to stay too.” Marta was definitely stepping over the boundaries here, but it had always been clear that she was in charge at O’Brien's.

  Claire still stood in the doorway with a smile hardened on her face.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. I’m not here to interfere. I’ll be staying at Pickering's Landing and helping Calvin out.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not what you think, Hannah. If I could take O’Brien away from you, believe me, I’d do it. It’s just not going to happen.”

  I didn’t believe a word she said. Maybe I would reconsider Daniel’s invitation for dinner.

  By the time I got to the warehouse, Dunn and Stark had already been there and left. They had told Harrigan about Kiersted’s confession.

  “It fits,” he said. He’d gotten the results from the fuel controls he’d sent out for examination. The fuel had been contaminated with salt water before the plane ever left the ground.

  “The analysis came back with more salt water than jet fuel in the tanks,” he said. “No wonder those engines quit. Your Chief Dunn is convinced that Kiersted found a way to foul that fuel.”

  “Do I hear a ‘but’ in there somewhere?” I asked.

  “I won’t consider this investigation complete until I determine how this Kiersted managed to contaminate that fuel. In other words, it’s not over yet. I get the feeling you’re thinking the same way.”

  “Yeah. Nothing feels quite right.” I told him about Kiersted's obsessive neatness and the state he’d left his lab in before he supposedly killed himself.

  “How about we mosey out to the airport? I want to check the fueling procedures,” he said.

  “Mosey?” I asked, grinning. I’d never heard anyone attempt cowboy with a British accent.

  “I’m practicing.” He laughed.

  It was noon when Harrigan and I walked across the tarmac to the area where the fuel trucks were parked. The sky was leaden, the ocean at the end of the runway an angry swirl of confusion. The last flight was taxiing out. Every other plane had already left for the safety of the airport in San Juan.

  We found a fueler who was put out by the fact that we were bothering him. I couldn’t blame him. Every employee had been enlisted to secure vehicles, luggage carts, and anything else that could be nailed down or moved.

  “All da trucks be in dis here hangar,” he said. “What you be needin’ ta look at?”

  “I need to check the fuel in the trucks,” Harrigan said, walking over to the fuel trucks and pulling vials from the shoulder bag he carried. He drained samples from each of the trucks into glass containers, held them up to the light, and shook them.

  “Nothing in here but jet fuel,” he said. “Not surprising. Let’s go check the underground tanks. I’ve seen it before at airports that are at the edge of the ocean. All it takes is a small crack in the tank and seawater seeping in.”

  “But there should be indications in the fuel trucks, and other planes would have been affected,” I said.

  “You’re right. That was one of the first things I checked when I began my investigation. No other aircraft have reported engine trouble and plenty have been fueled since Saturday morning. Still, stranger things have happened.”

  We got the fueler to take us to the underground tanks. There were two of them a couple hundred feet from the shore. Harrigan sampled them both. The fuel was clean. Then he walked toward the ocean, kicking his boots through the brush and debris as he went.

  “What are you looking for, Harrigan?” I asked, following. The fueler trailed slowly behind, wanting nothing more than to get back to the hangar.

  “Just checking,” Harrigan said. “Some of these island airports have old tanks buried closer to the ocean’s edge that they sealed up when they put in better and larger ones.”

  He kept walking, stirring up dust that was being blown away by the swift wind. It was beginning to drizzle and massive clouds were piling up on the horizon.

  “Looks like this is a waste of time,” he said. “Let’s get out of this weather.”

  “Wait a minute,” the fueler said when he finally caught up. “Der be a ole tank right around here somewhere. Done forgot it even be out here.”

  Just then Harrigan’s boot struck something hard.

  “Dat’s probably it. It be out of service for a coupla years.”

  “The top’s loose,” Harrigan said, crouching. He opened it and peered inside with his flashlight.

  The guy just shrugged.

  “There’s still fuel in here,” he observed. “Do you think someone could have used this by mistake?”

  “All da men know dat tank’s no good. It be all corroded inside. New guys don’t even know it be out here.”

  “This could be a problem,” Harrigan said.

  It didn’t take long to find out what had happened. A few questions to the right fueler had done it. The guy had worked at the airport for almost fifteen years. He’d been hungover, maybe still a little drunk, when he’d come in on Saturday morning. He’d mistakenly filled his truck from the bad tank. When the Island Air plane had gone down, he’d realized what he’d done. He’d flushed out his truck and had been covering his ass ever since. He couldn’t ‘fess up fast enough. It had obviously been eating at the guy.

  “I can’t be affordin’ ta lose dis job, mon” he said. “Hell, it not be my fault dat tank be contaminated. I don filled my truck from dat tank for years, den all of a sudden we sposed to remembers dat we not be usin' it.”

  It was obvious that the guy had been so alcohol sodden, he’d been on automatic Saturday morning, unwittingly filling his truck from the same tank he’d been using for years until the new ones
had been installed.

  “If it’s any comfort,” Harrigan said, “you won’t be the only one whose head will roll. Airport operations will be liable big time.”

  We walked to the car and started back to town. Harrigan was anxious get back to the warehouse and let the local mechanics who’d assisted with the wreckage go home to their families and get their houses secured before the storm hit. He would tie up loose ends, fill out final reports, and head back to the UK as soon as the weather cleared.

  “Doesn’t that just take the cake?” he said as we drove.

  “Yeah,” was all I could manage at the moment. Christ, Kiersted had confessed to sabotaging a plane that had not been sabotaged at all. And Stark and I had been looking for a perpetrator and motive that didn’t exist. None of the passengers had been targeted to die. It had all been an accident.

  “Guess that puts a whole new light on things,” Harrigan said. An understatement, to say the least.

  “Like why was Frett killed, who broke into the warehouse, and who framed and killed Kiersted, I said.”

  All along, Stark and I had ruled out any of the passengers as perps because we’d been proceeding with the sabotage theory. Now? It could be someone on that plane, someone who carried that gun on board, something that person wanted on that plane and was looking for in the warehouse. Somehow Kiersted had been a threat to be eliminated. It had to connect to Frett’s death. What the hell was going on?

  Chapter 28

  I’d called the office from the airport to tell Stark and Dunn that nothing was as it seemed—that the crash had been an accident. Dunn’s secretary told me that Dunn had gone home for the day to secure his house against the storm and that Stark had gone to help Billy with her place. He was out of reach by phone. I called Dunn’s. No answer. Shit.