by Ward Larsen
Presently he was standing behind a cauldron of stew in a south Tampa soup kitchen, ladling a large helping of chipped beef onto a mound of mashed potatoes. The glutinous concoction spread a bit too far, slopping over the side of the plate, and from there onto the shoe of his customer.
“Goddammit!” croaked the man, a ruffian of no less than sixty who sported a week’s gray stubble on his deeply lined face.
“I’m so sorry,” said Stuyvesant, not that he really was. Ungrateful bastard.
The old man wiped his shoe on the opposite trouser cuff and moved on.
“Not such a large portion,” whispered the kindly woman to his left who was dishing out the potatoes.
The line shifted, and Stuyvesant dropped another, smaller dollop onto the next mound of instant spuds.
“It’s really quite tasty,” Stuyvesant said to the woman. She was the lead volunteer, and the two of them had already shared an early lunch before she’d put him to work as a server. She was the usual sort one came across in these places, a well-meaning woman, perhaps slightly younger than Stuyvesant. He thought her attractive, in an oddly philanthropic way. During lunch she’d thanked him for volunteering, and told him she wished there were more people like him who were willing to pitch in and help, her entire sermon interspersed with lamentations about the shelter’s lack of funds. Stuyvesant feigned interest while casting fleeting glances at the deep cleavage behind her earth-tone smock—made from recycled plastic bags—and by the end of the apple cobbler she had twice decisively brushed his hand from her knee. It was a silly fantasy, but one of the few pleasures Stuyvesant managed anymore. He had a wife, somewhere, but the relationship had long existed only on paper.
Stuyvesant was about to deliver the next serving, targeting the oncoming mound of potatoes like an archer would a bull’seye, when the man holding the tray abruptly grabbed his wrist. A surprised Stuyvesant looked up to see a downtrodden Hispanic man, perhaps thirty years old with tea-brown skin and a weary gaze. Both men stood still for a moment, frozen in a hesitant grasp. A large and alert man behind Stuyvesant, who was there for security, noticed right away and took a step forward. The Hispanic man chose that moment to smile and let go, and then he held out a small card which Stuyvesant took cautiously. He saw a biblical verse on the front: For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Stuyvesant smiled, pocketed the card, and dumped half a pound of glutinous beef and gravy on the man’s potatoes. The Hispanic shuffled toward the green beans, Stuyvesant addressed his next customer, and the large man behind him went back to watching.
The early bird lunch shift ended uneventfully, and not wanting to get stuck with cleanup duty, Stuyvesant bid goodbye to his coworkers, a group he would certainly never see again. He left by the back door, as was his custom, and paused outside to flex his bum knee. It hurt like hell, and he reached into his pocket for a newly acquired stash of Percocet. He swallowed two pills dry—a learned skill—and slipped the tiny bottle back into his pocket. His hand came back out holding the card he’d been given. He was about to flick it into a nearby trash can when he noticed something handwritten on the back, a message in English. It was brief and to the point. After reading through it twice, Stuyvesant closed his eyes and raised his face toward the heavens.
“Christ!” he muttered through taut lips.
Martin Stuyvesant’s worst fears had just come true.
TWELVE
Thomas Mulligan was an Anglo male, late thirties with dark hair that was clipped short and neat, a cut that would have passed inspection in any man’s army. Three days ago he’d been in excellent physical condition, something of a runner’s build but more broad in the shoulders. The passenger list Davis had seen yesterday declared him to be an American citizen traveling to Colombia on business. There was little else to go on, other than the fact that he’d arrived on a connecting flight from Atlanta, the same connection four other passengers had made, including Jen and Kristin Stewart. That was all good information, but none of it explained what he and the medical examiner were looking at now.
Guzman pulled a small penlight from her pocket and inspected two wounds in the center of Mulligan’s chest. Davis thought they correlated reasonably well with the holes he’d found in the back of seat 7C, and he was sure Guzman would find matching exit wounds on Mulligan’s back. As if to confirm the thought, she rolled the body far enough to shine her light underneath.
“Gunshot wounds,” Davis said. It wasn’t a question.
“How did you know about this?” she asked.
“I didn’t know—not for sure. I found two holes in the back of his seat, holes that I couldn’t explain any other way.”
Guzman shouted across the room, and the two querulous officers called a truce long enough to join them. Guzman explained what they were looking at.
Echevarria addressed Davis, “You discovered bullet holes in this man’s seat? Why did you not mention it sooner?”
“I saw two holes … but I didn’t know what made them. Any airplane that’s been in a crash has a thousand new holes, caused by everything from fragmented turbine blades to hail impact. Bullets are rarely on my list of causal factors.”
“In this case they will have to be,” said Echevarria.
For once Marquez agreed with his rival. “Perhaps this man threatened our hijacker. Or Umbriz could have shot him as an example to the others. That would make sense—this man was the most fit passenger on the airplane, and therefore might be viewed as the biggest threat.”
Davis stood very still. He felt everyone looking at him, waiting for a response. He gave them nothing.
Echevarria’s glib tone returned. “This is only more reason for my office to undertake a full investigation. I will insist on full cooperation from both of you.” Notwithstanding his words, the man was indifference itself in pressed fatigues.
Marquez nodded, and Davis sensed an unusual acquiescence—a colonel ceding command to a junior officer.
“Am I clear, Mr. Davis?” the chipper policeman reiterated. “I want your complete cooperation.”
Davis only stared, and perhaps to end the impasse, Dr. Guzman pushed Thomas Mulligan back into cold storage. The drawer clunked shut with apt finality, and three detectives with widely angled agendas walked away in silence.
The light outside was blinding, and the heat had taken its sullen grip.
“Are you going back to headquarters?” Davis asked Marquez.
The colonel nodded. “I have a briefing this afternoon. Do you need a ride?”
“Yeah … and maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Yes. I think I could use one as well.”
They both looked at Echevarria, and Davis said, “Why don’t you join us, Major?”
The policeman considered it before nodding. “Yes, I would very much like that.” He edged away to make a phone call.
While he was out of earshot, Marquez said, “I have worked with Echevarria before. He’s a bastard, that one.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Davis replied, “but I’m forced to take the greater view. Right now he’s an asset. If the Bogotá police can help find my daughter—I’ll deal with the devil himself.”
* * *
Marquez drove to a place called Calle Setenta, a string of shops and cafés in the financial district. Echevarria took his own car, so Davis sat in front with the colonel. The air conditioner was feeble, and Davis steered the vents to his face. The sun was higher now, beating the morning into submission and driving bystanders into narrow shadows.
Marquez spent most of the journey on the phone, but drove slowly and deliberately, making for a far different experience from the morning’s cab ride. With the colonel doubly occupied, Davis withdrew to his own thoughts. He was increasingly uncomfortable with the way things were progressing. In most investigations time was on his side. Victims were either deceased, recovering in hospital beds, or seated in interview rooms. Wreckage was rarely perishable, and thus could b
e collected and analyzed at a leisurely, professional pace. To slow-roll reports and findings in the name of accuracy was commonplace, even encouraged. Here, however, patience seemed anything but a virtue. The primary difference was his daughter, yet Davis sensed something more at play, a niggling worry that some unseen clock was working against him.
Marquez parked on a street lined by colorful awnings, and they reconnected with Echevarria and walked into a busy café. The colonel asked for a table in the shade, and they were seated on the patio under a big red-and-blue umbrella. The three men made a triangle at a table built for four, Davis at the vertex. One American outflanked by two Colombians. Even so, he sensed that this wasn’t any kind of two-versus-one scenario. It was more like the training scenario he would brief up, years ago, when leading a three-ship formation of F-16s. A one-on-one-on-one dogfight. Every man for himself. He remembered those contests well, freewheeling affairs in which the shifts from enemy to ally, and back again, were instantaneous and unpredictable. At least until somebody took a simulated missile up their tailpipe. At that point it became one against one. And nothing in the world was more clear than that.
Davis ordered white coffee, Marquez a double espresso, and Echevarria a latte, and when all of it arrived a certain measure of civility was restored. Couples in fine Italian clothes weaved between sidewalk planters, and hanging flowerpots all around them burst waves of color. Take away the equatorial heat, Davis thought, and they might have been in Milan or Barcelona.
“I have never seen such a case,” Marquez reflected.
“Neither have I,” agreed Davis. “We’ve got two passengers missing and three fatalities with gunshot wounds.”
Echevarria asked Davis, “Have you ever dealt with a hijacking before?”
“No, and I’m still not convinced we’re dealing with one here.”
“How can you say that?” argued Marquez. “You heard the examiner’s report. The pilots both died of gunshot wounds. What more proof do you need?”
“To begin with, I’d like to find the captain.”
Davis watched both men closely. Echevarria wore wraparound sunglasses, so all Davis saw were reflections from the street and the glint of the sun. Marquez simply froze, his espresso hovering over the table.
“What are you saying?” asked the policeman.
“I’m saying the man we saw on that gurney was not Blas Reyna.”
Marquez’ eyes narrowed, the tiny cup still hovering.
“I first noticed it at the crash site. Something about the captain’s body didn’t seem right. He had severe injuries from the crash, no doubt about that. But there was almost no blood. With that kind of trauma to the head and face, it should have been everywhere. And there was something else, although it didn’t hit me until later—the guy’s uniform didn’t fit. Not even close. The pants were too long at the ankle, a good four inches, and his shirt collar was so tight the top button had to be left undone. I’ve seen circus clowns with better tailors. Very unprofessional.”
Marquez set down his cup. “And on this you question his identity. That is loco, my friend.”
“No, what’s loco is that the body we just saw was measured out very precisely by the medical examiner to be five foot eight.”
“What is wrong with that?”
Davis produced exhibit number one from his pocket. “In the back of Reyna’s government file is an original airman medical application—I made a copy last night.” Davis laid it on the table. “I think the Spanish word is altura. I’m American, so I had to convert from metric, but math was my best subject in school. According to that document, Blas Reyna is six foot one.”
“That is all?” said Marquez. “You base this incredible accusation on one ancient piece of paper?”
“No, that’s what made me look closer. Next I checked Moreno, the first officer, and he came out at five foot nine—again excuse my units. His paperwork matches perfectly with the examiner’s measurements. Are you with me so far?”
Echevarria appeared relaxed, even entertained, and leaned back in his chair. Marquez nodded uncomfortably as Davis pulled out exhibits two and three. “These are the official photos of the two pilots. Of course, we can only see from the shoulders up, but I’m sure they’re standing against the same wall. If you look at the TAC-Air logo in the background you can see that Reyna is significantly taller than Moreno. So unless Reyna decided to stand on a box for this picture …” Davis let his words hang.
As Marquez looked at the photographs his indignation subsided, and he went back to sipping his espresso. Behind his sunglasses Echevarria had gone blank, like the good poker player he probably was. Davis was sure he had everyone’s attention.
“What about Reyna’s TAC-Air ID?” Davis prodded. “Is that what someone was about to ask? It was found on the body right where it should have been, clipped to his shirt pocket. As it turns out, Reyna was issued a brand-new company ID only a few weeks ago. It lists him as five foot eight.”
The Colombians sat silently.
“Now, I know this is all confusing, but it won’t be hard to find the right answer. Anybody who knew Reyna, a friend or a sister or a chief pilot, could tell you how tall he was. I’m betting six foot one is the answer. If I’m right, the three of us face a very uncomfortable question. Why was his corporate ID recently altered to match the physical characteristics of another man, one who would soon be found in the cockpit of a crashed airliner?”
Marquez thumped his empty cup on the table. “This is ridiculous! You can’t really believe the body we found in the cockpit is not that of the captain!”
Davis pursed his lips and considered it. “Going into that morgue … yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“But now?” Echevarria asked.
Davis took a long draw on his coffee, then removed the last photocopy from his pocket, the Colombian Ministry of Transportation background check on Reyna. At the bottom right of the page was a clear thumbprint. He then pulled the Post-it pad from his pocket, which had the comparative print he’d taken from the body on the gurney. He set the two side by side on the table.
“These are from Reyna?” Marquez asked.
“Yes. One I just took from the body in the morgue, and the other is from Reyna’s file. What do you think?”
Earlier, in a moment when the two officers were sparring, Davis had made his own brief comparison. He was no fingerprint expert, but the results were clear enough. He looked at the policeman, who would have the most knowledgeable opinion.
Echevarria confirmed the obvious. “I would say you have a solid match.”
“I agree.”
“So it is Reyna’s body we saw this morning,” said Marquez.
To which Davis replied, “It seems clear enough by these fingerprints. The one from Reyna’s file matches the thumb on the body perfectly. But last night I noticed something about the background check paperwork. This form with Reyna’s thumbprint, it was filled out fifteen years ago, the day he got hired. Only if you look at the bottom of the page, in very small print in the corner, this government form was revised last year.” Davis let that stand for a moment before surmising, “Add that to the discrepancy in his height, and I’d say there’s only one solution. While it pains me to say it, gentlemen … somebody is tampering with this investigation.”
Echevarria and Marquez exchanged a look. Davis saw concern on the faces of both men, and in that moment he was struck by how widely varied their agendas were. He could almost see their thoughts brewing, see angles being measured. He also knew it was hopeless to try and read them. Davis could only go about his search with a newfound suspicion, checking and double-checking every new fact.
“We will get to the bottom of this,” Echevarria said dismissively.
“Agreed,” said Marquez. “If the body is not Reyna’s, a family member can easily tell us.”
“True,” Davis said. “But if it’s not Reyna, then it opens up two more questions. Why was this done? And—”
“Where is t
he real Reyna?” Echevarria finished.
Davis nodded.
With cautious words, they all agreed that settling the discrepancy was a top priority. Echevarria finished his drink and was the first to leave.
A subdued Marquez checked his phone for messages.
“Anything new?” Davis asked.
“No, there is nothing—other than the fuel you have thrown onto our fire.”
Davis was contemplating a smart comeback when Marquez added, “I advise you once more to use caution with Echevarria. He is the least trustworthy policeman I have ever dealt with … and here that is saying something.”
“Caution noted. But like I said, right now he’s just another guy out there looking for Jen.” Davis pushed back from the table. “I need a ride back to headquarters. I want to head out to the crash site.”
“I can take you.”
Before they left, Davis went to the cashier’s counter. He bought six cups of coffee and was given a cardboard tray to carry them in.
“What is that for?” asked Marquez.
“Your headquarters team.”
“A display of kindness?”
“Not really. I just thought it might make everyone work a little faster.”
* * *
“He just bought a gallon of coffee with his credit card,” said the man.
The woman across from him in the G Street suite said, “The guy is huge. He could drink that much.”
The man, noted for having a stunted sense of humor, frowned and glanced toward the open hallway door. “Should we tell them?”